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caltropspress · 5 months ago

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DISPATCHES FROM 2ND ST. STUDIOS: Fatboi Sharif & DRIVEBY in session

I went to DRIVEBY’s apartment in Jersey City because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of documenting musical exxxprrrimentation, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I knew witnessing Fatboi Sharif in the studio would be morbidly rewarding—I felt it in my critik’s skull-and-crossbones (memento mori, pirate flag, poison pictogram). It was New Year’s Day in the year of our Lord Have Mercy 2024, and I had to pull myself away from a tree documentary that had, sadly, begun to disappoint. I had opened a stocking-stuffed box of Goobers and was reluctant when Sharif sent the invitational text. I had settled in for the night. But it was my idea to watch the man work his black magikal esoterika hammer-don’t-hurt-them-witches recording session, so I’d be a real punk to rebuff the offer. I got into the Toyota and headed down Route 3 toward Jersey City. I was on the 1&9 in no time—the truest highway to hell, if one ever existed. Ate de Jong could never scout such a location. AC/DC roadside appliance wasteland. Potholes pave the way, but in a De Nah Soul manner. I finished eating the Goobers in the car, by the palmful, and lost one to an erratic lane merge. I motherfucked and shitted at the thought of a chocolate stain on my upholstered driver’s seat, or worse, the seat of my pants. My dad delivered Blimpie’s for thirty-plus years in Jersey City, long before it became Brooklyn-of-the-West, so I know parking spots there are at a never-dream-of-’em premium. I parked several blocks away from DRIVEBY’s studio and cloven-hoofed it while huffing brick air. Texted from outside, but Sharif was already ushering me through a wrought-iron gate (suitable for guttings and impalements) and into the basement apartment: DRIVEBY’s 2nd St. Studios. That gate was like an entrance into a secret garden—overblown and overflowin’ with a riot of root rot, weeds, and (of course) crumbling-but-still-grumbling gargoyles, most with the medieval motif of mooning jutting out from the church buttresses. DRIVEBY’s had a William Shatner’s TekWorld comic next to his speaker. Dusty keyboards lined the floor. Sega Genesis cartridges, a Sharp boombox, and the requisite vinyl collection on bowing crates completed the scene. The space stored antiquated and dead media—ghost machines humming and haunting.

⤧

Sharif told me he’d be recording some tracks for his upcoming album with Blockhead, something for Bigg Jus, and several features. When I arrived, he was in the middle of recording one of the Blockhead tracks. The mic and the iso shield were directly inside the door of the apartment, and I sat on the couch to the left of that. Sharif would be spitting at me, beyond me, as he did his thing—an intimate setting, to say the very least. Beans of Antipop Consortium sat on this same cushion months earlier, I thought. They recorded “Sex With the Leopard Print Lady” here. While I pondered the legacy of stylist berzerkers of past and present, Key & Peele played on the television in front of me. I wanted to make myself scarce, invisible as possible, Brundlefly-on-the-wall, non-participatory, so I watched the “Laron Can’t Laugh” sketch on mute and registered how Laron’s noiseless convulsions and eventual shriek expertly pantomimed Sharif’s vocals. These layers of silence allowed me to hear some of what Sharif was spewing forth and commit it to memory. He spoke of avenging the death of Candyman. The words loom like Tony Todd—tall as a ponderosa pine in a Cabrini-Green courtyard. Caroline crossed eyelids…90 degree pressure… Closing in on 400 degreez, but we’re talking below zero. The winter of our disconnected selves. Sharif tells DRIVEBY he wants his voice to sound “fucked up.” He’s snorting, super sinusy. He wants to cultivate a specific sound—it coats the inner concavities of his skull. He just needs to externalize it into a self-portrait in a convex DAW interface. “The soul establishes itself,” John Ashbery writes. Sharif is shoeless, I should add. He’s black socked as he cuts the song’s first of three adlib tracks. The first is completely muddled, barely audible—a grumbly grumble grumb. The second is a helium-huffed high pitch mania. The third, a yell—“the banshee,” as DRIVEBY calls it. Sharif slackens the headphone wires and walks across the room. He does “the banshee” from as great a distance as possible. You’ve no doubt heard the banshee adlib track before (B.A.T. for short, as in, the hematophagic vampire bat). If you’ve heard a Fatboi Sharif recording, you’ve likely heard a hotly desperate and deranged voice coming from the depths of a hellmouth—sinners swallowed and still writhing, quasi-alive, anticipating rigor mortis. DRIVEBY captures the natural reverb. Sharif asks him to put distortion and echo on the last word of the verse.

⤧

Fatboi Sharif was reading lyrics off his phone, but by then he was Loosifa loose—engaging me, inviting me to dialogue, reveling in the job. His feet are light and nimble, like McCarthy’s Judge. He says that he will never die. And, you bet, he dances in light and in shadow. He’s a craftsman and possesses an engineer’s ear, an ant-infested and severed one he probably plucked from a manicured lawn in Scotch Plains, NJ, Jeffrey Beaumont style. For the second verse of the song, he makes an alteration and decides to end the verse earlier than he had written it, stopping at the phrase “role model” because he likes the “swing of it.” Okay, Nuke Hellington. I see you, Benny Badman. A natural performer, the recording session reflects both technical know-how and impassioned delivery. He doesn’t quite lose himself as he does on the stage (or the audience floor where he so often ends up), but he’s unequivocally locked in, as he kids say. Locked in a room with padded walls, more apropos. On the next, he requires a seemingly endless run of retakes. I begin to wonder if my presence is a burden, a distraction. But the session keeps its devil-may-care air intact. Still, Sharif has a sonic vision he yearns to achieve. He won’t settle for less. He eventually gets the take he desires and tells DRIVEBY he’s gonna do three adlibs. These two men work in harmony to develop their songs of disharmony. They’ve been boys, and so that keeps the chemistry alchemical for the duration. Open and honest, DRIVEBY tells Sharif that three tracks of adlibs is “too many.” FUCK THAT! Sharif shouts at him. Sharif wants the adlibs to sound beneath everything—six-feet deep, or “buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways” (unexpressed emotions, that is), as Freud or a Freud-fraud once wrote. Sharif wants echoes. He wants to sound like he’s a signal coming in and out of the radio as you drive through the night. These are the requests he makes, delicately selected from his mental doom board as DRIVEBY adjusts the mix, adds effects. “Do you do a lot of vocal mixing on the spot?” I ask. Sharif shakes his head, points to DRIVEBY slumped over his computer monitor, clicking and dragging, random access memory maybe lagging: “He’s on his Bob Power shit.” Listening to the playback, Sharif tells me he wants to be like Joker in the children’s hospital scene. What kinda clown carries a fuckin’ gun?! I’m waiting for the next Sharif release, crossing my fingers into an arthritic mass of flesh and bone in hopes of his cover of “If You’re Happy and You Know It” appearing on the tracklist.

⤧

DRIVEBY puts Joker on the TV. It’s the bus scene; he can’t stop laughing. He hands a fellow passenger his card: Forgive my Laughter: I have a Condition. Sharif still sleeps to beats. He’s told this story numerous times to various media outlets, and so it’s beginning to take on the tone of lore. But it’s not. Even wilder, he’s not listening on headphones as he sleeps; he blasts the beats on speakers. Sharif prefers to record late, well into the wee hours of morning. DRIVEBY’s couch often becomes Sharif’s bed. “He’ll have the same beat on for five hours,” DRIVEBY explains. He’ll be in his bedroom, unable to sleep. Sharif grins and tells me, “That’s when I’m in the mindfuck.” Sharif reapproaches the mic. Another Blockhead track. “He told me he made this one especially for me,” Sharif says. The beat sounds like a Gregorian chant in a cavern. Beware of the Shroom Monster. Sharif has managed to amass an intimidating number of releases over the past several years while not indulging us to excess. He’s conservative with his run-times. Clocks ain’t shit to him. Many of his projects are EP-length, but categorizing them in any terms would seem to discredit his ingenuity. As the session unofficially ends and we settle into more casual conversation, Sharif implores DRIVEBY to play selections from their unreleased album, currently on ice like a corpse. I listen and hear of an exorcism of Antoinette, of Elvira and death resurrections, of Basquiat painting in Transylvania, crossroads, and plosive sonic samples from The Pagemaster—a film I have absolutely no recollection of but DRIVEBY speaks almost as highly of as his Fantastic Damage instrumental CD-R. OneShotOnce shows up, presumably for a session, but not before he and Sharif pillage DRIVEBY’s fridge. They feast on cold chicken while I gather myself to leave.

Images: Astronomical table detail from the Almanach Purpetuum of Abraham Zacuto (c. 1500)

#underground hip hop #backwoodz studioz #zines #fatboi sharif #driveby #recording

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jerifro · 10 months ago

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NEW Patricia Nash Larone Euro Map Leather Shoulder Bag.

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ardeawritten · 2 years ago

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Culture and Clothing in David's story-

ridiculous long worldbuilding post below the cut

Undergarments are specific to the needs of the individual and outerwear is determined first by culture, then by family, economic and social status and personal taste. There are no gender-specific styles of garments or ornamentation as gender doesn't impact social/cultural role, but all cultures will have some visual indicators of social status, marital status, wealth, occupation etc. represented through their garments and ornamentation.

Kingsland: Plant and animal woven-fiber clothing, mostly undyed or dyed with local earth/vegetable pigments. They have a stable agricultural base with established farms, water-mills and extensive trade, so they can craft cotton, linen-type and wool-type fiber cloth. But their cultural identity is rooted in displacement and poverty so brightly dyed cloth or extensive decoration is seen as wastefully ostentatious and wearing too much trade ornamentation is seen as "playing at being foreign." Instead, they will dye thread and embroider clothing as expression of status, preference and expression, as a few spools of luxury threads are easier to lug around than bolts of luxury cloth. Embroidery is often trimmed from old garments and resewn onto new ones, with embroidered designs, colors, beadwork etc. regularly coming in and out of style.

