#Frost Gamble producer

[thelockin]

New video released today, "Second Floor" by NY State rapper Anthony Kannon & producer Frost Gamble. It's the third single taken from the album "Cautionary Tales" out on October 20th

You can also find this on all platforms including Apple / iTunes, Spotify, Bandcamp, Tidal & Amazon

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: pony club (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, previous abuse, domestic violence, curses and hexes, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, possession, mediums, ghosts, hauntings, horror, smoking, brothels, pubs, gambling, alcohol, cults, death/violence/torture, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, police brutality, vaguely british setting??, sexism, classism, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10.1k!!! oh my god someone help

A/N: god this has been on the go for awhile. it got so long but i have a worm in my brain that told me this had to happen before i can get onto the juicy stuff. next part will be a lot more bucky heavy im so sorry this didn't have much of him, needed to build up that loreeee. anyway i actually hate my writing in this, if i have to reread this one more time im gonna go crazy so i'm just gonna post it and go to bed lol!! sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara

main masterlist | series masterlist

To be lulled into the false security that you would never see Bucky Barnes again was a foolish thought. 

Two months passed rather uneventfully. The handsome payment Bucky left you after your favour to him was far beyond your normal rates. A mixture of the gangster having deep pockets and, you suspected, an indication that all that had unfolded was to be kept quiet. 

So you had done just that. Your mouth had been sown shut, an invisible thread keeping your lips bound. There were so few people left in your life anyway that you didn’t feel like spilling details of a sex-based ritual with the limited relatives you had left. You weren’t particularly fond of them regardless; most you had not seen in years. 

You embraced the winter months as they settled across the city of Blackstone. The fog would roll in thick and dense, the clouds lingering over the port as Sootstone was cast into days of hoarfrosts. Icicles as long as your forearm hung from buildings and lamp-posts and was salt scattered across the wooden docks, where slippage was the worst. The homeless gathered in crowds around the Smokestack district, leeching off the warmth the factories produced. The ice and frosts were never white, unlike the country estates or wealthy garden districts. Smoke and ash continued to pour into the skies, tainting everything with a layer of black grit. 

You would see the Smog Boys in the streets often. Teams of the lower-ranking, younger lads would roam in packs, dipping in and out of the alleys. Even dressed in black, you could not make them out through the fog when they intended to disappear. Maybe it had been your brush with Bucky, but you began to notice them everywhere. Lurking in the markets, smoking by the docks, or sauntering by the smokestack factories. A small, stiff, knowing nod would be bestowed upon you if your gaze locked with theirs or if you lingered too long. As if they knew who you were. As if they had been instructed to keep an eye out for you. 

You could never leave the Smog Boys once you were inside. Whether you liked it or not, your fates were inextricably linked. You never knew when you might be needed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find one in your home. It is what you ought to have expected by now. It was only a matter of time before they came calling. 

You could only find one word to describe the woman in your kitchen. Beautiful. Beautiful in a hauntingly, terrifying way. She was stylish, with a blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted suit pants. A lavish fur coat was draped over her shoulders, and her red hair was in a fashionable, blunt bob. Her lips, painted a deep red, were curved into a disgusted sneer as she assessed your residence. 

She had to be with Bucky because only a Smog Boy could illicit such an aura. 

“You should invest in better locks.” The redhead comments with a sniff. You haven’t even had a chance to process her presence; instead, you are standing with your lips parted in shock. “It wouldn’t be hard to rob you… or worse.”

You’re unsure if that was a thinly veiled threat or genuine advice. 

“Most don’t make habit of breakin’ into witches' homes.” You mutter, regaining your composure. You whip your headscarf off, abandoning it on your dining table. “They’re scared of being cursed.”

Your fingers unknot the woollen scarf around your neck now, tugging it free with a flutter of ash. The woman arches a well-manicured brow at you, looking you up and down. She doesn’t try to hide her judgement. She didn’t seem the type of woman to shy away from stating her opinion. Your clothing was noticeably different from hers, which was made of luxurious fabrics. The Smog Boys were well known for their finer suits—just because they lived and worked in the slums didn’t mean they dressed for it. Bucky seemed to like to keep certain appearances and had the funds to do so. You, however, were dressed for practicality. Heavy, cheap textiles that kept in the warmth. 

“Cursed.” The woman states, tone sharp. “You don’t seem the type to throw curses. You’re too… sweet.”

You don’t miss the condescending nature of how her sharp lips curve into a smile. You shoulder the insult. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Natasha. Romanoff.” The name was vaguely familiar to you. She was definitely one of Bucky’s inner circle. Possibly she worked closer to the shadows—a brain rather than brawn like Steve and Sam. “Barne is in need of your particular set of skills again.”

You pause, your fingers frozen over the pin in your mantle. Again? You knew to expect this, but still, you felt your heart uptick a beat. So soon? The question of which skills hung heavy in the air. Your abnormal skill to summon and banish spirits? To break curses and sense the otherworldly? Or to get your brains fucked out by Sootstone’s most notorious gangster? 

From the way Natasha was eyeing you, it seemed she knew all about your little sex ritual. 

“What if I’m unavailable?” You test hesitantly. 

The redhead isn’t amused. “It wasn’t a request.”

You nod slowly, hands falling to your sides. One should know when not to test Bucky Barnes or his men; it always ended rather unfavourably. Plus, you didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find your kitchen filled with any more gangsters. 

Maybe Natasha was right about the locks.

—

Bucky and a pack of his dogs congregated in the streets outside the pub known as The Anchor. The establishment sat across from the docks, with tinted, lattice windows facing the port. On a clear day, one who sat in the window booths might be able to see the ocean. Though, throughout your life, you could recall about as many clear days as the fingers on your right hand. The Anchor had been in the Barnes family for years, originally bought by Bucky’s father when the Smog Boys first rose to infamy. 

The building was well cared for, a luxury not many of the surrounding establishments were familiar with. The building was decorated in a nautical style, with netting and flags adorning the walls and rafters. Fish and ships were painted onto the siding, with gold and blue accenting the furniture inside. Even the sign out front was a small, steel anchor engraved with the pub's name. 

The Anchor was mainly stocked with whiskey, which the Smog Boys ran an underground distillery for. They offered other spirits, wines, and ales, but the main vice of The Warrens was whiskey. Bucky had several underground or even legal businesses dotted throughout Sootstone, including gambling dens and brothels. You knew he made his office in a gambling den not too far from The Anchor—the dock-side streets were prime spots for high traffic from the sailors and dockworkers coming and going like the tide. 

As you and Natasha approached, the pack of adolescent gangsters surrounding Bucky scattered, disappearing into the thick fog and alleyways like wraiths. 

“Your witch, as requested,” Natasha announces with a sigh, her brows arched. Bucky glances at you, acknowledging you with little more than a grunt. He takes the last drag from his cigarette before crunching it beneath his shoe. 

“Thank you, Nat.” Bucky replies, smoke escaping his lips as he speaks. “Sam’s lookin’ for you inside.” 

Natasha doesn’t offer you a farewell as she pulls her coat tighter around her lean body and ducks inside the pub with a tsk. You and Bucky are left in an odd silence, with only the faint call of seagulls and the lapping of waves joining you. You had never seen the dockside street so quiet, but you could confidently assume his presence was responsible. 

“I trust Nat didn’t scare you too bad.” The gangster breaks the silence. His dark eyes wander across your frame, seemingly disappointed that you were thoroughly covered to prevent the cold from seeping in. “Would’ve come to get you myself, but I had some business to attend to.”

In retrospect, the thought of encountering Natasha in your kitchen again seemed more daunting than Bucky. You weren’t too sure how to interpret her malice and cool charm. She did give off the impression that she would kill you if you even breathed in her direction. As for Bucky, maybe he would kill you, but given his reputation, he was far more likely to fuck you up against the nearest available surface. 

“She said you've a job for me?” You ask, watching as the gangster tucks his large, bruised hands into his pockets. 

He cocks his head to the side. “Walk with me.”

You obey wordlessly.

Bucky navigates the streets with ease, ducking through alleys and blindly striding into the fog with unquestionable confidence. The few people you encounter in the winding streets dart out of the way, mumbling apologies and casting their gazes down as they stumble over their own feet. Your breath comes in clouds as you exhale, salt and ice crunching beneath your feet as you keep pace with him. 

“There’s an establishment I own, it’s been losin’ business these past months. The girls reckon it’s cursed. Or haunted.” He elaborates, and you frown. 

“You think a spirit’s attached?” You ask, and the gangster huffs out a short, bitter laugh. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t have a sense for that stuff.” His lips are set in a line as he casts his sight down at you. “That’s your job, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t help but gulp and hope that his issue was indeed a spirit. One did not want to disappoint the gangster out of fear of the consequences. Your mind drifted back to months ago, to when he sat in your kitchen with that cursed necklace. He hadn’t noticed that curse—not until his sister apparently spelt it out for him. You couldn’t imagine carrying that thing around when it had reeked so badly that you tasted rot. 

“What about your sister?” You suddenly interrupt.

Bucky gives you an incredulous look. “Becca? What about her?” 

“You said she has a sense—”

“You think I’m lettin’ my sister near a brothel?” He snaps over you. His body turns to face you as you are both left motionless in the empty, ashy street. 

“Oh— I didn’t realise it was… You just said— I just assumed—” Your cheeks grow pink—this time not from the cold—as you stumble over your words. Flakes of ash slowly amble down from the sky, twirling in your mingled breath as the gangster looms over you. Several emotions flicker over his face—insult, disbelief—before finally settling on an eerie amusement. 

“Shy ‘bout a brothel? You’re not far off bein’ a whore yourself, doll. You certainly let me fuck you like one.” He leans closer to you, the scent of tobacco fanning across your skin. You clamp your jaw shut, your cheeks growing hotter by the second. The gangster smirks at you with a wickedness that rivals the devil. 

—

The Pony Club was not creatively named, like most things in Sootstone. You were sure there was an innuendo about riding or mounting buried in its origin. The brothel was buried deep in the busy streets of the Smokestack District. The crowd of workers parted with hushed whispers as you, Bucky, and Steve approached the establishment. You had bumped into the other gangster during your walk, and he had thankfully filled the tense silence hanging between you and Bucky. 

The Pony Club was neatly tucked between two stores. Ice covered the tiled roof, and grey-stained icicles dripped melted water from the front balcony. The ash falling from the sky was thick in these parts. Street sweepers patrolled the roads like small armies, brooms in tow, ensuring the roads were clear for carriages, waggons, and those on foot. 

The three of you paused before the building. Your eyes swept over the painted sign, an illustration of a pony alongside the cursive lettering. The building looks well up-kept like many of the Smog Boy establishments; it put its neighbours to shame. You couldn’t help but notice how, despite its busy location, the building was eerily empty. It was as if its walls stood outside of time, cursed to live an existence outside of perceivable reality. 

There was a twinge in your gut, a knowing. 

Steve grimaces beside you, the gangster scowling as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. At first, you think he is simply cold from the frigid fog sitting over the city, but only as he speaks do you realise he senses something more. “I hate this place.” He utters.

Bucky hasn’t reacted. He truly didn’t seem to have a sense for anything otherworldly. 

“How does it make you feel?” You pry. Steve blinks at you in surprise, as if he hadn’t realised he spoke aloud. It would be useful for you to know how a non-magical person might feel; it could also give you insight as to what haunted the halls of the brothel. 

“Doesn’t encourage me to put my cock in some bird, that’s for sure. Bad for business, ‘cause that’s the whole point.” Steve grumbles, and you swear Bucky rolls his eyes. “How does it make you feel?”

The two men look at you with curiosity as you consider your words. Terrible? Awful? Yes, you felt unnerved, but you were accustomed to spirits and hauntings. Most places in this city had ghosts, whether they were malevolent or just lost. You had become unnervingly comfortable with the creeping sensation that you were not alone. It was an entirely different feeling to curses—no, curses, they twisted your gut in wicked ways—hauntings you were at ease with. There was an odd familiarity to them, it sparked a warmth in your soul. 

“Best I not say.” You land on. It would be better not to mess with the egos of gangsters, especially if they were afraid of a little ghost. 

The two men follow you as you step into the building. The inside is lavish, with a large, grand set of stairs that lead up to the mezzanine. Draperies hung from the balcony railings, and plush furniture, and decorations were artfully placed around the foyer. Despite its luxuriant appearance, there was an isolation that clung to the bones of the building. It was as if dust hung in the air, floating undisturbed. Not a breeze could get through the thick walls, nor could a breath of life. A place that was supposed to be rowdy, a den of sin and pleasure… silenced. As if it were a mausoleum. 

The building and those inside were lost in time, caught between a past that did not exist and a future that had not yet come. 

The peace is interrupted by a thundering noise, then shrieking. “Mr. Barnes! Oh, Mr. Barnes! So nice of you to come visit us!”

A few curious observers watch from over the bannisters. Beautiful women with tired eyes, hair swept up and curled into coiffures, and revealing dresses that clung to their curves. You suddenly felt rather overdressed in your winter clothes. 

An older woman descended the stairs in a frenzy, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, a bright pink blush across her cheeks, and lipstick to match. Her blonde curls bounced around her smooth face, a few longer strands following the dip of her dress. The madame of the brothel. 

Your lips purse together, and Bucky lets out a quiet sigh. “Madame Voss.”

“I trust you are here about the ghost?” The madame asks. She is rather excitable, like a puppy or a young child. Even Steve has grown uncharacteristically quiet, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and dread. “I told my girls you would be back to help! I said you were a busy man, but not to worry. We’ve lost a few since you were last here, Rose, Amorie, and Vivinne… but that is nothin’ to worry about. They were traitorous at heart—”

“Yes, I quite understand.” Bucky snaps over Madame Voss. Steve tries to hide a snort, and the madame is left momentarily speechless. “I’ve brought a witch.”

You feel the madame’s gaze rip from Bucky to you. She looks you up and down in one exaggerated sweep, then offers you a somewhat forced smile. She looks as if she is gritting her teeth as she drinks you in. You were left wondering if the madame had some type of unrequited infatuation with Bucky. Many of the women of Sootstone seemed to share such an attitude, especially if they did not have the wit to sense the danger attached to the handsome gangster. 

“She’s a bit too pretty for this business, don’t you think? I suppose all those witch women are a bit pretty. It’s usually glamours though, isn’t it?” There is an underlying spite to her tone as she assesses you, arms coming to fold over her chest. Her bosom is exaggerated, and her waistline is pulled pencil-thin by her corset. You are surprised the woman can breathe. “Well, are you wearin’ a glamour, girl?”

You hadn’t realised the madame was questioning you; actually, you found yourself rather overwhelmed by the whole display. Your lips part as you struggle to find your tongue and eventually stagger out a confused reply. “What?”

Madame Voss murmurs in annoyance, her arms uncrossed and hands coming to move in spirited gestures as she speaks. Bucky is staring at the ceiling as if bored out of his mind. “A glamour? You can’t tell me you normally look like that, all wide-fuckme-eyed?”

Steve makes a choking noise somewhere beside you while you gape at the madame. “No?”

“Huh.” 

“I work with spirits, not—” You cut yourself off, clearing your throat, and decide it was not worth the argument. “I’ll need some time to walk around ‘n get a feel for things. Maybe talk to some of the girls, if that is alright?”

“Fine by me.” Madame Voss waves you off, attention hastily pulled away as she turns to Bucky. “In the meantime, Mr Barnes, can I get you anythin’? Tea, biscuits… something else? You know my girls will always give you a discount—”

“Somethin’ to drink, perhaps. Somethin’ strong.” Bucky cuts off the Madame and claps Steve on the back. “What do you say, Steve?”

You got the impression that neither Bucky nor Steve liked this Voss woman. 

—

It did not take you long to explore the brothel in its entirety.

The establishment was compact and efficient. Downstairs was made up of the main foyer room, which was extended into a room similar to a drawing room. Tables made up the majority of the space, with playing cards and strong Smog Boys branded liquor decorated around the room. Comfortable furniture and suggestive art lined the walls. Out of view was a kitchen, a washroom, and madame’s office space, which Bucky would occasionally take residence in if dealing with business for the Pony Club. 

Upstairs was dedicated to private spaces, where the girls lived and worked. They were hesitant to speak with you, guarded and quiet. You did not get the sense that they were being abused or held against their will, but rather haunted by whatever spirit clung to the brothel. 

As the Pony Club slowly spiralled due to the haunting, many girls left. Business had grown to a standstill. The girls were plagued with nightmares and anxieties. The few that spoke to you recalled dreams of a dark figure who prowled through the halls, standing at the edges of their vision. At night, they would see the figure in the corners of their room, sitting on the edge of their bed. One girl even claimed the spirit sat upon her chest, that the mass had no face but two sets of shining white teeth that grinned down at her as she struggled to breathe. 

When the girls were not targeted by this mysterious figure, they were afflicted with memories of their past. Dark images would replay before them every time they closed their eyes until they awoke sweating and screaming. 

You bid farewell to an exhausted working girl by the name of Hanna. She sat on the bed, a woven blanket pulled over her shoulders. There was a distant look in her eyes as you quietly pulled the door shut, forcing yourself to inhale a deep breath as you stood on the empty mezzanine. There was an oppressive energy to the building, one that weighed down your chest as if someone were purposely crushing your ribcage. You knew your feelings were exaggerated due to your knowing, but there was certainly something potent enough here that even those with little to no sense could feel it. 

You slowly rotated around the mezzanine in thought, unsure where to begin. Most spirits had an anchor—an item, person, or space—that they bound themselves to. They used it to draw energy, recuperate, and recharge. In rare cases, a spirit might bind to an entire house, causing lesions and pus to drip from the walls. But in your experience, those houses had sat abandoned for years, decades, or even more. The house itself would become sentient, dripping with malice and blinded by rage for those who created it, only to leave it abandoned. That was a festering type of haunting, one of anguish and loneliness, but this… this brothel was active. There had once been clients, and multiple women still lived within its walls. So, where was the anchor? Nothing had screamed out to you; nothing had made bile churn in your stomach or your hair stand up on end—

You froze.

You were a few paces away from the staircase, your mind swimming in thought, and—

A dark mass stood on the top step. 

It watched you.

You couldn't make out the eyes or the shape of any humanoid body part. It just stood there, a black cloud over the staircase. But still, you could feel it watching.

And then it smiled. 

It smiled wide, yet it did not seem to have a jaw. There was no skull, nothing solid within its mass. Several pearly white teeth smiled at you, spiralling into a gaping hole. The pungent smell of decaying meat filled the air as the mist contorted and pulsated in a sickening rhythm while observing you.

Before you could even consider speaking or moving, the mass had swept down the staircase, disappearing from your view. You raced to the bannisters, leaning over as far as you could without launching yourself over the edge. Loose strands of hair danced around your face as you darted your head. You could still not make out the spirit. 

By the time you gathered your skirts and descended the staircase, you found the foyer empty. You could hear the distant trill of Madame Voss's voice deeper within the building, near the kitchen.

There was still that lingering oppression, an uneasiness that squeezed your chest. Regardless of how many times you whirled around, blindly scanning the foyer, you were unable to find a trail where the sensation intensified. 

Clenching your teeth together, you let out a sharp sigh and balled your hands into fists. You paused in one of the corners of the foyer, allowing the blood pumping in your ears to calm and your muscles to relax. You blocked out the distant voices, instead focusing on the hum of the environment. You were frustrated, yes, and maybe a little scared. Not of the spirit, but rather how Bucky might react if you told him that you couldn’t banish this ghost. Not because you were too weak or unaware of how to handle it—you were very much prepared in both areas—but because you couldn’t find it?

You were skilled at finding hidden anchors, but it was difficult to focus when you felt immense pressure on your shoulders alone. You closed your eyes and listened intently. You could feel each speck of dust swirling through the air and hear every small sound the walls and floors made as the wood settled. You could hear each fibre of the rug rustle as you gently tip-toed across the room, following an invisible line.

The string was knotted in a complex pattern, similar to a spiderweb. You could feel it brushing over your skin as you moved, growing taut as it tangled around your body. You pushed through the sensation as if wading into a pool of water, stepping deeper and deeper into its strands as they layered over your skin and clothes.

Then, a tug.

A slight tremor, a warbling as a single line was set alight in your mind. The spider—your ghost—was circling you like prey.

You grasped the string, following its current blindly through the foyer. You stumbled around furniture, tripping over the edge of a rug and—

The floorboard creaked beneath you.

It wasn’t a typical creak—not one of an old building or a settling house. No. The creak resonated through your mind, deafening you. Your hands rose to your ears, the shrieking growing louder and louder as you fell to your knees, wincing. The fibres of the rug bit into your skin, sending a rush of electricity coursing through your veins. Under the rug, the floorboard made a hollow thud, loud enough that your ears were ringing from the volume. 

You gasped in a breath, violently ripping yourself from your secondary state until you crashed back to reality. Panting, you found yourself crouched over the rug, fingernails dug into the fabric as you wheezed and panted. A cold sweat covered your body, your head aching as you tried to roll the discomfort from your shoulders. 

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with your witch, Mr Barnes.” Madame Voss spoke in a sing-song fashion as she entered the foyer, a condescending look in her eyes as she stared down at you. You wiped the sweat from your brow, forcing your wobbling legs to rise. 

“It’s underneath,” was all you were able to reply, your voice raspy as you stalked to the corner of the rug.

"Ominous," the madame retorted, her brows arched. Her gaze cast back to the two gangsters who watched from the entrance to the room. There was a curiosity in their stare, hands tucked in their pockets as you worked. You gripped the corner of the rug, peeling it away from the floor. Underneath, everything looked perfectly in order, with well-polished hardwood panels lined up in unison. Carefully, you walked the length, tapping your shoe on each floorboard.

