#Oakwood university

[negrolicity]

The Christmas Song

[zestysthoughts]

Jacob Collier - Box of Stars Pts. 1 & 2

[weltraum-vaquero]

Swan song

Professor Viktor x TA Reader

[PART 1]｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆[PART 2] ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[PART 3]

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[AO3 link] ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.

Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, who delights in being a bit of a dick, and becomes even more mean on bad pain days, and who is constantly insufferably rightfully smug, Smart & competent reader being reduced to a wolf with heart eyes going AWOOOGA when they lay eyes on Viktor.

Word count: 7.8k

Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.

Notes: 1. Shoutout to my beloved buddies for helping me with this fic, AND the banner. You guys know who you are. 2. I hope you enjoy this very self indulgent piece about my take on Viktor as a professor in a modern AU. Keep in mind that this work is entirely spoiler free. Although it will be posted over the upcoming three weeks as arcane season two drops, I had no information about any of the leaks whatsoever as I wrote this, and did my utmost to avoid them. This iteration of Viktor was written with his season one character traits as a base in mind. 3. The science Viktor and reader talk about in depth in this fic is entirely made up and definitely falls apart under scrutiny. Don’t look too hard. Yes, I made up an entire hextech based scientific field specifically so I could carnally have this old man.

You know exactly what to expect from someone like Professor Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda. 

You’ve done your homework on the man: interviewed colleagues who’d taken his lectures as undergrads (scary — but great at his job had been the general consensus), and checked his ratemyprofessor profile. Which, by the way, had been a terrific read. 

Dr Sidorov-Svoboda is a very polarizing man, it seems. Reviews were either raving about his cogency, or saying they’d drive to his lecture without wearing a seatbelt in the hopes that death would take them before Sidorov did. There seemed to be no in-between, other than one review calling him a total DILF and rating him five out of five for that alone.

You digress. All sources had gotten across more than enough for you to understand what you were going to face once you’d step into his office: brilliant, tenured, independent, a no-nonsense attitude, and with a spotless track record of turning down TAs. 

Which you’re here to change — the last part, that is.

It’s not exactly a guilt-free affair. Dr Heimerdinger — the dean himself — had personally reached out to you, and requested you try to convince Sidorov-Svoboda to accept you as his TA. Should you succeed, you would be offered a generous wage.

That, along with the fact that Sidorov’s name is going to pretty up your CV something fierce if you somehow land this job, is reason enough to make you at the very least give it a go.

With a fortifying breath, you rap your knuckles on the oakwood of his office door.

“Yes?” A heavy accent makes itself known on the y.

You wait to see if he’ll open — five seconds pass — he doesn’t. 

Rude.

You take that as your cue to push the door open yourself.

Nothing could have prepared you for the man whose cat-like eyes pierce you from above rectangular silver reading glasses. He hadn’t even bothered lifting his head from what he’d been reading through; and when he finally does grant you the gift of being looked at, wholly, it feels the same way as having a painting stare back at you. In the back of your mind, you swear you can hear the horns of an orchestra blaring into a crescendo.

His gaze pierces you, in a way that borders on literal. It’s undressing — less erotic, and more terrifying, as a consequence of nakedness, of being read. Professor Sidorov-Svoboda looks at you with a kind of disinterest that screams I have you figured out, and it’s punching your heart down into your stomach in a lovely, terrible way.

The lines of his face are lovingly crafted. Dark shadows under hollow cheeks, golden eyes under strong brows, there’s something intrinsically statuesque about his face. You’d expect to look at something akin to Sidorov-Svoboda in a museum, carved in marble, not in one of the dusty offices at your university.

He cocks his head, exposing a long, swan-like neck dotted with beauty marks, as he waits for you to regain your wits. Which you do, before any of this crosses the threshold between awkward and downright embarrassing.

“Hello, doctor,” you finally manage. “My name is (y/n) (l/n), theoretical arcanism department, phD student. I was… hoping we could discuss a position as your TA.”

He cocks a brow, thoroughly unimpressed, before he slides his glasses off his face. He even takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, deliberately slow in swallowing it, before he finally speaks.

“I believe you should already be familiar with the fact that I do not take assistants.” Sidorov leans forward in his chair a fraction, still poring over his book, and there is a marked pop in one of his joints that sounds nothing short of painful. He seems hardly bothered by it. 

“I am,” you reply. “Which is why I am here in the hopes of changing your mind.”

That finally makes him look at you properly again. It’s a delight. You wish you could savor it, instead of desperately trying to keep your wits about you.

“And why would you want to do that?”

The answer to that question has changed substantially since you’d first stepped foot into his office.

But you’re fortunately not stupid enough to tell him that.

“Your name is worth gold in the community, doctor. I would like it on my resume.”

He picks up his pen, squinting as he scribbles something in his book, before he hums with disinterest.

“Mm. I heard doctor Pididdly takes more kindly to flattery.” He brushes a grey strand of hair from his face, clicking his pen as he simply lets you stew in your own embarrassment and focuses on whatever he’s reading. When he speaks again, he does not award you the honor of feigning the smallest hint of interest. “And you can send doctor Heimerdinger my regards. Let him know I am still not looking for an assistant.”

He has you figured out, and it’s making you feel dumber than any advanced class has ever had the honor of doing.

“The dean? I haven’t spoken to him since—“

“Since last year, when you took his theoretical arcane force fields class? Or was it since he explicitly asked you to come to my office with this proposition?”

You’re not the only one who’s done their research on the other. Though it’s painfully clear that he was much more thorough in his pursuit.

“I’m… sorry.”

“For wasting both our time? You should be.” He does dignify you with one glance, and even sets his pen down, as he bids you goodbye.

—

You’re fortunately not a sore loser. The money and resume addition would have been nice, yes, but you suppose they still would not have made up for working with someone as sharp and cutting as Svoboda.

You’ll gladly take the loss. And you are.

He’s long gone from the front of your mind, though something about him — his gaze, his face, his voice — lingers and shrouds the back of your brain with a tempting distraction from your thesis.

The last thing you expect as you’re burning your retinas staring at the blue light of your laptop screen leafing through the countless open tabs on your laptop is a notification. It startles you out of your skin, the red dot next to the university portal app’s icon. 

Still, more curious than nervous about who could be messaging you at 11pm on a Saturday, you click.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svboda

Good evening. Please come see me in my office on Monday. I would like to discuss the arrangements of your future employment as my assistant. Let me know what time would work best for you, within the limitations of my office hours.

11:32

…What?

You wonder what swayed his mind in your ultimate favor after you’d embarrassed yourself quite so thoroughly this week. But you're not about to complain — you more than certainly need the money, and his name on your resume.

Whatever turned the odds in your favor, you’re ever-grateful. And as much as you hate to admit it, you do double-check the message to make sure it’s actually real.

Me

Thank you for this opportunity, professor. I’m looking forward to working as your assistant, as well as broadening my knowledge and skills. Would 1 PM work for you?

11:34

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svboda

Yes. That should be fine.

11:34

You think you should leave it at that. You know you should. But… you’re curious. You really hope this doesn’t cost you the job offer you’ve just received.

Me

May I ask what swayed your decision?

11:37

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svboda

You may not. Good night.

11:37

So much for that.

—

You knock, but this time you don’t wait after being greeted with a yes? from behind his imposing office door.

“Hello, Professor Sidorov-Svoboda.”

You’re greeted with the distinctive smell of chicken stock and vegetables wafting from his office as you step in — a sore reminder of the fact that you’ve yet to procure lunch. Whatever he’s been eating, it smells tremendous.

His thermos squeaks as he screws it shut and sets it on the corner of his desk, gesturing for you to have a seat.

“Hello.” The faux velvet seat creaks awkwardly below you. “Thank you for your punctuality. I won’t take up too much of your time — we’ll discuss any questions you might have in further detail, but, to, eh… save us time, I’ve compiled a list of your responsibilities, and some personal preferences regarding grading papers I expect you to take into consideration when you do so.”

As he explains, you take a moment to take in his office. You certainly hadn’t gotten to it last time.

It’s mainly tidy, save for his large desk, which is littered with papers, a sudoku magazine, a disposable coffee cup from the campus cafe (though the cup is tall, roughly fit for a latte, if you had to guess… hm) and his dark blue, slightly beat-up thermos. Upon closer inspection, there’s a sticker on the cap.

It’s a small thing, worn like the rest of it, but the colours are unmistakable. Baby blue, pink, white — five stripes. 

As a million questions and half a million answers start flashing through your head, the rustle of paper snaps you out of your thoughts. 

There’s something analytical and vaguely, barely amused about how he looks at you when he slides the list across the table to you.

Contrary to what you expect, it’s not long. His main demand is grading papers, which isn’t your preferred kind of labor, but labor you will chew through, no less. 

“I expect fairness when you grade,” he clarifies. “Contrary to what some students like to say, I grade papers with utmost integrity. I am not lenient, yes, but I am not absurd, either. You will find further guidelines on how to strike that, eh… balance yourself on the list I’ve made. And don’t hesitate to ask, should any uncertainties arise when you grade.”

“Fortunately, it’s applied arcanism,” you reply. “Not much room for… uncertainties, I’d expect.”

“You would be surprised.”

Viktor gives a knowing smile. Something about the placement of his mole right above the corner of his mouth, where his chapped, pale lips thin out, has your vision tunneling. You damn near startle when he starts talking again — good god, you need to get your act together.

