#Maze Inlay Flooring

[stoneartbyskl]

Inlay Flooring | Stone Art By SKL

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Read More-: Inlay Flooring

[sky-limits]

Twisting Hedges: Soulsong Intro - Menri

After a long sleep in his warren, Menri awoke in the Conservatory. The walls above honeycombed into the ceiling above, bright sun coming into his room. Birds and snakes slithered outside of his Conservatory echo of the warren, and Menri felt joy in his heart, seeing all the life around him. But…he felt something deeper too. A warm thrum tilted his vision, danced under the floor, and pulled- tugged- him towards it. He followed it almost in a trance, noticing how warm and welcoming the current was. The quails living in his Conservatory room chirped and chittered quietly, concerned about his movements. He followed the current from his arid wing of the magical place, and to the developed wing. Large cogs hung on vines that seemed to undulate as he passed underneath. A vein of water under the floor seemed to sparkle, contained in a long and clear tube, leading him deeper into the heart of the wing.

Machine and animal sounds combined echoed from all around him, here and there a bird would twitter a song, and a machine would reply with dings and whistles. Menri followed the pulsating calling into the machinery forest and came out upon something clean and well-made. A latticed green wall led the way into the Temple of Sound, a well-worn path into the marble, showing Menri the way forward. He had no questions or qualms about where he was – the leading feeling had shown him the way here, to this Temple, and change was in store inside. Two large staircases were in front of him, leading the way above and to an entrance found in the very top of the towering room. Winged shapes swooped and sung their way down, swallows and doves filling the room with a cacophony of sound.

The walls were smooth and polished, full of fountains and waterways tracing down silver inlays in the marble. A light twinkling sounded through the chambers, barely heard over the birds, and drew Menri deeper into the Temple. As he walked through hedgerows and clipped topiaries, small flashes of shapes graced the edges of his vision. It seemed he was not alone here. The chime sounded again throughout the Temple room, and the marble was cold underfoot. Menri enjoyed the walk, gazing around at everything that surrounded him. The sky through the Conservatory windows was tinted a faint green by moss growing on the inside of the glass, and the honeycomb webbing holding everything together funneled the sparkling Wellsprings water through them, bringing it all over the Conservatory.

Menri wandered deeper into the Temple, green walls of spruce hedges herding him to his destination. The chime was louder and more consistent now, calling, beckoning him. It pulled at the jade in his chest, telling him there was something new to find. So off to find it he went, deeper and deeper. The glass walls towering above him were soon blocked out, and the only light came from some source farther into the maze. Menri continued, the light shining brighter as he walked further, the pull deeper. He reached another large hallway after the maze of bushes, and wearily crept in. Menri sat, wrapped his tail around his paws, and stretched. The pull was still there – stronger than ever – but he was tired.

He had wandered for a long time, to this humming temple and its well-trimmed topiaries. The Conservatory above was unchanged, the same light gleaming through and around him, catching the small flecks of mica in the tile and dazzling them into Menri’s eyes. This chamber was different from the regal and arching crown jewel that had greeted him; instead, this area seemed to exist in disrepair. The silver and marble were more whorled together, more familiar with each other. The water trickled, smelling of damp earth and mushrooms, unlike the sparkling streams of cold mountains that flew across the walls in the entrance. Menri turned around, studying his surroundings carefully, inspecting them. The ceiling was short and squat, but still beautiful in a derelict way. Covered with miniscule clumps of reindeer moss and ferns hanging limply from the darkened construction, this part of the Temple existed in a quieter space.

A shuffling sound came from not too far behind him, and he turned quickly. The thrum calling him deepened, growing louder and more insistent. A shadowy ghost made of silt and slyness crept out and darted through the next doorway. This doorway grew low to the ground, hewn from the stone around it. It tunneled into darkness, leading the way to an unknown place and time. Menri looked above him, and around him. The plants waved farewell, and the sound of the Conservatory dimmed as he ducked into the niche in the rock and disappeared. The tunnel traveled for a long way in the dark, unseen plants and animals brushing his paws as he walked by with barely heard footsteps. The dirt began to edge out into marble again, and then it began to freeze, hanging in chunks around Menri. When he emerged again, large ice spires greeted him, cold and grand.

[notmuchtoconceal]

bro, if i'm gonna be honest -- which, why wouldn't i? what have i to gain with a lie when my truth is the breath and pulse of my life?

part of why re2 (the original, i still haven't played the remake cause i lift and play sports too much now for video games, unless humiliating lil bro is the inevitable consequence) & to a lesser extent re3 (oh my god, bro. the city is a mansion for the stars. jill is a real woman. i fucking love that it borders on self-abuse, pushing this limited control system to this level of relentless combat) feels like coming home is that ... yeah, bro.

raccoon city really does capture a quintessentially midwestern atmosphere. i love that their police station makes no sense. i love that it's this impossibly splendid marble and gothic edifice full of statuary and mystery. i love that it's impossible to imagine working in it. i can't imagine anyone needing the diamond key to get into the file room and having to retrieve the diamond key from the fountain by inlaying the unicorn medal. i love to imagine gruff serious lawmen working in this place, and it being fabulous. their constant frustration. their constant stoic uniformed boner-ache. not only all the red tape, but the janitor's fucking chess-piece spark-plugs being the only weird thing that makes any sense, cause he designed them and he is the king of the fucking basement. who are you to say otherwise? of course the chief would hide his secret woman-taxidermy room behind a portrait he locked with three aztec blood stones in four pieces. that's his dirtly lil secret. he needs the puzzle pieces to function as an elaborate lock, cause it's even more discreet when it's not digital. i love that the only staircase to the second floor is all the way on one side of the building, otherwise you have to take the emergency ladder (can't carry files or coffee up it, bro) and that the STARS office makes no sense, because it's not that only the surviving STARS members have desks (Wesker has one too, and he's dead and a traitor and also undead) or that everyone had one (rookie Rebecca who noone knows has a desk next to Chris's. Also -- she's on Bravo Team) it's just ... only the five you care about have desks, but also let's include a group photo here to remind you how totally improbable the layout is. I love that all of this is just explained by the Chief being a complicit sociopath who bought an old art museum, threw up tarps over all the art, and just repurposed it as a death maze for the scores of his own men he wanted to lock inside and toy with during the forecoming zombie apocalypse. i love that this beautiful jewel of a town so suspiciously rich in dreamy history and sleepy atmosphere was fated to be nothing but a testing grounds for a Big Pharma viral contaminant and so Absolutely Had to Be Nuked by The United States Government to Obliterate All Trace of It Forever.

yeah, man. it, like all great stories, seems to communicate something vital & unspoken to its audience which intrigues them, for it remains always so tantalizingly just out of awareness.

Cael Hughes, american wrestler of 132 pounds, Oklahoma University (credits to cowboywrestling)

[thestayway90]

Reign of Lies: Chapter 1 (SKZ Royal Fantasy AU)

Author: thestayway90

WC: 2873

Warnings: None

Characters: Stray Kids OT8 Royal Family, Alexis (OFC), Elora (OFC)

Relationships: Changbin x Alexis (OFC)

Summary: An angsty Royal AU where Alexis (OFC), as her fathers only daughter and therefore the kingdoms only Princess, is sent to marry a Prince of their rival Kingdom to ensure Peace. However, after arriving at her new home, Alexis quickly finds out not all is what it seems…

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! Did I start another series even though I’ve already got one still ongoing??? yes yes I did...

But in my defence I've had this idea sitting for a while and finally got round to doing something with it!!! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Also a side note this will contain SKZxSKZ relationships... obviously these are written for fanfic and not based on reality so please don't take them seriously... this is all just for fun and entertainments sake :)

I’m a little nervous about posting this one but enjoy <3

Alexis straightened her skirts nervously. Her outfit felt heavy and suffocating in the warm sunlight that streamed through a large side window. The climate was so much warmer here than the cooler weather she was used to back home.

Elora stepped in front of her, deft fingers fixing Alexis’ collar as she told the older girl briskly, “Walk in there with your head held high and show them what you’re made of.”

Alexis smiled down at her sister and best friend, grasping one of her hands tightly. “What would I do without you?” She asked rhetorically as Elora took a step back, staying on Alexis’ right where she would always be within sight.

“You would be a mess,” Elora replied unnecessarily in a deadpan voice, drawing a surprised laugh from her sister.

Suddenly the double doors in front of the two girls was flung wide open and a herald bellowed loudly into the large space behind. “Princess Alexis, Duchess of Vitova and Alzilicia, beloved Daughter of King Tobias of Mava.” He took a breath then continued as the girls took their first steps through the doorway. “And her companion, Lady Elora.”

Alexis concentrated on not tripping over her cumbersome skirts, keeping her eyes on the floor until she reached the foot of a set of stairs that led up onto a low platform.

Pausing at the end, she sunk into a low curtesy, seeing Elora copy the movement in her peripheral vision, and finally looked up.

She sucked in a breath, wobbling a little in the curtsey she was still holding, as her eyes swept over eight imposing figures ranged around the front of the room.

Standing proud in the centre was who, she imagined must be, the King she had heard so much about. King Chan didn’t look as imposing as his reputation would suggest, an easy smile gracing his lips, his black hair cut short and shockingly coloured a bright ruby red on top.

Standing slightly back from his right shoulder was a man with the sculptured looks of a statue, and to the kings left stood four boys, who Alexis assumed were the Kings younger brothers, the Princes of Roalun. Alexis let her eyes linger on the four figures, wondering which one was Prince Changbin, her soon to be husband.

Finally her gaze fell on two boys, standing to the side of the platform, her eyes widening as she took in the most beautiful people she had ever seen. One was tall and lean, long blonde locks falling over his forehead, partly covering intense liquid brown eyes. The other was shorter with a petite figure and silvery blonde hair that seemed to shine even in the shadows he stood in. But it was his eyes that drew the most attention. One was such a dark brown that it looked black, the other, in stark contrast was a shockingly bright light blue. The pair made such an achingly beautiful sight that Alexis had to advert her eyes but couldn’t stop herself continuing to steal glances in their direction.

Alexis straightened from her curtesy and, heeding her sisters advice, held her head high, fixing the King with an unwavering gaze.

To her surprise King Chan smiled even wider at her and launched himself down the stairs, wrapping her in a tight hug when he reached the bottom.

“Welcome, Princess Alexis. The Kingdom of Roalun is so pleased to have you here at last.”

The King pulled back and kissed her on both cheeks.

Alexis startled a little, feeling unbalanced as she replied slightly stiffly, “Thank you for the kind welcome, Your Majesty.”

“Oh none of that,” the King scoffed, waving a hand at her. “We are soon to be Brother and Sister. Chan will do just fine.” Chan motioned for the five boys still up on the platform to join him.

He grabbed the sculpted man first, pulling him to his side and wrapping an arm lovingly around his waist. “Let me introduce you to my Husband, Prince Minho.”

Minho inclined his head, his feelings hidden behind his cool expression. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Princess Alexis.”

“Just Alexis please,” Alexis insisted, getting the feeling that this court preferred a less formal approach to their Royalty.

“And these three are my baby brothers.” The boys grimaced at the title, none of them looking even close to being babies. “Prince Jisung, Prince Seungmin and the youngest, Prince Jeongin.”

Alexis’ eyes drifted over the three very different brothers but her gaze settled at the last boy, standing silently, head bowed.