North Independent Tribes: Instead of settling in new farmland like Kingsland, the northern branch of the same displaced people-group established a semi-nomadic life in the northern arboreal forests. Their clothing is leather, felted fur or unprocessed animal and plant fiber and is constantly renewed and remade with the seasons. A cloak may be repainted with new designs every few days as the old ones wash and flake off, for example. But metal, stone, ivory, shell or other more permanent wearable ornaments are passed down through generations and added to as a form of tangible, wearable representation of family and heritage, and each generation is expected to painstakingly craft or trade for something of permanence to add to the collection.

East Highlands: The eastern highland estates and city-states have access to factory manufacturing and a more extensive, more permanent agriculture base, so their textiles are finer than Kingsland and the coastal clans but a constant trade embargo keeps their products off most foreign markets and thus their factories only serve their own people's needs. Pure white fabrics are prized as a symbol of great wealth and leisurely lifestyle in their own estates, but outsiders consider their cloth representative of a wasteful and lazy people who enslave others to do their work for them. It's in great demand as contraband and most wealthy outsiders want it, even if they won't admit to it and publicly denounce the trade.

Nomadic South: The true nomadic tribes of the south are famed for their animal fiber production and the fineness of their threads and cloth, and they prize their work highly and adorn their families and children with the best of it. Fiber is not dyed but carefully sorted by tone and hue to create contrasting patterns; breeding animals with high quality hair and wool in desirable colors is considered prestigious, so a family will have their herd's best colors represented throughout their clothing.

Coastal Clans:

Laron clan wears black, as in their merchant culture a versatile, color-fast black dye that would not fade was representative of great trade success and once brought their clan the wealth needed to elevate it to its present status. They ornament their black clothing with the trade goods of other cultures, as wearing fine weaving, embroidery or metalwork produced by distant and exotic artisans is considered symbolic of a trade network's strength and their own experience as skilled travelers and navigators.

Chairn clan wears brightly dyed leather, heavy fabrics and metalwork. Their clan thrives on conflict and values conquest over trade, so their clothing tends to be more of a light armor than a true garment and even the most casual vest can probably stop a dagger. Bright colors and ornaments are representative of spoils taken in war while layers of worked leather and metal beads provide additional protection. Putting on one's armor is synonymous with putting on one's coat, with varying qualities and styles of reinforced clothing depending on the danger, violence or betrayal anticipated during the day's activities.

Toujurn clan prizes quality and skill in all things, and their clothing reflects this. No matter what they are wearing, or who made it, it will be the finest example of its kind. They use less ornamentation than the Chairn or Laron and instead value the history and artistry of craftsmanship over aesthetics or trends. They will not alter a garment once it is considered completed and have no cultural sense of "out of style." A Toujurn clan-member may wear a single simple garment but be able to recount its exact history, place of manufacture, style, era, and names of the weavers who wove the cloth and tailor who stitched the hem.

Kkaran clan wears whatever it can get its hands on. Caught in the middle between the wealthy Laron, warlike Chairn and elite Toujurn, and not permitted to own land in Kingsland or the southern territories, Kkaran is a melting-pot of lineage and culture where anyone cast off from their home clan or of uncertain or "shameful" parentage is sent. Their clothing reflects this; equal parts salvaged Chairn armor, faded Laron blacks, clothing too inferior for the Toujurn, or made at home from other countries' trade goods and scraps. The exception to this are mercenary companies, who create individual symbols and uniforms representative of their skill and to provide a visual and tactile sense of belonging. Outsiders consider a Kkaran without a mercenary company and associated uniform to be a homeless, useless vagabond, but all Kkaran will welcome and protect anyone who lacks the status or clarity of identity to belong elsewhere.

Among all cultures, wearing dragonhide clothing or armor sets the wearer apart from everyone. Dragons will sometimes gift their own hides to companion families upon death and those families in turn prize the hides as wealth beyond counting. Dragonhide is tough but enduring, brightly colored and as good as light steel armor in battle, but very rare and never sold or traded, only gifted. Hide taken from a murdered dragon will rot and decay; only hide from a dragon who intended for its hide to be removed can be preserved and utilized.

#working hard to make sure no one is just 'fantasy version of x' here #etc etc...#worldbuilding #original writing #writblr #fantasy culture #fantasy worldbuilding #writing non-gendered fashion is surprisingly tricky #everyone gets tunics and leggings because the baggage around skirts and dresses is too heavy #and the narrative shorthand of feminine/effeminate and masculine etc visuals is habitual and ubiquitous

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junie-bugg · 4 years ago

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The Heartrender - Chapter Three: Flickers

Hello all!

Here’s chapter three of my Everlark fic ‘The Heartrender’, in which I inadvertently utilized the “only one bed trope” 😏💕

You can read here on Tumblr or here on AO3 (I suggest reading on AO3 because I add a poem at the beginning of each chapter that I feel fits nicely with the story.)

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content

Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta, AU - Shipwrecked, AU - Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Furs and Fires, Angst and Fluff and Smut, sexually experienced Katniss, virgin Peeta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, Laughter During Sex, Blood and Injury, Imprisonment, Peeta has some prejudices to work out, Peeta also has an accent, Inspired by Six of Crows

Summary:

He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.

After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Chapter Three: Flickers

Night had fallen, and with it, the temperature. Peeta allowed the witch to hold his arm so she could keep his blood warm. When she retracted her hand every once in a while to readjust the pelt around her shoulders, his jaw clenched.

He shouldn’t miss her touch.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” she asked.

“Near the northern border of the Permafrost. Though I don’t know how far from the capital we were before the ship sank.”

“We’re walking to Fjordhingă then?”

“Yes,” he replied. Fjordhingă was the trading capital of the north. It was to be the last stopping point of The Bloody Rose’s voyage before they headed west to Sjorkden. If he and the witch could make it there by foot, perhaps Peeta could talk their way onto a ship. But how would he get the witch on board? What if she ran away? The thought had been nagging him like a fly on his brow.

Even with the witch there to keep his blood pumping, he felt his limbs freezing up as the temperature continued dropping. He desperately scanned the darkening horizon, hoping to find an outcropping of rocks they could huddle under, or maybe another whaling camp. Instead, he spotted a gabled roof.

“Oh, thank god,” he breathed and started tugging the witch along.

“Lieutenant…” she said apprehensively.

It wasn’t just some stray shack. It was a fishing village, with squat houses and a trading outpost, all perched on the cliffside and overlooking the ocean. One circular dirt road cleared of rock and vegetation lay at its center and clusters of small stone buildings had been constructed around it. The houses had wavy glass panes in the windows and soot-blackened chimneys, though no light shone onto the street and no smoke rose into the sky.

An abandoned village then.

Even better.

Peeta hastened his pace.

“Lieutenant, stop!” the witch yelled, tugging him back behind the village’s low border wall. “Look at the flagpole!”

Peeta’s heart sank when he saw an ominous black flag waving high above the rooftops.

Black was for plague. No wonder the place seemed abandoned.

Everyone had died.

He thought they were going to move on, but the witch set her shoulders back. Her face took on a quiet focus.

“We need to be careful. We can’t just barge in. There may be corpses.” She dropped his arm and moved around him. He watched her walk to the door of the closest house and lay a palm to its wind-weathered surface before he could stop her.

He sucked in a breath.

She was too close.

“Don’t!” he barked and pulled her away.

She whipped her head around, a scowl pulling her brows together. “You’d rather we die of plague then allow me to use my god-given powers?”

“Don’t drag god into this.”

“Oh don’t worry. I doubt we have the same one,” she retorted. “Now get out of my way.”

He didn’t want her touching that door, but he knew what she was doing. He’d read about the practice of purification in class, but he hadn’t imagined it would smell so good.

Pure white light emanated from within the building, flooding out in bright streams from the windows, the minuscule cracks in the stone walls, the deep hollow of the chimney. Long shadows crept along the ground, shifting in oblong patterns as the light in the house moved. The witch’s hair and clothing snapped in some enchanted breeze, pulling ebony locks and fur upwards in a cascading arc until the light faded and gravity pulled her hair back down in a glossy curtain.

The air tingled with the sharp scent of mint.

“I thought you could only manipulate bodies,” Peeta got out.

“I can do a great many things you wouldn’t understand, lieutenant.”

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered. Lieutenant was his title from the Order. It felt wrong to hear her speak it here.

“Would you rather I call you by your name?” she asked.

Peeta didn’t respond.

“Didn’t think so.” She turned the brass knob and the door swung in on itself. “Welcome home, lieutenant.”

By noon the next day, she had purified the entire village.

It was a spell, an easy one, that burned away rot and disease. Each time she pressed a hand to a doorway, the windows filled with that bright celestial light, her hair rose above her head as a flame rises above a candlewick, and she burned away any trace of plague inside. Scraps of cloth that had been coughed into, drops of dried blood on the floor, corpses that had been left behind. Each house was spotless when she was done.

They had slept in the house farthest from the others, on the far side of the village. It was small, with only a kitchen, sitting area, and one bedroom. There was a sizable stone hearth in the kitchen, plenty of split logs in a wicker basket by the back door, even some strips of salted caribou meat in the pantry. First, they had scarfed down the meat, and only after, with the salted flesh chewed and swallowed, did they think of their thirst. Peeta made a fire while the witch lugged a burnished pot outside to gather snow. They drank the warm melted water and then collapsed into bed with their clothes still on.

