#Homestead on Wednesday

[santaclaralocalnews]

After opening up the De Anza League season win an 8-3 home win over Homestead on Wednesday, March 22, the Wilcox Chargers looked poised to win both games of the series on Friday. Unfortunately for Chargers fans, Wilcox would be unable to hold a late two-run lead, eventually losing on a walk-off wild pitch in the bottom of the seventh, for a 5-4 loss. Read more at svvoice.com

[starshideurfics]

WiP Wednesday

Enjoy a sweet little excerpt from Build a Life with You chapter 6!

Joining his family, Steve holds Josie in place on the chair Eddie fetched her so she is tall enough to use the counter with them. He narrates all the steps they take, measuring out flour and milk, separating the eggs so Eddie can beat air into the whites, while Josie awkwardly stirs the yolks into the batter with a wooden spoon. Steve helps her to fold the whites in, giving them a fluffy batter for pillowy pancakes. “Good job, sweet pea,” Steve says softly, kissing her hair. “Now why don’t we let Daddy cook the pancakes and you and I can get the table set?”

“Yes, Mama!” She holds tight to Steve’s hand as she hops down from the chair, leading him to the sideboard to find plates and cups and napkins. Josie is careful with each place setting, and Steve guides her hands in folding the napkins. 

“What should we have with our pancakes?” Steve asks. “Maple syrup? Blueberry jam?”

Josie doesn’t take even a second to consider before shouting, “Jam!” and pulling Steve towards the pantry. 

The jam is all on high shelves; Josie loves every type of fruit and would eat an entire jar of the stuff in a single sitting if given the chance. The previous summer on a blackberry picking day, between the berries she received from Steve and Dustin, along with the ones she’d plucked from the bushes herself, Josie made herself sick from overfilling her little tummy. After that, Steve moved all the jam out of reach of little hands. 

Steve plucks down a jar of blueberry jam, along with a jar of strawberry-rhubarb for Eddie. They bring the jam back to set on the table, just in time for Dustin to come in the kitchen door, carrying the milk can and a basket of eggs.

[fiadorable]

My kid's school board is patting themselves on the back for lowering the millage rate for the first time in decades while still providing teacher raises (sorely needed raises, I fully support this!).

AND YET.

I have a permission form on my desk right now that says the performing arts program is funded 100% through parent donations, and would I be so kind as to donate money to allow my child to see a production of the goddamn Nutcracker. Also, would I be so kind as to donate extra money for those who can't afford the recommended donation?

(To be clear, this is not like the drama program at a high school, this is just, we would like to take your elementary kid to see the highschool orchestra play or bring a kid-friendly theater production to perform at the school).

My god, raise the millage rate so we can have educational experiences that don't take place behind a desk. Raise the millage rate so I don't have to deal with eight thousand microtransactions donation requests for my kid to have a well-rounded education.

Field trips, yes! Take my kid to a farm so she can pet a goat and smell fresh air. Take my kid to a planetarium, a museum, a public garden. Help me expose my kid to as many different ideas as possible.

This is the village, [Redacted] School Board. You are part of my village now, as mandated by the state. Help me educate my kid.

[sophaeros]

arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

@steddieangstyaugust Day 14 - Wordy Wednesday: Lake

i’m challenging myself to keep all these at either 127 or 1,270 words each, see day one for more of an explanation!

The last time Eddie visits his Uncle Wayne, he meets a mermaid.

He’d gone under the water to fish up a bright coral pink rock he’d spotted from above, and happened to glance up, looking out into the lake from under the surface, only to meet a pale face dotted with what looked like freckles.

Inhaling the clear lake water, sputtering as he stands, the pale face joins him above the surface.

“He–” another cough, “Hello…?” he greets, questioningly.

The face only studies him further, looking him over from head to toe. 

Eddie squats back down into the water, it’s much colder above the surface now that he’s used to the water’s chilly temperature.

A bright shimmering blue tail skims past his knee.

“Wow! You’re a mermaid!” he says, astonished, finally noticing the rest of the boy’s freckled torso just under the crystal clear water. “I’m Eddie, what’s your name?”

“Eee–” the boy frowns, “Eeadding?”

Eddie points to his chest, “Ed-dee.”

“Edddeee.”

“Yeah! I’m Eddie,” he points to himself again, “You are…?” points to the mermaid (merboy?)

“Ssst–” his face scrunches, he squeals some sort of noise under his breath, “SteeEEE–” He cuts himself off again, shrinking from the pained look on Eddie’s face.

“Sorry, that was just loud.. Is it Steeee…” Eddie wracks his brain, “Fin?” He completes the only name that comes to mind, wincing at ‘fin’ being the only syllable he possibly could’ve imagined while in the presence of a literal finned person.

Maybe Stefin giggles, lifting his tailfins out of the water.

Eddie grins back, “Stee-fin?”

Even More Possibly Stefin nods, a sharp-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Well Stefin, wanna help me look for rocks?”

Together, they scour the shallows of the water behind Wayne’s cabin for hours

They fill the whole grocery bag Eddie’d been toting around with him by time Wayne calls for him at sundown.

“I’m leaving for home tomorrow,” he tells Stefin, not knowing that would be the last time he’d ever see his friend, telling the beautiful creature “I’ll see you next year though! We come back at least once every summer, promise.”

The merboy had smiled so brilliantly at him, the freckles Eddie had just then realized were tiny blue scales shining in the evening sun. He didn’t want to leave.

But he had to. Eddie left.

Elizabeth got sick.

Al got arrested. 

And in the time between the state of Tennessee gaining custody of him and being placed with Uncle Wayne permanently, Wayne sold his little homestead, settling in a two bedroom trailer in the heart of Indiana.

He understands it all now, of course, Wayne making the decision to move where he knew he’d have consistent work year-round was a necessity, but that first week, an already confused Eddie had asked after only a couple days in the trailer when they’d be going home to the lake.

“I don’t live there anymore Teddy. Live here now, in Indiana.”

“But what about the cabin?”

“Sold it, kiddo. Bought this place instead.”

Eddie’s eyes welled up for what felt like the zillionth time in a month. “But what about the stove? What about the bonfires? What about all the rocks I haven’t found?” What about Stefin? He thought to himself.

“Now son–kiddo, s’alright! We can always plan a trip to the UP if y’wanna.”

“Back to the cabin?” Eddie had asked, hopeful.

Wayne shook his head, “Probably camp at McLain instead.”

“That’s on Lake Soupier?”

Wayne snorts, “Yah bud, s’on Superior.”

Eddie took a moment to consider it, then nodded resolutely. “Okay Uncle Wayne.”

They never went back up to Michigan, let alone all the way up to the UP.

The first summer in Indiana was the only time Eddie asked.

“Sorry kiddo, can’t swing it this year. Maybe next time.” Wayne had said, and Eddie watched.

The whole rest of summer, into the fall, especially in the winter, the red-stamped envelopes would stack, then disappear whenever they would go into what Wayne liked to call ‘broke mode’.

Clearance aisle canned goods, store-brand everything, sandwiches packed into brown paper bags with little else.

Eddie grew up, failed his senior year once, twice, managing things the third, and leaving Hawkins for Chicago, hoping to make it big somewhere, somehow.