“And this is Prince Changbin, Heir to Roalun and your future spouse,” Chan introduced so casually that Alexis fought not to wince at the informality.

Changbin finally looked up, bowing low to her. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Princess. I hope your time here will be agreeable.”

Alexis felt her heart drop at his distant but polite distant tone. His greeting made it sound like she was only visiting for a holiday, not moving to a completely foreign kingdom to become his wife.

Before she could speak to him at all, Changbin gave her another quick bow and then turned to Chan. “I really must be going, brother. The Generals are waiting for me.”

Chan’s brow creased into a frown but he nodded his consent. Changbin retreated at a brisk pace, Alexis watching after him in confusion.

Chan cleared his throat. “Unfortunately my brothers position as the Head of Military keeps him very busy.”

Alexis smiled and nodded her understanding, hiding her consternation behind what she hoped was a polite bland expression.

Chan then beckoned to the two boys still standing to one side.  “And these two fine gentlemen are my brothers, Lord Hyunjin and Lord Felix.”

Hyunjin groaned in a dramatic voice, rolling his eyes as he approached. “You know how I hate being introduced as Lord, Channie,” the tall blonde complained. He reached over and grasped one of Alexis’ hands, placing a quick kiss onto the back of it, smiling crookedly up at her. “I’m so happy to meet you, Alexis. I’m very glad to finally be adding some femininity to our little family.”

Chan glared at the inappropriate words while Alexis struggled not to turn and look at Elora as she heard the other girl suppressing laughter.

Alexis concentrated her attention back on the King. “I thought you only had four brothers?” She questioned unthinkingly, her curiosity around the weird dynamic of this foreign court getting the better of her.

Chan gave a loud bark of laughter, pleased at her straight forwardness. “Hyunjin and Felix’s father was my father’s best friend and advisor. When their parents passed away my father took them in as his own. We’ve spent our whole lives together.”

Alexis turned her eyes on the two brothers, Felix having joined them, standing silently next Hyunjin. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine. Ask away,” Hyunjin said flippantly, waving his hands around airily. “This is to be your family as well. You have a right to ask about it.”

“Talking about family,” Alexis turned and beckoned Elora towards her, grabbing hold of the younger girls arm and holding her tight against her side, relieved at her solid presence. “This is my sister, Lady Elora.”

“Just Elora please,” Elora interrupted, shaking her head at the formal title.

“Lovely to meet you, Elora,” Chan said, smiling widely at Alexis’ sister, putting Alexis at ease.

Alexis immediately felt favourable towards anyone who treated Elora with kindness and respect. The younger girl had too often received scorn and distain from others, making Alexis very protective of her sister.

“I’m sure you are tired after your long journey,” the one called Jisung spoke up, clearly picking up the signs of exhaustion that both Alexis and Elora was exhibiting. “Should I show you to your rooms now so you can have a rest before dinner?” The kind boy posed it as a question, not wanting to impose on them.

“If His Majes…” Alexis stopped herself and continued pink staining her cheeks, unused to such informality. “If Chan does not mind us being excused. A rest sounds wonderful right now.”

Chan frowned a little, concern creasing his brow. “Oh dear. In my excitement I forgot what a long day you’ve both had. Of course you may go, please. Go rest and we can talk more over dinner.”

Chan gave both Alexis and Elora tight hugs before Jisung beckoned for them to follow him out. Alexis and Elora curtseyed to the royal family and then exited the throne room, feeling much more relaxed than when they had entered.

Jisung chatted amiably as he led them through a maze of corridors before stopping in front of a pair of large doors. Alexis looked at the masterpiece in front of her in awe as she heard Elora’s quiet exclamation of amazement.

Jisung had a smug look on his face. “Do you like them? They were specifically made for you. In fact the whole room was specifically decorated for you.”

Alexis felt her heart constrict at the startling act of thoughtfulness that she hadn’t expected when being forced into an arranged marriage in a country at war with her own.

The doors were painted a solid gold with beautifully ornate pearl and turquoise inlays making up intricate patterns of flowers and animals. Alexis raised a hand to brush against a perfect depiction of a peacock with full plumage proudly of display.

“He heard you liked animals.” Jisung’s voice pulled Alexis out of her reverie and back to the present.

“Who heard?” She asked unthinkingly, still in awe of the artwork that was simply the entrance to her rooms.

“Changbin of course,” Jisung said matter-of-factly, reaching over and pushing the doors open. “The inside is all Hyunjin though,” the boy continued as he stepped inside, Elora following close behind him.

Alexis took one more moment to admire the first sign of consideration that she’d received from her future spouse, before following the other two inside.

This time the opulence before her made Alexis’ jaw drop and eyes widen in shock, as she turned in a full 360 to try and take in every detail surrounding them.

The colour palette of the door was continued into the rooms, gold, pearl and turquoise hues mirrored throughout the furnishings and decorations.

They were standing in a large sitting area, the ceiling draped in gold and white cloth, a large brazier of gold hung from the ceiling dripping strings of pearls that sparkled in the late afternoon light. The chairs were large and comfy, their brilliant turquoise upholstery offset by gold trim. A low table stood before a fireplace, surrounded by multicoloured floor cushions and covered by an intricately embroidered table runner that depicted brightly coloured scenes of animals found in Roalun. Through a set of white shuttered doors to her right, Alexis could see an absolutely enormous fourposter bed draped with beautiful hangings of sheer gold and turquoise.

But what attracted Alexis attention the most were the doors directly in front of her that were flung wide open giving an unobstructed view of the outside. She walked over, feeling like she was in a haze, out onto a large balcony, pressing up against the railing as she took in the view.

As the Palace was built strategically at the top of a hill, the city of Epiris was laid out like a tapestry below her, extending down the slope until it hit the bank of Lake Lilies, continuing to spread along the lakes edge on either side. The lake was a breathtaking sight, glistening in the sunlight, large enough that you could barely glimpse the other side. She could see from her position the place where the Mairis River flowed into the lake and immediately took in the two garrison towers on either side, brows pinching when she remembered exactly why she was here.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Jisung said as he came to stand beside her. Elora was still inside, already starting to unpack their trunks, always happier when things were in their proper place.

“It’s stunning,” Alexis agreed, closing her eyes for a moment and basking in the sunlight. They stood in silence for a moment, Alexis feeling slightly bewildered with how comfortable she was already feeling in her new home.

“Can I ask you something?” Jisung sounded hesitant. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t feel like it.”

Alexis opened her eyes and looked over at him. He now had his back towards the view, leaning against the railing as he fixed her with a serious look.

“Sure.”

“Did you have a choice? About coming here, I mean?”

Alexis considered the question for a moment, her silence making the other boy jittery.

“Not exactly,” Alexis finally answered. “I’m sure if I had put up more of a fuss, the King wouldn’t have sent me, but I’m also pretty sure if I’d done that he would’ve renounced my title, leaving me with no prospects and no way to keep Elora safe.”

Jisungs expression softened, pity shining in his eyes. “Not really a choice then,” he commented softly.

“Not really, no,” Alexis replied, giving him a small smile. He returned it with one of understanding, making Alexis wonder what non-choices had been given to him and the close-knit family around him.

“You know we didn’t even know Roalun had a Princess until Chan told us about you coming to marry one of us,” a voice chimed up from behind them, making both of them spin around in shock. Jeongin, the baby of the family, stood in the doorway, his face openly curious.

“Jeongin, you can’t just walk into other peoples rooms,” Jisung berated his younger brother, looking ready to throttle the boy.

“The door was open.” Jeongin shrugged slightly, not seemingly bothered by the scolding.

He fixed his gaze back on Alexis. “Are you really a Princess? Because I learnt in History that King Tobias only had sons.”

Jisung whacked the younger boy over the head. “You don’t ask questions like that you dimwit!”

“It’s okay. He should know if I’m to be his sister-in-law,” Alexis consoled the embarrassed elder boy.

She turned her gaze back to Jeongin. “My father is the King but my mother isn’t Queen Lillian. My mother is her sister, Lady Edelyn, the former Duchess of Vitova and Alzilicia. The Princes are my half-brothers. The reason you didn’t know that Roalun had a Princess is because up until a month ago there wasn’t one. Although the King had claimed me as his daughter, I was still only a Lady, one day to be Duchess of my mother lands. However, when the King saw an opportunity to seal the Peace Treaty with Roalun by connecting our two Kingdoms through marriage, he gave me the title of Princess and shipped me off here, and as my mother is dead there was no one to stop him doing it.”

Jeongin looked shocked, eyes wide as he tried to make sense of Alexis’ story. Jisung on the other hand didn’t look surprised, his expression empathetic, which made the newly made Princess feel a little bit better about exposing her complicated past.

“Does that make you a Princess as well?” Jeongin unthinkingly asked Elora as the other girl joined them.

Alexis stiffened, immediately shooting Jeongin a glare, even though she knew he didn’t mean any harm by it.

Elora grimaced and shook her head, quickly blurting out, “No, I will never be a Princess,” before quickly disappearing back inside.

Jisung slapped Jeongin over the head once again. “Idiot!”

“Wait, what did I say?” Jeongin was genuinely confused which made Alexis soften her irritation at the younger boy slightly.

“It’s a sensitive topic for Elora. Just leave it alone, alright,” she told him, a hand going to her forehead and her exhaustion finally caught up with her.

“If you don’t mind, I think I might go lay down for a bit,” she told the two boys, walking back inside.

“Of course. Someone will come and get get you when it’s time for dinner,” Jisung said, taking Jeongins arm and dragging him out of the room with him. Jeongin smiled widely and gave Alexis a cute wave goodbye before the door slammed shut in his face.

Alexis smiled and gave a chuckle at the cute boy, shaking her head as she went to check on Elora.

She found her sister already asleep on top of the covers of her bed in her own slightly smaller room. Her face was still scrunched in distress and Alexis reached out a hand to smooth the hair off of her forehead, Elora immediately relaxing at her touch. Sighing, Alexis grabbed a rug and covered her up, quietly tiptoeing out of the room and softly closing the door behind her.

Fighting to keep her eyes open, she stumbled into her own room and crawled into the massive bed, burrowing deep under the covers.

The last thing she saw before succumbing to sleep was the detailed picture of a Mountain Lion painted onto the ceiling of her room, the sparkling afternoon sunlight making it look alive.

[antiques-for-geeks]

Game Review : Space Raiders

Sinclair ZX81 / Sinclair Research/Psion/Mikro-Gen / 1982 / Originally £3.95

Ladies and gentlemen, we give you the golden age of cover art.

Good artists borrow, great artists steal. A comment that is often associated with the late Steve Jobs about his appropriating the GUI concept from Xerox PARC in the 1980s. It’s not an unromantic ideal - the young upstart company taking a technology from another, bigger organisation that had gold on its hands but didn’t know it.

Except Steve Jobs didn’t come up with the quote. He said as much in Triumph of the Nerds when interviewed. He didn’t claim to be the father of the modern GUI either; he just happened to see the potential of putting a low(er)-cost computer in the hands of the public that had a GUI.

The early days of the computing revolution were a kleptomaniac’s dream; intellectual property was respected, however it was done very much in a homage sense, rather than a paying-a-licencing-fee-and-doing-an-official-conversion sense.