It was a real bed, with a canopied frame and pillows and soft, quilted blankets. Peeta was too tired to object when the witch curled in against his chest, and once more he spent the night with his nose buried deep in her hair.

As exhausted as he was, Peeta was a soldier. He woke early, as he always did, and found that he couldn’t fall back asleep. The pale morning light of dawn bled through the curtains. Anyone else would have rolled over and tried to catch a few more hours of shut-eye, but Peeta couldn’t. The witch’s heat against his chest was too much, like a beating, throbbing wound that refused to heal. He untangled his arm from around her and then hurried to the door, grabbing a spear in the pretense of hunting.

Winter burned his nostrils as he took in deep lungfuls of air. He was a boy raised in the fjords of southern Sjorkden, and a man of the northern academy. He’d thought he’d seen the bitterest winters the world had to offer when ice would form between the stones of his tower dormitory and he and Yasser would have to sleep on the floor by the black iron furnace for warmth. They would go to breakfast with blue nail beds and teeth that chattered so violently sometimes it was hard to chew. But he realized those nights were nothing compared to this, a winter’s chill so sharp that it cut out a spot for you into the very landscape, made you feel as if your skin was crafted of snow, your bones pressed from ice.

He secured the fur around his shoulders and tried to replace thoughts of piercing silver eyes with thoughts of breakfast.

But the winds of the north were unforgiving, and the frigid bite of the air only reminded Peeta of how warm he had been with the witch. By the time he had finished hunting, having speared only one measly hare, his limbs were frozen, joints locked as if welded, lips numb under his teeth as he tried to bite the life back into them.

He found himself anticipating coming back to the village, wanting what he so desperately fled only hours before; to tangle in bed with the witch once more, a merry fire crackling in the hearth, the warm press of her body cradled against his own, his nose buried in the hollow beneath her ear, soaking up the heady scents of jasmine and fresh rain and sunlight until he was drunk on her.

His thoughts were peaceful until he remembered the sin of what he had been considering.

Laying with the witch was practical. The use of her magic against the cold was necessary. There was nothing charming or romantic about having to rely on an enemy for survival. He should despise his needing her.

She wasn’t human. She was dangerous.

It was foolish to forget that.

Yasser collapsed into the seat across from Peeta, his dinner tray laden with a bowl of brown grits, boiled sausages, some mushy looking turnips, and a small cup of water.

“Did you hear what happened to Larone?” he asked, his urgent tone cutting under the loud din of the dining compartment.

“No,” Peeta replied, unsure if he wanted news of how Wilhelm was handling his first witcher voyage. The antics of newbies were fun to hear about at the start, but when tales of seasickness and fatigue reached the ears of experienced witchers, especially witchers on the cusp of earning their freedom, the stories were more annoying than entertaining.

Yasser greedily stuffed a spoonful of grits into his mouth and swallowed before continuing. “Well, I’m telling you anyway. If I have to know, you have to know.”

“Can I finish eating first?”

“No. Now eat your sausages, growing boy!” Yasser mimicked the garbled, high-pitched accent of one of the servants from the academy, Mrs. Jengon, who had doled out food in the great hall. Each and every student was a “growing boy” in her eyes. Even the ones who had finished their battle with puberty.

Peeta frowned and took a tentative bite of sausage.

“Alright, I’m going to try and say this with as much grace as possible,” Yasser said solemnly but then burst into peals of laughter, slamming a fist against the table so forcefully the plates rattled. “Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t think I can. Larone gave the Heartrender a little too much to chew if you know what I’m saying.”

Peeta stilled. “He didn’t.”

Yasser cocked a thick eyebrow, his mouth crinkling around the corners. With his flaming red hair and bright green eyes gleaming under the oil lamps he looked like some kind of buff leprechaun. “He did. And now half his pisser is being packed in ice.”

Peeta’s stomach rolled, his body instinctually clenching in phantom pain as he imagined it. He set down his fork with the sausage impaled on the end and pushed the plate away.

“God…”

“But don’t tell anyone I told you,” Yasser added. “The commander wants to keep it under wraps. Doesn’t shine very well on him, does it? If his recruits are dumb enough to stick their cocks between witch jaws?”

Peeta didn’t tell a soul but the news still spread through the ranks like a wildfire during drought season. Yasser updated him at breakfast. Larone was in the infirmary being tended to by Dutch, the crew’s one doctor, and wouldn’t be out of recovery until the ship reached Sjorkden. Peeta felt bad for the boy, but it was his own foolishness that had gotten him into trouble, and now he’d never bed a wife or sire heirs. Larone’s power crawl was over before it had even really started.

Peeta relieved Hans Gerholt from guarding duty that night, disgusted when he saw no one had bothered to clean the Heartrender up. Larone’s blood had splattered her face, dried, and then cracked. She looked absolutely monstrous with a red dipped chin.

“You here for a good time too?” she said, picking up on Peeta’s discomfort. He didn’t respond, just sat down stiffly in the guard’s chair and listened to the creaking of the boat, the squeaking of rats in the walls, the soft clinking of the witch’s chains when she shifted across the cell floor. “Your little friend showed me his even littler friend. I barely bit him and it was half off.”

“Stop talking,” Peeta growled, angry at himself that he had risen to her bait. He knew she just wanted to get a rise out of him. The weeping girl was gone, replaced with one who had accepted she had nothing to lose.

“Now your commander…” she drawled, eyes flashing in the partial darkness. “His would have taken more gnawing.”

Peeta didn’t much care for the commander. He was old and cruel, but it was the principal of honor and his loyalties to the Order that made him rise so sharply from his chair that it tipped over. He lunged at her through the bars, pulling her up against the cold metal by her collar. “Hold your tongue, witch, or I’ll cut it out.”

She tsked quietly, hanging limply in his grip. “Did your commander ever tell you where he found me?” She saw the confusion in his eyes and clung to it. “Of course he didn’t. No pious soldier of Sjorkden would ever reveal he had been cavorting in a pleasure house.”

“You’re a whore,” Peeta whispered, almost disbelievingly, the pieces clicking into place. He released her and she fell to the ground in a weakened heap.

On the surface, she looked the same. Wrinkled red dress, oily black hair, sunken cheeks. But now there was something alight inside of her. Heat smoldered like molten silver in her eyes.

“You and your kind have called me many things, lieutenant. Witch. Slum scum. Unholy daughter of Krell. But I’m afraid ‘whore’ is where I draw the line. I did not choose that life, it was thrust upon me, and here I am now. Free of it.”

Peeta looked down at her. He thought the commander had put her in those iron hand caps to keep her from unleashing her powers. She could not kill if she could not curl her fingers. But now he suspected they had come from her time in Ellsworth. How long had she been wearing them? From the rust on the padlocks, he suspected a long time. “How ironic that you speak of freedom while you lounge in chains.”

“Freedom is a fickle thing, lieutenant. I may be stuck here in this cage, but I suspect you carry one wherever you go.”

Peeta’s nostrils flared. That familiar rush of rage he experienced during combat surged through his limbs, but with nowhere to go, his head soon swam with it. “Do not pretend to know me. You’re repulsive. A perversion against nature.”

“I am nature. You are just too brainwashed to see it.”

“Nature does not defile the earth. Or slaughter the innocent by the thousands.”

“My people have committed no such crimes. We were healers before you forced our hands to bloodshed. I suggest you try looking upon yourselves before you go blindly doling out sentences.”

Peeta was at a loss for words. The nerve of this girl, injuring Larone and then preaching about who the real enemy was. Coaxing out his anger and frustration when he was normally so good at hiding it. Ever since he ran away from home, he had learned the hard way that emotion in the face of an enemy was weakness. He could not afford to let her under his skin, no matter how hard she clawed away at him. He was ashamed to admit it, but he had found himself thinking about her on nights when he wasn’t on guard duty.

That stopped now.

“Rot in hell,” he spat as he righted his chair.

“You will,” she growled.

The witch burned the red dress in the kitchen fireplace. The fabric steamed and curled into blackened strips, sending dark plumes of smoke up the chimney like released ghouls. Peeta didn’t have to ask her why she did it. He knew she burned the dress to try and burn away the memories of her capture, and perhaps the memories that came before. If he thought about it, the dress must have been from her time in Ellsworth. He could only imagine how a girl of her beauty would fare in the clutches of a pleasure house, the horrors unleashed upon her when the rights to her body were not her own. He wondered how she could even bear touching him.

A man.

A stranger.

If burning the dress had worked, he couldn’t tell. She came to bed in a fur-lined nightgown and quietly rested her cheek on his breastbone. His cheeks burned, shame lacing itself into his stomach lining when he didn’t push her away.

“I’ve never heard a heart song so gentle,” she murmured admiringly. She sounded surprised.

Peeta’s chest ached. He was suddenly self-conscious of how fast he was breathing and in his fight to slow down, hadn’t asked her what she meant.

They raided each house one by one. The people of the village were either dead or had moved on when the plague hit. They left behind dressers full of clothing, shoes, pots and pans, utensils, pottery, carving knives, firewood, axes, the occasional sword, hunting supplies, wax candles, furniture, toys, paintings, family heirlooms. All the trappings of domesticity.

The pair took a pan here and a pair of shoes there. Peeta had found two large packs with which to stuff items in. His pack would contain a small assortment of kitchenware, food, some firewood, and the water sacks. She would carry extra clothing and furs. They planned on spending a couple of nights in the village before restarting their journey north to Fjordhingă.