“Well, you do know what they say… with magic comes madness!” Voss announced with a sly grin, her hands moving to flourish her words. Bucky cocked his head to the side, emitting a sharp exhale through his flared nostrils. 

"Let her work," he spoke up, and the tension in the room mounted. The madame's disapproving scowl only added to the oppressive atmosphere. The room fell into an almost palpable silence, broken only by the sound of your tapping as you methodically sought out the hollow board once more. You could sense the growing impatience of the group as you painstakingly worked, with each floorboard sounding as solid as the next. 

Just as Bucky appeared poised to call off your efforts, the floorboard beneath you emitted a hollow thud that reverberated through the space below. You tapped again, feeling the same hollow thudding from the adjacent boards. Looking up at Bucky, you gestured toward the floor, affirming, “It’s underneath.” 

Madame Voss gaped in astonishment at you and then turned her incredulous gaze towards the two gangsters. “Underneath? Underneath! This must be some kind of magical trick—in all my years working in this establishment, I have never heard of a basement or cellar!”

As Bucky waved at the woman, he made a disdainful noise in dismissal. The madame fluffed up, muttering under her breath in flustered embarrassment, and then stalked away a few paces. Bucky and Steve soon joined you, watching intently as you blindly felt around the edges of the wooden panels. As you investigated, your fingertips discovered finely carved grooves hidden within the wood—imperceptible to the casual observer but discernible to those who sought them out. The edges of the indents provided a perfect grip for you to dig your nails into the wood, allowing you to pry the board from the floor with little effort.

The three of you peered into the space below through the thin gap. It was pitch black, but you could make out some rickety stairs descending into the inky dark. A thick layer of dust sat upon the steps, a musty smell hitting your nose. 

You sat back on your haunches, peering closely at the board you had just managed to pry up. The wood was marred with deep gouges as if some kind of wild animal had relentlessly scratched and clawed at the panel. As you tentatively ran your finger across the rough and battered surface, a sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach, sending a sickly shudder up your spine.

“Did you know this was here?” Steve mutters to Bucky from somewhere above you. 

You continued peeling up each of the loose boards, using the indents to grip the wood with your nails. The disgusting, nauseating feeling intensified as it became apparent that every panel had identical deep gouges carved into the wood.

“No,” Bucky replies, his voice hushed. 

When the hole is completely visible, you sink onto your knees. Now that light was flowing in, you could see more clearly. The dusty, ancient stairs descend to a stone floor. The stone appeared dry but extremely dusty. What appeared to be large, old wooden barrels and the beginnings of shelving against the walls were visible in the beam of light. You peer up at Bucky and Steve, who tower over you, and resist the urge to squirm as Bucky meets your gaze. 

“This is the anchor.” You explain, and Steve’s face twists, perplexed. 

“The pub—?”

“No. Spirits they… they bind themselves to something. An object, a person, a room. This is where the haunting originates.” You clarify and gradually rise to your feet, taking care not to collide with either of the men. 

You take a hesitant step down, the stair beneath groaning under your weight. You swallow hard, then spin in place to look back up at the gangsters who watch you expectantly. “I might need a candle.”

Without glancing back, Bucky clicks his finger at Madame Voss, who is attempting to peer into the mysterious room from her perch. “Voss. Candle.”

The madam, clearly exasperated, lets out a loud huff before turning on her heel and disappearing into one of the adjacent rooms. There is still a distinct taste of tension in the air.

“Looks like your old man's been a naughty boy.” Steve teases, a boyish smile emerging. Bucky remains silent, choosing not to dignify the gangster's comment with a reply. Their dynamic left you contemplating the depth of their relationship, especially since you had heard that Barnes was not particularly kind to those who mentioned his father. While Bucky's gaze remained blank and unmoving, you couldn't help but notice a subtle twitch in his jaw, betraying a suppressed reaction.

The Smog Boys were infamous for their cruelty towards their enemies, anyone who crossed them, and those who betrayed their trust. Bucky, in particular, was known for his ruthless approach to dealing with anyone who stood in his way. He carried out his actions silently and brutally, and by the next morning, everyone in The Warrens knew that Barnes had spilt blood. Despite the fear he instilled in others, Bucky remained calm and collected. He was a strategic thinker and planner, and he took pleasure in the sadistic ways his plans unfolded. Despite his fearsome reputation, he was still not as notorious as his father. 

His father exhibited a striking lack of cunning, care, or thoughtfulness in his approach. The Warrens endured a dreadful existence as George Barnes succumbed to alcohol-induced rampages. He embodied sheer strength, a fierce warrior whose white-hot rage could melt the most hardened of hoarfrosts. He instilled fear without cause, displaying psychopathic tendencies and craving notoriety through any means necessary. He bolstered the Smog Boys fostering terror through street attacks, gang wars, or burning entire buildings down as a message. Upon Bucky's ascension, the business adopted a quieter and more devious approach. Bucky was all about making money in a quick, quiet, and dirty way. His enemies didn't fear him because they knew what he was capable of, but rather because they never knew, and Bucky knew how to up the ante each time.

Around seven years ago, George had been arrested. He had been too loud and confident in his approach, and the coppers had snagged him. Bucky ran the business for his father, and the Smog Boys boomed with success. His father was set to go on trial, and it wasn’t an unknown fact that the judge had paid off. George Barnes was set to walk free and take over the business again. 

Two days before the trial, he was discovered dead in his cell, his body bearing the marks of a brutal, mysterious beating. There was no trace of evidence to scrutinise, and the guards remained silent, neither admitting guilt nor pointing fingers. The law turned a blind eye to the demise of a notorious criminal under their watch, and the incident was quickly swept under the rug, forgotten within hours. Bucky vehemently denied any involvement. He put on a public display of mourning, cursing the authorities and vowing vengeance, though his threats never materialized. It's also worth noting that Bucky shared a particularly close bond with his mother, Winnifred, who herself was not spared from the brutality of her husband. It was common knowledge that, behind closed doors, Winnifred, Bucky, and his younger sister Becca endured all manner of cruelty at the fists of George Barnes.

Years had passed since those fateful events, and Bucky's ascension to power remained unquestioned. No one dared challenge his authority, fearing both the brutal consequences and because The Warrens had silently celebrated in the wake of Senior Barnes' untimely demise.

The sound of Madame Voss' heels clicking against the hardwood floor signalled her return. You took the candle gratefully, eager to escape the awkward tension, and descended into the gloom.

The old wood stairs protest with every step, emitting squeaks and groans under your weight. Your sweeping skirts brush a fine layer of dust into the air, shimmering in the weak candlelight that struggles to pierce the shadows of the small, dimly lit room. You could only describe the space as a cellar, with its stone walls and floors exuding an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere. Thick metal bolts secure wooden shelves laden with countless large glass bottles, while large barrels, shrouded in heavy blankets of dust, crowd the square room. In the dim corners, dense cobwebs collect. A place long forgotten.

Bucky and Steve carefully made their way down the creaky stairs as you delicately balanced the flickering candle on the edge of one of the dusty barrels. As you wipe away the accumulated grime, you uncover a label imprinted on the lid:  Property of SMOG BOYS—George Barnes. You squinted at the words in the low light, moving to the next as you tried to understand what was in these barrels. 

Behind you, Steve had grabbed hold of one of the large glass bottles and uncorked it with a sharp pop! He raised it to his nose, took a sniff, and then emitted a loud holler. "Shit, Buck. This is moonshine."

Bucky let out a grumbling noise of recognition, inspecting one of the barrels. “It must’ve been a storage space from the distillery. These barrels look like whiskey.” 

The two gangsters gathered near the barrels, muttering between themselves. 

“You sure he never mentioned this to you?”

“I’m sure. Don’t know why he was so determined to hide a bit of liquor. We have plenty of warehouses for this—”

You rounded the barrels, venturing deeper into the room. A row of shelves faced the centre of the room, with a narrow space between them that you could slip through. The candlelight barely reached the other side, obscured by the layers of barrels and bottles. You blindly stumbled into the empty space, feeling a familiar, thrumming sensation.

Invisible strings tangled at your ankles as you pushed deeper into the darkness, the warm flicker of candlelight barely illuminating what lay within. There, in the centre of the room, stood a solitary chair—a simple wooden chair. The thrumming grew louder, your heart pulsating as you gaped down at it. Thick sailor ropes coiled tightly around each arm and leg, faded remnants of blood splattered across the cold stone floor beneath. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in around you, the air heavy with a sense of foreboding—

You jumped out of your skin as a hand rested on your shoulder. Bucky had followed you through the shelves. His eyes mirrored the unease that churned in your stomach, his face etched with a deep, troubled frown. You felt urged to speak up and console the man but you knew better than to fall into that trap. His presence was disturbingly comforting as if the dangerous gangster were not the apex predator in the room. All you could do was gape, tearing your vision away from the chair as you stumbled back a few paces. 

As quickly as you had found solace in the man, it was torn away. He stalked toward you, finger pointed as he jabbed it into your sternum. His eyes had glazed over, a thunderous rage taking shape. You sensed it was a defence mechanism, a way to intimidate you because you had seen something you weren’t supposed to—something that shocked even him.

“Not a word. You understand?” he hissed, his large, sculpted frame towering over you. You shrank back, your spine meeting the shelving, causing the moonshine bottles to clink together.

You knew what this place was. A hidden place. A forgotten place. A place where torture and death had been carried out. An echo from the past. A whisper on the wind that spoke the name George Barnes.

This was the kind of business Bucky kept meticulously hidden—a necessary evil shrouded in secrecy. Bodies were found only if he wanted to send a message. You were certain there were countless other hidden, unmarked graves. Bucky was too clever to be undone by a rogue body or misplaced trust. Every action he took was calculated to ensure it could never be traced back to the Smog Boys. Of course, everyone knew it was them, but legally proving their involvement was another matter. Despite the gang's reputation for being untouchable, the coppers constantly searched for any loophole to bring them down. Bucky's entire operation could unravel if the wrong person discovered incriminating evidence.

For all your understanding, The Pony Club was one of the few legitimate businesses under the Barnes name. If an enemy of the Smog Boys discovered a way to link this grim scene to the underground crime network Bucky managed? It could spell disaster. 

“Do you understand?” Bucky repeated, his voice dripping with venom. This was a side of him you had heard rumours of but had never witnessed yourself. This was the leader of the Smog Boys. This was the Bucky that made Sootstone cower.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you huddled against the shelves.

The gangster ran a hand through his hair in frustration. You could sense the conflict in his eyes as they darted between you and the chair. After rubbing his chin and jaw, he finally settled on resting a hand on your shoulder again, an oddly tender touch. His head dipped, and he muttered in your ear, “I need this ghost gone. Now, doll. I think it's best no one else sees my father’s handiwork.”

“I can—I can do that,” you stammered. The gangster gave you a slow nod, exhaled sharply, and then turned on his heels.

In the sudden emptiness, the thrumming in your ears became deafening, a relentless pulse that drowned out all other sounds. Your ears rang with a piercing intensity, and your breath quickened, coming in short, ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in around you, now suffocatingly tight. The walls pressed inward, and the air grew thick and heavy as if it were pushing against your chest. You felt an overwhelming sense of dread creeping into your bones, a cold, insidious fear that wrapped itself around your heart. Somewhere in the background of it all, Steve yelped. 

At first, you could not hear his distress, not over the noise in your head. It was only as Bucky paused by the narrow opening between the shelves, his eyes snapping to yours, that you heard Steve again—frantic shouts piercing through the deafening roar of a fire, overwhelming even the clamour in your head.

You move quicker than Bucky, darting through the shelves back into the candlelight.

Except it wasn’t the candlelight that lit the room in a blinding glow, but instead a figure engulfed in flame. You could make out bludged eyes and an agape mouth through the tendrils, which licked up the figure in a violent blaze. Steve was pinned with his back against one of the barrels as the figure, screaming and writhing, hurtled towards him.  

You hurry forward, positioning yourself between Steve and the burning figure. Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you closer as he shouted, "What the fuck?!"

The fiery figure hesitates, its swollen, bloodshot eyes flitting between Steve and you in confusion. Bucky had pulled what appeared to be a knife from his pocket and was circling the scene. Your brows furrow as you give him a puzzled look and free yourself from Steve's grip. 

“Put it away!” You bark over the roar. Bucky cocks his head to one side, both of you mutually surprised that you had found your voice. As you approach the figure, it retreats, the flames quickly extinguishing. Your ears ring as silence falls. The spirit has transformed into a black mass again, its shape twisting and jittering as it swings its gaze between the three of you. 

“It can read your memories. It feeds off fear and pain.” You explain to the two gangsters, hesitantly stepping forward once more. The spirit centres its eyes solely on you. “It shows you your darkest memories, the ones you've buried. It’s tryna scare you.” 

You do not dwell on whatever memory Steve was plagued by.

The spirit shifted once more, the dark mass disappearing into the shadows. You shallow your breath, quickly scanning the room before turning to Barnes. “The chair is the anchor. The spirit needs to be unbound.”

“And how do you do that?” He asks in reply, nostrils flaring. You step into the centre of the room, peering through the shelves into the dark space. Dread curled in your stomach as your eyes roamed the chair.

“I could destroy it or cleanse it—”

“Where's your mother, girl?” A familiar, slurred voice reverberated through the dimly lit room, sending shivers down your spine. Your entire body tensed, and your heart seemed to clench in your chest as a surge of fear momentarily halted you in your tracks. The acrid scent of alcohol mixed with the pungent odour of sweat hung heavy in the air. The heavy, unsteady footsteps of a large man reverberated over the stone floors.

“She’s sick.” A child's voice replied. Your voice. 

In front of you appeared a vivid scene. Your father, in a state of intoxication, stood before you. His body was angled in such a way that only the profile of his face was visible. His clothing was tattered, and the floors bore marks of mud and filth from his worn boots. His hair was dishevelled and sprinkled with ash, and his flushed face glistened with sweat. Facing him was a much younger version of yourself. You estimated her to be around eight years old, judging by the length of her hair and the ragged dress clinging to her emaciated frame. The child cowered against a door, her limbs trembling in fear.

“Sick? That damn woman is always sick. Get out of the way, girl, I need to speak with my wife.” Your father slurs, lurching forward. The child held steady, her back pressed defiantly against the door. 

“You can’t, she’s sleeping—”

A resounding crack echoed through the room as your father’s palm connected forcefully with her cheek. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she fell. Tears shimmered in her wide, frightened eyes, reflecting the harsh light as they welled up and spilt over her cheeks. The room seems to hold its breath in the aftermath, the sharp sound of the slap lingering. 

“What’s this? Who’s that?” Steve spoke up from beside you. You had almost entirely forgotten that the two men were still in the cellar with you. Bucky watches on with morbid curiosity, but you do notice how the muscles in his jaw tighten. 

“A memory.” You mutter back. You urge your feet to move, but you feel as though you are wading through waist-deep water. 

“Some gall you have to be telling me what I can and can’t do in my own home, girl!” Your father charges through the door, his eyes wild and unseeing as he drunkenly stumbles over your younger self's frail body. Ignoring your cries, he leaves her sprawled on the floor, the door slamming shut with a jarring finality before she can react. Muffled shouting and screaming rise from beyond, chaos that drowns out her sobs. The child curls into a ball on the cold floor, trembling and sobbing as the shrieking grows louder. The walls thud and shake with the force of his rage, each violent sound echoing through the small room, amplifying the terror that grips her small frame.

“You’re not welcome here, spirit,” your voice cuts through the unfolding nightmare with unwavering authority. You can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, but you tilt your head defiantly. Momentarily sucked into the horror of it all, but now you stand unshaken. The scene pauses, and the child freezes in place as the shouting and banging abruptly stop. The spirit seems to contemplate your words, its image flickering before dissolving into a dark fog that settles in a dense layer across the stone floors. 

“I think destroying it would be easiest.” You mumble to the gangsters. Bucky’s lips were set in a fine line, his jaw still clenched, while Steve eyed you warily. “Burning it would be the best way.”

As if in response to your comment, the room burst to life once more. The two men stand on either side of you as if their curiosity is too much to dismiss as they realise it is another of your memories. 

This time, the version of you was older. A teenager. She perched on the edge of the docks, her legs dangling into the waters below. Next to her sits a boy roughly the same age. The two of them laugh and indulge in a shared bag of colourful, sugary treats.

“My dad keeps askin’ after you.” The boy says. Michael. Your gut twists. You knew what was to come. 

“I’m not joinin’ your dad’s weird cult.” She giggles, popping a boiled sweet into her mouth with a lopsided grin. Her hair was loose, uncaring as the breeze tangled it and ash fell from the skies. 

“He keeps goin’ on about how you’re some saviour—”

“Ew.” She replies, nose scrunching. The teen leans back on her palms with a sigh, looking across the docks. “You know me and my mum aren’t interested in that stuff. I’m not desperate like those other witches he tricks into joining. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve held on this long, you’re what? Seventeen? Why don’t you just get a job in one of the factories and get the hell out of there?”

Michael appears displeased by her response. You had never previously noticed, despite replaying the memory in your mind numerous times. In the past, you believed you were being helpful, perhaps even clever. You could see the wrinkle of discomfort in the boy’s face now. You knew all too well that breaking free from his father's control was never as easy as moving out. You had been naive to believe that. Michael had not called you a fool, which was probably a small act of kindness on his part.  

“How’s your mum?” He asks, gaze cast to the side to look at the teen’s profile. She shrugs, sucking on the sweet in thought. 

“Still sick. We saw that healer in the Smokestacks, said he might be able to do somethin’ about it.”

“You know my family could help—”

The teen gives him an irritated look. “You know my mum doesn’t want your help. She doesn’t even want me hangin’ out with you.”

The tranquillity of the scene had captivated you to the point where you lost awareness of your surroundings. It was only the looming sense of dread for what was about to unfold, the feeling of Bucky's sleeve brushing against your arm, and the audible, sharp intake of breath from Steve that jolted you back to reality.

“Oi! Lookie here! It’s—” The shout of a copper was warbled as you strode forward, the memory rippling like a pool of water. 

You had to prevent what was about to happen. You couldn't let Bucky see how everything truly unfolded. You knew you should have stopped it before it went this far. You shouldn't have allowed yourself to get pulled into this memory. Yet, there was a bittersweet comfort in seeing him again, remembering him as he was before everything went so wrong.

“Probably shouldn’t burn it down here. Those barrels catch and this place will explode.” You mutter under your breath, trying to ignore the sickness churning in your stomach as you approach the chair. As you draw closer, your eyes catch the gruesome details etched into the wood. Dark, crusted blood is splattered across the seat, each fleck and smear a silent testament. Streaks of crimson have seeped into the grain, staining the wood in a macabre pattern. The iron tang of old blood hangs in the air, mixing with the musty dampness of the room. Your hair stands on end and your nerves tingle as a shiver runs down your spine. The closer you stand, the more uneasy energy pulses through you. Summoning your courage, you grip one of the chair's arms and yank with all your strength—only to find it bolted firmly to the floor. 

Your stomach drops. 

You needed to get the two men out of this cellar and defeat this spirit yourself. You couldn’t stand their gazes upon you, waiting expectantly. You roll your shoulders, twisting your neck as a tight, itching sensation settles over your skin. You weren’t afraid of the memories, but rather the reaction to them. You didn’t want sympathy. Most of all, you didn’t want to be feared—to be viewed as a weapon. 

You knew that was what the Smog Boys truly desired—a tool to complete their dirty work. 

The memory came to life around you once more, stronger and more vivid. Michael was sprawled on the floor, beaten and bloodied, his face a mess of bruises and cuts. The coppers, young and full of arrogance, stood above him, their laughter echoing in the confined space. They were eager to prove themselves, and they relished every moment of his suffering, laying blow after blow into his broken body. Their cackles filled the room, mingling with the sickening thuds of their fists and boots against his flesh. 

“Let me go!” Your head swivels as you look to the other side of the room. There, the teenage version of you is held back by two men with bruising grips, their hands digging painfully into her arms. Tears streamed down her face, carving glistening tracks through the grime and dust. Her eyes are wide with terror and helpless rage as she struggles and screams, her voice raw and desperate. The men restraining her exchange smirks, their expressions cold and indifferent to her anguish. The room seems to close in around you now, the walls reverberating with the echoes of her cries and the relentless thudding of blows landing on Michael. You were powerless, trapped in a living nightmare.

You needed to stop this—

There was a loud crunch, the agonising sound of bone snapping and shattering under a steel-toe boot. Michael has grown still, his body is no longer convulsing with pain. His face was unrecognisable—a grotesque mask of bruises and blood, the features obliterated by the relentless assault. His skull is misshapen, cracked open against the stone curb, a dark pool of blood is spreading beneath him.

Somewhere in the distance, the past version of you wails, a heart-wrenching sound that seems to come from the depths of her soul.

She was scrambling on her knees over the filthy streets, her body shaking with sobs as she gripped Michael’s lifeless form. Her fingers, trembling and desperate, searched for any sign of life, but you knew now that it was pointless. Michael was dead. He had died the moment they cracked his skull open. Blood smears her hands and clothes as she clings to him, her tears mixing with the grime on the ground.

She shakes his body, begging him to wake up. The coppers continue to snicker amongst themselves. They are unphased by the blood and flesh painted across their boots, their faces twisted in smug satisfaction. 

“That’s enough now.” You spoke up in the present, tone low and warning. The spirit hesitates, and the teen pauses, her body relaxing as the sobbing stops. Her head twists around, her eyes a milky white as she looks directly through you. 