Bedroom coders everywhere were getting in on the action, developing home versions of popular arcade titles, safe in the knowledge that Atari, Taito or Namco would not send the lawyers after them. After all, this was the early 1980s. Most of the time these companies didn’t know the kids were making these clones in the first place.

So, enter Space Raiders published by Sinclair Research. No prizes for guessing which arcade machine is being ripped-off here. It seems rather pointless to go through the gameplay; it’s so famous after 40 years of public consciousness that going through the mechanics of the game would seem a waste of time.

Let battle commence!

This version does not deviate too far from the golden formula. Some features are missing, like the bonus saucer craft that you can shoot. That said, alien ships come down the screen, and you with your moving gun must defend. Clear the screen and it continues. Over and over and over until they finally manage to land or you lose all of your lives.

Or get bored and unplug the computer.

Or stand up, knock the desk causing the memory expansion on your ZX81 to wiggle and the machine to promptly crash.

So, with the game being so ubiquitous, it’s difficult to stand out without ‘ruining’ the pure Space Invaders experience. Also, at the time there was little need to; this game would come at a time when recreating the arcade was impossible on home machinery - the Atari 2600 might have been the reference hardware for the home in the US, but even that could not hope to live up to the experience you’d get shoving small change into arcade machines. Though you could get some distance to replicating the feel by turning the lights off, have your younger brother spit out his half-eaten sweets on the floor near the machine to make the carpet nice and sticky and get your Mum to shout at you “This is a cafe, not a change machine. If you want change for those bloody machines you’ll have to buy something you little prick. They should bring back conscription. You’d learn some proper respect!” each time you ventured from the gloom into the kitchen.

Your shot is the upper case I, the alien bomb is the *. Interestingly neither you nor your foe can fire again until the projectiles hit their mark or whizz off the screen.

While released by Sinclair in 1982, the game is actually the older Space Invaders coded by Mikro-Gen in 1981. That release had the usual (for the time) monochrome packaging and was not available on shop shelves as games would come to be. The Sinclair release sees the title packaged with another, Bomber, a Blitz variant on the B-side of the cassette. Sinclair seemed to have worked with Psion (later of Organiser fame), who developed the ZX Spectrum version of Space Raiders to bring a similar game to the ZX81 at the same time. Shame that Psion did little more than just recycle an old title.

Buying it today

There are two versions - the ZX81 and Spectrum. The covers are more or less identical, so it’d be easy to get the two mixed up if you were not too careful.

The Spectrum version seems to be the more prevalent on auction sites. The ZX81 version reviewed here was not produced in as great numbers and so commands a higher price. Prices do vary from £10 to £50 depending on condition and how gullible the seller thinks people are. Expect to be able to get it for the lower end of these two figures at the present time.

Note that there is a cartridge version for the Spectrum. These are quite rare and can cost around the £60 mark. If you end up with that, well done. Now you just need to find a ZX Interface 2 so you can play it.

Commentariat

Tim : I’m going to be straight with you. This was the first game that I ever played, so my opinion of the game is really tinted. Back when I first got my ZX81, I absolutely loved it and played it for hours and hours. One particularly epic game was played at the end of the day with the prospect of bed-time looming. I made it count, going further than ever before; my parents, failing to understand the seismic nature of what they had just seen, sent me to bed instead of cracking open the champagne.

Playing it again, I can’t pretend it’s not a disappointment; it certainly isn’t how I remember it, but in these situations, it never is...

Graphically it’s not impressive, even for the ZX81; the coders could really have got more out of the hardware especially as game requires a 16k expansion in order to play the game. That said, it certainly plays well enough. It is harder than other Space Invaders clones out there, but it kind of has to be to ensure you get your money’s worth, which probably says more about the higher quality of the opposition than anything else.

The hardness kept me coming back for more when I first had it, but given that it was this, Bomber or the ICL “Fun to Learn” educational series tape that my folks had bought me in the vain hope I’d learn geography from the computer, it was an easy market to please. Now, it can grip me enough to play it, but the longevity isn’t there.

So is there much to recommend it today? Sadly no. A trip down memory lane, but not a particularly good one.

Pop : Ah, gaming on the ZX81… a tricky proposition on the painful and unresponsive keyboard. If you’ve never experienced it, try to imagine using the buttons on your microwave to play your PS4. Luckily this game of space invaders can be enjoyed at a slow pace! I can’t honestly remember if it was this or another invaders clone I played back in the day, but it’s barely passable fodder for the ‘81. Space Invaders is already a simple game, so leaving out stuff like the saucer is and the invaders speeding up as they get fewer is criminal. At least the bunkers are all present and correct. Still, I’d have happily played this back in may games-starved youth. If you’re going to (re)visit the machine today, check out something like 3D Defender or even better 3D Monster Maze...

Meat : Really, have we reached the bottom of the barrel this quickly? In some ways I jest, but really you’d only want to play this for nostalgia’s sake. Given that it needs a 16k expansion to run, I’d want to have something far better than this. Even for the time. It’s not that the aliens don’t traverse the screen properly sometimes. It’s not the missing saucer bonus alien. It’s not the absence of sound (which I can forgive - you can’t magic up sound from a machine with no ability to generate it). It’s not the lack of bitmap graphics. It’s just that in 16k you’d expect them to do something half decent. Like redefine a character set. For heaven’s sake, they could squeeze a game of chess into 1k at the same time, so I expect better here.

There is so little recommend this today. A couple of goes and the fun is exhausted. Unless you are a collector, save your money and head for better titles on the machine. If you really must have a Space Invaders clone from the era, try Avenger for the Vic 20. Hell, even the dull Atari 2600 Space Invaders cart is better than this.

Score card

Presentation 6/10

At a time when a photocopied inlay with a dour pencil drawing was the norm, the cover was incredibly stylish and smart. Seriously, look at it!

Originality 2/10

Sadly it can’t score highly here. Even in 1982 Space Invaders clones were ‘me too’ products.

Graphics 2/10

Uses the inbuilt graphics character set - plenty of scope (and memory) to do something else, even without a bitmap display.

Hookability 7/10

Plays well and draws you in quickly and effectively.

Sound N/A

The ZX81 has no sound output so unsurprisingly, neither does the game.

Lastability 3/10

While it hooks you in, at the end of the day it’s still ‘just’ Space Invaders. While tough, the missing features means there isn’t the depth to bring you back too often.

Value for Money 5/10

Will give you a fair amount of fun, even with its’ drawbacks. Plus there is a second game - Bomber - on side B.

Overall 4/10

You will get some fun out of it on your ZX81 but if you’re emulating, it’s not really worth the effort, sadly. Nostalgia will only get you so far. If you must play Space Invaders on a ZX81, try QS Invaders.

[abroadfortheride]

Holy Toledo!

Today started out a little rocky... Ariel tried to plug her curling iron into the outlet for the radiator... Turns out outlets for appliances use more voltage, so it blew up her curling iron and blew the fuse for the whole apartment. The main fuse was secretly hidden behind a picture and we didnt know, it was too early for our hostess to be awake yet, so we had to get ready in the dark.

Then, after another episode of being lost in Madrid looking for our tour bus, followed by a serious bout of motion sickness for both Ariel and me, we ended up having a great time exploring Toledo!

We started with a panoramic view of the historic town of Toledo then proceeded to go up 100 escalators to the city center. The entire city is a maze of narrow alleys with scattered shops selling Marzipan, leather bags, and assorted tourist trinkets.

Our tour guide began with 3 major monuments; the San Juan de Los Reyes Monastery, the Sinagoga de Santa María La Blanca, and Iglesia Del Salvador.

Our major plan for the day was to do a wine tasting, in what we thought was going to be a vineyard. Turns out that it was just a wine store.. mildly disappointed there but interesting nonetheless. We even got to taste some local olive oil, cheese, and deer sausage!

After wine, we meandered through the shops looking for souvenirs. We came across a handmade, steel jeweler. The shop manager explained the detailed process of how the jewelry was made: inlaying hair fine gold thread and hammered silver into steel blacked by acid. The results were remarkable! Ariel and I both made purchases!

Next, we indulged in some local Marzipan! Unbeknownst to us, Marzipan originated in Toledo. It was delicious!

Ariel was hungry for actual food, but it Siesta and most restaurants were closing. We found a place to have beer though!

Once we got back on the bus to Madrid we all took a much needed siesta ourselves.

We decided to go to Picalagartos Sky Bar, on the 9th floor rooftop of a hotel to try to see tha Madrid sunset. Unfortunately, there was a large building directly in front of the suns but the aerial view of the city was fantastic.

We saw a couch open up and quickly slide into the seats, just as our server came to the table saying a friend of his was going to sit there with us.

We met a young woman who is a lawyer from L.A. on a solo trip hoping to move to Madrid. Her already being friends with our server, Brian, caused us to get a multitude of free drinks.

Shortly after she left us, Ariel befriended a woman from Hamburg, Germany. She educated us on various thing about housing, and education, and taxes in Germany.

We are now back at our AirBnB, packed and ready for our flight to Ibiza in the morning!

Salud!

9/2/19

[quentinsquill]

Fic: “Moondance” for The Welters Challenge, Week 7

Moondance

Author: Lexalicious70

Fandom: The Magicians

Pairing: Eliot/Quentin

Rating: Teen and Up

Word Count: 2,647

Warnings: Discussions of anxiety, phobias

Summary: When Brakebills is hit by a magical blackout, Eliot must help Quentin confront one of his greatest fears.

A/N: This is for the  @thewelterschallenge , the final week, “Blackout.” I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. “Twilight Time” was composed by Artie Dunn, Al Nevins, Morty Nevins, and Buck Ram. Comments and kudos are magic! And as always, enjoy.

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15240561

 Moondance

By Lexlicious70

 “Fuck!” Margo snapped as the lights in the Physical Kids cottage went out all at once, then raised her gaze toward the second floor. “Did one of you assholes overload the fuse box again?” She shouted before groping her way to the bar. Outside, the night sky wore a thick blanket of clouds. Eliot sighed.

 “These damn hipsters with their retro plug-in vibrators,” he observed.

 “Hilarious. Now can you cast Chvartli’s mini sun before I break my neck?” Margo asked.

 Eliot pushed his hands together and murmured the spell’s words, but no light grew between his hands. He frowned.

 “The fuck?” He tried it again—nothing.

 “Eliot!”

 “I’m trying! It won’t cast!” He said, and the door to the cottage banged open. Eliot turned, peering into the darkness. “Oh, what fresh hell is this—who’s there?”

 “It’s just me! It’s Todd!” The first-year closed the cottage door behind him. “I was over at the library when the power and the magic went out. Dean Fogg says not to panic, a spell went wrong during a faculty meeting. It should be back by—” the sound of Todd’s shins whacking into a chair and the resulting hiss of pain interrupted him—“Ow, ow . . . tomorrow morning.”  

 “Tomorrow morning like seven or eight hours from now? What are we supposed to do until then?” Margo asked.

 “Maybe we could find some candles and play a game or read?” Todd suggested, and Eliot could almost feel the intensity of Margo’s scowl in the dark room.

 “That’s a good idea, Todd,” she almost cooed it. “We can play Operation. What do you want removed first, your heart or your balls?”

 “Uh. I’m going to—I’ll just be upstairs.” Todd fled before he finished speaking, stumbling up the first two steps before retreating completely.

 “Tell Quentin to come down!” Eliot called after him, and a glint of Margo’s nail polished showed briefly at the bar’s brass inlay before her hand found his elbow. Eliot slipped an arm around her.

