#I like to think when I dress up my clothes express moreso my interests than like gender but idk if that makes sense either

[sibillascribbles08]

God it's like, so hard to describe to people why I identify as agender. Cause I know the agender experience is varied. Like this isn't an apples vs oranges scenario. It's not a "I'm not actually a fruit at all" scenario. There is no spectrum of light metaphor. No paint mixing. No types of flowers or wtf ever. It's not even looking into the expanse of space and associating the nothingness with the color black because there's not even the color black !

It is ! Nothing! It's the feeling you get when you fumble around in the dark and reach out because you're pretty sure the door frame is there but your hand finds nothing. It's the feeling of dropping a rock into a hole, waiting to hear it hit the bottom, but you hear nothing.

Not a girl. Not a guy. Not anything in between. Not even anything outside of that. In a way, if I could, I'd make gender something removed from me entirely but that's not? exactly possible.

Some days I dress masculine some days more feminine but I never think of it that way it's just ! me ! These are clothes I think I look good in, because I think in some way they suit my personality.

God idk it's weird.

[listless-brainrot]

Could haru theoretically accomplish lavabending

okay i’ve technically already answered this but i think it’s pretty interesting so let me elaborate

what’s cool about lavabending is that we now have a Not LOK Example of it because of the new toph comic! so i can actually use that!

the following will basically be my very loose analysis of sorts, as well as observations and connections to be drawn between haru, tyro, and the lavabending presented in the toph comic. i won’t really be using LOK as a reference, because i want to focus more on lavabending as it applies to the atla timeline, as they’re asking about an atla character, but i do recognize and acknowledge the lok lavabenders (ghazan and bolin i believe?).

i’ll put it under a read more for people who haven’t read it yet as i’ll be including comic pages for reference but anyways! time to answer your question:

Could Haru Theoretically Accomplish Lavabending?

so to start, let me recap the comic briefly- 

for those who don’t know, there’s this new character introduced in the toph’s metalbending academy comic named sun who turns out to be a lavabender.

this is important because it shows that lavabending isn’t actually as New as we thought (which is a fair assumption given that our first example of a lavabender was ghazan from lok), it’s just pretty uncommon and this kid just happens to have it, using it during underground the earthbending spats he participates in, as shown below:

[ID: a 4-paneled page from the Avatar: The Last Airbender comic, Toph’s Metalbending Academy. the first panel depicts a hand slamming against the ground, dust swirling around it with a sound effect for emphasis. the second panel depicts an earthbender, sun, wearing green and brown earth kingdom clothing, posed close to the ground, palms pressed against the ground as smoking lines of red lava begin to trail away from his hands. the third panel depicts sun in the same pose as before, standing behind a surging wave of lava loudly erupting from the blackened earth, aimed at his opponent, a man dressed in blue and brown water tribe clothing, who stands in fear with his arms raised. there is a crowd of onlookers watching the two from behind a barrier of steel boxes, all dressed in various green earth kingdom and red fire nation clothing. the fourth panel depicts sun on a red-tinted panel, bearing a focused expression as lava surrounds the outer edges of the panel, illuminating his face from below, highlighting his serious expression. his irises are tinted orange. End ID]

here, we can see one of the techniques used for lavabending- there is heavy use on being connected to the ground, though the actual bending seems to stem mostly from the hands, with the stance fueling the movement. it’s also interesting how the lava comes out in the form of a literal wave that is similar to the “earth waves” we’ve seen before, but in liquid form. though sun is touching the earth, the bending is focused on moving the earth/lava away from him.

probably because, yknow. it’s lava. you generally can’t touch lava. (also, how he hasn’t killed anyone with it, i don’t know, especially given that he apparently can’t control it)

i thought this was interesting, because we’ve seen this “wave” move before; in fact, we’ve seen this technique before:

[Image ID: three screencaps from the episode Imprisoned, from season one of Avatar: The Last Airbender. in the first screencap, four earthbenders on a metal rig, dressed in brown and grey prison uniforms, are shown raising a wall of coal, raising their arms above their head and standing on one leg. there is a pile of coal in the background, which katara is standing on. a small group of more earthbenders watch from a distance. in the second screencap, an old bearded man, tyro, is shown slamming his palms against the floor in a bent stance, one leg poised behind him while kneeling with the other. he is wearing a brown and grey prison uniform, and bears a focused expression, mouth open in mid-yell. his son, haru, who is wearing a dark green headband, as well as another earthbender, are shown standing behind him, dressed in the same prison uniform, palms facing downwards, fingers pointed inward. there are other earthbender prisoners watching in the background, standing near a pile of coal. in the third screencap, a wave of black coal quickly descends upon a group of dark red armor-clad nation guards, with pieces of coal flying off in different directions. the front line of five guards are defending themselves from the flying coal, standing with their arms raised to protect their faces. two of the guards in the back stand in firebending poses, holding a fist out while keeping one arm close to the chest. End ID]

look at tyro- he and sun’s stances are nearly identical! the palms hitting the ground, the same exact stance, the resulting chaotic wave motion of coal. this could very well be chalked up to an earthbending technique copied from the show, but it’s still important to note that tyro knows this, as it’s something directly applicable to lavabending. there is a focus on both body movement, but also hand movement especially, as evidenced by the following comic page:

[Image ID: a singular panel from the Avatar: The Last Airbender comic, Toph’s Metalbending Academy. in this panel, sun is depicted in a bent stance, standing on light brown earth with one foot behind him. he is wearing green and brown earth kingdom clothing. his arms and hands are raised, curling his fingers towards himself as he braces, closing his eyes. red and orange lava flows from the ground below him, surging out like a wave, breaking out of the lower half of the panel. the sound effect “russsh” is behind him, depicted in a similarly red and orange lava-like font, with the top half of the lettering bubbling and rising away. the lower half of the lettering is black, giving it the appearance of cracked lava rock. End ID]

this is another stance we’ve seen before, albeit not in imprisoned. it’s actually on the cover of this very comic, as toph’s standing like this. since we’re talking about haru, though, i won’t include it. but the focus is still the same- raising and pushing the earth/lava away from the user, which haru does a lot of.

my friend @the-hot-zone has already made an EXTREMELY in-depth analysis on haru’s bending style which i will link here, and i highly recommend reading it. it’s entirely supplemental to this, but it does help a lot with understanding where i’m coming from, especially when i mention earthbending and firebending styles.

because i think that, given that haru’s style is so mixed with earth and firebending styles, he could easily pick up lavabending, which is, quite literally, a mix of earth and fire. the control needed to, well control the lava, though, would probably have to be taught by a waterbender, given that lava is a liquid and moves as such, and is known to be hard to control, similar to water.

there’s actually one final point i want to make, though, and this is moreso speculation than anything, so take this at face value:

lavabending is the result of focusing on and tightly compressing earth, which generates friction, thus producing lava.

i know that there are examples of earthbenders manipulating preexisting lava (i.e. kyoshi making kyoshi island) but we see lava being generated within the earth itself, as shown by sun in the above panels. and guess who specializes in compressing earth, specifically earth away from himself?

[Image ID: a set of four screencaps from the episode Imprisoned, from season one of Avatar: The Last Airbender. the first screencap shows haru’s hand on an orange forest background. he is shown levitating two rocks, which spin over his palm. the second screencap shows haru’s hand, now closed into a fist, with sand streaming out of it. the third screencap shows the prison rig, with tyro and haru standing offscreen in front of a pile of coal, bending and compressing pieces of coal that levitate between their outstretched palms. the fourth screencap shows the same as the third screencap, but with the coal solidified into a solid, jagged rock. End ID]

haru and tyro, but mostly haru. we see him reduce solid rock to sand in one hand. we see both of them work together to turn lots of individual coal pieces into a huge solid lump of coal. we can see that they’re capable of compressing earth this way from a distance- who’s to say they can’t go farther? who knows what they can do once they get on solid ground?

so. keeping in mind that tyro uses very similar movements to sun, analyzing how sun’s lavabending technique works, knowing that haru uses similar bending movements as firebenders, and knowing that both haru and tyro specialize in bending compression and manipulating earth away from them, i propose this to answer your question:

tyro could, theoretically, be a lavabender, and there is a high possibility that he could teach lavabending to his son, haru.

i think it would be really neat if tyro was a lavabender, especially given that he’s the leader of haru’s village. they’d probably want a strong earthbender to be in charge- if he was a lavabender, then that adds more to being its protector, given that he led the resistance when the fire nation did eventually come for the village. even when they were “outnumbered ten to one”, as haru put it.

it would be a dangerous skill that the fire nation most likely hasn’t seen before, and would explain all the precautions they take with locking up the earthbenders. in fact, they send six fn guards to arrest haru, a singular earthbender- if they knew he was the son of a lavabender, or that lavabenders existed in the village, it would make sense that they would send so many just to subdue one.

furthermore, tyro teaching haru how to lavabend would be so cool, especially given the techniques haru already knows. he could utilize it in new ways that tyro’s probably never heard of or seen before, especially given that the technique is so rare. haru being able to even learn it also makes sense with this concept- tyro being able to lavabend and then his son also being able to lavabend makes sense.

i might make a separate post on this, solely because i have so many thoughts, but for now, there’s your answer.

tl;dr: yes, i think haru could, theoretically, lavabend. i also think his dad, tyro, could lavabend, and, after breaking out of prison, he would teach this ability to his son.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

More Time - Chpt.8

Summary: Faced with an entire day to himself while Bucky is off at work, Steve finds himself struggling to fill his time. After a long afternoon at home he talks himself into going back the bar to see a certain redheaded bartender. Master list is HERE.

Warnings/ Content: Brief mention of Steve having poor body image.

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! I am so in love with the 70 degree weather right now that I can’t even think of anything clever to say about this chapter. Please know that as soon as this is posted I will be retreating back outdoors to my super awesome lawn chair to bask in the warm sun until I absolutely positively have to go in to feed my kids. Hope it’s nice where you are too and that you got to enjoy some sun today. XOXO - Ash

Chapter Eight

Steve felt oddly out of place the following Monday when Bucky was off to work and he wasn’t due back to the VA until the next day. He had his appointment with Bruce and Helen in the morning but that went quickly and he was still as healthy as he would ever be. He wandered around a few museums Bucky had gifted him with memberships to but that only filled a few hours of his morning. Steve was avoiding texting Bucky, not wanting to feel like a desperate little housewife, but he was running out of things to occupy himself with. He settled for watching a movie with General while he ate lunch. He heated up some leftover chicken and ended up sharing it with the cat who sat politely next to Steve waiting patiently for any scraps he was willing to share. After the movie, Steve holed himself up in his studio letting his art carry him away for the rest of the afternoon; he figured he could at least be productive that way.

It was past dinner time when Steve’s phone lit up with a ping of an incoming message.

Jerkface [6:42:17PM]: hey bb how r u?

Stevie G [6:42:26PM: I’m good. How did things go today?

Jerkface [6:43:48PM]: long tiring ready 2 b home

Stevie G [6:44:03PM]: What time are you guys getting in? 

Jerkface [6:44:36PM]: leaving @ 1930 3hr flight

Stevie G [6:44:57PM]: Okay, I’ll probably still be up when you get back. Miss you.

Jerkface [6:45:04PM]: miss u 2 give general a pet 4 me

Steve sighed, he didn’t expect a day on his own to feel so long. He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of sharing another lonely meal with the cat but his stomach rumbled and he knew he needed to figure out dinner sooner rather than later. Steve wondered what the odds were that Emma, the bartender from Friday, would be working again if he stopped in for dinner. He did want to apologize for his behavior despite Bucky insisting he hadn’t been as terrible as he feared. Steve slowly talked himself into going as he packed away his paints. The food there was decent and he had liked the cozy feel of the place, it would be nice to get out for a bit since Bucky wouldn’t be home until late. 

General Meow looked up from his spot on the bed and watched with bored disinterest as Steve searched through the closet. He wasn’t dressing up, he told himself, he just couldn't go out in paint splattered clothes. He had been meaning to try out some of the soft, heavy dress pants he’d bought for the winter anyway. And if he was wearing dress pants, well then he couldn’t just put on a tee shirt. Steve adjusted the collar of his blue checkered shirt, tugged at the hem of the navy blue sweater he’d put on over top of it, standing back to assess himself in the full length mirror. He looked kind of nice, he mused. He tried to focus on the things he did like about himself as his therapist had taught him to do but it was difficult when all he saw was what was wrong. He tried reframing his negative thoughts and found that equally exhausting. 

Logically he knew his thick glasses made his eyes stand out, and he had always liked his eyes. Just like he knew the layer of softness across his middle meant he was healthy and no longer underweight. But staring at himself in the mirror, he wished he’d given the contact lenses another try and was thankful that the heavy sweater covered him well enough that he could pretend he still had a toned body underneath it. 

Steve shook his head at himself, when did he get so vain? He turned to the cat who had gone back to napping, “I’ll be back in a little bit, General.” He told him. The cat opened an eye to acknowledge he had been spoken to but went right back to napping. Steve bundled on his winter coat and gloves, grabbing Bucky’s scarf too at the last minute because it was cold outside and not because it smelled like Bucky and Steve missed him. 

It was a short but bitter cold walk down the block to Matty’s Bar and Steve’s lungs were protesting fiercely by the time he got inside. He fumbled with his inhaler and his gloves, finally getting two good puffs in to loosen up the tightness in his chest the icy winter air had caused. Sighing a heavy breath of relief Steve started unzipping his coat and finally looked down the bar to see if Emma was working. He jumped, almost knocking over the stool next to him, when he realized Emma was standing directly across from him; watching with an amused expression. 

“Hey Steve.” Emma said, giving him that same sympathetic smile she’d given on Friday when he’d let the bourbon go to his head. Emma had watched him race inside from the cold and struggle to get his breathing under control. She wanted to ask him if he was okay but he’d finally gotten his inhaler out and she waited while he got himself back under control. 

“Hey.” Steve replied trying to pretend he hadn’t just jumped like an idiot, “Emma, right?”

“Yeah. It’s good to see you again. You want a Makers Mark?” 

“No!” Steve said a little too loudly. Real smooth, Rogers, he chided himself. “No, just a coke please. Friday was… a special night out.” 

Emma giggled lightly at his outburst and nodded in understanding while she poured him a coke from the soda gun. “Bucky said you guys were celebrating. So what brings you back again so soon?” There were no other patrons at the bar and Emma took advantage of the lull to lean on the glossy wood top and enjoy herself watching Steve flounder for words. It was endearing the way even the tips of his ears burned bright when he blushed. 

“Well, I wanted to apologize for… um…  for getting a little drunk on Friday. Your job is tough enough as it is, let alone adding a drunk guy to the mix. I appreciate how kind you were even when I couldn't hold my liquor.” 

Emma wanted to hug him, he was so earnest but so misguided. Steve had been a delight compared to other guys who couldn't hold their alcohol, and even most who could. “You did not come all the way down here in the cold just to apologize to me.” 

Steve nodded, his head bowed in embarrassment. 

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” Emma whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer to Steve on his good side after noticing the tiny hearing aid in his other ear. 

Steve nodded again, eyebrows quirked up in interest. 

Emma was so close to Steve he could smell the soft lavender of her perfume when she whispered. “Seeing Captain America tipsy and giggling was the best part of my entire night.” 

Steve leaned back, a little heartbroken at her words despite their good intent. 

Emma frowned, picking up on his reaction to something she said. Maybe she had overstepped? She knew she came across as too flirty at times and, while it was great for tips as a bartender, sometimes it had some unintended consequences. Steve was so handsome though, moreso now than in any picture she’d seen of him in books and documentaries. Emma prayed she hadn’t offended him somehow. She pathetically hoped that he would keep coming in so she could pine quietly from afar over him, and Bucky too if she was being honest with herself.  

Steve tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone when he explained, “Well, sorry to disappoint, but it’s just Steve Rogers now. Not an ounce of super anything left in me.” 

Emma cringed, realizing her misstep. “Oh, no. I just meant… because you always seem so…” she waved her hands trying in vain to explain herself, “So… stern? Maybe that’s not it, but every picture I’ve ever seen of you seemed so stiff and dutiful. I always wondered if you ever got the chance to just be a normal guy.” 

Steve was stunned at her explanation. “No, things were pretty much go-go-go after I got the serum.” 

“I’m really sorry. That sounds pretty shitty.” Emma reached out and surprised both of them when she covered his hand with hers, clasping it tightly for a moment. 

“I was just trying to do my part.” Steve told her with a shrug.

“So I’ve read. But you’re still a person at the end of the day.” 

“You ever been told you have a very unique perspective on things?” 

Emma laughed, “Yeah, a couple of times. I’m glad you’re taking it easy now though. You deserve it. And you Bucky seem really happy together. Is he your…?” 

Steve nodded quickly, delighted he could share this so openly in public. “He’s my partner, yeah.” 

“Good for you guys. Gives us painfully single people hope.” 

Steve wanted to ask how someone so lovely could be single but he kept his inner Casanova to himself; that was Bucky’s forte, not his. Instead, he gave her a half smile and navigated the conversation to dinner, letting her talk him into a breakfast burger which sounded ridiculous but she insisted was worth trying. 

Steve was thankful it was a Monday night and the icy weather had kept everyone else at home. He loved every minute Emma spent leaning on the bar chatting with him while he ate his meal. She even caved in after a bit and took the fries he kept pushing towards her. It was surprisingly easy to talk to her and Steve found himself opening up more than he meant to at times. She wasn’t hung up on his former mantel of Captain America, her questions all centered around Steve himself and her interest seemed genuine. Steve ended up hanging out for a while after his meal was done just to spend time talking and she didn’t seem to mind at all. He was stunned when his phone pinged with a new message from Bucky letting him know he’d be home in twenty. 

“I’m so sorry, I took up your whole night! I gotta get back, Bucky is on his way home from work.” Steve told her while he pulled out his wallet to pay. 

Emma tried to hold back her disappointment that Steve was leaving. She had enjoyed his company so much on what would have otherwise been a boring Monday night. Emma hated the way reality came crashing back in. Steve, though charming and sweet and so quietly handsome, was not hers. He had a man he loved to get back home to and she would be heading home to her quiet apartment to read a book and water the little family of succulents who lived in her living room windowsill. Emma realized she had been quiet too long and startled herself back to the present. “It’s okay, Steve. You were good company tonight. I’ll get your check.” 

Steve smiled at her fondly and she stamped down the ache in her heart. Emma bid him goodnight, asking him to tell Bucky hello for her and to come back anytime he needed company. She watched him hurry out the door into the cold and sighed heavily, resigning herself to her quiet solitary existence. 

Bucky was surprised to find Steve in the kitchen when he arrived home a little before ten. His hands were frigid when he hugged him and the tips of his nose and ears were tinged pink and also icy cold. “Did you just get home?” Bucky asked in disbelief. 

Steve looked almost guilty, “I went out for a burger, it was too quiet around here and General isn’t a great conversationalist.” 

“Where did you go?”

“Just down to Matty’s Bar. Emma was working again tonight. She says hello by the way.” 

Bucky stared at Steve for a long minute. There he was, dressed all nice and having spent what must have been a few hours with the gorgeous girl they had both been mooning over a little. “You’re lucky I’m so secure with myself and our relationship. Otherwise I’d be wondering why you’re dressed like you’re meetin’ my mother and spending a night in the company of a beautiful woman.” 

Steve was too easily rattled and fell for the ribbing. “Buck, you know I love you. I learned my lesson; God did I ever. You’re it for me. You have to know that.” 

Bucky hugged Steve tightly, pressing firm kisses on the top of his fluffy golden hair. “I was just teasin’ ya. Besides, it’s not like we never brought a girl back for some fun before. Emma’s a real looker.” 

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? And she’s so sweet. She spent the whole night keeping me company, asking questions about me and not about my time with the shield.” 

“Feeling a little smitten there, huh?” 

“Just a little. She’s too good for us though, Buck.” 

“No one’s too good for you. But maybe I’ll go try a burger from Matty’s on my night off.” Bucky said it in jest but after it was out he considered it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Tag list lovelies: @godofplumsandthunder​ @remilupin22​ @supraveng​ @hiddles-rose​

If anyone wants added or removed please lmk!

[villainshub]

𝕾𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖐𝖎 𝕿𝖔𝖒𝖚𝖗𝖆'𝖘 𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘

these headcanons are my personal take on the character and may be subject to change.

𝖘𝖋𝖜

→ calculating, demanding, and determined, Tomura Shigaraki is a sinister young man whose life convictions and intelligence solidifies himself as one of the most dangerous villains in the world. → unlike many in his League, Tomura is not as laidback and whimsical as an individual. he takes his goal and the status of The League seriously, and takes failure very poorly. → Shigaraki dislikes small-talk. in fact, he outwardly hates it when people tip-toe around the subject at hand. it aggravates him. → will not speak of his past and will shut down any conversation asking about it. → he doesn’t really take care of himself. due to his warped view of the world and general indifference to society, he feels no need to “keep up appearances.” that being said, Kurogiri does advise him to become more aware of his health, so on occasion he’ll take a shower and change his clothes. he doesn’t really have a “scent” or “odor”, but his clothes have a musk to them. → he isn’t the most social person, but this does not mean he always isolates himself and wants to be alone. Shigaraki does feel at ease when he’s left alone, but strangely enough, he’s come to appreciate those that stay around him. → Shigaraki isn’t a fool; he’s able to read social cues very well, despite what people may think. he can read body language, tell when a person is conflicted psychologically, identify signs of a person’s quirk and their drawbacks, and more. he may or may not comment on it depending on the situation. this is but one of many abilities he uses to his advantage. → hates chess, but doesn’t mind playing cards. → loves dark humour. → enjoys playing video games and is a completionist even if it annoys him. he loves games where he’s able to choose his own allegiance, but rpgs tend to drag on for him because of their length. Shigaraki is terrible at visual novel-based, idol-producing or dating sims games because, while he is intelligent, is very inexperienced when establishing romantic relationships. → he’s incredibly good at most games he plays, but in terms of competitive play, he’s that guy. yes; Shigaraki is toxic. he knows the game inside and out, calls people out on making terrible calls, finds it amusing to troll people, and is a know-it-all. what makes it worse is that he ranks top of multiple leaderboards, and is a foul-mouthed player who gets reported repeatedly. he doesn’t rage nearly as much as he used to when he was younger, but it does happen. → has a pile of black clothes on the floor in his room. it can be very disorganized or relatively clean; it just depends on his mood that day. → prefers to wear all black.  → though he has his moments, Shigaraki has matured and continues to. he doesn’t react to things that would agitate him as much as when he was younger. some things that would previously cause him to lash out, he’ll simply stare and be silent. → should not be taken lightly in any combat scenario. while he is not as muscular as other heroes, he’s very durable and doesn’t react to pain as easily as others; not to mention that Shigaraki is incredibly fast. remember when he appeared in front of Tsuyu Asui when he attacked USJ? well, he’s faster than that now, so don’t think one can hit him so easily. → loves to watch an opponent struggle before he finishes them off. → does not like people touching him. has grown with the idea / experience that people fear him, so unless it’s Shigaraki Senior™ patting his shoulder or head, he’ll instinctively swat them away. it’s not advised to pester him or try to “break down his walls.” → truth be told, Tomura is not interested in anything romantic. he feels he isn’t deserving of love, but refuses to let others pity him because of it. his pride will never admit this, but secretly, even though he’s yearned for companionship and support for so many years, he sees himself as incompatible and wretched. he’s incredibly closed off and dismisses the concept, and hates being reminded of it. “I will become the Symbol of Destruction, anyway, so what’s the point in that?” → if, by some miracle, Tomura does find interest in someone, hoo boy. they will never know at first, and only Kurogiri would pick up on it in the early stages. he’ll be incredibly secretive and strategic in how he gathers information: discovering their likes and dislikes, observing their movements and routine, recognizing those they associate with, etc. he will stay just out of their vision and act as a bystander, or receive information from trusted people as to your whereabouts. → Tomura is unsure what to do with his feelings as they continue to grow. though he is a villain, he is still a young twenty-year-old deprived of certain emotions and feelings, so as he taps into the deepest recesses of his mind, he becomes increasingly more uncomfortable with himself. → it is not in him to hurt them purposefully and is mindful of who they are around, but is not foreign to jealousy and possessiveness.  → Shigaraki would prefer to confront them when they are alone, but not necessarily in a “I love you and want to be with you,” way; moreso a long, drawn-out stare and an attempt to get physically closer to them. true to himself, he’d insult them and demand they speak to him. → assuming they chose to speak to him, he wouldn’t go deep into what was drawing him towards them. he’d say something cryptic and threatening like, “People like you are the reason I want to destroy everything I see,” and upon realizing that was not the right thing to say because of their facial expression, would become silent.  → would never say “I love you.” → may just take their hands and place them against his skin to calm him. it may seem weird at first, but it helps.