“I know what you are.” The spirit spoke through the memory of you. Her gaze shifted to look at the coppers. Their figures are silent, but their shoulders shake with laughter, an amused indifference as they watch the suffering before them. “Spirit-raiser…diviner…light-bringer.”

Her eyes start to glow, a bright white that blinds the room. You know what is to come. You know what happens next. The shelves and barrels begin to rattle around you, and dust is stirred up into clouds. You could hear Steve swearing somewhere behind. Her sights move to the coppers, a knowing smirk fading into a cruel frown. Her hand raises into the air, fingers moving to snap—

Your hand has subconsciously raised. The ground trembles beneath you. It isn’t from the past; it is present. It was you at this exact moment, touching your fingers together. The ceiling above you groans, bottles of moonshine shattering across the floors as they fall. Behind you, Bucky and Steve yell over the commotion, calling to you. You can feel the crackle of electricity in the air and map every particle that flutters in the air. The chaos rises in your chest as you summon it forward. The crackle of energy grows higher and higher until the tingling sensation meets your fingertips. 

You snap your fingers, and a deafening crack echoes through the cellar. For a moment, everything grows still. Your body begins to glow, emitting a bright white light that fills the room, even stronger than the spirit's light. The intensity of it is blinding, obliterating every detail with a searing brilliance.

The room explodes around you. 

Bits of wood splinter, torn from their fixtures and launched through the air. Barrels explode with a thunderous roar, whiskey gushing out in torrents that splash and pool around your ankles, the potent scent of alcohol overwhelming your senses. The entire room shudders and rocks from the impact, the walls groaning under the strain. You were momentarily assaulted by the barrage of debris—sharp shards of shelving and glass raining down around you. Until Bucky grips you. Amid the chaos, he seizes your waist, pulling you into the shelter of his chest to shield you from the storm. 

Steve has vanished up the stairs, the floorboards above rattling with each of his hurried steps as the earth finally settles. The room falls into an eerie silence, the only sound being the gentle sloshing of liquor around your feet.

There is a large crack in the stone floor where the chair used to be. 

You pull yourself from Bucky’s grip rather unceremoniously, frowning as you pull shredded wood from your hair. The gangster eyes you cautiously, clearing his throat as he retreats backwards. “Are you gonna explain what that was?”

You were unsure what he was specifically referring to—whether it was the haunting memories or the raw power you had just unleashed. Regardless, you didn’t feel up to explaining either. A deep weariness had settled into your bones, your muscles aching from the exertion of channelling such immense energy. A thin trail of blood had begun to leak from your nose, the metallic taste of copper lingering as you absentmindedly licked your bottom lip in thought. 

You should not have done that. But they would have found out either way. 

Your fingers instinctively came up to rub your temple as you let out a sharp sigh of annoyance. With magic weariness came a tinge of irritation and snarkiness—it was a familiar companion after such displays of power. At that moment, you couldn't summon the will to care about how dangerous Bucky was or how he could ruin your life. All you craved was the simple comfort of lying down and perhaps indulging in a strong drink or two to ease the embarrassment of the situation.

Above, Madame Voss's shrill shrieks pierce through the ceiling, amplifying the headache pounding behind your skull. You knew the entire row of buildings would have felt the surge of energy you had just unleashed. One could only hope that the coppers wouldn’t investigate too closely into the disturbance.

Ignoring his previous question, you speak up. “You should invest in gettin’ your buildings properly cleansed.” 

Maybe that would make him and his men shut up about your faulty locks.

You go to walk away, but Bucky's firm grip on your forearm halts your movement, holding you back. His head cocks as he looks you up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I don’t know much about magic, but I know witches don’t just summon shit like that out of thin air.”

If you were one of his dogs, your hackles would have raised, teeth bared. You look him down defiantly with a scowl. “Respectfully, Barnes, you don’t know shit about magic. I keep your secrets; you keep mine. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

His lips curl into an astonished smirk, pleased as equally as he was stunned by your tone. His head dips down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, his voice a low murmur. “You know, doll, if you weren’t growing on me, I would have you killed for speaking to me like that.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath tickling against your skin, his proximity stirring a mix of emotions within you—wariness, curiosity, and a hint of something deeper that you couldn't quite define. You knew better than to let the boundaries between you blur. You give him a mocking pout, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know you won’t kill me, if you wanted to kill me, I would be dead already. You’ve decided I’m valuable, haven’t you? Who would break your curses and scare away the skeletons in your closet? You must know that I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t want to help you, we’re not friends.” 

His jaw tenses slightly as he processes your words, and his voice is flat as he speaks. “The most valuable thing a woman like you can offer is what’s between your legs. And you gave that up pretty easily.” 

His lips curl into a sneer. “I suppose the magic is a bonus. But I know you’re little more than a whore beneath it all.”

Several emotions flicker through your chest. Pain, frustration, disillusionment. You should have known better. You knew better. You don’t dignify the gangster with a response, instead turning on your heel to march out of the cellar. 

“I’ll have someone come fetch you when you’re next needed, spirit-raiser,” he calls after you, his tone mocking. 

You ascend the stairs without looking back.

PART THREE

[pinehutch]

Re: the last reblog. my hot take is actually that no one should look at their ao3 stats, ever, unless they are fully prepared to be disappointed and don't personalise metrics at all - or have enough joy in other parts of their life that anything from ao3 is just frosting.

I understand that nerds like data. I also think that "what gets measured, gets managed" exists in tension with a kind of "what gets quantified, gets commodified" truism that doesn't exist, and turns fic writers into Content Producers. It ties the joy of fandom not to connection and community, or to exploration and transformation, but to the tiny little microdose of dopamine that comes with the changes to a counter that says "here is how many people like you(r work)." The thing is, you have absolutely no way of controlling how people respond to your work. (Influencing and controlling are different things.) Every posting is a gamble, if what you're playing for is the approval of as many faceless readers as possible. No amount of impassioned pleas for readers to "pay" for their fic in kudos and comments will change that.

I don't post a lot of fic, so this could easily be seen as me being salty about not getting something (top-10 fics in a tag, or fanart, or thousands of comments/kudos, etc) that a lot of my friends do. Maybe if I posted more fic I'd feel like I should be getting those things, but I dont. It's just that I've seen the degree to which not getting those things, or getting those things and then losing them, has hurt people that I care about. It is absolutely not ever worth placing even a single gram of your self-worth into the hands of ao3 kudos/engagement ratios/etc.

(of course I appreciate every kudos, and I treasure every comment. but it's really not that many, and honestly, that seems appropriate in my case!)

[lambden]

What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!�� That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—” 

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

 “I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble. 

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human. 

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music. 

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

 ---

 South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

[suoyou]

[wip] 凤凰涅槃; phoenix rising

incomplete wip. 9034 words, rated t.

wangxian court intrigue + wuxia + wingfic au, in which wwx is the lost phoenix and lwj is royal scholar. this is actually a collection of scattered scenes through the first act of the fic!

dwell too long in the fire and even the phoenix will burn.

Wei Wuxian holds a rotting mango in his hand. 

Pungent, slippery as an oiled wok and twice as dangerous, it’s just a few days too old for optimal flavor—but he does not plan to eat it. No, he’s going to throw it. 

A well-aimed piece of fruit and the right audience and a stomach just empty enough that the metallic edge of hunger has begun to bite makes for a good show. Wei Wuxian teeters like a gargoyle on the upturn of a roof, all his weight balanced in a crouch, waiting for the fishmonger to pass by beneath him. The market teems with citizens who have come early to buy the freshest kills and produce that the morning has to offer, the smell of frying jianbing wafts in thick curls up to Wei Wuxian’s perch. His belly rumbles. His last meal had been during sunrise the day before. 

“Fresh fish!” shouts the fishmonger. His mule’s head bobs dark and feisty as it tugs his cart along. Behind them, their wagon is crammed with quivering tubs full of water and writhing fish. “Fresh from the docks this morning! Fresh caught! Carp and eel and shrimp! Killed and scaled and gutted if you ask! Fresh fish!”

Wei Wuxian rocks up onto the knobs of his knees. The tiled roof digs into his skin--what are you doing here, flightless bird? His weapon of choice bleeds a thin, honeyed line of juice from his wrist to his elbow. He takes aim. 

A little commotion in a crowded market goes a long way. One spooked mule, one fishmonger, and a wagon full of uncovered tubs of live catches? What could go wrong? The sun hammers on his back, asking him what he’s waiting for. The mule’s flanks are exposed around its saddle and harness. Wei Wuxian screws one eye shut and sticks the tip of his tongue between his lips as he raises his mango, and--

“I’ll bet my daughter!”

A disturbance rises above the cheerful twang of the market below. It comes from the gambler’s stall, tucked away by the liquor stand. What a smart, slimy placement. 

“Is this man crazy?”

“What kind of father are you?”

“How disgusting, to gamble with your daughter’s life!”

Wei Wuxian frowns. Below him, the fishmonger passes, and the crowd molds around his wagon like ants around a snail. A pustule of a man hunches over the gambler’s stall with a girl of no more than nine or ten in his grip as he snarls in the proprietor’s face. His clothes are stained and dirty, and his eyes are yellow with jaundice. Anger flares hot as a kicked hornet’s nest in Wei Wuxian’s belly, muting the hunger, when the drunkard yanks on his daughter so hard that she trips into the table. 

Without thinking, Wei Wuxian shouts, “Hey, you, ugly dog at the gambler’s table!”

Dozens of heads turn to stare. 

Wei Wuxian lobs the mango with all his might. 

It whistles over the street like a lumpy, bulbous pigeon, dripping as it goes. The man is too drunk, or too hungover to move out of the way--he simply watches, jaw slack, not seeming to realize that he’s in the way until it splatters him square in the face and explodes in a shower of golden muck. He howls, clawing at his skin, and in the process lets his daughter go. She falls because she’d been unbalanced, hard into the street on her elbows. Some of the mango carnage had splattered onto her. Orange-brown bits drip off her chin like fat, gummy tears. 

The drunkard points a trembling, furious finger at Wei Wuxian. “You--!” 

“Me? What about me? Worry about yourself first. Worry about your daughter!”

A small crowd has gathered to watch the spectacle--this man, covered in sticky mango goo and attracting flies, and this vagrant shaking with laughter on the roof. He is so close to the edge, yet balances in place without any unsteadiness, with the surety of someone who is always in high places. 

“You are a coward, staying on the roof! Get down here and fight me with your fists, like a man!” shouts the drunk. His daughter tugs on his sleeve behind him as the crowd thickens.

“A-die, A-die, let’s go--”

“Let go of me, you useless girl.” He shakes her off. “Good for nothing, waste of space. Not even good enough for gambling money.”

Wei Wuxian frowns. A hushed gasp races through the bodies below as he stands and tips from his perch on the roof, tumbling once before alighting in the street. His shoes stick to the pavement from the tack of juice. The man barely makes it up to his chin, and his skin is splotchy from alcoholism; his clothes are patches which means he had family members whose kindness he did not deserve at home. 

“What,” says Wei Wuxian, tucking his hands behind his back. He’s not above mango-throwing, but he’s not going to fight a man in front of his young daughter. Now that’s just bad manners. “You really want to fight me? Just take my advice, sir. Go home. Take your daughter and your money and buy some food, and go home. Don’t make me throw another mango at you. That was going to be my lunch.”

“I’m not scared of men like you. Arrogant and scornful, just looking for a fight! I ought to break your--”

Wei Wuxian intercepts the man’s fist before it can connect with his face.

He fights like a commoner would, crude and unpolished, with his thumb tucked inside his fingers. Rookie mistake. His eyes bulge like a frog stepped on as he tries to force his way through Wei Wuxian’s grip, face turning the color of puce as he fails comically. Wei Wuxian digs his nails into the back of the man’s hand, trembling with the effort of holding him in place, and then he shoves him back. 

The man goes sprawling in the street, and the crowd shuffles back, as if to avoid a particularly filthy swine. 

“A-die,” says his daughter, trying to help him up, but he swats at her. “A-die.”

“Go.”

Not without spitting at Wei Wuxian’s feet. He simply laughs, because it’s such a silly, juvenile thing, and then, like an infection clearing, the citizens around him scatter back into the day. 

Wei Wuxian claps his hands together, then wipes his palms on the seat of his robes. “You really ought not to entertain patrons who have clearly started to lose their control,” he says to the proprietor of the gambling stall. They wipe down the edges of their table with a dusty rag where the carnage of fruit clings. “Soon he will trade his whole family away for nothing but a nugget of gold.”

The proprietor scoffs. “And who are you?”

“Someone nice enough to clean his mess up. Sorry for this, by the way,” says Wei Wuxian. He starts straightening sacks full of supplies--coin bags, a set of rings, vases clinking fluted and musical against each other. They must run a games stall elsewhere in the city; Wei Wuxian has seen these prizes before. 

“Who asked you to be a vigilante, anyway.” The proprietor shakes his head. “You look for trouble, boy.”

“The only thing sweeter than trouble is justice,” says Wei Wuxian, laughing at the distaste the proprietor levels at him. He chases a few escaped scrolls that have tumbled from their sack.  “Ah, don’t be like that. I really am sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere with business, okay? I just don’t like to see--”

One of the scrolls has unfurled enough for Wei Wuxian to catch a glimpse of the ink painting. Beneath the glimmer of midday sun the paper is so buttery that Wei Wuxian expects for his fingers to come away slick when he picks it up, letting the scroll’s weight pull the painting the rest of the way open. 

The brushwork is unfamiliar. Mountains studded with frosted clouds, a lake, a tiny figure of a man at the silver waterline. A spray of peonies cradles the scene in its petals, done with a brush so fine that the artist could have drawn it with a single human hair. Wei Wuxian doesn’t recognize it--not the art. He hadn’t opened it for the art. 

A red seal dots the corner of the painting like a button of blood. Wei Wuxian would recognize it anywhere--anyone should recognize it anywhere. Being in possession of something with a seal like this, without explanation, could earn an axe to the neck. 

“Sir,” he asks, staring at the painting, “how did you come across a painting done by the imperial family?”

The proprietor’s eyes widen, and they make a wild lunge for it. Wei Wuxian is taller, though, and jerks it out of reach, rolling the scroll back up so the paper won’t tear. “Give it back!”

“Aha! What is it? Tell me. How did you come across a treasure like this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Hmm. So if I simply walk away with it, you will also simply shrug, and let me be on my way?” Wei Wuxian raises his eyebrows when the proprietor glowers. “Ah, so it mustn’t be nothing. Not with a look like that. Do tell.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Wei Wuxian chews on his lip, smiles. His stomach rumbles, already two cartwheels ahead, but he needs to slow down and think. “Can I pawn it from you?”

“I’d like to see you try, boy. Give it here!”

Wei Wuxian sighs. “I would not try. I would give it back to you, if you asked nicely, but oh--oh, the danger of another person knowing that you have a painting with an imperial stamp on it, with no way to explain how. Unless you’d like to tell me. But you’ve made it clear as day that you’re not interested in letting me know, so you’ll just have to let a stranger go, knowing he carries this secret, not knowing who he is, not knowing what he’ll do.” He holds the scroll out now. “But of course, I cannot take what’s mine. Shame. Here you are.”

The proprietor had listened to him speak with a vague, mounting fear in his eyes, and when Wei Wuxian shakes the scroll at them, they shrink back as if he’s shaking a dismembered arm at them.

“What, don’t want it now? Didn’t you want me to hand it over?”

“What are you playing at,” the proprietor asks. “Are you a palace spy? What do you want?”

Laughter leaps from Wei Wuxian’s mouth. “Me, a palace spy? Oh, no, no, no. I’m afraid not. Palace spies have much more important things to do than to sniff out thieving proprietors. Tell you what. I take this off your hands and you don’t have to worry about your neck, or your family’s necks, and in return, I won’t tell them where I found it. Hm?”

“You plan to give it back to the imperial family?”

“Of course,” says Wei Wuxian. “All things return to where they belong in the end.”

So as it goes, Wei Wuxian is one mango poorer, but one imperial painting richer, and he cannot tell if he is better off for it. He tucks the scroll into his knapsack and the key that hangs around his neck back into his collars and scans the market for weak spots, opportunities to win more food than he has money for. The rotten mango had been stupid luck, and luck is a finite resource which Wei Wuxian does not have much of to begin with, so he’s going to have to work for the rest of his food today. 

A surreptitious scrap of pink peeks out from behind the liquor stall and Wei Wuxian only catches a glimpse of the girl before she tucks herself behind the wooden beams again. Oh--the drunk’s daughter. She’s alone now. Irritation bubbles in the pit of Wei Wuxian’s stomach when he pictures the man shaking her off, lumbering towards another gambling stall that will entertain his time, and he has half a mind to--

“Fresh meat buns! Made this morning. Pork and chicken and mushroom!”

Wei Wuxian catches up to the bun cart, falling into step with the vendor. “Shifu, how much for one?”

“One bronze piece for three.”

“Can I get five for one bronze piece?”

“Are you deaf or just stupid? No. Get lost.”

“Please, shifu,” Wei Wuxian says, he gestures behind himself in the direction he’d seen the little girl, “my daughter, she hasn’t eaten in days, and we’re here to see the doctor and he turned her away on account of the fact that we have no money, and she’ll only get sicker if she doesn’t have any food in her system, our family is still waiting at home, please have mercy--”

“Heavens! Good heavens, fine, here! Take these misshapen ones, they’re an eyesore, anyway.”

“Thank you!” Wei Wuxian fishes the bronze piece out of his money pouch, fingertips poking through the holes in the bottom like eyes, and collects his spoils. “Thank you, Shifu!”

“Get outta my sight.”

Wei Wuxian holds his armful of buns to his chest, and their heat warms him through his clothes down to his bones. It’s a relatively cool day, even for autumn. When he turns around again, the girl scrunches herself back into the safety of the shadows, and he chuckles to himself. The liquorist eyes Wei Wuxin warily when he approaches, but he simply seats himself on the other end of the stall and opens his carrying cloth full of lopsided buns. Ugly, unwhole, but still good for hunger. Still good. 

“Could I interest you in a bottle of rice wine?” 

“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Wei Wuxian flaps his hand. “I am not wont for liquor, but perhaps some company to share these buns with. I have far too many to finish on my own. But I don’t know who’d want these ugly buns. Certainly not you, Shifu, I’m sure?”

The girl peeks out from behind the stall, and Wei Wuxian smiles. “Want one?”

She scampers to sit down in front of him, reaching out with sooty hands for a bun at the top of the bile. The skin of it is pearly in the noon sun, giving under touch, the way only fresh steamed buns are. Then she hesitates, looking into Wei Wuxian’s face as if expecting to be struck.

“Go ahead,” he says, holds the bun out. “Eat.”

She snatches it and crams half of it into her mouth, and Wei Wuxian chuckles again. He knows hunger like this, and takes his own portion to tear into. The sweet smell of pork and mushroom and oil floats up into his eyes, and for a moment the meat sears on his tongue before it settles into a taste. 

“Is it good?” he asks.

She nods. 

So it’s good.

“Where have you been? Wei Wuxian, I ought to cut you off at the kneecaps! A-Jie’s been worried sick, you were supposed to be back over a shichen ago.”

“I ran into a friend, Jiang Cheng. Lighten up, will you? Here, I got buns.”

“Keep your stupid buns. Where’s the fish you were going to get?”

Wei Wuxian scratches at the back of his neck. “Ha. Well, about that.”

“Seriously? I can’t believe you. If it weren’t your birthday, I really would cut you off at the legs.”

“But it is, so instead, you need to be nice!” Wei Wuxian crows triumphantly. 

Jiang Cheng sighs, a gust of hot summer wind that picks up stinging sands. A wisp of his hair flits with his breath. He’s wearing his nice clothes, no doubt because A-Jie made him, with a polished belt tucked around his waist like the coil of a sleeping snake. It’s a formality that they hardly ever bother with anymore, not in such a provincial town as this, leading a life as threadbare as theirs. The shine of the buckle comes off of him in bright flashes. 

“Whatever. Come on, A-jie made noodles. Where’d you get buns?”

“Oh, so you do want one. Here, I know you like chicken.”

“Don’t tell me you managed to snatch all of these,” Jiang Cheng asks, but he takes the one Wei Wuxian offers anyway. “Who likes chicken,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“I just harnessed a talent that you have never quite mastered, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says. “Charm.”

“I ought to smack you.”

“There was a hungry kid. I didn’t want her to go hungry.”

Jiang Cheng is quiet. “We all are, why go help a stranger?”

“Wouldn’t you have wanted someone to help us back then?”

At this, a grunt. Which, coming from Jiang Cheng, is as enthusiastic a yes he’ll give, so Wei Wuxian smiles to himself and slings his sack of food over his shoulder. He’s down to two now, and he figures he’ll just give both of them to A-Jie who deserves much more than two pork buns, but it’s the best he has. One day he’ll get her expensive candied mangoes and hawthorn berries that the baker makes in the market in the next city over--the one that glitters.

“A-Cheng, A-Xian! You’re back!”

“Found him scaling the wall back into the hutong,” Jiang Cheng grumbles. “Punk.”

Jiang Yanli, too, is wearing her nicest set of robes today, with a hair ornament that Wei Wuxian hasn’t seen her with since the new year. Her face clears of worry when she sees them, and she reaches up, straightens a lock of Wei Wuxian’s hair where it’s caught over his ear. “A-Xian, you’re not--you know that you shouldn’t--” 

“Scale walls, climb to great heights, jump off roofs, I know, I know,” Wei Wuxian says, vividly recalling that he has done all of the above and then some today. “Sorry to make you worry, A-Jie, I’m fine! I got you buns. You can have them both.”

