#Jeweller Fountain Gate

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Jeweller Fountain Gate

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[fenharelsfang]

"I don't think I'm ready for this."

The Winter Palace loomed over the Inquisition agents as they stepped through the wrought-iron gate into the front gardens, a colossal silhouette against the twilit sky, crowned in gold and glittering with the setting sun. The soft yellow light of ornate lamp posts dotted the landscape like stars in the night. Violets and lilies adorned bushes in marble planters, their sweet fragrance permeating the air. A large fountain sat in an alcove at the back of the gardens, two sets of stairs curving up to the entrance of the palace proper. Cool, crystal clear water flowed gently over a circle of golden winged lions.

"It's too late to back out now, Inquisitor,” said Josephine, ambassador of the Inquisition. She wore an off-shoulder golden bouffant dress accentuated with embroidered flowers and vines. Her raven-colored hair, usually kept in a low-hanging bun, was now free and draped over one shoulder. She wore a delicate golden amulet adorned with a ruby in its center. Gold eyeliner complimented her hazel eyes.

“Do stop slouching, please,” she continued as she scrutinized the Inquisitor’s appearance. “How you present yourself is a matter of life and death when it comes to the Game. It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness. Even more so when we approach the court. The Inquisition must not show weakness or they will eat us alive."

Ellana Lavellan, the Inquisitor currently being berated by her diplomatic advisor for her posture, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. None of what Josephine said made her feel any better about the situation, though.

"Correction: I know I am not ready for this."

Ellana was Dalish! They didn't go to fancy balls or dress in the latest human fashion. She didn't even own a dress! What she wore now was entirely too thin and fragile to survive a day in the forest. However, Josephine insisted she look the part of a proper Lady. Elves had an ethereal beauty to them and it needed to be flaunted if they were to impress Empress Celene. Ellana felt that would be easy, considering Celene used to have an elven lover, but Josephine's fretting over the downfall of the Inquisition's reputation would not abate.

Now, Ellana stood before her fellow agents in a white silk gown, cinched at the waist by a golden brooch with the Inquisition symbol etched into it. The gown had a plunging neckline, framed by a high collar that was tied with golden string at the collarbone. It was simple, but the added golden embellishments gave it an air of elegance that was hard to deny. With her light blonde hair woven into an intricate updo and accentuated by a golden winged circlet, she was the epitome of what the Herald of Andraste should look like.

... Aside from the pointed ears and the face tattoos honoring a goddess who was not the Maker.

As they were actually here in the Winter Palace to prevent an assassination, Ellana had alterations made to the dress. The skirt could be peeled off, revealing leggings underneath that would allow her to move without exhibiting her undergarments for all to see. The skirt was also long enough that it hid her feet. They sported bottomless sandals rather than the jeweled slippers that Josephine wanted her to wear. Ellana needed to feel the ground underneath her feet. Elemental magic was her specialty and shoes got in the way of channeling the energy of the earth.

"Smile, Inquisitor. Eyes are upon us," Leliana encouraged. Her smile, relaxed and confident, was entirely uncharacteristic of the usually cold and deadly demeanor of the spymaster. She almost looked at home among the elite of Orlais and Ellana had to remind herself that this was all a façade.

The Inquisitor flashed a smile at passing nobles that didn’t quite reach her emerald eyes due to her growing anxiety. Leliana’s own smile faltered and she silently shook her head to get Ellana to stop.

"Honestly, you aren't doing yourself any favors with the company you've decided to bring with you," Josephine muttered under her breath, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the Inquisitor’s struggle. The Antivan glanced behind them to take in their entourage. Everyone was dressed in fine red velvet suits trimmed in gold with blue sashes extending across their chests and wrapping around their waists. At least they were uniform in that regard.

Ellana tilted her head at the ambassador. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, an apostate elf? A Qunari spy? A spirit boy? Dorian at least has some exposure to the nobility, but he's from Tevinter!"

"I am technically an apostate elf, too, mind you," Ellana shot back defensively, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Solas has given me good counsel since the beginning of this whole ordeal." The slight curving of Leliana's lips did not go unnoticed by her and she quickly continued. "They won't even remember seeing Cole and Iron Bull knows how to behave in court. He wouldn't be a Ben-Hassrath if he couldn't blend into his surroundings."

Josephine sighed. "I suppose, but Madame Vivienne, Varric, Blackwall, or even Cassandra would have been a better choice."

It was an unspoken agreement that bringing Sera would be a catastrophe.

"As you said yourself: it's too late to back out now. Let's just get this over with."

She took one step before spotting Duke Gaspard weaving his way through the crowd of nobles in the garden. He wore a suit of teal silk brocade, adorned with silverite pauldrons. A red sash was draped over his broad chest. His face, as was Orlesian custom, was hidden behind a golden half-mask. Ellana could barely see his eyes through the slits and it unnerved her greatly. You could gauge an individual's intentions through their eyes, creature or human. Did he have something to hide?

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor Lavellan," he greeted in a thick Orlesian accent. He took her hand and kissed the back of it, the stubble of his beard leaving red scratch marks on her skin. She resisted the urge to wince.

"Bringing the rebel mages into the ranks of your army was a brilliant move," he continued and leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. "Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais!"

Ah, so he was fishing for support. He figured he had an edge on the competition since she accepted his invitation to the masquerade. Arrogant man.

"Oh?" she asked and put a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "Which one was the rightful one, again? I keep getting them confused."

Gaspard let out a genuine laugh, the sound emanating from deep within his chest. "Why, the handsome, charming one of course, my lady!"

She could feel his eyes graze over her body appraisingly, lingering for no small amount of time on her chest, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The dress was definitely a mistake. Behind her, the air cooled considerably and Solas cleared his throat. The agonizingly long moment ended and Gaspard extended an arm for her to take.

"My lady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Grand Ball with a hateful usurper?" He grinned devilishly down at her.

She, playing the part of charming guest, smiled up at him, all teeth and dimpled cheeks. "I can't imagine that crowd has seen anything better than us in their entire lives," she joked. Gaspard laughed and placed a hand over the one holding his arm. He pierced her with his gaze through those slitted eyes.

"You are a woman after my own heart," he replied, voice husky. Oh no, she was making this worse. The hand resting over her own was pressed up against her breast, a rather sly way to grope her. The Game was not something she was adept at. Was this even part of the Game? All she knew was that she couldn't part from him soon enough.

They ascended the stairs towards the entrance of the Winter Palace and, along the way, the whispers of the nobles did not go unnoticed.

"Is that the Inquisitor?"

"An elven savage? Maker forbid!"

"Andraste would never choose a knife-ear as her herald."

"Is this Gaspard's idea of a joke?"

"Perhaps she's his whore. She certainly dresses like one."

"Those marks on her face are hideous."

Each comment was a dagger to her pride. Her cheeks burned with shame. They had a point: why would Andraste choose an elf to save Thedas? Ellana didn't even believe in the Maker. Their opinions shouldn't have mattered, but they did. It wasn't just because they were directed at her. She was the face of the Inquisition and a negative opinion of her would reflect poorly on her people. They deserved better than that.

The walk to the front entrance stretched on for an eternity. Ellana did her best to keep her composure and block out the horrible remarks, with little success. She was vaguely aware of Gaspard speaking to her about his concerns for the night, namely that Briala, the elven ambassador, was up to something with her legion of servants. Ellana’s jaw tightened.

"Tell me there's more to your suspicion than 'the elves were acting dodgy'," she interrupted, her tone taking on a sharp edge. Gaspard was taken aback by her sudden change in mood. Of course he didn't notice what was being said about her. Or he did, but didn't care. Elves meant less than nothing to humans.

"Briala used to be a servant of Celene's," Gaspard argued. "That is, until my cousin had her arrested for crimes against the empire to cover up a political mistake. If anyone in this room wishes Celene harm, Inquisitor, it's that elf. She certainly has reason."

Right, the assassination attempt. That's what really mattered. Why should she care what those idiot nobles thought of her when the fate of the world was at stake? And yet it gnawed away at her from the inside all the same. Perhaps she was afraid those remarks were mere echoes of her own thoughts.

"I'll look into it," she said, deflated.

Gaspard sighed. "Be as discreet as possible," he warned. "I detest the Game, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains."

He relinquished her arm when they entered the vestibule and left to mingle with a few of the guests. Ellana breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face her entourage.

"When you meet the empress, the eyes of the entire court will be upon you," Josephine reminded her. She smoothed out a crinkle in Ellana's dress and adjusted her collar. "You were safer staring down Corypheus, I'm afraid. The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death. You must never reveal your cards."

A wave of nausea swept over Ellana. Her heart pounded against her ribcage like a war drum. Outside, she had fresh air, but in the palace the walls seemed to press in, threatening to crush her. Through it all, the disparaging remarks of the nobles were building to a crescendo in her mind, drowning out all other noise.

"You're just full of joy and light this evening," she managed to croak out when Josephine continued to stare at her. It was supposed to be a light-hearted jest but lacked the substance.

"Everything will be fine," Josephine said, to herself more than anyone else. "Andraste watch over us all."

The group broke apart then, Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana ascending another set of stairs to scope out the perimeter before the festivities started.