He manages to, but not in the way he originally thought, falling into club ownership after the man he’d been working for passed, leaving his business to Eddie.

Wayne gets sick when Eddie’s only 28; he drives down to Hawkins and stays with him about a month before he’s gone.

Eddie goes back to Chicago one Uncle short, goes back to work.

A week after Wayne is cremated, a notification pops up in his inbox. An alert he doesn’t remember setting.

Eddie grins, “You sneaky bastard.”

Wayne’s cabin and surrounding acreage have come up for sale.

It’s not even a thought, there’s no decision to be made. Eddie offers over asking and gets the keys handed to him on his 29th birthday.

He’s still a part owner of his club, gets a check every month that pays the mortgage, but his new day to day consists of fixing the cabin, wandering in the woods, and strolling along the shallows of Lake Superior, looking for rocks.

One day, while walking north along the shore, he stumbles across a hidden little alcove.

The rock face juts in from the shoreline, behind a trickling waterfall. It’s not huge by any means, but it looks like someone’s already came by and carved the sand here away, making a knee-high pool that connects the rocky face of the shore with the lake.

He skirts around the little pool, walking along a narrow strip of sand to the sparkling waterfall.

A shocked scream is yanked from his throat as soon as he peers into the alcove properly though, because there, doing a very astute impression of a dead fuckin’ body, is a merman, leant casually back against the wall of the cave Eddie’d just approached from, snoozing away.

The creature whips its head around at Eddie’s yell, teeth bared and a hissing screech slithering out from between his lips.

“Holy Shit! You’re a—”

The merman stops hissing, “Eddie?”

Eddie blinks at him. “Jesus H. Christ.. Stefin?” The blue tail, the shimmering freckle-like scales, the still horribly beautiful face. “You’re real.”

“You’re back— real?” Stefin asks, incredulous, “You didn’t think I was real?”

“I was a kid with an astounding sense of imagination, sue me.”

Stefin rolls his eyes, “Figures why you never came back to see me.”

Eddie blinks at him again, “What? No! No, I couldn’t! My mom— my dad– Wayne— It’s a long story, okay?”

Stefin harrumphs, sitting back against the stone wall. 

“I still can’t believe this, I always thought I’d imagined you.”

“Well you didn’t.”

“Yeahh, I can see that now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Wha— nevermind, So, how’ve you been?”

Stefin’s head lolls around, he had to’ve just rolled his eyes. He stands up, “Why do you care? You’ll probably just leave again.”

 “No, I bought the house my uncl—” Hang on, what?

Stefin shoves past Eddie to hop down onto the sand, avoiding landing on his feet in the water.

“You’re walking.”

“Amazing observation skills.”

“You’re naked.” And super hot, holy shit. Eddie averts his eyes politely.

“Again, very astute.” He grabs a bundle of cloth, pulling on a pair of shorts.

“How— Can I take you to dinner?”

“Why.” He pulls a shirt on over his head.

“To explain properly. And also because I missed you.”

Stefin turns, looks him over. His gaze softens minutely. “Sure. I’d like that.”

MY FIRST MER!FIC!! HALLELUJAH!!

also, this kinda got away from me, so it's really only light angst 😅

see the collection on ao3!

[courtingchaos]

Violence Ad Nauseam

Gator Tillman x Fem Reader

Series Master List

A/N: Would you all like some actual story to go along with the smut chapters? Finally getting into the meat of this after months of being stuck on it. This is going to feel a little out of order with the next two chapters, mainly because those were written first but this bridged a gap I had in my conflict so have at it. This is the tinder to start the bonfire (and also to show off Roy, the world’s biggest bastard). Hope you enjoy, PLEASE read the warnings everyone!

Warnings: Violence, assault (Roy hits reader), depictions of injury, descriptions of injury, talk of violence.

18+ NSFW No Minors

A quiet afternoon on account of the brothers going off for lunch leaving just you in your corner and your father in the house. You saw him through the kitchen window when you stepped out to ask Ty something. He hovers just around the sink so you know he’s cooking, rinsing off the cranberries or breaking down some bird. Wednesday nights mean Family Meetings and when you’re done out here in the garage with this new dash wiring you’ll go in and quietly help him make your mother’s linzer tart.

Between the solder you pinch to the newly stripped wires and the radio droning at the side of your head, it takes you longer than it should to realize the rest of the noise has quieted. Suddenly it isn’t just four brothers gone but the whole homestead seems to have taken off, or at least run away from the heavy footfalls that almost echo in your workspace.

“What are you working on?” Roy’s deep voice is clear without the ring of metal work in the background.

You don’t look up from your work, especially not for him. “Custom dash.”

“Is that for you?”

“You know it isn’t.”

His laugh is anything but jovial, a thin ice pick that hits your spine wrong. You finish with your wires, tucking them back into their casing, before you turn to look at him smiling at you. It’s flat and doesn’t reach his eyes, a startling match to someone else you know. “What do you need?”

“Just came to talk.”

“Father’s in the house. You can talk to him.”

“I already did.” His footsteps seem measured in the last few feet he closes between you two. Those green eyes seem to darken the longer they look down at you, his distaste for you never more apparent. You hazard a look past him towards the open, empty bays and confirm you’ve been left for the wolves.

“There’s not much I can help you with.”

“Oh I beg to differ.” Suddenly he’s reaching for a folding chair leaned up against the wall. Opening it and motioning for you to sit with a wide open palm. “Have a seat sweetheart.”

Your heart pounds in your chest hard enough to crack ribs. “I’d rather stand.”

“I’d rather you sit.” Those eyes turn hard with a glint in the florescent work lights above. “Please.” Again he gestures at the open seat and you stall just a little too long. He grabs your bicep and yanks you forward to stand in front of the chair. “Sit. Down.”

There’s no one out here now. Your phone sits on your workbench, plugged in and on silent. The radio still sings out low and the garage remains quiet like it was the dead of night. So you sit and you swallow the vitriol that rises in your throat because you know when you’re outnumbered.

Roy nods his head when you do as asked and leans back onto the thick wooden worktop, arms crossed too casually across his chest. “You’ve been doing a little research I hear.”

“I do a lot of research, you’ll have to be specific.” You stare up at him with your best poker face, trying hard to leave the disgust out of your features.

“Don’t play fucking stupid.”

“I’m not.” You blink too much as your nerves start to flood in with his sharp tone. “I’m the brains around here, remember?” Licked lips end up bitten lips and you can see him watching all of your nervous energy bleed out into the open. “If Father didn’t know then-“

“I found that P.I. you hired. The one out of Biloxi.” He watches you still suddenly. “Hm. Clearer picture now?”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice to not betray you. Roy is a pain in your ass but he’s a dangerous one, something better left alone until it decides to leave you be. You’ve poked him before with your words and your blatant disregard for his need of Gator but now he has you cornered in silence.

“He sang quite the tune when it came down to brass tacks. Showed me the file on Gator first and then little ol’ me.” He clears his throat. “What are you looking for, bookworm?”

You open your mouth but he railroads you, talks right over your explanation because he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to know about you looking into Gator and finding the hidden rot, the long trail of familial deceit that spanned from the gulf to the frozen plains Roy inhabited.