 “So, any ideas for entertainment?”

 “I think I have some candles around here somewhere . . .” Eliot began feeling around for drawer handles.

 “Hey, uh—Eliot?” Todd’s voice spoke from halfway down the staircase. “Quentin’s not in his room.”

 “What?” Eliot turned.

 “I knocked and there was no answer, so I peeked in and his room is empty.”

 “There’s only one place he could have gone,” Margo said, and Eliot nodded as he made his way toward the door.

 “The library.”

 “Wait, El, where are you going? I can’t see for shit!”

 “Have Todd help you find some candles. Check in my nightstand, there might be a lighter in the top drawer. The top drawer!” Eliot said firmly, and Margo scoffed into the darkness.

 “Don’t worry, I won’t jumble your lube collection.”

 “Thanks, Bambi!” Eliot found the cottage door and headed out into the night, the moon and stars obscured by thunderheads. Eliot crossed the campus, his eidetic memory helping him along. All the buildings and charming coach lights at the crossways of the campus paths were dark, but Eliot could almost make out the lines of the library coming up on his right.

 This is probably silly, Eliot thought to himself as he made a right and found his way to the library doors. Quentin is probably fine, he might have already left when the power cut out and could even be on his way back to the cottage. Still . . . he’s only been at Brakebills a few weeks, and Henry would probably give me hell if he got lost in the hedge maze or fell into one of the fountains. This isn’t at all because you’re fond of Quentin and his welfare is becoming increasingly important to you. Not at all.

  Eliot pulled the library doors open and stepped into its darkness. The foyer seemed empty and Eliot’s footfalls echoed as he passed by the large reception desk and into the hushed recesses of Brakebills’ book stacks. The shelves in room after room overflowed with books, and Eliot could hear the ominous flapping of the feral books high in the eaves of the ancient history room, their magic so old that it seemed the blackout didn’t affect them much. Eliot found his way down to the applied magic section, where he knew Quentin might have gone. The glassed-in room featured a scatter of tables and padded chairs, each table large enough to accommodate six to eight students. The room was designed for first-year study groups and research and the familiar scent of books both old and new, along with the faint scents of coffee, perfume and cologne, and a whiff of ozone that Eliot always associated with first years hung in the air. Eliot paused, his head cocked, as thunder rumbled outside.

 Thought I heard something . . .

 He ventured in further, taking careful steps, his arms spread slightly to prevent walking into a table or stumbling over a chair. He passed through an alcove into one of the secondary rooms and stopped as a sound reached him—muffled sobbing, mixed with the quick, jagged breaths of someone well on his way to panicking. Alarm bells went off in Eliot’s head.

 “Quentin?” He called into the darkness, the sound of his own echoing voice startling him. “Quentin, are you in here?”

 The panicked noises grew louder and Eliot followed them, picking up his pace. He reached a table in the corner, a smaller one, accompanied by two chairs. Eliot’s booted foot touched one as he peered down. The other laid on its side nearby, as if someone had knocked it over suddenly. He caught the glint of metal in the dark and knelt down to touch it, only to find Quentin’s messenger bag. He turned his head to find Quentin hunched under the table, his knees drawn to his chest, his hands clapped over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. Eliot’s stomach dropped and he crawled under the table.

 “Quentin? Hey . . . Q . . .” He touched one of Quentin’s hands and the younger man gave a strangled yelp of surprise and flung himself backward, only to slam into the wall. He opened his eyes, his entire expression filled with panic. Eliot pulled one hand away from the side of Quentin’s face and interlocked their fingers. “Quentin! Hey! It’s me!”

 Quentin blinked rapidly as Eliot spoke, although his panicked breathing didn’t slow.

 “Eliot . .. ? What—what are you doing here?”

 “I came to find you! One of the professor’s spells backfired during a meeting, that’s what caused the blackout.” Eliot glanced down at Quentin’s trembling hand. “I thought maybe you might get turned around finding your way back to the cottage—what’s wrong? Why are you hiding under here?”

 “Uhhm . . . I was sitting here and the lights went out so I tried to cast a light spell but it didn’t work and the next thing I knew I was here alone and---and I couldn’t—” Quentin gestured toward the library doors, his eyes bright with tears. Eliot squeezed his hand.

 “You couldn’t what?”

 “I couldn’t leave!” Quentin almost wailed it. Eliot could feel him shaking in the small space and chose his next words carefully.

 “Can you tell me why?” He asked, and Quentin’s full lips trembled.

 “Mmm mmm.” He said after a moment, drawing his legs up tighter.

 “Why not? Quentin . . . you can trust me. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but do you remember what I told you that day out on the back patio?” Eliot gave his hand another gentle squeeze. “You’re not alone here. Not then, and not now. I came all this way across a very dark campus to find you, not judge you.”

 “But you like judging people,” Quentin said in a small voice, and Eliot nodded.

 “While I can’t deny that, I’d say that this is a special case. Quentin, please. I want to help.”

 Quentin ran a shaking hand across his mouth and Eliot could smell the sour tang of terror on the younger man.

 “I’m—I’m afraid of the dark,” Quentin said at last as he cast a sidelong glance at Eliot.

 “Well, we all have our phobias,” Eliot said after a moment. “Sometimes they stem from childhood trauma, and sometimes they’re completely irrational. In my case, it’s wasps. They horrify me; I’d rather face down a whole slew of hedge witches than pass close to a wasp nest.”

 Quentin sniffled but didn’t let go of Eliot’s hand.

 “I don’t know how old I was . . . maybe six . . . some of the neighborhood kids and I were playing and we found a hole in a fence at a construction site near my house. We started playing hide and seek and I crawled into this concrete pipe . . . I got about halfway in when I realized the other end was buried in concrete. I tried to turn around but I’d passed a narrow section on the way in. I started screaming for help but no one heard me. And—and then the sun went down. I spent the night curled up in that pipe.” Quentin’s voice shook. “The search and rescue team didn’t find me until the next morning.”

 “Jesus. That must have been terrifying for you.”

 “It’s why I couldn’t leave. I tried but it’s so dark!”

 “I understand, Q. It’s going to be all right. We’re going to leave together—”

 “No!” Quentin pulled his hand away from Eliot’s and bunched both into the hem of sweater.

 “Quentin, I want you to listen. If we’re going to get back to the cottage to wait this out, you’re going to have to trust me! Do you trust me?”

 Quentin yanked on the hem of his sweater until it hung out of shape, his eyes squeezed shut. Finally, he nodded.

 “I trust you, El.”

 “All right. Give me your hands. We’re going to move forward—” He took Quentin’s offered hands—“and I’ve got you. Whenever you get scared, you squeeze my hands and we’ll stop and rest. Understand?”

 “I—I’ll try,” Quentin whispered, and Eliot paused to sling Quentin’s messenger bag around his neck before he began to lure Quentin out from under the table as he moved backward.

 “Come on . . . good, I’m right here . . . just out from under the table. Now stand up. Good!’ Eliot squeezed Quentin’s hands in praise. “Now we’re going to move across the library just like this . . . the doors aren’t very far. Quentin? Look at me.” Eliot said as Quentin’s eyes began to dart left and right. “Eyes on me.” Eliot walked backward, his and Quentin’s elbows bent, their hands joined, their faces less than two inches apart. Quentin took small, unsure steps, like those of a deer in an unfamiliar meadow. They passed under the alcove and left the glassed-in room, and Quentin dug his heels in.

 “No, no, nonononono!” He gasped, his tone spiking with octaves of panic, and Eliot paused.

 “Quentin, it’s all right, I’m still here. Hey!” He squeezed Quentin’s hands and tugged him forward a step. Quentin’s messenger bag thumped against Eliot’s chest and he seized upon an idea. “Do you have a Fillory book in your bag?” He asked, and Quentin’s head jerked around at the mention of Fillory.

 “Uh?”

 “You always carry a Fillory book with you! Which one is in your bag?” Eliot asked.

 “I—The F-Flying Forest.” Quentin stammered, and Eliot nodded.

 “Do you remember how Jane got separated from Helen while they were in the forest, and how scared she was?

 “Yeah. A lot of readers have compared that to the scene in Snow White, some of the Fillory forums even have pretty extensive meta about it,” Quentin said, and Eliot blessed Quentin’s obsession and his pedantic nature.

 “Do you remember what the dryad did to help her see that the forest was no place to fear?”

 Quentin nodded.

 “He danced with her.”

 That’s right.” Eliot led him across the library and out the double doors. When they reached the edge of the Sea, Quentin balked at the huge dark expanse and Eliot tugged him forward and into his arms.

 “Eyes on me, Quentin,” he said firmly, and led the younger man into a sweeping waltz across the grass as he began to sing softly in Quentin’s ear:

 “Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time

Out of the mist your voice is calling, it's twilight time

When purple colored curtains mark the end of day

I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time

Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done

Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun

I count the moments darling till you're here with me

Together at last at twilight time . . .”

 Quentin stumbled along as Eliot led, but his smaller stature made it simple for Eliot to guide him, one hand dropping to Quentin’s right hip to push him in the right direction. Eliot let his sense memory guide him and halfway across the Sea, Quentin’s head dropped onto Eliot’s chest, resting it there as Eliot murmured the song’s refrain. Finally, Eliot’s foot hit pavement and he found himself on the pathway to the cottage. He paused to catch his breath and Quentin seemed to come out of his torpor all at once. It began to rain, but he didn’t flinch.

 “El?” He glanced up over Eliot’s shoulder to see the outline of the cottage. “Are we . . .?”

 “Home.” Eliot nodded. “Are you all right? Do you want to go inside?”

 “In a minute.” A pause. “I can’t believe you did that for me.” A nervous string of laughter escaped him. “No one’s ever sung to me before.”

 The rain tapered off as the moon played tag with fat, dark clouds, each of them edged with eager flickers of lighting.

 “You must think I’m such a child,” Quentin said at last, and Eliot slid a gentle hand under Quentin’s chin to tilt his head upward. Behind them, the cottage lights flared to life and a muffled cheer went up from within.

 “What I think, Quentin, is that you have the courage and talent to make a fine magician. And it was my pleasure to dance with you.”

 “Thank you.” Quentin cleared his throat and pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “Do—uhm, I still have the book. The Flying Forest . . . do you want to come up to my room and talk about it some more?”

 Hope flooded Eliot’s heart.

 “I’d like that, Q.” He glanced up at the sky. “Looks like it might storm. I hope we don’t lose power again.”

 Quentin took his messenger bag from Eliot.

 “I’m not worried, El.” He slid his fingers between Eliot’s until they locked together. “My room’s not big enough for another dance, but I’m sure we could figure out some way to pass the time.” Quentin smiled, a promise rising in his dark eyes.

 Eliot glanced down at their joined hands and allowed himself a smile as Quentin tugged him toward the inviting lights of the cottage.

 FIN

[stonexpert]

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[sophiascribbling]

i am desperate for miami stormpilot

You and me both. I’ve got around 20K written for that fic. I’ve got it mostly outlined, but it’s far from done and I haven’t had any time to work on it lately. I have all these things I really want to work on but until BWG is completed, I feel this weird sense of guilt when I work on other fics. 

I don’t release fics until they are pretty much done. I thought I was following my rule with BWG, but it changed so much over the course of the release that now it’s changed into something way different. I sometimes wish that I’d never released it, tbh.