In the days they spent stocking up on provisions, the witch took over hunting duty. She didn’t hunt with spear or snare as Peeta had learned. She used her powers to crush windpipes and burst hearts. Wild dogs stopped dead in their tracks, keening over like sacks of potatoes. Birds plummeted from the sky, cold before they hit the ground. He enjoyed the bounty, feasting on a new roast every night and salting the leftovers, but with every meal, he grew warier. He had heard the stories of course, of the deathly potential that Heartrenders possessed, but seeing her in action was completely different from hearing some old tale around a campfire. Just how powerful was she? And when she determined he was no longer useful as a means of body heat or when their little truce no longer suited her, how easy would it be to kill him? A curl of her fingers or a flick of her wrist and he’d be dead.

Maybe he’d made a mistake by letting her live.

Every night when he watched her sleep, the voices of the masters pressed into his head, willing his fingers to close around her throat, to witness the light drain from her bulging, terror-filled eyes and have her know that he had bested her.

Him. The seed of a pathetic, weak-willed baker. Wielder of no arcane power and with no legacy to help carve the way. Just him and his own two hands against the world. As it had always been.

But no matter what his common sense was telling him, of how dangerous he knew her kind to be, he couldn’t do it. He would reach for her neck and then freeze, afraid to go any further. If she didn’t stir he’d stay his hand, running feather-light fingers across her pulse point, quietly admiring the way her angled features softened in sleep. But if her eyelids fluttered or her breathing changed he would retreat as if she had burned him.

“Where were you sired?” Peeta asked one night as they ate a bird the witch had caught. The bones were small and Peeta had to be careful not to break them with his teeth. He gnawed on a piece of cartilage as he waited for her reply.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean-” Krellian was not Peeta’s first language. He had picked it up between his boyhood and his blood christening into the Order, but he had limited knowledge of words. He learned Krellian and Narubi and Hannako from old, leather-bound textbooks and even older professors. For years he had studied all the archaic tongues they hoped he would someday snuff out, but he did not know slang or turn of phrase, and his accent was rounded in his mouth compared to the crisp consonants of a native Krellian speaker.

She spoke as if she were tiptoeing through a flower field.

He spoke as if he were crashing through it.

“Where did you… grow?”

“Grow up?”

Grow up. Peeta slotted the term into his memory for future use. “Yes. Where in Krell did you grow up?”

The witch narrowed her eyes, those silvery irises glowing like moonlight from behind a cloud’s ragged border. “Why? Are you planning your next raid?”

“No, I-” He ducked his head, his cheeks burning furiously. “I’m just curious.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I won’t tell you, lieutenant,” she snarled. She threw down her uneaten bird’s wing, splattering congealed blood everywhere. “Besides, you don’t deserve to know.” Her anger was eager, ready to be unleashed upon him even in quiet, semi-companionable moments such as mealtime. She confused him. Why was she flirty and seductive when they lay in bed together but bitter and closed off when he tried having a casual conversation?

Although to be fair, he hadn’t been very open with her either. And not particularly kind.

“It was just a question.”

“A dangerous one. Go ahead and ask another. See if I’ll talk.” Her eyes glittered as if they were playing a game she knew she would win.

Just another thing he didn’t like about the witch. How ashamed he felt when talking to her. Minor slip-ups, cracks in his armor of indifference. She had a talent for coaxing them out of him as if she were pulling secrets from a drunk man.

But he was in too deep now. Might as well try to get something out of her.

He lowered his gaze to the fire and asked, “Then what’s your favorite color?”

The witch blinked. She hadn’t been expecting such a mundane inquiry. She was silent for a moment, probably contemplating if giving away this piece of information would in any way compromise her. She decided a favorite color was harmless.

“Green.”

He pictured it. The verdant green of a forest. Lush and deep and full of secrets.

Just like her.

“Mine is orange,” he offered. “Soft. Like a sunset.”

She cocked a dark brow. “Not red for the blood of your enemies?”

Peeta raised the drumstick back up to his mouth, suppressing a smile. “That comes in a close second.”

She had laughed then, a sound so joyful and clear that Peeta’s heart clenched and he stopped chewing just to hear her better.

She awoke screaming one night, flailing about under the sheets and shoving him away as if he were stabbing her. He had been awake when it started, unable to quiet a storm of racing thoughts. If he hadn’t been so alert, perhaps he wouldn’t have sprung to her aid so quickly.

“What is it?” he demanded, suspecting there was something biting her under the covers. He threw the blankets back, but there was nothing. “Huh?” he asked when he couldn’t make out her quaking mumbles.

“Just a dream, it was just a dream,” she whispered to herself, and then she dissolved into tears. Her face glistened wetly in the moonlight and she shrank away when he reached to pull the covers back over her.

The next night, he took some furs and slept by the fire in the kitchen, afraid she wouldn’t want him in bed with her. But when he was about to doze off, she padded through the doorway.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Sleeping.”

“On the floor?”

“But… you… last night… ” he stammered.

Her face hardened as she crossed her arms self-consciously. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I’d feel better if you stayed in the room with me.”

“You kicked me,” he argued.

“Not on purpose,” she hissed.

The two glared at each other, and then the tension broke. The witch softened, her shoulders sagging like a loose bowstring. “Please.”

He should have told her no. Instead, he said: “Alright.”

She dreamed of clients. Harsh hands and sour breath. Shackles looped around a bed frame.

He wasn’t allowed to touch her after those dreams. Not for a long while at least, and when they would eventually come together again, he let her choose when to climb back into his arms.

“What makes me different?” he asked quietly one night as she clutched his shirt, her tears drying over his heart.

She raised her head to meet his eyes. “Can you feel your own heartbeat?”

He could if he focused. If he held his breath and silenced his thoughts. He nodded.

She sounded sad, as if she were quoting somebody when she said, “If you listen close enough, you can hear that all heartbeats are different.”

It sounded like Krellian nonsense. Heartbeats sounded like heartbeats, but it was out before he thought to stop himself. “What is mine like?”

She laid her head back down and inhaled slowly through her nose, listening. “It’s gentle and steady. Like the lapping of the ocean. Ever present and soothing. I’ve never heard one quite like it.” She inhaled again, steeling herself. “It makes me feel safe. Which is ironic because it belongs to you.”

He smiled but she couldn’t see it. Then he asked, “And what does yours sound like?”

There was a long pause and then she said, “You can listen if you want.” She sat up in bed, pulling him along with her, and with gentle hands twined through his hair, tipped his ear to her breast.

It was hard to concentrate. The heels of her hand on his cheeks and her fingers laced across his scalp made him feel as if she were touching him everywhere. But then he forced himself to lean into her chest, the shell of his ear pressing against her sternum, searching for the sounds of her very being.

At first, he heard nothing, just felt the rise and fall of her breaths, but then, as if cotton had been removed from his ears, he heard the heavy beat of life. The first thud was loud like a cannon shot, but the second was quiet, like the dull closing of a door. Her heart sounded like it was limping on stilts. Hobbling along unevenly. Long step, short step. Over and over. Cautious. Afraid. So unlike the girl he’d come to know. But it was all there, hidden away deep inside of her.

“See?” she whispered. “We’re different.”

But they weren’t. Not really.

When she fell asleep and Peeta remained awake, he tried reaching within himself to feel his own heart again. It was like the constant beating of waves as she said, but he didn’t find it soothing. Every beat felt achingly blunt, as if his heart was slowly ripping itself apart to make more room.

It terrified him that he didn’t know what that meant.

On the morning of their departure, he rose, dressed in a black tunic and pants, clasped a heavy fur cloak around his shoulders, and then sheathed a sword at his hip. He stepped outside to swing it around, getting the feel for its weight.

The sword was heavy, made of polished steel that glinted in the cloudy morning light. Compared to the swords he had grown up with, the blade was plain. There were no holy etchings in its metal face, no onyx embedded into the hilt, and no divine blessings had been uttered over it, but he felt a fierce rush of strength all the same. Peeta was used to heavy swords and the leather-wrapped pommel felt right in his hands, as if he’d been missing a part of himself without a weapon.

“Is that really necessary?” the witch asked, her voice carrying from inside the house and over the frostbitten yard. When he laid eyes on her, a hot jolt flooded his body as if he’d just caught himself from falling off a roof.

She leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, but he could tell from the way she warily focused on the blade that she was on high alert. A caribou hide nightdress brushed the tops of her dusky knees and her hair was loose and mussed on one side. The side she had pressed against his body in the night, Peeta realized.

“What else would you have me use?” Peeta asked darkly, unsure why the witch got to use her powers whenever she wanted, but when it came to Peeta’s talents they were disapproved of.

“You have a Heartrender with you,” she said arrogantly, pointing at herself. “You’re just going to be lugging around a sword for show and no offense but I’d rather you carry extra food.”

“It’s not for show. This sword is to protect myself against you,” he said angrily, pointing the blade in her direction.

She took a hurried step back as if she expected him to advance. There was a heavy, quiet moment as Peeta watched her from behind the sword’s edge.

And then she sharply twisted her wrist.

Peeta’s heart rate skyrocketed.

Her voice was low, dangerous as she said: “I don’t know what your superiors told you, but a sword is no match for a Heartrender.” She began squeezing her fingers together and Peeta’s heart stuttered, his chest clenching painfully as if he were having a heart attack. Stabbing heat pulsing through every vein in his body as if his blood had turned to molten lava. He fell to his knees, dropping the sword into the hard-packed dirt with a hollow clang.

“Stop,” he begged, clutching at his chest. His breaths came in ragged pants. He was falling apart under the pressure. “Please.”