“I will direct students’ questions to you, from now on. Should you not have an answer, you are welcome to contact me — but keep it to a minimum. Especially since applied arcanism is, as you seem to think, such an easy topic. As for lectures, you may attend, but it isn’t something I’ll be expecting from you. You teaching said lectures does not come into question. I have standards — high ones. If anyone is to take over, it will be someone whom I am certain is qualified for the job, not a phD student.”

“I am still prepared to,” you say. “Should the opportunity… present itself.”

“It most likely won’t.” With that, he straightens his back out in his seat, cracking the knuckle of his right thumb as he leans back in thought, going over his mental list. “Do you have any questions for me?” 

His little smirk is magnetic, crows feet near his eyes creasing ever so slightly deeper as the corners of his lips rise. One of his dark brows lifts gently in a display of smugness that leaves you braindead enough to nearly miss the entirety of his next sentence. “Other than the one from Saturday night?”

Oh, damn him. Damn him.

And, as a matter of fact, you have about ten more. But none of them are even close to appropriate to ask — not now, or ever.

“No,” you lie. It somehow feels like he can see right through it.

“Very well. Thank you for your time.”

You thank him too. You’re not sure what for — his sudden generosity to offer you this position, or simply for the fact that he looked so pretty while he talked.

—

You, by now, know what optional really means in academia. Above all else, it’s meant to be an abstract line that separates two distinct groups: those who put in the extra effort, and slackers.

You don’t want Sidorov-Svoboda to know you as the latter.

Which is why you get a hold of his lecture schedule from Heimerdinger on the very same Monday afternoon, and plan on attending every single one of them that doesn’t overlap with something else in your schedule. Until he either outright tells you to stop, or until your contract as his assistant ends.

Much to your surprise, most of his lectures, save for Wednesdays and one on Fridays, do fit into your schedule as well.

On Tuesday, you are thirty minutes early waiting outside his office door.

And, as much as it shouldn’t be, it is a little funny how he startles when he groggily wobbles out of his office, keys in hand, and a cane in the other.

It’s a gorgeously designed thing; so much so it has you (stupidly) guessing it’s strictly in use for aesthetics the moment you first see it. It’s made of sturdy wood, with a dark finish and golden details down the length of it. The wood on the handle has gone light and matte with use.

But judging by how he leans on it as he numbly turns to lock the door of his office behind himself while he greets you leads to a different conclusion. And the stagger in his stride as he approaches you only confirms that he does, in fact, need it.

“Good morning, doctor Si—“

He raises his free hand slowly, like it’s heavy with fatigue. It’s enough to shut you up.

“Viktor,” he says. “Please. Just call me Viktor, from now on.” He pauses, looking you up and down with a fatigued sort of near-jealousy, before he shakes his head. “Why… are you here at seven thirty in the morning?”

“I want to attend your lectures.”

He sighs.

“And you picked the one at this hour?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” You can’t quite tell if he’s displeased or if he’s just really tired.

“Rough morning?” You ask.

“Aren’t they all…” 

It certainly isn’t your intention to let it become a habit — you’re his assistant, not his secretary, but you’ve learned that sucking up does get you forward in academia more often than not, so you offer: “Would you like me to get you some coffee?”

“I am getting myself coffee.” He attempts to stifle a yawn, but does not succeed. “But I would like you to accompany me.”

Your heart flutters. You tell yourself it’s because you’re getting coffee with one of the fathers of applied arcanism.

—

“A french vanilla latte, please. Under the name “A french vanilla latte, please. Under the name Viktor.”

Before you get to mentally clap yourself on the back and imagine a round of applause for your keen eye, you have to focus on not making a fool of yourself when you say your own order. The professor thankfully takes mercy on you, and leaves to take a seat at one of the tables — though probably for his own sake, rather than to spare you any embarrassment.

You decide the polite thing would be to keep him company as you wait for your orders. Reluctantly, you approach the table he’s picked, and, after a moment’s hesitation, pull out a chair for yourself.

“Professor Heimerdinger spoke quite highly of you.” 

It startles you, the sound of his voice interrupting the lull of the clanking of dishes and hissing of steam and hum of the espresso machines.

“Oh. I appreciate that he did.” 

“Hm.” For how blasé he’d acted until this very moment, it seems like you’ve said something that’s piqued his interest utterly. He hunches forward a hint, entwining his long, bony fingers over the top of the cane between his thin thighs. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

Uh oh.

“I’m sorry if it seemed that way, really, it’s not that I’m not flattered, professor—“

“Viktor,” he interrupts. “And you needn’t be. I do not care for, ah… false humility.”

Oh?

“False humility?” You question. 

“A mark of someone either too self-conscious to accept a well deserved compliment, or desperate for one.” He pauses, looking for… something in your expression. You can’t tell if he finds it, but you know his gaze feels cold, like being prodded at with a nitrile glove. “I prefer working with people who are capable of appreciating their own effort. It’s good to know you are one of them.”

There’s warmth that seeps through the metaphorical glove, sterile as it is. It feels good to be acknowledged by the likes of him, who’d been so ruthless to figuratively knock your feet out from below you just days ago. He must have done his research on you, must have asked around, read around, figured out — just like you had done to him.

Curiosity eats at you.

“Well… what else do you know, pr— Viktor?”

His eyes rest on you like you’re a particularly tricky equation. One he knows will yield a pretty result. Being looked at by him is electric, like squeezing an unstabilized hexgem in your fist so the current courses through you, tingling. 

“Don’t get cocky.” He smiles, he actually smiles, and it frays the space-time continuum just how much it youthens him. Salt and pepper hair and crow’s feet and frown lines be damned; as you watch the tip of his snaggle canine poke out from beneath his top lip, it becomes evidently clear that you are standing face to face with the man who stole illegal equipment to prove a point, the man who worked with highly explosive material for years to birth the very foundation of his scientific domain. “It is most certainly a good look on you, but it won’t bring you too far. You can ask Doctor Talis, I believe he should have a doctorate in arrogance by now.”

Is he…?

“French vanilla latte for Viktor!”

—

Listening to him teach might as well count as hypnosis. 

When Viktor steps into the room, silence ensues gently, gradually. He’s not feared by any means, but he is respected. By the time he reaches the teacher’s desk and pulls out the chair from under it, the class has gone fully silent.

He sets it by the blackboard, then, slowly, bracing himself on both his cane and the backrest of it, takes a seat.

“Good morning.” He positions his cane between his thighs, clearing his throat with… perhaps almost a hint of awkwardness. “Alright. Before we begin today’s lecture, there has been a small change that everyone should be made aware of. This is my new assistant, (y/n) (l/n), and they will be joining us today. You will be addressing all questions you encounter outside of my lectures to them, from now on.”

Whispers spread across the amphitheater like wildfire.

“Now,” just like that, when his voice sounds out again, most of the chatter dies out, “today we’ll be discussing Holloran’s equation, and its applications in arcanistic techmaturgy.”

It’s magical, the command he has over the room. Viktor is a meager man, especially with the backdrop of such an imposing room. The high ceiling dwarfs him, and yet, there doesn’t seem to be a single atom in the room that doesn’t move the way he wants it to.

You’d known Viktor to be an eloquent man — you’d experienced it at your own detriment — but this beats your expectations. His explanations are enticing, he uses his words like breadcrumbs, leaves them tactfully, just enough to guide you to the conclusions he wants you to draw.

You’d never found so much satisfaction in simply listening. In spite of knowing full well the intricacies of what he is discussing, you let his voice envelop you, you follow him where he takes you.

“Now that we’ve established how Holloran’s equation exponentially heightens the energy output of Hexcrystals without disrupting the LHC — the laminal hexeon cascade — as I’m sure some of you may be wondering, how do the basic principles play into it? Any guesses?”

The class falls silent. You would give anything to be among the students right now, raising your hand to enounce the right answer. To have him looking at you like you’re bright.

You await with bated breath to see who in the crowd of focused frowns and scribbling pencils will dare speak first.

“Wouldn’t the caveat be that Talis’ fourth principle states that 30% of the energy output is converted into heat?” A young woman in the audience attempts. “Holloran’s equation operates based on the notion that the crystal is at a constant temperature.”

“Precisely. Very good,” Viktor praises. Excited, he turns to the blackboard. “Right here…” he underlines the equation, “is where Morichi’s constant comes into play…”

But you’ve long lost him.

The words twist in your head, turning into something sultry and intimate.

Precisely.

Very good.

Right here.

You find yourself staring at the groove of his pale neck, where it swoops into the line of his shoulder, hidden beneath the collar of a dress shirt and a brown wool vest.

You wonder what it’d smell like, to tuck your face in there. To have the pulse of his neck thrumming on your lips, to mouth at the mole on his jaw when he tilts his head for you, willing. 

You wonder how many more are below the collar of his shirt. Dotted line on a treasure map, to guide your touch, your kiss, your tongue. Use them where he needs them, use them where his skin begs you to. Use them until his tired spine bows, use them until tattered joins are oiled with pleasure—

What is wrong with you? 

—

Viktor disappears after his lecture. You hope he’d grace you with another conversation, another smile, something, but he is gone surprisingly fast. He bids you goodbye once his lecture is over, telling you he has matters to attend to, and that is that.

Overall, it’s an uneventful day otherwise. A few students end up messaging you, most with questions on what Viktor had taught that day. Others nitpicking what would and would not be a part of the upcoming midterm (whom you simply dryly referred to the syllabus). Two people, however, did message you to ask you how you’d landed the job.

You’d ignored them.

On Wednesday, you see none of him. You drop by his office after class, but there is no response to your knock, and the door is locked. He must have gone home.