"I’m headed to the buffet,” said Bull as he patted his growling stomach. "I'm starving."

"Vishante kaffas, don't just shovel it in your mouth like a savage, you oaf," Dorian grumbled. He followed after the Qunari to try to prevent a disaster.

Cole had already vanished.

The anticipation of the night's events threatened to overwhelm Ellana and she tried to quickly and gracefully descend another set of stairs that led into a storage room. She just needed a moment to collect herself, a place to catch her breath. There was a mirror in the storage room with a great golden frame, a lion head jutting out on either side of the arch. She caught her reflection in it as she paced the small space and stopped. Her hands went to her knife-shaped ears, traced the hideous marks on her forehead and cheeks, the Dalish version of a mask. The sudden hatred that consumed her spilled over and she tossed the feathered circlet off of her head, yanking her hair out of the updo that took Josephine hours to do. She tried to style her hair so it would hide her ears. On a table next to the mirror sat a few discarded masks. She picked one up and placed it over her face to hide her vallaslin.

There, now she looked more human. Acceptable ... right? So why did her stomach continue to churn? Why were hot, angry tears threatening to spill over?

"What are you doing?"

Ellana gasped and spun around. She was so caught up in her emotional turmoil that she didn't hear the door open or even see the elf behind her in the mirror.

"Solas! I was just--"

His brows knitted in concern as he took in her wild hair and covered face. 'I'm fine,' was her instinctual response, but it never reached her lips. It was impossible to lie to him. He was wise beyond his years and though they had only known each other a short amount of time, she felt he knew, intimately, the depths of her heart.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted in a whisper, her bottom lip trembling as the tears finally slipped down her cheeks. "This isn't --- Did you hear the things they said? I don't belong here."

He slowly approached her until they were mere inches apart. There was fire in his eyes, a righteous fury. For her? Or maybe he thought her foolish. His fingertips slipped under the edge of the mask, grazing her wet cheeks before gently removing the mask from her face. He tossed it aside, never taking his eyes off of her. Mesmerized, she couldn't look away.

"They are not worth your tears."

His hands cupped her face, wiping her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. Her breath hitched in her throat. His hands were rough, calloused, but the gesture was tender. He cradled her face like he was holding the world in his hands, his gaze so intense it was as if nothing else existed in that moment but them. The echoes of the nobles' words faded away as she hung onto every one of his.

"I'm the Inquisitor," she protested. "I'm supposed to represent the Inquisition. This meeting hinges on what the court makes of me and they just see me as an elven savage--! If I were human--"

"You are Elvhen," Solas declared, cutting off her downward spiral. "Our people built an empire that spanned all of Thedas. We created wonders the likes of which no other race has ever accomplished and never will."

This was the first time he had ever referred to her as one of his people. When they first met, he showed such scorn for the Dalish and didn't associate himself with city elves. He stood apart and above everyone else. His name meant 'pride' in the elven language, but she only ever saw him as ... lonely. Now he was including her in his world, the world of the true elves. Who knew whether he was right, but the meaning itself meant everything to her.

"Beyond that," he continued as he circled around behind her, "you are the Inquisitor." His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck as he started to gather her hair into his hands, handling it like it was made of the finest silk. "You command an army that makes nations tremble.” Her scalp tingled as he continued to brush his fingers through her hair. “Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches, they hang on to your every word and beg for the salvation that only you can deliver. You stand defiant against a would-be god and his archdemon. Be proud of who and what you are."

He leaned in close to her, lips a hair's breadth from her ear. "And you are the most beautiful woman in this entire palace," he murmured. Goosebumps erupted down her arms and the back of her neck, making her shiver, but unlike with Gaspard it was thrilling, not revolting. Desire sparked in her core and she fought back the urge to spin around and crush her lips against his. He was tying her hair up into a bun, not the complicated braided crown that Josephine had created, but loose and elegant, leaving her ears visible for all to see.

"These nobles fear the power you wield. Your beauty is a height they can never hope to reach. Envious, they must try to tear you down instead. Do not let them."

The bun was finished and he stepped back around to her front, his hands planting firmly on her hips. His words stole the breath from her lungs and set her heart fluttering. No one had ever spoken of her that way before. Not her clan, not her friends, not even her former lover. The words rolled off of his tongue so easily like they were waiting to be said.

"Sweet talker," she managed in a breathless whisper.

There was a spark of amusement in his eyes, though it was quickly covered by a solid determination. "I speak the truth," he said and she believed him. Even if it wasn't objectively true, it was to him and needed to be said.

Fear creeped into her voice as the weight of the words made her falter. He held her in such high regard. Maybe too high. "What if I fail?" she asked.

"You won't."

A nervous laugh bubbled out of her. "You have such confidence in me."

"It is well-deserved."

Ellana swallowed, all too aware of the warmth of his hands through the fabric of her dress. She tilted her head back to get a better look at him and tried to take a step closer, but he held her in place. There was a storm churning in his steel blue eyes, a flurry of emotions warring inside of him. Excitement. Adoration. Desire. Then regret, resignation. Behind it all, a sorrow so deep and endless she felt she might drown in it. He was always restraining himself. In the Fade, on the balcony of her room, his heart and mind were at odds with each other. There was an obvious attraction between them. He had already kissed her twice before, but still something kept holding him back. The chains of a past she knew nothing about. He spoke of his journeys through the Fade, but never of himself. All of those pretty words and no follow-up.

"You're always so detached and self-controlled, Solas,” she observed. Her hands rested atop his and felt them tremble as she gently pried them away. "But you don't need to be ... not with me."

Fingers danced along the velvet fabric of his suit before resting against his chest. She could feel his erratic heartbeat through his jacket and knew then that her words were true. So she did have the same effect on him that he had on her. A hesitant step forward closed the distance between them further.

"This is dangerous," he breathed, eyelids drooping. His resolve was faltering.

"I like danger." She gripped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer. They were mere inches away from each other now.

"Ellana," he warned and a thrill pulsed through her at the sound of her name on his lips.

"What are you so afraid of?"

He struggled to find the words, eyes glossed over as if trapped in a memory. She watched him for a moment, noting the light dusk of freckles across his cheeks and nose, the scar above his brow, the curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. It was as if the gods themselves sculpted him. He was beautiful.

She rested a hand against his cheek to pull him back to the present. "Solas?"

"... I don't want to lose you," he finally admitted, leaning into her touch. His fingers curled around hers and her heart ached. There were such thick walls around his heart and though she chipped away at it, she still hadn't completely broken through. Solas was always looking miles ahead of everyone else or behind in his past, but never in the moment.

Her smile was kind, patient. "You still have me," she assured him and traced the line of his jaw down to his chin. "I don't know what the future holds for us. I don't know if we'll defeat Corypheus or what will happen to the Inquisition. I don't know if you and I will stay together or drift apart, but fear of the future shouldn't stop us from enjoying the present. What I do know is that you make me feel ... important. Like I matter beyond my titles. Me, Ellana. Not the Inquisitor, not the Herald of Andraste, not the Keeper's First. Just ... me. You look at me like I'm the only thing that matters .. like the world could crumble all around us and you wouldn't even notice." She glanced down, her cheeks tinged red. "Perhaps it's selfish of me, but I want to be the only one you look at that way."

She felt him take her chin and tip it up, his gaze a smoldering flame that slowly drifted down to settle on her mouth.

"You are."

Their lips met and everything he had held back from her flooded into that kiss. His adoration and desire burned against her like a wildfire. She grew lightheaded from the force of it, but craved the taste of him as a Templar coveted lyrium. They parted for a brief moment to catch their breath and his hands found her waist again, though this time it was to pull her against him. Her dress, so flimsy before, was now far too thick. She wound her arms around his neck, her tongue flicking against his lips. That elicited a groan deep in his chest that rumbled against her own. He was unraveling before her and it exhilarated her. The kiss broke again only for her to pepper more across his jaw and down his throat.

"Ellana," he groaned. It spurred her to start hastily undoing the buttons of his jacket, but he brought her face back up to capture her lips again. The kiss deepened and she felt his tongue in her mouth, gliding along her own. He gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her up onto his waist, her back hitting the wall. She braced herself against it and wrapped her legs around him for support. His hands slid up underneath her dress and caressed her thighs and she moaned. Her leggings were still in the way, but his fingertips teased along the waistline. That flame he sparked inside of her became an all-consuming fire.

"Solas," she whimpered as kisses traced her collarbone. Her fingers tried to find the buttons of his jacket again, but now his lips were at her breasts. She had awakened a wolf in him that lay dormant for far too long and it was ravenous for the taste of her flesh. He was struggling to bring himself back under control, but she didn't want him to. He brought his lips back to her jawline, his cheek brushing against hers.

"Ar lath, ma vhenan," he breathed and time stopped. She went rigid in his grip and he stared up at her as if surprised the words had spilled from his mouth. They stared at each other, fighting for breath and trying to make sense of the words through their delirium. He slowly lowered her back to the ground, though his arms stayed wrapped around her. She, too, refused to let go of him.

"...You do?" she asked. Her arousal, though definitely still there, was melting into something else.