“You think you know it all don’t you? Think you can just do what you want because you think you’re smarter than everyone around you?” He stands to his full height, hands dropping to hang at his sides. “You’re sticking your nose in the wrong business.”

“He deserves to know.”

“Deserves to know what? That his father is running the same game down at home?” He scoffs at you. “You think he doesn’t know what kind of family he comes from?”

“He doesn’t know about you.”

“And what about me?”

You let your schooled features fall when you realize Roy thinks this is all about his money. “Does your brother know?” You feel bold when you lean into your question. “You two seem awfully close. Is that what you’re afraid of? Him finding out or you loosing money?”

There’s a dawning look on his face when he finally gets it.

“Does your brother know he raised your son or are you only keeping that secret from Gator?”

The air is heavy with every deep breath you and Roy take. He stares down at you staring defiantly up at him and the hollow chuckle from deep in his throat makes your skin crawl.

“You think he’s gonna believe you?” Roy leans down slow to get level with you, crouches in front of you with a creaking knee and violent look in his eye. Only a foot away and you hate how much you can see of Gator here; in the anger and the slope of his nose.

“I don’t lie to him.”

One thing about Roy is that he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. It’s a common misconception because he has a posse behind him willing to do his bidding but in the right circumstances, ones like these with no prying eyes or ears, he sticks his hands right into the muck.

He moves faster than you think someone of his age should, especially with that loud knee, but knuckles wrap into the front of your jacket before you know what’s happening. He’s stronger and taller than you and he hauls you up fast, the chair collateral that gets kicked to the wayside by his boot. Your heels drag for just a moment before your back hits the side of the car you’ve been working on hard, wind knocked out of you while Roy gets in your face.

“I don’t care what kind of shit you’ve been pullin’ with him but I don’t play fucking games.” He shifts you up the door so you’re on tiptoes and supported by just his massive fists. “You’re fucking with things you have no idea about.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?” It’s strained out of you with your collar twisted up. Even pinned up against a car you still feel the need to goad him, especially when he’s this worked up. “Is it just about money with you or are you afraid of being responsible for him too?”

Roy pulls away for a moment, faltering enough to let you slip down almost onto flat soles. Your laugh is shallow too when you watch Roy’s face contort into a scowl.

“I’m warning you.” His voice doesn’t waver in anger. It’s flat like the look in his eyes.

“And I’m telling you-“

You hear the crack before you fully register what’s happened. The clap of an open palm that sets your face on fire and snaps your head sideways, brain rattling around in your skull. It takes a moment before you feel the sharp pain in your jaw and realize you can’t clench your teeth. It hangs unnaturally while you slide to the floor heavily, legs tangled under you while you try to make sense of what’s happened.

“You ain’t telling me shit.” He spits down at you, confused on the floor. “Look at me.” He demands but your vision swims and the pain surges into nausea. You couldn’t turn your head even if you wanted to but all your whimpering sends Roy into a further rage. He bends down and grabs your jaw roughly, twisting you sideways to look at him all while you scream in the back of your throat. His fingers dig into the hinge of your jaw and you howl louder with the pain he inflicts.

“I have no reservations with you.” He holds your face tighter and you cry, hot tears that spill over and down your flaming cheek. “I don’t care about whatever pedestal that boy puts you on, you start nosing around in my business?” He shakes your head and the edges of your vision darken momentarily. “I’m gonna put a fucking end to it.” He drops you suddenly and you barely catch yourself from hitting cement. His legs are all you can make out of him while you try to cradle your jaw and you watch him move away from you to your bench. “You’re gonna do whatever you want because you’re too smart for your own good, right?” He shifts things around that you can’t see, sends them clattering before you notice his boots in your peripheral again. “Right?!” He yells down at you and makes you jump before you try to shake your head no. “Well don’t lie to me, darlin’.”

“I’m not.” Only it comes out slurred and half formed from your numb lips. Roy clicks his tongue at you before he crouches next to you again only this time you flinch and that makes him smile.

“Look,” he squints at you holding your face together and trying to look him in the eye with all the disgust you can muster, “go ahead and call one of your brothers.” He tosses your phone on your lap. “Tell them what happened.”

You shake your head again.

“No?” It could almost be concern that he flashes you but you know better. “Gonna keep this to yourself?”

You nod almost against your own will.

“Like your little findings too?” His voice is soft like he’s trying to calm one of his horses. It has the opposite effect on you though, that roiling nausea replaced by rage in your gut. You nod again though, tears still falling freely down your face.

“Good girl.”

If you could spit at him you would. He stands gingerly to avoid his knee popping and you watch him walk away a few feet before he turns back to you. “Now I’m gonna head back up to the house, let your father know I’m done out here.” He checks his phone before giving you one last look, gesturing at his own jaw. “Should get that checked out.”

[tennessoui]

wip wednesday (early cause im offline tmrw)

When the dust settles, Obi-Wan is surprised to find himself still standing.

It takes all of him, he thinks, the end of the war. It takes everything he has.

He used to wonder, in a distant, nebulous way, what it would feel like in the aftermath. How his life would return to the routines he held before Geonosis, if the cadence of Temple life would feel strange and unfamiliar to him after so long spent in the trenches. If he would miss the sound of his men behind and around him, the steady stream of words and laughter and presence of others, at all times, surrounding him.

It’s only when the dust settles, when the first grains of sand whip through the arid desert air to sting his eyes, that he realizes that every time he ever allowed himself to think about the end of the war, he’d always assumed that they would win. He had never truly thought they would be defeated. That the Jedi Order, the Temple itself, so strongly entrenched in the galaxy and in Coruscant and in Obi-Wan’s world view, were capable of falling.

He had cautioned others against the same assumptions the moment he heard them. He had warned his own padawan to not look too far into the future, to not plan too much for the war’s end. He had told many people—clones, civilians, holonet reporters, other Jedi—that it was dangerous to think of the war as something they would inevitably win. Nothing was inevitable, especially not victory.

But he realizes now, only now, only as he traverses the desert on the back of a stolen eopie, wearing robes still smelling so strongly of volcanic sulfur that his eyes are stinging with reactionary tears, that he’d thought. He’d always thought. 

He’d never really considered…this.

This aftermath, where he is still standing on shaking legs and everything that he has ever cared for in the world has become ash, has become the dust settling around him.

Everything he has ever known and loved and fought for has slipped through his fingers. When the dust settles, when he looks down at his hands, he expects to find them empty.

Instead, there is a baby in his arms.

And he knows—he knows intimately how much damage these hands are capable of. What hurt these hands can inflict even on those he loves. Loved. 

He knows, as the homestead rises up in the fading light of the two suns, that these hands should not cradle this baby. Not the son of the man he has murdered. Not his brother’s son. Not his padawan’s. Not Anakin’s.

He knows the babe is safest here on this farm in the care of this couple. He knows he must leave the child with them, to raise and love a thousand times better than he is capable of. He has tried before. He has failed one Skywalker already.

He knows. 

And he can’t. He cannot let him go.

While the Galactic empire rises on one side of the galaxy, the dust settles on the other and Obi-Wan Kenobi looks down at the babe in his hands and realizes that he cannot let him go.

Not another Skywalker.