That being said, here is a snippet from Chapter 2 if you’re interested:

Finn took a steadying breath as he got out of the car. The warehouse was nondescript and a passerby would think it was just the same as any of the other buildings surrounding it. The district was a maze of giant buildings—storage facilities, chop shops, and machining were most of what the area boasted.

He wondered if he’d have passed it by if he hadn’t already seen a photo of it during a debriefing. It didn’t matter, in the end, he had made it. Two years of work had gotten him to this location, but Finn was well aware that one wrong step and the entire investigation would collapse—beginning with a bullet in his own head.

He walked towards the door and his eyes met those of the guards who wandered around the area. They were dressed as though they were homeless, their voluminous coats and shopping carts hiding AR-15s from the casual eye. He nodded at one and the heavy steel door on the side of the building opened.

It was bright outside and it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust. There were cars parked inside—let in through the loading doors off to the side. Some were like Finn’s—old with fading paint and busted glass, while others . . . well they stood out with their gleaming chrome rims and smooth body styles.

The clicking of heels drew his attention.

Phasma was a tall woman with platinum blonde hair and a penchant for grey power suits. She towered over him as she came to a halt. Her eyes moved over his clothing and bearing. She didn’t seem terribly impressed, but then his fashion choices had always been limited.

“Follow me,” she said before turning and walking away.

He followed after her through another set of doors and the quiet of the front was banished as the sounds and stench of human misery overcame him. Finn did his best to focus on the subtle herringbone pattern of Phasma’s suit jacket, but there was not blocking out the mules and whores who came and went, getting their fixes, cash, and product. Their gaunt appearances turned Finn’s stomach and it took everything in him to stay the course.

He wanted to run—make up and excuse, turn around and leave. Tell Wexly and Organa that he wasn’t made for this, but he couldn’t. So much time, money, and resources had gone into getting him exactly where he was.

In this shithole of a building surrounded by the very dregs of society.

She lead him down a dark hallway and into a side room where several girls clad only in their underwear were measuring out the pharm and packaging it for distribution. Her expression was flat and her eyes were on him even as she made a shooing motion towards the workers. They dispersed without a word or a backward glance, leaving the table was littered with tiny foil packs and wrapped plastic bricks.

“You know what this is, of course,” she said, her eyes blinking in a way that would have made another man think there was nothing going on upstairs. But there was—Phasma was watching him like snake would a mouse.

He nodded his head, answering softly. “Aegis.”

Phasma’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, and I assume you know how to test it.”

Again, Finn nodded. “Adding phosphoric acid to a sample shows how pure it is.”

“Good,” she said, gesturing again. Finn heard a strangled scream as a girl with tanned skin and dark hair was dragged into the space. She was pushed to the ground, tears running down her face. Finn could see track marks on her arms, and her hands shook as she kept her head down.

Phasma spoke again, her voice even.“Pick the appropriate dose and give it to her.”

Finn blinked for a second. “What?” he asked, his attention swinging back to the blonde.

She gestured to the product on the table. “This girl came in with a fresh batch that we got a few days ago. She’s still . . . developing a taste. Test the cuts and give the girl her drug.”

Finn licked his lips as he looked from Phasma’s unyielding face to the sobbing girl on the floor. Time seemed to slow down as his gaze traveled around the room. They were all watching him, waiting to see if he would become a new boss or if they would need to dispatch him.

Those were his choices. This girl’s life or his own.

His fist clenched as he walked towards the table. His legs felt like lead as he took step after step and died a little more inside the closer he got. The girl was still crying, her heaving breaths splintering through his mind and his eyes fell shut for a second as he came to a stop.

Finn allowed his mind to blank out as his fingers moved through the motions of dusting a gram into a vial and mixing it with the suspension and the acid. The fluorescent pink color flared to life as he tested a few of the foil packets along with a bit from the bricks.

He chose a cut that was on the lighter side, but still enough to assuage Phasma’s suspicions and turned around. The girl was hauled to her feet as Finn shook the vial dissolving the aegis and then piping it into the syringe.

“Please don’t!” she begged and Finn clenched his jaw but only nodded to the man holding her. She was shoved face down onto the table and a bit of tubing was wrapped around her arm. Finn pulled on her wrist as she struggled, but he ignored her whimpers and cries as he located her vein.

It was quick really, getting the drugs into her system. She went limp after only a few seconds, and the man picked her up none-to-gently and threw her over his shoulder. Phasma nodded again and the man walked away, taking the girl out of there.

Phamsa said nothing for a few minutes. The room was quiet, but Finn was keenly aware of the weight that had settled on his shoulders . . . he felt it getting heavier as the seconds ticked by. Phasma pursed her lips before walking towards a free-standing shelf off to the side.

She picked up a plastic case and walked back to the table. He knew what it was—what was inside—so he merely watched as she clicked the latches open and pulled the lid up. The Colt 45 was different than the others he’d seen.

Nines’s had been black with gaudy gold inlays while he knew Phasma’s was a polished pale steel with mother of pearl grips. This one was two-toned with a dark grey handle and black slide. The barrel was extended, giving the already substantial weapon an even more pronounced appearance.

His hand came out to touch it, but the lid fell shut and he hastily pulled his hand back. Phasma raised a brow as she latched the case shut.

“You didn’t want to hurt that girl,” she said evenly.

He looked up, eyes wide before getting control of his expression. “I don’t enjoy hurting people. Fucking morons out there want to hurt themselves—fine. I got no problem making money off them, but I don’t get off on forcing shit on people.”

Phamsa sneered. “If you don’t have the balls—”

“I got all I need to take care of business,” he said, cutting her off. “And if business requires me to dope up some dumb bitch, then I’ll do it.”

Her expression was flat at first, before a smile spread over her lips. She held the case out to him. “You still have to get by Hux and Ren, but for now . . . Welcome to the family . . . Finn.”

He took the case, nodding silently and was about to turn and leave but Phasma stopped him. She picked up three of the packets from a smaller pile on the table and handed them over. He looked them over critically. They were marked with the hexagonal symbol for the First Order, but rather than black, the emblem was red.

“You’ll have fun with those,” she said with a tilt of her head. “You’ve got the rest of the night off . . . What’s left of it anyway.”

Finn felt dead inside as he nodded and walked away carrying the packets and the case. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he walked by, but he could feel the eyes of the guards on him. They knew he was a new area boss. He’d passed the first test and the case in his hand was proof of that.

He wasn’t due to report in to Wexley for another week—had no one to talk to about what he’d done. Even when it came time, he knew what he sargent would say. That he’d had no choice, that this was exactly the reason he had to stay.

Finn got into his crummy car, the case resting on the seat beside him, the shiny plastic reflecting the street lights like an accusation. He shook his guilt off as best as he could as the car started and turned the music up as loud as he could to muffle the echoes of the girl’s screams. Rain was beginning to fall in light drops as he drove through the city, moving through the high-rises of downtown and into the suburbs. The vibrant lights of restaurants and shops made the roads seem like oil-slicked rainbows.

He parked his car in front of Julip, the green neon of the club’s sign shining against his windshield. Finn saw one of the bouncers headed his way, ostensibly to tell him to move his car.  Finn got out first, and the man came to a dead stop at the sight of him, no doubt recognizing the new area boss for the Order.

Finn didn’t say anything, he merely walked past the man and into the building. No one tried to stop him and no one even spared him a glance as he pulled out one of Phasma’s foil packs and tore it open.

You’re making a mistake, he thought even as he held it close to his nose and inhaled. His jaw hung open as the numbing feeling spread through his face and then his limbs and brain, blocking out the pain, anger, and guilt. All that was left was the music and the hands that were touching him.

Finn shoved the pack into his pocket and let himself be moved into the crowd—let everyone around him grind and touch. He just wanted to feel something . . . anything but the guilt.

He’d never done any of the hard stuff before—a test here or there, but whatever was in that packet was far more potent than anything he’d tried out in the past. He was hyper aware of everything that was going on around him. Every beat of the music, ever brush against his skin was like a bomb going off inside his head.

He felt so . . . alive. There was a hand sliding up his back and around his waist, pulling him close—-grinding against him. His head leaned back against the other body and he seemed to be moving. The clear noise and feeling of being surrounded by a hundred writing bodies gave way to the feeling of a wall against his front as he was shoved forward.

He blinked in confusion as he was turned around to face the other man. He felt a pain in his face, but it was far away, more of a strange feeling of sandpaper against his skin. He could feel every cell that was torn by the impact and the bursting of blood vessels.

He’d been punched, Finn realized belatedly.

Another was headed his way, but the man was pulled off him, other swarming them and Finn could do nothing but slide down the wall until his butt hit the floor. He stared up as the most beautiful person in the world looked down at him.

“I know you,” he said with a smile. “You’re Poe Dameron.”

The man crouched down in front of him, his hands coming on either side of Finn’s jaw, moving his head from side to side to get a better look at the shiner that was probably already blossoming.

“Yeah, that’s me,” the man—Poe—said . . . or shouted . . . it all sounded the same. “I’ve never seen you take anything before, Finn. What are you on?”

“I don’t know,” he answered without thinking before his brain caught up with him. “How do you know my name?”

Poe snorted. “I know all the dealers who work in my clubs.”

Finn blinked. That’s right . . . he was a dealer. He sold drugs and . . . and . . . “They made me hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her.”