“But what about the fish? A-xian, we were going to make one for dinner for you.”

“Ah, fish or no fish, it’s no matter. Noodles are good enough. As long as I can live a long life, luck will always come back around.” 

“What if your whole life is plagued with bad luck?” asks Jiang Cheng as they duck back into their hut of clay and brick. The curtains are open, a rare moment of Jiang Yanli letting daylight peek inside, and it lights up their matchbox home in a wash of sunset. Bowls of steaming noodles are set out on the rickety slice of table, with the biggest in front of the seat where Wei Wuxian always sits. His heart swells. He’ll be forcing mouthfuls of noodles into his siblings’ bowls when they sit down, he’s sure, but for now his heart is the pulse of afternoon sun in the window. 

“Then my next life,” says Wei Wuxian. “My next one won’t be nearly as bad.”

The Lost Phoenix is lost. I think that’s the point. No one will ever find them. You will die looking for them.

Wei Wuxian is built from broken things. 

He sees rubble and thinks, that is a home. He sees blood and thinks, that is a heart. He sees himself reflected in the slow meanders of swamp-green lakes lazy with dragonflies and skeeters and tries to remember, that is a human, that is a human, that is a human.

“You may not be human, but that is what makes you worth loving,” is what A-Jie says. 

“You? A human? With an appetite like that? It’s like trying to feed a void with you,” is what Jiang Cheng says, which is basically the same thing. 

Wei Wuxian is built from broken things, but the uglier, eyesore-pork-bun truth is that he is born from destruction. He is born from the fire of things, and the ashes of himself; his body waits for the wither. 

The Lost Phoenix is dead. His ashes were scattered in mountain, sea, and sky.

The Lost Phoenix is alive! Everyone knows that leaving behind but a single ember can spark a wildfire. Fire has wings.

No human, ghost, or demon has ever seen the Lost Phoenix. If they had, wouldn’t we have heard by now? They are only a legend.

There are scars on his back to prove what he once was and never will be again, and Jiang Yanli tells him, The world was not ready for you. The world, perhaps, will not be ready for the Lost Phoenix to return for as long as we still walk upon it, A-Xian, but maybe when one day when everyone is gone, when A-Cheng and I are gone, you’ll--

He always cuts her off there. Usually he can’t see her face, because she’ll be sitting behind him and rubbing oil into the muscles that can never seem to loosen around his shoulder blades, the ones that line the edges of the scars like mottled mountain peaks. Just two of them, in straight lines as long as a hand, glaring at each other over the expanse of his back, the winding groove of his spine. Phantom pains. Human or not, the body will miss limbs when they are gone. 

Tonight, Jiang Yanli does not tell him the world isn’t ready for him. It hurts to listen to her say it, because it’s not a pain that Wei Wuxian can beat away with his fists or even his words. There’s a quiet noise of the bottle being unstoppered, then the cloying scent of liniment oil wreathing around him as he sits with his back bared to her, hair swept over his shoulder. 

“A-jie,” he says. 

“Hmm?” Her hands are small and warm against his back, and he hisses in pain when her finger catches on a tight knot immediately. “Sorry, Xianxian.”

“It’s okay. Uhm, I have a stupid question.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. Ask.”

“Which birthday did we celebrate tonight?” he asks quietly. 

The inside of their hut is a dark, uneven indigo now, the fires of the village filtering in through their window. Jiang Cheng has gone to bathe, so the only answering noise above the sound of a city settling in evening is Jiang Yanli’s soft laughter. 

“Your thirty-first, A-xian.”

“How many years have passed in this life?”

Her hands disappear as she dabs more liniment oil onto her fingers. “Since your reincarnation?”

“Yeah.”

“Thirteen.” 

“Thirteen,” Wei Wuxian repeats. “Thirteen.” He rolls it over his tongue, trying to figure out how it tastes. Bitter, a little. like medicine. Maybe it’s the liniment. Jiang Yanli runs her thumb down the edge of one of the scars, massaging out a few particularly gnarly knots there. 

“Is there something wrong?” she asks. 

“Not wrong, exactly.” Wei Wuxian pushes his fingers into his folded robes in his lap, pretends the fabric is sand and silt at the bottom of a lake. He almost expects handfuls of snails when he pulls them back out. “It’s just that, with every passing year, I think maybe this is it--this is the year I’ll remember. This is the year I’ll remember the things about my life before this one. Remember when I tried to teach you and Jiang Cheng how to catch fish with your hands, in the river, A-Jie? You said you could see them beneath the surface, but when you’d reach in to grab it, it was like the fish were never even there.” 

“I remember,” says Jiang Yanli. She is quiet, waits for him to go on. 

“Trying to recall my first life is like that. I know it happened. I can see it right there, flickering under the water, but. But each year comes and goes, and not only do I not remember anything, it feels like more and more of what I thought I could remember slips away,” says Wei Wuxian. “I was excited in the eighth year of this life. Then I was excited in the twelfth. Thirteen is no good, is it, A-Jie? I’ve run out of lucky numbers to count on.”

“Would it make you happy to remember, Xianxian?”

“I think so. When I think about it--it’s funny, you know. Maybe you know. I can’t recall memories from it, exactly, but when I think about my first life, I think I remember being happy. Like when you roll over and the sun is already up. You can feel the warmth on you even if you don’t see the light.” Then Wei Wuxian snorts. “That doesn’t make any sense. Sorry, ignore me, A-jie.”

“It makes sense. Of course it makes sense. Is that all you remember, a feeling?”

They’ve been over this before. A hazy, murky image of something from Before, dredged up from packed soil. Jiang Cheng will always say, “Who knows? Why do you think I would remember?” waspish, and Jiang Yanli would always give him a soft, “Perhaps it was, A-xian.”

“I remember,” he says, “that we were in a noble family, once.”

This is an easy one. She always says yes to this one. “We were.”

“I remember that the palace walls were lined with bronze, not gold like a lot of the common folk think.”

“Yes, they are.”

“The accident.” The one that has turned him into this. 

“I wish you did not,” says Jiang Yanli.

“I don’t--not really. I just remember the pain. My body does, anyway.”

“Muscle has memory,” she says. “But because you are who you are, so does your blood and bones.”

Wei Wuxian fiddles with the gap-toothed key that swings from his neck. It thunks hollowly against his bare chest without the robes to hold it in place, and he tugs the deerskin rope that loops around his neck so that the knot tying it together comes down, down, down, through the hole in the key, up, up, back up again, a miniature comet’s orbit. 

“You were a princess,” he says, quiet again.

“Princess is a strong word.”

“But you were.”

“In my own way.”

And then, the most solid memory he has—a figure in white, with hair that fell to their waist, holding a smudge of pink in their hand. Solid, but blurred, like Wei Wuxian is trying to see them through a sheeting waterfall. The lines of their body were straight and crisp, except for the pink. The pink was always soft, parting the mud of his memory. 

He doesn’t mention this one, usually. Wei Wuxian holds it close to his heart where it has roots. Year after year, no matter the rains, nothing has flowered. Seasons have passed. 

“A person,” Wei Wuxian murmurs. 

Jiang Yanli’s hands slow. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” says Wei Wuxian. “Just a person. Their back is to me, so I can’t see their face, but it’s too blurry for me to see them, even if they’d been right in front of me. And they were just standing there--just standing. Nothing else. I don’t even really know if they’re real, but it’s the best memory I have.” He digs his nail into an indent in the key’s teeth. “Do you think they were real, A-Jie?”

“As real as the Lost Phoenix is.”

Wei Wuxian laughs weakly. “The Lost Phoenix is as good as myth.”

A myth meant to scare people.

A cautionary tale.

“The Lost Phoenix needs to stop squirming, or I will poke the sensitive parts of his scar, and I know he hates it when I do,” Jiang Yanli says. 

A story about a monster.

“Maybe it’s better to forget some things, A-Jie.”

“A-Cheng and I only want you to be happy, Xianxian. Whatever that means to you. Whether that means remembering or forgetting.”

“I want to remember, because your happiness is my happiness,” Wei Wuxian insists, turning around. Jiang Yanli lifts her hand away as he rearranges his legs in a half-lotus, one foot stretched out onto the floor. “I want to remember because I know this life isn’t one you and Jiang Cheng would have chosen if you both had a choice. You can’t say I’m wrong about that. No noble family member would choose to live in a rundown hutong if they had a choice.”

“A-Xian--”

“I know you won’t tell me what happened before my reincarnation,” says Wei Wuxian. “I know you want to forget. But if anything ever happens that means we can go back to it--you have to say so, okay? You both are the only family I have left. Let me do something for the people who have somehow kept me alive for thirty-one years. I can’t remember eighteen of them. As if I started reading in the middle of the story. There are things I know without knowing how I know them.”

Whether it be a story, a tale, legend, or myth, one thing was certain: the Lost Phoenix is the last known survivor of the Phoenix Rising, once the most revered noble family of the imperial city, the warrior family that protected the throne. 

Forged from the Sacred Fires of Scarlet Mountain, the Phoenix Rising once was so formidable that simply meeting one of them in their true form was a sign of luck and good fortune. They were, as their family name suggested, bewinged humans who lived and died and rose again from their own ashes. They were skilled in combat, nimble in war, with the ability of flight. They harnessed Taoist magic that was only spoken of in books. 

A secular world did not have room for magic.

“Our A-xian,” says Jiang Yanli, shaking her head, “always hurts himself trying to make us happy before he remembers he has a heart, too.”

“Ah, what good is a heart if I can’t deal it out in pieces for my didi and my jie?” says Wei Wuxian. “It’s not like anyone else has any use for it.”

“That’s not true,” Jiang Yanli murmurs. 

“Hm? What’s that?”

“Nothing, Xianxian.”

“You have my promise, A-Jie,” says Wei Wuxian. “It’s us three until the end. Never apart. If I can bring you and Jiang Cheng back to the glory days before this life, then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She’s quiet, then dabs a light gauze over his skin to absorb the excess liniment oil. Both of them know it won’t be possible--even if they were a lower noble family, there wasn’t a ticket back into the royal city unless you saved the emperor from death or something equally as momentous. Save the empire, or something. Wei Wuxian dreams big, but he’s realistic. 

“Thank you, Xianxian,” she says, finally. 

“It smells like old people in here,” Jiang Cheng announces, as absurdly loud as new year firecrackers when he comes back inside. He smells of freshwater and sand, and he tracks an inky line of water where his wet shoes stamp footprints into the floors. “I know you’re another year older now, but you’re really getting started early.”

“If I’m so old, then you better talk to me with respect, punk,” Wei Wuxian says. Jiang Cheng may be loud, may be messy, but he chases away the strange, yearning sadness that tugs like a deep saltwater current on Wei Wuxian every time his birthday comes and goes. He loves his stupid, loud brother for it. “Hey! Where’s my kowtow? Where’s my ‘ge,’ then? Where’s my ‘Wei qianbei,’ huh? I’m so old, Jiang Cheng, pay your respects!”

“Screw you, Wei Wuxian. I’d sooner call you Old Man Wei. You’d have to rip out my tongue first.”

“Okay, come here then, my hands are free.”

“Gross! What’s wrong with you?”

And so night falls on another day, another year, and Wei Wuxian feels a little empty and a lot full, like a planet is breathing inside him. Jiang Yanli tugs on Jiang Cheng’s hair, makes him sit down so she can wrestle the tangles out of his drying frizz, and Wei Wuxian holds the lantern for light.

It’s enough. 

So what happened to them, the Phoenix Rising? Why have they disappeared?

Because they had power. Because they were loved, feared, and respected, all things an emperor should be.  

In the beginning, it was an honor to be the emperor that controlled the Phoenix Rising, for it took an equally distinguished ruler to command such a family, and for generations, the Phoenix Rising served the throne with grace. For generations, the empire was a glowing, golden city upon which the sun glittered, and the common folk called it the City of Gods. 

But at the end of a weak dynasty, the throne was seized by a bloodthirsty family that feared the Phoenix Rising and the power they held. People, monsters, kings, or gods? Did the citizens respect the throne? Or did the loyalty of their hearts lie with the strange, winged family that had for centuries been revered as the beacon of luck and fortune?

 Humans fear what they do not understand. Humans seek to destroy what they fear. 

And so the Phoenix Rising paid the steepest price.

“Did he mention it to you at all yesterday?”

“No! He never brought it up. That punk. I’m gonna wring his sorry little neck.”

“A-Cheng.” A rustle of wind through paper. Then, “We need to ask him where he found this. He could’ve been caught. He could’ve been killed.”

Wei Wuxian wakes to his siblings whispering. Whispers always come through dreams like shouts, and he’s having a very strange dream about walking through wire, except instead of coals at his feet, there is ash, and in the ash there are hundreds and hundreds of keys glinting red as squirting cherries. His feet are burnt and blistering, but he can’t run, can’t turn back, can only walk forward. 

There are no secrets in a single-room shack. No matter how quietly Jiang Yanli whispers, Jiang Cheng speaks loud enough to wake the whole town. 

“Nicked it, probably,” says Jiang Cheng now. A grudging respect colors his voice. “That’s probably why he took so long to get back yesterday.”

The bamboo sleep mat crackles beneath him as Wei Wuxian rolls over, then sits up. For a moment the world is a spinning top. Jiang Yanli turns, lowering something, and smiles when she sees him awake. Jiang Cheng, of course, is already swinging. 

“You dumbass! Where did you get this? If someone comes looking for it and finds it with us, do you know how dead we are?”

Then Wei Wuxian sees it--the painting that he’d charmed out of the hands of the gambling proprietor at lunch yesterday. Jiang Yanli holds it like a broken bird in her lap, and Wei Wuxian ducks when Jiang Cheng aims another swat at him. Mostly half-hearted, but he leaps to his feet and skips out of reach. 

“I was going to surprise you!” he says. “I didn’t even have a chance to tell you what I was planning. You don’t know how much money this could bring in the black market, Jiang Cheng, an imperial painting? Just think about it. I can just disguise myself, go at night--cover my face, you know--and we could stop living here. We could live in a real house, and we wouldn’t have to all share one sleeping mat.”

“A-Xian,” Jiang Yanli gets to her feet, too. Always graceful in a stark contrast to her two brothers, the lantern from which two wild tassels would dance in the wind. She lifts the painting up high so that she can point to the red seal in the corner. “Do you recognize this?”

“The imperial seal, right? Sure. Everyone does.”

“I’m going to puke blood,” says Jiang Cheng. 

Jiang Yanli ignores him. “You’re not wrong, A-Xian. But this is an imperial seal of a concubine.”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “Of the emperor?”

“Yes. Judging from the seal design, not just any concubine--she must be a consort, at least.” Jiang Yanli holds the paper closer to her face, trying to discern the characters. “Mo,” she mutters, unsure. 

“So we could sell it for even more money,” Wei Wuxian concludes.

“No, we are not going to sell it for money,” says Jiang Cheng. His face has darkened. 

“Are you crazy?” Wei Wuxian asks. “You said it yourself, if someone finds us in possession, it’ll be our heads. The faster we get rid of it, the less likely anyone is to know it ever passed through our hands at all.”

“Yeah, well, you probably should have considered that before you nicked it, genius,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “It doesn’t matter. Now that we have it, we’re going to use it.”

“Use it how, if not for money, then?” Wei Wuxian struggles to keep his voice low. Jiang Cheng is not making any gods damned sense--isn’t he the one who constantly talks about leaving this hutong under the guise of hating how cramped it is, when really, he and Wei Wuxian agree that they should move closer to the imperial city where there would be better houses and perhaps a respectable man for their sister to marry if she so wanted? 

“We’re going to use this to return to the imperial city.” 

A silence falls like a tree toppled in storm between them. 

“A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli begins. 

“We are?” asks Wei Wuxian. “How would that even work?”

“You’re the best at telling lies.”

“Well, yes, I’m glad you have seen the light.”

“Think about it,” says Jiang Cheng. “An emperor's consort. It means she must have been in favor with the sitting emperor, Jin Huangshang. A painting with her seal on it. How would a painting by a favored concubine of the emperor end up out here?”

“Wound up in a gambling stall, no less,” Wei Wuxian says. Now that Jiang Cheng puts it that way--it’s more than a little strange. “Fine, say that we could use it as our golden ticket back into the imperial city. We’ll be lucky if the consort is dead. She won’t be around to ask any questions if there are holes in our story. What if she’s alive? What if she’s not a consort? What if she was hated, what then?”

“A-Xian,” says Jiang Yanli, setting her hand on his shoulder, and the touch is firmer than he’s used to. “Stop. You too, A-Cheng. Returning would be dangerous for us.”

“Dangerous how?” asks Wei Wuxian. There it is--that gap of the first eighteen years of his life rearing its mangled head. Sometimes it’s like trying to read a page of text with half the words blacked out, the ones left behind still beautiful, but without meaning. “A-Jie, I thought we were…”

“We were a lower noble family then, Xianxian. But it does not mean that the court is a safe place for any of us.”

“Jie!” says Jiang Cheng. 

“No, A-Cheng. We’re not going back. It’s not just for A-Xian’s safety, it’s for all of us.”

“Would we really be in that much danger?” asks Wei Wuxian. “If no one knows I’m the Lost Phoenix but the three of us, nothing would happen.”

Right?

“Jiejie,” says Jiang Cheng, his voice quieter than Wei Wuxian has ever heard it, “the Crown Prince has never married.”

Jiang Yanli’s face, for a dizzying heartbeat, is stricken. Something like pain and longing flashes through her eyes quick as the swing of an axe in cloudy morning, but then it’s gone, and she sighs. 

“What does the Crown Prince have anything to do with A-Jie?” asks Wei Wuxian. 

“That isn’t any of our business. Not even yours, A-Cheng,” she says. Wei Wuxian has never seen his sister like this, drawn up tall with her chin held high, and for a moment he sees the princess that she must once have been. Jiang Cheng, who is easily a head taller than her and twice as broad, crumples under the weight of her gaze. “We left because we wanted to. We’ve lived by this choice and we will continue to live by it. Now, both of you listen--A-Xian will do as he planned, sell this painting for whatever sum that traders will offer, and we won’t speak of it again. Understand?”

The tension swells like a fever between them. 

Wei Wuxian should be happy that his sister is on his side for this--when is it that she ever picks sides whenever he and Jiang Cheng argue? Any other time, he’d be hooting with laughter, rubbing it in Jiang Cheng’s face, but there is a deeply strange, melancholy expression on his brother’s face that does not suit him at all. 

“Fine,” says Jiang Cheng. He takes the scroll from Jiang Yanli, rolling it up with care, then shoves it into Wei Wuxian’s chest with considerably less care. “Get this shit out of my sight. I’m going out.”

Wei Wuxian watches helplessly as Jiang Cheng moves around their hut with jerky movements, jaw set with the pulse of anger. He gathers his knapsack and what meager rations of buns left over from the day before, no doubt stale and hard by now, and loops it around his shoulder. 

Then he’s gone, without another word. 

Wei Wuxian gnaws on the soft inside of his cheek. “A-Jie--”

“Don’t think too much about what A-Cheng said, Xianxian,” says Jiang Yanli. “He won’t show it, but he worries. You needn’t take what he said to heart.”

Jiang Yanli will say no more, no matter how hard he presses. He’ll press anyone until they give, but not her. She ducks her head when Wei Wuxian turns to her with his confused, hurt silence, as if she is waiting for his anger. He’d never be angry with her. 

“I don’t understand, A-Jie.”

“A-Cheng and I simply have different ideas of what it means to keep our family safe. He thinks it means returning. I think it means to stay.”

“But why would we be in danger?” he asks. “Does this have something to do with the Crown Prince? Did he know who I was? I guess so, or else why would Jiang Cheng bring him up? Did you know him? Could he help us?”

“No, he couldn’t.”

Wei Wuxian sets his mouth in a line. “Well, I should be off too,” he says. The sun has already started to burn back the clouds; he needs to find tonight’s dinner for the three of them. Maybe he should go after Jiang Cheng, press him for more details. Their sister, despite what anyone might think, gives far less easily than either of them. 

“Be careful, Xianxian,” she says. “Oh, are you taking the painting with you?”

“There’s no way I’m going to leave it here in case anyone finds it and you’re here by yourself. Worst case scenario, I throw it away, and we can pretend none of this ever happened.” He takes Jiang Yanli’s hands in his, squeezes them ruefully. “I’m sorry, A-Jie. I just thought it would help. I didn’t want you to argue with Jiang Cheng.”

“It’s okay.” She tucks his stray hairs over his ear. “Go. Come back safe, A-xian.”

He waves at her once when he steps out, and once more when he makes it to the end of the hutong and she becomes little more than a quilted patch of terrycloth in the distance, as he does every morning when he leaves. Jiang Cheng can’t have gone far in the time that he’s gone, unless he took off at a sprint, so Wei Wuxian lets the scented chill of autumn fill his lungs.

The Crown Prince. What a strange person to bring up. Wei Wuxian rifles through what he remembers hearing in taverns and pubs, filtered through the thick veil of alcohol. The Jin family sits upon the throne now, after staging a coup against the Wens and seizing power just over a decade ago. The Crown Prince would have to be a Jin prince. The Jin Emperor was said to be quite the philanderer and had more than enough sons from too many concubines to choose from. The Crown Prince must be quite a favorite, for an emperor with so many sons would not pay any mind to choosing the Empress’s sons if he so liked one from his concubine better. 

And this Crown Prince, according to Jiang Cheng, has never married. 

The look on Jiang Yanli’s face--frozen, bruised, a bird shot from the sky before it begins to plummet--was not one Wei Wuxian expected to see when she heard this news. If they’d known this prince, then he must have been around even before Wei Wuxian’s reincarnation. Jiang Yanli must have spoken of him. 