His eyes searched hers, trying to discern how she felt about the words, but then he set his jaw, resolute. "I do."

The confession hung between them for an agonizing moment and he swallowed, his throat bobbing in anticipation of her reaction. A wide grin spread across her flushed face. There was attraction between them, yes, but she never expected that it went deeper than that for him ... that he loved her, that he would admit it first. She had been in love with him from the moment they met, when he first grabbed her hand and showed her the power that she wielded. He always seemed so lonely and sad, but he would positively light up when speaking about the Fade. She lived for those stories. His smile, as rare and fleeting as it was, could brighten her whole day. When he laughed? Indescribable. She only heard it once and it became her personal mission to hear it again. But her fears mirrored his: she didn't want to lose him either, so she never built up the courage to tell him how she felt. Now he admitted it himself. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him tenderly.

"Ar lath, ma vhenan," she declared in return.

He flashed her a crooked grin before pulling her back against him, intending to finish what they started.

Until the door to the storage room creaked open.

"There you are, Inquisitor," Josephine announced with no small degree of relief. "We've been looking ev- Oh." The scene before her finally registered and she blushed, averting her eyes respectfully. "Oh, do forgive me." she apologized, "I seem to have opened the wrong door."

"Josephine!” Ellana called out in surprise. Her face turned the shade of spindleweed and she let go of Solas, smoothing out her dress. “It’s fine, we were just–”

Solas glanced over his shoulder at the ambassador before calmly picking Ellana’s circlet off of the floor and placing it back on her head. How could he be so poised?! She was mortified, but he had an air of smugness about him, as if being caught making out with the Inquisitor in a closet was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yes, well, the court is ready to receive us,” Josephine said, her gaze still averted. “I will meet you upstairs.” With that, she slipped back out of the door.

Ellana released a breath she didn’t know she was holding and adjusted the brooch and her hair. “Right, well, I guess it’s time to meet the empress.”

“Remember my words,” Solas told her as he straightened his own jacket.

“How could I forget them?” She buttoned up his jacket and fixed the sash, aware that he was gazing at her fondly. “Save me a dance?”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Perhaps, as soon as our present business is concluded.”

“I'll hold you to that.” She grinned and headed out of the storage room to meet up with Josephine.

Thankfully, it seemed the nobles were so caught up in their own affairs that they didn't seem to pay her much mind. A few cursive glances her way and more whispering, but she found herself less bothered by them than before.

“Be proud of who you are.”

She lifted her head to stare down her nose at them and confidently strode upstairs and into the ballroom.

[skrillexberry]

Here’s a list of over 100 buildings to populate your fantasy town, covering everything from essential structures to more whimsical or thematic additions

Essential Buildings:

Town Hall

Guard Tower

Marketplace

Blacksmith

General Store

Tavern

Inn

Apothecary

Bakery

Butcher Shop

Tailor Shop

Stables

Schoolhouse

Library

Carpenter’s Workshop

Cobbler’s Shop

Farmer's Market

Fishmonger

Mill (Windmill/Watermill)

Well

Church/Temple

Chapel

Watchtower

Post Office

Barracks

Armory

Courthouse

Prison

Cemetery

Mortuary

Alchemist’s Shop

Magic Academy

Smithy

Herbalist

Potion Shop

Farrier (for horse shoes)

Brewery

Distillery

Granary

Butcher’s Block

Tailor’s Guild

Weaver’s Hut

Shipwright

Pottery Shop

Fletcher (Arrow Maker)

Tanner’s Yard

Brewery

Spice Merchant

Jeweler’s Workshop

Scribe’s Office

Civic & Public Spaces:

Fountain

Park

Courtyard

Arena

Theatre

Amphitheater

Bathhouse

Gardens

City Gates

Bell Tower

Archives

Magistrate’s Office

Observatory

Town Square

Auction House

Guildhall

Lighthouse

River Dock

Public Forum

Clock Tower

Residential Buildings:

Farmstead

Manor House

Noble’s Mansion

Townhouses

Cottage

Merchant’s House

Apartment Building

Caravanserai

Worker’s Dormitory

Boarding House

Hunter’s Lodge

Shanty House

Fisherman’s Hut

Vineyard Estate

Barracks

Witch’s Cottage

Trade and Craftsmanship:

Glassblower’s Workshop

Painter’s Studio

Sculptor’s Workshop

Clockmaker’s Shop

Musician’s Hall

Candlemaker’s Workshop

Florist

Basket Weaver

Soapmaker’s Shop

Bookbinder’s Shop

Toymaker’s Workshop

Carriage House

Leatherworker’s Shop

Metalworker’s Foundry

Dye House

Taxidermist’s Workshop

Cartographer’s Shop

Engraver’s Workshop

Mystical/Unique Buildings:

Wizard’s Tower

Enchanter’s Hall

Potion Brewery

Astronomer’s Tower

Fairy Grove

Dragon Stable

Rune Reader’s Tent

Crystal Shop

Elementalist Shrine

Oracle’s Hut

Druid’s Circle

Sorcerer’s Guild

Griffin Aviary

Necromancer’s Lair

Portal Room

Seer’s Observatory

Other:

Windmill

Grain Silo

Wine Cellar

Salt House

Ice House

Brewery

Tinkerer’s Workshop

Puppet Theater

Public Bathhouse

Art Gallery

Falconer’s Lodge

Cheese Monger

Guild of Shadows (Thieves’ Guild)

Adventurer’s Guild

Dungeon Entrance

Gambling Den

Spymaster’s Office

Assassin’s Guild

Beast Trainer’s Arena

Exotic Pet Shop

Stablemaster

Forge Temple

Graveyard Keeper’s Hut

Fishermen’s Wharf

Oracle’s Shrine

These structures can shape the town’s story, culture, and atmosphere. You can adapt or add to the list depending on your town's specific fantasy setting and its unique vibe.

[stromuprisahat]

Ravkan trivia

Siege and Storm- Chapter 15

Royal hunts

The formal Ravkan hunt forbade the use of firearms, but I noticed that several of the servants had rifles on their backs, just in case the animals proved to be too much for their noble masters.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 16

Royal Chapel

The chapel was the only remaining building of a monastery that had once stood atop Os Alta, and it was said to be where the first Kings of Ravka had been crowned. Compared to the other structures on the palace grounds, it was a humble building, with whitewashed walls and a single bright blue dome. It was empty and looked like it could use a good cleaning. The pews were covered in dust, and there were pigeons roosting in the eaves. ... We didn’t waste much time in the vestry. The few books on its shelves were a disappointment, just a bunch of old hymnals with crumbling, yellowed pages. The only thing of real interest in the chapel was the massive triptych behind the altar. A riot of color, its three huge panels showed thirteen saints with benevolent faces. I recognized some of them from the Istorii Sankt’ya: Lizabeta with her bloody roses, Petyr with his still-burning arrows. And there was Sankt Ilya with his collar and fetters and broken chains. “No animals,” Mal observed. “From what I’ve seen, he’s never pictured with the amplifiers, just with the chains. Except in the Istorii Sankt’ya.” I just didn’t know why. Most of the triptych was in fairly good condition, but Ilya’s panel had sustained bad water damage. The Saints’ faces were barely visible under the mold, and the damp smell of mildew was nearly overpowering.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 17

Ravkan-Fjerdan wars

“We took back most of this territory in the last campaign,” he said, pointing to Ravka’s northern border with Fjerda. “It’s dense forest, almost impossible to cross when the rivers aren’t frozen, and all the access roads have been blockaded.”

Os Alta

The city had an ancient system of warning bells to alert the palace when an enemy was in sight.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 18

upper town of Os Alta

The Gritski mansion was in the canal district, considered the least fashionable part of the upper town because of its proximity to the bridge and the rabble across it. It was a lavish little building, bordered by a war memorial on one side and the gardens of the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta on the other.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 19

the festival of Belyanoch in Saint Petersburg Os Alta

The days grew longer. The sun stayed close beneath the horizon, and the festival of Belyanoch began in Os Alta. Even at midnight, the skies were never truly dark, and despite the fear of war and the looming threat of the Fold, the city celebrated the endless hours of twilight. In the upper town, the evenings were crowded with operas, masques, and lavish ballets. Over the bridge, raucous horse races and outdoor dances shook the streets of the lower town. An endless stream of pleasure boats bobbed through the canal, and beneath the glimmering dusk, the slow-moving water circled the capital like a jeweled bangle, alight with lanterns hung from a thousand prows. The heat had relented slightly.