The club owner's eyes widened before softening and he leaned in closer. “I’m sorry Finn,” he said as Finn felt his shoulders slumping and everything went black.

~~~~

Hope that helped tide you over, even if it was a little depressing. The entire story is pretty depressing tbh, but that’s the way I like my fics lol.

[magpieandsons]

41 - Bless Me

You’re not the most religious sort, but a blessing is a blessing, by your way of thinking. You wait until you’re sure Murph is moving towards the arch, and swipe the oil over your closed eyelids, murmuring “so mote it be.”

Catching up with the baron and his valet, you see they’ve been stopped by a deeply recessed door. The vine motif continues into the alcove beyond the arch; delicately sculpted grey stone, dotted with white marble flowers, wends its way over wood and iron. Standing back a bit and casting your eyes about the room, you realize the entire space is decorated to evoke garden walls. Inlays of darker stone, which you took to be marks of age before, are in fact subtle mosaics of plant-life. The passage you came through, and another not far from it - the Ithildaerow entrance - both bear sprays of forsythia above them.

Caspin has his folded sheet of paper out of his pocket again, and is unfolding and refolding it, apparently looking for some clue to open the door. You edge around him and see where the vines cross, effectively forming bars over the wood. There’s no handle in the door, and the hinges are hidden from view. You run your hands over what you can reach of the threshold, and announce that you believe it’s a false door.

“A false door?” Caspin mutters indignantly, leaning away from it to peer at the structure as a whole.

You nod and tell him to have a look at the frame. You point out how tightly it fits and how sturdy the carving is. You admit it’s possible the door worked once upon a time, but if so, then someone with the magic to grow stone has quite effectively blocked it.

“But why do you say it’s a false door?” he asks you. “What makes you believe there’s another entrance?”

You run your thumb over one of the marble flowers, feeling glad you spent some time in the forest with family recently. You tell Caspin the vine is climbing pelacupta - liars vine. One of your aunts grows the stuff around her garden gate. Stepping back into the room proper again, you look left and right to find the place where the vine continues several feet away - this batch actually embedded in the wall.

Pointing out the large, threatening-looking thorns you tell them how, on the living plant, those thorns are false. They’re nothing but shiny bright red leaves meant to scare off predators. You tip your head to the side, following the path of the thorns, then, finding the place where they seem to grow thickest, you reach out to put your weight against the stone.

To your utter shock, you fall through the wall.

You stumble, but manage to keep your feet. Looking about, you find you’re in another corridor. The wall behind you is unbroken, and the passageway curves off to your left and your right. On the right side you can see a fork in the path a few yards up. Stepping to your left a little you find an intersection: the corridor continues on ahead of you, but a second hallway here starts at the arched door to the left, and runs on into the dark on the right.

You smile grimly at the sight of the sculpted liars vine growing through the door and across the floor for several feet. You look at the way the strands bunch together in places, and you kneel down. You’re able to work the pry-bar in past a knot of flowers and push at the flooring beneath. You feel the slightest bit of give and pull back, getting to your feet immediately. There’s some kind of a trap foiled there, and you’re not interested in setting it off.

As you turn back the way you came, Darrel comes jogging up to you, tail high. He begins sniffing you over at once, then - apparently judging you to be in one piece - he moves from you to the corridor at large. He follows slowly as you retrace your steps. Just before you reach the illusion-covered opening, Caspin and Murph slip through it to join you.

You start to tell them about the other side of the original door, and the trap beneath it, when a bit of shine catches your eye. You blink, thinking perhaps your eyes are just getting tired from so much use of them in the full dark. But blinking only makes the shine clearer: more vines, these made of sparks of light, as though a path of broken glass were catching the glow of the lantern.

Caspin doesn’t seem to notice you’ve trailed off in your explanation. He’s looking right and left along the corridor with a critical glare. “Yes. Well done. But we’re in the maze of it now, I think. This place was built over time by both sides of the family. Who knows what traps each has laid to protect our dead.”

“And where do we begin?” Murph asks.

“I have a thought,” Caspin murmurs, glancing at his folded notes, “But I’m not certain…”

He’s looking towards the liars vine door, and Murph is following his gaze. You realize neither of them sees the glimmering vine trail that you do, the spark of it clearly wending away in the opposite direction.

- Convince them to follow your lead, but don’t tell them why.

- Tell them what you see.

- Let Caspin lead from his notes.

https://strawpoll.com/kg1xzh5s poll ends 5/16/20 at 10pm

[stoneartbyskl]

Maze Inlay Flooring - Decorative Flooring - Stone Art by SKL

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[person918x]

Rich Dad Poor Dad fanfic

As Poor Dad pushed up the manhole cover above us, it was like opening the door of an oven. The perpetual hot, dry wind of the surface rushed down into the tunnel, stinging my eyes and burning my lungs. Keeping a tight grip on the rusted ladder with my right hand, I reached up to tighten the cloth wrapped around my nose and mouth and pull the tinted goggles down over my eyes.

Heaving the manhole cover off to the side with a grunt, Poor Dad climbed up out of the tunnel. Sand cascaded down the shaft, clattering against the metal of the ladder as it fell.

“Come on!” he yelled down at me, his voice barely audible over the howling of the wind.

I followed him up through the hole into the blinding sun, squinting through the goggles, my gloves and arm shields sizzling and slipping on the dark gray sands as I struggled to pull myself up and out into the broiling desert air.

Poor Dad grabbed my flailing arms and pulled, dragging me the rest of the way up and helping me to my feet, unsteady in the shifting sands.

The wind whipping his layers of rags up around him, he pointed off into the distance towards the massive black pyramid on the horizon, silhouetted against the cloudless blue-grey sky. He yelled something but I couldn’t make out the words so I just nodded and we set off down the slope of the sand dune.

We hiked across the desert, shielding faces against the blowing sands, particles of concrete, asphalt and glass aerosolized by time and the elements. This whole place had been a city once, long ago. So Poor Dad always told me. Now the only building to be found in miles of grey desert was the onyx pyramid that hovered above the dunes.

Slowly, the pyramid grew larger in our sight until it finally loomed above us, shining slick and black in the unrelenting sun. It floated silently in the air thirty feet overhead, impossibly huge yet suspended effortlessly by unseen forces that I could not begin to comprehend.

There was a flash of light up on the side of the pyramid and seam appeared in the seamless polished rock, opening into a portal and extruding a narrow black staircase that slid down toward us with unearthly smoothness. As the staircase continued its extension, two humanoid robots came out through the portal and began to walk down the descending stone steps. As they drew closer, intricate golden patterns became visible, intaglio baroque spirals on their glossy black chassis. Poor Dad gripped my shoulder tightly as the staircase slowed to a stop six inches above the desert floor. I twisted away from him, not bothering to glance back as I waded my through the sand to the foot of the stairs.

One of the robots reached down offered me an outstretched mechanical hand. I grasped the hard, smooth metal and stepped up onto the stairway.

Only a few steps up, I heard a commotion behind me and turned to see Poor Dad struggling with the second robot, being restrained as he fought to get a foot up onto the first step.

“Let me see him!” he yelled. “I have to see him!”

“Dad, stop!” I yelled down at him.

“When we mixed our DNA together to make you, he said he’d love me forever!” Poor Dad’s voice cracked. The robot stiffly held his wrists as he thrashed his body back and forth. “Just let me talk to him! Please!”

“You’re making a scene, Dad!” I yelled. I turned my back on him, shaking my head.

His pitiful cries receded behind me as I continued up the stairs into the pyramid.

The gilded robot led me down an onyx tile corridor lined with marble pillars and metallic vases on crystalline platforms. Dust fell from my filthy clothes onto the floor, obscuring the delicate golden inlays on the tiles, each one unique, some geometric, some floral.

The pyramid’s interior was quiet and still in dramatic contrast to the endless howling winds outside. The only sound here was the soft tapping of robotic feet on the tile floor and my own echoing footfalls.

After walking through a disorienting maze of corridors, we finally came to the familiar antechamber doors, twenty feet tall and decorated with an intricate pattern like falling leaves rendered in gold. The doors swung open and we walked past the rows of black marble fountains into the main chamber.

“My beautiful son!” Rich Dad’s voice boomed out as I entered.

Water cascaded down the walls in artificial waterfalls. Every surface was entwined with delicately wrought golden vines and in the middle of the chamber, Rich Dad reclined shirtless on his levitating chaise longue.

“The second weekend of the month already,” he said, motioning for me to come closer. “And yet not come soon enough.”

His laugh reverberated in the room as a spherical robot floated above him and opened a hatch to release a cascade of clear oils down over his lithe muscled body and over the edge of his floating platform, dripping down into the reflecting pool below.

“We have much to discuss,” he said.

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

At Your Service ~One~

Imagine being an elvish gardener of Mirkwood, tending to the grounds, and Thranduil being impressed with how much care you give to each individual plant, even singing to them as you work.

Once again I’ve dug myself a hole and this one shot will likely be two or three parts. Anyhow, enjoy and please, if you can, tell me what you think. I want to get an idea before I post the next parts. Thank you for reading!

The life of a servant was often unexciting. Yet, as you were sent off in a cart among a party of six fellow maids, you had been told that you were on a lively adventure. Rather, you were merely transferring household from that of Rivendell to Mirkwood. Your fellow travellers tittered at the chance to work for the vaunted woodland Elvenking and yet you could find little difference or passion in the transition.

You resented that you were being sent to the distant kingdom as a ‘gift’. You were low upon the ladder of society, but you had treasured your position in Rivendell. Lord Elrond and his fellow noble elves treated you well enough, as if you were more than a set of hands to carry a tray or beat the dust out of a well-used rug. King Thranduil, however, was famed for his extravagance and snobbery. You had heard-say that a sneer down the long bridge of his nose often sent elves running; nobles and commoners alike.

In your head, you imagined a bitter elf with little more to enjoy than the squirming of others as he wielded his crown with cruelty. Never one to be toyed with, you resolved that you would not be among those he used for his own amusement. You could not guess at why you had been chosen for the Mirkwood assignment, but as a servant, you were used to being jostled around from one chore to another.

Arriving in Mirkwood, you watched the twisted branches which lined the façade of the palace as they loomed above. Tinted glass in varied shades of blue, green, and violet lent an ethereal glow to the grand woodland alcazar and nearly took your breath away. Refusing to let your awe get the best of you, you steeled yourself as the other elves chattered in high-pitched tones and sing-song. Before the day was done, you would be sweeping and dusting the very halls they marveled at.

Surpassing the front steps, marble lined with intricate veins of ivy, you and the other servants were led from your cart through the back entrance meant for your ilk. To your surprise, however, you were taken past the kitchens and into the greater halls of the palace. The corridors were airy bridge ways and branched hallways which smelled of forest and summer. You followed the rest through wrought golden and glass doors, your skirts sweeping across the pristine marble floors patterned intricate ivory inlays.

A throne sat at the end of the spacious chamber, sunlight glowing in faded indigo rays down upon the silver figure draped across it. King Thranduil’s branched crown sat elegantly atop his pale hair and his crystalline eyes slowly found the half-dozen servants walking silently towards him. The rest had fallen silent, their breath held in mutual nervousness, while your own came steady and unfazed. You were more impressed by the architecture than the monarch.

“You must be Lord Elrond’s gift,” He mused as he looked the six of you over indifferently; your dull grey gowns welcomed little interest with their high, stiff collars, and straight-boned corsets, “I’ve always need for more hands in my palace. You shall be welcome kindly by the help, I am certain, and I never let my dues go unpaid.”

You could hear a few of the girls trying to withhold their giggles and whispers beside you as the king stood and smiled at the lot of you. Your own face was placid and you resisted the urge to scowl and roll your eyes. Years of service had readied you to conceal you disdain. Unlike the rest, you remembered the custom of a bow and they followed suit with embarrassment. The sooner you were dismissed, the better. These servants should know better of such behaviour and you were loath to be pegged in with them.

“Evin,” He neared the liveried attendant who had shown you in, “I trust you know what is to be done.” Thranduil turned back to the six of you, “Please, make yourselves at home before you take up your assignment. I trust you will live happily here and be welcomed in kind.”