𝖓𝖘𝖋𝖜

→ isn’t opposed to a strictly physical relationship, but is not always consistent.  → is very shy when it comes to kissing. mainly due to the fact that Tomura has very little experience and isn’t exactly proud with his incompetence. he will avoid being close face-to-face for some time, but will gradually ease into it as they are patient with him. will become crass if they laugh at his sloppiness. → it is very difficult to connect with Tomura emotionally. because he has so many barriers and doesn’t view love or affection healthily, it will take a very long time for him to become vulnerable, if at all. he may deject, but deep down he would be grateful anyone would want to get to know him. → once he becomes completely trusting of a person physically, he starts to memorize their sweet spots and which parts of them are most sensitive. not always sexually, but just to explore them. he’s very careful and is very interested in feeling skin that isn’t his. → he will mark them in places others will be forced to see. the neck especially. Tomura loves seeing them embarrassed. it adds to his ego. → has days and weeks where he is constantly frustrated, so much to the point where he’s leaving to be off on his own because it hurts. feeling a hand or mouth over where he needs to release is a very quick way for him to take someone right then and there. → early on he can become undone relatively quickly, especially if its great oral. → prefers receiving over giving. → rarely likes to submit, as he loves being in control.  → loves for his partner to surprise him by dressing up as one of his favourite characters. bonus points if they’re unable to escape and tied up for him to play with. → loves a nice chest.  → yes, there will be days where he will sit there and demand his partner to let him grope their breasts. → days where he was unsuccessful or very upset, he will no doubt become aggressive and make a mess of them.  → loves the thrill of wrapping his hands around their neck and choking them. hearing their desperate whines, their sobs for air, watching them cling to his wrists, seeing their eyes rolling to the back of their head. a twisted grin of pleasure will overtake him. → loves dirty talk and insulting his partner. calling them outside their name and whispering how filthy of a person they are for wanting him inside of them, it gives him such a high. → loves mirror sex and making sure they look at themselves as they take him in completely.  → has heightened endurance, so will go for multiple rounds to get their needed fix. Tomura wants them to be a complete mess once he’s done with them. they need to know that he is the only one that can make them feel that way.

[7deadlycinderellas]

The First Warm Day

Ao3 link

Arya hadn’t been sure how she would like living as far south as Storm’s End. The North, with Winterfell and it’s heavy snows and deep dark forests was part of her blood. But after a few weeks in their new home, and Arya felt she could definitely get used to it.

Gendry wasn’t as fond of the heavy rains as she was, but he liked the ocean. That was probably why on that morning, he had elbowed her awake, with an

“Arya. The rain has finally stopped.”

Arya sits up in bed, blinking to rid her eyes of sleep. When she recognizes the sun shining past the oil cloth covering the small window on the other side of the room, she throws off the checked blanket and moves to get up.

“Can you put the kettle on? We’ll have porridge for breakfast, but I want to take my bath first.”

Gendry pokes the coals back to life, and pulls the kettle from it’s spot on the window before putting it over them. Arya fills a cup of oats and adds them to the water as it starts a rolling boil. She was no fine cook, but porridge was easy.

And, she thought smugly, this was one domestic art that Sansa had known little about too.

When she opens the door, the sunshine streams down in front of her. Everything in the Stormlands it seemed, was forever green from the rain. She unstakes the oil cloths from the two small windows, letting the sunshine through the whole place.  

She checks the large wooden tub to the right of the door, under the window. It was nearly full. Good. The little dwelling Renly had said they could make theirs was humble to be sure, stout and stone and only really a single room- though it did have a half wall separating their bed from the kitchen and table- and hardly any bigger than her own chambers back at Winterfell. Arya still loved it to bits. And it was surrounded by a multitude of useful things, that Renly had tried to apologize for as “junk”.

Like the tub and barrels that functioned wonderfully to collect rainwater so she didn’t have to haul herself down the hill to the well.

Arya strips halfway out the door, and grabbing the block of soap and a rag, climbs into the tub. The water was a bit chilly, but she could handle it. She was a northerner after all.

“Should I stand guard to make sure no one sneaks up on the fair maiden in the river?” Gendry asks her sardonically. Arya snorts and splashes him.

“Be my guest. Hell, bring your breakfast out here and sit if you must.”

He does that actually, dragging out a chair to sit beside the tub and eat his porridge.

Not that anyone could have snuck up on them. The house was on the very edge of the Storm’s End keep’s lands, outside the town and away from the castle. It seemed neglected to be true. The ground in front of the house sloped down rather sharply and was littered with broken wagon wheels, rusted tools and empty sacks half buried. And behind them was the edge of a damned cliff. Gendry had hung a bracket above their bed where Arya kept Needle shelved, and she felt this was a good arrangement.

Just another in the list of things Arya’s sister would have hated about her new life.

When Arya’s scrubbed off, she stands and shakes off before climbing out of the tub,

“You want a turn?”

Gendry shakes his head. “I come home dirtier than I am now. Plus, unlike you, I don’t think diving into ice water is a good way to start the day.”

Arya laughs at him. Southern born indeed, it was warmer here now than Winterfell often was even in the summer, despite the frequent storms. Arya dresses, and throws the thick black cloth she’d removed from their bed the first day, and throws it over the tub, to let the sun warm it.

She gets her porridge and sits beside Gendry in the front.

“What’s on your plate for today?” She asks.

He licks his spoon clean from his last bite.

“More horses probably. I’ve never shod so many horses in my life. “

The forge in town was quite large, as it had four smiths working there now and often took overflow projects from the castle blacksmith, but the town had no farrier.

“You’ll get something fun to make soon,” Arya promises him.

Gendry shrugs her concern off.

“Horses still put food on the table, and their owners are usually grateful.”

He stands to pull his boots on, and takes his pack.

“I’ll get a bowl in town for lunch. Please no more seagull for dinner.”

Arya rolls her eyes. To think he was the picky one. She hadn’t even known you could eat seagull before she’d snared one two nights before and roasted it. Sure, she wasn’t the greatest at making food tasty yet, but she could keep the two of them fed.

Gendry grabs her face and kisses her once, twice, before leaving. That leaves her with a silly grin. She watches him walk away. The towns and villages here are filled with fewer people, despite the fertility of the land. Gendry does better without the crowds, she thinks. He’s got some color to his cheeks now.

She does the breakfast dishes in a bucket she fills from one of the other rain barrels, all three of them. After she’s done, she ponders how to spend the rest of her day. She should sweep the floor, but that took all of five minutes for a place this size.

She could go down to the town. They already had flour and oats, and enough milk, cheese and eggs for a few days in the cool cellar. Mya had said she was setting off for the Red Mountains today, but maybe Arya could head to the shore and try and befriend some more of the wives in the fisherman’s cottages. They were often lonely with their husbands gone. One of them had told her she’d teach her to make a crab trap. It wasn’t good fishing season yet, but maybe she could net something for dinner out of the ocean. She should try the bread again, a slightly different mix of flour, salt and yeast, this time. The last time had been brittle, but she could get closer this time.

All the bulbs Maester Aaroc had given her she’d planted. The rusted shovel from back by the outhouse had turned the soft ground with ease, and she’d buried the potatoes, beets, yams and carrots, but none of them had sprouted as of yet.

She’d been so proud of it afterwards.

The blackberry vine creeping over the back of the house needed no maintenance. Aaroc had told her that as long as they liked blackberries, they would have them, as the vine was, as he put it, “practically a blight in terms of our ability to be rid of it”.

Maybe she would get lucky and some of the children from nearby would come to investigate again. So many of them had been intrigued by the holdfast’s new arrivals, some of them even moreso when they discovered Arya owned and could use a sword.

One of the fisherman’s daughters had told her that there was a Lady, an actual noble woman, in Renly’s rainbow guard. She told Arya this with a tone of longing in her voice that Arya had recognized deep down. And so she’d told her that if she could find her two sticks of fair heft, than she would teach any of them who wanted the basic forms and movements. The next day an even bigger group had shown up.

She had seen the Lady Brienne, with the rest of Renly’s guard, when he had come to greet them, and the envy that had swelled up in her throat had nearly been overwhelming. And the disparaging comments from some of the other men, even some ones who had been traveling with Edric and them, had enraged her. But Renly had treated her with casual respect, and so she quieted down.

Arya still wasn’t sure what she thought of Renly. The colors his guard, and himself too, wore struck her as a bit garish, and the man too, seemed to be all about show. But he’d greeted Gendry and Mya warmly, and had extended all courtesies while he had the maester and stewards get them settled.

Maester Aaroc had helped take them out of the courtyard, where the steward would show them to the house. He had expressed interest in Lyanna, as Storm’s End had only the more traditionally trained ravens. Arya had said she would go over with him how her and Luwin had trained her. But first, she had to ask,

“You’re supposed to be the wise one around here. Why do you think Renly wants all of his brother’s bastards in Storm’s End?”

The older man had laughed softly at her accusing tone.

“The young Lord is the youngest brother, and he is...unlikely to grow a family in the traditional manner...so I believe he wants all his options keep close to the chest.”

“And, what? He wants a bunch of spares handy so he can dump responsibility on them?”

The old man nods quietly, and Arya quietly fumes.

And since then, Renly hadn’t paid them any nevermind.

She toyed with Needle a bit, considering. Maybe she would train one of the Stormlands’ future knights, one of these days.

And then she giggles to herself. She’s never truly had the whole day in front of her for her choosing like this before.

Her decision ends up being made for her when she notices a small figure bounding up the side of the hill towards her.

As it gets closer, Arya realizes that the figure she had assumed was Dot (the knight watcher) or one of the other fisher children, was in fact Shireen Baratheon.

Arya had been surprised to be introduced to her, not having expected there to be any people younger than her in court. She had been fostered here, Renly spoke, since her father had become Hand of the King and her mother in Dragonstone fallen ill. Though marked by the reminder of the grayscale she’d been blighted by in early childhood, the girl’s boundless good will had endeared her to everyone. Mya had already promised to let her ride the mules when she returned to the keep, and she had already paid several visits to Arya and Gendry. The girl had no particular interest in swords or arrows, but she was eager to share her books and stories of great adventures with anyone who would listen.

“Shireen!” She calls out to her, “What’s the word today?”

Shireen reaches her, panting. She hands her a paper wrapped package. Arya unwraps it, revealing a flower cut to the root. Arya recognizes it as the herb the Maester had given her since she had explained that despite her marriage, she did not yet feel ready for children.

“Maester Aaroc says that should root easily in a jar in a window, and if you can’t get it to come back, just return to the castle and he can keep you in supply”.

“Thank you Shireen,” she tells the girl. “But why did you run up here just for that?”

Shireen shakes her head, and Arya finds herself more confused than before.

“There are two visitors here to see you”.

Arya sighs deeply outwardly, though inside she is pleased.

“Tall and handsome, and tall and head-in-the-clouds?”

Shireen nods.

Arya sighs again.

“You can bring them”.

Shireen takes off, and Arya rolls her eyes. There goes her day. She pulls out her and Gendry’s cups. She quickly brews her own tea cold and sucks it down, then fills two more cups with hot, and sits in the doorway waiting.

Dot shows up first, holding the wooden practice swords, looking excited. With blonde hair and blue eyes, she could grow up to be a great beauty, but she is the only of the children who has shown up every day since they’ve come here. Arya hates to disappoint her.

“Got guests coming today, Dot. You’ll have to practice by yourself. Do your forms like I taught you”

Dot looks at her disbelievingly, “You just got here, who’s already coming to see you?”

“Just my brothers.”

“We saw the horses at the gate of the castle earlier. They had the direwolf sigils on.”

Arya nods.

“So it’s true, you are a Lady.”

Arya laughs and glances around.

“Maybe, they might be coming to tell me I’m being disowned.”

Suddenly she remembers dinner. She steps inside the house, into the little bag holding the coins Gendry’s received for payment the last few weeks. It’s not a ton, but it’s enough. She fishes out a few coppers and gives them to Dot.

“Can you go down to the greengrocer and bring me back a few potatoes?”

Dot glances up and down at her.

“Will I at least get to meet them?”

“If you get back fast enough I’ll even let you spar with my younger brother.”

A smile erupts on Dot’s face and she takes off down the hill. Arya barely has long enough to find where she threw the bones from last night’s seagull and toss them into a pot to boil. She had nearly thrown them out before Gendry had told her that all good soup started with boiled bones. Who would have known?

By the time it’s on the coals, boiling, Shireen’s coming back up the hill with Robb and Bran. Though still dressed in their riding clothes, they both look somewhat worse for wear. The road has clearly taken a toll on them. They’ve both shed their cloaks, and look like their sweating in the ocean air. Arya admits head to toe leather and wool probably isn’t best for summer. When Arya makes eye contact with her, Shireen waves and skips off back towards the castle.

Arya sits in her chair in the doorway, expectantly. She wonders how she looks to them. She’s taken to not braiding her hair at home. She’s still in breeches that used to be Bran’s. A few days ago she’d traded her fur muff (realizing it wasn’t quite as necessary here) for a few men’s linen tunics, which she wore tied with a belt of rope. She’d sliced the arms off with Needle and her arms were beginning to brown. She is freshly bathed though, so that might be new.

“So am I being dragged back to Winterfell, or just disowned?” She doesn’t seriously believe either is a risk...well the latter has a small chance.

“Is that anyway to greet your brothers?” Robb replies. Arya ignores him. She hadn’t even called either of them stupid, so this greeting was a step up.

“So how long did it take for Sansa to crack?” Arya smirks.

“Most of a day,” Bran admits immediately. Arya raises an eyebrow. That’s actually better than she expected.

“Really shouldn’t count. We didn’t realize you were gone until dinner.”

That actually hurts a tiny bit, but Arya knows she kept strange hours and company, so not too much. She steps inside to grab the two mugs of tea to hand them. Bran takes the moment to peek inside the cottage, seemingly amazed.

“What’s been taking you two so long? We arrived here nearly a moon ago, and you only left a day and a half behind us.”

Robb cocks an eyebrow. Apparently they hadn’t been terribly well concealed.

“We got lost in the Neck” Bran admits.

Arya nods. That made sense. The rain had been so heavy then.

“How long did it take you to get back to the Kingsroad?”

“We didn’t,” That surprises her. It was the only known safe way through the swamps and bogs.

“We were found by the Lady of House Reed.” Robb explains, the tips of Bran’s ears and the back of his neck suddenly turning red. “They sheltered us until the rain started to let up, then she guided us out on one of the routes only the crannogmen know. We’re not even sure if the Kingsroad is safe again at all.”

“It should be,” Arya comments, “Renly said he sent scouts ahead, because there was a caravan of traders who needed past to start for the Vale.”

Robb’s glancing around the house. It really doesn’t look like much after having grown up in Winterfell.

“This is where he has you living?”

“I like it,” Arya insists. Robb doesn’t look quite like he believes her. Bran steps closer to her, looking over her neck, wrists, and waist.

“Well I don’t see any irons holding her,” he says wryly. “Nor does she sound like she’s bewitched. I think we can probably reassure Father and Mother.”

“I still want to talk to Gendry,” Robb says, his face turning harsh. Arya rolls her eyes and points.

“Forge is about five minutes down the hill and to the left, you can’t miss it. And if you pass a blonde child carrying potatoes, don’t scare her off- those potatoes are mine. And when you find Gendry, don’t do anything stupid, you’re both in public.”

When he’s out of sight, Arya and Bran sit down at the table near the fire.

“I don’t think he’ll do anything bad to him, “ Bran tells her, “When he read your letter he laughed. He’s just putting off that Father told us to check up on some things in King’s Landing.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. She still did wonder, after seeing Myrcella and Tommen leave. She had hoped it was really nothing.

“So how was it deep within the Neck?” She asks, changing the subject. The tips of Bran’s ears went red again.

“Somehow both beautiful and terrifying. The last night we camped alone I thought there were eyes staring at us through the forest. I’m still not quite sure if it was my imagination or Meera’s scouts keeping an eye on us.”

He calls her Meera, Arya notes. Eager to tease her younger brother, Arya interjects,

“Jealous of me being the first to wed and hoping to catch up? Father and Mother would probably approve of yours”

Bran turns even redder and starts stuttering. Arya decides to go easy on him.

“Is it true, the things they say about the crannogmen?”

Bran seems to be able to form full sentences now. “I saw no green teeth and no one breathing water. They are all rather short though, and Greywater Watch is really built on a floating island.”

He lets a long pause sit, as Arya imagines what he’s telling her.

“And frog isn’t bad, it sort of tastes like poultry. I saw nets and bronze knives, and shields made of leather. Meera carried one too, a lot of the women did. “

He nudges Arya’s shoulder.

“Maybe you should have been born in a swamp.”

She laughs. Sometimes she thinks about things like that, wonders if she would have been happier to be born somewhere else. But if she had, would she even still be the person she was?

“I was thinking,” Bran says, suddenly, “Before all of this happened, I actually thought about asking Mother and Father to send me to learn to be a Maester.”

Arya cocks an eyebrow at him, “Makes sense, you always were smart and liked all the old stories.”

“I do. But it was more than that. I just could never picture myself marrying.”

Arya laughs, full bellied.

“Bran, you know my entire life that I have made my feelings on the topic of marriage very clear. Things change, and sometimes you just have to go with it.”

She waits again before asking.

“Is she pretty?”

Bran smiles when he answers. He’s still very red, hasn’t in fact returned to his natural color yet.

“Sort of? She’s not pretty like a pretty woman. It’s more like- looking at her is like looking out the window on a sunny morning.”

Dear gods, he sounds like Sansa, is all Arya can think. Maybe she shouldn’t have left her alone with the rest of the family, she was going to rub off on them. Then again, maybe affection turns all men into poets. Gendry had once told her that looking at her made him feel like he was about to take a dive into very deep water.

Their conversation is interrupted by Dot galloping back up the hill, holding the potatoes in her apron.

Arya takes them from her.

“I met your other brother on the way up, he’s cute!” Dot babbles.

“Eyes to yourself, he’s twice your age.”

Arya gestures.

“This is Dot, her father’s a fishermen, and she’s on the journey to join me and Brienne of Tarth as part of the exclusive guild of women who wield swords.”

Dot practically shoves the practice swords at Bran, bouncing with excitement.

“Don’t go easy on her, I’ve been teaching her what Syrio taught me.”

While Dot and Bran go back and forth, Arya picks up Needle from its perch, and uses it to cut the potatoes. When she climbs down to the cellar to get the remaining milk and butter, she wonders what Jon would think of finding out what she was using his gift for.

The soup is hot and bubbly by the time Gendry and Robb appear at the bottom of the hill, apparently no worse for the wear.  Bran and Dot have finally yielded, and are both breathing hard on the grass. Dot only managed to get a single hit off on Bran, but to her credit, she keeps getting back up.

Arya greets Gendry with “All parts still attached?”

“I think we’ve come to an understanding,” is how Robb puts it. Gendry only looks a little pale, so Arya doesn’t prod.

Gendry hands over his day’s earnings. A small chunk of cheese, a string of sausages and a small group of copper coins. She stows them.  Arya is about to tell Dot to go on ahead home, when the girl lets out a huge squeal, and using the window as a stepping stone, climbs onto the cottages roof.

“There’s a ship coming! It might be my Papa’s!”

And she takes off without another word.

Arya picks up the practice swords from where they lay on the ground and places them by the window. Then she hoists herself up onto the roof.

She reaches a hand down to Bran,

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pass up climbing something.”

The roof fits all four of them, though Gendry sticks to the edge, not a confident climber.

Arya shades her eyes. It does look like a fisherman’s ship.

“They say spring is one of the only times of year ships can safely port at Shipbreaker’s Bay, so they should be coming in for the next several weeks.”

“This is a really great view,” Robb admits.

“Renly said this building used to be as tall as the castle.” Arya muses, remembering back to what he’d told them that first day. “They used to light an oil fire in the top, to warn ships that there was shore, so they wouldn’t hit the rocks.”

“What happened to the rest of it,” Bran wants to know.

“Storm took it out. “ Gendry says. He had looked vaguely terrified to hear the tale. “A ship got pulled by the wind all the way over the shore and collided. Took out all but what’s left.”

“Not entirely true, they did cover up the hole in the roof”.

Robb looks suddenly uneasy. “Are they sure the rest of it’s safe?”

“That was near on forty years ago.” Arya says, “And ships don’t attempt to port here in bad weather anymore. Too many ships and lives lost.”

It is a wonderful view, even as the ship sails out of view, the late afternoon sun turns the water a million colors, all shifting and drifting with the nearly glassy sea.

Eventually Arya’s stomach growls, and she climbs down to pour the soup. They only have the two bowls, so her and Gendry eat theirs from the tea mugs. It’s not perfect, it needs something, bacon maybe, Arya thinks, trying to remember the potato soup the cooks at Winterfell had made when the winter was it’s coldest.

Bran and Robb eat theirs with trepidation. Arya rolls her eyes extra hard. She has to, she’s not going to be able to anymore.

“If I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t bother making it taste good.”

“Who says we’re assuming you meant to?” Robb japes.

She hits him with the back of the wooden spoon for that.

After they’ve finished the pot, Robb says they have to be getting on.

“Don’t the door hit you on the way out, and enjoy the rest of your night with the Lord of ugly capes,” is what Arya says, after hugging them both multiple times.

“And send me a raven if Mother and Father say yes,” she whispers to Bran.

She stands at the door, and watches as they walk down the hill. It’s nearly dark already.

She clears the dishes, and smothers the flames down to embers and Gendry takes his bath. Arya reaches in to touch the water, the cloth did it’s work, it’s very warm.

“Is there anyone else who might come and interrupt us again?” Gendry asks as he laces the breeches he wears in bed.

Arya’s laying back on top of the quilt in her shift, and she responds by grabbing his hand and pulling him atop her.

“Well if there is, they’re going to get an eyeful.”

Gendry grins, and presses a kiss to her throat, then lower. One of his hands pulls her shift up over her hips and lifts one of her thighs onto his shoulder.

Later, when they’re both sated and sweaty, Gendry asks,

“Is there anything you need to get done tomorrow?”

Arya shakes her head. Her face is pressed into the side of Gendry’s neck, one of her arms wrapped around her.