Os Alta from above

I gathered my courage and looked down. The rolling grounds of the Grand Palace stretched out below us, crosscut by white gravel paths. I saw the roof of the Grisha greenhouse, the perfect circle of the double eagle fountain, the golden glint of the palace gates. Then we were soaring over the mansions and long, straight boulevards of the upper town. The streets were full of people celebrating Belyanoch. I saw jugglers and stiltwalkers on Gersky Prospect, dancers twirling on a lit stage in one of the parks. Music floated up from the boats on the canal.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 21

Os Alta's lower town

I crossed the canal, the little boats bobbing in the water below. From somewhere beneath the bridge, I heard the wheeze of an accordion. I floated past the guard gate and into the narrow streets and clutter of the market town. It seemed even more crowded than it had before. People hung off stoops and overflowed from porches. Some played cards on makeshift tables made of boxes. Others slept propped up against each other. A couple swayed slowly on a tavern porch to music only they could hear. When I came to the city walls ...

the tent city of Sun Saint's fanatics by dawn

The tent city had grown. There were hundreds of people camped outside the walls, maybe thousands. The pilgrims weren’t hard to find—I was surprised to see how their numbers had increased. They crowded near a large white tent, all facing east, awaiting the early sunrise. The sound began as a swell of rustling whispers that fluttered on the air like the wings of birds and grew to a low hum as the sun peered over the horizon and lit the sky pale blue. Only then did I begin to make out the words. Sankta. Sankta Alina. Sankta. Sankta Alina. The pilgrims watched the growing dawn, and I watched them, unable to look away from their hope, their expectation. Their faces were exultant, and as the first rays of sun broke over them, some began to weep. The hum rose and multiplied, cresting and falling, building to a wail that raised the hair on my arms. It was a creek overflowing its banks, a hive of bees shaken from a tree. Sankta. Sankta Alina. Daughter of Ravka.

[rotworld]

7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

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The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything. 

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands. 

“It’s close,” you tell her. 

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?” 

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks. 

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious. 

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.” 

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture. 

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes. 

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling. 

“You’re back.”  There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?” 

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.” 

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.” 

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay. 

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask. 

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.” 

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat. 

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?” 

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling. 

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek. 

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color. 

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet. 

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.” 

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.” 

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently. 

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.” 

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw. 

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal. 

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation. 

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?” 

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy. 

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

[lycheedr3ams]

Banished Love, part 3

Knight Engvall x fem!noble!reader

SFW, MDNI

This is written by me, so don't copy my work! Reblogs are appreciated.

Honestly, idk if I'm writing romance good enough or believable..... but here's part 3!

Ever since your parents told you about this new suitor, lavish gifts were sent to you from the Lands Between at regular intervals. Fine cheeses and wines, dresses, jewels, rare books, and more. Each package was hand-signed by your suitor, and your mother insists on you opening each and every package in front of her.

“Oh, what’s next!?” Alessia asks with her hands clasped together in excitement. She stands behind you as you sit at a large table in the family dining area. Engvall stands by the doorway with his back to you, but somehow, you feel like his eyes are on you. 

You apathetically open the next gift, which is a beautiful golden crystal necklace. Despite your hatred for your new suitor, you cannot deny it is a lofty gift. 

“How beautiful!” your mother exclaims as she admires the jewel from over your shoulder. “I must show your father this!” Alessia snatches the necklace from your hands and dashes out of the dining room, leaving you and Engvall alone.

Engvall turns to face you when he hears you sigh. You put your head in your hands and take deep breaths.

“I’ve had enough of this,” you say quietly as you loudly scoot the chair across the stone floor to stand up. You jog down the hallway and out into the courtyard, hoping to have left the vicinity before your mother comes back. Engvall is right on your heels, but he’s so tall that your jog is barely a fast walk for him.

You burst out into the courtyard and make your way to your garden. There is a garden for each of your family members, where only their favorite flowers were planted. Your garden is a little further out than the others, shielded by tall oak trees and trimmed rose bushes. You open the iron gate and give Engvall room to enter before shutting it behind him. He looks at you silently before turning around to guard the gate.

“Engvall,” you sigh, but cannot help but let out a tiny laugh. His shoulders tense. “We’re just in the garden. You don’t have to stand guard here.”

“I must stand guard everywhere, my lady,” Engvall says as he scans the courtyard. Your family is all inside, and the only people who occasionally pass by are the gardeners. 

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird that we all have a knight at all times?” you ask, standing right behind Engvall. “It’s like my parents are almost expecting something horrible to happen.”

“My lady, you are a noble. There are many people who begrudge you that,” Engvall responds plainly. You sigh.

“Well, for once, would you please just enjoy the garden with me? I don’t think anything bad is going to happen right now. If we’re invaded or anything, the archers at the edge of the property will take care of it,” you attempt to convince him.

Engvall makes no move, and instead stands at his post. You grow annoyed.

“Engvall, did you hear me?” you ask with a huff, knowing full well that he heard you.

“I swore an oath to protect you, my lady,” Engvall responds. 

You finally give up, and turn to retreat further into your garden. There is a three-tiered fountain in the middle, and the sound of the water always calms your heart. There are four wrought-iron benches at each compass direction surrounding the fountain. The oak trees from outside your garden extend over the benches and fountain, ensuring that there is always cool shade to retreat to during the hot days. There is a cobblestone pathway that leads to a small clearing that houses all your favorite flowers, but that is not where you want to go today. When you were younger, with the help of Engvall, you cut some of the hedges to make a small opening into a secret part of your garden. You made Engvall and the gardeners swear to keep it a secret from everyone else. 

You turn back to Engvall and stare into the back of his head, hoping that he could read your mind that way. But that helmet must do more than protect his head, because whatever signals you were trying to send didn’t reach him. You turn on your heel and move aside the vines you have covering the small doorway to your secret garden. You duck a little and make your way through the space in the hedges, but Engvall’s voice makes you stop.

“My lady, I cannot see you if you go over there,” he calls from the gate. “Please come back.”

You smile mischievously to yourself. “You better come find me then,” you call as you retreat down the makeshift tunnel. You don’t make it far before you hear the clink of Engvall’s armor, and see a patch of sunlight as he moves the vines out of the way. You laugh as you exit the tunnel and come out into the small, grassy clearing of your secret garden. You asked the gardeners to train the rose bushes to grow into a roof to cover the clearing, and after years of training, the roses have formed a thick covering over your hideaway. Some sunlight peeks through the spaces in the thorny bushes, but most is blocked out. You remember the time you and Engvall got caught in the garden in a rainstorm, but you were barely wet because of how thick the covering was. 

The space is tall enough for you to stand, and with room for about five people to lay down. You’re lost in your own reverie, remembering all the times you snuck off here and made Engvall chase you, when the sound of his armor clinking brings you back to reality. Engvall squeezes through the entryway and stands up as straight as he can without being hit by the thorns.

“I see you made it,” you say with a smile as you look up at Engvall. But upon closer inspection, you can see that there are some branches clinging to the divots in his armor. “You’re so clumsy,” you joke. “You’re a mess.”

Engvall stands still as you gently pull off the twigs that got stuck in his armor. 

“Thank you, my lady,” he says quietly once you pull off the last twig. You thought you should respond, but silence overcomes you as you look at Engvall. Being back here, with him, brought back so many memories that left you speechless. This hideaway might as well be another dimension. The first time you saw Engvall’s face, the first time you asked him to hold your hand, was here. It was as if this hideaway allowed you to see Engvall as a human rather than your knight in shining armor. You blush and look away.  

Engvall says nothing, but his eyes never leave yours.

“I wish we could just stay here forever,” you say quietly. You look down at your hands and play with your nails.

“Where is my daughter?” you hear your mother’s voice call from the courtyard. You tense up.

“I am not sure, ma’am,” one of the gardeners says. “I haven’t seen her.”

You can hear your mother’s heels clicking against the stone courtyard as she looks for you. You wait with bated breath until you can no longer hear her shoes, or her voice calling for you. 

You take a deep breath. “That was close,” you say aloud. You sit down on the cool grass, and pat the space next to you with your hand. Engvall obeys, and lowers himself down slowly to not make much noise with his armor. You sit criss-crossed next to him, while his legs are bent out over the grass with his arms leaning against his thighs. There is not enough room for him to sit comfortably, especially in his armor. 

You look up at him sheepishly before nuzzling into his side and wrapping your hands around his arm. You can’t see it from under his helmet, but his eyes close in satisfaction as he lets out a small sigh. His metal armor is cold and hard against your cheek, but you don’t mind. You absentmindedly trace the small patterns in one of his gauntlets with your index finger. 

You eventually close your eyes and relax into his side. You begin to fall into a very light sleep; Engvall’s breathing was like a lullaby. The sound of his armor gently clinking makes you open your eyes to see that he is slowly moving his other hand towards your own. But his hand freezes in midair once your eyes are open. You look up at him and nod, and his hand gently encases both of yours. Despite the leather of the gauntlet covering his hand, you can feel the warmth of his skin against yours. He gently grabs your hands and holds them tight.

Engvall barely whispers your name. 

You blink your eyes open and look up at him again with a smile. “You said my name,” you say quietly. But when he doesn’t respond, you grow worried. “What is it?” you ask, your smile quickly fading.

Engvall purses his lips, battling his own mind. “We…we can’t…” he stammers slowly. Despite his words, his hand still holds your own.

“No one needs to know,” you implore as you sit up a little straighter. “What happens between me and my knight, stays between me and my knight.” 

But Engvall doesn’t seem very convinced, as his grip on your hands loosens slightly.

“Please, Engvall,” you say above a whisper this time. “What we’re doing isn’t wrong.”

Engvall looks away from you. “I…I swore an oath. To protect you.”