But all his memories can offer him are vague smudges of color and a person with pink like a fire in their hands. 

It’s too early for the fishmongers just yet, but the market brims with life as it always does. Wei Wuxian narrowly dodges a cart full of fresh flowers, a toothless grandfather with a bamboo hat pulling it along weakly. One of the wheels is crooked, wood squeaking against the stone pavement. 

“Shifu, your wheel,” says Wei Wuxian, plucking the canteen of oil tucked low against the cart. It dribbles out in a black splash. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, young man,” says the grandfather, and Wei Wuxian waits for him to turn his back to the street before plucking a lotus from the back of his cart and tucking it into his knapsack. For A-Jie, as penance for upsetting her so early in the morning. 

Jiang Cheng is not hard to find. He is poor at concealing himself, both in body and in voice, and he really is very bad at haggling. Wei Wuxian sidles up to him at a fruit stall, arguing with the vendor over a particularly ugly dragonfruit that looks more like a leathery handful of meat left too long in the sun than any respectable fruit. 

 “Now I think,” says Wei Wuxian, plucking it out of Jiang Cheng’s hand and ignoring his indignant scoff, “shifu, if you let this fruit sit out in your display, it would ruin the look of all the rest of your fruits. ‘Ah, look at this lovely display of dragonfruit. But what do we have here? A misfit! A miscreant! A monstrosity, really!’ And then you lose business. So really, we’re doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” says the vendor with disbelief. “What gall.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, then tosses the fruit back and forth between his hands and gives a quick jerk of his chin. “What do you say? Half off?”

“I can’t believe you weaseled him into giving it to us for less than half off,” says Jiang Cheng five minutes later. “You could talk your way out of your own--”

Wei Wuxian tosses his dragonfruit from hand to hand. “My own what?” Jiang Cheng’s knapsack hangs flat and sad against his back, crumpled like a dead leaf, so Wei Wuxian holds it open and drops the fruit inside. 

“Nothing. Never mind. What are you doing out here with that--thing?”

“Do you think I was going to leave it with A-Jie? No way. Imagine if she were alone and someone found her with it.”

Jiang purses his lips, nods. He tucks his thumb into the strap of his knapsack, a deadknot slung over his shoulder. “Have you thought about any stories?”

“What stories?”

“About what we’d say, if we brought it back to the imperial city.”

Jiang Cheng resolutely does not meet Wei Wuxian’s stare. 

“You want to go?”

“I just think that if we have a plan, A-Jie might be more willing to go. To be honest with you, if it were just to the two of us, it wouldn’t matter as much. We could sell the stupid painting, use the money. We could eke out an existence. It would fucking suck, but we could, and I wouldn’t feel guilty about it.”

“Ah, Jiang Cheng. You’re finally talking sense!” Wei Wuxian claps him on the back. When Jiang Cheng doesn’t shake his hand off, his smile falters. He must actually be worried. “Okay. We have to consider multiple scenarios, then, if we want this to be foolproof. We don’t want to make up a story where the concubine is alive when she’s dead. Or vice versa. So the first order of business is to figure that out.”

Jiang Cheng nods. “And what kind of favor she’s in with the emperor. The better, the easier for us.”

So, like peddlers, they spin their stories. 

+

The night blooms blue and foggy, the moon dropping light in handfuls of glass through the forest, and Wei Wuxian straightens to see that he is not alone. 

Someone else is in the mist with him. It’s thick enough that he cannot see their feet, so they could be floating. A man--just a bit taller than Wei Wuxian himself. His sword is drawn, lowered, as if he’d been pointing it before Wei Wuxian sensed him and stopped. The folded steel blade flashes. 

Blood sheets heavily down Wei Wuxian’s leg where the muscle has torn around the arrowhead, and haze sloshes in his skull. His brain is an upended bowl of goldfish. He grasps for words, for his thoughts, but they slip through his fingers. The stranger stares at him a bit in shock, a bit in horror, mostly in surprise. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He is wearing so much white he could be glowing, a star abandoned by its galaxy, and Wei Wuxian is the only one to find him. 

They stare at each other in the gloom. 

Wei Wuxian’s scattered goldfish thoughts say, Pink.

“Are you here to kill me?” asks Wei Wuxian. His words come out slurred even to his own ears. He needs to find Jiang Cheng. They need to get back to A-Jie. He needs to get out of here. 

“No.” The stranger steps towards him. “We mistook you for a prey animal. Are you badly hurt?”

“This? No, no. I’m fine. I need to go.”

“Your leg is injured.”

“It’s fine. I need to get back to--my wards,” Wei Wuxian says, catching himself before he says anything too revealing, pats himself on the back for staying in line even as his thoughts unravel. He picks his favorite story and sticks with it, hopes to any god that is listening it won’t get any of them killed. “My wards. They were with me. I was looking for Jin Bixia.”

The stranger has come so close that Wei Wuxian can make out every stitch of his robe. “What business do you have with the emperor?”

“I have a painting,” he mumbles around the haze. It’s a dark one, now. “My mother’s painting.”

Then darkness kisses his eyelids, and the night pulls him under. 

+

The scroll unfurls with the quiet hush of paper that has gone undisturbed too long. Even mounted on fine silk, the edges of the hemp and mulberry fibers have begun to wither, time nibbling as cruel and hungry as moths. The paper stretches on forever, nearly as tall as him fully unfurled. The cherrywood stick clacks upon the floor. 

Wei Wuxian’s mouth goes dry. He stares with seeing, then without comprehending, then without believing. 

The ink color has faded, like the paper, with age. Once the red might have leapt off the page, the greens so bright that spring grew from the painting itself, but all of it has flattened. It’s a simple composition. Where Mo Fu Ren had let her human subject be lost among the trees and sweeping landscapes, this painting is only one person, draped in textured golds and silk brocade embroidered with dragons. 

Simple, perhaps, but done by the hand of someone who held them beloved. 

His fingers shake when he reaches out. They hang back, and he pulls away, afraid that touching it might make the entire painting dissolve in his hands. 

Smiling serenely back at him is his own face, thirteen years younger, thirteen years less hungry—but it is him. His eyes are downcast, with a rabbit cradled in the crook of his elbow and a bird perched upon his shoulder. Without a doubt it is him. Even if he could not recognize his own face, the characters that march in little terracotta soldiers down the paper leave no room for guessing. 

The black ink is fresh, as if someone has run a brush through the strokes every year so that they can never fade. 

Wei Wuxian, they say. 

This can’t be right. He must be misreading. He blinks hard. 

His thoughts trip over each other’s ankles. They come in a clamoring flood, each wanting to be heard first, pored over first. Wei Wuxian. Had there been another before him? It is not a common name. It is not a name that would show up twice in the royal city if every noble family had the names of their descendants planned out for generations, no matter if the Phoenix Rising had been slaughtered by order of the emperor. Why is there a painting of him rolled up and locked away in the private study of Hanguang Gexia, second head of the scholar house to Emperor Jin? 

Did they once know each other?

How could it be that a key that Jiang Yanli gave him would unlock this desk?

There are corpses sleeping under their feet. This earth has been burnt and salted. 

An old ache starts in his spine. 

We were a lower noble family then, Xianxian.

Fire without coals. 

There was a person. Just a person.

Do not exhume these bodies. 

We left because we wanted to.

Something terrible must have happened to him. 

[pigeonfancier]

Apple handpies! Done with exclusively coconut oil/palm oil as the fats, and stevia instead of sugar. It turned out alright, but my unfortunate conclusion that too much medium-chain fatty acids just makes my liver hurt instead has been proven correct. :’) Ah, the food wars. At least my pancreas feels tolerable.

With that said, they’re better than I expected! Spices were cinnamon, black cardamom, ginger and nutmeg, made a pseudocustard base, and infused the oils for the dough with cinnamon, orange oil, and blueberry powder. I was half-expecting it to be entirely fucking wretched, but thankfully, the gamble paid off? Blueberries produced a nice saturation to the dough without impacting the taste, and the orange oil just gave everything a cider vibe.

I’ve got so much filling left! Half-tempted to scrap the dough, remake it and then split it to do specific designs on each minipie before freezing it. Vaguely visible in #2 are the flowers I slapped onto the center, with an eye towards tinting them a different colour later? But, spoiler alert: you will never cover up brown dough unless you want to break out the frosting or hard glazes, and I am absolutely unwilling to do that, lol.

[victoriareyloficlists]

5 May 2021 Additions to Reylo Fluff

These fics have been added to the Fluff lists located in the following lists:

Fluff Part 1 Titles A-G

Fluff Part 2 Titles H-M

Fluff Part 3 Titles N-S

Fluff Part 4 Titlez T-Z

A merry Reylo Christmas by MeadowHayle (AO3 2018  Rated M Complete, 24 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey and Ben are roommates and celebrate the most wonderful time of the year together. For Rey it's the first real Christmas with friends and family and she wants to make up for all the things she missed as a child. Ben tries to help as best as possible, giving her a Christmas experience she deserves.) That's mine! by CrystalDen (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, 3 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: When their new supervisor came from a different department, it had been a temporary solution to fix the swift exit of their boss. No one really cared that it was, well, a dude. A very tall, quiet dude with big features and a churlish expression. Gathering around the main hub of their floor to make introductions, Rey found herself mildly invested. He’d be around for a week, two. Maybe a month tops. It’s been three, and Rey just wishes he would go the fuck away.) Go And Catch A Falling Star Chapter 59 by Ayearandaday (AO3 2021  Rated G Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: This chapter was born during a video about how pockets on women's clothing shrunk through history. Modern Rey would be outraged to know that womankind used to have pockets big enough to stash a loaf of bread. Imagine all the snacks they could fit! But she would have to make do with her boyfriend's pockets. Yep, that's basically the plot. Warnings: if Reylo babies bother you, you might want to skip this one.) A World Where There Are Octobers by Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium (AO3 2020  Rated T Complete, 12 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey is a ranch hand helping Han when the prodigal son returns.) Deliciously Dateable by Hellyjellybean (AO3 2021  Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey hosts a Youtube show eating theme park foods. Ben is her producer and cameraman. The internet ships them thanks to their crazy chemistry even though Ben’s rarely on camera.) A Season of Frost & Warmth by shewhospeakswiththunder (AO3 2019  Rated T Complete, 6 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben and Rey attend a costume party and there is contention between them; also including descriptions of season-appropriate cooler fall temperatures, warm clothing, and pining.) Free Fallin' by SageMcMae (AO3 2018  Rated M Complete, 5 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: A modern AU with pilot Ben Solo and brewery owner Rey who meet with disastrous first impressions, but somehow find themselves unable to deny their intense connection. Taking a leap of faith is a gamble. Taking the plunge towards love is a free fall.) and they were roommates by myownlittleinfinity (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: When Ben loses a bet to his roommate, Rey, he has to eat her out for 30 days.) Butter Crisp Sandwich by DarkMage13 (AO3 2021  Rated M Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: “Mr, I insist you join me for a tea party today, at precisely noon. My teddy will be there.” Ben glanced at the boring clock on the wall. Ten minutes until noon. He swallowed in fear. There was no escape.  Or: Ben Solo cannot say no to an adorable hazel-eyed little girl's request for tea.) the way I see you by ocjones (AO3 2021  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Historical AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben glides a finger over the painting’s shining face. It’s long since dried, having traveled the slow journey of hills between Naboo and Mortis, yet the varnish is so glossy it almost feels wet to the touch.And there she is: a soft-looking woman, her breasts pillowing over the top of her corset, her hair held lightly back with a band and flowing out behind her. Her delicate fingers grip a book, clasp it in her velvet-clad lap. The smile on her face is as gentle as her portrayal. His wife.) melting snow by makeshiftcandy (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: “Rey?” Ben said, his voice suddenly right there, just in front of her, and no, oh no, he couldn’t be here, shouldn’t be anywhere near her because–“Alpha,” she whimpered, watching as the portion of his body visible to her froze.) Sweet Things by DarthBaker23 (AO3 2021  Rated E Complete, 3 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Alpha Ben enters a bakery and finds himself obsessed with a sweet scent. He's obsessed with the delicious smelling scent but can't find its source. He tries every pastry in the shop but eventually turns to the bakery owner, Rey, for help. When he finally meets her in person, he gets a big surprise.) Rey's Braids by Magdalane (AO3 2021  Rated M Complete, 6 Chapters, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben's little girl falls in love with braided hairstyles. He watches video from the popular YouTube channel in which Rey teaches different braiding techniques. After weeks of failure, he DMs her on Instagram, desperate...) Cashmere by ladyofreylo (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: “Technically, Cashmere is a dating service. It’s for women who need escorts—literally, a date—to events. There are many women out there who don’t have partners or don’t wish to come out as lesbians—and they want to have a man on their arm. However, Cashmere is unofficially a place to find sexual partners who are vetted and cater to a variety of tastes.” Rose paused. “It’s great because they only hire the best-looking men, with great bodies and great sexual skills. It’s hard to go wrong. I’ve known a guy or two who worked for them. They are gentlemen and very skilled lovers.” Rey is looking for someone to take her virginity. When she calls Cashmere, they send Daddy Dom Kylo Ren...) Penetration Testing by SageMcMae (AO3 2019  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Tired of their difficult boss, Phasma, Hux, and Mitaka hire Rey to help their CEO Ben run a security test but forget to tell him. “Good morning, Mr. Ren. I’m Rey Niima. I’m here to conduct the penetration testing you requested.” "Excuse me?” “We will begin with a preliminary assessment of your system, conduct the initial penetration test, after which I will provide a gap analysis to highlight the areas requiring improvement. I’ll make sure to list them out in priority order so you improve your performance.” “My...performance?”) Lip Balm by Jammy_Dodger (AO3 2020  Rated G Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Ben HATES the lip balm Rey uses. He's been throwing it out, hiding it, trying to find ways to make her stop using it. So he ends up going to Sephora to buy her some new lip balm, but he comes out with VIB Rogue status, a curling iron, a hair dryer, a flat iron, heat protectant spray and a lot of stress. Ben hates shopping but he'll do it for Rey. Fluffy.) Homestead Fire by ladyofreylo (AO3 2020  Rated E Complete, One-Shot, Prairie AU, Quick Synopsis: In this story, Ben Solo is a homesteader trying to court O. Kenobi's adopted daughter whilst on the prairie. He believes he will make Miss Rey a good husband. He shows her how when he stops by to chop wood and build up her fire.) Coffee by Jammy_Dodger (AO3 2021  Rated T Complete, One-Shot, Modern AU, Quick Synopsis: Rey sits next to Ben in the coffee shop bc he doesn't talk or bother her. One day he doesn't show up. Rey waits for him. Someone else sits in his seat& hits on her. Rey is annoyed. Ben shows up late, tells the guy he's in his seat. The guy refuses to move. Rey gives Ben her Seat, and then sits in his lap. She continues to read her book and he reads his. She asks for his number. They date. He goes to the coffee shop bc he still lives with his parents. Rey's apt is going to be condemned. They move in eventually. She still sits in his lap.)

[glasgowgreywitch]

RICH WITCH

Margaretha Hönin had a bad reputation. Even though she lived in the late 16th century, we know that her neighbours, the people of Coburg in Thuringia, despised her for being a parvenu and a money-grabbing miser. Hönin was also said to be a witch who met regularly with a dragon. For her neighbours, her economic behaviour was clearly linked to the visits from the dragon. But today, the connection between her miserliness and her witchcraft is obscure. Why was the link so obvious to her contemporaries? What was the relationship between economic behaviour and accusations of witchcraft?

It makes sense to focus on Germany when we talk about witches. Conditions for witch trials were, unfortunately, very good in large parts of the Holy Roman Empire. The country consisted of hundreds of principalities, and most of these could pass their own criminal laws. They had their own criminal courts, many staffed by incompetent lay judges who were nevertheless empowered to use torture. About half of all the people executed for witchcraft in the early modern period came from Germany.

When investigating witchcraft, one needs to differentiate between real and imaginary magic in the early modern period. If we want to understand the connection between the imaginary magic of the witches and economic behaviour, we need to deal with the connection between the economy and the real magic practised by ‘common’ people. In pre-industrial Europe, magic was a part of everyday life, very much like religion. People didn’t just believe in the efficacy of magic, they actively tried to use magic themselves. Simple forms of divination and healing magic were common, as was magic related to agriculture. The peasant household used divination to find out if the time was right for certain agricultural activities. Charms were supposed to keep the livestock in good health. Urban artisans and merchants also used economic magic to increase their wealth. Of course, the shadow economy of gambling and lotteries was obsessed with magic well into the 20th century.

Of all the forms of magic, magical treasure-hunting had the greatest economic significance. Treasure hunters drew on a vast magical arsenal. They had spell books of any description, divining rods available in any kind of wood, amulets to protect them against evil spirits, and lead tablets etched with magical signs. Most treasures were thought to be watched over by some kind of spirit, and treasure hunters tried hard to come into contact with these. To the utter horror of the ecclesiastical authorities, they invoked angels and saints. Treasure hunters talked to ghosts. Some of them even tried to conjure up demons.

Another magical strategy for finding treasure (used in 17th century Swabia) was to write down mysterious characters on parchment, and leave it on the ground where the treasure was thought to be: if it erupted in flames, the hunter had found his riches. When the place where the treasure was buried had been located, the wizard would draw on the ground with a sword magical circles adorned with magical symbols. He then put birch twigs on the edge of the circle, apparently a new addition to the magical routine meant to strengthen the circle. After that, he said a lengthy conjuration in a foreign language that he read from a bit of paper, apparently an excerpt from a spell book. Only then was digging allowed to begin – and always in strictest silence.

Treasure hunting came close to being a magical mass movement. There were thousands of treasure hunters in early modern Europe and almost all of them tried to use magic. However, only a tiny minority was ever accused of witchcraft. As a rule, treasure hunters simply had to pay a fine or do some penal labour for a couple of days. Common people simply didn’t see treasure magic as witchcraft, and most of the judges agreed. It’s telling that the strictest law ever enacted against treasure hunting, Henry VIII’s so-called Witchcraft Act of 1542, was quickly abolished and doesn’t seem to have had much of an impact on the local level, at least as far as treasure magicians were concerned.

Separate from these real forms of magic, there was the imaginary magic of the witches. Nobody was ever (or could ever be) guilty of witchcraft in the full sense of the word, which was defined by the late Middle Ages as a crime that consisted of five elements: a pact with the devil; sexual intercourse with demons; the magical flight (on a broomstick or a similar device); the witches’ dance (often referred to by the antisemitic term ‘witches’ sabbath’); and malevolent magic. Early modern Europe and Britain treated witchcraft as a capital crime.

At first glance, the relation between the economy and the imaginary magic of the witches seems to be entirely negative. Witches were often accused of attacking livestock. They magically made frost, storm and hail, and thereby caused crop failure. Indeed, their weather magic was said to endanger the economy of entire regions. Still, at least in the majority of the witch trials on the European continent, the witches didn’t profit from their magic. Weather magic especially looked like a strange form of auto-aggression because the hailstorms the witches supposedly conjured up damaged their own fields as well. As a rule, the pact with the devil as it appears in trial records was not a contract like that of Goethe’s Faust, which was mostly about the wishes of the magician. Rather, it stated simply that the witch submitted to the will of the demon. She did what a demon told her and became the instrument of the demon’s abyssal hatred of all creation. Witchcraft was mostly about destruction for destruction’s sake, not about the personal interests and wishes of the witches, let alone their economic advantage.

However, there were exceptions. When Martin Luther wrote a short survey of economic magic, he began the discussion with a reference to ‘the brides of the dragon’ (‘Drachenbräute’). At first glance, this might seem like an allusion to the Biblical allegory of Satan as a dragon. However, Luther had a very specific form of witchcraft in mind: the witches that were said to be in contact with a dragon. Even though the belief in this form of witchcraft was widespread in early modern Germany, eastern Central Europe and the Baltics, it was, to the best of my knowledge, virtually unknown elsewhere.

The dragon (in German, Drache) in question was not the giant monster of medieval epics but rather a household spirit. (Its alleged ability to fly and its affinity to fire might have suggested transferring the name of the medieval monster to this rather peculiar spirit.) A number of people maintained that they had seen the dragon: it looked like a long burning beam with a thick, cow-like head that soared through the night sky. Flying into a house through a window or through the chimney, the dragon brought its master or mistress money as well as other readily usable or saleable goods such as grain, milk or butter.

A dragon was a cloud of burning gas that was attracted to the smoke emerging from the chimneys of houses

It was quite clear where the dragon got the goods, and our sources emphasise this point: everything the dragon brought its master had been stolen from somebody else. Dragon magic was about magical theft. Indeed, the dragon seems to be an embodiment of transfer magic, that is, any kind of magic that takes some good, including fertility or energy itself, out of one context and transfers it into another context. The milk witch who conveys the milk from her neighbours’ cows to her own livestock, or the vampire that takes life energy itself away from others would be good examples of transfer magic. And the dragon delivered not only various kinds of produce. It brought money. The very idea of the dragon had adapted to the rising market economy.

The household dragon was feared and probably coveted by people living in the vast area between Bavaria and Estonia. The house dragon was mentioned not only in trial records from witch hunts, we encounter it in very different sources, too: some early modern Scandinavian and German scientists at least knew the rumours about household dragons and commented upon them. They provided an alternative explanation for the dragon sightings. For them, draco volans – the spirit that looked like a burning beam with a thick head in the night sky – was clearly a meteorite. Others insisted that the phenomenon mistaken for a dragon was really a cloud of burning gas that was somehow attracted to the sooty smoke emerging from the chimneys of houses where they burned too much green wood. This would make the dragon a preindustrial smog phenomenon.