“We need milk and butter, but that’s easy. And if that was her father’s ship, Dot won’t show up. Why?”

“I want you to come to the forge with me.”

That gets Arya’s attention. She props herself up on one elbow to look at him.

“How come?”

“Renly takes his taxes in arrowheads. Liester was telling me it used to take up at least half of his time, just making them, no matter the rest of the orders he had to fill. We’re not at war now, so Renly doesn’t ask as many, but it’s still time consuming.”

Arya’s still confused, “So what did he do?”

“He taught his wife to make them. He says she’s as handy with a hammer as any boy.”

Arya’s now astonished. This is something that’s never even occurred to her. Women took up trades of course, but not highborns, and not usually young women. This isn’t something she would have ever even thought to imagine.

“Besides, it would be good for you to know how to do basic smithing, in case something ever happens to me.”

Arya reaches out and pins one of his wrists. “Don’t you go talking about dying. It’s spring now.”

“I won’t. I won’t die, just because you said so.”

Good, Arya thinks, settling her head back beside his.

She stares up at the ceiling. She imagines the stars beyond it, and wills Lyanna to fly faster.

She already has so much more to tell Sansa.

[keepeacer]

Let me collect dust.

more gyjo! a chaptered slow burn this time :)

Chapter 1 - Lady Grinning soul

Words: ~5673

Rating: M (for future chapters)

Content Warnings: drinking, getting hit in the head with shoes

Summary: It’s the summer of 1977, and Gyro Zeppeli is the bassist in a band. He does the singing, too. After getting a late start to a show day, he meets someone in a bar that he has the feeling he’ll be seeing a lot of in the future.

Ao3 Link

Full chapter under the cut

The Sunset Strip has been, historically, a breeding ground for talent. Some artists rose through the ranks of the clubs like Aphrodite from the froth of the Mediterranean, and others suffered a fate akin to Icarus— melting and collapsing under the weight of their own excess. It was, and still is, a veritable neon mausoleum.

Legions of would-be rock stars and pin-ups flocked to these musical establishments like flies to rotting meat, drowning themselves nightly in swathes of glitter and narcotic cocktails made up of ingredients they couldn’t begin to pronounce. It was a fairly common occurrence to see people dragged out on stretchers from a bad high, or simply knocked out cold on various surfaces and left there until some good Samaritan hauled them over their shoulder and took them home... wherever that was.

The overarching theme was that most of these lost souls didn’t exactly have a home to return to.

Diego Brando was not one of these lost souls.

No, Diego Brando had himself a stuffy little apartment in the Hollywood Hills, with a balcony on one side facing that horrid white lettered sign, to boot. In this apartment he had installed a rather large conversation pit with red upholstery, upon which was perched a grey miniature poodle with the name tag “Silver”. Silver was currently chewing happily on a pair of cherry red Doc Martens.

The owner of these boots lay splayed across one section of the couch with one arm covering his face and the other dangling towards the floor, a pea green sheet haphazardly thrown onto his otherwise nude form. His snores were thunderous and his sleep was deep, deep enough that he didn’t register the indignant shout from across the room, or the half-eaten boot that was flung at his head until it had been picked up and he had been slapped with it again, a bit more insistently this time.

He twitched as he stirred from his sleep, a long yawn escaping his lips, which he smacked after the fact. A wince; his breath tasted absolutely rancid.

It suddenly registered in his mind that he had been attacked in his sleep. He hoisted himself up on his elbows and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. His assailant had gathered Silver into robed arms, a violent expression raging in pointed turquoise eyes.

Despite his diminutive form, Diego Brando managed to be the exact kind of disheveled morning-after-terrifying that caused Gyro Zeppeli to physically recoil, pulling his sheet over more of his person as if it would serve as some sort of protection.

Gyro did not know what he did to warrant such venom, but it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d been woken up in such a way. He smiled sheepishly, hoping that he’d calm the other man down with his trademark disarming grin. “Good mornin’, sunshine.”

It did not work. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Uh… sleeping?”

Diego all but growled as he stomped into the pit, leaning over slightly and picking up the victimized boot with the hand that wasn’t cradling Silver. He advanced toward Gyro, waving the boot in the air. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yeah, that’s a bo— Huh?! ” Gyro spluttered, eyes widening at the realization that those were, in fact, his prized cherry Docs . His gaze shot from the boots to the poodle in Diego’s arms, a poodle that looked almost smug . It knew what it had done. “The fuck happened to my boots?!”

Diego threw Silver’s newest chew toy at Gyro, connecting with his chest with a dull thud and an “Ow!”. He ran his hand over the tuft of hair on Silver’s head, cooing down at his pet.

“I’m sorry this oaf tried to poison you, darling,” Diego purred, scratching under Silver’s chin.

Gyro looked at him incredulously. “How? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your boots.”

“And?”

“You left them where my sweet angel could have choked on them.”

Gyro scoffed in utter disbelief. He had half a mind to jump up and start yelling, but he remembered his physical state and decided that, what with the wide-open windows, Diego’s neighbors didn’t deserve that kind of performance this early in the morning. He instead contented himself with sitting upright completely and angrily gripping his boot. His poor, poor boot.

“Your angel?!” Gyro scoffed, pointing an accusatory finger at the doe-eyed Silver. “That little rat that chewed the absolute fuck out of my fucking boots? That’s real goddamn leather!”

This was met with an eye-roll. “Oh, please. They cost you what, 20 dollars at most?”

“20 dollars at most,” he mocked, putting on the most obnoxiously fake English accent he could muster. Gyro gestured around angrily to the opulent apartment he’d regrettably become a guest in for the night. “ Just 20 dollars . You know, you were so much nicer last night. Weren’t beating me with my own damn things, for one.”

“You endangered the life of my pet, you brute!”

“You owe me new boots.”

“I don’t owe you a bloody thing!”

Gyro threw his hands up into the air and dragged them down over his face in exasperation. He’d made several unwise decisions in his life and going home with a psychotic Englishman was proving to have been one of the worst. He drummed his fingers on his cheeks, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

The previous night had been spent on the Strip, because where else would it have been?

Club Asphodel was much like its namesake, in that its patrons tended to wander aimlessly around the venue indefinitely on any given night; at least, until something interesting pushed its way through the peeling velvet-lined doors. That night’s attraction had been a locally established outfit by the name of The Clergy; its members donned themselves in dark, cult-like attire and played gloomy tunes that dealt with occultism and blasphemy. As for what the actual genre was, it was up in the air, but the members described it as “an unholy cross between blues and plainchants”.

Gyro had taken his usual spot by the bar, leaning against the counter and tucking into a bottle of Hamm’s. The standard procedure for a night out.

Gyro was a very big fan of people-watching. Not for any sort of creepy purposes, but moreso because he simply got a kick out of observing people as they went about their lives. He liked seeing the desperate teenagers plead with the bouncer for passage into the club; he was intrigued by sudden breakups on the dancefloor when one lover noticed the other’s gaze lingering too long on someone else. Got a good laugh out of overzealous drunkards that had their beers slapped into their faces by the unlucky recipient of their harassment. If someone he saw interested him, he’d go over and talk to them. It was a simple enough game that had made him plenty of friends in the clubbing scene, as well as the inevitable enemy or two. Or three. He’d long lost count.

The Clergy had begun playing, and they were stellar, as usual. It was a wonder that they hadn’t been signed yet, though there were whispers in the crowd that night that scouts from Elektra were prowling the Strip, and that a couple could very well be in Asphodel.

Gyro loved The Clergy— he really did. It’s just that he found it incredibly hard to focus on their music while sticking his tongue down a pretty blond’s throat. All it had taken was a hand down his pants and the feeling of hot breath against his neck and he’d made his plans for the night. One speedy trip in a yellow Volkswagen Beetle and he’d found himself pushed into a conversation pit, only to awaken with that same pretty blond from the night before beating him over the head with the docs he’d slaved away an entire summer over a deep fryer for. Only now, they’d been chewed up by his shitheaded dog.

His boots. His fucking boots. Why did it have to be his boots?!

Diego had set down Silver and was now ambling around the pit and picking up Gyro’s clothing, throwing them at him as he went. Gyro held up his hands to shield himself, but to no avail; he was hit square in the face with his own underwear, as God would have it.

“Hey, c’mon, I can pick up my own clothes,” Gyro whined, grabbing his underwear off of his face and setting it down next to him. “You don’t h—”

“I want you out.” Diego was fuming, eyes alight with a fury that Gyro considered wholly unsuited for the situation. And especially in his eyes. If anything, he should be the angry one; that’s not to say that he wasn’t angry, but it was more of a ‘now I have to buy new fucking boots’ than an ‘I will unleash the gates of hell upon thee’ type of rage.

“I still want new—”

“Get dressed and piss off before I call building security on you.”

And that was how Gyro found himself wearing his shirt on backwards and missing his socks on the corner of Hollywood and Highland, waving down a cab. Diego had hardly given him enough time to dress himself before practically shoving him down the staircase, throwing a bag of coins after him (which he’d caught, thanks.)

He had intended on walking the entire way home before he’d noticed the time on a clock attached to a lamppost. It then dawned on him that it was in fact, Saturday, and he’d spent the better part of his morning ambling around the Hollywood Hills in an attempt to make his way out of the labyrinth of ostentatious housing and unnaturally green lawns.

Upon seeing the time he’d gone into panic mode—he had to get back to his apartment and he’d have to do it in record time. It was currently 11 AM, and he had to be somewhere by 11:30 AM.

But he’d have to get his bass first.

It wouldn’t have been so awful to miss practice for a day, if it weren’t for the fact that him and his motley crew of idiots had somehow managed to book themselves a gig. And of course, it was slated for that very night.

A two-toned green and cream Checker Taxicab pulled up next to him and unlocked the doors, Gyro smiling gratefully as he slid into the back seat. “Corner of Vine and Romaine, please.”

The driver grunted in acknowledgement, reaching into his glove compartment and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Newports. Fun guy. He held it towards Gyro, who muttered a small thanks and took a couple into his hands. Can save these for later , he thought as he deposited them into the pocket of his jacket. The driver then held out a lighter, shrugging when Gyro declined. He smacked the button on top of the taxi meter and shifted the gears out of park, the axles of the vehicle squeaking dangerously as it sped off down the street.

Anxiety and hunger bubbled in his stomach as he sunk into the leather seat, lazily observing the morning bustle of the Hollywood streets through the dusty window. His mouth watered at the sight of the first Burger King they drove past; it registered in Gyro’s mind that the last thing he’d ingested since the previous afternoon was alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol. Alcohol that could do to be sponged up with a nice, gooey Yumbo.

He felt surprisingly put together for how much beer he’d consumed. It was possible that he’d simply developed an iron stomach and was thus immune to the adverse effects of intoxication. Maybe getting smacked with a saliva-covered boot was the ultimate hangover cure.

Gyro glanced at the clock installed in the car; 11:08 AM. He then looked to the street signs they were passing up; they were on Sunset, just about to pass Highland. Almost. He chewed on his lip anxiously; his bandmates wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if he ended up being late on such a big day. Any other day, they wouldn’t have cared, but gig days were of the utmost importance.

The next few minutes stuck in morning traffic were absolutely agonizing, but ultimately they prevailed, with the driver depositing Gyro on Romaine at approximately 11:13 AM. Gyro gave a hurried thank you and tossed the man a couple dollars before hoofing it in the direction of his apartment.

He ignored the greetings of his neighbors as he ascended the stairs, fishing out his spare key from under the doormat. Gyro practically slammed the door open after rapidly turning the key in the lock, making a beeline towards the stand where he kept his bass. He stopped in front of it, smiling fondly as he knelt before the case.

The case itself was a simple, faux-leather thing, beaten and worn around the edges. A few stickers had been slapped onto the surface; some of bands that he hadn’t even heard of and others of silly teddy bear drawings. Just for peace of mind, he unhitched the clasps holding it closed and slowly opened the case, smile widening to a grin as he took in its contents.

His baby was a monochrome Gibson EB-3 that he’d affectionately dubbed Valkyrie. The neck was a sweet-smelling black mahogany that contrasted with the white walnut body. The pickups and pickguard were black as well, though in another life they’d  been a deep, wine-red color. While he’d slaved away over a grill for his Docs—as well as much of the rest of his clothing—Gyro actually won Valkyrie through a fistfight with the bassist of another local band, Wekapipo from Ataxia. Bastard got what he deserved.

Satisfied, Gyro closed the case and secured the latches, picking it up as he stood. He gave his apartment a quick once-over before shrugging and heading out the door, grabbing his keys before locking the door.

He gave an apologetic wave to his previously rebuffed neighbor as he headed down the stairs again, half-jogging on his way to his car. That was nothing special; it was simply a ’65 Mustang with chipped baby blue paint and fucked suspension that he couldn’t afford to fix yet. Sometimes the starter relay would straight up fail, and he’d have to play mechanic on the side of the road until he fixed it himself by some stroke of dumb luck. Either that, or until another driver took pity on him and gave him a hand.

Today was one of the Mustang’s good days, and so it started without a hitch. Didn’t even make a loud churning noise when he sped up on the 101 in an effort to make it to his bandmate’s place in time. In fact, it was so well-behaved that it didn’t start sputtering and dying until it pulled in front of the building, whining obnoxiously before Gyro shut the engine off.

Exhaling, he exited the car and grabbed his bass, nervously stepping through the gate to the house. He was definitely late, and he was definitely going to hear about it. Gyro was two seconds from knocking on the door before it swung open, a silently seething Sandman on the other side of the screen door.

“You’re late,” Sandman said simply, opening the screen and allowing Gyro to waddle in. Predictable .

Gyro smiled sheepishly, setting his case down next to the rest of the band’s equipment. He held his hands up innocently, trying not to falter under the intense gaze of the man before him. “I’m sorry! I got, uh, caught up…”

“Heads up!”

There was barely any time to react as a small styrofoam clamshell went flying at Gyro’s head. He managed to catch it between open palms, the container squeaking slightly as it bent inwards. Poco grinned from the doorway, a half-eaten cheeseburger in hand. “Glad you finally made it.”

He stuck his tongue out, opening the clamshell to reveal a slightly jostled Big Mac. His stomach gurgled in anticipation, though it proved to be in vain. Gyro had only taken a single bite before recoiling, making a face. “It’s cold.”

“Get here on time, then,” Sandman deadpanned, taking a long, obnoxiously loud slurp out of his cup of soda. Gyro scowled and took a seat on the couch.

“Not my fault you two live all the way in goddamn Echo Park.”

“It isn’t our fault you live in Hollywood.”

“Fuck you. Rent’s cheap on my street.”

“Sure. You owe me 65 cents for that, by the way.” Sandman pointed at his burger.

Poco held up a hand to silence the two, chewing thoughtfully on his cheeseburger before swallowing. “Who was it this time, Gyro?”

“Huh?” Gyro was mid-chew himself, trying his best to stomach this achingly cold pile of mushy bread and meat that they dared call a Big Mac.

Poco walked over and poked Gyro on the neck. His hands went up to cover his exposed skin, flushing in embarrassment at the knowledge of what decorated that particular stretch. He shot Poco a look, which dealt absolutely zero damage to the knowing grin plastered on his bandmate’s face.

“What was her name?”

“ His ,” Gyro grumbled, “name was Diego. Prissy rich ‘Hills type. Bottle blond. Nice ass.”

Gyro listed all of the above information willingly because Poco (and more subtly, Sandman) would hound him for it endlessly if he didn’t. The two were very preoccupied with who he slept with; they claimed it was because they were looking out for him, but he personally thought it was because they were both perverts.

It was Sandman who spoke first.

“…Diego? Diego who?”

“Uh… Brando. Why?”

Poco spluttered. “Did you just say Diego Brando?”

“…Yeah? What, you know ‘im?”

Poco and Sandman both stared at him like he was stupid. He even felt offended for a split second. Did he do something wrong? Was Diego Brando Poco’s long lost brother, or even Sandman’s? He spoke up again when neither of them answered his question. “Guys?”

Poco shook his head and walked away from Gyro, exiting the room. Gyro turned to face Sandman, who rolled his eyes and stood up. He, too, walked away and exited the room, but returned shortly after with a stack of what appeared to be tens of Star magazines. These were dropped unceremoniously at his feet, with Sandman sitting next to Gyro and scooping up the one at the top of the pile.

“Do you see this?” Sandman pointed to the cover of the magazine, which featured none other than… Diego. He was sitting on the floor against a rocking horse in classical jockey apparel, tongue sticking out of plump lips between two fingers. A bit risqué. The issue was relatively recent, too; April 1977.

Gyro blinked. He didn’t know Diego was famous. “Um, yeah. ‘BRITISH ROCK SENSATION TELLS ALL’…? He a singer?”

The corner of Sandman’s mouth twitched. “Do all Italian expats live under a rock?”

“What? I just know the metal and punk shit from there. Not any of that obscure crap.”

“It’s not obscure. Or ‘crap’. Be respectful.”

“Whatever…,” Gyro muttered, scanning over the other captions on the cover. “’What really happened to Joe Kid?’ Who? What?”

“Oh, that is unforgivable !” Poco yelled from the other room. Sandman shot Gyro a disapproving look, grabbing the magazine out of his hands and setting it back on the pile.

“You’re really so ignorant.”

“What the fuck? Why am I supposed to know all these people?! They’re obviously only big in uh... not-Italy.”

“Whatever. Get your stuff set up so we can practice. Hopefully you won’t be late to your own show, too.”

Sandman didn’t seem to notice Gyro flipping him off as he moved himself over to his drumkit. He twirled a stick around and tapped a cymbal, the crash echoing throughout the house. “Poco!”

There was a shuffling noise from the other room before Poco’s head emerged in the doorway. “On it!”

Gyro set down his burger, still muttering under his breath as he set up his bass and cab. He didn’t know why his bandmates expected him to know about everything that crawled out of the British Isles. Sure, Diego was very clearly loaded, but he figured that big time rockstars had better things to do than peruse seedy dive bars in the dark corners of Sunset. Like, go to stuffy wine tastings, or whatever.

It wasn’t like Gyro was totally ignorant of popular culture as a whole. It was just that growing up, his parents didn’t allow him to do anything fun. If it didn’t relate to preparing for medical school, he wasn’t permitted to participate. That included listening to fun music, watching television, hell, even playing outside with the local kids. As a result, Gyro didn’t get a taste of any type of music aside from jazz until he was late in his teens, and that was only for what was prevalent in Italy. He knew big names like AC/DC, The Beatles, Beach Boys, Aretha Franklin, sure; but anything that hadn’t made a considerable dent in the Italian musical market, he was unfamiliar with prior to arriving in Los Angeles.

It was a sensitive spot for him, but he knew enough local bands to earn him at least a little bit of respect in the LA scene. At least, as much respect as could possibly be afforded to a newcomer, and a foreigner, at that. People early on hadn’t really taken him very seriously, so it was by chance that Gyro bumped into Poco and Sandman, who’d been looking for a bass player to jam with. They’d all hit it off, and Vertigo had been formed practically overnight.

Their band was one of misfits, as was typical of any other non-glam band that popped up in the vicinity of the strip. They shared more traits with the burgeoning punk scene than anything else, yet they were finding that the sound shared by their peers just wasn’t… enough. Didn’t have the right crunch, wasn’t as intense, as demanding. Their music ached for something more.

He thumbed at the strings of his bass in thought. They needed more… gravel.

“Alright,” Poco chirped, plugging the amp chord into his guitar. “I think we oughtta, uh… practice the shit on the setlist.”

“What setlist? We agreed on a setlist ?”

“Christ,” Sandman sighed.

Poco pointed at a piece of paper taped to the floor before Gyro. He squinted below him. Sure enough, 8 of their songs were scribbled onto it in black marker. He winced at a few of the choices; Poco seemed to have gone out of his way to pick what’d make their fingers bleed the most. Which was pretty hardcore, so he couldn’t complain… much. Still, he’d have liked to have had some sort of say, since he’d be the one singing them. Or shouting, more like. More heavy that way.

Practice went as it normally did, which was to say that it was incredibly flawed, but charmingly so. Sandman’s snare only fell off of its stand twice, and the amp managed to not cut out at all. Hopefully, it’d be about the same for their set later that night. Gyro had mastered the technique of yelling without fucking his throat up too bad, so sucking on a lozenge would be more than enough in the hours between practice and the actual show.

It was funny, the anxiousness that festered within him. It wasn’t as if he’d never played at Señor Rosado’s. He’d had a slew of awful shows there, actually, but the audience (and the band) was often too drunk to really care; fast and loud music didn’t need to be good when combined with alcohol. The chaos of the pit was fun to watch from the stage, and it was even more fun when he got to set his bass down and dive into it at the conclusion of the show.

After lingering at Poco and Sandman’s house for a while longer after practice, he packed his stuff together and headed home for a quick shower. He still smelled like sweat and Hamm’s. And Diego, he thought with a wrinkle of his nose.

He didn’t spend too long in the shower and spent even less time on his outfit, throwing on a raggedy pair of jeans and an equally ratty old Stones shirt. He frowned at his chewed-up boots but decided to put them on in favor of his Chucks, deciding they added character. Saliva coated character.

The car ride to Señor Rosado’s wasn’t anything of note, and neither was the club itself from the outside. The inside? Also unremarkable.

The real appealing part of Rosado’s was not the interior decorations, nor was it the obnoxiously large neon sign with a racially insensitive vaquero displayed above the front entrance. It most definitely was not the restrooms, which, even when ‘clean’, had an odor akin to rotting pig shit on a sweltering July afternoon.

No, the thing that drew the local miscreants and rock n’ roll weirdoes to Rosado’s was something known as ‘The Carnage’. The Carnage was the utter chaos that drove the underground scene in Los Angeles. It was the way of being, the ideology, the look. It was a lot of things, and one way it could visualized was by a chick in a mullet snuffing out her cigarette on a bloodied bonehead’s chrome dome amidst a particularly disastrous barfight. The Carnage manifested only in certain spaces, and Señor Rosado’s was one of them… much to the chagrin of its owners.

One of whom was approaching Gyro as he lugged his bass cab towards the stage to set up.

The incredibly skeevy co-owner, Devo, sneered as he took in Gyro’s appearance, lighting a cigarette. “Peavey? Really, Zeppeli?”

“Good enough for Van Halen then it’s good enough for me.”

“Who?”

Now it was Gyro’s turn to scoff. He ignored Devo as he set down the cab, fumbling with the wires behind the rig. It was in that moment that he was endlessly grateful for gaff tape.

He waved in greeting to his bandmates, smirking when they realized that he’d actually arrived before they did. For once. Gyro looked to Sandman for any sort of emotion on his face and, of course, was given nothing but a resentful glare. But what was Sandman if not a little venomous?

It didn’t take too long for them to get completely set up. Their opener hadn’t even arrived yet; why would they? The bar wouldn’t permit its patrons to enter for another couple of hours.

Poco and Gyro took to entertaining themselves by playing darts in the green room, with Sandman acting as a half-hearted referee as he buried his nose in a thick textbook. Gyro understood partially; though he himself was a med-school dropout, he was no stranger to taking any possible moment to cram knowledge into his noggin in preparation for tests. He’d understand completely if it weren’t for the fact that Sandman didn’t go to college.

Eventually Gyro had grown bored of absolutely demolishing Poco in every aspect of the game, so he took to laying down on the hole-infested couch that Devo had deigned to plant in the room. He closed his eyes for what he thought was a little bit before peeking one open, trying to read out what the dusty clock on the opposite wall read. If it was right, it meant that the bar had already opened its doors for the evening.