On Thursday, you wait for him outside his office thirty minutes early for his 3PM lecture, but he doesn’t show. So you decide to go straight to the amphitheater, and do find him there.

He looks worn. No less graceful than the last time you’d seen him, but his cane has been ditched in the favor of a crutch that’s tucked under his arm. The creases in his checkered dress shirt and face seem deeper now, the pale indigo under his eyes is richer, darker.

He gives you nothing more than a curt greeting before class commences.

And yet, he never blunders. Never loses himself, his diction is as concise as the day you’d first met him, carrying himself with the grace of a swan as he talks and his chalk glides over the board. But his numbers slant, the loops on his letters are looser, the rows on the blackboard curve downwards to the right; just barely at first, but as the lecture advances, it becomes more obvious.

He cuts the class shorter by fifteen minutes. 

The students know better than to linger. Nobody comes to address any questions, and they leave the room surprisingly quick.

Once the amphitheater is empty enough that even the thump of his crutch reverberates on the wooden floor as he makes his way to the desk, you finally dare speak.

“Is… everything alright?” 

“Don’t start,” he cuts back, resting his crutch against the desk before bracing himself with both hands on the flat surface. He sighs, and does a futile attempt of relieving some of the tension in his spine by rolling his shoulders.

His joints crack, and you can see his sharp shoulder blades moving under his shirt, wings on a flightless bird.

And you’re not sure what to say.

“Sorry,” he finally adds, the harshness of his reply catching up to him. “Not… a good day.”

“Got off on the wrong side of the bed?” You attempt weakly, and, much to your utter surprise, he does actually smile.

“Mm. That might explain the past two decades or so.” He does finally look at you from below droopy eyelids, and though there’s not a doubt about him being tired still, there is more gentleness to it. As though woken out of a dream. He takes pity on the confused look on your face, and adds: “My bed is in a corner.”

Ah. 

“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything I can get you?”

“A new spine,” he jokes, hunching forward to crack his back, before he does his best to stand up straight once more. When he speaks again, his playful lilt is sorely missing. “Why are you here?”

“I want to attend your lectures — as many of them as I can, at least.”

Viktor shakes his head, mutters something both a little desperate and a little bitter in a foreign tongue. 

“You don’t need to do that. From now on, you can simply tell Cecil you were here. And I will confirm it, should he ask. But I do not need… a babysitter. I’m sure you have better things to do as well.”

What? Why would he think that?

“I…” you falter, “Heimerdinger didn’t put me up to this.”

He scoffs, not particularly at you, but it’s surprisingly hurtful nonetheless.

“I thought we had moved past the stage where you felt the need to lie.” He sighs. “I know he worries. There is nothing to worry about. In the unlikely event he does find out you haven’t been following me around as he asked, I will take full responsibility.”

That alone makes you worry. Had Heimerdinger neglected to tell you the full picture? What was there that warranted the dean himself worrying?

”I came to your lectures because I wanted to see you teach.” The last word is more of a lie than anything you’ve said thus far. “I admire your cogency. I want to absorb as much of it as I can.”

Viktor looks thoroughly unimpressed. “We also discussed how I feel about flattery, did we not?”

“It’s not flattery,” you argue. “I came here of my own volition because I think that there’s a lot I can learn from you, professor. Now, if you don’t want me here, you can simply give me the word, and I will act accordingly.”

He mulls it over for a long second while he shuts his leather briefcase. 

“Perhaps that would be best,” he finally decides. “For now, continue with your assigned duties. I will let you know if there is anything else I need from you.”

He practically scans you for a reaction, lays you out paper-thin on a glass slide, and slides you under his most potent microscope lens.

You don’t know if he finds what he’s looking for, because he doesn’t look long. He slings the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder, and turns toward the exit with renewed, but undoubtedly spiteful vigor.

“Have a good day.”

“You too, professor.”

—

“Oh, if it isn’t one of my favorite phD students!” 

The dean’s mustache curls almost comically with the over-the-top, but somehow still sincere smile he gives you.

“Hello, doctor Heimerdinger,” you greet, letting the smell of laquered wood and floors wash over you as you step into the pristine, impressive office. As opposed to Viktor's, the ceiling is higher, the windows bigger, and there are only sterile messes to be found in the room. A stack of books that is not as neat as the rest, a cactus that doesn’t look all too swell on the windowsill, and documents that are scattered over his workspace in a way that’s still neat.

“What can I do for you? I hope the first week of your collaboration with doctor Sidorov-Svoboda has gone smoothly.”

“That… is actually why I’m here.” You clear your throat awkwardly, and take a seat on the plush chair that faces his desk. Whatever it’s stuffed with, it’s comfortable, it has you sinking.

“I see. I know he can be… a tad, well, peppery at times,” Heimerdinger giggles at his own choice of words. “Give him some time. Once the two of you manage to find some common ground, I can assure you he is wonderful company, and an incredibly bright mind.”

“I don’t doubt any of those things.” You start kneading your hands in your lap, digging for the right words. God, social chess was never your forte. “I’m actually here because there has been a bit of a misunderstanding between the two of us that I was hoping you could clear up.”

“Oh.” His smile drops. “I’m listening.”

“You see, when… well, when I attended his lecture today — the second one I’ve attended — he seemed… very displeased with my presence.”

“Ah…” Heimerdinger falls silent for a long moment, gears turning in his bald head. “That… well,” he laughs awkwardly, “I’m afraid that might have been because he might wrongly assume I told you to do so.”

You nod curtly. “I know. He told me as much.”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding. I will try speaking to him, but—“

“Actually, doctor, that isn’t why I came to you,” you cut in, “he told me more than just that. He said you’d put me up to this because you were… worried about him.”

At that, the smile on Heimerdinger’s face is entirely gone.

“Naturally, that also got me… quite worried. I came to you because I wanted to know the full picture of this… arrangement I’ve gotten into.”

“I see,” Heimerdinger sinks in his seat, folding his hands in front of his blond mustache as he picks his words carefully. “Well, since you have been made aware of this fact, I suppose there is no harm in admitting that I do, in fact, worry about Viktor. Him and I have history, so to speak. I’ve known him for many years, and, though he has remained the same bold, ambitious young man within, I sometimes fear old age may be catching up to him. But! That is not something you need to concern yourself with. The sole purpose of hiring you was to create a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your resume will certainly benefit from his name, and as for him, I wanted to simply… lighten his workload. But that is all I expect of you.”

“I understand.” And you do, to some degree — but Heimerdinger’s whole speech has done nothing but raise more questions than provide any real answers.

“Would you still like me to speak to him on this matter?” He asks.

“No.” With renewed courage and curiosity, you rise from the comfortable chair. “Thank you, professor. For this, and for putting in a good word for me with professor Sidorov-Svoboda.”

“Of course,” he smiles — genuinely, this time. “Though it might sound quite absurd to you now, considering the current circumstances… the two of you are more alike than you may believe.”

You’re not sure what to make of that, either. So you just smile back.

—

On Friday night, as you’re poring over your thesis with a warm mug of tea as a panacea for your racing thoughts and lack of inspiration, you receive an email.

Apologies

From: v.sidorovsvoboda@uofp.edu

To: me

Good evening.

I wanted to formally apologize for what happened on Wednesday. Accusing you of something you hadn’t done was unjustified and unprofessional of me. You are always welcome to my lectures, should you still wish to attend. 

I was also hoping to speak to you in person on Monday. Would 1 PM still work for you? Let me know.

Thank you.

VSS

It comes as a surprise, to have someone in his position apologize so… willingly. You wonder if Heimerdinger had talked to him after all, and if so, what he might have said to turn the odds so terribly in your favor. Again.

You write a fast reply: you thank him too, above all else. You consider saying you hadn’t expected and apology, but you fear that might come off wrong, so you ultimately ditch that part.

And you tell him yes. 1 PM would work for you.

—

You attend his 10AM lecture on Monday, but this time, you don’t wait for him at his office. Though eager and enthusiastic, you fear your initial approach of waiting for him thirty minutes early might have been too stifling.

So you wait outside the lecture hall. He shows up ten minutes early, crutch under one arm, coffee in his other.

There is just a hint of foam on his upper lip, where grey-brown stubble shows. He licks the milk away before he even sees you, and you’re thankful for it — being caught staring at the pink of his smart tongue darting over the curve of his top lip considering the current circumstances would not have been a good look.

“Good morning,” he greets. Though he’s still using the crutch, he seems to be in an improved mood as opposed to the last time you saw him. “I must admit… I did not expect you here already.”

“If you’ll have me, I want to come,” you say. 

Something about that catches him off-guard, the swell of his Adam's apple bobs and his eyes widen just a hint. But he’s fast, always is, and he straightens up and clears his throat before you get to analyze him the way you wish you could.

“Ahem. Well. I’m happy to hear that.” He gestures to the door as if he’d almost forgotten he was holding a coffee, because it sloshes just a hint too loud. Fortunately, there are no victims to the small droplet that spills from the plastic cover. Viktor frowns, most likely with frustration at himself, before he turns to you. “Alright. After you.”

You step into the lecture hall first, per his request. The room begins to quiet when the students see you, but as you turn around to hold the door open to him, it gets worse.

You do not care for the curious, gossip-hungry glances that rest on you.

—

“I appreciate your openness regarding the discussion of this matter,” Viktor begins, shutting his office door behind himself. “Coffee?”

He dips his hand behind an old but trusty looking coffee machine that sits on the table next to the door. You hadn’t noticed it the first time you were here.