With an air of dismissal, he turned back up the steps of his throne and you shook your head at the others, nearly tripping over themselves as Evin motioned you back through the doors. You hated formalities, especially those paid towards the help, as they could hardly seem anything other than false. It was the king’s duty to welcome all who arrived in his kingdom but a messenger would have been less laughable than that curt affair.

The others seemed little affected by the king’s obvious nonchalance towards them; what was another servant among hundreds? You sighed as they whispered; oh, wasn’t he a handsome king? Lithe hands and trim figure. A king among kings. Much more attractive then Elrond. Did they not realize they would see as little of him as they did of their former master?

At the doors of the kitchen, two of the girls were ushered inside as an aproned elf instructed them in their new duties, though they had done similar work before. The next stop was the laundries, and resigned to the steam and humidity of those torturous corridors, you were relieved when two other servants were ordered to depart. You and one other remained, the thinnest of the bunch who had lost all giddiness.

“You,” Evin pointed to the slim blonde elf beside you, “You will be among the chambermaids,” He stopped at an intersect of corridors, gesturing to his left, “At the end of this corridor, you will find the head dame awaiting you with orders,” He bowed his head snootily and she hesitantly looked between you and the attendant before setting off down the hallway, “And you,” His eyes narrowed as they explored your appearance, “You look fit for a stablehand. They’re always in need of workers there.”

“Happily,” You accepted, sensing that this elf thought himself the noblest of commoners and unwant to show your annoyance, you veiled yourself in indfference, “I’ve always preferred the outdoors.”

“For now,” He allowed darkly, “Give it a week.” He turned, waving you forward with two fingers over his shoulder and you followed him with a tilt of his head. You had done worse work in more dire circumstances.

There were few occasions in which Thranduil was truly at peace. He had always enjoyed the grounds of Mirkwood, walking amongst the greenery and birch trees reminded him of his childhood. It had been long ago but the blossoms and leaves smelled just as they had then. He inhaled, closing his eyes as he paused behind a tall hedge, trimmed perfectly between rose gardens. Few others traversed the winding paths and maze-like shrubs, thus it was easy to forget the worries of his throne.

Among the chirping of bird, he heard another song, this one closer and sonourous; a voice carried lyrics as rich as its tones. Keeping his footfalls light and noiseless, Thranduil walked along the hedge, following the music until he edged around to the other side. A servant, dressed in the pale cornflower of Mirkwoodian servants, sang to the roses she pruned them caringly with small pair of clippers.

“The woods are burning, the ground lies bare. Do you feel it in the earth? Can you smell it in the air? The war is upon you, Death moves in the fading light. Are you part of this world? Will you join their fight?”

She sang and Thranduil recognized her, keeping his distance as he watched her without notice. Her hair was pulled back behind her head and the same eyes which had shown him so little regard focused on her toil with a passion. She was one of the servants who had arrived a fortnight before, the only who had not seemed dumbstruck by her new home. And king. He had noticed her disinterest and in a way, it had irked him.

Trimming away an errant stem, her fingers caressed the petal of a pale rose and she smiled, her song ending. She stood, dusting off her soiled hand on her dirt-smeared apron and turned, slipping the clippers into her pocket before stopping short. Her lips twitched but her surprise was well-handled and she gave a stiff and formal bow.

“Your majesty,” Her voice has lost all trace of its former spirit, “Is there some task you require of me?”

He looked her up and down, pondering her question, his mind tempted to bawdiness just to make her flinch, but he was sure even that would not vex her. It was a feature he treasured in his own person; a stoicism so fine-tuned that it seemed almost impenetrable. As king, it was necessary, but as a servant…he had never seen a commoner so indomitable. It stirred in him a peculiar twang, one which he could not place. One which intrigued him.

“Not at all, I was only admiring your song,” He replied after a drawn out pause and she merely nodded, looking around at the gardenscape, “You’re as skilled at singing as you are with those.”

Thranduil gestured to the clippers peeking out from her apron pocket and her fingers twiddled just slightly, enough for his encouragement.

“Thank you, your majesty,” She accepted blandly, “I fear I get carried away. The flowers…”

“They’re inspiring,” He finished with a smirk, “You are one of the Rivendell elves.”

“I am,” She answered without hesitation, “The gardens, they remind me of those in Rivendell.”

“I have visited Rivendell,” He glanced at the roses, “I daresay our flowers are enviable in comparison.”

“But you have no lilies,” She argued and the slant of her mouth, not quite a grin, set another spark within him, “If you would, your majesty,” She smoothed her skirts and issued another bow, “I still have work to be done.”

“As you will,” He allowed with a flutter of his fingers, “But, before you go, your name?”

“My name?” She wondered, for the first showing a trace of interest, “…Y/N.”

“Y/N,” He repeated, suppressing the smile his lips longed to form, “Lovely.”

He lowered his head politely and she gave him a brief look before disappearing beyond the hedge he had only just passed. He listened to her footsteps, intermingled with the metallic bite of the clippers as she stopped to touch up the hedges. At last, his lips curved in his delight and he tried to decipher the emotion. Such fervor was novel, dangerous even.

You finished another day, your shoulders sore from lifting bales of hay and reining in the horses run wild from the summer breeze. You wished every day could be pruning flowers and shrubs but it was not all bad. Listening to the whine of the others, the Rivendell six roomed together in the servants’ quarters, you could not help but be thankful. 

Lottie and Rena complained of the humidity of the laundries and Mina and Kia were bored with kitchen duties, as Netti loathed being a chambermaid. The smell of grass, pollen, and even manure was delectable compared to their grievances. Even the meagre potato soup and bread offered for dinner could not dampen your spirits. That was to be the duty of another. 

Evin, ever sneaky and snobbish in his demeanour, knocked at the door and Lottie answered, blanching at the elf on the other side. The six of you lined up quietly, as was expected during his spontaneous and rare visits. You counted the seconds until he would be gone but his words spoiled any respite that would be had with his absence.

“Y/N,” He looked along the line as if he did not know which name belonged to each of you, “You are to report tomorrow morning to the royal chambers.”

You glanced down the line from the corner of your eyes and resisted a grimace. You merely nodded and he took that as ascent, his grey eyes indifferent.

“Netti, you are to show Y/N the duties of a chamber maid,” The room was suddenly suffocating and its lack of space all the more apparent, “You,” He pointed to you as if disgusted by the mere gesture, “Are to serve the king from now on.”

You chewed the inside of your lip and looked to the other girls who peered at each other in confusion. You hid yours to the best of your ability but your change in duties was like a slap across the face. Evin left with a scoff and the others broke into their flighty chatter, asking you questions you would not answer even if you had been listening.

“I can’t believe you’re so lucky,” Lotty whined, sitting on the edge of the bed she shared with Rena as your hearing returned, “The king? You know, you’ll be getting special treatment. Besides, I’m sure it’s much preferable to the stables.”

“Yes, you do smell like a horse by the end of the day,” Rena added with a flutter of laughter, “Besides, a barn is no place for an elvish lady.”

“We’re servants not ladies,” You scowled at her; you spent more time in the gardens then you did the stables, “And it’s much better than any laundry. How is it down there?”

“You don’t have to be rude, Y/N,” Lottie chimed her defense of Rena, “We only meant…we’re awfully jealous is all.”

“Now that there’s a free spot in the stables, do you think they’d let me transfer?” Netti asked as she smoothed her skirts across her lap, “After I finish training you of course. I figure if they’d let you change at such short notice--”

“I didn’t ask to change,” You protested as you leaned against the cool wall, sideways across the thin mattress beside Netti, your bed mate, “I don’t want to. I’d rather any of you take it from me.”

“Truly?” Mina and Kia perked up from their bed, the former’s voice hopeful, “If you could put in a good word…”

“Oh, Mina, you are the last one among us deserving of that,” Rena shot back, a new argument beginning as the girls began to compete for the position you were to fill.

Perhaps you could put in a good word and one of the others could relieve you of the work. Netti was already a chambermaid and better qualified, but any would be more pleased than you at the prospect. You remained silent, ignoring their heated row, as you thought of a way to keep your stable duties, though dread underlined the hope brewing in your chest. The king did not seem the bartering type and you could face worse if you overstepped yourself.

Only tomorrow held the answer but first you would face a night of the unknown, tossing and turning as you awaited your fate.

*courtesy tag: @little-red-83

[beast-i-am]

Empty Halls

He went home for the first time in a long while no because he had to but because he felt compelled to. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Canada, Quebec, french. He didn’t miss the emptiness of the halls, the way his home echoed like a cave and the way he felt small inside it. Wampus house felt more like a home than the estate. He heard in the distance the sound of his dog’s feet clinking against the marble floor and felt suddenly quite depressed since his dog was avoiding him. 

The LeSauvage Manor was situated in the forest, the home was surrounded by gardens and promenades and a shifting hedge-maze. Roses grew everywhere, they looked wild and unkempt but they always looked so alive. The manor itself was built with a dark stone that shimmered very slightly in the right light. It had four floors and an east and west tower. Gargoyles dotted the roof, looking down on anyone who may enter with smirks and sneers. The front steps past the long driveway and the roundabout let up to enormous double doors coated in a blood red lacquer and golden inlay of wild boars. Directly inside was the foyer with it’s vaulted ceiling, exposing the halls of floors above, along those walkways stood more gargoyles which looked eerie in the darkness. Strait ahead was a large grand staircase, upon which Adam stood, looking up at a man who stood at the very top. His father’s oldest friend and greatest advisor, Emanuel Forte. 

Emanuel Forte had long, white hair which hung in loose curls on either side of his head and a long, wrinkled face, very different from the one that he had seen as a child but the coldness in his eyes was exactly the same. He was a composer who worked mostly in Paris, he was famous amongst those who could afford him and completely unknown amongst those who could not. It was as if he only existed for the rich like some sort of ghost. Adam hated him and at the same time wanted to impress him. It pissed him off. 

“Adam,” he said, walking down the steps towards him, his long black robes swirled around him. 

Adam glared, “who let you in here?” he demanded, in french “I want you gone.”

“Gone? Your father’s oldest friend and confident?” he said, placing a hand over his heart “When I’ve come to advise his son?”

“Advise me? In what, the art of a concert?” he said, “I don’t play music.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “in your career as a politician, a LeSauvage.”

“I’m not interested,” he said, brushing past him up the stairs, turning to the left, towards the west wing. His hands were balled into fists, his breathing uneven, he wanted to shout, to hurt him for intruding on his solitude. He thought of Anna’s face again and that feeling vanished. He turned again and looked at Forte, this time from the higher ground, “I would....meet with you in the future if you made arrangements with the family secretary. This is no longer my father’s home and the staff are no longer my father’s staff. They’re mine.”

Forte bowed his head and took a step back, “of course, I apologize,” he said, Adam thought he saw a smirk on the man’s face but he shrugged it off, perhaps he was imagining things. “I shall make an appointment with you then, after I see myself out.”

“Please do,” said Adam before he stalked off, up into the west wing and into his fathers, no, into his study. 

Passing down many halls, he finally came to the room, within it there was a desk, a fireplace and a couch with a few book shelves against the walls. Behind the desk was a wrought Iron window with a nice view of the garden, somewhat obscured by the warping of the glass. There had been a detail in his parents will that he wanted to double check concerning his inheritance. The document was in the very first drawer, right in sight. 

Adam’s inheritance was complicated, he had the inheritance from his mother and his father separately and due to being the eldest in the line, he also had the LeSauvage inheritance. With his inheritances came different conditions, his mother’s required him to finish his education, his father’s required him to pursue politics and the LeSauvage inheritance required him to maintain the glory of the LeSauvage family name. 

That was the part that confused him, the glory part. It had been left vague on the document, as it was an old one that passed generation to generation. It didn’t mention blood purity...but it seemed to imply it. Blood purity was never as important in the wizarding Americas as it was in Europe but it was still important and if he were to ever publicly be with Anna...there would be pushback. The two of them were nowhere near that yet, they weren’t even together. Frankly, since turning he had lost all interest in his inheritance, knowing he wouldn’t live to enjoy it...Anna changed that. He hadn’t realized it right away but he was starting to think about the future, what he wanted for the future. He didn’t want to die any longer and he wasn’t okay with dying yet, not until he could tell her his feelings. 