She tensed her hand, unsure whether or not to let up. Her eyes were frightened, but there was resolve there too, as if she had imagined this situation before and had already decided the outcome. This was her chance. She had a pack full of food and supplies. She had her enemy in her clutches. She was going to do it. He was going to die, right here, in an abandoned village where no one would think to come looking for him. Where no one would know his name. All who wandered would stay away from the black flag, and he’d be the feast for wild animals and the decay of time.

He should have killed her when he had the chance but he had been weak and now his chances were spent.

She squeezed tighter, her fingertips almost touching her palm. And then all of a sudden, her face crumpled. With a strangled gasp of breath, she released him. He fell to the ground in a quivering heap as his heart rate plummeted and then righted itself.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, trying to stem the flow of tears with her hands. She disappeared back inside the house and Peeta was left to stare shamefully at his own tears pooling in the dirt.

#The Heartrender #everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlark fanfic #witch!Katniss #witch-hunter!Peeta #enemies to lovers #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark

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elindooreamagicaljourney · 4 years ago

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A little more worldbuilding~

Im imagining a sort of standard educational system for Nerics who want to learn magic. It would start at about age 10 and last an average of 3-4 years, depending on how well the student performs. Technically, most academies allow students of any age to join, but most nerics make their choice very early in life so they tend to be quite young. Some academies, usually small ones, are dedicated to a specific age group or species, but these are quite rare. Theres usually at least 2 of these academies in each country, but countries with very small populations or very few nerics might not have one at all. In that case, Nerics who want to learn magic would have to move to where there is an academy. Learning magic, even at a basic level, takes a great deal of time, effort and hard work from both teacher and student, so not many students can attend at any one time. The particular academy that Dusty attended, The Larons Academy of Magic for Nerics, had a maximum of 100 students. I havent worked out the exact details of how the training actually works but I'll get to that part eventually. If a student performs well enough in their basic training, they will be assigned a personal mentor who will conduct the rest of their training outside the academy. When a student receives a mentor, they "graduate" and another new student will take their place. All students who are set to receive a mentor must be approved for mentorship by the director (head) of the academy. Dusty joined his academy several years later than most students do and attended for 4 years before Director Cesta Elron assigned Chiron as his mentor. At the beginning of the story, they've only known each other for a couple months and Dusty's training beyond the academy level has only just begun.

Mentor assignments are not mandatory for the student and can be rejected if the student doesnt want to continue their training past the academy level. This is surprisingly common as the training is extremely difficult and usually very exhausting work and the basic magic skills gained from the academy tend to be enough for day to day life. Those who want to pursue their training and reach a higher skill level usually accept the offer of a mentor who will teach them magic far beyond the academy skill level.

~Asks are open, feel free to drop me a question!~

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tessalovesbway · 4 years ago

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Dear Theatre Producers, if you want to make Musical Productions (during Covid 19), please consider these Ideas

In some countries theatre's are slowly opening up again with limitations of course (limited audience members, keep distance, ect.). There are lot of comedy shows and concerts, but not so many musicals - not in the country where I live (the Netherlands). I would love to change that, but sadly I'm not a Musical Producer - yet. There are other people out there who can make it work. Here are some ideas to consider.

1. Cast theatre performers who quarantaine together

Cast couples, roommates or even family members. Because they quarantaine together, they don't have to keep their distance. They can stand right next to each other on stage without putting anyone outside of their bubble in danger.

2. Focus on Small Productions

It might not be a bad idea to minimise the nummer of cast members. Small Productions are the solution. Think about The Last Five Years (a show with two cast members) or maybe even a small new production with limited cast members.

3. Scale down a bigger production

Theatre is the perfect place to have big impact with limited materials. A hugh cast or decor aren't always necessairy to get the message across. This might be the right time to take a look at already excisting shows and reverse them. Bring reimagined - scaled down - productions to the stage.

4. Concert version of a musical

Intimate scenes and big casts are no-go's with the currect rules. Those aren't necessairy if you bring concert version of a show to the stage. Cast members can keep their distance, while the audience can enjoy the show.

5. One actor/actress, multiple roles

Maybe you can combine minor characters to minimise the people on stage. This will make it easier to keep distance from the rest of the cast.

6. Concert with cut Musical songs

There are lot of great songs that never made the final production. This might be the right time to bring these songs in a Musical-ish concert. (Like they kind of did with the songs of Jonathan Laron (The Jonathan Larson Project)).

#musicals #covid19 #producers #musical #jonathan larson #the last five years #coronavirus #theatre #musical theatre

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junk-jester · 5 years ago

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Ya’ll seem to like that post about the Fusion PokeDex Entries I made, so here’s a Part 2, I guess.

Pipbasaur, the Onion Pokémon Water/Grass- Type Pipbasaur are friendly and loyal to the very end, making them excellent choices for Starter Pokémon. When happy, the large golden onion upon it’s back releases a pleasing scent that varies from person to person, but is usually identified as either Mint or Cinnamon.

Prinvysaur, the BudBird Pokémon Water/Grass- Type The onion on it’s back has peeled away, revealing a ripe, pink bulb in it’s place. This Pokémon will often wander for long periods of time, offering it’s own bulb for other Pokémon to eat as a sign of good faith and friendship. Not to worry, however, as the bulb is full of nutrients and will completely grow back in the span of 24 Hours!

Emponusaur, the Flora Emperor Pokémon Water/Grass- Type Emponusaur is a kind and empathetic Pokémon, showering friends and foes alike with a hail of revitalizing dew drops from the golden tree that sits upon its back. It’s Vine Whip attack is said to be fast enough to turn a bullet into dust mid-flight.

Honecada, the Scrap Beetle Pokémon Ghost/Steel- Type A blacksmith who perished in his shop and possessed his unfinished work is said to be the origins of the Pokémon. It wanders the land like a samurai, distracting foes with it’s cloth-like tail before cutting them down with a strike as swift as the wind.

Douinja, the Chipped Pokémon Ghost/Steel- Type Douinja’s sword has been broken whilst in battle. Because of this, it has sworn off combat and become a pacifist, only carrying what remains as a memento.

Shedslash, the Sacred Pokémon Ghost/Steel- Type The broken sword it once carried has now been fused to it’s body and reforged, allowing the Shedslash to be wielded by humans and other Pokémon as an actual sword whilst in combat. However, it can only be wielded by those it deems worthy. An unworthy person or Pokémon will have their soul removed and consumed.

Totodgey, the Toothy Duck Pokémon Water- Type This Pokémon is known for being playful and curious, yet having a bite that's powerful enough to bend steel girders. When threatened, they spray torrents of water at foes before fleeing.

Crocootto, the Alligator Pokémon Water/Flying- Type Crocootoo are extremely territorial and ferocious, often seen splaying their wings for intimidation before striking with a lethal bite. If the bite misses, they spray opponents with water before attacking again. During mating season, it's not uncommon to see broken or missing limbs after two males battle when displaying for courtship.

Feraligeot, the Overlord Pokémon Water/Flying- Type Feraligeot have the innate ability to sense hostile intentions in those nearby using their large head crests. They spend most of their lives high up on cliffsides that overlook the sea, defending the coast and their young from anyone who would dare to make off with an egg or two. They're also known for being the messengers for royalty in the ancient past, delivering letters at an unparalleled speed. For some reason, they also frequently travel inland to fight with Talonflame. The reason for this is unknown.

Skrefing, the Toxic Spore Pokémon Poison/Water- Type This Pokémon often hangs out in large groups, using seaweed to keep themselves in place. When prey draws near, they attack with clouds of toxins and chemicals, then drain the target of bodily fluids in the confusion.

Weezalge, the Pollutant Pokémon Poison/Dragon- Type Weezalge can often be found around the shipwrecks of oil tankers, using clouds of chemicals to spread the spilled oil and pollute the water so that they can thrive. Their two heads give them a wide field of vision, making them always prepared for whenever prey or predator comes too close.

Rowtwig, the Bird Turtle Pokémon Grass- Type Maintaining the delicate shell upon it's back is Rowtwig's top priority, spending countless hours repairing even the smallest crack. If it's broken completely, Rowtwig will lay down and weep endlessly.

Dartle, the Carapace Pokémon Grass- Type Priding itself on it's tough hide and good looks, Dartle will relentlessly mock any other Pokémon it sees until attacked, at which point it will flee and continue with it's excessive attitude elsewhere.

Deciduterra, the Landmass Pokémon Grass/Ground- Type The large shell upon it's back has grown to massive proportions over Deciduterra's lifetime, to the point where it supports it's own ecosystem. The cape of leaves and feathers that juts from the shell provides Deciduterra with dew drops that it uses as sustenance.

Laron, the Duke Pokémon Steel/Ground- Type Laron is arrogant and rude, often bullying other Pokémon so that it may gain some sense of self-importance and respect, although this rarely ever works. When mistreated, they will fling stones and berries at it's aggressors before fleeing.

Puron, the Archduke Pokémon Steel/Rock- Type Having learned from it's rude ways, Puron is stoic and cold, rarely moving outside of foraging for food. Puron are also known for an intimidating glare that can cause those under pressure to crack and spill their secrets. Because of this, many of the most successful military leaders in the world use a Puron on their teams as a way of discrediting mutiny.

Tyranigon, the Caesar Pokémon Steel/Dark- Type Tyranigon are absolute powerhouses, full of high energy and rarely ever sleeping. Because of this, they are often employed as wardens in prison complexes, making them the perfect Pokémon to keep the more rowdy inmates in line.

Chimchic, the Feathered Monkey Pokémon Fighting- Type Its legs never stop moving due to an overabundance of energy, allowing Chimchic to reach foot speeds of up to 50 miles an hour.