He figured it was as good a time as any to get a good soundcheck in. For the sake of the openers; testing acoustics and all that jazz. Gyro honestly had no clue who the people playing before them even were. Not that he hadn’t heard of them... it was just that Devo literally didn’t tell them. Likely to be some other local shitshow that was even more obscure than Vertigo. He supposed it didn’t matter, so long as they were loud.

Gyro pushed a dozing Poco off of his legs and stood up, grabbing his bass and mumbling to Sandman that he’d be back. He received a disinterested hum in response.

A few patrons milled about the club already, some sitting on the chairs provided closer to the bar. Gyro couldn’t say that he recognized many, if any of them, but they were all probably locals. He sincerely doubted anyone from like, Montana had flown in just to see his little band of talking mice.

He found that the openers had already set up their own equipment, but were currently absent from the stage. There’d probably be time to actually meet them sometime between sets. He picked up a stray cord from the floor and plugged it into Valkyrie, giving a test strum before going back to fiddle with the cab knobs.

Once he was satisfied he took his place by the front mic, adjusting it for his height. The current setting was a bit short, and it wasn’t really going to cut it for a lanky guy like him.

“Blegh!” he gurgled into the microphone, pleased to hear his voice echo through the room. A few giggles came from customers in the non-visible vicinity. With the way the lights glared in the direction of the stage, and the general dimness of Rosado’s itself, it was hard to really see anyone.

He experimentally strummed on his bass, a few isolated chords before they melded together in his standard soundcheck song. Gyro was aware that he was likely totally butchering the genius of Geezer Butler, but he bassically had it down.

Gyro leaned into the mic, laughing softly as a random man in the back of the bar whooped loudly.

“Some people say, that my love can’t be true…”

He grinned at the girl that sat on the stage near him a few more lines in, adding a wheezy rasp to his voice as he progressed. It had devolved into a straight shriek as he got to the “My name is Lucifer” line, cackling maniacally as he suddenly ended off the song there. The girl stayed even after he went back into the green room to drop off his bass and reemerged; perhaps she was expecting something out of him. She wouldn’t be getting it.

Gyro decided that he was absolutely parched, and that the swill Devo left a cooler of in the room wouldn’t cut it. He hopped off of the stage and into the pit, swaggering over to the bar.

And that was when he saw him.

Peeking out from under a red fiddler cap were a pair of azure eyes, eyes that stared him down as their owner took a sip from some syrupy green cocktail. They were the type that demanded the completely undivided attention of those around him. His face, framed by feathers of blond, was set in a pout, though it didn’t seem like a particularly affected one. It was the kind that rested.

He was dressed a bit stuffily for the location, though his outfit seemed worn around the edges. A white cotton button-up shirt was accented by a soft yellow tie that had seen better days, his crimson high-waisted pants hugging his hips a bit more snugly than was probably standard.

The barstool next to him was invitingly open. Gyro took it.

“You the one that was singing just now?”

His voice was quiet, tinged with a subtle splash of sadness and what sounded like those ‘Southern country’ accents Gyro heard on TV now and then.

Gyro nodded, a slight grimace on his features. “Yup. How bad is it, doc?”

The young man gave a huff through his nose that Gyro thought was supposed to be laughter, though his lips did not show any sign of curling upwards. In the dim bar light, he idly registered a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Not bad’t all. Pretty damn good, actually.”

“Hey, thanks. Means a lot.”

“No problem. You the one from uh...Vertigo, right?”

Gyro’s eyes lit up. Being recognized was a relatively new thing, and it somehow felt even better coming from this person. “Yeah! Yeah, I am. Bassist and lead shrieker.”

There was a hum from his conversation partner, who took another sip of his cocktail. Gyro didn’t know what exactly was in it, but judging from the smell it was some pretty strong stuff. He flagged down the bartender and ordered a whiskey on the rocks, catching it as it slid across the table towards him.

“We’ve been trying to sound heavier lately,” Gyro found himself blurting out, earning a cocked eyebrow from the fellow across from him. “I dunno if I gotta start yelling about blood and guts, or play faster, or what, but—ah, fuck. Sorry, didn’t mean to start rambling at you.”

“You try downtuning? Pedals?” The young man didn’t seem bothered by Gyro’s verbal diarrhea at all, swirling around the cherry in his cocktail.

“Hm? No, I—”

“Try out E. No drop tuning. As for pedals, Boss’s Overdrive crap might work for what you’re talkin’ about.”

The way he delivered this information, he’d seemed almost bored, but there was a notable glint in his eye that wasn’t there before.

“I dunno why I didn’t think of that,” Gyro mused, taking a swig of his whiskey. He looked behind himself to the stage, where he noticed Poco trying to wave him over.

Gyro frowned. Figures, when he finally finds someone that was actually interesting to talk to he’d be summoned by his bandmates. They’d barely gotten any real words in; Gyro didn’t even get the chance to ask him his name yet. He groaned and finished off his whiskey, slamming it down onto the counter and earning a glare from the bartender.

Gyro swiveled around to face him again. “Hey, I got— oh?”

The boy in the red hat was gone.

[nettlestonenell]

So, you want to adapt Little Women for the screen.

There’s quite a challenge ahead of you, Gentle Readers. Might I help get you started?

What, you might ask are my own bona fides in suggesting that I might have the right to hold forth on such a topic? Very well, I first read Little Women in 1983. The first of countless times I have read it. Actually, I collect copies of it, and buy interesting ones whenever I see them. I’ve seen more than a few adaptations of it.

The cover of my first copy. A giant volume, it was highly impractical to carry around. I did it anyway.

An initial challenge, any screen writer will tell you, is sheer length. Little Women was originally published as two separate books. So, an initial novel, and a sequel. By 1880, the two volumes were forever published as one. 

Not only does this mean lots of pages and plot needing weeded out of your script, but it also means you’re going to have two climaxes and two denouements (seems about right for a female novel, yeah?), another challenge when adapting the two stories into a single film. (Imagine having to create a single story/plot from Philosopher’s Stone AND Chamber of Secrets). 

Inevitably, what generally happens in past adaptations is that Part II gets greatly compressed and short-changed (and I do not doubt, Gentle Readers, creates some of the dissatisfaction among viewers and fans where the handling of Laurie’s proposal and the latter adolescence of characters and their romances/mates don’t land as they might if spent more time with).

Actual illustration of Book One (on the left) and Book Two (on the right) once adapted for film.

According to Wikipedia: The book has been adapted for cinema; twice as silent film and four times with sound in 1933, 1949, 1978 and 1994. Six television series were made, including four by the BBC—1950, 1958, 1970, and 2017. Two anime series were made in Japan during the 1980s. A musical version opened on Broadway in 2005. An American opera version in 1998 has been performed internationally and filmed for broadcast on US television in 2001. Greta Gerwig is directing a new rendition of the novel, set to be released 2019.

I could not hit “Add to Watchlist” fast enough.

So, the list of folks attempting to tackle Little Women is a long one, and not always a successful one. Some elements of the story are always going to play well, and frankly, be hard to mess up too much. But others? Others have some real sticking-points.

I’m not here to critique individual versions of adaptations today, Gentle Readers. 

I’m just here to muse on the Big Questions that need solid answers when you’re ready to take on writing your adaptation.

Someone contact them, I demand a recount.

1.       How much of the true lives of the Alcott family will we include?

It’s no secret at this point that Alcott took a lot of inspiration from her real life. But how much do we include? Do we have Thoreau invited over for dinner? Do we address some of the more radical notions of the Alcotts’? Do we just go ahead and make Father in the novel like Bronson in real life?

a.       How to explain/not explain the war and its effect on their lives

For contemporary audiences and readers, the incredibly matter-of-factness of the Civil War taking place deep in the background of the story will not resonate as much as it would to readers back in the day (It plays a bit like the Blitz in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe]. Perhaps it might be a good idea to bring it closer to the fore, beyond merely showing the girls in hoops, and coming across the occasional newspaper story or quietly dropped reference to a battle.

b.       How to address or not address the March’s contemporarily confusing socio-economic position (that of ‘genteel penury’)

Gentle people now in reduced circumstances is a tough sell intellectually when 2019 can allow most everyone to disguise their financial situation through extensive credit and things like those housing bubble mortgages given to lots of Americans. It’s going to be necessary at some point to explain or show how the Marchs, who have so little themselves, have (to our 2019-eyes) pretty clothes, a large, cozy house, the ability to take food and minister to the (much) poor(er) Hummels, and a house servant; Hannah. The humiliating fact that they can’t buy new gloves for a party does not...exactly track in the twenty-first century.

They’re much worse-off than the Bennets of Longbourne, whose financial crisis is on the horizon, but how can you show that to viewers unfamiliar with the notion of life as a fallen-from-wealth family?

2.       The persistent problematic-ness of Amy/Laurie

I will call to mind one adaptation, here, and Kirsten Dunst’s performance in particular. Singlehandedly, at the age of only *10*, she manages to sell the potential of not only Amy, but Amy/Laurie like no one else this tumblerian has ever seen. What a tragedy the film couldn’t have waited for her to grow up enough to also play Amy in the film’s second half.

In a world where perfect casting is rarely obtainable, this child should have been nominated for Oscar. She out-performs every Amy March before or since, ad infinitum.

Like many of the romantic partnerships, which other than Jo/Teddy (which is not presented as romantic in Book One) are included only in Book Two, films front-loaded with Book One (I can’t think of one I’ve seen that wasn’t) find themselves racing to a conclusion, and every one of the three couples suffers in presentation and allowing enough time for viewers to be ‘courted’ by them into liking them.

There’s simply not enough time left to work on all of them. So, it becomes a decision of which one is more important. Traditionally, as Brooke/Meg happens first, they get some character beats, but once Jo turns down Teddy... 

I can hear the screams of horror across the ages.

...adaptations become a fight between showing Amy/Laurie or Jo/Bhaer, yet both of which are true surprises to viewers not familiar with the story, and who need time to warm up and be seduced by these new pairings. 

(Mind you, I do think Bhaer and Jo should sneak up on a viewer/reader, but there still have to be signs planted here and there that make it make sense when it actually does happen.)  

3.       The age and age progression of the girls

Per the book, the story begins with Meg 16, Jo 15, Beth 13, and Amy 12 (aside: poor Marmee).

A clear example of...impractical* casting for teenagers. (And Jo! In trousers!?) * but perhaps necessary for community theatre

As I mentioned a few lines ago, Amy becomes the most difficult to cast, here, as it’s unlikely a person can play both 12 and the age of Amy when she accepts Laurie. Amy may be only 16 or so when she accepts Laurie, but contemporary viewers are probably going to need a little more assurance she’s not a child bride by her looking more mature than 16.

Beth is frequently cast older, which is also troublesome. She’s 16 at most when she dies, and has been ill for some time. (So, easy to assume she wasn’t growing rapidly.)

Jo has to be able to play age 15 to 25+.

Is that meant to be Jo on the left? Does that make Susan Dey Amy? Anyway, this production has the luxury of doing better on the ages of the girls. And they’ve got the inimitable Greer Garson as Aunt March!

Actors chosen can’t only be made-up to pass for certain ages, they also have to convince us they’re playing dress-up in the garret in the early portion of the film. 

In fact, Jo in particular with her harum-scarum ways isn’t deliberately trying to make constant mistakes and faux pas. She’s a kid who hasn’t yet grown up, with a kid’s energy and unbridled sincerity. Convince us of that.

4.       How to show both the importance and the growth of Jo’s writing

Filming someone writing is rarely moving to watch, and what’s more, writing is so misunderstood as a pastime or even a vocation, it doesn’t easily lend itself to being captivating when shown on-screen. And yet Jo’s writing is not only vital to the story, the growth and expression she finds in it are so deeply important to her character, and later to her romance plot with Bhaer. It’s got to be shown, and more than once. Moreso, or at least as much so as her temper, her mouth, and her lioness-like care for her sisters, it IS who she is.

Where’s the silly hat?

5.       Flawed female characters that are meant to confront and wrestle with those flaws

Well, this is a big one, here. It seems to me we’re sort of operating by 2019 where that old saw of [man] girl vs. self isn’t really written about or shown. Our society at large has become very vocal about whoever we are being awesome and “never change”.

Which is just about as far from the notions in Little Women as one could get. Every one of the ‘women’ has something they need to work on, to grow and improve about themselves. From Meg not being able to get over their loss of money and status (remembered from when she was younger), to Amy’s dissatisfaction and constant desire to fine things, to Beth’s introversion, to Jo’s temper and intolerance of those who aren’t as bold and rebellious against society as her, and Jo’s inability to accept the change that will constantly be coming into all their lives as they grow.

Nasty!

The Little Women Alcott wrote had lessons to learn, and directions to grow, contrary to what their gut reactions might be. You can call that a moralistic take on the novel, but you can’t argue that Jo has to change, and is expected to be her own instigator of that change within the novel(s). [It does seem like anymore in films that the only person we expect to change bad habits or wrong ways of being are actual ‘bad guys’/villains. And sometimes not even them.]

6.       Friedrich Bhaer

Well, that’s a mouthful. I don’t doubt that it always has been. The single, fan-dividing phrase of female literature. Am I right?

Doing for umbrella representation until Gene Kelly came along.

You know the story, right? That Alcott was so DONE with readers after Book One assuming and expecting Jo and Teddy to live happily ever after, she was so frustrated (she had never wanted, nor intended for that to happen) with all the shipping she built a Bhaer bomb.

@grrlinthefireplace would climb that.

And it’s still exploding readers’ and viewers’ minds today.

Why Professor Bhaer is the perfect match for Jo, and why their marriage and life together makes ultimate sense is certainly a post for another time, but I will say that if you’re still sore about it, take some time and reread the book as an adult, and see if you don’t also come to see the eminent sense in it.

That said, in any satisfying and successful adaptation, you’ve got to work hard to sell the man your heroine chooses over Laurie. Laurie’s had all of Book One and a good three-quarters of Book Two to endear himself to readers. Who’s this guy?

Well, yes, that’s William Shatner...as Professor Bhaer.

This guy isn’t good enough for Jo. This is nonsense. “Weird old guy with an uncomfortable age gap with my fave.” Are not the sort of things you’re going to want to read in reviews.

First, you’ve got to cast him right. Hollywood’s not *overly* worried about distressing RL gaps in ages between their actresses and actors, you might know, and beards are actually pretty in right now. Bhaer’s not a babe by any means, but he’s got an accent he can work. And he’s in love with our fave.

Think an Alan Rickman-type (I know he’s not German), did you see how hot Kurt Russell made Santa Claus in that Netflix Christmas movie? Jeff Bridges, Pierce Brosnan? Probably all too old. 

Bhaer’s actually described as “middle-aged”, which means 40ish, to Jo’s 25 (when she accepts him). You know who’s 40ish in Hollywood? Gerard Butler, Hugh Jackman, Ewan McGregor, most of Hollywood’s Chrises, RDJ for Pete’s sake is 53. Give him a beard, and awkward social presence tick, and get him working on that accent, and I guarantee your audience will buy Jo’s attraction to him, and create a Twitter for his umbrella.

In the end, Bhaer is key to understanding that the novel isn’t trying to transform Jo into a woman who will fit into Teddy’s wealthy life and the social circles he has no plans to turn his back on. Bhaer is literally the embodiment of Jo making choices that she learns (and I daresay we are meant to learn) are right for her. She finds a man comfortable with who she is, who is in love with her brain as much as with the rest of her, who sees their coupling as a joint project, and who wants her to be the best her. (cough, cough, Gilbert Blythe prototype)

You’ve got to get him right, or what’s come before gets lost in dissatisfaction for Jo’s final, epic choice.

Oh, look, a nice picture of a charismatic, bearded German actor. How did that get here?

Let’s be succinct here in the end, Gentle Reader. Little Women (Books One and Two) and Little Men and Jo’s Boys would make a splendid series. (Such as Anne with an E), there’s certainly enough episodic drama and plot to go around.

Keep that in mind when planning out your adaptation.

What film adaptation is your favorite, and why?

[directionlessbuthappy]

Pagan (Epilogue)

Surprise! pandainfinitely mentioned to me a while ago that it would’ve been cool to see some reactions to Ivar surviving in my last part of Pagan. So I made that sprinkled in with a special moment. Cheers! xo

Warnings: blood, graphic depiction of piercings, intimacy/fluff at the end <3

Droplets of rain leak through a small crack in the roof of the Great Hall. It'll be patched up before nightfall. You stir what appears to be cloudy, milky water over the hearthfire, grinning while you replay the morning of his return.

You'd traveled back to Kattegat without Ivar. Tradition stated only when a man returns to the village with his kill is he able to claim adulthood. Perhaps, though, tradition was already broken. You had already considered what you'd done; it made you smile. The gods wanted it to happen the way it did. Whether Ivar was tracking the beast, or whether you'd attracted the beast near and Ivar found you, it did not matter. It did not matter how strong he was or if his strength he needed to kill the lynx was wrought from the sight of you nearing your death... What mattered is the gods had saved him. The totems had let him live. Long ago when you left home, you knew you'd never be welcome back. Becoming an outsider meant death. So the judgement you feared could come from nowhere so long as you never went home. You savored that idea...being the first of your people ever to leave the sanctuary of home. Being the first to bring your customs to a foreign land, a strange world. Convincing a warrior to bear the mark of your people through his stubborn will, through your teachings...who were you to be shamed for sharing the gods' wild spirits?

When you returned, storming through the Great Hall, Ubbe and Hvitserk were waiting. They refused to speak to you as you went to Ivar's room. The queen was conveniently not present for your return. You didn’t mind, moreso, you wanted to rest. But your things were gone. 

"Ubbe!" you shrieked, trudging back to the main hall. "Where are my things? What did you do?"

"We assumed you would be leaving," he spit at you, crossing his legs on the table. "Perhaps you fled when you realized my brother was dead."

Your nostrils flared; you wouldn't tell him. Not yet. Not until you wanted him to choke on his words.

"I do not run."

Ubbe rolled his eyes. Hvitserk finally spoke up. 

"Did you at least find him?"

You snorted at him, refusing to answer as you sat down. 

"Haven't you asked a seer?" 

Ubbe frowns at you. "This is a game to you, isn't it? Funny that you've sent our baby brother to die? Did you spend too much time in his bed and think you had to rid yourself of him?"

You rolled up the sleeve of your concealed arm, showing Hvitserk the black ink twirling around your forearm. A viper with a diamond shaped head opened its jaws to your hand.

"What is that?" Ubbe asked cautiously.

"Hel." 

The brothers both glance at your arm. Maybe its just them, but that snake looks like its coiling tighter and tighter into itself. Like its waiting to strike. 

"She has showed me how I die. And it is not by you, or your brothers, Ubbe." You shoved your sleeve down, casting Hvitserk a glance while he sat back in disappointment. "Stop asking me dumb questions and act like you believe in your little brother, for once."

"Is that another one of your strange traditions?" Hvitserk asked. He wasn't an interested in an argument like Ubbe was. He never was; he was simpler than that. More kind too.

"Yes," you answered simply. Hvitserk smiled slightly, unsettled by your tattoo that was now concealed. For a second, he kind of understood why you kept that arm covered. It was the same reason people turn away statues at night...their stares can be...

The door to the Great Hall banged against the wall. In came Ivar, dragging a lump of fur that trailed blood across the wooden boards. Ubbe and Hvitserk didn't jump up right away; they were more in shock than they were happy. "Did you think I would come back empty handed?" Ivar mocked them. He knew what they thought...

"Ivar!" Hvitserk cheered. Aslaug emerged from her bedroom with wide eyes. She glared at you for a moment but she didn't care much to look at you; it was her son she was more enthralled with. She embraced him quickly, helping him into his chair. 

"The gods have protected you," Aslaug sobbed.

"The gods, the wild...they all favor me, mother. You know this."

Aslaug stopped crying a moment to give a guilty expression. She hadn't believed in her son's return; Ivar knew this too. At least she had the sense to look grateful for his return, and had the sense to be sober for it. Hvitserk gave Ivar a loving headlock. He was proud of his little brother. He had his own doubts, but he was simply glad Ivar was home again.

"You did that?" Ubbe asked, gesturing to the body of the lynx. You had a feeling Ubbe was looking at you; there was a burning sensation along the back of your neck.

"It wasn't the birds or the butterflies, Ubbe. Of course I did. What kind of stupid question is that?”

You snapped out of it and took the iron pot off the fire. Taking a bit of cloth, you gently poured the water through it. The cloth caught the bones you were boiling. Taking a piece of still very hot bone piece, you brought it to your grindstone and swiped it across. It only took a few goes before you set the bone in a pot of cold, slushy water. The material hardened under your fingerpads, the water so cold you were surprised you could still feel it. After the bone chilled, you pulled it out and took it to the soft light, checking for any holes with the firelight to help. No holes. A good needle.

With a deep sigh, you set the needle it your row. This was the last one. You took the row of four you'd made and let them dry, glancing up at Ivar in his chair. He sat in his father's seat whenever his mother wasn't around. The idea of looking through his father's eyes to see what he once saw filled him with pride and stroked his ego.

"You know, if you scream, your brothers will wake up."

"Isn't that usually what I tell you?" Ivar asked in return. You blushed, chuckling under your breath while you took the boiling water over to cool in a clean basin.

"What about your mother?"

"She is my mother. If I tell her to go to bed, she will."

You sighed. Things were very simple in Ivar's head.

"...would you want me to listen that way if I stayed here? In Kattegat, I mean."

Ivar had his elbow rested on the chair, rolling his tongue along his bottom lip. He shrugged, gesturing to your standing figure. The fire roared to the side of you. "Where else would you go little shieldmaiden?"

He grinned at you, lifting his chin slightly. Proudly. You walked over to him and his set his arms down flat against the chair. You could see the nervous look in his eye, hidden behind his blank someone annoyed expression he wore often. Pulling out the needles and the water basin, you climbed into his lap with your supplies on the table to the side. You ran your fingertips across his chest. It was smooth, far from flat...he growled at your initial touch, but softened as your hands traveled across his skin.

"You won't scream?" you ask. He smirked a bit, less cocky now but still pleasantly confident as far as you could see. He gave you a kiss on the forehead and sat back. You sighed, glancing at the rag you'd retrieved just in case...but you believed him. You cleaned his nipples with the boiled water from the basin; it was cool now, but not cold. Still, the air around you was cold enough to keep them perky. You chuckled a bit, teasing him.

"Don't be afraid."

"I am not," he replied angrily. You took your needle and your small metal you'd had fashioned for this; it was an interesting exchange with the native blacksmith here in Kattegat. But with enough gold he didn't ask. You held the needle close to his skin, holding your hand on both sides of his breastbones.

"Ready?"

With a grunted response, you took that as a yes and slid the bone through. Ivar jolted in his seat, gripping his chair so hard you could hear it creak. A groan from the back of his throat made you swallow painfully. You left the bone in and brought the metal close, piercing the fresh hole with the metal ring and gliding out your bone needle. The opening to the ring was small enough that the piercings wouldn't come out easily, but he'd still have to be careful. Ivar didn't jump for the placement of the metal, but he still held tight. You pierced the right one shortly after; this one bled a little, but you cleaned it up quickly. Ivar didn't flinch for the second one. He made hardly a move, but his hands still grew white along the knuckles. When they were finally placed and cleaned up, you gave his shoulders a light massage, letting his grip on the chair release. 