With his mind made up, he closed the desk drawer and made his way through the home, out the door and down the long walk to the gate, stopping by a rose bush, plucking a single thorny bloom from the leaves. He turned it over, admiring its beauty before he continued on his way back to the car he had taken and back to Adamsville...

[sagelyexalt]

meta: rooms in the castle

send me a topic to write a meta about my muse on

Ylisstol Castle is a very old castle that was renovated and updated two generations before Emmeryn. The walls of it, the bones of the castle itself, can be dated back hundreds of years in Ylisse’s history. But her grandparents, during a swell of prosperity and wealth for the country, decided to update the rooms and the interior designs. They covered cold stone floors with polished wood, installed columns and valances and plaster molding everywhere, making the once ancient and dull looking castle into a bright and modern palace. 

Ylisstol Castle has MANY rooms. The renovation not just updated the design and interior architecture of the castle, but it also redistributed the space. Where there used to be many stories of the castle with high ceilings and wide open rooms for spacious meetings, not the rooms on the upper floors are cut in half or thirds and redistributed to becomes private parlors, toilette rooms, bathing rooms, small guest chambers, and so forth. 

Of these rooms, the most notable by the public are on the first floor, the foyer, the throne room, and the grand ballroom. The foyer is the first room anyone sees upon entering the castle. It has a very high ceiling, lined with alabaster columns. The vaulted ceiling has a pale pink base and is decorated with intricate and stunning white carved inlays and a large central painting of mythological figures and saints of Ylisse’s history. The throne room is another very large room with very high, vaulted ceilings. It is lined with windows on both sides, which look out on some of the castle’s interior courtyards. The throne room is a long room with more columns and it leads to a low bearing dais that houses the Exalted throne, which is a very old wooden throne carved with a rendition of the dragon Naga along the back of it. The throne room is decorated with tapestries and hanging flags of Ylisse’s history. The grand ballroom is a circular room that is on the left side of the castle’s first floor. It is built along something of a hill, and so where it could have been made into a basement, the rooms were combined to become a glorious two-storied ballroom. One side of the ballroom is lined in glass doors and windows, which lead out to some of the castle’s grand gardens, including the hedge maze. The ballroom has a lacquered parquet floor along the circle of it, and it has two curved staircases along the backside which leads up to the rest of the first floor, and has a small balcony landing that looks out at the ballroom below. It is a very elegant means of an entry way for guests. There is also a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the molded ceiling, and there is a small area that rests underneath the viewing balcony for another small dais to be placed, where special cushioned chairs for the royal family are placed.

The other floors consist largely of meeting rooms, parlors, and special rooms for different uses. There is a conservatory full of the most beautiful instruments, a large library that takes up two floors joined together, a sun room that looks out over the water gardens, a private breakfast room for the royal family, quarters for magical practice and lessons. So on and so on.

The royal family themselves live on the third floor, with their own special sets of elaborate and grand chambers. There is a royal nursery, which is prepared specially for every new infant born into the exalted line. Then there are a series of quarters for each member of the family. At the current, with only three members, Chrom and Lissa live in their own chambers which consist of a central bedroom, a dressing room, a personal bathing room, and a greeting room/small parlor. Emmeryn, being the current Exalt, has more rooms in her chambers. Emmeryn has a large central bedroom, two dressing rooms, a private bathing room, three private parlors, an office, and an open greeting room that connects to her office. The other rooms on the third floor are not in use most of the time. They’re left on reserve for any more members of the exalted family that might come about, but since there are only three at the current, these spare chambers are used as guest rooms for very close friends and guests of the exalted family.

Outside, the castle has a myriad of gardens. There are the large, grand gardens like the hedge maze, the water gardens, and the public walking gardens. Then there are some smaller gardens, like Queen Karina’s Grove, and the Statue Garden. On the far end of Ylisstol Castles grounds, which lead away from the city, there are hills of wide lawns and grassy land that leads to a wooded, untamed area in the back.

Attached to the castle on the first floor, right side, there is a special and old stone temple to Naga, where all special services and private prayer takes place in the castle. 

Servants’ quarters are on the first floor and in the basement area which is built along the side of the hill on the left side of the castle. The kitchens are placed in the basement too.

And this is just an over view, tbh. I base the castle off of a renovated roccocco style architecture, so you better believe it gets REALLY INTRICATE. there are SO MANY ROOMS.

[lexicanium-faustus-blog]

The world was black. That was one of the few things that managed to take root in his mind through the itching, crawling cold that sank claws into his brain and scattered and drowned his thoughts in static. Slowly, they began to coalesce, but the static remained, the chill emanating from the metal rod that was resting lightly on the back of his neck. He could hear the breathing, feel the rod shifting with the heartbeat of the human holding it there, and even as he began to focus on those thoughts, they were gone, stifled by that infernal humming. And there was something missing.

That warm, comforting sensation that had nestled in the back of his mind, calming him, centering him, whispering words that stirred up and reined in the powers of the Warp. He should have turned himself in. But he had been trusted to stay true, to resist the enticing lure of Chaos. They’d trusted him! Trusted the control he had over his powers, trusted his loyalty and diligence and unwavering faith. He could stifle that small consciousness and turn its power to the service of the Imperium. And so he had let it sit and it had let him slowly sample the power it could offer, cowed and beaten though he thought it was.

Voices filtered through the fog, registering with difficulty in his dazed, drugged mind. One deep and familiar, the measured calm of a man who had complete control over his emotions and reactions and was suppressing both. The other was louder, seething. His words rang out clearer, betraying his bitter fury.

“… found this abomination in his hands…”

“… slaughtered innocents…”

“… taken into Inquisitorial custody…”

He’d failed. Narrow alleys and dark corners of the hive city they’d been sent to pacify. Hands not his own, fingers toying with, counting, recounting the beads of precious stones and bloodstained bones threaded on the chain wrapped around his armoured wrist. Not all daemons were bound in weapons.

Blood. So much blood, running in rivulets in the gutters, pooling on the damp pavement. It was so easy. The electrified blade sliced through mortal flesh like paper, the wickedly curved scythe making quick work of the small congregation. The flickering light of old lumen strips gleamed on bone as skulls shattered with but a thought, on the burnished metal of the aquila that hung around their leader’s neck.

And he stood among the carnage, a hulking demigod in crimson plate. Raging against his own mind, struggling to regain control of his limbs against the laughing whisper. And then, like smoke in the wind, it was gone. He stumbled, scythe clattering to the ground. Heavy boots on the rockcrete behind him, the clicking of safeties on a dozen lasguns. He turned.

The last thing he recalled was a crimson armoured fist crashing against the faceplate of his helmet.

Humming, buzzing static. Coarse fabric tight, constricting around his face, iron collar around his throat. The cold, creeping fingers of the psychic dampening field across his shoulders and down his spine.

“… should just kill him here and save you the trouble…”

The calm voice. Israfel. Sergeant. A wet sound, the acrid smell and bubbling hiss of acidic saliva as he spat on the ground. Contempt, disappointment, betrayal dripping from every word. His stomach knotted. Fear? No. He deserved death. Betraying brothers, betraying the innocents he was charged with protecting. Being tested in the crucible of battle, and being found wanting.

The cold barrel of a boltgun came to rest gently on his forehead. He could picture the weapon, Israfel’s personal sidearm, gleaming silver and blackened steel with fine marble inlays. Too fine a weapon for such a base execution.

And then the world turned upside down as the wall beside him exploded inwards.

Screaming. Roaring fire. Shouted orders over the vox. The shriek of another missile as it flew through the air, the rolling thunder as a section of the hab-block collapsed into a ball of flame. The soft, bubbling breaths that indicated serious damage to the chest cavity from somewhere directly behind him. And the blissful feeling as the static faded to a mere hint of white noise at the edges of his thoughts.

He was still hooded and bound, and the null field was still effective, even with his thoughts clear. But he was alone, the sergeant and what he assumed had been an Inquisitorial agent of some standing having found something far more important to attend than a helpless, psychically crippled traitor. He could feel the heat of the flames on his bare skin, could hear the rattle and detonation of bolter shells in a concentrated firefight, the noise amplified and scattered by the maze of corridors that made up this block. And then...

Heavy footfalls. Heavier, far heavier than standard issue power armour. Enough to make the rockcrete and steel frame of the room tremble with each step. The image flashed into his mind unbidden: tactical dreadnought armour, hulking and deadly. And it was drawing nearer. The cloying reek of old blood and decades of ingrained incense filled the room, overlaying the familiar scents of well-maintained armour, promethium and gunpowder.

The sheer presence of the monster in the doorway impressed itself on his sightless form. He shrank back as far as his chains would allow. The Warp always left its corrupted mark on the things it touched.

He would have gladly answered to his brothers, would have offered up his throat to their blades for his crime. Not for death, but for punishment. But to be strung up and bled like a pig for the amusement of these monsters, it made his blood run cold. His fingers flexed, dearly missing the familiar grip of bolt pistol or chainsword.

The razor edge of a clawed gauntlet trailed up the underside of his chin, parting the thick fabric blinding him with ease as a second claw curled up under the heavy collar, dragging him closer to his unseen foe. Its voice was a deep, menacing growl, inches from his face.

“Well, well. A witch. What an interesting gift…”

A gauntleted hand tore the ragged hood away from his face, and he came face to face with something out of a nightmare. Black, black eyes, a predator’s eyes, alight with sick amusement. Foul breath washed over him from a maw filled with teeth like needles, thick with the smell of rot, of flesh, and on top of all, the metallic tang of blood, far richer and more potent than any mortal blood. Again, the name sprang to mind. Israfel.

The echoes of the firefight had faded. Only the groans of the wounded, the screams of the unlucky, and sporadic single shots broke the silence. Executions.

The kneeling monster with his sergeant’s blood on its teeth straightened, forcing his back into a painful arc as it lifted him by the neck, claws still curled under the heavy collar. The chains binding his arms were bolted securely to the floor, manacles biting deep into his wrists. Metal twisted and groaned as the bolts and the rockcrete they were embedded in gave way under the pressure, and the tension abruptly slackened. Blood flowed sluggishly from his torn wrists to drip from his fingertips.

The hot scent of his own freshly spilled blood assailed his senses, sparking off base, human instincts of flight, of struggle and survival in the face of relentless danger. He kicked out, bare feet scraping against ceramite plating, tangling in chains and robes of flayed skin. The monster's claws curled around his collar, securing its grip, wicked smile never leaving its face as it let him flail helplessly for a moment before a wicked hypodermic needle slid out of the casing of its gauntlet with a sharp click, puncturing the soft flesh of his throat with little resistance and emptying its noxious contents directly into his bloodstream.

Hanging from its grip, his hold on consciousness wavered. His lips formed soundless, desperate prayers to an Emperor whose godhood he denied. And the towering monster in desecrated armour turned and left the cell, dragging the bleeding, limp body behind him.

The hab block was a smouldering ruin, thick, acrid smoke obscuring his hazy vision further. Smears of red and parchment white marked fallen brothers, half buried in debris. He could make out no features, no distinguishing marks. Maybe that was a blessing.

A spiderlike figure loomed out of the darkness, gleaming metal limbs probing delicately through the rubble. At the Lord’s approach, six glowing green eyes blinked and dimmed, and it bowed deferentially, slender mechadendrites folding away beneath the shrouding robe that hid its form. He was dropped unceremoniously in the dust at its feet.

“We won’t be lingering. Load the bodies into one of the trucks. And prepare this one for transport.”

As the looming figure stalked away, ground trembling beneath its boots, a whisper of a laugh, distant and mocking, echoed through his mind.