The hint of a frown as his fingers roam the space between the back of the machine and the wall is doing… something to you.

“Yes, please.”

“I must warn you,” his voice lilts again in that pleasant, playful way, like a cat twirling figure eights between one’s legs, “it is significantly less… fun than the ones at the cafe. I only have sugar.”

He finds the switch on its back, finally, and there’s a little pop as he flips it, before he retreats his hand.

“Works for me,” you assure. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Mainly, I wanted to eh… extend my apologies to you in person.” His glasses ride further up his nose as he pinches the bridge of it, rolling his shoulders, as if to draw courage. “And to put my… reaction into some context, should you be willing to hear it.”

You hope it’s not outwardly visible that your heart starts vibrating. 

He has been on your mind much more than you would like to admit, tangled in questions, in guesses. You unfortunately have the mark of a true scientist — nothing scratches an itch in your soul quite like having your questions answered.

“I would.”

Viktor retrieves a stack of single-use cardboard cups from one of his drawers, sliding out two, which he positions under the coffee machine. He presses the same button twice, then gestures to the chair that faces his desk.

“Have a seat.”

You do.

He lingers beside the coffee machine, resting the backs of his thighs against the edge of the table it’s on as he starts to think.

Just now, it strikes you that maybe social chess isn’t always his forte, either.

“People tend to… underestimate me,” he begins. The coffee machine whirrs, clicks, whirrs again — and then coffee starts to trickle. He tucks his free hand into the pocket of his slacks in what attempts to be dejection, but clearly isn’t. “And while that is an advantage in a competitive environment, it’s not something I appreciate coming from my colleagues.”

“I wasn’t…”

“I know that. Now.” He clears his throat, then, with a show of surprising dexterity, slides his hand from his pocket and grabs both cups with one hand — one tucked between his index and middle finger, the other tucked between his middle and ring finger. You reach out to offer your help, but he sets down both cups on his desk, then hobbles around it, and finally takes his rightful seat on the opposing side. “I unfortunately can’t say the same for Cecil. He does try, and more often than not, he is tactful about these matters, but there is the occasional… slip-up. I try to understand; him and I… have history, as he likes to say.”

You would love to know the exact implications of said history. From what you’d heard, there was the consensus that Viktor had been something of a protege to Heimerdinger, twenty or so years ago, before he’d made it big and co-created the field of applied arcanism. 

“I’ve taken up some new responsibilities lately,” Viktor adds, “and Cecil, though worried as ever, has… overstepped some boundaries of mine. You were caught in the crossfire of that, which is hardly fair to you. I’m sorry.”

“Was he the one who convinced you to hire me?”

Viktor shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Eeeh… partially.” 

“I think I understand your issue with his… overstepping. To some degree.” You take the cardboard cup, blowing the steam away, before you take a sip. “I would also have preferred to be hired by you because you wanted it, not because you'd been talked into it, but… well, I’m glad it ultimately still happened, I suppose.”

“Rest assured that the decision was still mine alone,” Viktor replies. Smart eyes watch you over the rim of the cup as he takes a sip himself.

Silence settles. A telltale sign you should get going — but you don’t want to.

“You mentioned some extra responsibilities,” you attempt. He’d shut down your curiosity before, but you’ll be damned if that’s going to deter you from trying again. “Within the university, or… personal?”

“Within the university.” Viktor sets the cup down, sharp joints jutting out as he intertwines his fingers around the circumference of it, hands resting on the table. There is a mole on his left ring finger, right under the knucklebone. “I have been trying my hand at independent research.”

You only notice the fact that you’d leaned in closer with interest when a tiny smug smile ghosts over his face. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that is just about all I should be telling you.”

Oh, come on.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

His brows raise with surprise, and for the very first time since you’d known him, Viktor seems genuinely stumped.

“Your… research,” you clarify. “And I could show you what I have for my thesis so far.”

“Oh. Alright, I will, eh… bite.” Taking his paper cup with him, Viktor leans back in his seat, and watches you like a cat watches birds. Not necessarily on the prowl — but with great interest. “Tell me.”

“Me first?”

“You suggested it,” he smirks. “It seems only fair, does it not?”

Uncertainty halts you. You have to wonder if Viktor Sidorov-Sviboda is the kind of man that would steal an idea.

You’ve heard he’d gotten the short end of the stick in his partnership with Jayce Talis — though he’d contributed greatly, his name was sorely amiss from all the terms, laws, anything Talis had coined in their domain.

He must know what it’s like to be cheated out of well-deserved credit.

You suppose he wouldn’t propagate the cycle — but in the off case he does, you have a handful of professors who could vouch for your idea being yours, on account of having vaguely, barely, helped with your thesis. None had been too keen on such a touchy subject as the one you were breaching, and were resistant to offering their opinion.

You hope Viktor won’t fall into that same category.

Part of you already knows he doesn’t.

“Alright.” Though you’re not exactly excited to have your own strategy used against you, you can only hope he’ll hold up his end of the bargain. “My thesis is on the hexionic model. Within and outside the context of a matrix.”

Viktor scoffs with amusement, rather than plain mockery. But there is a taste of it in there, somewhere, in the curve of his lip. “You theorists and your hexionic models. Any attempt at a new hypothesis is no less flawed than the last.”

And it’s thrilling. To be challenged, instead of praised, or dismissed. It makes something in you catch fire, every word itches behind your teeth, like you need to tell him.

“That’s exactly why I’m proposing an entirely different hexion model in my paper.“

His pupils widen so much his eyes go dark. Like a cat about to pounce. 

“Oh? Tell me.”

“If we accept that the very core of a hexion’s energy release is based on entropy, on the desire for disarray, and we apply that to a hexion’s very structure… I believe there’s something to be made of the whole mess we are currently facing.”

Viktor had been holding his breath. You notice, because it sounds just a tad sharper when he finally draws a reluctant inhale, and, gears in that mind of his turning fast, sharp, steady, he finds another way to refute your point. 

“Like Pididdly’s hexion model?”

“No,” you say. “Though I bet Pididdly will wish he could come up with what I have. Can I have a pen and some paper?”

You have him now. 

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Viktor tugs the drawer of his desk open so hard it thunks, digging for a scrap of paper and a pen. When you take it, holding the paper between the two of you, he leans in, too, enough for you to be able to smell his aftershave — the aquatic spice softened by flowery vanilla.

It’s intoxicating enough to have the storm of ideas in your mind going quiet, buzzing. You manage to untangle them before you make a fool of yourself.

“My model is proposing disordered order, so to speak. The hexion is split up into different parts as Torek suggested in his hypothesis. But I think she was too small minded in her approach. For my model, I use the concept of something I’m calling areals. Different areals for different component particles. I believe particles will never be in a fixed, certain place.” You draw the centrion — though hypothetically an ochtahemiocyahedron — as a sphere for simplicity’s sake, surrounded by three vaguely defined layers. Viktor rests both elbows on his desk, sharp chin on intertwined fingers, watching with a tilt of his head. Your mouth’s gone dry. “These areals are… spaces where, if you were to look, at any given moment, the likelihood of you finding a specific hexion particle in its assigned areal is high — but never 100%. They are constantly moving, oscillating, vibrating —  within their areal. Like I said: disordered order. And this theory also holds up in the context of matrices — for the most part. There are some kinks I need to iron out, but… this is the gist of it.”

At that, he lights up. 

“Extraordinary,” Viktor mutters. It’s music to your ears, rolls down your spine in a wave of dopamine, tingles all over. He taps his finger to the schematic  diagram, then stares into your eyes so thoroughly you wonder if he can see into the depths of your amygdala. There is maybe a palm’s length between your faces, a gap you itch to breach. He says the next thing like a solemn secret. “This could be beyond revolutionary.”

“Thank you.”

Viktor doesn’t miss a beat when he says: “I would like to help you with your thesis. Should you require it.” 

Now that knocks your knees out from under you. You’re lucky you’re sitting.

One of the founding fathers of applied arcanism wants to read your thesis? Wants to help you?

“I…” You can’t remember to breathe, your mouth’s gone thick and cottony and swallowing is a distant dream and he is looking right at you, young and hungry and alive underneath the barely composed shell of himself. “I’d be thrilled.”

He grins, the top of his lip a mere thin line over his teeth. 

“I already am,” he lilts. You watch the way his mouth moves — the curl of his tongue against the back of his teeth as he rolls his heavy, thick r, the plush purse of them on the m.

And when you remember to look into his eyes again, you catch him red handed.

He’d been staring at your lips, too.

Startled with the reality, the puzzle-piece-click of knowing, the both of you retreat into your seats. With a shaky hand, you pick your cup back up, and take a sip from your coffee. It’s gone lukewarm.

“I’d like to ask you to print it, if possible.” His voice is bridled again, steady, certain. Normal. He tugs on another drawer, and retrieves something shiny, metallic. A key. He lays it on the table, sliding it towards you. “You can use the printer in my office, if need be.”

“I can print what I have so far this evening, and leave it for you here. Would that work for you?”

”Yes.” 

You look at the clock on his wall — it’s entirely later than it should be. You have a lab you should be getting to. 

“Could you spare some time on your lunch break tomorrow?” Viktor asks, clearly having read your mind again, somehow. “I think I should have it read through by then.”

“Absolutely, but… you don’t even know how much there is to read through.”

He smiles. “If you write with the same enthusiasm you talk, rest assured I will tear through it.”

[calciumcryptid]

We Are the Series but Omegaverse Because I Have Opinions™

BEGINNING NOTES:

I haven't read the novel.