"Relax, Ivar..."

He sighed with a loud growl. Coming to peace with pain was not difficult for him. You gave him a kiss once he finally hugged your hips in his hands. The slits in your dress showed off your thighs that lay to the sides of him; the space above your knee to your hip was covered in the portrait of a wolverine, blood covering its viscous muzzle. The Wolverine was the totem of Thor, a guardian and a great warrior comparable to the fighting spirit of such an relentless creature. Ivar never told you, but this one was his favorite... He ran a thumb across the teeth of the beast, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

"Tell me about the Wolverine."

[the-fashiongeek-blog1]

A WEAK DEFENSE OF HEDI SLIMANE’S CELINE

    Alright, I’m just going to come right out and say it; I liked Hedi Slimane’s debut collection for Celine. (Which, for the sake of this article and my own peace of mind, will lack an accent aigu on everything moving forwards.) Of course, it is the lowest on my list of sixty-odd shows I enjoyed this season. But, still, I liked it. On a previous post, I equated my admission of liking Slimane-era Saint Laurent to “fashion blogger heresy”. That statement still feels appropriate now - perhaps even moreso. But why is that?

    From the moment Slimane’s hiring was announced, it seemed as though his work for the brand would always fall flat for the online fashion community. Criticism of Slimane can be found on just about every social media site everywhere, from Twitter, to Tumblr, to theFashionSpot. This is nothing new; I remember the outcry over Saint Laurent F/W ’13 particularly well because it was right around the time I started following fashion more seriously. From there, he really settled into his “skinny rocker” aesthetic for the brand…and never really caught a break in the online fashion community from then on.

    It’s hard to talk about the online fashion community as a single entity, because it most certainly isn’t. I have noticed similar circles of thought within communities, but they can also differ wildly from each other. For example, Twitter couldn’t get enough of the most recent Jacquemus collection, but theFashionSpot put it on their list of misses from Paris Fashion Week. One phenomenon that exists on every internet community, however, is the repetition of ideas and opinions. Social media platforms and sites, particularly those that incorporate reposting content, such as reblogging or upvoting, can create something of an echo chamber. (Tumblr and Twitter get a bad rap for this, but Reddit needs a mention here too. But, hey, it’s something I’ve fallen into myself at times and will undoubtedly do again in the future.) Similar ideas are spread around and gain a greater audience while less popular ideas become hidden by various media algorithms.

    And it was these algorithms that mistrust of Slimane’s debut at Celine spread and grew. Reverse hype, if you would. At first, I was surprised by the wealth of love there was in these online communities for Phoebe Philo and her designs for the brand, seeing as the woman she marketed towards was generally older than the authors of the posts I saw mourning her departure as creative director. However, Philo is a wonderfully talented designer, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been so shocked. Then, with Slimane’s installation, the cycle began again. People worried he would turn the brand into something entirely different, and his decision to remove the accent aigu and return to the original logo seemed symbolic of that. An Instagram account, oldceline, was even created. Would Slimane “destroy” Celine the same way he “destroyed” YSL?

    After that S/S ’19 collection, there’s little doubt that his vision for the brand will be completely different than that of Philo’s. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s ruined the brand. This isn’t an isolated case of brand’s aesthetic changing as a result of a new designer. Slimane is perhaps infamous for giving Saint Laurent it’s current aesthetic, but there have been plenty other rebranding in just the last few years. Raf Simmons took Dior, and then Calvin Klein, in completely different directions than those of his predecessors. The same can be said of Alessandro Michele at Gucci and, well, every other designer who’s helmed Balenciaga since y2k. In fact, many of these changeovers (particularly the ones Simmons oversaw) were met with praise. But this is Hedi Slimane. He would need to match Phoebe Philo’s aesthetic and nothing less if this collection was to be a win in the eyes of the internet.

    Suffice to say he did not. Slimane remains uncompromising in his skinny rocker vision, and now he’s bringing it to Celine. Now, this is where the weak part of my defense starts coming in; as much as I dig a nice rock and roll look, I think he missed the mark with the brand’s client base. When Celine first began designing womenswear, it was focused on luxe sportswear. This vision has been more or less consistent all the way up through Philo’s tenure. The brand has a devoted following and consistent customers. Slimane’s take is decidedly younger and more edgy, which could have the affect of alienating clientele and driving down sales. If nothing else, it’s probably not the best business move.

    With that being said, I did like some of the looks in the collection. I love a good leather jacket, and this collection had several. There were several fun bomber jackets, a multitude of cute shoes, and sparkly party looks reminiscent of his days at Saint Laurent. My two favorite pieces were the leather jumpsuit in Look 7 and 27’s mini-dress. Slimane was originally a menswear designer with an exceptional eye for tailoring. All of the menswear looks in this collection, however, are being marketed as unisex and will appear in Celine’s womenswear departments. He even sent out several female models in impeccable suits and blazers.

    Blurring gendered norms seemed to be a major theme in MFW and PFW shows this season, and it was exciting to see this kind of expression on a “co-ed” runway. I can only hope this is area that fashion continues to explore instead of treating it as a passing trend. Unfortunately, the cast was one of the more frustrating parts of the show. By my math, the cast was comprised of less than twenty percent models of color. There was also no age or size diversity to speak of, marking it one of the least diverse casts of the season.

    Then there were some issues with the clothes. Proportion was a major problem I had with the collection. It’s hard to make an empire waist work with a super short hemline, and some dresses worked better than others; just look at the difference between the dresses in 59 and 93. (As someone with a disproportionally short torso, this is something I have a lot of personal experience, not to mention frustration, with.) There were also a couple jackets that may have been intended as avant-garde, but treaded the line with unflattering and unwearable. Look 89 even combines both complaints into a single outfit. Towards the end, the collection became a little repetitive. It’s hard to put out 90+ looks in a collection and maintain interest throughout, but that wasn’t the only problem here. As several sleuths have pointed out, it isn’t just pieces within the collection that are similar; some of the looks in this collection bare a striking resemblance to his past collections at Saint Laurent.

    All of the garment problems could’ve been helped with some editing, and it’s entirely possible there just wasn’t time what with Slimane just stepping up to his role as the house’s creative director. Even if he’s not the most original, he’s shown he’s a good designer in the past and continues to do good work. Philophiles may not find much they like within the collection, but fans of Slimane’s tenure at Saint Laurent could fill their place within the brand’s clientele. Even though it wasn’t particularly memorable as a whole, there were more than a few individual pieces that were pretty nice. There were certainly problems, but I didn’t feel that this collection deserved the vitriol it was met with. Slimane has a defined aesthetic and talent (as a photographer as well as designer), and has left his influence on every brand he’s worked for so far. Perhaps he’ll leave a lasting impression on Celine as well.

[propheticfire]

Today’s gender bullshit under the cut. Kind of long. Don’t mind me.

So I tried really hard to look badass and androgynous today. And I felt pretty good for a while. But, of course, everyone kept calling me “she”. Which, in and of itself is not a bad thing; I do still feel like a girl sometimes. But the problem is I didn’t feel like I looked like a girl today. So when everyone was calling me “she”, I ended up feeling really ugly and hating the way I looked. Like, if I’m gonna be a girl, I want to be a pretty girl, not this ugly short-haired flat-chested lump. It makes me want to grow my hair out again, because at least then I’d match the way people see me.

I really like feminine things. I love long hair and dresses and makeup (even if I don’t have the energy to wear it) and leggings and cutesy shirts. I just don’t want to be seen as a girl wearing those things. I wish I had a boy’s body, that I could put femininity on top of. I wish that was how I could mix gender expression. But I have a girl’s body, so I have to do masculine things to achieve a mixed expression. And then it doesn’t even work, because people still see me as a girl wearing boy clothes.

It’s like I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Because tomorrow I’ll feel different again. Or later today even. So I can’t even “transition” to anything more comfortable, because that’ll change in like two hours. I wish I wasn’t so aware of my body. I never used to be. I never used to really realize what I looked like until junior year of college. My mental image of myself was so strong that that’s always what I saw in the mirror. But the last few years I’ve begun to be aware of just how far off that mental image is from what I actually look like. Moreso now that my mental image is sometimes a guy.

I wonder too if this is because of all the media I’m consuming. I read a lot of mlm fanfiction and see a lot of mlm fanart. Mostly because all the characters I care about right now are male. I see some wlw art and stuff, but it’s nowhere near as prevalent. I find myself yearning to look like the men I see in the art. I don’t feel like I belong in wlw spaces anymore. And seeing m/f relationships make me really uncomfortable for some reason (most of them anyway; there’s a couple that I ship). Maybe it’s because I felt like I could never measure up to what a woman in a m/f relationship looked like. I’d like a boyfriend, but I want to be a boy with a boyfriend, not a girl with a boyfriend. I’d like a girlfriend, but I don’t feel girl enough to see it as a wlw relationship. I don’t really have any preconceived notions about a nonbinary partner, so maybe that would work? But I dunno. It’s all speculation anyway, since I’ve never had the chance to have a partner.

I just don’t know what would make me happy. I don’t know what makes me comfortable. It feels like it changes from day to day, and I can’t just pick something and settle on it. I don’t even know why this started. I was never like this until just this year either, so I wonder if this is even real at all, or if again it’s some product of the media I’m consuming here on tumblr or all the exposure I’ve had to different expressions of nonbinary lately. They say most people who are trans start to really feel it when puberty hits. But I never had that? I never thought I should have been anything other than a girl. Then again, I never thought I should have been anything other than interested in boys until I got to high school, where I met my first lesbian, and realized there were other options, and now I call myself bi/pan like I belong there? So I dunno.

I feel like I’m just trying too hard to not be a straight cis white girl. Like being a girl is too limiting, and so I’m trying to be something other than that. But I hate that everyone calls me “ma’am” on the phone at work. I hate that my voice gives away my gender. I love my voice and I don’t want to change it but I hate that it marks me as “female”. But then, if I talk like a girl and dress like a girl and act like a girl, obviously I’m a girl, and I should just stop trying to not be a girl, right? *sigh* Why couldn’t I have just been a really effeminate gay man? I want to be that. But then, wanting to be something and actually being something are two different things. I want to be a graceful soft twink, but I’m so fucking fat I’ll never achieve that. And I can’t look like the nicely shaped muscular guys in the fanart either. So is this me hating my looks because they’re not masculine, or me hating my looks because I’m just fat? Before all this started, I had learned to accept myself as a fat woman. Now I see my fat and I just think it’s ugly.

I guess I’m done ranting now. I don’t really have much else to say. I wish I didn’t have a physical form at all, so I wouldn’t have to try and make it match how I felt on the inside at any given moment. I wish I didn’t know what mirrors were, or selfies. I wish I could put on jeans and a sweater and have people realize I was a boy. I wish I didn’t have to do such drastic things to be at the very least seen as not a girl. I wish I could just settle on something and be comfortable in my own skin. I know it’s not true, but I keep telling myself “There’s only boys or girls Phire; you have to pick one” just to try and force myself into accepting that I’m a girl and not a boy. I don’t know what it means to be in the middle. I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know how to be that. I don’t know how to be me. I don’t even know who “me” is anymore.

[eleneyaeventide]

[ RP snippet/collab with @eliyon-starfury]

It had been quiet for them since their return to the small estate that Eli’yon kept up in return for him and Eleney’a’s living arrangements there. Life had, for most purposes, returned to normal. There were very few hints to allude anyone to their noble births with the way in which they worked about the estate. It was true, Eleney’a did have a small household that would assist her and Eli’yon had a farm hand or two to assist him. They’d occasionally allow a wayward traveler to spend the night within the abode before venturing out in the morning with a renewed sense of warmth and a full belly. The visions that Lord Duskhollow had implanted in his mind prevented him from obtaining a full night’s sleep since their departure however. He hadn’t mentioned any of it to Eleney’a. It was in part because of his desire to not want her to worry, but another part of his pride swelled with keeping such things a secret. He had never wanted to ask for help of anyone.

The sun was beginning to fade beneath the line of the trees that lay near the edge of their property and Eli’yon took that as his cue to return to the homestead on the estate. Valion had flown over the treetops at a speed which had made Eli’yon’s loosely fitting shirt ruffle wildly. It was rare that the beasts experienced combat these days. Eli’yon had delayed his deployment to Argus temporarily and his menagerie had settled in somewhat nicely to daily life, or so he had liked to believed. The hunting for their food had satisfied what he could provide in way of bestial urges. The wolfhawk landed in front of the estate with a hasty gust of wind and Eli’yon quickly slipped from the fur, patting the beast on the head briskly before shooing him off. He was trained well enough to know the grounds and where he could and could not travel to. It had given the beast master little to worry of. “Neya?” Eli’yon called as he stepped through the doorway and ran a hand through his newly tangled hair as a result of the flying.

There was a soft sizzling sound that seemed to echo through the small estate, the delightful scent accompanying it would allude to what she was doing and where she could be found before her voice carried through the hall to respond to him. “In the kitchen!” She was unlike her sister and many of her noble lineage in many ways, one of which was such a simple little thing but a difference made nonetheless. Eleney’a stood before the large oven with her thick, long, dark brunette hair messily tied up in a bun and very simple dress covered by a dainty apron. As he would enter into the room, she would not pause in her preparations of their meal, however she would glance over her shoulder to offer him a smile. “Welcome home, I hope the day was profitable?”

Eli’yon made his way through the modest estate with his nose leading him moreso than her voice. The dried mud on his boots trekked through the manor somewhat that followed his path through the halls. He arrived to the kitchen with a rather humble greeting as his hands loosely found themselves about her waist and his lips quickly pressed themselves to the crook of her neck. “I was expecting you to be wearing...less,” he spoke in a rather teasing manner as he pulled away from her to seek out the icebox. The magical contraption did an interesting job at keeping things and fresh and cool. His hand reached for the pitcher of mead and he poured himself a hefty helping of mead. The liquid was more than halfway consumed within seconds of the pour and he found his slightly dehydrated body only temporarily restored. “The fields are turning nicely.” He responded with a light shrug as he brought himself to sit at the small table a few feet from the oven. “And your day?”

She gave a slight pull away from him at the touch to her neck from his lips, but only because the sensation was a bit of a surprise and it brought slight goosebumps to form over her skin. There was a soft giggle that aided in showing that she wasn’t doing it maliciously. “It’s merely a piece of fabric, Eli’yon… though, I suppose I could have done without it and simply worn the apron,” Her response came almost as a musing for herself, something to remember in the future. “However, we have had some others coming and going today, I did not wish to flaunt myself before them without you here.” She turned around now to face him, listening as he continued on about his day a bit. “I’m glad to hear it, you’ve been putting many hours into it for it to fail. As for me? Quite uneventful -” Her words were clipped as she noticed the mud that had been tracked through over the floors.

With a determined pace, she moved to stand before him with hands upon her hips, a spatula sticking out from her grip. “Eli’yon Starfury! I spent most of my day tidying this pigsty up and you cannot find it in yourself to remove your boots before coating my floors in dirt?”

Eli’yon’s attention had drifted partially to a freshly baked loaf of bread on the table and he quickly took it into his grasp as he tore a rather large piece away. He placed the loaf back onto the piece of cloth that it rested on and he took a bite of the slightly warm bread. “You could have flaunted yourself before them,” Eli’yon admitted with a hushed chuckle as he swallowed the bread that remained within his mouth. “I am not opposed to showing others what is mine.” His voice was amused as his features mimicked the reaction of such as he smiled up at her as she approached him. Though when he had noticed her reasoning for doing such, he paused abruptly. His gaze dropped as he brought the tankard of mead to his lips once more in an effort to avoid the subject matter. “You do have a lady or two you can request to clean the floorss, Neya.” He responded somewhat swiftly. “It’s just simply some dirt.”

Her lips pursed and brows furrowed, an expression that often would oddly resemble her sister. “Yes, I am quite aware that it can be cleaned again by another, but the fact that I already spent my time doing it originally!” She was truthfully upset but it was not a serious discussion as her lips tugged into a grin and she founds herself chuckling. The spatula was placed to the table and her hands reached to undo the simple ties at her shoulders that would hold her dress in place, causing the fabric to fall from her form and simply remaining the apron. “But you do no not mind showing me off, hm? As yours, you say?” She asked, turning the conversation once more to turn the conversation to what it had been prior.

He indulged himself with another sip of the cool liquid as his pale eyes watched her intently. The falling of the fabric from her frame had caused his attention to watch its descent in an entertained manner as his eyes drank in what was visible of her frame on their way back up to find her face. “I do trust you to handle your own,” he replied to her as he placed the nearly empty tankard onto the wooden table. “Should some man find it within his being to do more than look, but I trust that those who come into this household would not.” His words were confident and his features held a similar look as he smiled up at her in a cheesy manner. “Not many so eager to find themselves in combat with one who has devoted their life to such things.”

“Of course, Eli, my loyalty is all yours,” Two fingers came to rest under his chin as she lowered herself down to place a soft kiss to his lips. “However… now that I have your attention, you’ve enjoyed some food and more to come, I believe it might be time for us to have a certain conversation that has been put off since our return. Before we become a bit… distracted…” Her gaze lowered to regard her mostly naked form as she stood straight once more and anxiously awaited his response.

Her initial words had caused him to smile somewhat but her continued voicing had caused that smile to disappear just as quickly as it had come. “You mean the conversation that your sister and her dog encouraged us to have?” He asked as his body slinked back into the chair somewhat. His hand moved upwards to indulge himself into his nervous tick as his fingers twisted the hair of his beard around them. His gaze was upwards and on her, waiting her confirmation despite knowing the answer to his question.

Eleney’a offered him a knowing look, her brows raised ever so slightly as she met his gaze. “Yes… that one,” She began before heading back to the oven. Her entire backside was now exposed as she had removed her dress, which she realized too late might have been a bit of a distraction and probably should have waited until the conversation had been completed. The food was removed from inside the oven and whatever pots or pans were on the stovetop were set aside. As she spoke, she went about preparing their plates. “You know, he is to be my brother-in-law and while he may seem a bit stuck on his high horse, I do not presume him to be such a bad man… and save for a few quips at you during our dinner, I could think of only one reason why you would be so against him…” Her words were a bit somber in nature, hinting at his remaining feelings for Elenaris but not speaking them loudly.

Her words had caused him to grumble beneath his breath in a quick and dismissive fashion as he pushed himself from the seat. Her current placement was more than enticing and more than inviting for him though he resisted his urges temporarily to grab the pitcher of mead and return to his seat with a loud thud sound of his body settling into the chair once more. “I do not still love your sister,” Eli’yon quipped loudly and in a forceful manner as he poured himself another tankard and ripped another serving of bread from the loaf. “How can you not sense that there is darkness within that man? Call upon your studies of the Light and feel something. He will bring nothing but despair and I believe you think that too.”

She stopped in her movements as he spoke, taking a moment for a steady breath and then she resumed her actions to pick up the plates and turn to place them upon the table. It was a simple meal, some meats and veggies with potatoes, but enough for them. “Do I sense a darkness? Yes, of course I do...but that darkness is also inside my sister as well and I think that perhaps the two of them together may do good things for her. At least keep her in line, keep her sane to some degree so that she does not fall further into the shadows. Who knows, I may be thinking too highly of Elenaris and her newly engaged but I know at least one thing is that while you may be disagreeing in their ways, she’s carrying my little nephew and if he brings nothing good but that one thing, I am grateful for that.” She went about picking at the food as she spoke, lifting her gaze to him ever so often to ensure he was listening. “And the way you acted at the dinner spoke tones of a different song… if your feelings were as deep as I imagine they were, it is okay for them to not completely to disappear.”

Eli’yon drew in a shaky breath and released it as Eleney’a brought him the plate of food and placed it down before him before moving to sit across from him at the tiny, wooden table. The food smelled delicious, as did it normally when she prepared it and his hand grasped the metal fork quickly to poke around at the contents of the plate. His opposite hand once more gripped the tankard and he took a healthy sip before placing the wooden mug onto the table. “Neya,” Eli’yon breathed as he placed the fork down so that a hand could move to hold the bridge of his nose. “You speak of my love for your sister but by the Light, I’ve no idea what you speak of. I had a military alliance with your sister and nothing more for as far as I can remember,” he admitted to her, his hand dropping away to reveal his pale hues to her and prove his honesty on the matter.

She had taken a few mere bites of the food but as he spoke, she completely stopped in all movement. “You..what?” She stuttered out, her lips falling apart slightly as she continued to try to comprehend what he was saying. “I’m sorry, what do you mean you do not remember anything more than that? Did you have an accident and did not tell me of it?” She stood and rounded the table to run her fingers through his hair in a manner of examining. “Did you bump your head?”

He seemed to become rather irritated when she rose from her chair and began to run her fingers through his hair in search of a possible wound. She wouldn’t find one however as he as there was no wound to be discovered, just slightly knotted hair from the flying he had done on his way home this evening. “This is not a joking matter,” he replied softly as he glanced upwards at the woman. His face appeared to be solemn and his eyes hinted at only being slightly panicked on the matter. His voice cleared, a possible defense mechanism to stop himself from becoming anymore emotional than he already was. “I can’t remember. Months of time? Gone as if it were nothing and at night? I’m plagued with these awful nightmares that not even the apothecaries can cure with their magics and their herbs.”

“I was not joking…” She said softly as her hands dropped from his hair and she began to look him over with just as much concern as she slowly bent at her knees to lower down before him. She sat on her calves as she gazed up to him. “Eli’yon, what has happened to you?”

He released a heavy sigh at her response as his line of sight followed her movements. Where she had gone, he had seemed to follow without actually moving. His hands dropped to lay in his lap and his eyes finally moved to shift to staring at his callused hands. He felt violated and unsure of himself. How could he actually know what was the truth and what wasn't when things were stripped so quickly and easily from him. “I've no idea,” he finally breathed. “All I know is that the man whom your sister calls her husband is responsible and I cannot even find it in myself to find a desire to fight him on it.”

The dainty and sweet features of Eleney’a’s face seemed to distort into more of angst fierceness. She quickly reached up to where his hands were in his lap and took hold of them with a stern grip. “I will figure this out, Eli’yon… surely Elenaris is unaware of what has transpired,” there was a steady inhale of a somewhat shaky breath. “Eli, I know you feel somewhat lost and that you’re unsure of what is and what isn’t real but… this is real,” her hands squeezed his even tighter,” I am real, okay? We will figure out what has done to you...if that is what you desire.”

The moment that her hands took his own, he managed to jump slightly. The feeling was comforting from heras Eleney’a had grown to be his primary source of support whether she had truly known that or not. “She’s not a fool,” he breathed quietly. “That much I am aware of.” The memories that had been left of Elenaris were just things that most citizens would know of her. Her status within the community, her wealth, her power and her ability to make an entire room bend to her will. The personal connection with her was gone, perhaps never meant to be returned. “I want someone to make him pay for what he has done to me. I want to be able to feel and know why I feel those things. Not to just feel things out of nowhere with no remembrance.”

“If you want your memories back, we will get them back, whether Elenaris knows or not. Whether she helps or not…” Eleney’a reassured him, her grip onto his hands was unwavering as she continued to speak, that was until she released with a single hand to reach up to cup his cheek softly. “Forget the prior conversation, we need not to kneel before their desires any longer, especially with this. We will live our lives the way we wish for as long as we wish. I was willing to have some sort of agreement or perhaps some sort of compromise but not now, they are not our rulers.”