As usual, hardly anyone listened to the academics. At least till the 18th century, scientific explanations of dragon beliefs had little impact. Most people saw the dragon simply as a demon, just another shape the devil could take on. In 1536, the first Saxon witch trial was held that mentioned sexual intercourse with a demon. It was maintained that the devil had appeared in the form of a dragon. In 1652, a woman from Saxony who claimed to be clairvoyant and thus able to identify witches explained to the authorities that she’d seen a number of women from her neighbourhood having sex with a flying dragon. When a woman from Saxon Fichtenberg identified the dragon as a ‘milk devil and grain devil’ that same year, she stressed the diabolic nature of this spirit.

Given the tradition of the Biblical dragon, it was of course all too easy to see the dragon as the embodiment of Satan, so it comes as no surprise that people rumoured to have a dragon ended up at the stake. German folklore confirms that the dragon and the witch were birds of a feather as it suggested the same remedies against dragons and against witches trying to interfere with one’s property. In 1636, the German-Baltic theologian Paul Einhorn wrote about flying, fiery spirits ‘today still owned by many’ that steal ‘grain and goods’ for their masters. Einhorn believed in these ‘evil and horrible idols of wealth’ and condemned their cult as demon worship.

Our sources don’t suggest that the supposed dragon witches really used any kind of magic to make money. In fact, the women and men said to own a dragon were all fairly affluent. What distinguished them in the eyes of their neighbours, though, was that they had a uniformly bad reputation for reckless profit seeking, usury and even fraud. Their fellow villagers considered these people greedy and highly aggressive. The accused replied that they were the victims not just of slander, but of envy. So the rumours about dragons were really attacks on profit seeking; the rural ambassadors of the rising market economy were denounced as immoral and greedy, reviled as dragon owners. The state didn’t protect them.

The most prominent example of a dragon witch is probably Margaretha Ramhold from Coburg whom Johann Matthäus Meyfart mentioned in his witchcraft treatise. The Lutheran theologian Meyfart (1590-1642) published his criticism of the witch hunts Christliche Erinnerung in 1635, seven years after Ramhold’s death. Ramhold came from a family of modest artisans. However, by tapping two new sources of income – they sold beer and milk even though they owned only one cow – the Ramholds became relatively affluent. In time, the family began lending money on interest. Rumours of witchcraft quickly followed, focusing on the mistress of the household, and the authorities were duly informed that there was a dragon in the Ramholds’ house. Margareta Ramhold was executed in 1628.

Gerber’s entrepreneurial activities depleted food supplies to the disadvantage of the poor

There was a second kind of witch that instilled fear and loathing in the people of early modern Europe: the significant minority of wealthy people assumed to be witches. In fact, the ‘rich witches’ were rumoured to be the most powerful and most aggressive disciples of Satan. And indeed, we do find a relatively high number of affluent people among the defendants of early modern German witch trials. Rich witches were mostly male and many of them were parvenus who had profited from the agrarian crises in the 16th and 17th centuries. Others were officials who enriched themselves through straightforward corruption. A great number of these people – the newly rich and corrupt officials – were accused of witchcraft.

Arguably the most prominent witch of 16th-century Germany was Dr Diederich Flade, executed in 1589. Flade was a corrupt official who had supported the prince archbishop of Trier in a conflict with Trier’s secular authorities. He was also a notorious money lender. Flade seems to have specialised in small loans he gave to the peasants from the impoverished villages surrounding the relatively well-off town of Trier. He became fabulously rich (and influential) in only a couple of years. Then came his sudden downfall. At least 28 so-called witches denounced Flade in their confessions: they presented him as a demonic figure presiding over the Sabbath. When the prince elector of Trier explained why, after months of hesitation, he’d finally decided to have official charges brought against Flade, he said that Flade was ‘notoriously avaricious’. The prince elector accepted the idea that Flade’s economic behaviour indicated that he was in league with Satan.

Another rich witch was Martin Gerber, a merchant and burgomaster of the Swabian small town of Horb. After having made a fortune in trade, Gerber took up brewing. When he purchased large quantities of barley to brew beer, he not only displaced small-scale brewers but also triggered such a substantial price increase for barley that the price of bread became inflated too. Gerber’s entrepreneurial activities depleted food supplies to the disadvantage of the poor. The people of Horb felt that Gerber’s behaviour was especially objectionable because, instead of supporting his poor fellow townspeople with his money, he sought further profit and thereby rendered them poorer still. From 1597 onwards, suspicions of witchcraft developed not against Gerber himself, but against his wife and his daughter, who had vociferously supported him. Gerber’s daughter was arrested and tortured. Even though she never confessed and was eventually released from prison, she fought against accusations of witchcraft for the rest of her life.

Now, we can put the dragon magic into the wider context of treasure hunters and rich witches. The treasure hunters alone really tried to use magic, but they weren’t accused of witchcraft. Rich witches and dragon witches don’t seem to have really used any magic, but they were certainly rumoured to have a pact with the devil. The dragon witches were said to owe their wealth to magical theft perpetrated for them by a demon in the shape of a dragon. The demonic figure of the dragon and the magical thievery associated with it establish a direct connection between economic advancement and suspicions of magic. The rich witches are much more difficult to understand. They were not said to have become rich because of their magic. Their wealth as such provoked rumours of witchcraft.

Of course, there is a gender aspect to all of this: treasure hunters were almost exclusively male. Among both the rich witches and dragon witches we find women and men. There seem to have been more men than women among the affluent victims of the witch trials. Greed and witchcraft were not exclusively attributed to women. What unites all three, however, was social mobility.

The dragon witches and the rich witches were not simply rich. They were newly rich. While the treasure hunters tried to join their ranks, the signal difference was not that they’d failed in doing so. It was that the treasure hunters tried to tap a source of wealth outside of society. They hoped to find a treasure, which by definition meant valuable objects of which nobody could rightly claim ownership. The treasure belonged to the spirit world. Spirits controlled it; spirits could reveal it. Where the treasure came from was so unimportant to the early modern mind that most trials against treasure hunters don’t even ask the question. The money the treasure hunters wanted to get didn’t come out of the resources of the village or region they lived in.

Here the model of the ‘limited good’ is useful. People in pre-modern agrarian societies behaved as if all goods are available only in limited quantities. The economy is a zero-sum game. One person’s gain is necessarily everybody else’s loss. Therefore, innovation and profit-seeking are strongly discouraged. Treasure hunters are excellent examples of persons who accepted the world view of the limited good. They didn’t openly seek profit by working more or working more effectively. They sought profit by using magic. They dealt with the spirit world. Rather than alienating their neighbours, they faced ghosts and demons in order to get the spirit world to hand over its money. This is why the magic of treasure hunters was punished so leniently: even if they used magic, even if they conjured up demons and tried to talk to ghosts, they still didn’t deviate from the standards of economic behaviour of early modern rural society.

Did the rise of capitalism marginalise the belief in witchcraft?

Dragon witches and rich witches were the complete opposite. We know from the historical record that they’d become affluent recently and had therefore done everything the treasure hunters avoided. They had engaged in competition, often quite aggressively. They had tried to make money, no matter the opinion of their community. And their fellow villagers knew how to interpret this type of behaviour: dragon witches and rich witches were essentially greedy. They were slaves to avarice, and their avarice made them evil. After all, the Church taught that avarice was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. So both dragon witches and rich witches belonged to the devil because they were avaricious – even before they had made a pact. As a Swabian source put it: ‘Because of her avarice’ a suspect was thought to be a witch, and ‘if she is not one yet, she will certainly become one.’

Rich witches and dragon witches are two sides of the same coin. Both were condemned as greedy and reckless by their fellow villagers and townspeople. Their social advancement, denigrated as profit-mongering, was the very reason why they were believed to be witches in the first place. Of course, the belief in dragons expressed this disdain for economic gain more directly, and more brutally, by directly denouncing the profit as the result of a demonic form of theft. Whatever the dragon brought to its master or mistress, it stole it from somebody else. In contrast to the treasure hunters, the dragon witches and the rich witches seemed to satisfy their greed by harming their neighbours. It was their seemingly aggressive economic behaviour as such that invited suspicion. When people of the early modern period looked for witches, they regarded a record of antisocial behaviour as a clue. Many suspects of witchcraft were simply aggressive or unruly people whom the village considered ‘evil’.

Given the fatal risks, one might ask why some people engaged in economic competition at all, if early modern society was dominated by the limited good mentality. Would the notion of the limited good not preclude that type of behaviour in the first place? According to the American anthropologist George M Foster, limited good is best seen as a mentality, not as a positive conviction or dogma-like belief. It is at the back of the mind a basic assumption that colours the understanding of society as well as individual conduct. Limited good described the framework of expected behaviour. Individuals who were courageous (or reckless) enough might choose not to adhere to society’s norms and not to fulfil its expectations of behaviour. Some people ignored the norms of the limited good worldview and did what they thought was in their best interest anyway.

There was not just a moral but also a magical economy. Economic behaviour caused suspicions of witchcraft. It’s best to see witch trials not simply in the context of magic – indeed they seem to have remarkably little to do with the other traditions of magic. Witch trials should be seen in the context of the values and codes of behaviour of local communities. If we try to put the results of this study into a wider context, it seems to be imperative to ask another, much bigger question: did the rise of capitalism marginalise the belief in witchcraft? This might sound like the very last gasp of neoliberalism or like a parody of Max Weber. Nevertheless, if we accept that the fear of witches had strong economic overtones, we must at least wonder if significant changes in the economic structure and the economic mentalities of Western societies connected with the rise of capitalism contributed to the decline of the witch hunts. Was the establishment of the market economy in Europe among the factors that brought about the end of the witch hunts?

Witch trials sanctioned social and economic behaviour rather than magical practices. All of the German treasure magicians referred to in this text survived their trials. Margaretha Hönin, however, had a bad reputation for being a miser and a parvenu – for challenging a dominant mentality that required everyone to stay firmly stuck in their God-given place. She was found guilty of witchcraft and burned at the stake in 1580.

[aion-rsa]

How Thor Changed the Marvel Cinematic Universe

https://ift.tt/33NlKGy

Marvel’s Thor, the first theatrical live-action film to feature the comic book giant’s version of the Norse God of Thunder, opened in theaters a decade ago, on May 6, 2011.

Directed by Kenneth Branagh and starring a then little-known Chris Hemsworth in the title role, Thor was the fourth film in the still-nascent Marvel Cinematic Universe. It was also — as we look back at it now — a pivotal one in the development of the MCU.

“I’m very proud of my part of it,” Branagh told us a couple of years ago about his handling of Thor. “Which was providing a sort of backbone that they could comically riff off, but at least it originally contained some of the high stakes Nine Realms import that that larger mythology has to have as well.”

Thor took the franchise off the Earth for the first time and into the cosmic side of the Marvel mythology, introducing audiences to the Nine Realms, the kingdom of Asgard and other mind-bending concepts that comic fans had adored for years but which were a major risk to put in front of mainstream moviegoers.

Even the character of Thor — with his helmet and his hammer and his arch way of speaking — often seemed to skate perilously close to laughable in the pages of the comics themselves. But he was also a mainstay of the Marvel line and a charter member of the Avengers, the superhero team that Marvel based its entire initial run of films upon.

Marvel

Thor didn’t take the Rainbow Bridge to the screen

A Thor movie based on the Marvel Comics version of the character had, surprisingly, been bandied around for years even before there was a Marvel Cinematic Universe.

The God of Thunder debuted on the page in Journey into Mystery #83 (August 1962), created by Stan Lee, Larry Lieber, and Jack Kirby. A founding member of the Avengers, he joined Iron Man, the Hulk, Ant-Man, and the Wasp in the pages of The Avengers #1 (September 1963). In the ensuing decades, he has starred in multiple iterations of the Avengers comics, plus many ongoing and limited series of his own.

An animated version of the character debuted in 1966’s Marvel Super-Friends show, while the first live-action incarnation of Thor (played by Eric Kramer) showed up in the 1988 TV movie The Incredible Hulk Returns, a follow-up to the late 1970s series The Incredible Hulk.

While Thor continued to turn up in various animated Marvel properties, it was in 1991 that the first full-length, live-action Thor movie was proposed — by no less than Sam Raimi.

The director, who later went on to make the first three Spider-Man movies and who is now working in the MCU on Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, revealed to the The Hollywood Reporter in the wake of Stan Lee’s passing that he pitched a Thor movie to the Marvel Universe co-creator over lunch.

“We worked together writing treatments and took it to Fox and pitched it,” Raimi recalled. “And they said, ‘Absolutely no. Comic books don’t make good movies.’ This was in 1991.”

The rights to Thor bounced around Hollywood for a few more years (at one point it was set up at Sony with David S. Goyer writing and possibly directing) until landing back at Marvel Studios, which had reinvented itself as an independently financed production company in 2005 with distribution through Paramount Pictures. The studio, run at the time by David Maisel with Kevin Feige as president of production, hired Mark Protosevich (I Am Legend and the unfilmed Batman Unchained) to write a script for Thor, with Matthew Vaughn (X-Men: First Class) coming aboard to direct in August 2007.

Marvel

Enter Tom Hiddleston as Loki…

No sooner did Matthew Vaughn sign up to direct Thor than he seemingly left just as quickly, although it was officially announced in May 2008 that he was departing. Creative and budget issues seemed to have sealed his exit. “Marvel loves the script,” he wrote in The Guardian in late 2007. “The only problem is that it has been costed at $300m and they ask how I am going to reduce it by $150m.”

Even though Thor had already been scheduled for a June 4, 2010 release date, Marvel still had to find a director. Talks were held with Guillermo del Toro, but he decided to direct The Hobbit instead (which he ended up leaving as well). At the end of its search, Marvel finally chose Kenneth Branagh, the Irish actor and director best known for his epic adaptations of Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Henry V — which kind of provided an idea of the tone Marvel was looking for.

Branagh was finally signed in December 2008, telling MTV News, “It’s a chance to tell a big story on a big scale…It’s a human story right in the center of a big epic scenario.”

Once Branagh was signed, the movie’s release date was pushed back from June/July 2010 to May 6, 2011, providing plenty of time for the film’s extensive visual effects to be designed and created and for Branagh to find his cast — starting with the God of Thunder himself.

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The first person allegedly approached was Daniel Craig, who had just starred in his second James Bond film, Quantum of Solace. It was because of his commitments to the already massive 007 franchise that Craig turned down the hammer-wielding Asgardian, although it’s somehow hard to imagine the tough-as-nails Craig as the egotistical (at least at first), young Odinson.

A long list of young, relatively unknown actors tested for the part, including Chris Hemsworth (who was just making his brief but scene-stealing appearance as James Kirk’s father in J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek), his brother Liam, the equally obscure Tom Hiddleston, Kevin McKidd from Grey’s Anatomy, Alexander Skarsgard (Godzilla vs. Kong), Charlie Hunnam (Sons of Anarchy), Joel Kinnaman (The Suicide Squad), and others. But Chris Hemsworth ultimately won the day, with Hiddleston landing the consolation gift that would keep on giving, the role of Thor’s villainous adopted brother Loki.

“That was my starting point, was that you have a character with a predisposition toward mischief,” Hiddleston said about playing the trickster god, during a 2010 set visit attended by this reporter in Manhattan Beach, California. “An inclination toward chaos and a delight in imbalance, and you couple that with the fierce intelligence that he has, and a chess master’s ability to manipulate events three or four steps ahead of the game.”

Adding even more gravitas to the production was the signing of the legendary Anthony Hopkins to play Thor’s father, Odin, along with Natalie Portman as Jane Foster, Rene Russo as Thor’s mom Frigga, Colm Feore as Laufey, the king of the Frost Giants, Idris Elba as Heimdall, and others. Also signed: Samuel L. Jackson for his third appearance as Nick Fury (in an end credits bonus scene) and Jeremy Renner as Clint Barton/Hawkeye, marking the live-action debut of the bow-and-arrow-wielding Avenger.

Filming on Thor began in mid-January 2010 and wound down in early May, with shooting taking place at Raleigh Studios in Manhattan Beach, California (Marvel’s studio home in the MCU’s early years), Santa Fe, and other parts of New Mexico, and locations in northern California.

Colm Feore told The Deadbolt that the Shakespearean training which he, Branagh, and Hopkins all shared enabled them to quickly communicate with each other while shaping the characters and finding the right tone: “One of the things that was enormously helpful on Thor was that during the breaks, Tony, myself, and Ken would be talking in Shakespearean shorthand about what the characters were doing, what we thought they may be like, and how we could focus our attention more intelligently.”

During that same set visit to the Manhattan Beach set of Thor, Marvel president of production Kevin Feige told this reporter and others that the movie was going to feature more extensive post-production work than other Marvel films. “When you walk around Captain America or Iron Man, you can get it,” he explained. “With Thor, what you’re seeing is only 30% of what the movie will be. This is the big question mark and to me that makes it the most exciting. I like it when people don’t exactly know what we’re going to do.”

Reshoots were completed in late 2010, while The Avengers director Joss Whedon shot the end credits scene in which Nick Fury reveals the Infinity Stone known as the Tesseract to Dr. Erik Selvig (Stellan Skarsgard).

Marvel

Marvel takes a big swing with Thor’s hammer

Introducing Thor and the Asgardians — who were essentially aliens, with technology so far ahead of our own that they seemed like gods to the ancient, more primitive people of Norway more than a millennium ago — was a major gamble for the MCU and its then-president of production (and now Chief Creative Officer) Kevin Feige.

Out of Marvel’s first three films, Iron Man and Iron Man 2 were massive, out-of-the-box hits, while The Incredible Hulk was a middling success at best. Yet all three films were Earthbound and dealt with plausible (as far as it went) science and technology. The science of Thor was — to borrow a phrase from the late science fiction titan Arthur C. Clarke — indistinguishable from magic.

“Asgardians are kind of ‘been there, done that’ when it comes to that kind of stuff,” said co-producer Craig Kyle to this reporter and others on the set visit. “For them to send you across the universe, it’s as easy as turning a key … Their technology is only as sophisticated as it needs to be to do extraordinary things.”

Making Thor, Odin and the other inhabitants of Asgard, Jotunheim and the rest of the Nine Realms into extra-terrestrial beings mistaken for gods by ancient humans took Thor away from sword-and-sorcery and fantasy and more overtly into the science fiction genre. But it also provided the film with a back story and mythology that was perhaps easier for modern movie fans to swallow — more Star Wars than the Völuspá.

“We just kept trying to humanize it all, and keep it very real,” Chris Hemsworth told Superhero Hype at the time about his approach to the title character. “Look into all the research about the comic books that we could, but also bring it back to ‘Who is this guy as a person, and what’s his relationship with people in the individual scenes?’ And working with someone like Kenneth Branagh, who has all those bases covered and has so many ideas, it was a hell of a time!”

In addition to taking the big creative risk of bringing Asgard and Thor to the screen, the movie took several other chances as well. Starting a tradition that Marvel would return to with films like Captain Marvel and Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor did not function as a traditional origin story. We meet Thor, Loki, Odin, and enter Asgard with only a brief introduction detailing the history of ill will and war between the Asgardians and the Frost Giants.

Thor’s journey in the film is not that of an ordinary character being bestowed with great powers and learning how to use them, the typical arc of a superhero film. He is fully formed here, if flawed, and as the film progresses he learns to be a better version of the immensely powerful being that he already is — with the help of the human beings that he meets during his fall to Earth.

When Thor — the likely successor to his father’s throne — reignites hostilities with the Frost Giants partially due to his own immaturity, Odin decrees him unworthy of wielding Mjolnir and banishes him, powerless, to Earth. That leaves the door open for the crafty Loki — who has discovered that he is not Asgardian after all, but the child of Frost Giants — to manipulate and scheme his way into power himself.

Marvel’s other big gamble was making Loki a much more fully developed antagonist than had been previously seen in many comic book movies. Skillfully portrayed by Hiddleston in a performance that made him an instant star, Loki is an empathetic, nuanced character whose longing for the love and attention of his adopted father — who lavishes more of both on Thor — leads him down a dark path and into a character arc that would take several years and movies to play out.

“I think Loki intuitively feels that he doesn’t belong there, he doesn’t belong with the family in Asgard and doesn’t belong in the pantheon of gods,” said Hiddleston at the time. “He’s confused about his place in the universe … We all reach a point in our lives where we think, ‘What the hell are we supposed to do with our life?’ Thor reaches that point in this film and Loki does as well, so yes, maybe if Odin had made him feel valued and respected and essential to Asgard, then it would have been okay.”

Marvel

Thor smashes all preconceptions

Thor had its world premiere in Sydney, Australia on April 17, 2011 and opened in that country — Hemsworth’s native land — four days later. It premiered in 56 more markets before finally opening in North America on May 6, 2011.

The film earned a 77% fresh rating and mixed reviews on Rotten Tomatoes, with critics praising the performances by Hemsworth and Hiddleston, as well as the grandiose family drama on Asgard, but less impressed by Thor’s journey to Earth and the climactic battle there against the massive golem-like Destroyer sent by Loki to kill Thor.

More importantly for Marvel, the film connected with audiences despite the perception that Thor was largely unfamiliar or dated. Thor earned $181 million at the North American box office and a further $268 million abroad for a worldwide total of $449 million.

While that ranks it near the bottom of the 23 MCU movies released to date (along with Ant-Man and Captain America: The First Avenger), it was a far from shabby showing for the early MCU and proved Marvel’s calculation that it could expand Marvel’s footprint on film beyond already established characters like Spider-Man, the X-Men and the Hulk.