This follows my own personal interpretation of the omegaverse.

The characters don't have a scent kink, but the author sure does.

PHUMPEEM

Phum is an omega.

He smells like roses, vanilla, and musk.

Peem is an alpha.

He smells like sea salt, ambrette seeds, and sage (the sea shore).

Phum presented as an omega while he was in another country. Everyone thought he was an alpha like his two older brothers. This delayed his return to Thailand. When he returned home, he crammed his scent under scent blockers. On a typical day, he passes as a beta, and on a good day, he passes as an alpha.

By the start of the series, the only people outside his immediate family who know he is an omega are Toey (who sniffed him out), Beer (who Phum told), and Mick (who wasn't told, but made an educated guess).

By the end of the series, Phum stops using his scent blockers around the group. By graduation, he stops using scent blockers altogether.

As Phum's narrative foil, Peem has no problem with his scent. He was raised in a supportive family and a strong platonic pack.

This may come as a surprise, but their storyline doesn't change until the Volunteer Camp Arc.

Due to PhumPeem's odd mating dance, their biology was very confused about whether or not they were mates. To play it safe, their biology started to view the other as their mate.

Omegas are known for getting territorial (aka, power-boosted) when protecting their packs and mates.

This resulted in Phum nearly throwing hands with Kluen, barely circumvented by TanFang's interference. Fang took Phum aside to calm him down. When Peem heard, he started to freak out about letting his mate feel threatened. This was when their friends realized something more had been going on between them, and they encouraged them to talk it out before someone got hurt.

They are officially dating/courting by the end of camp.

Afterward, Phum takes permanent residence in Peem's lap.

They mated before they got married.

QTOEY

Q is an alpha.

He smells like cedarwood (pencils), oakwood moss, and amber.

Toey is an omega.

He smells like milk, coffee, and sugar (yes, a milk frappe)

Q has a weird relationship with his second gender.

He doesn't hate being an alpha, but people weirdly fixate on it to an uncomfortable extent. Many were displeased when he wanted to pursue art because they thought he should pursue something more alpha-like. Q hates it when he plays into textbook alpha behavior. His friends figured this out, and don't comment on it.

Q was a lone wolf in high school until Peem leaned over during an art elective to ask him a question. Q was (platonically) attracted to Peem's chill vibes, and the rest is history.

Asexual people don't have ruts/heats.

Aromantic people don't have scents.

Aromantic Asexual people don't have either.

However, demiromantic people gain a scent once they are romantically attracted to someone. Demisexual people gain a heat/rut cycle once they are sexually attracted to someone.

Before he started university, Q developed his scent. His friends noticed before he did, and everyone was confused.

Unfortunately, Toey got the worse end of the stick. He went into his first heat late into high school. His omega instincts kicked in and guided him to the nearest omega.

That was Phum.

This is why Toey knows Phum is an omega, and why Phum and Fang protected Toey.

In a twist of fate, scents save the day as QToey started to date earlier than canon because Q connected the scent on the post-it notes to Toey.

They were the first ones to have a pup.

TANFANG

Fang is an alpha.

He smells like amber, vanilla, and musk.

Tan is an alpha.

He smells like mandarin orange, mint, and mugwort.

Instead of punching each other, they got into a full-on brawl.

In high school, Tan was a textbook alpha who was overcompensating. When Pun said he felt unsafe around him he realized he was going off the deep end. The day he left that hangout was the day he saw Fang and Phum.

Fang knew about his affection for Tan; however, he valued his parents' love more. He believed if he entered a relationship with another alpha, he would be considered a failure.

Between high school and university, they both tried dating omegas. It didn't work. They were ruined for anyone else.

When canon rolled around, Fang realized his love for Phum outweighed any love he held for their parents (though he was in the process of letting go), but believed he missed his chance at happiness because he was a coward.

He nearly confessed first when he reunited with Tan.

He nearly cried when Tan confessed his feelings.

Fang keeps his relationship hidden from his parents. He plans for them to find out when their marriage is finalized and they've adopted their second child.

On a side note, I've decided Tan has a lesbian alpha/omega couple as his parents. One is an alpha lawyer, and the other is an omega mechanic. They love Fang dearly, and Fang gets his turn to cry over familial affection.

They're always bathed in each other's scent, to the point people meeting them for the first time get confused on whose scent is whose or what their scents actually are.

Fuck Head Alpha and Head Omega, this pack has two Head Alphas and people get very intimidated about this fact.

CHAINPUN

Chain is a beta.

He smells like mint (toothpaste).

Betas have weaker one-note scents.

Pun is an omega.

He smells like juniper berry, saffron, and seamoss (penguins).

The two had been courting/dating since high school without realizing it. This was a point of suffering for their pack.

Chain: I don't understand why people keep breaking up with me?

Pun, laying next to him in his nest which Chain helped him make: Yeah. I don't know why either. You are a catch. :D

Chain gifted Pun a penguin plushies he keeps in his nest.

Chain: Ah yes, me, my mate, and his six-foot penguin plushie.

They mated before they got married.

Apparently, exhibitionists. Good for them.

They are the second ones to have a pup.

MICKMATT

Mick is an alpha.

He smells like smoked cedar, oud embers, and vetiver.

Matt is a beta.

He smells like fruity cereal.

They met online before they met in-person.

Matt when he learns Toey studied art because of an alpha: That isn't very omega rights of you.

As previously mentioned, Mick guessed Phum was an omega.

Mick: Oh, are you worried about telling Peem you are an omega?

Phum and Beer: You know???

Mick: Yeah. :D

BONUS: BEER

Beer is an alpha.

Fortunately, he doesn't smell like beer (like piss).

He smells like grapefruit, lavender, and silver birch.

He needs a vacation.

[mikrokosmos]

The Gothic in Classical Music History (1760s-1920s)

Intro Back in high school I fell in love with two things; classical music, and Edgar Allan Poe. I’ve always loved Halloween, October, spooky things, ghost stories, horror and slasher movies, etc. And I always loved finding classical music that was also spooky, or dark, or evocative of the same eerie experience of a cold and foggy October day. Thinking about these memories made me want to put together a short list of Gothic Classical music.

But what do I mean? There is no true “Gothic music” as in a specific movement in classical history, because the traditional Gothic refers to literature. Not all art movements have corresponding trends in all mediums. Even so I thought it would be fun to say, if there was such a thing as Gothic music, what would that include?

18th Century

John Henry Fuseli - The Nightmare (1781)

Music of the 1760s-1790s, corresponding with the first wave of “Gothic Novels” in the English language. Some names in this era include Horace Walpole (The Castle of Otranto), Ann Radcliffe (The Mysteries of Udolpho, The Italian) and Charles Brockden Brown (Wieland). The closest we have to music of this same era would be in the Sturm und Drang style. Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) was used to describe music written in a minor key that was restless, agitated, intense, emotional, and more extreme than the typical expectations for restraint and lightness/clarity, music that aristocrats in powdered wigs and velvet and lace could relax with. Strong changes of emotion and more emphasis on subjectivity, reflected by sudden modulations and pulsing rhythms.

The most famous piece that I associate with Sturm und Drang is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s “little” g minor Symphony no.25, K.183 (1773). It is famously used in the opening of Miloš Forman’s Amadeus (1984). It is a fun piece, and that opening movement is full of fire, and probably the young Mozart having fun (he wrote it at 17. If you ever want to lower your self esteem, look up what music Mozart wrote at your current age.). Another major work would be Joseph Haydn’s “Farewell” Symphony no.45 (1772), written in the very unusual for the time key of f# minor. And of course, even though he comes later, anything Ludwig van Beethoven published in a minor key has a lot of muscular passion to it, and his early/classical era of the 1790s is no joke. Check out the final movements of his Piano Trio no.3 in c minor and his Piano Sonata no.1 in f minor, or his most famous early sonata, the Pathetique.

But if the Sturm und Drang style and Gothic genre also emphasize the disturbed and the psychological, we can include programmatic works that do the same. Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni (1788) has an incredible moment in the finale. The sociopathic hedonist is confronted by the ghost of the man he murdered in the first act, who possesses a statue and confronts Don Giovanni with his sins. Don Giovanni doesn’t repent, so he is dragged into hell with a chorus of demons. Always a good reminder that Mozart wasn’t the eternal child who wrote pretty melodies.

19th Century

Caspar David Friedrich - The Abbey in the Oakwood (1810)

Music of the early 19th century corresponds better with Gothic fiction because Romanticism in art brought greater interest in the supernatural, in the subjective, in emotional reactions to the universe… major names in fiction include the poetry of Lord Byron (Darkness), Mary Shelley (Frankenstein, The Last Man), and Sir Walter Scott (The Bride of Lammermoor). Greater emphasis is put on the anxiety of the unknown, supernatural fears beyond our control.

Of all Franz Schubert’s songs, Erlkönig (1815) best exemplifies the Gothic (and this is a bold claim because I only know about a fraction of Schubert’s extensive song output). In it, a father and son are riding on horseback. The son is sick with fever. As they ride, the son cries out that he can hear the Elf King calling out to him, some evil spirit or demon that wants to take the son’s life. The father tries to calm him down, but the Elf King gets closer and closer. By the time they reach home, the son has died. Was the Elf King real? Was the son hallucinating from fever? How literal should we take this text? The ambiguity of subjective experiences and how we interpret and understand reality is a major theme in Gothic fiction.