Monsken, the Fighter Pokémon Fighting- Type The plume on its tail resembles dancing flames. When confronted by an opponent Monsken knows cannot be defeated, it will often use the plume to hypnotize foes before fleeing. Some say finding a Monsken without a limb will bring bad luck, but those who have the separated limb can use it to grant chaotic wishes.

Infernken, the Flaredilocks Pokémon Fighting/Fire- Type With an ever increasing rage, Infernken will often set its own hair on fire before striking with kicks that can topple a mountain. It has a grumpy attitude, but is loyal to those that it considers family.

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anonbeadraws · 7 years ago

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Larone was born into magic. All her family were magic users from an ancient and powerful bloodline, some of the best on the coast, most being wizards, some branching out to clerics, the odd sage. All powerful and Larone was determined to become like her ancestors, receive their teachings from the spellbooks passed down from generations past, learn from her living elders. Her grandmother was a most willing and fervent teacher. She was well known for her own deeds as a magic user, a sorceress who lead many magical sects, the headmistress of several renowned colleges through the centuries, an incredible wielder of transmutation magic. Hers was a large shadow to surpass and Larone, cunning and tenacious, was ready to do anything to create one just as encompassing and suffocating to her own descendants. But it was still a surprise, especially to Larone’s grandmother who knew well of her students goals and so she thought, her mind, when she abandoned her books and ran off to sea. After finding Larone’s bed cold, drawers emptied and a short but concise note explaining her disappearance, Her grandmother’s first action was to blame her daughter, Larone’s aunt for this outrageous turn. Her oldest child had always stirred the proverbial pot, having gone outside the family’s tradition and become a ranger after her initial training was complete. (what a waste of magic, a waste of generations upon generations of teachings! the grandmother had cried at an almost heartbreakingly similar note, left at another empty bed in another century.) It must have been her fault, since letters had been found between aunt and niece discussing the formers leaving, and the reasons for doing so, and the latter’s faint but growing need to do the same, or at least do something. It was the final letter from the elder that spoke only of a boat on the coast, not far really from the family home, needing deckhands, that was leaving at dawn of that same day. And so Larone was gone. It was never to upset anyone! Larone had thought as she scrubbed decks, at first happily, growing more and more weary of the idea and eventually bribing others to do. But how was she ever to surpass her family by remaining there? learning only what they knew? she mused as she wove and braided ropes, by magic of course, her hands were too delicate for such work. it was a ridiculous idea, and larone was honestly surprised that it had taken her this long to realise it. It did not take her as long to realise however, how much she loved her new life. she’d left to learn the ways of new lands, working on the boat only a way to get to her goals, and she did! on shore leave she would spend her wages on books, hire tutors to teach her their learnings and she enjoyed it, using her spare time to practise her new gains, gleefully imagining the look on her grandmothers face when she would go back and show off her new powers. but. she noticed quickly that her legs, so used to the rocking of the ship, hated the land, which made her graceless and fumbling, something she was unused to. And as fine as the sun was in these gorgeous places, she missed the peppering of rain on her face, a kiss of the storm, as she used her magic, the things she’d learned safe in her grandmothers study, to repair the ship battered by the wave. Her talents, which seem to garner merely a base level of respect from her elders, earned appreciation from her crew-mates, i mean, who else can change a storm into a zephyr, or repair a mast in the grips of a typhoon? to her crew-mates, a mix of magic-less rogues and sailors, she was a gift! And not only that, Larone grew to appreciate the ship herself. A fine vessel but also the vessel for Larone’s epiphany. That perhaps, she didn’t need the safety of a study, embedded with books and candles and the knowledge of her ancestors to become what she wanted. Her magic worked just as fine out here, in the open air, where the sea met the sky. DnD RandomRoll commission for @my-favorites-are-actual-angels very fun to do! I love doing RR’s! ✨(commission info)(kofi)✨

#anonbeadraws #commission #Random Roll #sun elf #elf #dnd elf #dnd #dungerons and dragons #digital art #digital commission #character work

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edwardgranaghancreamridgenj · 3 years ago

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Squire Technologies’ Rapid Growth

As an insurance and operations professional Edward Granaghan, Cream Ridge NJ, has extensive experience at companies across different companies with a focus on efficiency utilizing automation and systems. Outside his professional experience Edward Granaghan is interested in following promising new companies. During the summer of 2021, Squire Technologies, a software company that helps barber shops manage their everyday business, received its fourth round of funding. Created by Dave Salvant, now the company president, and Songe LaRon, the CEO, Squire Technologies earns revenue in two ways. One is a subscription plan to use the software platform and the other a commission for each haircut scheduled. With 200 employees in their digital workforce, Squire Technologies earned its fourth round of funding from Tiger Global, an amount of $60 million in July 2021. As of July 2021, Squire Technologies is valued at $750 million. After receiving their latest round of funding, when asked about plans for the firm’s future, the CEO Songe LaRon said he planned to grow the company’s revenue by 300 percent by the end of 2021.

#Squire Technologies

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mrjellybeanz · 3 years ago

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Join The Life Style Of BlueBucksClan In "Come Again"

Join The Life Style Of BlueBucksClan In “Come Again”

With the help of Out The Blue Record, Los Angeles duo BlueBucksClan share a latest music video for their latest single Come Again. In the brand new visual directed by frequent collaborator Tevo Laron, the team descend upon Las Vegas completing every type of antics possible. The clip intercuts footage of DJ and Jeeezy as they hang out outside, relax by the pool, vibe within the club, and beyond.…

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#BinoRideaux #BlueBucksClan #ComeAgain #DJ #Jeeezy #LasVegas #OnMySoulTour #OutTheBlueRecord #SmokedoutCali #TevoLaron #UponATimeInLA #Youtube

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malecsecretsanta · 7 years ago

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Merry Christmas, @lucyxshadow!

Here’s a short fic for you! With a bit of something from my neck of the woods ;)

I hope you have a very happy Christmas, and wishing you and your family lots of joy and warmth this holiday season.

Read on AO3

*****

We'll Remake The World in Our Own Image

Other than a few bad memories that will be etched into his memory for as long as he lives, Magnus remembers very little from his boyhood in Batavia.

He knows he was born in December, during the monsoon season - endless rain that swept through the trees and pitter-pattered throughout the night in the kind of intensity one only ever gets in the tropics, while the geckos or chik-chak chittered from hidden places in the eaves. When he was a little older, he would sneak into the servants' quarters, and they would share deep-fried laron with him - flying termites, driven out of their underground nests by the flooding rain and drawn into the house by the candlelight. (Then his human father found out, and was so disgusted that they were feeding his son insects that he beat the servants black-and-blue, and that was the end of that, and the end of his tentative friendship with the servants.)

He remembers playing among the tall walnut and tamarind trees in the well-curated gardens of Bovenstad, the elite Dutch residential area in Batavia where he lived with his mother and human father. He remembers his mother telling him Javanese folktales at bedtime, her favourite being that of Timun Mas, whose mother had so longed for a child that she made a deal with an ogre. (This strikes Magnus as ironic later in life, because his mother, too, had longed and prayed for a child, and had her prayers answered by something monstrous.) He remembers that his mother called him sayang - beloved.

December is a complicated month for Magnus, emotionally. He doesn't celebrate his birthday, not anymore. They celebrated Christmas as a child in deference to his father's wishes, so Magnus doesn't celebrate that anymore either. (Although any excuse to buy presents for the few people he holds dear to his heart is as good an excuse as any to go shopping, so Magnus has no problems with the gift-giving part of Christmas.) The month of December holds, at once, too much meaning and very little meaning for Magnus.

Thankfully, Alec seems just as disinterested in the holiday festivities that have taken over every shop window and planted carollers on what feels like every street corner in New York City. Magnus supposes shadowhunters aren't generally very big on holidays since demons don't have the basic courtesy to give everybody a break during the holiday season. Previously, with some of the other people he's dated, Christmas time came with expectations - of romance and presents and cuddling in front of a fire while the snow falls outside, none of which Magnus is in the mood for because of his convoluted personal history. Honestly, Magnus is a little bit relieved that Alec isn't going to expect a big production out of this, their first Christmas together.

When he comes home one day to find Alec busy in the kitchen with several takeout bags on the counter, the dining table set with the good silver and candles, a bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice, Magnus feels his stomach dropping sickeningly, his heartbeat speeding up, and not with the excitement that usually comes from finding his boyfriend home unexpectedly early. It's over two weeks before Christmas, and worse, it happens to be... There's no way Alec found out, he knows this information is not in the Institute's database, and not even Catarina knows-

"What's all this about?" Magnus asks lightly, with a cheerfulness he does not really feel.

Alec startles, and Magnus is amused despite his current turmoil of emotions - it's not easy to sneak up on his shadowhunter. Alec must really have been concentrating on whatever he was doing.

Alec flashes him a smile and walks over to press a gentle kiss to Magnus' lips. "Hey. I didn't expect you to be home so early."

"Well, if you wanted to surprise me, consider me still pleasantly surprised," Magnus tells him.

Alec smiles shyly and goes back to unpacking the eclectic mix of stuff he has bought - bacon burgers from that place in East Village that Alec likes, a spread of appetisers from Cocoron, a Japanese restaurant in lower Manhattan they'd visited once together, and takeout bags Magnus recognises as coming from that place that makes trdelnik almost as well as the best street vendors in Prague.

"It's been three months since our first date. We've been together for exactly three months today, if we include the couple of days when we were... fighting," Alec says, face turned away and hands busy, and Magnus realises that Alec is nervous. "I just thought... we could have a little celebration."