[plague-of-insomnia]

WIP Wednesday: Sebardagni Post-Apocalyptic Domestic Sickfic AU

I know no one cares about this idea aside from me, but this is the first thing I’ve been able to write in months, and I really fucking need the escapism of Sebastian having two men taking care of him even when the world has fallen to pieces.

I have a few scenes for this written I may end up posting on AO3 later, but for now, enjoy this scene.

The concept for this AU is this: the world ended a few years ago, and Bard, Agni, and Sebastian have been surviving together. Sebastian is chronically ill, so he and Agni mind the homestead while Bard goes off on excursions for supplies. It’s not an easy life, but overall, they’re happy.

~#~

Sebastian balanced carefully. The forearm crutches Bard had fashioned for him fit better than anything he’d managed with since the world collapsed and meant he wouldn’t do just that onto the floor—even if his muscles were weak.

He’d finally managed a few hours’ sleep, exhaustion and one of Agni’s herbal treatments helping to ease his breathing long enough to dream.

And what a dream it was. He couldn’t wait to hurry out of the small bedroom they shared in this tiny mountain cabin and tell Agni about it. As bittersweet as it was, it had felt so wonderfully real, he could almost ignore the perpetual tightness in his chest.

“Agni! Agni!” Sebastian cautiously eased the door open.

The cabin was cozy, a main room with a fireplace, kitchen, and sitting area, a bedroom and bath, and a cellar Sebastian couldn’t access—too many stairs— where they stored food for the winter.

The fire illuminated the room as Agni worked. From the way the orange sun had colored the bedroom, Sebastian suspected it was evening, which would mean Agni would likely be busy prepping their dinner.

Things had been harder lately, since Bard had been gone for weeks now—73 days, exactly, not that Sebastian had been counting—but they made do. Agni wasn’t as skilled a huntsman as Bard, but between their garden, preserved stores, chickens and goats, they managed. Agni had to coax Sebastian more often than not to eat as it was, so he barely dented their food stocks.

“I dreamed Bard came home and he found me medicine, and—“ Sebastian’s voice cut out immediately as he realized he heard Agni speaking to someone. And then he saw him. “Bard?”

The man was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, looking ragged and thinner than Sebastian remembered, but very much not a dream or a ghost.

“You’re alive?!” Sebastian’s eyes filled and he pushed himself to move as fast as he possibly could, dropping his arms from his crutches so he could throw them around his lover. “Agni and I were worried you were never coming home.”

Bard’s strong arms supported Sebastian in their embrace so he wouldn’t lose his footing, enjoying this connection. He smelt like tobacco and sweat and days out on the road, but more than anything, like hope.

Sebastian didn’t even care if Bard hadn’t been able to find any medicine for him. He was just so relieved he began to sob as weeks of emotions he’d been damming up broke free.

“Hey, hey, you’ll make your breathing worse. I’m all right. I missed you both and thinking of getting back here to you kept me going. You know I don’t die easy.”

Sebastian’s legs ached, and Bard sensed his growing instability and helped him sit down beside him. A moment later, Agni set a steaming mug in front of him. The frothy liquid was green. Another one of his herbal concoctions?

“It’s matcha. I lucked out.” Bard scratched his cheek. “Got caught in a bad storm a couple towns over and took refuge in a partly burned-out old asian market. I moved some shelves to help create a barcade and found a whole supply of the stuff that had been overlooked by scavengers.”

“The caffeine will help your breathing,” Agni said with a warm smile. “It’s not medicine, but it was a good find.”

Sebastian tried not to frown as he took a sip. It was bitter, but Agni had added some of the honey from the bees he kept to sweeten it. He didn’t want to ruin their happy reunion by suggesting, again, that maybe it was time Agni and Bard moved on and left him behind. He was too frail to travel, and Bard was having to spend more and more time on the road, detouring farther and farther from their home base in order to find any medicine to help ease Sebastian’s symptoms.

Even before the world fell apart, Sebastian had been ill. But after, the stress and lack of medical care meant his condition had deteriorated significantly, and if they hadn’t found this cabin by chance, he knew he probably would have died years ago.

Sometimes, he wondered if that would have been better for both Agni and Bard, even if he kept his mouth shut as he listened to them talking, Bard regaling some of his adventures while Agni finished prepping their food.

They’d have rabbit stew tonight, thanks to Bard’s catch, and Sebastian cherished the warmth of the mug in his hands as he tried to enjoy the limited happiness of this domestic snapshot.

He did like it here, in their little cabin. The woods shielded them from most of the horrors of the dying human world, and the fresh, dry air eased his breathing some. He loved their little home and garden, and enjoyed helping Agni with the animals when he was well enough to venture outside. He thought, despite his illness and the reality of their new world, he might be content, if Bard didn’t constantly have to put his life at risk for Sebastian’s sake.

Sebastian shivered as one of Bard’s coarse hands played with his long hair, curling a strand around a finger.

“I missed you both so fucking much,” he said. Sebastian could see the fear in those blue eyes, that he’d probably worried he might not make it back, or that by the time he did, only Agni would be waiting for his return.

~#~

Reblogs appreciated as always!

Liked this? You can see more of my writing on AO3.

[justinssportscorner]

Anthony Castrovince at MLB.com:

Major League Baseball’s embrace of the Negro Leagues is now recognized in the record book, resulting in new-look leaderboards fronted in several prominent places by Hall of Famer Josh Gibson and an overdue appreciation of many other Black stars.

Following the 2020 announcement that seven different Negro Leagues from 1920-1948 would be recognized as Major Leagues, MLB announced Wednesday that it has followed the recommendations of the independent Negro League Statistical Review Committee in absorbing the available Negro Leagues numbers into the official historical record. "We are proud that the official historical record now includes the players of the Negro Leagues," Commissioner Rob Manfred said. "This initiative is focused on ensuring that future generations of fans have access to the statistics and milestones of all those who made the Negro Leagues possible. Their accomplishments on the field will be a gateway to broader learning about this triumph in American history and the path that led to Jackie Robinson’s 1947 Dodger debut."

Gibson, the legendary catcher and power hitter who played for the Homestead Grays and Pittsburgh Crawfords, is now MLB’s all-time leader in batting average, slugging percentage and OPS and holds the all-time single-season records in each of those categories. Gibson is one of more than 2,300 Negro Leagues players -- including three living players who played in the 1920-1948 era in Bill Greason, Ron Teasley and Hall of Famer Willie Mays -- included in a newly integrated database at MLB.com that combines the Negro Leagues numbers with the existing data from the American League, National League and other Major Leagues from history. “The Negro Leagues were a product of segregated America, created to give opportunity where opportunity did not exist,” said Negro Leagues expert and historian Larry Lester. “As Bart Giamatti, former Commissioner of Baseball, once said, ‘We must never lose sight of our history, insofar as it is ugly, never to repeat it, and insofar as it is glorious, to cherish it.’”

[...]

Why are the Negro Leagues being added to the historical record?

Essentially, to right a wrong. It certainly was not the fault of Black baseball stars such as Gibson, Cool Papa Bell and Oscar Charleston that they were forbidden from participating in the AL or NL, and recognizing the Negro Leagues as Major Leagues is in keeping with long-held beliefs that the quality of the segregation-era Negro Leagues circuits was comparable to the MLB product in that same time period.