Many famous German operas lean into the supernatural and magical. In this period we get Carl Maria von Weber’s Der Freischütz (1821), considered to be the first Romantic opera. In it, our main character Max who needs to win a shooting contest so he can be allowed to marry his lover, Agathe. He is given a gun that can shoot magic bullets by another forrester Kaspar (who has his own plans). Kaspar tells Max to meet him in the “Wolf’s Glenn” in the woods at midnight for more magic bullets. In the Wolf’s Glenn, Kaspar calls for a spirit, the Black Huntsman Samiel, to help him curse the other characters, offering Max’s soul in exchange. Making deals with demons/the devil was another fascination in Romanticism.

Legends of a diabolical nature were springing around great musicians. At the end of the 1700s, Giuseppe Tartini wrote his most famous composition, the “Devil’s Trill” Violin Sonata in g minor which is full of virtuosic passages. Tartini claimed that the Devil appeared to him in a dream, and that he sold his soul in exchange for the Devil to be his servant. He handed the Devil his violin, and the Devil “…played with such great art and intelligence, as I had never even conceived in my boldest flights of fantasy. I felt enraptured, transported, enchanted: my breath failed me, and I awoke” Source

Similar stories came about with violinist Niccolò Paganini, who astonished the audiences of the early 19th century with his (for the time) otherworldly technique, dazzling them with scales and leaps and scratches the likes of which you can hear across his 24 Caprices for solo violin. A young Franz Liszt was at one of Paganini’s concerts and he was enthralled and inspired to become the “Paganini of the Piano”. He too would dazzle audiences with his percussive intensity, glittering arpeggios, and dreamy modulations to possess women with the spirits of hysteria and other dated misogynistic diseases. Cliche to say but before Bieber Fever, before Beatlemania, there was Lisztomania.

The sense of Faustian bargains comes through in the pieces Liszt wrote after Goethe’s Faust. The Faust Symphony (1857) includes a movement for Mephistopheles, the demon/ the Devil that bargains with Faust. The Mephistopheles movement has no original theme, but takes and corrupts the themes of Faust and his lover Gretchen into a mocking tone. Later on, Liszt was inspired to write a tone poem “The Dance in the Village Inn” or Mephisto Waltz no.1 (c.1862). He also wrote it for piano around the same time. The story has Mephistopheles taking Faust to a wedding in a village and playing the violin so madly, the partygoers are intoxicated by the music and go off dancing in the woods. Emotions taking over and making one act irrationally was another fascination in Gothic fiction.

Liszt would go on in his later years writing a few more Mephisto waltzes, with a lot of forward thinking harmonies and piano writing, unfortunately not as popular. Mephisto waltz no.2 (1881) has moments that make me think of Debussy, and the third (1883) has glittering and ethereal moments. But the best example of Liszt’s interest in the Gothic would be his earlier concert piece Totentanz (1949), or Dance of Death (Danse macabre). In it, the piano and orchestra play out variations on the Medieval chant Dies Irae, always reminding us of the inevitability of death. The variations depict skeletons dancing wildly all while the Mephistopheles at the piano unleashes his seductive tones.

The Dies Irae chant goes across our pop culture, with one famous iteration being a synthesized version of passages from Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique that Wendy Carlos wrote for Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) after Stephen King’s novel of the same name. And it was Berlioz’s symphony that enchanted audiences in 1830 with new, titanic sounds beyond what orchestra music had been before. In the story of the Symphonie fantastique, an artist has tried to overdose on opium after feeling rejected by unrequited love, but instead he has a vivid drug induced nightmare where he is sentenced to be beheaded via guillotine, which was still a traumatic living memory for the Parisian audience. He then sees himself among ghosts and monsters during a witches’ sabbath, the lovely woman’s beautiful theme is distorted into a grotesque mockery, the Dies Irae comes back among the cackling. It was a new degree of imagination expected from the audience. Later, Berlioz would depict demons in Pandæmonium (the Capital of Hell in Dante’s Inferno) at the end of his Damnation of Faust.

Through the mid to late 19th century we get authors of Gothic literature such as Edgar Allan Poe, Elizabeth Gaskell, Emily and Charlotte Brontë, Nathaniel Hawethorne, and Victor Hugo. We also get two more operas that have Gothic themes. First is Richard Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman (1843). In this opera, a ship on the North Sea collides with the Ghost Ship of the Flying Dutchman who is cursed to sail the seas forever, but is allowed to come ashore once every seven years and if he can find a wife, he will be freed. I’m sure you can guess how this opera ends. The overture is often played in concert for a condensed version of Wagnarian thunder and romance. The next important opera is Giuseppe Verdi’s Macbeth (1847), because Shakespeare was being revived and translated in different languages across Europe and Verdi loved his plays. In the opera, Macbeth comes across a chorus of witches that foretell his success and downfall. He is too ambitious and goaded by Lady Macbeth, plans to take the throne through deception and murder. Lady Macbeth is later haunted with phantom blood on her hands which only she can see. And Macbeth succumbs to his inevitable fate.

We also get two significantly “Gothic” pieces of orchestra music. They are both tone poems, which also reflects the concert goers’ tastes. The one that has always been a quintessential “Halloween classical” piece is Camille Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre (1875), opening at the stroke of midnight (softly evoked by the harp), a violin shrieks out the tritone (the “Devil’s interval” which the Romantics thought meant was cursed by the superstitious Medievals, really it was an idiom for “hard to use in music”) and introduces ballroom music along with the clacking bones of skeletons dancing in the graveyard (evoked by the xylophone). The skeletons dance through the night until the rooster crows at dawn.

The other great Halloween concert piece is Modest Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain (1867) which depicts another witches sabbath, this time on St. John’s Night, a major holiday in Slavic Eastern Orthodox culture. Walt Disney’s Fantasia (1940) would help bring this poem to life with an animated phantasmagoria of ghouls and skeletal horses and other demons flying around the mountainous demon Chernoberg.

[Here I want to give a quick shoutout to Cesar Franck’s Le Chasseur maudit (The Accursed Huntsman), a tone poem about a Count who doesn’t go to church one Sunday, and instead rides around to whip peasants for his own amusement, so demons drag him to hell. Not nearly as famous a concert piece as the others mentioned in this list but it has colorful orchestration so you should check it out.]

The initial idea for Fantasia was for Disney to repopularize Mickey Mouse by writing him into an animated version of Paul Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The original poem by Goethe was a classic that Paul Dukas set to music in 1897. In it, we hear the Sorcerer leave his Apprentice to clean the floors of his workshop. The Apprentice uses magic to bring a broom to life so it can do the chores for him. The Broom mindlessly pours buckets of water all over the floor, and the Apprentice isn’t good enough with magic to stop it. He chops it up into pieces with an ax, but they regenerate into several brooms which go back to marching water in. The Sorcerer returns to clean the mess and scolds his Apprentice. This charming tale has a darker and more diabolically fun tone in Dukas orchestra.

20th Century

Harry Clarke - Illustration for "Masque of the Red Death" (1919)

In the same exact year of Dukas’ tone poem, we get Bram Stoker’s Dracula. At this turn of the century other major names include Gaston Luroux (The Phantom of the Opera), Robert Lewis Stevenson (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), Henry James (The Turn of the Screw), Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray). At this time, there are a few more pieces that continue trying to evoke Gothic subject matter. One comes from Gustav Mahler’s Symphony no.7 (1905), sometimes dubbed “Song of the Night”. Two of the symphonies five movements are titled “Nachtmusik” (night music), the first is more in line with Gothic anxiety and spookiness than the second which is more like a serenade. But the most Gothic movement is the Scherzo which sits in the middle of the symphony and is like a Viennese ballroom full of dancing corpses and skeletons as waltz music decays with them.

A surprising example (at least, because of how relatively obscure it is) comes from Claude Debussy with parts of an opera based on Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher that he worked on between 1908-1917. Not too much a surprise on the one hand because French translations of Poe’s work became popular and influential. On the other hand Debussy is more known for evocative sound pictures, unique musical colors, and subtlety. Perhaps he was drawn to symbolist and psychosexual interpretations of The House of Usher, the same interests that preoccupied him with his only finished opera Pelleas et Melisande. Roger Orledge reconstructed the opera and tried to stay true to Debussy’s style, so what we do have is passable and as shadowy and vague as his other orchestral masterpieces.

Maybe the hardest work to recommend (but I do recommend regardless, give it a chance) is a Modernist song cycle for chamber ensemble. Arnold Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire (1910) uses freely chromatic atonality to give a demented color of psychosis experienced by Pierrot, personified version of a stock character for old Commedia dell Arte plays, a clown who over time became the “sad clown”. Maybe a precursor to the demon from Stephen King’s It, or the demented clowns and jesters that laugh at the madness of the cosmos across Thomas Ligotti’s short stories.

This was only meant to be a small overview of works that could fit my own view of the Gothic in music. There are more examples I could include, so as a hint toward today, I’ll end with a piece that was written about a century ago, yet sounds as if it could have been written today. Henry Cowell’s The Banshee (1925) is a short piano piece, so if you can, at least listen to this one. Instead of playing with the keys like you’re “supposed to”, Cowell asks the performer to drag their fingers along the wires directly. This creates disturbing reverberations and scratching sounds that tingle the back of your neck, that feel like the otherworldly cry of a Banshee.

Happy Halloween.

[mimi-0007]

Eva Beatrice Dykes (13 August 1893 – 29 October 1986) was a prominent educator and the third black American woman to be awarded a PhD.