He seemed slightly relieved at her change in decision but her unwavering support. Eli’yon knew the troubles of families with morals and mindsets that differed. His own family was a product of that. Mat’aes was the only Starfury that seemed to hold his father’s favor without interruption. Eli’yon and Aris were very rarely within that spotlight and he had almost preferred it. His marriage to Elenaris or even Eleney’a would have been giving his parents absolutely everything they wanted and regardless of his love for either sister, he was not so willing to indulge their wishes. “If we do not agree to their wishes, her dog has already made it clear that he will separate us,” Eli’yon finally spoke up as his chin leveled and his eyes bore into her own. “We’ve no choice than to submit or face unhappiness.”

She offered a heavy sigh as her hand fell from his cheek and both rested to his knees to aid her in standing. “Well, one way or another, a choice must be made. Unless you forsee looking for a different mate, I see little reason to fight the idea of us marrying, getting it out of the way and would no longer have to be concerned about any of it.” She pursed her lips as she gazed down to him now that she stood over him. “However, if it is truly something you do not wish, we will leave Quel’thalas and be rid of their heavy hands in another land.”

Eli’yon inhaled sharply as she pushed herself to stand once more and he followed suit to stand as well. The blonde man towered over her as his gaze softened and his neck craned so that he’d be able to gaze upon her. “Let us elope then,” he suggested as one of his brows rose momentarily. “Let us have a quiet ceremony in the woods with one witness and an officiant. Let us bring nothing special but ourselves and wear nothing fancy.” He explained to her, possibly in hopes that it was something she was agreeable to. If he were to marry it would be her in something quiet and private. “We need not tell Elenaris, her dog, or my father. It is none of their business.”

It was no playful surprise that Eleney’a offered in way of response to his suggestion. She took quite a long moment to respond and when she did her words were a bit soft. “Eli’yon… I don’t want you forced into anything simply because of the concern that they will attempt to control us further.” Her chin had lifted so that she could keep her gaze on him but her eyes flicked over his features briskly as her mind whirled with thoughts. “But if it is what you wish, I would be happy to join you.” She stated with somewhat of a blossoming pride. “ And together we will bring consequences for what has been done to you.”

[allbeendonebefore]

Caroline and Edith: A Brief Intro

I figured I don’t talk enough about the gals so I will do so here because i can’t concentrate and wanted to write about them for like a year

about: the concept of nyo characters and 2p characters is a thing in canon hetalia and the fandoms- i’m not terribly fond of 2p as its been characterized by the fandom (as sort of two dimensional ‘bad’ versions) and have only treated it jokingly thus far, but i have for whatever reason been curious about gender bending/sliding/swapping. I personally like personifications to /mean/ something and not simply give them a different gender, so I personally have thought of nyo and on occasion 2p personifications as different aspects of one city. In the case of ‘fem ed’ and ‘fem cal’, they represent former municipalities that are absorbed into existing ones. Some people do this with their nyo!characters, some people don’t, it’s just a personal preference of mine that I think gives an extra dimension and twist to just popping existing characters into different clothes. Basically, they look similar after having lived together so long (the joke being that to people outside the city they are basically the same thing) and they have a sort of adopted sibling relationship though they are not biologically related. 

and now the gals

fyi i know more off the top of my head about edith because i’m a u of a alumna and grew up on the south side literally on campus so therefore a little biased :^) Do i have interest in creating nyo characters for other alberta ocs? idk - i have a slight interest but idk if i have the time or energy to invest in characters who aren’t as familiar or immediately important. It’s more a development that comes after a lot of research and local knowledge. But anyway, without further ado, here are some facts.

Edith / Fem!Edmonton / Old Strathcona / South Edmonton

History

- once an independent and successful city (Strathcona), joined Edmonton in 1912 for tax benefits. 

- Now exists as Old Strathcona - most well known for being the home of the University and Whyte Ave as well as Rachel Notley’s stronghold - typically the only riding in the province to consistently vote NDP in both provincial and federal elections. Hipster central (though is slowly losing that status to Ed and 124th street on the North side). 

- was given the University of Alberta to compromise between Ed/Cal, but Ed ended up getting it anyway.

- represents the area on the south side of the North Saskatchewan. As a result she has more Blackfoot heritage where Ed has more Cree heritage. Also home to a lot of Metis people who fled Red River. Really sad because Laurent Garneau’s tree just got brought down ToT

- got the railroad that ed was supposed to get because the CPR was too lazy to build a bridge. only some vague bitter feelings between her and ed over this but they’ve gotten over it - ed is making sure to hold on to the old railway tracks Just In Case.

- Fought really hard in the 1970s to keep her heritage buildings and status during a time when the city was ready to tear it all down. Still really rankled by new developments.

Looks/Personality/Interests

- round hips and buff legs, narrow torso, not-quite-flat chest. Basically shaped like a bowling pin if a bowling pin was pointy, or alternatively, shaped like the Strathcona Public Building 

- always has her hair up when not at home, most usually in a bun. Cats eye glasses which she actually does use to see. 

- Younger than Ed but grew up faster than him. Is still taller than him today (but only slightly). Generally more blunt, more fashionable, more open and outspoken politically, and less of a worry wart. Technically closer to Cal in age.

- cat person, tea drinker, and so many tattoos. probably piercings. i haven’t figured it out. seems to manage to eat cake at block 1912 and all the trendy instagrammable foods and drinks every day and yet has no obvious source of income. Seems to disappear into that mysterious door just off Whyte labeled “SECRET LOCATION, DO NOT ENTER” (aka a local brewery’s secret hq a close walk from the old railway station which has since been converted into a beer market). Her personal style is more rockabilly than explicitly hipster- there are a lot of retro dress shops in old Strath + tattoos + leather because Alberta

- volunteers at fringe every year and probably on a first name basis with nathan fillion. fringe/acting is her life. Has an expansive and expressive theatre ability on stage, but off it she’s just kind of ‘meh’ and indifferent and private.

- is at the farmer’s market every saturday, probably selling stuff ed has grown

- lives in an old Edwardian heritage home somewhere in Old Strath, has a fluffy white cat, bikes or takes transit everywhere.  

- likes to weld weird abstract metal... things?

- Likely the one who caused the political Orange Crush for Ed, but could care less about the Orange Crush of the sporting world. Literally could not care less about hockey because of the bad riots they cause on Whyte that keep her up at night - ‘literally no amount of alcohol is going to fix this for either of us, go home’. Her sporting passion is actually basketball and roller derby, but nobody knows that because she doesn’t tell anyone. Doesn’t ride horses, (if she does, it’s English style riding), but really loved betting on them back in the day. Has a lot of FC Edmonton merch and watches soccer games, but gave up on lacrosse when the Rush moved to Saskatchewan and broke her heart. In general, she loathes organized sport and Especially the NHL, but will watch U of A Pandas/Golden Bears games because they are cheap and accessible. 

- sex positive, just not interested in discussing her own sex life or those of people she knows. I tend to think of her as aroace-spectrum (i.e. sex neutral or favourable in certain contexts, not interested in long term romance. No gender preference. Doesn’t like dating people she knows/friends.) She recently started hosting Pride herself and it has been a great success. Only enters adult stores if they are cute and queer friendly.

------------------

Caroline / Fem!Calgary / Bowness / Northwest Calgary

History

- Used to be part of Cochrane Ranch in the golden age of cattle ranching. Grew up with kind of a southern belle/debutante lifestyle that hasn’t totally left her. 

- Younger than Cal, grew up in the golden age of ranching and in the middle of massive immigration. 

- that is, both she and calvin were raised in ranch houses learning to play croquet and polo and dressing well and having tea and so on and so forth - Caro in some ways moreso than Calvin who had previously grown up in the old NWMP fort as well and knew differently- slightly more about Calgary-the-wild/mild-west-frontier

- The ranch was later divided up into recreational parks and ice skating rinks and golf courses and houses and things - though it wasn’t part of the city, people from Calgary would come up to visit all the time by streetcar as a little mini ‘escape’. Met a lot of famous people during this period, including Fred McCall the ace wartime pilot who would fly her and Cal out to Banff for day trips 

- Joined Calgary in 1964 because the nearby town of Montgomery had already done so, so why not. 

- still has really strong class divides due to the history of the area

Looks / Personality / Interests

- Though she’s sort of a prairie princess in some ways, Caro really embraces the “tough flannel wearing” sort of image of western ladies who would ride all day to get to a dance in another town. She’s still very insistent on presenting herself as feminine and well to do, but she can’t shake the country image no matter how hard she may try to play big city socialite.

- Tall like Calvin, only slightly shorter than him. Freckles, more obvious and more numerous than Calvin’s. Pretty much an hourglassy figure and a little bit busty (c cup because the city’s dumb obsession with cs get it). When I draw her i have that terrible quote from Destroy All Humans stuck in my head i.e. “would you get a load of this brassiere? i could torpedo a uboat with these things!” because I guess I also think of her as a post-war suburban housewife secretly.

- Usually has her hair in a loose side braid but will attempt fancier up-dos for social events. It’s wavy and relatively long, past her shoulders. Pierced ears, likes long dangly earrings and Expensive jewelry. I tend to look at the Library when I draw her - I like the round wheely shapes from its history as an ATV shop and use those as jewelry, so its like Long and Round shapes for her body but she also has a pokey chin/nose/fingers etc like Calvin.

- she tries to keep her fashion sense in that sort of light and airy feminine zone but she still gets all her dresses and blouses from Lammles. Will Absolutely rock the full western jeans and flannel during stampede or on vacation in the mountains, but in the city she tries to keep it more urban and/or professional.

- bigger fan of sports than Edith, Extremely into hockey and is a Serious supporter of the Calgary Inferno. Only wears jerseys on game day, but has one in each colour for each team.

- her political views are slowly ~seeming~ to shift- being a typically right wing conservative stronghold was upset in the 2015 election and she now lives in an NDP riding which is Very Interesting. It was a split between NDP/Cons/WR 5:5:3 so you could argue the right-wing vote outnumbered the left wing 8:5, but it’s still Very Interesting, thanks First Past the Post. Generally like Calvin she is a True Blue Conservative, though she might lean more towards WR and he leans more Liberal (shocker, I know). But I won’t be able to figure out whether she’d be a UCP voter yet so we will have to Wait and See who she hates more xDD  

- that said, like many Albertans and particularly those in urban areas, Caro is fiscally conservative and socially liberal. She does take a longer time to understand issues that don’t obviously affect her and for that reason she is the sort of person to deny the feminist label even though she really aligns with it, but she’s learning. Generally really traditional and embraces femininity and the division of labour between genders, etc. WASPy. 

- generally very no-nonsense and more biting verbally than Calvin, but also very much a romantic. She can be the PTA wine mom of your worst nightmares or the harlequin heroine of your dreams, just try not to get on her bad side. She likes numbers and finances because they are straight forward and say what they mean.

- I’m still divided on where she lives. Calvin is the one with the penthouse downtown, Caroline is the one in the suburbs but she probably still owns ranchland that she likes to supervise even if she doesn’t actually live there. All her horses are named after horses from Heartland or something, probably. Dog person. Hangs out in Edworthy Park to meet dogs, probably.

- literally both the girl in pumps and a pencil skirt who drives a car2go to get groceries and also the girl in rhinestone studded boots who drives a big black truck with a huge pink flowery cursive ‘oil wife’ decal on the back window, or the pink flowery cursive ‘dirty money’ across the top.

- literally to understand caroline-as-socialite pls just watch gavin crawford’s wild west - the oil wife [part one] [part two] i swear to god i cry laughing every time at ‘how about a western theme- how about not’. Everything gets me but especially the passive aggressive ordering-dessert-for-everyone and staring them down until she gets her way. You know what, just watch all of the shorts, it’s a brilliant series.

[prestonwardffxiv]

Character Survey: Preston Ward

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Preston Ward

NICKNAME: ‘The Viper’

AGE: 28

BIRTHDAY: The 23rd Sun of the Fifth Umbral Moon

ETHNIC GROUP: Hyur Midlander

NATIONALITY: Ul’dahn

LANGUAGE(S): Common, Ishgardian, Thavnarian (conversationally)

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Heterosexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Hetero-romantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Taken

CLASS: Monetarist

HOMETOWN / AREA: Horizon, Western Thanalan

CURRENT HOME: Ul’dah/Mist

PROFESSION: Proprietor of the Sapphire Avenue Trust

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Dark Brown

EYES: Amber

NOSE: Strong

FACE: Ovular.

LIPS: Full and usually pursed slightly

COMPLEXION: Tanned skin, free of blemishes and imperfections

BLEMISHES: None

SCARS: Several scars along his chest and back, faded from time. One fresh scar on the right side of his rib-cage. His largest scar resides on his right leg; Being a C-shaped burn marking hidden behind a large, raised self-inflicted scar.

TATTOOS: One full sleeve encasing his left arm and extending onto part of his chest and back. The pattern combines Ul’dahn and Ishgardian elements. The Scales of Ul’dah lay inlaid in the design near his shoulder.

HEIGHT: 6′2

WEIGHT: 195 ponze.

BUILD: Fit and toned, moreso than what one would expect of a desk-jockey.

FEATURES: None that stand out.

ALLERGIES: Shellfish.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Short-cropped and well maintained, styled forward with precise care. Three lines lay shaved into the right side of his head below the crown.

USUAL FACE LOOK: Preston carries himself with a standing dead-panned expression. A titular poker-face to be worn at all time. His eyes are piercing, however. Always seeing through their targets.

USUAL CLOTHING: Preston dresses with extreme care and thought to his direct outward appearance. Most often found in a four piece suit sans the jacket. Casually Preston is still a snappy dresser. Always ready to take in and receive the best of Ul’dah’s upper classes.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR(S): Becoming his father, someone he cares for dying because of his actions.

ASPIRATION(S): Preston dreams of putting an end to the slaving system of Ul’dah. Most recently, his mindset has shifted slightly to securing a stable and safe future for his lover’s children.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Ambitious, Driven, Charismatic, Thoughtful

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Stubborn, Secretive, Deceptive, Overconfident

ZODIAC: Aries

TEMPERAMENT: Composed.

JOB STONE(S): Red Mage (Currently Training)

ANIMALS: His nickname-sake, a black viper.

VICE  HABIT(S): Preston is known to over-indulge in liquor when dealing with something. He is also known to seclude himself.

Patron Deity: Nald’thal.

GHOSTS?: Yes.

AFTERLIFE?: Yes.

REINCARNATION?: No.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Royalist.

SOCIO POLITICAL POSITION: Monetarist.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Self-taught. (College-level equivalent)

FAMILY

FATHER: Bayard Ballard (Alive, Age 60)

MOTHER: Senna Ballard (Deceased, Aged 46)

SIBLINGS: None.

CHILDREN: Guardian to his lover’s children, Miwa & Mirai Rilemont (Alive; Twins, 6 Months Currently)

NAME MEANING(S): Preston’s name does not hold any form of significance. It is a chosen moniker.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: Romance and Drama.

DEITY: Nald’thal.

HOLIDAY: Heavensturn/All Saint’s Wake

MONTH: October

SEASON: Autumn

PLACE: Ul’dah, Othard, The Black Shroud

WEATHER: Sunny with a slight breeze.

SOUND: Singing.

SCENT(S): Roses/floral scents.

TASTE(S): Mint.

FEEL(S): Dated parchment.

ANIMAL(S): Ravens/Snakes.

NUMBER: 12

COLORS: Amber, Black, White, Gold

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Singing, Writing, Winning Arguments.

BAD AT: Letting others in.

TURN ONS: Confidence and Passion.

TURN OFFS: People who make assumptions, Classism, Racism, Lack of self-confidence.

HOBBIES: Singing, Reading, Writing, Working.

TROPES: N/A

AESTHETIC TAGS: Royal Aesthetic, Business Aesthetic

FC INFO.

MAIN  FC(S): Nick Bateman

ALT FC(S): N/A

OLDER FC(S): N/A

YOUNGER  FC(S): N/A

VOICE CLAIM(S): Cullen from DA:I

GENDERBENT FC(S): N/A

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1: IF YOU COULD WRITE YOUR CHARACTER YOUR WAY IN THEIR OWN MOVIE, WHAT WOULD IT BE CALLED, WHAT STYLE WOULD IT BE FILMED IN, AND WHAT WOULD IT BE ABOUT?:

I think Preston would fit into a movie along the same lines as The Wolf of Wall Street. By that same token, he would also fit well into a Game of Thrones style TV show/movie if he were to play a role similar to Petyr Baelish. A large inspiration for Preston’s character lies in the show Suits. As for a name, I have no idea. 

Q2: WHAT WOULD THEIR SOUNDTRACK / SCORE SOUND LIKE?:

The album Death of a Bachelor by Panic! At the Disco has become something of an apt soundtrack for Preston.

Q3: WHY DID YOU START WRITING THIS CHARACTER?:

Preston was a character concept that I had shelved for over a year. I first came to write his concept when I first started roleplaying, but never found the right time to bring him in until recently when I found myself with a bit of a lull with my other characters.

Q4: WHAT FIRST ATTRACTED YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?:

Preston is.. Complicated in a very intriguing and fun way. Previously my characters had some form of major combat ability, whereas Preston is just your average NPC-strength character. This forces him to find his way through situations using his wit and skilled tongue as opposed to resorting directly to violence as a means to an end. Preston is very careful and tactile; Choosing his words as weapons and choosing them wisely. I had never played an affluent character before; And he is also my first foray into playing a politically driven character.

Q5: DESCRIBE THE BIGGEST THING YOU DISLIKE ABOUT YOUR MUSE:

My biggest issue thus far is likely the misconception that he has some form of ulterior motive to everything that he does. While that’s true for most of what he does, it does not hold true for everything.

Q6: WHAT DO YOU HAVE IN COMMON WITH YOUR MUSE?:

Preston’s wit and argumentative nature is pulled directly from me, I think. He loves a good battle of words, and so do I.

Q7: HOW DOES YOUR MUSE FEEL ABOUT YOU?:

I think Preston would.. I don’t know. He probably wouldn’t bother with me because I’m broke and he’s a wealthy man on a mission. I’d just be common rabble to him.

Q8: WHAT CHARACTERS DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE INTERESTING INTERACTIONS WITH?

Preston has had a wild ride since I created him. A lot has happened in a little over a month, and a lot of that (okay well all of it) has had to do with the lovely folks of the Golden Arcana, including his lover Orianna Chant.

Q9: WHAT GIVES YOU INSPIRATION TO WRITE YOUR MUSE?:

Well the game he was created in, Final Fantasy XIV. Wouldn’t have ever started roleplaying were it not for that game and its community. But I think my main inspiration is drawn from the satisfaction I get each time I wrap a scene up with him. He’s a constant challenge to play, and I can feel and watch him grow. It’s rewarding.

Q10: HOW LONG DID THIS TAKE YOU TO COMPLETE?:

Much longer than I’m willing to admit. xD

[opendoorlorien]

Mystic Messenger ruined my life and killed my crops (srsly tho fucking Yoosung's route had so many of my triggers I wish someone had warned me...) that game stressed me out so bad (but Zen's route almost made up for it if it hadn't been for the whole "if you stay I won't be able to control myself" bs that rly ruined it tbfuckinh)

YES OMG. The same exact thing happened with my friend when she did Yoosung’s route, and it got so bad she doesnt even like talking about it bc it just makes her repulsed lol. I think a big thing is too is that these characters really feel like real people? I mean sure there’s exaggerated humor and circumstances but the way they text you and talk nearly feel like you’re talking to an actual person. Maybe even moreso with Yoosung because I think he’s probably the easiest character to relate to personally since he’s a struggling school student and I think most of us are like that lol (and even if you’re not, his troubles and concerns about finding what he wants to do in the future are REAL). Even when the climax of Yoosung’s route effectively happened off screen it was still like raw af you know.

I was actually aiming for Zen at first but of c got rail roaded into Yoosung’s. But after doing Yoosung’s I immediately wanted to do Jumin’s and I think I had enough hourglasses or w/e for it so I started it right away.

Like, during Yoosung’s route I found Jumin to be a very respectable person who was very mature and composed and thoughtful, and had interesting insights on a lot of the troubles Yoosung had in his route, and provided a lot of nice food for thought on the matter too. Not only that but I kind of have a thing for tall dark and handsome rich dudes in pinstripe suits who are assertive and in control (SWEATS). And Jumin’s route went pretty well for a while until he went from projecting on his cat to projecting REALLY hard on you. I remember the exact moment where I went from “WOW THIS ROUTE IS REALLY GOOD JUMIN IS COOL” to “HOLY FUCK GET ME OUT OF HERE ABORT MISSION ABORT.” And that was where you try to leave for the first time and he pushes you against the wall and is like “why do you want to leave? I’m taking care of you and you’re safe here. Why don’t you appreciate all I’m doing for you here” ect. 

Now, for me, I don’t mind dominance and control. If anything it’s probably a charm point to me, in good measure. But there is a fine line from “good dominance and control” to “bad”. And that moment was when Jumin jumped right over the line into bad territory for me. Especially when in the following scene he makes you wear the clothes he wants to see on you like you’re a gd dress up doll and makes you have dinner with him. I kinda felt like puking tbh. The route was totally an emotional roller coaster too because there were some moments where his possessiveness was like “GOD NO” but then other times where he’d like read you a gd bedtime story and said things like “I can’t sort all my emotions out properly right now, but I hope in time I can better express myself to you” and also him like making you pancakes and shit. And then two seconds later he’d be like “anyway there’s a cage in the apartment how about you try going in LOL”

Funny thing too was that I’d play the game on my work breaks which aren’t very long like 10-15min, and by the time I went back to work I’d be like screaming internally for the rest of the shift. Like I remember feeling shellshocked.

Even at the end of the route I’m not entirely sure Jumin gets “heal” necessarily. He’s… “better” but its clear you’re still the center of his world and if anything happened to you it’d probably break him on every level. Although in time he might get a bit better, but still. 

The route was a total ride. Even now I still feel kind of shaken up about the entire thing, kind of like remembering a bad past relationship or something like that. But at the same time I still kind of like Jumin too? Because like I said before he’s a pretty respectable and sometimes even funny person in his other routes. Like you feel a sense of security with him there, since he’s in control of the situation and always seems to know what to do and how to manage things? And before I played his route I felt like I understood him and knew where he was coming from. But his route itself revealed a much darker and deeper side of him I didn’t really expect. Like I’d HEARD about the shit in his route, but you never really know until you go play it right (I thought I was ready. I was wrong). But like I said I still can’t really hate him, and sometimes end up missing him. Because he DOES have a lot of things that I find REALLY attractive in a person physically and personality wise but itsssssssss just likeekekee

I also did do Zen and Jaehee’s routes later on. I enjoyed Zen’s to some effect, it was pretty good and it did help take off some of the edge of Jumin’s route. I also love when he comes and rescues you from “the hacker” and kicks down the god damn door to your apartment and saves you. THANKS ZEN. And I know the “I wont be able to hold myself back with you” thing is a turn on for some people. I’m kind of on the fence about it though LOL.

Jaehee’s route was also okay but kind of boring because 80% of your input after the halfpoint of the route is “cheer up Jaehee!” but I do like how she sticks it to Jumin–who btw acts like a childish idiot in her route and made me kinda dislike him more.

I also never did 707’s route and never found out the “true sinister hidden secrets of RFA” and ect. I could look it up on the wiki but I’m too lazy. The game was DEFINITELY an experience and much more raw and personable than I was expecting it to be. I think it messed a lot of us up anon LOL.