Magnus blinks. Three months? Three months is not much for someone centuries-old, and even for mortals Magnus is pretty sure three months is like a mere blip in the average lifetime. But Alec thinks that being together for three months warrants breaking out the champagne? Magnus can't help but feel charmed.

Granted, it certainly feels a lot longer than three months. And when the two people in a relationship are also the High Warlock of Brooklyn and the Head of the New York Institute, their relationship problems have included impending war, mass genocide by a xenophobic psychopath, too many demons to count, and the raising of the Angel Raziel. They have been through a lot together, in a very short span of time.

As an immortal, time is a nebulous thing for Magnus. Days and weeks can go by in the blink of an eye. There are stretches of years where Magnus can't for the life of him remember anything that happened during that period. But when he is with Alec, Magnus' whole life seems to fall in sync with the shadowhunter - every second, every heartbeat. He has never felt so keenly the idea of now, never been so firmly present in the idea of here.

Magnus watches Alec clumsily attempting to plate the food he's bought in some sort of artistic arrangement, and he feels even more charmed.

"Sorry," Alec says after surveying his own handiwork, laughing a little at himself.

"I think it's perfect," Magnus tells him softly, and he thinks it was worth going through every heartbreak and every sorrow to find himself finally here, watching Alec's face light up.

They have dinner, finishing off with champagne, trdelnik and good vanilla ice cream. They tell each other about their day, share a few laughs over some mischief Max got into. They watch something on the television together, something horribly twee and Christmasy that makes Alec roll his eyes at least four times, and then they go to sleep with their arms wrapped around each other. It's the best birthday Magnus has had in centuries.

Perhaps, Magnus thinks, every day can be remade into something different, now that Alexander is here to make new memories with him.

#lucyxshadow #malecsanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

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such-as-it-is · 7 years ago

Text

The World Is Round - Chapter 3

The fire sizzled and crackled gently as Maro lay by it staring up into the stars. Yet another thing to add to the countless list of things Maro could not experience from the swamp. And slowly, the stars started to vanish under a navy blanket of clouds covering the sky. Maro had been traveling for about 2 weeks ever since she left Forgaway, and was fairly close to her next destination now. People from the inn at Forgaway told stories about this town. It was a tourist town named Larone, famous for its luscious beaches, hospitable accommodation and vibrant carnivals. The map didn’t show where the towns, cities and villages are, nor does it show landmarks, so estimating how close she was was hard, but she reckoned she had about 1 or 2 days travel to go before she was there. The fire continued to burn while her eyes slowly shut, preparing for sleep, however, she was interrupted by a cold metallic feeling on the back of her her neck.

Quickly she opened her eyes, her heart now racing. Before her a silhouette of a man came into focus.

“Gentle now” said the silhouette’s soft, deep voice. “Let’s get a good look at you”

The man dragged her to the still burning fire while keeping is short sword firmly at her neck. He grabbed her by her shirt to lift her up in front of the flames. Now she could see him properly. He had long dark grey hair that came down past his left eye and over his shoulder blades. He had a very defined jaw line, but most distinguished of all, he had a tattoo that started both above and below the left side of his right eye, came together at the right side and continued down over his temple and past the bottom of his right ear.

Maro thought about offering her coin purse so that he would let go of her, but then realised that there were many of them and that they probably had a different motive. He let go of Maro.

“I’m so very sorry” he said retaining his soft deep tone. “I”m looking for a woman matching your description” he continued. “However, she has the same tattoo as us. What are you doing on your own all the way out here?”

“I’m a traveler”

“Really now? And where did you come from?”

“Forgaway”

“Funny, I don’t recall ever seeing you there…”

But then came another voice, not quite as deep from one of this man's followers:

“Now’s not the time for chit chat. For all we know, she could have reached The Swamp by now”

“Right. If you see a woman like that be sure to tell anyone you ever see with this tattoo. There is a pretty reward for her. But only alive you see. That’s very important” said the first man to Maro.

“Hurry up now!” said a woman amongst the fellowship “You know she wouldn’t be so stupid as to sleep by an open fire in the night anyway” and with that they all marched off into the blackened night, south for the swamp.

‘That was strange’ thought Maro. She could almost have sworn they were wearing water tribe attire...

Maro sat up in front of the fire, the shock from the whole ordeal still fresh in her bones and muscles. Shivering and now nearly paralysed, she found the courage to fall asleep on the open night, only extinguished the fire first. Larone was awaiting.

After about half a day's walk, Maro arrived at the top of a vibrant green hill amongst the meadows, from which she could see Larone. If Witnessing Forgaway was astonishing, witnessing Larone was bewildering. The town was simple massive, with it’s huge multi-level stone structures and houses, wide open spaces and intricate roads and paths. The waves coming in out out of the beach welcome site to Maro’s child like eyes. The town stretched out into horizon so that Maro could not even see the end of it. She walked down along the hill and into the bright and lively town. Even the clouds were clearning up now.

Everyone seemed to be so happy. There were street performers juggling and stalls along the streets selling all sorts of exotic good and foods. People pointing and laughing, couples and families all gathered around under the bright white clouds that were now hiding the sky. Posters covered the walls and lamp post on the streets of events that were being held in the theaters and the tents and the beach.

“Mummmmmyyyyy!!!! I wanna go see the Lizard Man” said in infant girl tugging on her mothers pants as she bought a fine painting from one of the stalls.

“Yes, yes, we’re going”

“We’re gonna be late!” said the other infant girl

“Alright, we’re going! We’re going” said the mother as she left with her husband.

Maro was intrigued by this Lizard Man. She knew that animals came in crosses like so, but never people. Perhaps this was another new phenomenon worth experiencing that could only be found outside the swamp? She followed the family around the booming streets when finally the came to flat area covered in grass. A small stage lay at the back while logs for people to sit on where starting to fill up. A brightly coloured pink and cyan fence surrounded the area with a man collecting entrance fees manning a gate right behind all the benches. Maro stood in the queue until she met him.

“How much just for me to see the Lizard Man?”

“One copper”

She handed him a small coin shaped in the earth kingdoms symbol. It was round and the faces were painted green with a square hole in the middle. Het let her in and she took a seat, right in the front row on the left hand side. People mostly filled up all the seats while Maro eagerly awaited to see this ‘Lizard man’. The sun set on the right hand side of the stage, causing a brilliant orange horizon to span itself around the town. A small lady took her place on the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen” she announced as the crowd eased into a hush. “Throughout the history of world, animals have always crossed with each other, but never humans. This was a mystery that continues to puzzle zoologists even today, but despite that, nothing is more puzzling to anyone than what you are about to witness with your very own eyes!” She made dramatic arm movements and walked around the stage as she gave her little speech. Tensions began to spread amongst the crowd as she spoke. A smile even started to form itself on Maro’s own face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Larogo Laray circus, it is my great honour to introduce to you today….. THE LIZARD MAN!” She said finally as she walked backwards off the side of the stage with her arms indicating to the back of the stage, where a dark figure could now be seen getting larger and larger.

The Lizard Man now stood proudly upon the stage, his body facing the audience while his head was staring off into the sunset on the right. His skin was a murky shade of navy blue and medium grey. He was a fat bald man, with a large head. He was wearing nothing but a rag as underwear, coloured in the same scheme as his body. His fingernails were really long, which kind of reminded Maro of her fingernails before she cut them shortly after leaving the swamp. The most intriguing thing about this Lizard Man however, was his long, lizard-like tail.

He got off the stage at the front, showing off to the crowd from up close. He moved his tail freely while the crowd ooo’d and ahhh’d, but Maro was less than impressed.

“Your just a man with paint all over your body!” she said to him as he got close to her. The crowd went payed no attention despite maro knowing people had heard her. The Lizard Man did not fret from this comment and continued on with his act. He looked maro in the eye and pushed his tongue out of his mouth, which extended down a couple of centimeters down from his chin. The crowd wow’d and clapped, but Maro narrowed her eyes and cringed with her face, still not knowing what all the fuss was about. In response, she stuck out her own tongue, which proved to be even longer than The Lizard Man’s. The crowd who could see gasped at Maro’s freak tongue, but soon forgot as The Lizard Man continued to blow their minds with his act.

After The Lizard Man had finished, he took and bow and the benches began to clear themselves. The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves about the amazement they had from the show as they flowed out the back of the performance area through the gate where Larogo Laray Circus flyers were being handed out. Maro stood up from her bench, her backpack lay heavy. The sun had sunk into the mountains leaving the cool night air behind. Just as Maro turned around to leave, she felt a tapping on her shoulder. She turned around to be greeted by the announcer woman.

“The Lizard Man said he wanted to speak to you about something” she said as she pointed to the stage, shrugged and then walked away.

The stage was empty, and Maro climbed up onto it to see a large silhouette sitting down on it’s back. She walked across the stage where The Lizard Man was waiting for her. Maro’s heard started to thump furiously with fear. She had tried to expose him after all, maybe he was mad.

An image rolled it’s way into Maro’s mind. An image of a ferocious river sweeping Maro down at colossal speeds, her trajectory perfectly inline with a giant Lizard Man, a stretched out smile across his face revealing huge pointy teeth and a ten meter tail splashing across the liver bed as Maro was forced helplessly to be rammed right into him. She could not bare to image the unspeakable things that he could do to her for what she did to him.

“Sit down” he said, and although his tone was easy enough, it was still enough to frighten Maro as she let out a short high-pitched screech from her jump-scare. This was the first time she had heard him speak, and his voice was not as deep as she imagined it to be.

“Come now… I’m not gonna eat you” he said patting the stage as an invitation for Maro to sit down. While it seemed now that he was not really mad, Maro still shivered as she sat down, keeping her guard up.