Dykes was born in Washington, D.C., on August 13, 1893, the daughter of Martha Ann (née Howard) and James Stanley Dykes. She attended M Street High School (later renamed Dunbar High School). She graduated summa cum laude from Howard University with a B.A. in 1914. While attending Howard University, where several family members had studied, Eva was initiated into the Alpha chapter of Delta Sigma Theta. At the end of her last semester she was awarded Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority Incorporated's first official scholarship. After a short stint of teaching at Walden University in Nashville, Tennessee, Dykes attended Radcliffe College graduating magna cum laude with a second B.A. in 1917 and a M.A in 1918. While at Radcliffe she was elected to Phi Beta Kappa. In 1920 Dykes began teaching at Dunbar High School, and in 1921 she received a PhD from Radcliffe (now a part of Harvard University). Her dissertation was titled “Pope and His influence in America from 1715 to 1815”, and explored the attitudes of Alexander Pope towards slavery and his influence on American writers. Dykes was the first black American woman to complete the requirements for a doctoral degree, however, because Radcliffe College held its graduation ceremonies later in the spring, she was the third to graduate, behind Sadie Tanner Mossell Alexander (1921, University of Pennsylvania) and Georgiana R. Simpson (1921, University of Chicago).

After her graduation from Radcliffe in 1921, Dykes continued to teach at Dunbar High School until 1929 when she returned to Howard University as a member of the English Faculty. An excellent teacher, Dykes won a number of teaching awards during her 15 years of service at Howard University. Her publications include Readings from Negro Authors for Schools and Colleges co-authored with Lorenzo Dow Turner and Otelia Cromwell (1931) and The Negro in English Romantic Thought: Or a Study in Sympathy for the Oppressed (1942). In 1934 Dykes began writing a column in the Seventh-day Adventist periodical Message Magazine, this continued until 1984.

In 1920 Dykes joined the Seventh-day Adventist Church, and in 1944 she joined the faculty of the then small and unaccredited Seventh-day Adventist Oakwood College in Huntsville, Alabama, as the Chair of the English Department. She was the first staff member at Oakwood to hold a doctoral qualification and was instrumental in assisting the college to gain accreditation. Dykes retired in 1968 but returned to Oakwood to teach in 1970 and continued until 1975. In 1973 the Oakwood College library was named in her honor and in 1980 she was made a Professor Emerita. In 1975 the General Conference of the Seventh-day Adventist Church presented Dykes with a Citation of Excellence honouring her for an outstanding contribution to Seventh-day Adventist education. Dykes died in Huntsville on October 29, 1986, at the age of 93.

[fosteraudios]

Alex Monroe | Westbound & Inferno

Alex Monroe is a 29-year-old homicide detective for the LAPD.

Growing up the only child in a loving family, her life changed completely when she was 14. Her mother, struggling with her mental health, had a schizophrenic episode after picking Alex up from school. She tied Alex to a bed, and branded ‘DNR’ on her chest with a soldering gun. Her father moved Alex far away from her mother, to Los Angeles. A friend of his, a police detective, convinced Alex to study criminal justice, and join the police academy.

In her final year of the academy, her father told her that he’d been diagnosed with cancer. A few weeks before her graduation, he passed away. Alex spiraled, yet her mentor kept her motivated to join the LAPD and focus on the job. She became an absolute workaholic, living for the job 24/7 and losing herself doing it. She had nothing else to live for. After a few years, she moved up the ranks to the detective squad.

She became involved with a serial killer calling himself Monsoon. The precinct was out of their depth, so they get reinforced by the recently retired Detective Frank Arden. A man who spent his entire life in the grits of downtown Los Angeles. Frank and Alex got paired up. Alex didn't do well with partners, and was hesitant to trust him.

They raided a location together, that turned out to be a trap. Frank got shot at – Alex protected him and took a bullet. They hadn't known each other for more than a few weeks, but she'd saved his life. In return, Frank turned her into his protegée, and unretired to mentor her.

In the hospital, Alex met the trauma doctor who saved her life – Dr. Audrey Benjamin. The woman was glad Alex would make a full recovery, but confronted her about the DNR brand on her chest. Alex opened up about the events of that day for the first time in a while, and to a total stranger. Audrey offered to go get a drink after she'd recovered – and the two ended up in bed on their first date.

It began a new life for Alex. After spending years lone-wolfing through life with casual hookups, emotional detachment and an inferiority complex, she now had Audrey’s family, the Benjamins, welcoming her in as their own. A partner that had her back. And skills that didn't go unnoticed; the head of their vice squad called her up to ask whether she’d be interested in doing undercover work on the side. Busting drug dealers and gathering intel. Alex jumped at the opportunity to prove herself.

Alex is smart and abrasive, and willing to risk her own life for others. She's fiercely loyal to her girlfriend, but also knows she is damaged goods and tends to push people away if they get too close.

FICS:

Universal Donor - When Audrey gets abducted - Alex makes the ultimate sacrifice to save the love of her life.

Par for the Course - The body of a young, talented golfer is found on the course. Alex and Frank are on the case.

Oakwood Drive - Alex gets confronted with her past, and takes Audrey to her childhood home.

Innocent - Alex wakes up in the hospital after a night out. She can't remember anything. A fellow detective comes in and accuses her of trying to murder Audrey's sister.

[reasonsforhope]

"Two so-called “Celtic rainforests” in the UK are to be restored with a mixture of native planting and natural reforestation.

The hope is that they will provide rich habitats for dozens of species, improve groundwater quality and flood prevention, and allow residents and tourists to experience an exceptionally rare forest biome called temperate rainforest.

The most famous and largest temperate rainforests on Earth are found in the US states of Oregon and Washington, along Brazil’s Atlantic coast (known as the Atlantic Forest), and on New Zealand.

Pictured: Map of the global distribution of temperate rainforests. Source: Wikipedia

Britain, especially Wales, would have featured a certain amount of these Celtic rainforests in areas that experience high moisture content coming off the ocean, and low variations in annual temperatures.

One such place is Creg y Cowin on the Isle of Man, where 28 hectares (70 acres) of native Celtic rainforest will be planted by hand, and another 8 hectares (20 acres) left to regenerate naturally.

The Manx Wildlife Trust will be responsible for the project, and it anticipates “the return of oakwood dwellers such as wood warbler, pied flycatcher, and redstart, as well as raptors, owls, and woodland invertebrates.”

Historic agricultural dwellings called “tholtans” will be left on the landscape for their historical and cultural significance.

Elsewhere, in Gwynedd, North Wales, another 40 hectares (112 acres) of Celtic rainforest will be raised via a mixture of native planting and regeneration. The selected site is the peak and slopes of Bwlch Mawr, near the university town of Byrn Mawr.

“There’s real momentum now to restore and expand our amazing temperate rainforests, and it’s brilliant to see the Wildlife Trusts advancing their plans,” Guy Shrubsole, environmental campaigner and author of The Lost Rainforests of Britain, told the Guardian in the wake of the announcements."

-via Good News Network, 4/7/23

[rangerelizabeth]

I'm glad I get forever - Ch. 1/7

[Mature, Modern day, Clegan college au epilogue, Gale Cleven/ John Egan, Fluff, Domestic fluff, Hurt comfort]

A series of snapshots in which John and Gale navigate life together post-Oakwood University. Or, the college AU epilogue fic.

[AO3 LINK]

[negrolicity]

Jacob Collier - World O World (Official Score Video)

[the-bar-sinister]

B [Oh scents are great. Any faves?]

Our top three BPAL scents are:

Whip: (our partner's standard scent)

Agony and ecstasy: black leather and damp red rose.

Bow and Crown of Conquest: (🔪🔪's standard scent)

Nobility and haughtiness befitting the Antichrist: sage, carnation and cedar with lavender, vanilla, white musk and leather.

Miskatonic University: (Several of our shared standard scent)

The scent of Irish coffee, dusty tomes and polished oakwood halls.

[christian-oc-tournament]

Please vote based on the picture AND the description!

Ketsler [Keepers @meadow-roses]

Ketsler is an ancient and very friendly wizard from the planet of Dwemyre! He was the leader of his people for thousands of years, but now they are all gone and he's trying to fit in on Earth and continue his battle against his arch nemesis "Chaos" before he destroys the rest of the universe too. Despite all this he still finds time to make a lot of jokes.

Matthew Mark Luke Johnson [The Oakwood Chronicles @vellatra]

A young homeless wizard with his sister in tow

[krscblw]

Ministry Perfume Associations

I’m back yet again with more thoughts about Ghost and perfume! This time it’s fragrances from my own collection that remind me of various places in my headcanon of the Ministry. (Usually these lists are mostly made up of perfumes that I don’t actually have, but this time I can vouch for all of these! I didn’t include any that I thought weren’t good.)

For the sake of organization these are divided into places in the New Wing (the most recent addition to the Ministry), the Old Wing (the original Ministry buildings), and the grounds (gardens, forests, etc). And as always, if you have your own thoughts or want me to do more of this, please let me know! I would love to talk more about Ghost and perfume.

(also: so sorry for the weird formatting, idk how to fix it on mobile but it should be fine on desktop)

New Wing:

Library: old books, wood, dust, paper, ink

The library is part of the New Wing of the Ministry, although it’s not very new anymore. Built in the early 1900s, the New Wing is all soaring ceilings, stained glass windows, and intricate woodworking, done in the Art Nouveau style of the time. The library’s floor-to-ceiling shelves are full of books ranging from ancient esoteric tomes to modern fiction paperbacks, interspersed with desks and secluded reading nooks. The library also houses the Ministry’s private collection of artifacts - some occasionally used for ritual purposes, some purely academic in nature. The library is always very still, with the occasional susurrus of turning pages and quiet voices. It smells like polished wood, faint dust, and the leather and paper of old books. 