“And that’s what you’re doing, is it not?” you ask, still holding onto his strong arm. “Nothing has come in between your duty.”

“It…isn’t right,” he says. His voice is strained, and you can feel his muscles tense underneath your hand. His hand that was holding your own retreats to his side. 

“Engvall, please,” you say with a frown. You grab his arm a little tighter, hoping to keep him with you. But he gently escapes your grasp and stands up. 

“I need to resume my guard. I will be right on the other end of the tunnel,” he says before retreating. You’re left alone in your hideaway. It feels like Engvall took all the sunlight and warmth with him, as this place no longer brought you comfort in the moment. You place your head in your hands and cry.

…

The next week, you could barely manage to get a word in with Engvall. Ever since he let his guard down in the secret garden, he had been very distant with you: only speaking to you when necessary, avoiding being alone with you, and barely even looking at you. You tried to get him out of whatever shell he put himself in, but it was no use. No matter how many plates of food you saved him, how much you looked up at him adoringly, or how many times you held onto his arm, he did not budge. 

It didn’t help that the castle had been even busier as your parents got ready for the ball they are planning for your new suitor. Extra maids had been hired to clean every inch of the castle, rugs were being washed, windows shined, display armor polished, your clothes improved. And as you walked in silence through the halls of your family’s castle, Engvall was right there behind you, just as silent. 

Until today. Today, you had enough.

The rain petters against the stained glass windows in the corridors and causes a chill to settle over the castle. All the maids have extra furs and cloaks on, including you, but Engvall remains in his armor as always.

You walk towards the greenhouse when you suddenly turn on your heel and face Engvall. He instantly stands still and looks at you, but just above your head. You look up at him with a mixture of defiance and love.

“Aren’t you cold?” you ask him as you pull your furs around yourself. “That armor has got to be freezing.”

You can see Engvall slowly blink through his helmet. “I am all right, my lady. Do not concern yourself with me.”

Your brows furrow in frustration for a moment before you inch forward and run your fingers along his gauntlet. You were right: his armor is freezing, and slightly damp from the humidity. 

“Engvall!” you exclaim, and he almost jumps. “You need to get out of this armor and put on something warm. You’re going to get sick.”

“My lady, I must stay in my armor. I am not cold,” he insists.

You shake your head, and take off one of the layers of fur that lay around your shoulders. You walk behind Engvall and are about to place the fur over his shoulders when he turns around abruptly.

“My lady, please, you’re the one who’s going to get sick if you don’t keep that on you,” Engvall says.

You begin to get even more frustrated. “Engvall, I don’t want to play the knight card. But you’re my knight, and I insist that you wear this fur.” You hold out the fur towards him.

Engvall shakes his head. “My lady, I am allowed to forgo your orders when they are in direct opposition with your best interest. I cannot take the fur from you. Please, wear it.” Engvall then gently takes the fur from your hands and drapes it around your shoulders again. You sigh in defeat, but then look up at him angrily.

“What’s with you, Engvall?” you ask. “You’ve been different lately. I know why, but there’s no reason to be like this. Please, Engvall. I miss you. You’re my knight, and my friend, and…” your voice dies off in silence as you look at the freshly washed rug below you.

Engvall almost feels his heart breaking at your saddened expression. He leans down slightly, and whispers, “not here, my lady.”

You don’t realize that you’re having this conversation with Engvall in the middle of a corridor with various outlets to it. But before you can take back anything you said, your little sister comes running around from a side corridor, laughing. Right behind her is her knight Oleg, who is chasing after her.

“Hide me, sister!” she yells as she pretends to hide behind your legs. Oleg stops dead in his tracks and bows slightly to you. 

“What’s going on?” you ask as you look between Oleg and Malarue, who now clings onto your leg.

“I was playing hide and seek with Oleg, and he found me! But he was cheating!” she says with a smile.

“Cheating?” You say as you raise your eyebrow and look at Oleg with a smile of your own. “I don’t think an honorable knight would cheat.”

“He did!” Malarue says as she grabs your leg tighter.

You look at Oleg with mock judgment. “And what do you have to say in your defense, knight Oleg?”

“I assure you, lady, that I was not cheating,” Oleg says honorably. “Malarue was very loud when she hid in the storage room.”

You look down at Malarue. “You shouldn’t accuse people of cheating, sister. You lost, fair and square.”

Malarue frowns and runs back to Oleg. “It’s Oleg’s turn to hide now!” she says. 

“I cannot hide from you, my lady,” Oleg says to Malarue. “But you can hide again, if you wish.”

Malarue then takes off down another corridor. Oleg nods at you before slowly following after her. The moment to talk with Engvall is gone. You sigh and make your way back to the greenhouse. 

…

You sit on the couch that looks out over the gardens in your room, the moon now at its third quarter phase. Engvall is on his hour-long watch outside your door. You tried to distract yourself with reading, humming, anything, but your thoughts don’t stray from your knight just a few paces away. With a huff of determination, you sit up and go to your door.

“Engvall?” you say quietly as you open the door.

“Yes, my lady?” he replies dutifully.

“I want you to come inside,” you say plainly. 

Engvall hesitates. “I must watch your door, my lady.”

“Well, if anyone decides to break in, you’ll still be in here,” you say.

There is a minute of silence where you swear you can hear the cogs in Engvall’s head turning. Right as you are about to close the door and wish him goodnight, he turns and enters your bedroom. He stands right by the door, facing you, but still on guard.

“At ease, or whatever it is they say,” you say quietly.

He does not respond, nor move. You can feel your resolve failing.

“Please, Engvall,” you plead. “Please. I need you back.”

And Engvall finally sighs. A sign of humanity. Your eyes light up.

“Please, put your halberd down. Take off your helmet,” you ask. 

Engvall quietly steps into your room and does as you asked. He then stands before you, no halberd or helmet. And he finally looks at you again. He looks human: not a knight (despite the rest of his armor that’s still on him), not your protector. Now, he’s your Engvall.

You smile, but find that your knees can no longer hold you up. The crushing weight of never having your Engvall back again was too much to bear, and you only noticed the weight once it was gone. You kneel gently onto the floor, and Engvall is right there with you. He kneels before you, but does not move to touch you.

“I thought I lost you,” you say as you cry quietly. “Don’t do that to me, Engvall. Please, not again.”

This wasn’t the first time Engvall had distanced himself after you and him had a close moment. You never knew how long the episodes would last. Some lasted a few days, others weeks. 

You look up at him with tear-stained eyes, but before you can say or do anything else, he envelopes you in a tight hug. It hurts, with his armor digging into you through your furs. But you don’t care: Engvall is hugging you.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he whispers into your ear as you hug him back. You cling onto him like a moth to a flame. 

“Well, you did,” you retort. “Don’t do that again. You know I hate it when you do that.”

Engvall doesn’t respond. He instead opts to rub soft circles into your back. You take a deep breath and lean back to look at him, and the look in his eyes takes you away. He looks at you so much more than a knight looks at his charge. His green eyes are stunning, and take your breath away. Your lips part slightly, and the way his eyes dart to your lips doesn’t escape your notice. His cheeks blush slightly, embarrassed that the allure of your lips was too strong for him to resist. You look up at him adoringly, and whisper his name. His eyes flutter closed. You gently brush the tip of your nose against his, testing the waters. His eyes shoot open, but there is a hint of a small smile on his lips. You look back down at his lips, and then his eyes, before slowly closing the distance between you.

The kiss was gentle, but his arms around you hold you tight so that there is no hope of getting away. Not that you would want to. Desperate for more of him, you kiss him back just a little stronger, and you suddenly feel his large hand on the back of your head, pushing you impossibly closer to him. You mumble when you need air, and he lets you go, scanning your face for any signs of discomfort. But you smile up at him, your cheeks flushed and lips red. He dives in for a second kiss, and you gladly indulge him. Your moment went no further once you separated from him again. Engvall presses a chaste kiss on your cheek, his stubble grazing your soft skin. His warm breath tickles your ear, and you can’t help but giggle quietly.

“Something funny?” he teases with a gentle smirk.

“Yeah. Your breath tickles.”

“Come on. You need to get to bed,” Engvall says. You are about to protest when he suddenly picks you up and gently places you on your bed. You insist that he spends the rest of his hour on guard in your room, and who is he to refuse? He stands right next to you as you lie on your side, facing him, and you have never fallen asleep faster. 

[wordpimp]

Pictures I took on my hike

House sitting after the party when the phone cut out. Maybe I spilled something on it. The cord ran through a pond the insulated wires had worked loose. I went underwater, I couldn't figure it out. The men came with their hammers to fix things, and the house wàs really loud. Before or after, the girl ran from the noise to get away from it all, and sit by the cool fountain, behind the gates of summer. It was dark, evening somewhere. We went to school for Halloween a little later, someone was chasing Billy and they were stabbing him in the bathroom, there was a fight over a broomstick, Billy pushed the broken end into the villain's chest, killing him suddenly. Billy went into hiding. I felt like it was my fault, how did I get him into this. By dreaming. The phone was still staticky. Why not use my cell. I went to the mobile home park exhibition, I learned about the history of the mobile home, the trailer, the single wide, humble, on the retired teacher's salary the couple lived in their modern example, with laminate flooring, a porch and a bump out living room with a small dining nook, simple library, and in the sideyard, an inground pool. It was a real jewel in the manufacturer's collection. I asked for the blueprint.