“You got me” he said. He turned his head to look at her and smile. “But you do realise why we have such tongues, yes?” He asked. Maro shook her head slowly. “Why it’s because we're from the Foggy Swamp!” he said and laughed a little bit. Maro was shocked by this development. She didn’t even believe it.

“But why?” she said. She felt more at ease now.

“Do you know the story about the survival of the first men in the swmp?”

“Yes, of course” said Maro. The stories about the swamp and it’s people where the only resemblance the swamplanders had to a proper culture apart from the essentially meaningless and desperate religion they preached and brainwashed each other with.

Maro continued. “The first men who arrived at the swamp where nomads. They tried to live in the swamp for a while, but could not find their way out. They slowly began to die out as anything they tried to eat proved to be poisonous. They did not realise the swamps offerings. Eventually, some of them found that she could survive on the sap from the great roots and trunks on the swamp, however, the only for them to obtain this sap was to create holes, which would harm the swamp and so over time the learned how to differentiate between what they could eat and what they would not eat”

“That’s not quite it. You see, they had to poke holes in the roots and the trunks, yes, but the only way they could get the sap out was by using their tongues. Only the ones with the longer tongues could reach the sap and so the ones with the shorter tongues died out due to their lack of access of benign food. The ones with the longer tongues lived on and passed down their tongues so that the next generation could live as well”

“I see. And what about the tail”

He smiles and unclipped the belt that went around his waist that was covered by his underwear and kept the tail up. He took it off carefully and showed Maro that it was hollow and filled with water.

“Ah! That’s clever!” said Maro “It’s also immoral”

“What? No it’s not…”

“Yes it is. You’re making money by tricking people. You should be ashamed”

“HA! Anyone who is dumb enough to believe this act deserves to be stripped of their money. You may have fell for it this time, but I can tell, you won’t again… will you? And what do you know about money anyway?”

“I know enough to know that that’s a dishonest way of making it”

“Why do you care so much?”

“You know what the swamp is like, right? You know how they indoctrinate you into their bullshit lifestyle? Well I had enough of doing nothing but meditating all day. They teach you the world is intereconnected, and that everyone is related but yet they seclude themselves from everyone else! The hypocrites! They’re so out of touch with the word for people preaching togetherness and unity. There is a whole world out there, so many places to go, so many things to do and they sit under and tree and not think about anything so that they may forget that the world goes on outside the swamp. They forget that unity is actually about being together. That being together is nothing unless you live and work together. Unless you strive for greater thing! For growth and progress! They sit there in seclusion so that they may never have to work a day in their life. So that they may never be apart of anything bigger than themselves or be useful to anyone other than themselves or ever experience anything actually worth experiencing”

“Oh yes, I know. Trust me. Let me tell you something… what’s your name?”

“Maro”

“Ok Maro, let me tell you something. My reason for leaving the swamp was not quite so righteous as is yours. A traveler passed by the swamp and traded food with my family, and I got to try some fox turkey, and it was the most delicious thing I never tasted in my life. I left the swamp so that I could eat it as often as possible, and well, as you can see, I have been. HAHAHAHAHA!” He put his hands over his stomach as he laughed. Maro was not impressed. “Anyway, I quickly learned that society is tough and unforgiving. Have you been down to the beach yet?”

“No! But I plan on a swim tomorrow!”

“There is a little stand that sells this incredible thing called ice cream. When I first got here, I got a job working for a stand like that. I was paired up with a buddy to help run the stall. She ended up become a good friend of mine. Anyway, they are always looking for waterbenders to help them out. We got paid so badly, but I was fine to get around, and plus I learned immportant valuable lessons like turning up on time being reliable and working in a team. But there was another stand that also did the same thing nearby. They managed to sell their ice cream cheaper by paying their workers even less than my cart did. Naturally, people bought ice cream from there to save a couple of coppers. People didn’t buy from our stand and all the people who had been paid close to nothing now where literally being paid nothing because the stand had to close down. Finding a job is not easy, especially in a place like this where everyone live to serve their role. The area around here is pretty human centric, and so providing for myself with nature like I learned to do in the swamp proved of no use. It’s ironic now that I think about it. I left so that I could eat fox turkey all the time and suddenly I have nothing to eat at all. My friend and I stuck together afterwards thinking we could help each other out when needed, but she starved to death”

Maro leant back in shock. He continued. “In the swamp, everyone cares for everyone. In society it’s every man for themselves. I don’t know how you got this idea in your head about society being everyone working together for the great or good, but it isn’t true. I’m always gonna do what I need to do to not end up like my friend, so here I am”

There was silence for a while. Maro shivered at the impact of the story as well as the cool breeze that was brought along.

“I’m sorry about your friend”

“It’s ok, because now I’m doing the living for both of us”

“That was very unfortunate. However, I’m sure that society is built on the foundation of hard, honest work. I’m also sure that there is always a way”

“Oh Maro, you’re still fresh out of the swamp. I would tell you to go back to the swamp where everything is nice and simple, but I know you would not listen to me. I can see the adventurer's spirit in your eyes. And as such, I will suggest you keep traveling and learn what the world is really like. And please don’t die. Death is such an easy thing to come by out here” Maro smiled at him. “Circus Larogo Laray travels around a certain times of year. If you ever seen them around, feel free to come visit me, I would like to hear about your travels. Ask for Vinik. Anyway, it’s late now, so I better get back to the tent”

“Yeah, I better be off too. Good bye, Vinik”

“Good night, Maro” had said as Maro hopped of the stage and went to exit the performance area.

The next morning arrived and was headed for the beach this time. She was eager to try what Vink had referred to as ice cream. She found the inn last night by asking around and bought herself a decent meal and a room for the night. A couple of clouds in the sky was hardly a match for today as the sun beat down vigorously upon the town of Larone and it’s fine beaches. Maro stood upon a grassy hill bearing witness to the magnificent waves as they they grew tall, broke and crashed into the beach on the northern side. There was a number of people on that side of the beach enjoying the waves including a small amount of people riding them on boards made of wood. On the more southern parts of the beach more people gathered around where the waves were much smaller and hardly broke at all. The glowing pure white sand of the beach was littered by people under their umbrellas lying on towels, bathing in the warm sun’s radiants.

‘I’m a pretty good swimmer’ thought Maro to herself as she walked down the hill. She left her shoes and bag in the inn and was wearing light clothes which she thought was best suitable for swimming in.

The afternoon broke and Maro decided she had enough of the water. She was extremely pleased with the time she spent swimming amongst the breaking waves. But as she did so, she couldn't help but think about Ora. She had known Ora for her entire life, and while spending this much time away from her family and everyone else in the swamp seemed like a blessing to Maro, spending so much time away from Ora seemed to trouble her. As though a part of her was somehow missing. But she dismissed these feelings as weakness while she was drifting along with the waves. The young lady often just relaxed and let the waves carry her, as if it didn’t even matter to her where she was going because the waves knew best after all, and the definitely would not take her back to the swamp. They however take her back to the shore from where she started off.

Over the course of her trip, Maro was able to find solace through many experiences, even the ones that caused her anguish. She always felt good looking back on such memories even though she was in anguish at the time. And as she lay in the sun drying herself off on a rock on the sand (for she had no towel), she could not escape the conversation she had had with a Lizard Man not to long ago. It was echoing in her mind. And then she remembered the recommendation he made to her.

She got up, eager to find what she was looking for. And surely enough there was a stall. Maro could not read, and so she had no idea if this stall was selling what she was after, not only because of that but also because Vinik had not really described it to her, so she thought she would ask. She approached the stand and waited a bit for the queue to die down a bit so that she could converse with the one of the 2 people manning it. And surely enough, there came a time when the queue was absent.

“Why hello there! How can I serve you on this fine afternoon madam?”. The one who spoke was a young lady who looked like she could have been in her early or mid twenties.

“Hi. Do you sell ice cream here?”

“We sure do” she said with a smile and a soft giggle and pointed up and the sign that was standing above the stall. “We boast the widest range of flavours too! We sell vanilla, strawberry, passion fruit, mango, lemon lime, raspberries and blueberry” she said point to each tub of ice cream with it’s respective flavour inside. It reminded Maro of a rainbow she had seen for the first time on one of the rainy days she spent traveling even since she left the swamp.

“The most flavours? In comparison to what?”

“Why the other stand of course” she said pointing into the distance alongside the beach. Maro used her hands to shade her eyes and squinted them, peering into the direction she was pointing. Surly enough, Maro could identify another ice cream stall along the beach.

“huh… This friend of mine once told me that once there was two ice cream stands along this beach, and that one shut down because they could not afford to make their ice cream as cheap”

“Yes! That’s a true story… In fact, it was indeed us who shut down all those years ago, but now we’re back and competing again!”

“Really now? Wow! How can you compete with the other stand?”

“Oh it’s simple really, we changed the way we made the ice cream. This new way was more expensive, believe it or not, however, it meant that we got better quality ice cream. So while our ice cream is still more expensive, people still buy from us because our ice cream is better”

Maro smiled, with Vinik in mind.

Maro bought herself an ice cream with a scoop vanilla and scoop of blueberry, only because she like the mixture of those colours. After further conversation with the lady, she found out that the stand needs waterbenders to freeze the water under the tubs so that the ice cream can remain ice cream and not liquid cream. Maro had no idea how to freeze water, and nor did she want to stay at Larone for too much longer, so she did not offer herself up for a job. Indeed she stayed one more night in the inn and started to head off the next morning along the coast, where according to her map, her next destination was a forest named Hei Bai.

#avatar #Avatar The Last Airbender #fanfic #avatar fanfiction #the world is round #the world is round fanfic

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