“I liked it when people said, ‘Iron Man’s the B-Team. You’re calling out the B-Team!’ We knew it wasn’t,” said Feige on set about using what were perceived as lower-tier Marvel heroes. “We knew it was going to be great. And that holds true for Thor … here’s another one that will redefine us and at least raise the bar of what a comic book movie is, for both people who’ve read comics and those who haven’t.”

Thor expanded the boundaries of the MCU into the realms of space, alternate dimensions and cosmic conflicts, while putting another key part in place for the impending arrival of the Avengers. And while 2013’s follow-up, Thor: The Dark World, was a misstep and considered one of Marvel’s few outright failures, the studio brilliantly reinvented the character in 2017 with Taika Waititi’s Thor: Ragnarok, moving him away from the initial Shakespearean grandiosity and into a more humorous space.

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That in turn allowed Thor and Hemsworth to have one of the most profound character arcs across the entire span of Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame. His story in those films, the box office clout of Ragnarok, and Hemsworth’s enthusiasm for the role led Marvel to commission 2022’s Thor: Love and Thunder — marking the first time an MCU hero is venturing into a fourth solo movie.

Ten years later, while not a perfect film by any means, Thor is still an enjoyable, consciously weird Marvel epic that proved the God of Thunder could bring the lightning even to modern audiences. And while Thor has seemingly abandoned the throne of Asgard for now, his first film’s place in the MCU pantheon is secure.

The post How Thor Changed the Marvel Cinematic Universe appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2RWjeeA

[thaniaflorendo]

What’s more chilling than nipping frost for Benguet Farmers?

“There is nothing more chilling than being told that prices were too low, like what happened last year wherein cabbages were sold at P3.00 per kilo.”

They say we need professionals for a certain moment of our lives to guide us from learning, but we need farmers three times a day and for the rest of our lives to not starve to death. Indeed, farmers generate food from buying retail products for farming and ending up selling their harvested crops at a wholesale price. They don’t earn much money, but they earn respect from our fellow Filipinos for being our daily heroes.

Grieving due to the status quo, farmers have no choice but to continue tilling their soils and fertilizing it with sweat and blood. They gamble even when it’s a losing game— only a quarter of their mile efforts are paid back.

The agricultural story of Benguet is unlike the reoccurring agrarian unrest in the country; land distribution was a rare issue in the mountainous regions of the Cordillera. In this pandemic, Benguet, also known as the Salad Bowl of the Philippines, has taken a severe toll, with tons of vegetables being thrown away due to weak sales in La Trinidad Vegetable Trading Post and Benguet Agri-Pinoy Trading Center. Furthermore, travel restrictions were too tight, and processing of papers was too expensive so trading stopped in the meantime. As a result, vegetables rotted and cannot be sold in the market.

Vegetables coming from other parts of Benguet, Tinoc, Ifugao, Bauko, Mountain Province and other parts of Cordillera produces at least 1.1 million metric tons and can triple depending when the demand surges, actually supplies 80% of vegetables in the whole country. The tight situation resulted to falling market prices that have bankrupted our farmers.

As I personally visited the farms in La Trinidad, Benguet, I met Nanay who asked me why I took photos of her when in fact she’s “just an old Igorot lady.” I explained that I wanted to feature their struggles amidst the pandemic, and I saw how a ghost of a smile formed in her lips, but in a few seconds, it shifted to disappointment.

According to her, as early as 5:30 am, despite the chilling weather and her age, she is motivated to visit her crops to see what kind of tending they need. She shared that there is nothing more chilling than being told that prices were too low, like what happened last year wherein cabbages were sold at P3.00 per kilo. They were sent back home with their harvests— rotting and spoiling. They were totally bankrupt at that time.

Farmers lamented as they faced their nightmare brought by the pandemic. Prices of highland vegetables eventually went up on the market because of the hesitancy of the truckers to transport the vegetables in the depots called bagsakan in NCR.

Due to the vegetable spoilage, tons of food were wasted. Some farmers has donated their harvest as the poor gets hungry. Local government units has also decided to purchase their stocks instead. In Baguio, vegetables are included in the relief goods given by the government for the people. Aside from helping the farmers, it is also beneficial for one’s health because it can help everyone strengthen their immune system.

Few kilometers from trading centers, prices at the Baguio market were a bit higher, but the plan of rehabilitation for the Baguio Public Market by the private sector threatens even the small-time vendors. Vendors oppose this movement and they are united in conducting peaceful rallies by playing their gongs and taking out their placards every 10 am and 3 pm every day.

The local government pushing for this kind of action does not favor the general public’s welfare. As old as tales, the poor will always be in the outskirts, and these actions from the LGU means stripping the rights of vendors in earning decently. Consequently, consumers will also be burdened on the prices as it will surely hike up. Farmers, vendors, and consumers will take a huge blow from these selfish actions while in the midst of this pandemic.

With the countless travels from Baguio to La Trinidad, exposed under the scorching heat while exploring the vast landfarm, I’ve observed and heard that farmers encountered common problems like lack of capital, labor problems, and expensive trucking services. I’ve heard painful narratives, and seen that the agriculture sector, who carries the burden of ensuring food on our table, remains among the poorest in our society. They may be considered as the backbone of the society, but to live as a farmer is to live with dirt, uncertainty, and sacrifices.

With their optimistic identity, hardworking personality, and resiliency, it pains me to see that people usually look down on them because of the dirt on their hands or the mud on their feet. Worst is the fact that they belittle themselves because they are “just a farmer”— like how Nanay called herself “old” and “Igorot” as if it is a bad thing.

That kind of mindset is a symptom of a problem that was instilled by the government to its own people. Unheard cries and pleas for support from the agricultural sector for decades is a manifestation that they have been ignored by the government.

Without their hands and feet, caked with dirt, mud, and soil, we won’t survive on a day-to-day basis. Their footsteps will always leave a legacy for their heroic act that saves us from hunger. But this should not be one-sided, we must show proper appreciation by encouraging the government to prioritize their needs above anything else.

[thelockin]

“Smoother than butter corn”, once again slick flows deliver the jewels as award winning upstate NY rapper Anthony Kannon returns with the new single “Make It Rain”, the second from the album “Cautionary Tales” produced entirely by Frost Gamble which releases October 20th 2023.

Consistent  with the album’s emotionally charged biographical themes reflecting on traumatic childhood experiences, the consequences through adolescence and the subsequent progression to new horizons,  the new joint addresses the journey and struggle to escape the perceptions of the past.  

A powerful narrative dipped in the hot sauce of a gritty skewed beat marinated with a generous helping of soul,  a choice cut out now on New Dawn Records. 

Available on all streaming platforms including Bandcamp, Spotify, Apple Music and Tidal. Official music video playing on the label's Youtube channel

[nesuna-nightwinter]

Troll Roleplay – Compendium of Magic

Part 1: Voodoo, E’ko and Juju, Mojo, and Fetishes*

Voodoo

“Once I have everything I need I will mix it all together and unleash the voodoo!” - Witch Doctor Jin'Zil

Voodoo, as a practice of magic, refers to the individualistic tradition of weaving supernatural power, alchemy, and spellcraft. However, Voodoo also encompasses a life-style and spiritual understanding that is not limited to the utilization of power. Voodoo practitioners, or Voodooists, obtain access to supernatural power through day-to-day worship, bargaining with loa, ancestors, spirits, etc., and by harvesting naturally occurring life-forces (see, E’ko and Juju). While Voodooists can use this raw power alone, they are masters at controlling, animating, and manipulating it through alchemical processes and spells which produce highly specialized, often dark, magics. Since alchemy and spellcraft require time and effort to prepare, Voodooists maintain a customized inventory of Mojo and Fetishes as premade components for their Voodoo and will often carry these items on their person. A Voodooist’s spellcraft (e.g. incantations, grimoires, etc.) is individualized and no scripture or standard of operation governs this subjective, perilous practice. The danger in Voodoo arises from the instability inherent in weaving and empowering volatile, often opposing, substances. And since these substances range from basic herbal ingredients to loa empowerment, the nature and potency of Voodoo magics vary drastically—even among spells designed for the same objective. Unfortunately, this precarious intricacy carries over to the process of neutralizing or disrupting Voodoo. For nullification to be effective, an individual must first understand the power invoked, spellcraft involved, and alchemical processes employed before beginning to unravel the magic—and affected targets rarely last the time it takes to understand the nature of the magic influencing them. In this regard, a Voodooist’s most effective opponent is another Voodooist. The extreme complexity and severity of consequence within Voodoo rightfully earns its infamy among the schools of magic.

Practitioners of Voodoo:

Witch Doctor (Example)

Voodooist (Example)

Shadow Hunter (Example)

Hexer (Example)

Fetish-Binder (Example)

E’ko and Juju

“Something bad in that juju...” – Chief Yip-Yip

E’ko refers to the innate life-force of all living creatures. This life-force carries a creature’s coveted characteristics; for example, Winterspring chimaera are naturally capable of wielding frost magic so absorbing their life-force can temporarily bestow this power. E’ko is typically captured through magic, often in the form of a charm or totem, which traps life-force within a part of the creature’s body (e.g. flesh, sweat, venom, saliva, etc.). These physical “vessels” holding the creature’s E’ko are called Juju and may be transported, sold, and/or stored. While E’ko is potent in its raw form by either releasing a Juju’s stored energy or ingesting a Juju, Voodooists have also been known to modify Juju into powerful Fetishes. In most cases, however, Juju is used as a potent ingredient in rituals and Mojo.

Notably, Juju—especially powerful blood Juju—is often misconstrued as being Voodoo itself or Mojo. This is because the life-force capturable in blood is the most potent E’ko and produces powerful Juju that rival Mojo and even advanced Voodoo rituals. The use of this E’ko is referred to as “Blood Magic” and is strictly forbidden in Zuldazar due to its sacrificial practices and infectious nature.

Mojo

"Finish mixin' up dat mojo, we got ta get it to da Broken Shore!” - Ja'kala

Mojo is the crafted, often liquefied, product of empowered alchemical processes. Though it may appear in liquid form, Mojo does not behave as a natural liquid—it can be absorbed into metals, inhaled, and vary in texture (e.g. frothy, sticky; clumpy), odor, color, consistency, and density. Similarly, Mojo potency varies greatly and dilution is often necessary to offset stronger, less desired affects. Voodooists can both sense and extract Mojo applied to the surfaces of animate or inanimate objects. What separates Mojo from typical alchemical potions is the necessary infusion of supernatural power achieved through bargaining, blessings, or Juju. Voodooists will produce Mojo in advance as ready-made alchemical components for their Voodoo during combat and rituals. Once produced, Mojo is stored in vials or flasks which make them accessible to the crafter but also vulnerable to theft, prompting Voodooists to carry their rare or particularly powerful Mojo. Since Mojo can be produced from innumerable substances and infused with various sources of power, its purposes and uses are incalculable. Given the mystery shrouding Voodoo, Mojo is commonly misinterpreted as an individual’s charm or allure, or wrongly synonymized with an individual’s magical ability or Juju. Voodooists are either reluctant to correct these errors or apathetic to the misinterpretations of their craft.

Mojo may be:

Added to existing potions (Example)

Used to enchant armor (Example)

Used to affect others (Example)

Used to empower the wielder (Example)

Diluted with elemental fluids (Example)

Modified with additional ingredients (Example)

Ingested (Example)

Inhaled (Example)

Produced from loa Juju (Example)

Lethal if too much is consumed too quickly (Example)

Used to imbue a target (Example)

Fetish

“But you say the exile spoke of enchanted fetishes? This concerns me greatly.” - Fel'zerul

A Fetish is any object, crafted or otherwise, infused with supernatural power. A Fetish may be further enhanced through the application of Mojo or assimilation of Juju. Like Mojo, Voodooists will fashion and imbue Fetishes in advance of their actual utilization due to the time and effort required of their craft.

A Fetish can be sourced from countless materials and crafted into hand-held or worn objects:

Cloth (Example)

Crystals (Example)

Wood (Example) (Example)

Stone (Example) (Example)

Bones (Example)

Limbs (Example)

Metal (Example)

Attire (Example)

Weapons (Example)

Armor (Example)

A Fetish may be crafted to represent the source of its power, but not always.

loa (Example)

Animals (Example)

Ancestors (dolls) (Example)

Fetishes are capable of:

Exerting power and control over others (Example) (Example)

Enhancing the power of its wielder (Example) (Example) (Example)

Binding an animated power (Example) (Example)

Tethering a spirit (Example) (Example)

Providing containment for a reserve of power (Example)

Granting conditional power (Example) (Example)

Providing access to unique abilities (e.g. teleportation (Example) and (Example)

Boosting a desired attribute (e.g. luck, romance, evil warding, gambling, protection [Example and Example])

Inflicting a curse on an enemy (Example), building (Example), or territory (Example)

Methods historically used to destroy or nullify a Fetish’s power:

Removing it from a targeted location (Example)

Burning it (Example)

Reversing its power (Example)

*Disclaimer: This Compendium is simply an RP Resource for Atal’mwindaji and blends canon and headcanon to streamline Voodoo as presented in game; inferences arise from quests, in-game dialogue, and Blizzard’s original source for Voodoo—Louisiana Voodoo, Haitian Vodou, and West African Vodun.

External references for headcanons:

Haitian Vodou and voodoo: Imagined religion and popular culture, by A. McGee. Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses. 2012; 41(2): 231-56 (link).

Voodooism in Haiti, by B. Meyer (link)

Haitian Vodou, Wiki (link)

Voodooism in Haiti, by C. Krause (link)

[midnight-circus]

bad girls go to vegas

At one of the largest green-flocked tables, one of the Seven Cat’s regulars is busy winning money he doesn’t need. It is his third casino of the night, and this time he intends on breaking big.

Poker, of course. He is briefly lured by the sweet simplicity of blackjack and wastes a little time at the polished handles of the bandits, but his talents lie in folds and flushes. He gambles his takings back into the game with no pause for thought, playing with an air of apologetic self-deprecation, as though he can hardly believe his own good fortune. He eases the sting of the losses and eschews his own wins with incredulity, vouching for himself as a poor player, really, the cards are just honouring him tonight, and it is in this manner that René Chevalier steady lines his temporary bank account.

He bids yet another player goodnight and thank you as they leave (empty hands, empty wallet), offering a last, effusive apology for his uncanny beginner’s luck, and the black Aces that line his pockets go unnoticed. It is a risky game to play – cheaters are vilified nowhere moreso than Las Vegas – but his singular situation means he has nothing to fear. What danger do large bouncers in black suits signify for a man in his position?

Four hundred years ago, he turned a hunting tactic into a gambling ruse, and he has enjoyed a comfortable life ever since. Foresight is terribly useful on the heels of panicked prey – predicting a left turn or a right could be the difference between blood and hunger – but as it happens, it’s also extremely handy when sitting opposite a croupier. He watches his opponents make their moves seconds before the thought has even occurred in their minds, and he manipulates his own (with the help of the cards in his pocket) to out-manoeuvre them.

Is it cheating?

René, as he slips an Ace into his royal flush with effortless sleight-of-hand, would posit it as strategy.

And really, he doesn’t feel any guilt. These people – draped in jewels and Rolexes and mulberry silks – can afford to lose a couple grand each to a handsome stranger who will take it from them with charming apologies, and besides, it’s not as though he keeps it all to himself. Some he gambles back in, and then the rest of it is spent on booze and snow and expensive accommodation, so it all ends up back in the economy one way or another anyway.

A Kitten sashays past the table, placing her hands on his shoulders as she goes and kissing his cheek; he plucks a cat-eared band off her head and slips it over his own dark, tousled curls, winking as she slaps his arm playfully and leaves him to it – if there’s one thing René does not need, its encouragement to spend more money.

So he wiles away the next few hours – the sun sets outside and the sky turns the dull, hazy yellow of an eternal Vegas twilight, lifting an arcing dome of light pollution above the city’s head. By the time he is finished, extracting himself from the game and walking away from the table in the wake of handshakes and good-natured ‘I’ll-get-you-next-time’ threats, he is almost fifty grand richer.

It won’t last for long, but perhaps he’ll hold onto it tonight.

He moves through the grand hall with graceful fluidity, wending his way through diamonds and furs, gently steering around patrons with a hand to their shoulder, their elbow, the small of their back. Many of them know him, and the ones that don’t assume he is worth knowing; the very same phenomenon that warns others of his ilk away from him lures humans close to his side, and it is more than just a wealth of charisma.

Yet another modified hunting technique, of course – pheromones drawing flesh and blood and beating hearts to him like moths to flames. It’s simpler to stalk a prey animal when it thinks it has nothing to fear, and even simpler when they come flocking like doves, but he is not hunting tonight. Hunger curls in his chest like a gaping wound, the sharp ache of starvation never far away, but he can forgo for a little while yet.

He only has three more marks left on his license, after all, and it is barely even July. He is expecting a busy summer.

So he leaves the crowds behind and steps into an elevator, manned by a silent, slick-haired man who glances at the sleek black card René produces between two fingers and nods his admittance; classic in build, lined with gilded mirrors and red flocking on the wall inside, but entirely modern in its silence and fluidity as it glides him a floor up and brings him to berth in an élite upstairs bar.

His name is on the VIP list at the Seven Cats – all seven of them, in fact, and that little black card in his pocket vouches silently for his worth. His own booth, free booze, a suite if he requires it, and any number of pleasant little perks that he need only ask for. The staff know him. The girls trust him. There are things he can get away with – the odd line here and there on a sleek black bar, for example, or a croupier who chooses to look the other way for one brief moment – that VIP allows for, and for that reason he is quite willing to spend enough to keep it.

So he sits now in gilded exclusivity – a mezzanine balcony lavishly decorated in a drench of red and gold and deep mahogany, providing a lofted view of the casino below, serviced with its own bar and sequestered from the noise of rabble by a vast glass window; the lights are soft and low, little haloes of amber around the heads of Edison bulbs fashionably scattered around the bar. He is nursing an exquisitely-made martini and pondering whether to top up the next with espresso; his Saint Laurent suit is carefully rumpled, the collar of his shirt open at his throat in an effective display of somnolent contentment. The Cats have the feel of the early 20th century with all the mod-cons of the 21st, and René submerges himself in it – of all the years and decades and centuries he has lived, he holds a special fondness for only a few, and he harks back to the 1920s with wistfulness.

By God, he misses jazz.

It is whilst he is dwelling on this swell of nostalgia that a ripple of blue silk and white furs cascades elegantly into the barstool beside him, settling itself into the icy milk-and-honey façade of a familiar face – Sylvia Rothschilde, socialite of unspecified age and (she insists each time he sees her) newfound debutante, draped in form-clinging charmeuse of a pale periwinkle.

René lights up a devastating smile.

“Mme. Rothschilde! My heart, my soul, my favourite.” He kisses the back of her silk glove; she tuts and bats him away.

“Don’t be a rogue,” she scolds. Her faux anger is belied by a vulpine, rouge-lipped smile. “And where have you been, René Chevalier? There you were last summer, promising to make an honest woman of me, and then right back to New Orleans you went! You made quite the little Daisy Buchanan out of me.” She waves a delicate hand at the bartender, who brings her a margarita without a word; she takes it and hides her smile in its salt-crusted rim. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Ah, Sylvie, you know me,” cajoles René, covering her hand with his. “I’ll say anything in the spotlight of a pretty face.”

“Oh, do shut up, you wastrel,” she scoffs. “Well, fortunately for you, it never would have worked anyway – alas, a girl just can’t get hold of two marriage certificates these days, and I’m afraid you did come in second place.” The frosted diamond on her ring finger glitters golden in the lamplight.

“Not to sound like a tourist, darling, but we are in Vegas.”

“Don’t remind me.” She rolls her blue eyes to the ceiling. “I was promised the Maldives this July, and yet here we are again. If we don’t go in September, I shall scream.”

“Say the word, Sylvie. You, me, a private jet -”

“And at least four other men, none of whom have an interest in me.” She licks a grain of salt from her lip. “I know you, sweetheart. A few more of those martinis and I pity that poor bartender.”

The bartender, polishing glasses behind them, allows himself a smile. The atmosphere is light and pleasant – for now, they are the only two patrons up here, and it is easy to imagine they are privately ensconced. René allows himself to lapse into a comfortable silence, and for a little while at least, he can try to forget the gnawing, aching, crushing hunger that roils ceaselessly in the pit of his stomach. Drowning it in alcohol does not work and never has, but it does help the time pass – it is whilst the bartender is filling his glass for the third time that Sylvia breaks the lull.

“Now then, René,” she says, nestling close to his side with a hand held to her diamond-studded neck and a teasing smile curling across her lips. “To business. Rumour tells me you quite cleared the tables down there tonight. I must say, you’ve been at the whim of ‘beginner’s luck’ for quite some time now. I’ve seen you up and down the strip since I started visiting, and when was that – three years ago now?” She tips him the shadow of a wink. “At what point are you going to confess?”

“Sylvie, mon cherie, a confession suggests I must have something terrible to confess, and it wounds me that you could think I’d hide things from you, my darling.” He swivels on the bar stool to face her, lifting his martini to touch the rim to her glass. “But alright, I admit – perhaps I should finally promote myself from beginner to amateur.”

Her laugh is like champagne on ice.

“You’re a wonderful liar, René,” she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I have a little theory. You’re Louisiana’s household name in the professional game. Their secret weapon at the tables. You have a whole double life playing out in New Orleans, and you come here at the end of each season to make fools of the rabble with falsehoods about ‘beginner’s luck’. Tell me I’m wrong.”