[...]

Which Negro Leagues will be included in the official record?

There are seven, and they operated between 1920 and 1948. The reason for the starting point is that attempts to develop Negro Leagues prior to 1920 were ultimately unsuccessful and lacked a league structure. And 1948 was deemed to be a reasonable end point because it was the last year of the Negro National League and the segregated World Series. After that point, the Negro League teams and leagues that had endured were stripped of much of their talent.

The seven leagues are as follows:

• Negro National League (I) (1920–1931) • Eastern Colored League (1923–1928) • American Negro League (1929) • East-West League (1932) • Negro Southern League (1932) • Negro National League (II) (1933–1948) • Negro American League (1937–1948)

Major League Baseball is recognizing the stats of 7 different Negro Leagues between 1920 and 1948 into the record book. This comes almost four years after the league announced that the leagues would be classified as Major Leagues.

See Also:

Yahoo! Sports: Negro Leagues statistics to be officially integrated into MLB historical record

[nidstiniens]

wip wednesday

it's actually thursday, but i always love these so thank you for the tag, @myreia!! ♥️ tagging: @lilbittymonster @cloudofdarkness @snotsloth @galpalaven @gatheredfates @aethergazing @birues @iona-xiv @gortash @geth-consensus @dogfromfallout @alannah-corvaine @hartsvale @ishgard @fheythfully

He dreamt of home so often, it almost felt more real than waking.

It was dusk again, as it always was. The last remnants of light cast long shadows over the snow blanketing a forgotten village that existed only in his memories. The cobblestone beneath his feet was worn smooth, and the houses that stood on either side were empty and dark, their windows gaping like eyes, and their doors shut tight against the elements.

It was quiet here; there was no howl of the wind, or the crack and pop from a fireplace, or even the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots. All that remained was a vast and yawning silence, cold as it seeped through the cracks of his former life, whispering in his ears like the cries of ghosts.

His feet carried him through the empty streets with a slow and purposeful stride, the trim of his cloak trailing after him like a shadow, his breath misting in a white haze with every exhale. There was a familiar sense of restlessness gnawing at his chest, urging him forward. He was looking for something — someone, perhaps — but, try as he might, he could never recall just what, or whom.

He came to a halt at the foot of the village square, and the cobble beneath his boots gave rise to the ruins of a great cathedral. A soft grunt stirred his throat, more thought than it was sound, as he tilted his head, squinting up at the structure curiously.

The cathedral was all flying buttresses and sturdy stone, a harsh contrast to the village's wooden homesteads, yet the same sense of abandonment hung about it like an old, unwelcome shroud. Its main entrance was marked by large oak doors, flanked on both sides by Ishgardian saints, worshippers of Halone, their weathered faces carved with expressions of reverence. Stained glass windows lined both walls in an arching row above them, while stone gargoyles kept watch from above.

He recognized the building instantly, having walked past it nearly every day of his life, and oftentimes accompanying the granite beasts in their vigil.

What was it doing here, now, miles away from its home in Ishgard proper, on the outskirts of the city-state in a village that no longer existed?

[chronically-ghosted]

Last Line Tag Game

Thank you for tagging me @whatsnewalycat 🤍

Making some final edits to lsyr prt 2 before it drops on wednesday!

Despite your initial apprehension, the cellar had become your most favorite place on the entire homestead. The silence was almost friendly, protective; you could whisper your secrets to it and know they’d be safe forever. Surrounded by abundant food, lovingly grown and cared for, you too sometimes feel as if you too had been raised, had been grown to ripeness, on this earthen floor.

@ozarkthedog @gnpwdrnwhiskey @leslie-lyman @perotovar @ezrasbirdie @tightjeansjavi

[therealgchu]

WIP Wednesday - To the Shore

hey, check it out, actually doing a main fic thing! mainly cos my brane is still stuck in the middle of chapter 4 of Seven Days, and i'm getting real tired of its shit. so tired of it that, apparently, i'm writing back on my main fic.

tagging the coemancer crew, and anyone else if you want to share a WIP.

anyway, something fuzzy and warm for today's WIP wednesday. i've skipped a bit ahead, but not too far. still trying to plot out some major plot points and how that's all going to happen.

if you want to read To the Shore from the beginning, check it out here.

there's also the backstories, Anamnesis here. i'll be putting some some spicy backstories soon, but it'll be in a different fic since i don't want to muddy the tags for the OG backstories.

and, Seven Days, if my brane ever gets chapter 4 finished.

on with the sneak peek!

“I want a bunk bed,” Cora said.

Sam smiled, “I think we can do that, right Hwa?” he asked as he turned to her.

Hwa smiled, “Of course. Why a bunk bed?”

“So, I can put my plushies on top!” Cora answered.

“Makes sense,” Hwa nodded, “yeah, no problem.”

“And, I want a computer, of course. Have you seen the new processors that came out recently? Some of them can get up to a couple petaflops!” Cora gushed. “I’ve got the specs written down,” she announced as she rummaged through her backpack

Sam looked in askance at his daughter, “That might be pretty expensive, gumdrop,” he said, attempting to temper her enthusiasm.

Hwa grinned at the girl, the first real smile she’d had in weeks. “Don’t worry about computers. I’ve already got some specc’d out for the both of us.”

“Hey, don’t I get to have a say?” Sam interrupted. 

Hwa moved over to stand by Cora’s side and the two looked at each other, then looked back to Sam. “Umm…Dad, would you even know what we’re talking about?” Cora asked.

He grunted and shook his head. “Fine, you two do whatever. No illegal stuff, though, got it?”

“Yessss,” both answered sarcastically.

“Good,” he said as Cora raced down to her berth in the lower deck. Sam crossed the way and put his arm around Hwa’s waist. “It’s good to see you smiling again, darlin,” he said as he kissed her cheek.

She leaned against his chest, “I’m sorry. I know it’s been hard on the both of you,” she said.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said as he gave her waist a squeeze. “I’m glad we’re going back to Ternion. I kinda missed working on the homestead.”

The term made her smile, “Homestead, huh? Your Akila is showing,” she ribbed him.

“Well now, miss, I reckon that as an Akila man, born and raised, we should rightly call our home a homestead. It only sounds right and proper,” Sam said, laying it on thick.

Hwa laughed as Sam cocked his hat to her. They both heard Cora moan from the lower deck, “Daaddd! That’s terrible!” she shouted. He grinned even wider.

“Really, though, we should come up with a name,” Hwa said.

A herd of small horses was heard on the lower deck as Cora made her way back and up the ladder. “I want to name it!” she shouted.

Hwa and Sam looked at each other, both seeing agreement on the other’s face. “Sure, gumdrop. What do you want to name the homestead?”

“Pemberley!” Cora said excitedly.

Sam looked quizzically while Hwa chuckled, “It’s Mr. Darcy’s estate,” Hwa explained.

“I remember that now, thought it sounded familiar,” Sam said, scratching his head.

“You don’t like it,” Cora said, crestfallen.

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s that, well, I don’t think we’re a ‘Pemberley Estate’ sort of family,” Sam explained.