Today I keep thinking abt the time(s) I drank gasoline and why I don't remember. Not just an accidental sip, like siphoning gas from a car, but a purposeful drink. Gas, perfume, other things. Why did I do this. What does it mean.

[hallowgracie]

Welcome to Agartha: the Inverted City

The draconic people live in a pocket dimension known as Agartha, or its epithets, the Underground and the Inverted City. They are accessed through caves and caverns, and appear to be an entirely different world buried in the center of the Earth. 

The skies of Agartha are dark, plunged into an eternal night, yet lit by gem-like stars. A singular pale moon hangs over the topmost spire of the Jade Palace, changing colors with the seasons. Indeed, one of the only ways to notice the changing of the seasons and the passage of time is with the colors of the moon. 

Agartha is surrounded by jagged cliffs with stalagmites, limiting the scope of the realm with concrete barriers its inhabitants will understand. If one were to attempt to climb these mountains, it would stretch infinitely forward, the gated tops to the waterfalls always out of reach. The waterfalls flow from the unreachable peaks of the mountains surrounding the city, flowing into the main Primordial Pool that is the source of all water under the founding stones of the city. 

The pools and the waterfalls seem to be intimately connected and self-cycling. As such, no rain may fall within Agartha. 

If one were to take notice, there does not seem to be native soil to this land. The ground the city is built on is carved stone, inlaid with runes that have been chipped away, their meanings forgotten but their protections remain, blessing the city to continue after so many generations. 

Pillars of gold with intricate metalwork designs and carvings hidden towards the top are a fundamental part of the architecture, combined with slanted roofs that allow for a great many lanterns to dangle from the roof. Outdoor covered corridors are also common. In most rooms, instead of windows there are painted screens with enchanted moving artwork. There is usually one main light source in the form of a well-crafted chandelier and many smaller lanterns. The arrangement of light and shadow is considered to be very important in draconic culture. 

Another important feature is the prominence of water elements. They reflect well on the fire elements in the lanterns and are somewhat of a novelty, given the limited water and lack of rain in the Underground. This can be fountains or little pools within various rooms. 

A similar novelty is plant life, as other than some mosses between the stones and the little flowers that glow in the dark and are shaped like stars that emerge on the clifftops, there isn’t really any natural life within this realm. So vines are often encouraged to grow around the tops of the rooms with lattices, there are lots of potted plants and even trees that are plotted outside and around the trees. 

Staircases are often spiral and made to look like carved slabs of precious stone with delicate railings. Ornate rugs and wall tapestries are meant to compliment each other and are an important form of storytelling in decor. Built-in shelves and “window seats” are also a common feature. Furniture often features intricate metalwork and is inlaid with precious stones. Fabric elements are usually rich textures like velvet or silk and are made from the same jewel tones that persist in their fashions. 

[travelwithsaurabhsblog]

Exploring Topkapi Palace: A Jewel in Istanbul's Imperial Crown

Introduction:

Nestled along the serene shores of the Bosphorus Strait in Istanbul, Turkey, Topkapi Palace stands as a timeless testament to the grandeur and opulence of the Ottoman Empire. With its rich history, stunning architecture, and breathtaking views, this majestic palace has earned its place as a jewel in Istanbul's imperial crown. Join us as we embark on a journey through the annals of history to uncover the secrets and splendors hidden within the walls of this iconic landmark.

Overview:

Topkapi Palace, constructed in the 15th century by Sultan Mehmed II, served as the primary residence and administrative center of the Ottoman sultans for over four centuries. Its sprawling complex of courtyards, chambers, and gardens offers a fascinating glimpse into the opulent lifestyle of the Ottoman elite. Visitors can explore the palace's magnificent architecture, delve into the intriguing history of the Imperial Harem, marvel at the dazzling treasures of the Treasury, and wander through the tranquil gardens. With its captivating allure and rich cultural heritage, Topkapi Palace remains a must-visit destination for travelers from around the world.

A Glimpse into the Past

Constructed in the 15th century by Sultan Mehmed II, Topkapi Palace served as the primary residence and administrative center of the Ottoman sultans for over four centuries. Its strategic location overlooking the Bosphorus Strait and the Golden Horn made it an ideal seat of power, allowing the rulers to govern their vast empire with authority and splendor.

The Architecture of Grandeur

As you step through the gates of Topkapi Palace, you're immediately struck by the sheer magnificence of its architecture. The palace's design is a stunning blend of Byzantine, Persian, and Ottoman influences, reflecting the diverse cultural heritage of the empire. From the intricate tilework adorning its walls to the towering domes and minarets that pierce the sky, every aspect of Topkapi Palace exudes an aura of grandeur and majesty.

Exploring the Courtyards

One of the highlights of any visit to Topkapi Palace is exploring its sprawling courtyards, each offering a unique glimpse into the palace's storied past. The First Courtyard, with its impressive Gate of Salutation, served as the main entrance to the palace and was once bustling with activity as courtiers and dignitaries passed through its gates. The Second Courtyard, home to the Imperial Council and the Divan, was where the sultan conducted state affairs and received foreign dignitaries.

The Magnificent Harem

No visit to Topkapi Palace would be complete without exploring its famed Harem, a labyrinth of opulent chambers and secluded courtyards where the sultan's family and concubines resided. Stepping into the Harem is like stepping back in time, with its beautifully decorated rooms, marble fountains, and lush gardens offering a glimpse into the luxurious lifestyle of the Ottoman elite.

Treasures of the Treasury

Another must-see attraction within Topkapi Palace is its Treasury, home to an astonishing collection of priceless artifacts, jewels, and religious relics. Here, visitors can marvel at the dazzling Spoonmaker's Diamond, one of the largest and most flawless diamonds in the world, as well as the legendary Topkapi Dagger, encrusted with emeralds and diamonds. Each treasure tells a story of the empire's wealth and cultural heritage, offering a fascinating insight into the opulence of the Ottoman court.

The Tranquil Gardens

Amidst the hustle and bustle of Istanbul lies an oasis of tranquility within the grounds of Topkapi Palace. The palace gardens, with their lush greenery, colorful flowers, and serene water features, offer visitors a welcome respite from the chaos of city life. Strolling along the shaded pathways, amidst fragrant rose bushes and ancient cypress trees, one can't help but feel a sense of peace and serenity.

Topkapi Palace Tickets: Unlocking the Doors to History

For those eager to embark on their own journey through the treasures of Topkapi Palace, securing tickets in advance is highly recommended. Topkapi Palace Tickets not only grant access to the palace's historic chambers and gardens but also offer visitors the opportunity to immerse themselves in the rich tapestry of Ottoman history and culture. Whether you're exploring the opulent halls of the Harem or marveling at the dazzling treasures of the Treasury, a visit to Topkapi Palace is sure to be an unforgettable experience.

Preserving a Cultural Legacy

Beyond its role as a tourist attraction, Topkapi Palace plays a vital role in preserving Turkey's cultural legacy for future generations. Through ongoing conservation efforts and educational programs, the palace continues to serve as a living museum, allowing visitors to connect with the country's rich history and heritage. From school children learning about the Ottoman Empire to tourists discovering the wonders of Istanbul, Topkapi Palace remains a cherished symbol of Turkish identity and pride.

Conclusion: 

In conclusion, Topkapi Palace stands as a jewel in Istanbul's imperial crown—a testament to the grandeur and opulence of the Ottoman Empire. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and breathtaking views, the palace continues to captivate visitors from around the world, offering a glimpse into a bygone era of splendor and intrigue. Whether you're a history enthusiast, an art lover, or simply in search of a moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of modern life, Topkapi Palace has something to offer everyone. So come, step back in time, and immerse yourself in the treasures of one of history's most illustrious empires.

[mgjewellerydesigns-blog]

Jeweller Fountain Gate

If you are looking for the best jewellery repair in the location of fountain gate then MGJD Jewellers in Fountain Gate is the good solution. The repairs are handled by experienced professionals so you need not worry at all.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Secret Garden

There had always been a walled garden on the Dytham estate. In fact, there were those who claimed that it had been there first; predating the house and the rest of the grounds, in the way that a castle might be built aside a river, or a city founded on the crest of a hillock - like a bird's nest in the crook of a tree.

Beyond the matter of its provenance, the presence of a garden was not so unusual. There was scarcely an estate of comparable size that did not boast an equivalent construction, an artificial lake or mound, a pagoda or some other folly. The garden was not of an unusual size, and its white walls formed a pleasing symmetry with the marble fountains elsewhere on the grounds.

Indeed, its scale and composition were unsurprising in all but one respect - being that it lacked for a gate, a door, or other entry-way of any kind. As such, it was the sort of construction to feature in fables and fairy-tales, the home to some warlock or trickster sprite - a myth in brick and mortar, if the pale, irregular stones could be taken for bricks. Except that it was real: four towering walls, with not an arch or sally-port between them.