René puts a hand to his heart, reeling back on his seat.

“Large fishes, small ponds, mademoiselle.” His wounded expression gives way to a dazzling smile. “You know I’m a terrible exhibitionist, and besides, the proprietor hasn’t had me thrown out yet.”

They chime glasses once again and sip in momentary silence, watching the casino roll beneath them; the singing of slot machines and the muffled roars of losses and wins batters at the far side of the glass. The bartender returns, a crisp white towelette slung over his starched shoulder, and he refills René’s glass yet again without question or comment. René mouths a thank you, and slips a $50 into his waistcoat pocket. It pays to keep people sweet.

“He’s floating around tonight, you know,” Sylvia says suddenly, gazing out at the crowd neatly partitioned from them. “Mr. Fairfax.” She says the name with a faux shiver, her voice skipping down an octave. The stem of the margarita glass rolls between her fingers. “You’ve met him, I assume?”

“Seen him,” says René, listening with new interest now. He has been trying to get on some sort of terms with the patron of the Cats for several months, without a great deal of success outside a brief glimpse or two. How much money must a man spend? “Haven’t had the pleasure of speaking yet. I assume pleasure is the right word?” He claps a hand to his chest again, as though struck by sudden horror. “Tell me he’s not another Trump, Sylvie, my heart couldn’t bear it.”

Sylvia smiles primly around the rim of her glass, suddenly coquettish. She tilts her slim wrist to regard the gilded face of a Tiffany watch, and pats René on the arm.

“Must go, sweetheart, Forrest arranged reservations for us at nine at Robuchon and I’m already ten minutes late.” She leans in once again, brushing Givenchy-painted lips against his cheek. “But I promise you, he’s certainly no Trump. Tata, darling.”

“Bonne nuit, chérie.” He watches her walk away, because to be fair she does it very deliberately, and then he returns his gaze to the grand hall below the curve of the window. It is a sea of black tuxedos, studded here and there with glittering jewel-toned dresses – this is not the common-or-garden Vegas of the tourist traps. Admittance to the Cats requires the level of financial security that renders carrying cash obsolete – here, the elite gamble directly out of offshore banks, and when they run dry there they wager assets and equity. René has neither – paper trails, you know – but for now until the end of summer he is a loyal customer of the Bank of Nevada; when the season is over, the account will close without comment, employees will forget his name and he will return to the bright swarm of Louisiana for the winter. In a way, it’s the same life he’s lived since his conception (when was that? He can’t remember now) – the world has updated around him, technology has taken leaps and bounds he could never had predicted, but he and his habits have remained greatly unchanged.

But he eats less now, though.

The hunger curls vice-like in his stomach, writhing and twisting like something living and dying all at once.

He swallows the last of his fifth martini, and asks for a bottle of absinthe.

[marquis-teren-kiden]

Baron Ninro

TEREN’S STUDY

Despite the Priest's gaze having returned to it's native shade, the Ancient's whispering remain audible to his Husband and the Monk as they follow him into his Study. When he speaks, several vocal intonations - male and female - echo softly in the wake of his own muted baritone. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you where you stand, Lord Ninro."

Lycan stands off to the side, in a beta posture that telegraphs nothing to either of the other men until he speaks. "Anne wouldn't--"

"Not. You."

Biting his tongue, the Guardian nods curtly, straightening his posture slightly as his hands are clasped in front of him.

Standing in front of the Marquis of Nishan, Baron Ja'nin Ninro's ebony eyes are fixed on the floor, his hands loose at his sides. Despite his humble pose, his voice retains its rich bass eloquence. "No."

"No?" Teren turns slowly to take in the other man's appearance as the Ancient's call for Ninro's soul.

'Puul (Puul'h.) Iwhuk'h (h')Orr'e!'

The violet scattering across the Priest's sapphire eyes is plenty of indication that the Ancient's influence is in play. Despite the indicator, the Baron remains concilliatory. "I acted dishonorably. If you wish to kill me for sleeping with Annest, I won't fight you, your Grace."

Lycan's eyes shift between the other two nobles, his posture shifting to a mildly defensive one as his arms fold over his chest and he shifts his weight in preperation to intercede if his Husband accepts the offer. "Tread lightly, Ja."

"Did you think proposing would erase your sin, Lord Ninro?" Teren asks, as the whispers continue to radiate around him. 'Hai, (Hai!) Ftaghu'h hai!'

Shaking his head slowly, Ja'nin lowers his head. "No. I proposed to Annest because my heart is beating in her chest. I laid her down with me because--" His lips thin into a single line; his head shifts in denial again.

Teren stalks forward, only to be intersected for the third time that day by his Husband. "Tell me. Tell me what made you feel fit to take my Daughter like a common whore!"

Baron Ninro's head snaps up, his ebony eyes burning with anger. "That is not what happened! That would never happen! I laid her down because I feared losing her! She asked to do something that... that would have taken her from me, and I--" His voice hitches, then falls once more to silence as his head shifts.

Both Teren and Lycan's heads snap up, their attentions shifting from one another to Ninro and back several times before their focuses set on the lower noble. "Explain."

"No."

Lycan's incredulity preceeds the Priest's. "What?"

"I will not--"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" In a moment, Lycan closes the distance between himself and his Mentor. "Understand something here: You fucked Anne. No Ring. No ceremony. He will fucking kill you if you don't explain what the fuck you were thinking. I can't stop him."

Looking up slowly, Ja'nin declines to answer for a third time as his black eyes meet the Guardian's almond gaze. "Then I will die."

It doesn’t take a genius to understand that the Monk would rather die than betray a third party to the situation. Lycan attempts to talk sense into the Monk while his Husband bypasses the other man's resolve; directing his thoughts to the other person with knowledge of the matter. *What precipitated your... Ja'nin's change in conduct toward you?*

THE SUNROOM BLANKET FORT 

Anne visibly winces, fingers pushing against her temples. *I did nothing, Father. We were talking about my misconduct with the Count and I was upset I had brought you dishonor and how I wish to make amends with the Count because I know the man is important to Ja'nin. He spoke of how we should wait and prove through my actions I wasn't disrespectful because to approach him now would only end with the man getting what he wanted... Neither of us wanted that. He was holding me and just it went from there. It was mutual!*

TEREN’S STUDY

As the Ancient's reach for his Daughter's chaotic thoughts, Teren closes his mind off from her. *Calm yourself.*

Turning back to his Husband and the Monk, Teren draws his first calm breath since Ja'nin had requested to marry Annest. "Count Ngu'nye." He whispers softly. "You remembered his requested concession in order to mend our bridge after Anne offended him...and her request to make peace with him would have entailed a requirement to end your Courtship." He speaks slowly, sussing out each of the follow-on events until he arrives at the compromised emotional state Ja'nin had almost certainly found himself in thereafter.

A rare display of internal vulnerability fleetingly passes over Ninro's eyes as he turns his dark gaze on the Priest. "You shouldn’t have involved her!"

"You should not leave me absent alternative options." Teren replies tersely as he crosses the room to his bar. Pouring himself a finger of brandy, he's calm enough to sip the contents, rather than drain the etched crystal tumbler in his left hand. "She has no ring."

"I commissioned it when we entered your lands. My people don't produce items which would do justice in the eyes of others to express my feeling for her."

The Priest's head hems briefly, then haws a bit before he returns his now sapphire eyes to the Baron. "How long since the--” The Priest pauses, clearing his throat. “Trespass?"

"Three days." Ninro murmurs softly, his lips quirking at the corners before he continues. "I felt the sparks inside her this morning."

The explanation puts Teren's teeth on edge, but he swallows the finely honed blade of his anger with more of the brandy. "How many?"

"There will be two."

"I should eviscerate you. No--" he shakes his head again. "--No, I should castrate you where you stand." Closing his eyes, Teren takes several slow, deep breaths; his chest tight with the fear radiating to him from Anne through their psionic connection. "But, I won't."

Ja'nin remains rigid, physically and mentally prepared for whatever sentence follows. It's the Guardian who sighs in relief.

"You are going to leave my home. My lands. You will not return--"

"No!" For the first time since his humble arrival to their home, Ja'nin Ninro's posture is assertive, combative. "No! I am here for Anne. For our chil--"

"SILENCE!" Black energies flare out, slamming the Monk to the ground and Lycan to a far wall. "Anne is my Daughter. Mine. You will leave. You will not return. That is not a request, Baron Ninro. You will wait for my Husband and I to meet with you in Silverlight to discuss if there will be a marriage contract. You will prepare a very generous bride price.” Low menace settles into the velvet baritone sustaining the Priest’s wrath. “If we accept your offer. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"

It isn't fear that pins the Baron in place, anymore than it is the ebony tendrils. It's hope. Bowing his head low to the ground, in abject humility, Ja'nin's voice is a barely restrained whisper. "Yes, your grace."

"Lycan." Teren finishes his Brandy, moving quickly for the door before his temper gets the better of him for a third time.

"Yes, Lord Kiden." Despite their marriage, the Guardian's instinct remains submissive; a facet of their relationship which serves him well in their sexual affairs but arrives oddly to the Baron's ears.

"See to it that Baron Ninro is removed from our lands. Then... join me."

"Yes, Lord Kiden." The moment the Priest vacates the study, Lycan's releases a deep sigh of relief, reaching for Ninro as the ebony bindings fade away. "You couldn't have made that any more difficult?"

Finding his feet, Ja'nin glances at the Guardian with a half-hearted shrug. "I do love her. I will bring her all of the honor that remains."

Rolling his eyes, Lycan nods toward Pax, gesturing to her for a portal. "Silverlight." He explains to the Translocator before addressing the other nobleman. "You have to live long enough for the binding ceremony, remember?"

"Come soon?"

Lycan looks out the door of the Study, shaking his head slowly. "I know your people tend to be philosophers and agnostics, but, if you have anything to pray to? I'd pray we show up at all."

"Every day." The Monk replies, his breath a tremble when he asks, "May I say goodbye? Just... words?"

It's a gamble, but Lycan calls Anne to the Study telepathically. "No promises." *Anne. Come to the Study. Don't tell anyone.*

TEREN’S KITCHEN; (Drowning her fear and frustrations in cupcakes

*Okay...* Quickly, Annest finishes her current cupcake before vanishing from the kitchen.

TEREN’S STUDY

When she arrives at the Study, she finds Pax present, a shimmering amethyst portal open to Silverlight. In the middle of the room, Lycan stands beside Ja'nin, as she enters. The Incubus sighs, nodding for Ja'nin to proceed.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Ja. I don't know how long this is going to take. I'd recommend you act quickly and remain patient. I'll do what I can from here."

Nodding at the Guardian, Ninro pulls Anne into his arms, kissing her temple as his left arm snakes upward to rest her skull in his palm, his right hand wrapped in a vice-like grip around her waist. "I have to go. I promise, I will come for you at the very first opportunity to do so with your Father's grace." Anne rises from the shadows outside the door of her Father’s study, quickly wiping frosting from her lips and chin. Trying to get it all removed before grasping the door knob and slipping in the crack she made, shutting it swiftly behind her. Staring in a measure of confusion and fear but that changes to relief at seeing the Baron at least physically safe.

"What is goi--..." She begins but is cut off, hugging onto Ja'nin eyes closing for the moment before giving a small nod. Eyes darting towards Lycan before back to the Baron and buries her face into his chest, breathing in deeply the man's sccent. "I'll hold you to your promise, Ja," She whispers before looking back up to him.

They hadn't said how they felt - hadn't needed to - since the first spark between them as they spoiled the food and water stores in retalliation for Lochlyn Kiden's murder. Not until three days before, and for the Monk, being forced to say aloud what he felt with such small words is a sin. Yet, it’s all he had to offer. "I love you. Remember. I love all of you." He whispers, one hand drawing back to protectively curve along her still taut belly as he bows his forehead to hers. "And the Twins."

Anne chokes on the words but finally whispers them, "I- I love you too, I'll never forget." Her left hand lowers to rest over his own, pressing her forehead to his, "I'll tell them." She takes a deep breath and leans up to whisper by his ears, "I still mean each word I said to you. Remember that." She sinks back onto her heels, smiling.

A rare shine settles over Lord Ninro's corneas as he nods, kissing her forehead and stepping away from her. Not trusting himself to speak again, he quietly moves through the Translocator's portal. The portal closes behind him, the Kal'Dorei turning to look at Anne with wide jade eyes as she motions over her toned stomach with a large bump, then points to the young noblemwoman with a questioning lilt of her left eyebrow.

Anne watches in silence, chewing on her lip anew before the Kal'Dorei's motions. Slowly she gives a faint nod, exhaling a breath she had been holding.

Pax rushes forward, wrapping Annest up in a tight hug, before disappearing with the young Mother to the mansion's kitchen to celebrate. 

Lycan turns to the door of the study with a long sigh, removing his coat. He throws it onto one of the leather sofas nearby on his way out of the room before exiting. Another might have to ask his Husband where he is expected to meet. All-too-familiar with the sadism conjured by his Master's Ancients, the Guardian silently braces himself for the violent session ahead of him, unbuttoning his shirt en route to their private suite. For once, he's grateful Adilynia won't be joining them.

[ @daughterofkiden, @marquis-lycan-kiden #Baron Ja’nin Ninro ]

[ahvie-voidsinger]

[RP] Same song, second verse, a little bit darker and little bit worse

The night should have been cold. It usually was cold. It is supposed to be cold this far north, this close to the mountains. Although she probably never felt it for long enough to admit it, she remembered what a midnight breeze felt like. A refreshing caress upon her face in contrast to the near-constant Inner Fire she once drew upon to channel the Light.

She shivered, and not because she was cold. She stopped feeling cold months ago. Years ago. The Light. Sunwell guide her dreams, she thought she could remember what it tasted like to draw on the purified stream of arcane life to help her friends. Only now, amid everything seeming to go wrong around her, that memory was as distant as the nostalgia for a fruity wine she'd shared with... with... her friends. Light, it was a funny thing.

The pale-skinned elf shivered in her shroud of shadows and dimly glowing blue hair, not from discomfort or unease or fear. She knew better than to let those seeds of emotion bloom for long. Lor'danel was still... too painful. The blanket of midnight deeper than a cloudy evening upon the sea had wrapped itself around her as a second nature, a companion, a stray kitten longing for purpose. She might have done more than just dabble in the shadow and the void in her time with the Highguard, but she never claimed to understand it. Iggy warned her about giving into the dark as opposed to the more knowable flame within.

A flame was elemental, primal, but studied and basic. A void, a sentient emptiness, however, was as inscrutable as the reasons why this Light-forsaken war even began. Why it continued. That same conscious quilt of flowing inky violet wreathed around her in a reassuring embrace, warming her in a way that still made her shiver. She knew she should not enjoy it, but a grain in her mind was distictly, begrudgingly aware that she did indeed enjoy her her condition. Or, at least, its silver lining.

Breathing out a sigh, she shook her head slightly, crouched atop a snowladen branch deep in the mountain slope brush, but mere meters from the lonely campfire she'd prepared between both sides. Here, in no-mans-land, only the spies and scouts dared tread. And, maybe, kindred souls who were sleepwalking in a waking dream of days long past when a bouncy, cheerful, short elf in bright crimson silks would ferry food and camaraderie between the commoners of both factions, oblivious to the war.

She had hoped that Vyndoriel would find her missive and maps, and... yet, she also hoped deep down that other souls would dare to shirk the division and distrust that had rent Azeroth asunder worse than any grumpyface dragon aspect could have. Any soul brave enough to risk stepping into the unknown to share soup and break bread under the sky -- the only thing yet untainted by this tragedy of a whirlwind engulfing them all.

Ahvie waited, and watched with unblinking, glowing cerulean eyes that Finryx might once have pointed out as becoming of a voidtouched Ebon; eyes that still caused Vyndoriel and Adriel to instinctively reach for their weapon before hearing her voice marred by the reverb of the void; shimmering azure orbs that once were green to have easily marked her place alongside Iggy, only to now produce anger and disappointment. She didn't blame them for their reactions, their judgment. It was well-founded. She had been reckless, curious, stupid and naive in her hubris, and invoked the attention of the very ethereals that had nearly stolen Alleria and her ren'dorei nutjobs from free will.

Ahvie watched with hope, curiosity and wistful nostalgia as her void-enhanced vision granted her nightsight of the approaching armored blood elf. Unfortunately, or perhaps understandably, the familiar young woman beyond the barren clearing stopped short of exiting the Horde encampment entirely, and the void elf's ears twitched several times.

"a FrIeNd or EnEmY?" the shroud around her asked as it pulsed around her tight black leather catsuit.

Ahvie shook her head, her thoughts forming in her mind's eye as a telepathic bond with the symbiotic and sentient voidcloak the old gods had gifted her with. Was it really alive, or was it her own mind conversing with itself? "Friend. Don't you remember her? That's Fey Fey, one of the first and only Highguard to not immediately see me as an enemy."

The voidcloak around her rippled, her body warmed from the inky mass as suredly as if she were beside that unoccupied campfire beyond. It wafted quietly in the breeze in response. "wOnT yOu SaY hElLo?"

Ahvie risked a smiled and snorted. "That would only put her in danger. We're on a mission tonight."

The needles of the frosted pine jingled lightly to her shadow-enhanced (or corrupted?) ears, but the feminine and childlike drawl of her voidcloak was unmistakably clear in her head. "hMmMmmm... tHe OnE wItH fIrE eYeS. yOu LiKe HiM..."

It was a statement, not a question, and Ahvie huffed, reluctant to admit it. Having a bond with this outcast of the void comforted her at times to know that she and it had something in common, but she could hide nothing from it. The voidcloak rustled again, a childlike giggle in her cognizance, blossoming as though she only just remembered. Even her memory was no longer infallible, and she often worried how much of her unique position in SI:7 was being exploited by N'Zoth.

"bOtH oUtCaSts, BOTH LIKE US," and giggling descended into a chittering that Ahvie was grateful to be masked partially by the whipping winds at this altitude.

"He has a familiar bonded to him, too, yeah. And yet we don't want this war. We're trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum on both sides," Ahvie replied, whether to herself or to her voidcloak was unclear.

The chittering abated, and the cloak settled in around her body, framing it snugly, as though hugging her reassuredly. She got used to that months ago, as it had saved her ass many times in her dawning and growing experience as a double-agent. Or was it a triple-agent? The warmth of the empty void was... was... was it supposed to be comforting? At least it didn't get grabby with her chest or thighs.

"HoW aRe YoU sUrE tHiS iSn'T wHaT N'zzzzzzoth WaNtS?"

She'd considered that, too. And oft wondered if it would be better if she ended her own life rather than not know if she was secretly a pawn or sleeper agent to the great deep. But, she often reached the same conclusion as now -- when Fey Fey turned back to the tents with a sad look in her glowing gold eyes -- that it was better to live and keep trying to do good with the cards she was dealt. She had brokered alliances, trade deals and friendships between factions before. She could be patient, and hoped against hope that her friends had not grown as corrupted as she had during this costly and intensely personal war.

Whatever the cost, however, Vyn and M had to be informed. Ahvie oft weighed the risks of investigating whether the interim head of SI:7 operations really was Maiev, but time and again decided against it. She already was being closely watched by Alliance brass... or, at least, as closely as those clumsy kaldorei could. They trusted her enough to give her a modicum of power and freedom, and those were two gifts she dared not gamble with. Especially now, with the whispers in her head.

Ahvie suddenly grinned and chuckled to herself as Fey Fey disappeared back behind a tent flap.

"dEfInE iRoNy," came the childlike but girlish voice.

"A servant of neither the void nor the alliance nor the horde, exchanging and trading information between what likely once was former jailor and former prisoner."

"wHeN wE tOo ArE uNsUrE oF wHiCh We ArE."

Ahvie gave her cloak a tug, wrapping it around her back and neck as she relaxed... grinning goofily as she once had -- And quickly perked up as a shadowy figure not ten paces behind her roost approached the trunk of the pine tree in utter silence. She could simply *feel* him at the edge of her mind. Unwilling to give the illidari the satisfaction or belief of having 'won' this game of cat and mouse, Ahvie raised her voice only just so, the slight echo in her voice mimicking that of her visitor's warchief.

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

A gruff male voice as sharp as a glaive fresh from a wound replied, wry amusement in its edge. "I only just dropped my demon's shroud of concealment. I did not want to alarm you."

Ahvie pursed her lips and sulked, grateful he had not yet rounded the trunk to see her pouty expression. Her voidcloak rustled in her ear: "tHiNk ThAts JuSt A bOaSt?"

She grinned and nodded silently, waiting for Vyndoriel to come into view. Her partner in crime had arrived.

She risked an old saying, "For the night is dark,"

To which a dark, not-quite-sinister chuckle emerged from the demon hunter below her, "And full of terrors... like us. Ready to talk business?"

[delionandclaire]

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Since the variety of floodlights has dramatically risen in recent times, they can be used to brighten your back or front yard. Floodlights are differenced from other types of lighting not only by their wide light angle but also because they must be resistant to weather basics such as rain or frost. As a result, flood lights must be much more resistant to water than inside lights. 

Outdoor floodlights are primarily used for two purposes night illumination and security. However, you can choose ones with more higher capabilities like motion detectors or even cameras that start recording when movement is detected, If you are looking for a security light. Basically, these lights feature a detector that detects movement inside a set compass. When movement is detected, the lights will switch on and illuminate to give you with a clearer view of what is going on outside your home. 

Some floodlights are solar-powered, which means they're equipped with a small solar panel. When properly installed, these solar panels will capture the sun's energy and store it in a battery, one of the floodlight's components. The lights will use whatever energy is stored in the battery to light the bulbs and illuminate the night.