“We could be if we wanted to be,” Cora wheedled, pouting a bit.

“Cora, I don’t think I could be an ‘Estate’ person if I tried,” he said, trying not to be too harsh.

“How about a compromise,” Hwa interjected, “Pemberley Homestead,” she suggested.

[atonalginger]

WIP Wednesday

So y'all remember Ranger!Del? I had talked about writing something with him?" Well right now I'm bogged down with edits for the Saga but that does not mean I have not started plugging away and here's some of what I have so far.

Jeb let out a laugh, “well alright: Thank you, Kitty, for being so kind to us. The others are grateful too.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll let the Marshal know.” She stepped back and hustled over to the Marshal. He was grinning, surprise plain in his eyes. “Well I’ll be damned, you did it,” he said with a chuckle, “I could hear that from here. You did good there; I called my man back since they’re sending the hostages out.” “Thank you, sir,” she blushed and looked away further into the city. A man with dark hair and a matching uniform to the marshal, missing the duster coat, was hopping over a barricade and moving for them. A red silk scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, the long tails fluttering in the breeze. As he moved closer she noticed a scar over his right eye, cutting through his eyebrow and ending on the top of his cheek. He had a well groomed mustache and thick scruff on his chin and jawline. When he saw her he flashed a vulpine grin. “And here he comes,” Marshal Blake said. He looked to Kitty, “You told them your name was Kitty Lincoln?”

...

“I was sent to find a member of my guild.” Kitty said. She was told to be discrete before she left the Lodge, given the business Sam was on, “I was told he had a tendency to get distracted and to start looking here.” “Well good luck with your search,” the mayor gave a polite nod and waved at the Marshal, “I need to go see that Emily put herself to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow, Daniel.” The ranger stepped up to where the mayor stood and held out a hand to shake with Kitty, “did a hell of a job there. I’ve never heard a negotiation go so smoothly before.” “That’s because you’re too mouthy,” Marshall Blake sighed and looked to Kitty, “Miss Lincoln, this is Ranger Gabriel Delgado.” The ranger flashed the marshal a look of irritation before relaxing into another smile, “you can call me Del.” The Marshal rolled his eyes and continued, “Del, this is Kitty Lincoln. She’s a newcomer from New Homestead.” “I have ears,” Delgado remarked, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Kitty.” “Yes,” Kitty’s cheeks were burning up, “pleasure to meet you as well, Del.” “You said you were looking for a guildmate?” Marshal Blake asked, “We might be able to help; after what you did there I could ask around the guard stations and shops.” “You would?” Kitty looked over with wide eyes, “oh, I’d appreciate that. His name is Sam Coe. Our Chair sent him out here one UT month ago on business and he wasn’t come back.” “Sam?” Delgado was quiet, “oh no.”

If you've gotten this far and you have a WIP you want to share, please do! I'd love to see it.

[silurisanguine]

WIP wednesday

Open tag to anyone! Little peak at next chapter of Chasing Your Star until I Find Home

Sam nodded as Seren jumped down into a different section, his eyes focused on the great ship resting against it’s launch bay.  She felt his sadness, it was something she’d felt too upon seeing the massive ship and all it’s wasted potential.  She heard him talking to himself above her as she dug out the cells from the sand. ”Where were you meant to go baby and why didn’t you get there?” Seren came back to find Ren had her arm around Sam’s waist. It was obviously he was trying to hide it, but seeing that ship had hit him hard. Space flight for him had been how he’d escaped his father, how he’d made mistakes, yes, but also had through being a ace pilot, become a Ranger and had Cora. Space flight, the stars, were everything to him. So to see a colony ship with so much potential left to rot, must have hurt. Seren was glad Ren was there to comfort him, because she knew if he was alone, the temptation to do the same would have been too much to resist. She steadied herself against the strong emotions coming off the group and made her way to the lift. It was to be expected she reminded herself and she knew it was going to get worse. ”Got the cells, only need one to power the lift, but always good to have a spare in case something is different down there. Wait here whilst I pop one into the socket.” Her voice made Sam snap out of his melancholy and the others stop what they were investigating to wait for her at the lift, the obvious curiosity and worry showing through the way they fidgeted with their suits and gear. Once it was powered she joined them as the lift doors opened. The journey was silent as they descended, the doors opening onto a long forgotten lobby of the launch center. Sam had recovered somewhat, thanks to her counterpart and he chuckled as he saw the leaflets strewn around. But Seren knew it was a bluff to hide his churning thoughts. ”Pre flight check. Remember no agricultural products past here. And hit up the Duty Free first.” ”Sam!! I don’t think that’s very appropriate, do you?” Sarah tutted as she walked past him, running a finger over the dust covered table.  Barrett seemed quiet, taking it all in as he looked around. He picked up an old manual, flipping through it’s dirty pages. ”Crew preparation area. I cant imagine how tense and chaotic it must have been.” ”Yeah…” Sam winced and joined Barrett, looking over his shoulder at the document. “Maybe... we should take some of these things, for posterity, y'know.” ”They could be donated to New Homestead’s museum after we’ve looked them over. Maurice I'm sure would love to add them to the Earth collection.” Sarah tucked a leaflet into her suit pocket as both Sam and Barrett nodded in agreement. Seren smiled at the thought. She’d never thought to do that. Perhaps in a future verse she would.

[otterandterrierwrites]

WIP Wednesday

me opening a wip: hey (with the intention of picking it up)

Vampire AU snippet:

Since leaving Tatooine, Luke had experienced a lot of things he wouldn’t have thought possible before, when he was just a farmer at his aunt and uncle’s homestead. A mentor’s body disappearing into thin air, his voice guiding Luke from beyond. Some power flowing through Luke for a moment, connecting him to all things and beings. A Dark Lord of the Sith, who could command it at will. But no matter how much a person believed that they knew things, that they were experienced in the ways of the galaxy and could therefore take new discoveries in stride, there was always surprise in the unexpected. Like, when they saw a friend—an extraordinary friend, at that, but nonetheless—perform a feat that they didn’t think she was capable of. It was almost like thinking you were prepared for anything in a mission, until that mission went horribly wrong.

[sharpen-your-hatchet]

What I feel; What I do; What I want || Wenclair fic - Chapter 1

Description: "Frankly, all her life, she has felt separation between what she feels, what she does, and what she actually wants. Being royalty means there's often little room for opinion and desire [...]; Enid wonders how it'll feel to have her ingrained sense of duty be pitted against her unshackled curiosity. "

Six months past her 19th birthday - Enid, princess of The Kingdom of Nevermore, is allowed the chance to travel and explore the world as she sees fit. Unfortunately, it comes with a little caveat... in the form of some unwelcome company for protection. Cue Wednesday Addams, the only knight deemed worthy, and who is now Enid's personal thorn in her side.

Can they work together despite their differences? Or maybe fate has an entirely different plan for them altogether...

Pairing: Wednesday Addams / Enid Sinclair Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 3150

Click Here To Read On AO3 or read below!

x-x-x-x-x-x

The Kingdom Of Nevermore. A proud nation that towers not only in size, but also in the scale of opportunity it offers those who live within it’s borders. It is a magnificent nation, both well governed yet free. Not only this, as Nevermore is also a sprawling landscape with plentiful forests, lakes, and deserts to support the livelihood of almost any race and species. Anyone is welcome – particularly those thrown from their lands by beasts and thieves, or have otherwise been outcast. It is a land of peace and prosperity; a place that anyone may call home.