It formed almost a closed system, a colossal terrarium, were it not for the absence of cover overhead: it might otherwise have been completely enclosed from the world beyond those walls, but rain and hail were permitted to fall upon the garden's plants, and they were visited by bluebottles and dragonflies that came and vanished with the breeze. It had even been observed that jewelled birds would sometimes land within the walls - though those who watched such things noted that fewer always left than had arrived.

There had been attempts to learn more, expeditions to chart this hortus incognita, but with limited success. When the third Lord Dytham had sent men to scale the bone-pale walls with the aid of sturdy ropes, they reported an impenetrable canopy beneath - a seething mass of overgrown vines and brambles, which seemed, like a noxious gas released into a room, to have expanded to fill all of the available space.

A little knowledge only led to further speculation: what was underneath that surface, between the garden's walls? Was it merely overgrown, or hiding something? The men could only ponder, and debate, and guess as to the original design. A hedge maze, equally bereft of way in or out, leading nowhere; topiary shrubs contorted in horrific countenances, locked away from gentle eyes; a particularly virulent strand of knotweed, that could only be kept within the strictest containment.

Eventually, the mystery became too much. `A few hardy souls had scaled the walls again, and this time ventured down the other side. If the garden would not provide a point of ingress or egress, they vowed to make their own, bearing the fourth Lord Dytham's blessing, laden with crampons and grappling hooks, and armed with machetes for the vines, the weeds, and whatever else lurked in the depths below.

But none returned. Whether the ascent on the reverse face was more challenging, or they had slipped and fallen on that first descent, or some other fate had befallen them once they dipped beneath the branches, it was impossible to say. The other men could only ponder, and debate, and guess as to their doom. But they pulled the rope down, after a while, once it was clear that they wouldn't return. Just in case.

The men did not believe in monsters. but they knew about walls, and that they were just as often built to keep something in. A treasure trove was just as easily a gaol. Over time, they came to the opinion that the garden was best left well alone: if it had not been furnished with a door, its builders would have had their reasons, following a careful, purposeful design. Lord Dytham agreed to trust in his forebears. He also disbelieved in monsters, but perhaps his ancestors had. Perhaps the walls had been built so that he didn't have to.

[faelune-home]

FFXIVWrite 2023 #22: Fulsome

(A/n: First thought when I read the descriptions for this prompt was immediately Eulmore and how affected and excessive all of the glitz and glamour is. And while I know Alphi's arc in Eulmore is just as much to highlight how much he's grown and changed and become a better person, I can't help but think surely he'd find it all really tacky since he's also lived a more upper crust kinda life. Just as another comparison point.

Like the amount of gold and drapery in there feels like a child's idea of what makes a posh and fancy place. Which is probably the point, especially given how sequestered away the citizens are in their own bubble vs the rest of the world. I just think he'd be valid to have that little bit of judgey-ness on the decor and all it would imply about the people living there too.

Word count: 664)

Eulmore was a blinding sight on Kholusia’s rocky shore, a ghastly white bleached bulge of a tower against the unchanging horizon, looming ominously above the desperate smallfolk at its gates. Every glint of gold another reminder to the people living in squalor what they wanted, what they desired.

For Alphinaud standing on the rocky shore, his first impression from the exterior alone was garish and oppressive, flags and banners swaying in a non-existent breeze like a noble mockingly waving a hand at the peasantry as they passed. The rounded towers that dotted around the central pillar, draped in gold threaded fabric, reminded him of bulbous balloons like those seen at fetes or celebrations. But there were no cheers or merriment in the air. 

The grand display of opulence was purely for the pleasure of those inside, ignorant to the risk of the world’s suffering, while everyone outside was left to envy and despair.

He could certainly picture what the world beyond those walls would be like. He spent many a day over that year looking at that towering city and imagining what lives the people must lead, what walls they must walk through that allowed them to blissfully ignore the world’s plight, to enjoy their grandiose lifestyle while others suffered. 

When Alphinaud finally did get the chance, reunited with Fhara and set on a deep infiltration, his every impression was confirmed; it was a grotesque fantasy of paradise. 

Appearance wise, the grand canopy at the uppermost floors of the city was coated in gold and velvet and jade, every fine mineral and jewel alike encrusted into golden pillars up the walls and the archways through the rooms; the tile grout painted gold, the aetheryte draped in fine silks and tassels; an overpowering scent of rose in the air, and he could hazard a guess that there was an additional source for that other than the whole flowers suspended in the waters around the aetheryte.

The whole thing was kitschy and gaudy in excess, an assault on the senses, as though using every valuable and expensive material they could find would be enough to display their lavish wealth. Every inch another reminder of the heights these people had climbed to. No doubt from clambering on the backs of others rather than their own effort just to reach their imitated grandeur.

He and Fhara were lead to the parlour, where a grand fountain stood central to the bar, draped in gold chains and softly glowing purple lights. The citizens chatted freely at tables and on stools around the bar, conversation flowing as freely as the wine. A whiff of the alcohol caught his nose as he passed by an over enthusiastically gesturing patron, making his face scrunch up at the overpowering scent. 

Cheap, possibly just heavy alcohol with little regard for taste. For somewhere that wanted to showcase how rich and cultured they were, it was fitting that their booze was as fake as their surroundings. All show with little class.

But it didn’t change the fact that they still had an abundance of it, even if they got drunk off it to whittle the days away in blind, uproarious ignorance. They had an abundance of everything, he noted, seeing the other tables gorge on plates of food, layered in fine fabrics and furs, fingers glinting with every jewel one could fit on a finger.

Surrounded by laughter and cheer, he had to forcefully bite his inner cheek to prevent a scowl. Instead he forced a polite smile once the pair finally reached the table of their new patrons. Their new masters. He had a duty to perform while they were here, one he had even come up with, but even so, there was a sense of unease and nausea churning through every inch of him. It almost made him want to leave as soon as they could, as soon as they’d done what they needed to.

The whole place reeked of insincerity. It was sickening.

[witchesoz]

What we know of Oz: Book 4, the great retcon

Despite having tried his best to answer his audience’s questions and to tie together all the lose threads of Oz with “Ozma of Oz”, L. Frank Baum kept receiving letters and asks demanding to know more about Oz and to have more of Oz – while interest in his other works stayed quite thin, and smaller than his audience’s investment in Oz. As a result, he ended up agreeing to write a fourth Oz book – “Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz”, published in 1908, one year after “Ozma of Oz”. However, the book takes place in a lot of different various underground magical lands, with Oz being a very small part of the overall story – only six of the twenty chapters. This shows clearly that Baum was growing more and more uninterested in Oz, and sought to write other stories.

# After a long series of adventures and trips in the underground land, Dorothy finally thinks of using Ozma’s help to get out of danger, using the deal with the Magic Picture mentioned in the last book – however here conditions are changed, in that instead of every Saturday morning, now Ozma looks at Dorothy every day at four o’clock.

# Fascinatingly, this book is home to one BIG retcon of the Oz chronology, a big change from the previous books: The Wizard of Oz (who finally makes a return and is Dorothy’s companion for her travels) has absolutely no idea of who Ozma is – and in fact never had any interaction with Ozma at all. Which is in contradiction with the tale of Book 2, which explained the Wizard was the reason Ozma ended up in Mombi’s care in the first place. But more on that latter.

# The Wizard of Oz expresses a desire to live again among the “four nations of Oz”, and he mentions that apparently he was the one that built the royal palace AND the Emerald City (which indeed, was something mentioned in the first book). Dorothy also adds that the Ozians are “still proud” of their former ruler and “often speak of you kindly” – which brings back to mind the debate in Book 2 where Tip had heard about the Wizard being a crook and the Scarecrow defended the Wizard’s honor.

# Dorothy claims here that there is no horses in Oz, beyond the living Sawhorse.

# And finally our hero are teleported to the Emerald City, described as a “beautiful emerald-green city bathed in a grateful green light that was especially pleasing to the eyes” (quite a contrast to the city of the first book), filled with “merry-faced people in gorgeous green-and-gold costumes of many extraordinary designs” – with the palace having jewel-studded gates and a courtyard with splendid blooming flowers and pretty fountains shooting silvery sprays in the air.

# The Wizard meets Jellia Jamb, that he apparently already knew before from when he ruled over the city, and he meets again Omby Amby, who just upgraded from a private to the Chief General of the Royal Armies… and turns out that Omby Amby is actually the tall soldier with green whiskers from the first book! But as he explains, he shaved off the whiskers a long time ago.

# We have again a stress on how unique and bizarre horses are in Oz due to Jellia Jamb thinking the real horse is the “unusual” and “bizarre” one where the Sawhorse is the “normal” one ; and no stables existing for horses in the palace… which contradicts entirely what we were told in the second book that the Sawhorse was designed precisely to look like a real horse. But anyway, it is another Baum Inconsistency (name trademarked).