[carina-debayle]

The Hearts Weakness

Log Date: 1/12/17

OOC Note: The text in these logs are strictly for the readers enjoyment. Anyone using the knowledge displayed within this text without the participants knowledge risks the potential of blacklisting from future communication and roleplay. Please do not meta-game!

Warning: Long-ish log!

Tags: @jancisstuff @darkknightsbread

I had been busy bustling around for Jancis’ visit. A part of me knew she didn’t expect anything exciting, but just because she didn’t expect it didn’t mean she didn’t deserve it. Every time I met with her, I always felt so nervous. She was so unlike Saiya... so much softer and friendlier. When had I grown accustomed to friendships being that in which I was treated coldly? It was not as though I felt scored toward Saiya’s treatment, I knew how she was was simply how she was, and I never took it personally. Jancis’ still felt so foreign to me, like perhaps... what it felt like to have someone treat you like a friend. Least what I always figured a friendship felt like. Was it pathetic to think I had never experienced that? Always so used to feeling lower than others... that was a feeling that was slowly starting to change, and she was certainly taking part in that. Though I did wonder... when we got closer, would she trust me with the harsher more real side of her? If it even existed. Would I share with her what I had with my past friends... if I could call them that.

Having gotten lost in my thoughts... I wonder if she was close by?...

Carina Roussos had just finished very carefully setting up a tray of tea and cookies she had prepared. Hopefully the woman wouldn't notice the trail of crumbs still slightly left over from Carina's miserable topple earlier as she had to scramble to redo everything. Thankfully she had Joseph to help hide the scene. Motioning her hands happily as she thought it looked just right, Carina quickly moved over to the door to crack it open and look outside.

Jancis Milburga stood in the hallway, looking at the numbers and plants, signs on the doors for each. She wasn't looking the correct direction at least yet, carrying something in her arms. Her head turned at the sound of a door opening.

Carina Roussos: "Jancis! You're here," Carina exclaimed out rather excitingly before clearing her throat to perhaps look less like an enthused child, "please, come in. Don't need to be standing out there! It's cold enough in this building as it is from the weather outside. I apologize about the chilliness. Armont and Hestia like it cold, but I am afraid I do not follow such passion. The fire is all I can offer unfortunately," she places a hand to her burnt cheek, sighing out pitifully.

Jancis Milburga cannot match in pitch, but does in excitement, closing the distance between herself and the door, "Carina!" Murmuring a thank you as she came in, she beamed about the space, "Nophica's Bounty. Live like the Sultana!" Murmuring a thank you, she looks at the fireplace. "I am safe and comfortable. How are you? Sir Armont? Little Hestia? Enjoying the cold down the hall? I brought something for her. If that is all right, that is. Is it?"

Carina Roussos claps her hands together, "oh I would hardly call this living like the Sultana... but I quite like it. Small area's have always brought me comfort..." she chuckles out, bringing a hand up to scratch her messy blonde hair, "a gift for Hestia? Oh I am sure she will love it, she is at her class in Gridania at the moment. Guillemont will be dropping her back home in time. I am sure whatever it is, she will love it," the Hyur nods, before glancing down at her outfit, "oh... goodness! I completely spaced out! I am not even dressed for guests..." her hands move to her cheeks in embarrassment, having clearly grown to dressing more formally since marrying her rather pretentious husband.  Glancing about, Carina sighs, "I suppose this will have to do."

Jancis Milburga frees a hand to rub her cheek, her hand snapping up as she recalled, “If most of us are ashamed of shabby clothes and shoddy furniture let us be more ashamed of shabby ideas and shoddy philosophies.... It would be a sad situation if the wrapper were better than the meat wrapped inside it. Well. What I think he meant moreso was you are you regardless. I am quite happy to see you and not a display of yourself. If that makes sense. Jancis Milburga smushes her face, "I prefer it, really."

Carina Roussos: "Ah... you're right. I suppose I have gotten a bit carried away in Ishgard’s standards. It can be hard to remember that at a time, this was normal dressing for me..." Carina raises her eyes toward the woman, her face filled with some disbelief, "I..." she fiddled with her fingers some, "I like it too. It brings back fond memories," her voice comes out strained as she quickly works to clear the emotion that lingered behind them and lead Jancis farther in, "I have prepared some tea, and made some chocolate cookies. You are not allergic to chocolate are you?" she laughs awkwardly, "if not I can also make a pot of cocoa. I know some prefer something sweeter to help them through the cold. You can keep Hestia's gift here on the table if you wish."

Jancis Milburga smiles at Carina and nods, "I like tea." She couldn't help but smile as Carina went on with offerings and helping. She places the bag down while curling up in one of the chairs. "I know Denz really likes sweet drinks. A little sweet goes so far. A cookie would be most generous with tea, thank you. I like how you dress, too. Always wore skirts and dresses in stories I would read. But then even wearing them, so odd to have nothing else. By far, I mean I like it for a long time. I heard it town."

Carina Roussos: "I... I am not particularly fond of skirts... found I was always a rather rambunctious child. Trousers were always my go to..." she moved to sit beside the woman, "most dresses I end up wearing for events I tend to wear trousers under. Especially after this one time..." she snorts out, running a hand through her hair, "goodness that was terrible!"

Jancis Milburga: "The dress was terrible?"

Carina Roussos: "Oh no the dress was gorgeous!" she sighed out some, "it was beautiful... a young tailor boy made it for me. Poor thing had a bit of a ah... crush I suppose. He was... he was a good boy," her eyes fell some, "I can hardly forget that night, have a rather large scar just over my rib from it. It was very adventurous."

Jancis Milburga leans forward, looking up at her glance. "It looks like a very happy memory. But no leg scar, so trousers?"

Carina Roussos: "Well unfortunately the dress was torn some when I needed to confront some rebels during a ball. I felt slightly awkward exposing so much skin. It just feels better to wear trousers any how," she waves her hand about.

Jancis Milburga: "Oh. I had not thought of that." Her face kept a curious puzzled expression. "Did you get to dance? I do not mean fighting."

Carina Roussos laughs, "somewhat... not with who I really wanted to dance with unfortunately. He was kept rather busy," she sighs, placing her elbow on the table as she squished her cheek onto it. "It all started as a great night... unfortunately though, the young boy who had prepared the dress for me ended up stabbing me by the end of the night. So I suppose it hadn't ended too well."

Jancis Milburga: "That scar?! What did he stab you with? He must have felt so guilty! Would have dressed you in apologies and requests for forgiveness!"

Carina Roussos merely waves a hand, shaking her head, "the boy was blinded by his vengeance and I was simply a tool to meet and end. Much to his own misfortune though, he chose the wrong person to prey one as Hito would have hardly lifted a finger when faced with my injury," she purses her lips, seemingly displeased to have to say such but shrugs any how, "he was not a bad boy. I understood his pain and I do not hold it against it. Had only I was able to do more to help him... he met his own end and left his younger sister to fend for herself. A truly saddening turn of events."

Jancis Milburga watches Carina's face and expression even as her own shoulders lower. "That is far more sadder than I had anticipated. Forgive me." Her face turns thoughtful, "I am sure what you did was all that could be. Even with the Twelve to guide, rivers run dry. Taking the poor course. I would say that I enjoy clothing very much, but it feels like the topic has changed. Sir Guillemont stays here often? He came by late after the. The ice sculptures were done. I have not forgotten that debt."

Carina Roussos reaches for a cookie, looking it over some, "things happen for a reason. I had attempted to find his sister, but she was taken by the rebel group for 'safe keeping'. I only hope such ended up true..." she shakes her head, "I am sorry... I have a rather poor habit of bringing up bad memories. I hope I did not down on your day too much," Carina considers this, "he does not come around here to stay very oftens, but he does enjoy spending time with Hestia. I think he likes her wild imagination."

Jancis Milburga: "It must make him feel like a fish. Few things bring out his real emotion. Please do not apologize. I like your memories regardless; moreso that you share heavy ones with me."

Carina Roussos: "I have many, I'm afraid. They weigh heavy on my heart... but I do not wish to burden others with that same weight," she smiles some, taking a bite of the cookie in her hand as she chewed and swallowed, "Guillemont is an interesting man. Strange as can be, but I am strange as well. I find it to be endearing. I think he is a good friend for Hestia. Hopefully she will keep that strange and wide imagination as she grows... I know life is good at chipping that away."

Jancis Milburga laughs lightly, "Thaliak knows that. Or mayhaps does not." She pauses, drinking the tea thoughtfully, “Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere.” Leaning back, she looks at Carina, "She will learn chipping from you. Your example. Do you imagine anything? Or use to, perchance?"

Carina Roussos sighs, holding her bitten cookie with both hands, "Hydaelyn knows I fear that the most... though it is unavoidable, isn't it? I... I did have something in mind for Hestia," she shakes her head, "but it is... it is a terrible fate. I am afraid vocalizing..." she shakes her wild hair some, "I just wish for her to follow her own path. I know she will be injured along the way, so I suppose all I can truly hope for is that I can be there to help her when she falls and keep pushing her forward."

Jancis Milburga: "Like how you get injured?"

Carina Roussos glanced down to her cookie, "yes... I know the sufferings that the world loves to inflict. It is quite sadistic. I know I can not shield her from such wounds, but perhaps I can be there to make it better... when I had no one to help mine."

Jancis Milburga wraps her hands around her chair, the squeaking of wood scooting closer to Carina's. "It is hard to be alone."

Carina Roussos: "I am not anymore..." she says out with some hopefulness lacing her words, "and yet, I know most would not understand the storm that brews within. I can hardly speak to Armont about it at times..." her face scrunches up as she sits up, "agh, I am... I'm so sorry! I always do this!" she places her hands to her forehead, "must I always ruin the aura with my behaviour... please forgive me Jancis."

Jancis Milburga reaches up, putting her hand on Carina's forehead, too. "You do not feel hot. And you are acting as you want to. Have not ruined anything." Her eyes widen on the creamy textured face of her friend. "I know not how you could ruin anything." Removing her hand, the conjurer turns to face Carina, tea down by the pile of cookies. "Many Turns I live alone. Guardian did not count; did not care for talking or time together only training and chores. The hunt, the gathering, the storing. Preparing for winter. Fishing. Swimming. I. I almost wish to not think about it lest I slip back into the storm of that feral thinking. To only survive. You and I do more than survive now. Though it is quite cold like winter in here."

Carina Roussos allows her face to drop once more, "it does... remind me of when I used to live with Corbin. In the wilderness of the Shroud. We did much we could to survive. I liked to believe all we had were one another, but in time I realized even he had his own life to live... and I was left catching bugs and plants alone," Carina looks over to Jancis, "were those times fond to you... or are they memories that anchor you from seeing the gifts you have now?" Carina redirected her eyes back toward the grain of the table, as though she already knew the answer to her question. "You deserved better than loneliness Jancis... you are far too kind. I was a terrible child. I was terrible to everyone I met... and I deserve nothing from it. I do not deserve my bitter tears."

Jancis Milburga picks up one of the cookies, looking it over before taking a bite, truly enjoying it and something the cookie represented. "You are not and were not terrible. I cannot hear that about you. Children are not terrible. They are strong, and those that are not broken by darkness in this world grow up to save it. No, you do not deserve bitter tears at all." She takes another bite, "I do not feel fondness, no, fond was not something. Not like that. When I realized it, then everything I could get. Anything I could find to read and hide and see. That became fond. I am fond of now. When the moon fell, and I found what I had been reading about. Thaliak only knew we were in the same boughs somewhere, waiting for something to be fond of together." Jancis stuffs the rest of the cookie in her mouth, gluttonously enjoying it with slow overly big chews that nearly make her lips part. A muffled, "Like this cookie." can be heard.

Carina Roussos watches her for a moment, laughing out some as she watched her. Her face remained rather joyous for a seconds before swiftly breaking down, heavy tears plopping down her cheeks as she rested her head onto the table in defeat, "I... I wish I had such ambition... you make me out to seem so strong, Jancis. And yet I feel I am but a broken woman, still grasping for shards of what I once held dear. How could I... how can I ever expect to raise my daughter like this... to help my husband..." Carina hides her faces within her arms, "you... you of all people must understand..." she sniffs, raising her head some as she wiped her face, "I am a glutton for sorrow... I wish to be the light of others who find nothing but darkness in their path. And when they find they can not help themselves, then I am only heartbroken more. Torn... between them... between my new family... between my past. I don't know what to do... I have... I have never even... gotten to speak about it..."

Jancis Milburga moves to sit on the edge of her chair, watching Carina with saddening eyes, taking in all of the slumped posture and cradled face, to the emotional voice. The caring look was searching, not full of answers, "How do we get what you need to speak?"

Carina Roussos shakes her head, "it hurts me even more... to do this to you. I invited you here to speak with... to become better friends. All I have done is forced my bitter mentality in your face. I am so ashamed..."

Jancis Milburga: "Does that not make us better friends? Because if it does please forced it more into my face."

Carina Roussos sniffs, looking up to Jancis with a pitiful expression, "I... I just do not wish to make you sad..."

Jancis Milburga reaches out, some of Jancis' puffy sleeve bumping Carina's face as she tries to wipe away tears. "I did not think it was  wish. Forgive me, I cannot help it." Echoes of tears reflected in her eyes, “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”

Carina Roussos takes a deep breath, composing herself some as she sat up and looked over to the woman, "would you... would you mind... if I shared my troubles with you? If not at least... my deepest? The one that still wounds me the most..."

Jancis Milburga mimics the movement a bit, sitting up with her hands on her lap. "No, no I would not mind."

Carina Roussos takes another breath before clearing her throat some, "it is... you remember... all that time ago when I told you of a man named Hito? How he and Denz shared similarities? How they both deemed themselves unworthy of love?"

Jancis Milburga nods slowly, her eyes unfocusing as she ponders the question, "Some, yes."

Carina Roussos sighs, "my heart is heavy. Hito... he is a man who deserves happiness. And I loved him so dearly and so fondly... the days I was able to put a smile on his face... were some of my favourites," she laughed out painfully, "he... did not... he decided he would not be with me. That it would be too much for me," Carina purses her lips, "what a terrible thing. Would he have told me could never love me back, would have been a better fate. I am happy with Armont, I have a family and I should be so grateful... and I feel nothing but guilt. Guilt that he is alone. That he has destined himself to futility. That he will never have a family," Carina brings a hand to her chest, "how... do I live with that. How do you move on from that sort of pain?" she looked to Jancis for some sort of answer. Any sort of guidance. I wish you were able to have seen it... the sheer dilapidation of his home due to his own self-deprecation. It made me sick. I had vowed that I would give him happiness, that I would change his fate. And... I failed."

Jancis Milburga tears did well up in her eyes as she listened, clearly thinking before the slow answer. "I am not sure." Her voice was quiet, "It does not make sense, which might hurt just as much. Because you did give happiness. And hope. Acceptance. It does not make sense why he felt his past sins made him not accept it."

Carina Roussos exhales, "Hito is a strange man... a lovely wonderfully strange man. However his hands are stained... but not of his own accord. I could never help him see that he deserved the forgiveness he so thoroughly believed was impossible to achieve," Carina looked to Jancis, "it was a war... he was following orders. I can not blame them for haunting him, but even I have killed with my own hands. Those lives weigh on my shoulders... but I would not let them chain me from moving on?" Carina snorts at the irony of her statement, "and yet I let him do so. I just... wish for my heart to rest, but he makes it so difficult. Even now he is my dearest friend..." Carina stared forward, "but... perhaps it is for the better. He can't even love himself? He could never show me the compassion in his heart as he wallowed in his own pain. Perhaps... it was and still is not fair to put myself through such. As much as I loved and will always love Hito... I can not be his keeper."

Jancis Milburga: "Curious... I read from a great leader in war that the 'courage to continue is what counts.' You being happy, still giving all you possess the bright strength that glows inside, even if it is not directly to him, he surely cares for you and in this sacrifice, though I do not agree with his thoughts or methods on this path, knowing you are happy will grant him some solace?" Jancis murmurs a bit, "Makes me think of Barengar, way you speak of him."

Carina Roussos squishes her lips together, "he... he said that to me. When he came to visit me... it was actually just before Hestia's birth. Before the story reading at the Bismarck," she choked out, "gods I must've looked like a bumbling fool... I could hardly keep myself together. That was the last I spoke to him. He... he told me it brought him happiness to know I could find someone who I could have a family with. Who could treat me how I should have been treated," she plants her hands to the table. Carina glances over to Jancis slowly, giving a short nod, "you will... forgive my selfishness. I figured perhaps... you would understand, I know you might have been in a similar standing."

Jancis Milburga stares at Carina as a twinge of pain goes through her. "I understand. There is still hope. To be there, to be the friend and share that love for who might come. Who might finish your work. To include him and welcome into your own happiness. To be happy for you and mayhaps grow from your continued presence. Though, in my standing, it was my choice."

Carina Roussos nods, exhaling out some as she sniffled, "I know... it was not an easy decision," she frowns, "but I am sure in my heart, that Denz does you justice. You deserve but the best Jancis. Honestly and truly."

Jancis Milburga gives Carina a sad smile, some of the tears spilling out to trickle down a cheek. "He is quite wonderful; I love him very much. He is so patient with me." The smile grows a bit, "Sir Armont. No, I suppose Armont, yes that. He does you the same justice. And you give him so much. Far more than either of us could have finding him out in the snow that night."

Carina Roussos laughs out, finding some purity in talking on her husband, "Armont is... Armont is different from Hito. In ways I could never compare the two. He loves me..." she says out in almost disbelief, "and he disagrees with me, and rolls around in the grass and laughs with me. I do not hold Armont on a pedestal as to me? He is truly my other half. He helps to keep me together as I help him. I... really do love Armont," she sighs out. Carina  raises a hand to touch Jancis' cheek, looking to her, "it hurts me to see you cry... but it also feel so raw and invigorating... to know someone feels so much. Thank you Jancis... for wanting to hear my wounds. I can only hope that you may some day come to me for the same. I would thank the gods for such a friend, but truly I am grateful I was able find comfort with you," she lowers her hand from the woman's face, it damp from her tears.

Jancis Milburga smiles, her face creasing as her eyes look gratefully across, though she doesn't apologize for Carina's wet hand, "It shows. That is one thing stories fail to really grasp is... how hard it is to have something so important." Taking a deep shaking breath, she reaches for the teacup, holding it in both hands. "I think we found some together." Jancis pushes over the bag. "You know Little Hestia best. How she should come to receive this token I leave to you."

Carina Roussos: "I think so as well..." she remarks out in a whisper, "it feels light... my chest. It feels better to have someone to speak to... at least someone who can empathize," she smiles, her eyes widening some as she takes the toy into her hand, "oh Hestia will absolutely adore this! She is quite fond of the strange," she snorts out in a laugh, glancing over toward the front door as it opens.

Jancis Milburga admits, "Being strong is exhausting." laughing awkwardly before standing as the door opens up.

Hestia De'bayle cracks the door open wider and slides in, running inside as her arms flail about behind her, a parchment in her hands. "Mommy! Mommy I-" she stops short, nearly skidding in place, "Jancy! Oh goodness" she wobbles about, "I-I did not know you were here!" she cried out before bowing, "hello."

Jancis Milburga echoes the bow, "Good eve, Little Hestia. I am so happy to see you once again; I heard you were off at a class so I am even more happy to be here after that." She leans forward a moment, blocking Carina from Hestia's view, albeit briefly, as she leaned over the table. "How was it?"

Hestia De'bayle: "Good! I drew this picture," she raised the drawing up, it a big blob of purple, "do you know what it is?" she asks out excitingly, bopping up and down on her boots.

Carina Roussos moves to swiftly wipe at her face, nearly in precision at seemed it was something she was quite used to doing. Once being sure she was composed, Carina leaned forward to smile down at her daughter's drawing, "oh, it's beautiful Hestia. Look at how colorful it is!"

Hestia De'bayle puts her mittens to her mouth in a shushing motion, "Mommy nooo don't say it, I want Jancy to guess!"

Jancis Milburga: "Byregot's Hand! It is so bright and brilliant! I am not versed in art so much, it reminds me a lot of little Joseph." Jancis bends down, looking for the stoic beast, comparing the two, before handing the drawing to Carina to let her look closer, "It really captures his purple. What is he doing in the drawing?"

Hestia De'bayle: "Yay! She got it," Hestia cheered out happily, "It is Jojo..." she lowered the picture to her face, pressing her head back some as she inspected the image proudly, "I think he will like it," the girls attentions is nearly immediately drawn away as she notices the cookies on the table, her little body moving over to be eye level with the platter as she slipped the picture onto the surface. "Mommy! Can I have one?" she asked out softly, as if trying to stay calm.

Carina Roussos: "Hm? Oh of course, feel free," she smiled, reaching over to pick up the picture and glance it over herself, "my Hestia... you certainly do not get your artistic talent from your mother! By the way dear, Jancis brought you a gift!" she beckons her daughter over.

Hestia De'bayle snatched up a cookie, bobbing on her feet excitingly as she began to stuff it into her mouth. Blinking over to her mother, she continued devouring the snack as she moved around the table, "awh prwesnet?" she muffled out.

Carina Roussos picks up the garlic jester stuffed plush, lowering it down to her, "isn't it cute?" she smiled widely, moving it about some.

Hestia De'bayle finished devouring the cookie into her mouth as she opened her ruby hued eyes widely. Letting out a soft gasp, the girl took the plush into her hands, "he's... beautiful..." she cried out, embracing it into her arms lovingly. "Thank you Jancy! I love him..." she smiled joyfully as she brought the plush up to kiss it.

Jancis Milburga watches the two interact with quiet wonder, the soreness of crying before easing from her eyes. "The seedkin are known as valiant protectors of their family and tend to their homes to make them blossom. Much like you, yes? You are very welcome. Shall have to write stories and read about them sometime together. If you like, I mean."

Hestia De'bayle: "Mmm... I like to write. My teacher says I write letters wrong sometimes, but I practice. You would like to write with me?" she asks out excitingly, hugging the jester in her arms as she ran around to be close to Jancis, "we will need to build him a home. A big one so we can fit Tomtom and Big Eye and Booboo," Hestia eyes the Jester, poking her nose to it, "I will name him Stinky! But I still love him."

Jancis Milburga sits down, giving Hestia a better look now closer to the same height. "I would like to! Very much so! I would like to see yours first, if that is okay." She touches the plush, "Stinky fits him well. Having garlic breath and all."

Hestia De'bayle: "His friends don't mind. They give him chocolates with mints to help his breath..." she says out in a matter of fact tone, as if she hadn't just received the toy right that moment. Hestia bobs on her feet some, "I would like to show you, I will bring my journal Mommy gave me to write in," Hestia leans up to whisper to Jancis, "I need to get ready for bed when I come home."

Jancis Milburga leans down to listen, "All right. I will wait here,” she says in reply as Hestia runs off to her room, "Althyk's Mercy, she is tall."

Carina Roussos smiles warmly, nodding some, "she is half-Elezen... and here I thought her growing from before was out of control, even normally she is still like a beanstalk!" Carina laughs, "I know it grows late, I would hate to keep you much longer..." she rubs a hand to the back of her head. "Hestia shouldn't be too much longer, her onsies are pretty easy for her to get into on her own now."

Jancis Milburga disagrees, tone softer and wistful, "I would like to be kept. We can write a bit until sleep?"

Hestia De'bayle peaks around the corner, dawning her fluffy behemoth onsie shyly, her book in hand. "Here I am..." she says out quietly, wobbling forward as she wiggles herself up onto a chair.

Jancis Milburga: "Now you look like little Joseph, too!"