Within Nevermore’s borders there are a variety of towns, cities, and outposts – all freely explorable to every citizen if they are brave enough, or can find some way to adapt themselves to the local climate!

Some of these homesteads are within the coldest depths of the darkest caves; others amongst the crashing waterfalls of the great lakes that feed every river within the land. One particularly hardy group even find themselves nestled within an expired volcano. It is a sight to see. Not only are there free citizens, but factions too: causes people may align themselves with for a greater purpose. Most are for good, and to make Nevermore stronger… but not all are quite so innocent, though this is best not dwelled on. Unfortunately, corruption and evil can leech into anywhere, and no kingdom can be perfect - but for most, Nevermore is a place to call home and feel safe.

Within the main central city there is a castle. It is a magnificent building that is surrounded by elegant gardens, that only adds to the beauty of its architecture. This castle is the ancestral home of the Nevermore Royal Family, and it is where they still reside to this day. Though there is government, the Royal Family does not rest on their laurels. They take great pride in participating in the growth and maintenance of their land. The current family consists of the queen, prince consort, a myriad of young princes, and their single daughter – Princess Enid.

Today is a special day for the Royal Family, and there is an excitable thrum throughout the castle. Hums and whispers; glances between staff… and it is all to do with the princess herself. The staff that tend the garden look upon her room – easily spotted from the large circular stain-glass window – and wonder when the princess will emerge…

Their wait will not be long. Princess Enid awakes with a summer song in her heart, pulled into the world of the waking from a slither of sunlight piercing the curtains of her study. With a slight twinge in her neck, she groans as she shakes herself awake. Asleep at her desk again, it would seem… With an ancient Nevermorian text acting as her pillow. She must rush to her bed quick before the servants find her like this again. With sleep in her eyes, she stumbles through the short hall connecting the private study to her bedroom, tugging off her slept-in day clothes, before slipping into the relaxing coldness of her bed.

They will never know. She will play the neck ache as a training accident. Genius.

As if on cue, a servant quietly enters the room, a fond but restrained smile on his lips. He carries a tray over to the bed, his smile widening as he catches the sparkle within Enid’s eyes. Placing the tray down on her lap, he steps back then and awaits her commentary.

Enid shuffles one of her plush animals before looking down. It is a decadent array of fruits, some meats, breads, and tea. Delicious no doubt – but excessive. “Quite the platter this morning.” She muses, quirking her brow as she looks amusedly to the servant.

“Ah yes...well, you will not experience such decadence out there in the wild,” He replies, his tone playful but warm. “The kitchen thought it well you have a good hearty meal for your big day.”

Enid takes some of the meat – a sliced ham of sorts – and places it upon some bread before taking a bite. It is savoury and frankly, to die for. She is thankful for the effort, even if she thinks it unnecessary. She must remember to thank the kitchen staff before it’s too late. She grins at the servant “It’s wonderful! Though, definitely too much.”

The servant dips his head, shrugging. “I tried to tell them.”

“Well, I shall tell them myself once I am dressed.”

“Of course. I shall leave you to run your morning, princess.”

The servant smiles and leaves promptly. Enid eats some more of her breakfast platter but finds the excited flutter in her stomach too much. She simply cannot fill up on food when her insides hold too much anticipation...For today is the day.

Today. Is. The. Day!!!

The day she gets her freedom.

It is in all the governing texts – Upon six months passing a princess or prince’s 19th year, they are granted the freedom to discover and explore the lands as they wish. A journey of discovery, or thereabouts. The truth of it is that this exploration is a catalyst. The Royal Family were historically outcasts themselves: werewolves, purged from their lands. Now that the times have changed and they no longer fend amongst the wilderness, a large life-changing journey is necessary to bring forth their ability to shift. It is something Enid has looked forward to tremendously. Not so much for her abilities, but moreso knowing there is so much knowledge, wisdom, and so many stories to be found within this great land of theirs. She can only study books so much before wanting to see the world herself…If her wolf decides to show, that is only an additional benefit.

And now, the date is finally upon her. It has been the longest six months of her life.

Enid scrambles from her bed, eager to start the day. Oh she cannot wait for midday to strike; to be finally leaving the castle walls via the quiet back passages, where she and her trusty steed may gallop into their new adventure. No grand displays, no crowds pouring at her feet for just a glimpse, just her and the endless possibilities of what she’ll discover. She will prove herself a scholar finally – a reporter of the wonders of the land. She’s going to write a compendium. Something both factual and mystical to make her readers crave more!

It’s so close. She can almost taste it.

Enid dances around her room. She hums a tune as she dresses and prepares herself. Her clothing is simple yet refined, paired with a light armour set – handmade by the royal armoury. It is a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Agile, yet strong. It is quite unlike her regular garb; less elegant, but certainly more practical. Her father will be pleased! Her mother less so… though she is not fond of this adventure regardless. Enid falters for a moment but lets the thought pass.

Glancing in the mirror, Enid feels a world away from the princess she has been for the last 19 years of her life. It is thrilling, captivating even! She feels like herself and yet not at all. How exciting.

Briefly, she returns to her study, scrambling to pack away all her precious stationary. Paper, ink, writing quills, pencil lead, and charcoal - she considers more, but all this alongside the few books she is bringing to read, there is little room for more lest she wishes to break her back with the weight. Prioritising is key… but how does one prioritise when all you have known is luxury? Enid scowls at her belongings. Everything is important, and yet somehow forgettable. She thinks it best she not doubt her decisions because there’s always a solution if she’s wrong!

(There isn’t the time for doubt, regardless.)

She traipses back into the main bedroom, having little else to do considering her small pack of essentials has been prepared since a week prior – and then double, tripled checked.

There is perhaps one thing missing, however.

Enid approaches her bed once more. She glances at the array of – perhaps excessive – plush animals. Comfort items… something she should likely not use any more, considering she is an adult, not to mention potentially a queen in the future. But she cannot help herself, for there is a childlike warmth that exists in her heart when those soft and familiar shapes cuddle against her during the dark and cold nights. No one will notice if a small one went along with her… She picks up one of them – a plush depiction of a unicorn – and tucks it amongst the other items within her packed bag.

Despite the land of Nevermore being full of mystical and magical beings, many believe the unicorn to be a myth. Enid intends to prove them wrong. Something so majestic and widely reported surely cannot be false.

At least, that’s what her gut tells her… She’ll find out, one way or another. It’ll make a great report for her compendium!

“Still sneaking around with your childhood toys?” Comes a soft, quiet voice, laughing slightly.

Enid jumps, having not noticed her father quietly sidle in whilst she had packed the unicorn away. She turns to him with a meek smile. Of course she had to get caught out. “Well…” She starts, a faux-innocent grin spreading across her cheeks. “I just need a companion, is all. Something to keep me safe.”

Her father looks at her fondly. He approaches and cups the back of her head as he leans to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “Oh, my Enid…” He sighs wistfully.