# The Wizard is offered to take back his old room for his stay, the one “at the back of the Great Throne Room”, and he gleefully agrees. As for Zeb, Dorothy’s cousin and new companion, he is very startled and anxious upon seeing all the luxuries he is treated to. He is offered a grand and beautiful room, with a closet filled with fancy costumes of rich velvets and brocades, while the bathroom has a marble tub with perfumed water. Zeb quickly abandons his old farmer outfit for “a maroon velvet costume with silver buttons, silk stockings, and soft leather slippers with diamond buckles”, while the Wizard appears dressed in black velvet, with sparkling emeralds decorating his breast (though Zeb notes that the bald and wrinkled head of the Wizard makes a contrast with the outfit that is more amusing than impressive).

# Now, this is very important… during the diner with Princess Ozma, she and the Wizard of Oz exchange tales of the history of the country, and this serves as THE major retcon and chronology re-alignment of the entire series. Forget what you heard in the first two books, things are going to be twisted! Ozma beings by describing the Wizard as “the famous man who built the Emerald City and united the Munchkins, Gillikins, Quadlings and Winkies into one people” [something that latter Ozma herself disproves as wrong, so why would she say that in the first place?]. She also asks the Wizard if he named himself after Oz or if Oz was named after him, which is apparently a mystery she always wanted to know [but again, the thing is that right after Ozma reveals she KNOWS the answer to her own question, so this whole conversation is actually nonsense when you look at it as a whole. Either Baum was subtly trying to slip in the questions of his audience, either Ozma is secretely tricking and testing the Wizard. Either she is losing her mind.]

The Wizard answers with his tale and his version of the history of Oz: He clarifies that he uses “OZ” because these are his two first initials “Oscar Zoroaster”, and the rest of his initials just spell “PINHEAD” so he sticks with his two first names. He also explains how he arrived in Oz by mistake, and how people seeing the word “Oz” and all the various circus tricks he would do (including ventriloquism, his main ability) people assumed he was a wizard named Oz. The Wizard adds that when he arrived Oz was a “Land separated into four countries”, with each one ruled by a Witch – the people thought the Wizard’s power was greater than the one of the Witches, and Oz theorizes that the Witches perhaps thought it too because they never dared oppose or attack him. So the Wizard ordered the construction of the Emerald City “just where the four countries cornered” and he announced himself the “Ruler of the Land of Oz”, which included in his domain the four countries – and he ruled “in peace for many years” until he grew old and “longed to see his native city”, upon which he decided to leave with Dorothy on a balloon. [As you can see, the story is very different from the one we saw in the original book, where notably the Wizard was only ruling over the Emerald City, and he didn’t left because he felt old but because he was outed as a fraud by Dorothy – but a recurring element of the Wizard’s character in this book is that he keeps telling tall tales and twisting the truth, even outright lying to have a better role – notably at the beginning he claimed he never did anything wrong as a wizard, to which Dorothy reminded him that as the Wizard of Oz he made several mistakes…]

Ozma is quite impressed by this story, but she immediately complements this by another tale of the history of Oz, to better help the Wizard “understand” why and how things happened. According to her, many years before the Wizard arrived, the Land of Oz was united under one ruler – if the ruler was male, he was named Oz, if she was female, she was named Ozma – because Oz means “great and good” in the Ozian language. But one day, four Wicked Witches gathered together in a league to depose the current king, and rule the four parts of the kingdom for himself. This ruler was Ozma’s personal grandfather, that was stolen away and kept prisoner by one of those four witches. With the king gone, the four Witches divided the land among themselves – and thus this was why the Ozians were so happy upon seeing the Wizard arrive and thought them as the rightful ruler. She also adds that when the Wizard arrive, there were two Goods and two Wicked Witches, because the Good Witch of the North (still unnamed) and Glinda the Good (Good Witch of the South) conquered the evil witches of their respective corners. And then the bomb drops… The Wicked Witch of the North, the one that was deposed by the Good Witch, was none other than Mombi. Yes, Mombi, the villain of Book 2! Even more… Mombi was the one who imprisoned Ozma’s grandfather, and even after being deposed by the Good Witch, she stayed the jailor of Ozma’s grandfather… and then the jailor of Ozma’s father… and when Ozma was born, she turned her into a boy so that no one would ever recognize her. [If you recall, in Book 2, the story was WILDLY different, as it was said the Wizard of Oz overthrew King Pastoria, the old ruler of Oz, and he got rid of the little baby princess by offering her to Mombi… When here, apparently the Wizard arrived after all of that was done, and it was all the Wicked Witches fault]

# Mind you, this change of backstory is visibly done to turn the Wizard into more of a hero than the ambiguous person he originally was. And indeed, for all his good services to Oz, for having supervised the building of the Emerald City and having ruled “wisely and well for many years”, now that the Wizard is old and said he refused to rule again over Oz, Ozma offers him to live in the palace until his death, and to become the Official Wizard of Oz, with all the respect and consideration the position deserves. The Wizard agrees, but Dorothy tries to warn Ozma, saying he is only the “humbug Wizard”. To which Ozma answers with a smile that it is the “safest kind of Wizard to have”.

- - - - -

And thus began a series of unanswered mysteries. Who is the fourth wicked witch? Who was Ozma's grandfather and what's the deal with her father? Which of the dozen Oz continuities is right? And many more questions Baum never answered...

[7marichan714]

Day 26. New in town After the events happened at the Tower of Zot, Thancred suggests to Stellaris and Estinien to venture Radz-at-Han together 🪷 Radz-at-Han, the jewel of Thavnair. Stellaris was in awe, such a colorful and vivid city. And it was only the entrance gate. -So beautiful! -Stellaris exclaimed, mesmerized. -Well, milady, welcome to Radz-at-Han. -Estinien introduced. -Though I have been here before, this place is a veritable maze. Rather than risk getting lost, we had best ask for directions from this sentry at the fountain. -He extended his hand, expecting to hold hers. -Follow me. -Our honemoon continues, I'm looking forward to it. -She replied eagerly. The couple went upstairs, heading towards the guard. Stellaris walked closer to the monument, kneeling down to observe the flowers floating. Estinien joined his wife after noticing her interest. The dragoon couldn't help but smile. -Lotus flowers! And water lilies over there!! -she pointed out. -Do you know the name of this fountain? -No idea. Do fountains normally have names? -he raised an eyebrow. -I guess if they are famous enough. -Stellaris chuckled.

[k-she-rambles]

They stood on a wet floor of polished stone, the doorstep, as it were, of a rough-hewn gate of rock opening dark behind them. But in front a thin veil of water was hung, so near that Frodo could have put an outstretched arm into it. It faced westward. The level shafts of the setting sun behind beat upon it, and the red light was broken into many flickering beams of ever-changing colour. It was as if they stood at the window of some elven-tower, curtained with threaded jewels of silver and gold, and ruby, sapphire and amethyst, all kindled with an unconsuming fire.

'At least by good chance we came at the right hour to reward you for your patience,' said Faramir. 'This is the Window of the Sunset, Henneth Annûn, fairest of all the falls of Ithilien, land of many fountains. Few strangers have ever seen it.

🙋‍♀️ raise your hand if you tried to draw this when you were 13

[twistsparkle]

Kiss Them For Me

It glittered and it gleamed, for the arriving beauty queen

A ring and a car, now you’re the prettiest by far

Kayla was primping and pouting, prepping. She looked at herself in the reflection and blew a kiss. Perfect pink lips. Not a hair out of place. It’s just been so long and she can’t wait to be seen like this. She was ready, the car was waiting to take her there. She slipped on the sparkle that encircled her finger. The glitter, the precious jewel that dazzled her as it caught the light. She loves sparkly things!

No party she'd not attend, No invitation she wouldn't send

Transfixed by the inner sound, Of your promise to be found

It’s almost hard to remember the before. Before they met, when Kayla was someone else. Somehow, being the life of the party was a deep rooted ambition that was much more important that whatever it was that she was before. She was always such a social creature, always loved to call attention to herself, to present, to be on stage. To perform.

All she remembers is when they met, she was given a stack of invitations to get out for tonight all those months ago, her tongue licking the glue of each and every envelope, and it tasted like cotton candy. Cotton candy pink. The voice entered her mind as she licked as he said:

"Nothing or no one will ever make me let you down"

As long as she does everything as planned, everything will be okay. Everything perfect, just as planned. Cotton candy pink sugar dancing on her tongue, making her tingle and drip deep inside, growing her need for more. To become who she was always meant to be. Her true self. And in those months leading up to today, everything started to change. The anticipation building. The desire, growing.

Kiss them for me, I may be delayed

Keith was slumped in his chair at Gate B6. Like everything these days, the flight was delayed, he was fidgety and his phone was dangerously low on juice. Damn. He couldn’t be late. He had to arrive on time. He was so glad that he followed the suggestion and made a point to arrive a day early. Still, he was nervous, but pulled out that invitation from his bag, smelled the cotton candy, and let out a soft giggle.

It's divoon, oh it's serene, In the fountains pink champagne

Someone carving their devotion, In the heart-shaped pool of fame

The car was waiting, and Keith finally got to the hotel. All the accommodations were set up, waiting for him, and far more luxe than he expected. A bucket of pink champagne and a bubble bath was drawn. There was a note, “Take a dip, start to drip. You know exactly what to do.”

The bubbles, the pink, the drips.

Keith was now unquestionably Kayla.

inspired by the Siouxsie & The Banshees song, "Kiss Them For Me"