Hestia De'bayle: "Aww... I do love Jojo..." she smiles down to the behemoth, who looked up to her with a surprisingly fond stare. Squatting down, she pat the beasts head softly before straightening herself once more and placing the book onto the table with her pencil. "Uhmm... Mommy... I know that... this book was for writing... but I drew some pictures in it too! I'm sorry..."

Carina Roussos: "Oh Hestia that's alright. Goodness you act as though I harp on you over everything," she 'tsks' out with a smile, "you are free to do what you like with the book dear, I said it was a writing book but that does not mean only words must be placed within it. Sometimes the best of stories are the ones that come with vivid images!"

Jancis Milburga nods in agreement, "Words and pictures go together. That is how words started!"

Hestia De'bayle: "Oohh..." she murmured out softly, her chin lowered to her chest some as she reached out to open the journal, many different scribbling attempts at writing sentences and colorful pictures to follow, "I just... I thought if people could not understand... maybe the pictures would help. It's... messy..." she says out bashfully, "I tried to write fancy words like Papa, but they are even harder to read!"

Jancis Milburga joins Hestia on the other side, "May I?" She looks over, "That is a very good way to communicate. Like the signs in town. Many do not read letters as such." She purses her lips looking at the writing."Which hand does he write with?"

Hestia De'bayle: "Papa writes with this hand..." Hestia murmurs out, raising her left hand up to Jancis, "I try to write with my other, but it didn't feel as comfortable... "

Jancis Milburga asks, "Left. Next time will it be fun for both of you to try writing with the right hand? It will show how much practice he has done to make his letters look fancy. Plus I think it will be fun. Oh! Or if he had to close his eyes..."

Hestia De'bayle presses her hands to her eyes, "if your eyes are closed... how do you write?!" she asks out curiously, lowering her hands from her eyes to look toward Jancis, "can you write with both hands?"

A knock sounds from the outside of the door, before slowly opening the door Denz peeking inside. "Hello?"

Jancis Milburga nods slowly, "Yes. I had a lot of time to practice both of them. But my left feels more comfortable at it."

Hestia De'bayle gasps out, "you do!? The other kids in my class write with the other... so does Mommy!"

Carina Roussos nods, watching her daughter fondly, bringing her hand up to wave, "indeed, I am right handed Hestia!"

Jancis Milburga immediately brightens as she recognizes the voice behind her, somehow more, as she looks at Hestia. "Looks like we have a little something in common. I wonder which your uncle Denz favors."

Carina Roussos: "Oh! Denz... how embarrassing I nearly missed you coming in," she laughed, "come inside!"

Hestia De'bayle: "Uncy Den!" Hestia cheered, "have you come to write?"

Jancis Milburga beams with delight at Denz De'bayle.

Denz De'bayle 's eyes look to Jancis, raising his eyebrows before he comes fully into the room, wearing the rather open shirt Vaughn had gifted him. Clearing his throat, he looks down to Carina. "I did not bring my weapon to fight you. Is that alright?" He looks at Hestia. "Is she still mad at me?" His face shows mock worry as he comes in to endearingly squeeze Jancis' arm.

Carina Roussos: "You know I might not have thought about it have you not mentioned anything," she smirks.

Jancis Milburga lifts her hand enough to brush over the fancy fabric of Denz's sleeve in return, her smile still bright. "We were enjoying cookies. There is cocoa as well somewhere. Also, you do me a great justice, Denz."

Carina Roussos laughs, "that he does..." she nods, "I suppose you do snuff some of my ire. This time," she winks.

Denz De'bayle stretches his mouth awkwardly towards Carina, shrugging helplessly with a grin, before looking at Jancis in confusion. "I... do? What is said justice? I don't remember smiting anything in the name of justice, recently… What is it that we are writing?” he looks down toward his niece.

Hestia De'bayle: "Uhm... most of my writings were about Tomtom and his friends. Maybe I can... write another story," Hestia smiles, "Den! You love Jancy, yah?"

Jancis Milburga nods in agreement.

Denz De'bayle crosses his arms, head tilted once more at her question. "Indeed I do. More than words can describe." He looks upwards to give Carina a raised eyebrow look, before looking back at Hesita. "Why do you ask?"

Hestia De'bayle claps her hands together, "then Jancy, we can write a love story! There are some like that at class..." Hestia turns around, opening her journal and passing through the pages of scribbles, "what do you want to be Jancy?" she looks up curiously to the woman.

Jancis Milburga: "A love story. Oh that sounds like fun," Jancis looks up at Denz a moment, "Can I be some kind of bird?"

Hestia De'bayle: "Birdies are cute... I like birdies..." Hestia replies out with a smile, taking her pencil into her hand as she began to draw a little bird, "and Den can beeee...uhm," she glanced over to her uncle some before scribbling onto her paper, "what about a dam-ale? I learned about those in class. Reeeeally tall, long necks too!"

Denz De'bayle leans down, pressing his lips upon her forehead before pulling back with a smile. "Of course, whatever you would like. I think a bird is quite fitting. Small, beautiful, free..." He pats her arm with a smile before blanching at the little girl. "...E-eh... No... No. Something less... neck-related…” his hand comes up to rub his neck consciously.

Hestia De'bayle: "O-Okay! Well how about..." she turns, scratching out the picture she drew and tapped the pencil to her lip as she considered again, "I know! How about a big bird! The chocos?"

Denz De'bayle: I'm not familiar with too many animals. Ask Jancis, I'm sure she could choose something worry of my statur- Well, you already did based on my stature…

Hestia De'bayle: "Does Jancy know a good animal for Uncy? He's being stubbuttburn."

Denz De'bayle: You do realize your neck will probably be long too, Hestia? It's quite interesting. You just wake up one day and…

Hestia De'bayle lets out a soft sad gasp, her hand going to her neck "no..."

Denz De'bayle puts his hands to his neck tauntingly, "Crrrrrk! You're a dhamel!"

Hestia De'bayle: "Stop it Den! Stop it!" she cried out, her hands going to cover her ears.

Denz De'bayle pats her head. "We'll see. Just remember, it only means you get to be taller than mommy." Denz moves around the table, nodding to the behemoth on the floor, "Joseph." before sliding into a seat.

Carina Roussos offers a flat stare, "you act as though I am self-concious about my height. I'll have you know Denz that is only half-true," she lets out a prideful 'hmph'.

Jancis Milburga watches the trio, eyes dancing in good humor.

Denz De'bayle chuckles. "And I'll have you know Armont only just /recently/ reached the age where he would stop growing.

Joseph merely grunts at the man, eventually making way into the living room to flop over in front of the fire. The room was surprisingly chilly.

Carina Roussos: "What?!" she nearly choked out, planting a hand onto her face, "he is..." she stops herself immediately. She wasn't about to go into that now.

Denz De'bayle: “I wonder what that means for Hestia... Then again, her growth patterns aren't exactly normal,” Denz gazes upon Hestia in reflection.

Jancis Milburga: "And he is older than you. So you are still growing? Forgive me, Love, I will not grow any more."

Denz De'bayle nods to Jancis Milburga.

Jancis Milburga stands up on her toes, "Be that the case, all I will be able to reach is that long elegant neck of yours," she smiles at Denz.

Carina Roussos lets out a hoarse laugh of her own, slapping at her knee as she gives Denz a taunting stare.

Denz De'bayle: “Well... Guillemont's older than I and still shorter. There may yet be hope for your own craning neck,” Denz grins tauntingly at Jancis.

Hestia De'bayle stamps her feet to the chair, "what animal is Deeeen!"

Jancis Milburga: "I shall have to keep an eye upon how thick your-oh!" Jancis proceeds in apologizing, "Forgive me, Little Hestia. Ah… Well... you do have such a lovely neck, yes? What about apkallu? With some blue feathers. Or maybe black and blue polka-dots. And big happy eyes..."

Hestia De'bayle: "Apapacookcook... I don't know what that looks like!"

Jancis Milburga: "It looks like Denz as a bird."

Hestia De'bayle: "Maybe you can draw for me Jancy..." she slides the book over to the woman.

Denz De'bayle looks humorously over at Jancis. "Aye, I've never seen you draw. Show us the bird that looks like me."

Jancis Milburga's eyes grow wide with awe upon seeing Denz De'bayle.

Denz De'bayle looks sidelong at Carina with a small smile. "How fares Armont? I am surprised he's not here currently… Then again, I suppose 'tis fitting one who has an occupation. We can't all be adventurers,” he remarks, shaking his head.

Jancis Milburga leans down, taking up book. "Okay. He would have a belly so... " she starts to make little marks and shapes, ovals and lines. "And he needs a couple feet."

Carina Roussos: "Armont? Why he is already in bed," she snorts out, "though our walls are surprisingly thick, he probably can't hear much of what is going on out here. I quite like that about this place," she smiles knowingly, offering a narrow eyed smirk over toward Denz.

Denz De'bayle: Aye, I'm sure that makes any noisy neighbors less tiresome.

Hestia De'bayle: "I see... he is fat," Hestia nods, as though this were extremely bestowing knowledge, "many feet. Wow he is strange... I love him!" she cries out happily.

Denz De'bayle completely missed the innuendo.

Carina Roussos simply shakes her head, sighing out, "you and Jancis are perfect for eachother."

Denz De'bayle: I... thank you? I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks such.

Jancis Milburga adds some extra fancy hair feathers to a long sloping head. "Yes? Oh good! Will you draw me then next to him?" Jancis beams with delight toward Carina.

Hestia De'bayle takes the pencil, "yes... I think you would be a pretty blue bird..." she draws a circle, adding a triangle to it and an eye for effect before adding her signature for the final touch. "Perfect..." she whispered out, practically shaking at the sight, "it looks just as I imagine…"

Jancis Milburga claps at the drawing.

Denz De'bayle leans over to look at the drawing. "Oh... it's... spot on, actually." He leans back into his chair, pointing at the drawing. "See, that's what my chin really looks like!"

Jancis Milburga goes to the other side of the table for comparison.

Carina Roussos: "Oh sorry Denz, I'll be sure to return the picture and tell them your chin wasn't drawn correctly!" she scoffs, reaching a finger over to poke his chin.

Denz De'bayle's chin is poked. "/Good./ If my chin could be used to cut objects, don't you think I would've tested it on bread, at this point?" Denz grins tauntingly at the woman, “That's one more pocket for bread inside of the knife.”

Carina Roussos: "I would think you'd like a sharp chin. It could help cut bread on the go."

Hestia De'bayle uses the yellow and blue colors she had brought with to color in the pictures. Letting out a yawn, the girl grew progressively sleepier as her head began to droop over the page.

Denz De'bayle: The Chin-That-Could-Cut-Bread... sounds like a title to a circus act. Where do I sign up?

Jancis Milburga: "It sounds like a story with a moral. Like be careful where you stick your chin."

Denz De'bayle: “Oh? 'Tis not a story about accepting ones' oddities and being happy with themselves?” Denz looks forward, pointing a finger onto Hestia's forehead to tilt her head up gently. "Is drool a part of the picture?" Giving her a small smile, he looks to Carina. "Quite late for her to still be up."

Jancis Milburga combs Denz's bangs back long enough to gaze at him, the vain curtain of raven locks falling back into place, "Oh. Well if it about yours, then I like your story more. It should be a happy chin."

Denz De'bayle's free hand came up to hold onto Jancis' hand as she attempted to shift his stubborn hair.

Jancis Milburga: "Ah! Forgive me! All this fun I did not realize how much time went by."

Carina Roussos: "Yes it seems that Hestia is starting to feel her bed time," stand up, the woman moved to swiftly scoop up her dozing toddler, coddling her in her arms, "time for bed little one."

Jancis Milburga squeezes Denz's hand, her free one leaning over to help tidy up the colored pencils and closing the journal. "Rest well and dream big, Little Hestia."

Hestia De'bayle did nothing much but smack her lips, letting out another yawn, "wait... Mommy... give them the drawing..." she murmured.

Carina Roussos nodded, "I will be sure they get their picture, sweetie." Carina leaves her daughters room, returning to the table, picking up the journal and carefully tearing the drawing free, "I am sure she will be excited to get to work on that writing."

Denz De'bayle: Aye. Drawing, playing an instrument, the tutor's lessons in weapon and mind, anything that she can learn and keep her growing. Her grandparents would've had quite the lineup of activities to give her. Though I'm sure Armont has spoken about that to you enough.

Jancis Milburga: "Enough?"

Carina Roussos chuckles out some, "well what grandparents she does currently still have to keep her busy. My father is a painter, so perhaps that is why she enjoys drawing so much. She certainly got not knack for creativity from me."

Denz De'bayle: The subject matter of our father is a favorite of his. I wish not to repeat his words. Plus, I am sure he says words enough as our father would. Come now, your own skills require a certain degree of creativity and learning, do they not?

Carina Roussos: "Armont is certainly fond of his father. Says that when he see's Hestia, it brings him back to looking up toward his own father. He says he hopes she views him as he once viewed his own. Alchemy is a very precise skill. There is not much creativity to it."

Denz De'bayle: I am sure such has already come to pass. He will simply continue to set the bar higher. He's not one for taking a victory in fully before moving on to the next task at hand.

Jancis Milburga asks, "Then understanding? Even introducing her to your craft will give her more ideas on how to think, not what to think about. Does not have to be purely creative? Who ever was so smart to make a cookie? Or bread? It is not only creative, but tasty."

Denz De'bayle: Well... comes in certain degrees. Creativity in alchemy might result in... unwanted results.

Jancis Milburga: "Or wanted. Or unexpected and wanted. Or maybe it will turn her hair another color."

Carina Roussos: "I agree. Each specialty comes with its own perks. Perhaps she will grow with a little of everything. It is quite amazing to think, that we all will have a hand in pouring ingredients in to make Hestia whos he might someday be."

Denz De'bayle: Now that I think about it. Oft we would hear the sounds of disapproving sneers for the creativity of Skysteel's contraptions.

Carina Roussos purses her lip in thought, tapping a finger to her chin, "let us hope not... well... she might actually like that."

Denz De'bayle: But so too were there inventions that benefitted Ishgard as a whole.

Jancis Milburga places her hand on Denz's shoulder. "She makes you so nostalgic. It is endearing."

Carina Roussos let out a yawn of her own, "seems Hestia's tiredness is wearing off. Perhaps I should join Armont in bed as well. You all are free to stay as long as you want, and come and go in the future as well. I do quite like having visitors. I tend to sit around the house working on alchemy when having off days," Carina approached the two, moving forward to wrap Jancis in a hug, "thank you Jancis... for today. I am really glad you came over."

Denz De'bayle yawns, covering his mouth with the hand not grasping jancis'. As he lowers it, he stands slowly. "Aye. Best we leave soon before Jancis' must needs carry me back."

Jancis Milburga releases Denz, hugging Carina tightly, expressing the same sentiment. "Rest well. I am really glad I came over, too."

Carina Roussos: "Perhaps... you could come to visit again," she asked out hopefully, her hands clasping together, "I promise I won't always be so mopey."

Denz De'bayle scoots by the two, raising an eyebrow at Carina's words, but leaning forward against the back of the couch as he waited for Jancis.

Jancis Milburga: "Why promise? I will come back regardless!" Jancis squeezes Carina's shoulders. "When I need to talk, or smile, or for no reason at all."

Carina Roussos looks positively overjoyed, her face a mixture of emotions, "I am relieved..." she inhaled deeply, "we will need to hold up our word of getting together to make music, I can only imagine the shenanigans destined to occur," she laughed out. "I heard Guillemont can play a mean triangle!"

Jancis Milburga echoes the laughter, joining Denz. "Really?! That will be so charming! Does triangle go with the piano?"

Carina Roussos lets out a few snorts, turning to walk into the hall, "you all sleep well," she winks toward them, entering inside her room and closing the door. behind her.

Lying in bed that night, while I can’t say I wasn’t a bit embarrassed by my emotional display... my heart felt lighter. Speaking aloud my thoughts and emotions, had made it easier to realize what the true answer was to my problem all along. Perhaps... that is what having a true friend is about. Not just having someone to talk to... but someone who will listen. And someone you can do the same for. I wondered, if she felt the same.

[beyondthetemples]

{{ Mun: Portrayal Meme

1. Do you like how you portray your muse? I mean, it’s all subjective, but from my perspective, I do like how I portray her, yes. c: Gentle but fierce in the right moment (which hasn’t been explored much on this blog, but is absolutely a part of who she is). I manage to condense her worlds of thought into words, and I portray a wide variety of reactions and situations and emotions, and even now and then, the RP goes on long enough to even EXPLORE it more!

That’s the only downfall of my portrayal though. It’s hard for me to move a scene past the introductory stages, just because it’s hard for me to write sometimes, so a lot of threads only get into Phase 1 and 2 of story, and never gets to the climax much, let alone a resolution. :P And because it’s hard for me to move a scene there, it’s hard to get Dove to a climactic and resolving place as well.

2. Do you think you do your muse justice? For the most part, yeah. I feel like, due to the halting stop-and-go nature of Tumblr rps, it's really hard to move her past the point she's at. (That's why I ultimately decided to stop using a default timeline where Dove had just found the Titans, and decided to bump her up to the point after DDD and The Final Journey where she'd had her first unofficial "mission" and had already joined the team in their heroics. Plus, there's a lot more potential for Action Plots now that Dove (I don't think I'm leveraging that potential for her growth very much, though... hmmm.)

3. Do you portray your muse differently to the general fandom? Obviously, Dove is my baby, so nobody else portrays her, exactly. There are a lot of fan characters with the barest concept being similar to Dove, though. Of course, I found out after I created a character to be Raven's sister, that was actually a very common trope in TT fanfiction circa 2006. Even the name "Dove" for fancharacters wasn't totally unique, I'd learn later. But my Dove is the only one I've found that's anything like her.

The vast majority of Raven-sibling OCs tend to do dark magic, wear dark clothes, have a temper, and oftentimes have some kind of royalty or Chosen One thing going on. On the other hand, Dove's power is telepathy, she’s garbed in a white dress much more suited to her Azarathean heritage, and she’s so painfully shy, you wouldn’t know she’s a superhero until you see her in the moment of Actual Action. The canon of the comics re: Azarath also informed Dove’s character quite a bit, so there’s a lot of spirituality in her-- even if she completely sucks at magic and meditation (the former, basically forever, but at least she gets better at meditation...) And that’s another thing; Dove’s stories (and RPs?) start her off much earlier in the developement of her powers. She doesn’t know how to control them yet, because her mother never figured out how, and Dove’s place among the team is very much that of a student or little siblings tagging along for the ride, moreso than the “Chosen One” type of story.

4. What aspects of your muse do you most want to explore? Her growth through her relationships!

5. Are you looking to write any particular relationships with your muse? I mean, I'm willing to explore a romantic relationship with her and Caleb so obviously I'm excited for that! But also the platonic relationships, friends, acquaintances, maybe a few enemies. People she might be able to help, being a hero in more pacifistic ways.

6. Is your muse canon-divergent? How? Why? Dove was painstakingly developed specifically with canon in mind! (Mostly the comics, because it was adamantly stated that Trigon went after Raven so hard because she was THE ONLY child of his to survive! That's why Dove was kept a secret, kept hidden-- from the Watsonian perspective, it was because Dove's mother didn't want them to treat her child the way they treated Raven. But the Doylist explanation, the meta reason, boils down to the fact that Trigon, canonically, isn't supposed to have any other children, at all. and that canonical fact is why the "Sons of Trigon" storyline makes me SO ANGRY, but that's a rant for another time.

7. Is there a controversy or fandom disagreement revolving around your muse that has changed how you portray them? (I mean, she's an OC, kinda hard to have controversy when I only ever interact with like 5 people tops. 8F)

8. Do you use narrative text differently between muses, or does your writing stay the same style for everybody? Oh yes! My writing style changes dramatically based on mood and the character that's "narrating" the scene. ~ Dove's are usually very considerate, careful contemplation, so she tends to get a lot of words, and she's very quiet, so there's very little dialogue. ~ Kary's tends to be more "scoffy" and judgemental, physically and verbally expressive, and if she's contemplating, it's emotionally reactive. ~ Srentha is both bubbly and analytical, so his narrations tend to be eager and optimistic with a curious thought usually followed by a ton of questions or conclusions. ~ I haven't quite figured out what Leyla's style is yet, probably a mixed bag of contemplation and expression? ~ For grounded and perceptive Raven, I write brief and stark sentences, quick and to the point. (With the occasional thoughtful paragraph, because she's snarky, but she also has a lot going on internally.)

9. What thread types (e.g. angst, fluff) do you think portrays your character at their most genuine? Angst, horror, and hurt/comfort especially! For me, writing about Dove isn't about agonizing over her suffering, it's about how she heals from it and comes back stronger. It's about the people she's with who are willing to help her. It's about the COMFORT, not necessarily the hurt for me. (Though I'm always down for some delicious drama. As long as we can show them Being Better Afterwards, too.)

10. Are there any crossovers you’d be especially interested in writing? Dove on the Infinity Train? Whoooo boy, that could get interesting super fast! (So many opportunities for worldbuilding and character development!)

11. Do you write drabbles/headcanons for your character? Do you discuss them OOC, away from Tumblr? I talk about Dove all the time, okay. I don't think I have a single friend who doesn't know about Dove. Even my family knows about Dove.

12. Do you think your muse would act differently if they had interacted with different characters in the past? OH yeah. One of Dove's biggest struggles is social anxiety born from never interacting with anyone except her mother (and secretly Srentha every now and again). If Dove's situation was any different, she'd have much more confidence in social situations, and she'd be more at ease and more verbal. She'd show her calm, "zen" side to a lot more people.

13. Do you have any plans for the future of your muse? Would you like to see them grow a certain way? Shipping with Caleb will already fulfill one of my curiosities. But I'd really like to write about her Getting Over Her Fears in battle. She doubts herself and hesitates, which is a terrible thing to do in the heat of battle. She doubts her abilities and either tries way too hard and blows things up, or doubts her control and tries to do something way too lightly which becomes totally ineffective. I'd LOVE for her to interact with muses that have the kinds of minds that can become psychological horror with Dove, considering she's a telepath! I got a taste of that once with an old friend's OC, and it was so FASINATING! Intriguing! Dove didn't know what to do with herself! I think in general, just putting Dove in a New Situation and making her figure out how to cope (or: how to GET OUT ALIVE!) sounds PHENOMENAL.

14. Do you wish you had a better grasp on a certain aspect of your muse? I've been writing with Dove endlessly since 2005. And a few years before then, there are action-figure-based stories I was playing through with her. So what I'm saying is, there's not much I don't already know about her, and well enough to babble about for a collegiate-length essay if you let me! The only thing that's not explored Especially Much is Dove when she's in a romantic mindset. And that's largely because I'm aro, so I don't... really know how to write about that. Oops.

15. If you could start your blog again with a clean slate, what would you do differently with your muse? Would you change any of their base principles? Dove's base principles are firmly rooted in the character I wanted to explore, so everything about her core concept stays! The only thing I'd change is that maybe I'd write more further down in her timeline, instead of making every single rp a story about Dove struggling even to interact. Sometimes it worked to the story's advantage. But most of the time, it just made interactions feel like I was playing the same thing over and over. I wish I'd known about pre-established relationships being a thing earlier on, then I feel like some much more interesting stories could have been written! (And that, my friends, is why I write with her post-TFJ, as an active-duty Teen Titan, and not just a meek houseguest. With rare exceptions, but Hero Dove is the default!)