Her father’s hands are warm and feel like home. Despite her excitement, Enid feels the slight prick of tears, and she finds herself faltering once more… But it took too much to get here, and there is too much she has prepared for to even consider doubting her choice. She cannot consider any other possibility. Especially not now. Though perhaps a few tears for the sake of missing her Father is not a terrible thing.

“Going to miss me, hm?” She asks, distracting from her tears, and pulling her father into a hug. She presses her wet eyes into his shirt… hopefully he will not notice until he is gone.

“Of course… but this journey is important.”

“Exactly, even if mother almost put a stop to it.”

Her father lets out an indignant hum and pulls away. He looks Enid in the eye, and she feels a slight anxious twinge. She knows that grave look… Why did she have to say that? Ugh.

“Do not bring your mother into this.” Her father scolds. “She had her reasons… Fortunately, she eventually saw sense, but do not tempt fate, Enid.”

Enid nods, feeling suddenly bashful. She drops her father’s gaze. “Will mother be seeing me off?”

Her father turns quiet.

… Of course. She should have expected this.

If anything, it only solidifies her choice. She will likely not experience such freedom otherwise. She must take this chance and run with it. It does not stop the grumble of disappointment at knowing her mother’s less than warm reception, but she knows that within a few days it’ll be at the back of her mind, as she makes her way to greener pastures. Metaphorically speaking of course, as there is little pastures greener than the ones of the castle grounds. Emotionally greener pastures, perhaps, where she can escape the incessant need to be ‘good enough’ for her mother’s approval.

Frankly, all her life, she has felt separation between what she feels, what she does, and what she actually wants. Being royalty means there's often little room for opinion and desire – instead it is replaced with the wants of her parents instead, her mother specifically. Enid wonders how it'll feel to have her ingrained sense of duty be pitted against her unshackled curiosity. She hopes it will feel like a divine choosing of her own fate... And if not that, perhaps at least the weight on her shoulders to choose 'correctly' will err more in her favour, and her mother’s voice will not linger in her ear like a wicked siren song.

Sigh. She wishes her mother’s approval did not mean so much. It shouldn’t… and hopefully soon, it will mean almost nothing.

Enid takes in a deep breath. She must calm her own thoughts. She offers her father a half-hearted smile. “It’s okay. As long as you’re there.”

Her father’s expression warms. “Always,” He confirms, ruffling Enid’s hair slightly. “Now finish up getting ready, it isn’t long to go.”

Enid feels a smile tug back onto her lips, her energy and excitement revived. She nods and hugs her father again before he trundles out of the room, calling the servants to collect Enid’s things. As expected, a few servants enter moments later and collect Enid’s belongings before offering curt bows of their heads. Enid smiles in return, and wordlessly they disappear into the castle hallways. Efficient as always. The door shuts behind them and Enid is then left to her thoughts. Now her father is gone, they whir faster than ever, to the point she can hardly grasp them before another takes its place.

She is excited – that much has been established. Scared perhaps, too. Curious no doubt, and yet perhaps apprehensive at mingling with people who have only known her through paintings, books, and scrolls. It is a high pedestal to be on – that is, being a princess – and she can only hope people will cast aside their judgement of her bubbly, bright, curated exterior, and see that she is a person of substance with a lot to offer beyond her royal ties. People cannot be so shallow, surely?

Hm. She will find out soon enough.

Her eyes cast towards the clock above her dressing table. The time reads 11:30 – much later than she had expected! It really is nearly time!

Enid takes a breath, quickly taking a final scan of her beloved room before making her way out. With a pep in her step, Enid trails through the castle, greeting and smiling at every member of staff she can. She, of course, takes a quick detour to the kitchen to thank the cooks for her breakfast, before heading towards the stables around the back of the castle grounds. It is a short walk and she arrives ten minutes later to a small sending-off party, headed by her father who beams at her proudly. Enid feels her heart swell with happiness and she once again feels affirmed in this choice. She is so ready for this.

Enid goes to approach her horse – a beautiful white stallion named Sol – when her father gently guides her away for a private talk. He smiles at first, but it is empty and his expression soon pales, smile fading as it is replaced by what appears to be guilt. Enid’s stomach drops.

“Your mother and I talked.” He says stiffly.

Oh.

Enid replies with silence, staring up at him with a confused frown.

“She-… We think it would be best if you took a companion with you on your travels. To keep you safe.”

How convenient.

A companion? Seriously?! Six months of waiting, and training, and learning how to handle herself in the great wilderness… and she is now to take a companion!?! And to be dropped with this information right before her send off! Enid feels her face twitch, a stubborn scowl tugging at her eyebrows. This is unfair – more than unfair, this is an interruption of her birthright!

Perhaps the idea would’ve been loved by her had she been given the freedom to choose her travel partner – better yet, gotten to train with them… but no. Her “freedom” now suddenly hinges on the allowance of some likely brutish knight following her every move. The thought alone fills her with dread.

Enid’s mouth trembles as she tries to form words. How degrading it is that her mother disapproves of this journey and yet must dip her influential hand into it regardless. So much for freedom.

“Father-” Enid starts, only to be cut off harshly. She knows her Father’s pale heart cannot handle such a disagreement, and she can see his heart break as he asserts himself.

“No, Enid. I cannot let your mother – The queen – be disappointed. She is the ruler of us all, even me,” He sighs.

Enid grumbles. Frankly,it’s pointless to argue. “Who is it?”

Her father breathes out and calms himself. Expression brightening, he then places an encouraging hand on Enid’s shoulder before using it to spin her around. Her points with his free hand. “Her.”

… Her?

A...female knight?

At least, that’s what it appears to be. Knight’s armour and garb – though, unusually, a dark black as opposed to their usual royal blue – adorns the small frame of a woman who lurks in the shadow of the stables. Her neat uniform paired with her immaculately braided hair blends in with the dark wood, only really becoming visible when her head tilts upwards to show off the pale skin of her face. But it is not her skin nor her outfit that strikes Enid the most. It is her eyes. Intense, unwavering; a glare that sends a shiver down her spine. It is an inscrutable expression – one that has Enid wondering about this mystery knight. Despite being petite, she appears deadly regardless.

Enid feels herself struck. She simply cannot pull her gaze away.

Upon noticing their staring, the knight walks over with a stiff, but upright posture. She offers no greeting except the slight nod of her head. There’s no smile, barely even the twitch of her brow as she looks upon Enid. This is not a royal knight of which Enid is familiar… though considering the size of their forces, it is perhaps silly of her to think she would know them all.

“Enid,” Her father says with a hopeful tone. “This is Wednesday. She is a knight of a special calibre. She will be joining you for your journey.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Enid offers, holding her hand out. This turn of events is still most highly disappointing, but really she can only make the best of it. It isn’t as though she has much choice… in any case, this knight has certainly caught her attention. Maybe once the shock wears off she’ll feel differently.

But for now, Enid feels that maybe this won’t be the worst thing in the world.

Wednesday glares at her. She glances at Enid’s outstretched hand. “We’re leaving now.” Wednesday grunts, disregarding Enid and turning away. She heads back to the stables with a turn of her heel. Not an ounce of emotion seems to pass her.

Ah.

Enid suddenly feels she may have been very, very wrong.