Library Ghost - Poesie 

marshmallows, books, ink, polished wood

Myself Invisible - Poesie 

stacked books, spilled ink, black tea, violets

Bibliotheca - Alkemia  

leather-bound books, vintage vinyl records, mahogany, fountain pen ink, black tea, plum brandy

Canoodling in the Library - Nui Cobalt  

old books, mahogany shelves, fallen leaves, ancient stone stairs, amber resin, warm skin musk, vetiver

Miskatonic University - Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab  

irish coffee, dusty tomes, polished oakwood halls

Personal Quarters: carved wood furniture, tea and coffee, soft bedding, books and clutter, spices, vanilla

The personal quarters are also in the New Wing, separated into human quarters and ghoul quarters (for everyone’s comfort and safety). The personal quarters tend to feel very cozy and lived-in, as they are the rooms most frequently used. The furniture is comfortable, often occupied by off-duty siblings or ghouls, and the arch windows overlooking the gardens and forest cast soft beams of light onto the wood floors in the afternoon. The siblings’ quarters tend to smell like the possessions of those who occupy them - books, scented candles, tea and coffee, and faint spices from the small kitchen. The ghouls’ quarters are similar, but with the scents of various elements - smoke, greenery, damp stone, fresh air, resin.

Mysterious Fossils - Poesie  

smoked black tea with creamy vanilla oat milk, a cashmere sweater, tortoiseshell glasses, a cedar chest containing fossils encased in amber, sandstone, and limestone

Whisper Your Bitter Things - Poesie  

pressed coffee beans, dried clove bud and cassia bark, jasmine, neroli, roasted vanilla pods

Grey Cat - Nui Cobalt  

smoked vanilla, marshmallows, fresh blueberries, lavender, earl grey tea

Kensington - Fantome  

earl grey tea, cashmere, vanilla bean, cedar, rose petals, mandarin zest, pink peppercorn, bergamot

Ouija - Possets  

cedar, rosewood, black vanilla, fat vanilla, rose, black silk, coriander

Our Days Bewitched - PULP Fragrance  

walnuts, brandy, roasted cocoa beans, copal, cardamom, labdanum, black vanilla, aged oak barrels

Old Wing:

Chapel: resinous incense, polished wood, wine, smoke

The chapel is part of the Old Wing. The exact dates of its construction could probably be found somewhere in the Ministry’s records, but the gothic architecture suggests it’s been there for at least 500 years. The cold grandeur of the exterior’s intricate stonework and vibrant stained glass windows is matched in the chapel. It is perpetually cold, made fully of elaborately carved stone, and colorful sunlight filters through the enormous stained glass windows onto the altar and the pews. The heavy, still air smells like residual incense smoke, snuffled candles, fragrant wood, and ritual wine.

Holy Terror - Arcana Wildcraft  

burning frankincense, sandalwood, myrrh, dusty beeswax candles

Anastasia the Patrician* - Deconstructing Eden

paper, ink, frankincense, myrrh, benzoin, copal, rose, juniper berries, wine

Leo* - Deconstructing Eden

frankincense, myrrh, benzoin, amber, liatrix, blood cedar, blond tobacco absolute, sweet spices, honey

Parlour - Fantome  

mahogany, rosewood, burning incense, vetiver

*i think these were discontinued? sorry

Crypt: cold damp stone, smoke, dust, ashes

The crypt is the only place in the Ministry that truly reflects its age. It feels like it has been standing, underground, inhabited only by the dead, for hundreds of years. It’s well-maintained, but perpetually freezing cold and slightly damp. The stone walls are minimally decorated, and the candles in their niches do very little to illuminate the cavernous space. The air is weighty, and all sound is muffled. The crypt smells like damp stone, cold air, sweet dust, and smoke.

Gargoyle - Nui Cobalt  

rain, lavender, cathedral incense, beeswax candles, ancient stone

Summoning/Ritual Chambers: cold stone, ritual incense, blood, wine, smoke

The ritual chambers are where summonings and rituals are performed. They are where every new ghoul comes into the world, and, more rarely, where they’re banished from it. The walls and floor are stone, and there are no windows. When in use, the chambers are lit by dozens of flickering candles, some in sconces, some piled onto tables, and years of melted wax have created puddles and formations on the walls and floor. The air is dense, thick with dust, herb smoke, ritual incense, and the scent of dried blood.

Baba Yaga - Fantome  

black and red musk, smoke, cracked bones, cardamom, wood, animal skins, mugwort

Conjure - Solstice Scents  

vanilla, amber, cedar, spices, cauldron smoke

Gothique - Alkemia  

frankincense, styrax benzoin, myrrh, cassia, spikenard, canella, liquidambar orientalis, labdanum, atlas cedar, vetiver

A City on Fire - Imaginary Authors  

cade oil, spikenard, cardamom, clearwood, dark berries, labdanum, a burnt match

Vassago - Fantome  

A silver dagger, red wine, blackberries, cloves, orange peel, blood, a black mirror

Grounds:

Gardens: dirt, greenery, sun, fruit, flowers

The Ministry sits on a huge expanse of land. Most of it is still wild and forested, but there is a good amount of it dedicated to gardens, both decorative and functional. 

Decorative Gardens:

The decorative gardens are lush and heavy with flowers and fresh greenery most of the year, tended to by the Earth ghouls. Some of them are small cloistered gardens, decorated with statues and fountains, and some are larger, intended for gatherings or wandering alone. The decorative gardens tend to smell like fragrant herbs and flowers - sweet jasmine and magnolia, heavy white lilies and heirloom roses. 

Basilica - Milano Fragranze 

thyme, rosemary, incense, milk, labdanum, cedarwood, cypriol oil

Fox in the Flowerbed - Imaginary Authors  

jasmine, tulips, frankincense, wildflower honey, pink peppercorns, silver thistle, alpine air

Isabella - Possets 

rose, light resin, white tea, honey, cream musk, spices

Olwyn - Fantome  

magnolia blossoms, white lilies, jasmine, gardenia, buttery vanilla, myrrh, benzoin, orange blossom

Silver Narcissus - Possets  

silver base, narcissus

Functional Gardens:

The functional gardens supply the flowers for decoration within the Ministry as well as the herbs and most of the produce for the kitchens. The gardens, orchards, and greenhouses are managed by the Earth ghouls, and yield so much produce that, despite the relatively small size of the gardens and the relatively large size of the Ministry, they still end up with extra. That surplus is sold at the local farmers’ market to unsuspecting humans who wonder in open amazement about the size and quality of this mysterious farm’s produce.

Sundrunk - Imaginary Authors  

neroli, rhubarb, honeysuckle, rose water, orange zest

Drider Crossing Guard - Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab  

dry, earthy fig, black pepper, nutmeg, black plum tea

Wilcox’s - Solstice Scents  

dry woods, fresh herbs, dried herbs, warm spices, sweet annie, sage, rosewood 

Lake: water, trees, evergreens, greenery, stone

The Ministry’s lake is very deep, cold, and still. It’s objectively beautiful, with its glassy blue-gray waters and lush vegetation, but something about it feels dangerous. The pebbled shores are visited only by the bravest siblings, and even then only on the hottest and most desperate of summer days. The water ghouls, on the other hand, love it (which is possibly why the siblings tend to stay away). It is located at the border between the new and old forests, and its mossy banks are surrounded by evergreens, ferns, and rushes. It smells green and a little salty.

Villa Diodati - Poesie  

wild rosemary, balsam pine, crystal clear lakewater, dry, dark vanilla

Every Storm a Serenade - Imaginary Authors  

danish spruce, eucalyptus, vetiver, calone, ambergris, baltic sea mist

The Forest: trees, dirt, damp air, greenery, wildflowers, fungi

New Forest:

The new forest is a nickname given to the shallow edges of the forest that are closest to the Ministry. The trees are widely spaced, and the ground is thickly carpeted with grasses and wildflowers. Sunlight filters easily through the sparse leaf canopy and illuminates the fallen logs and patches of moss that make popular spots for siblings and ghouls looking to unwind. The air is light, and the breeze carries with it the scent of fresh greenery, tree sap, and sweet flowers. 

Cape Heartache - Imaginary Authors  

douglas fir, pine resin, western hemlock, vanilla leaf, strawberry, old growth, mountain fog

Dendrophilia - Nui Cobalt  

moss-covered deadfall, birchwood and pine, lingering resins, sunlight through the leaves, a trace of woodsmoke, faint vetiver and cedar

Duende - Fantome  

oakmoss, cedar, fir, labdanum, benzoin, tree sap, wild violets, lilac

Solovey - Fantome 

black amber, violets, black currants, espresso, labdanum, black agarwood, tobacco

Old Forest:

If you go far enough into the new forest, you will eventually get to the old forest. The trees are bigger and closer together, the sunlight struggles to reach the ground, and there are more mushrooms than flowers. The air is damp and cool and smells like fungus, loam, and rotting leaves. The old forest is avoided by siblings both because of the unsettling watched feeling any human who enters feels and the unspoken knowledge that if you don’t come back out no one will go looking for you. 

Gaea - Alkemia  

forest loam, ferns, decaying leaves, lichen, wet stones

Dies Irae - Possets  

black musk, fog, bitter galbanum, hawthorn, rotting leaves, orris, smoky oude, frankincense, black amber

Feuillemort - Alkemia  

dying leaves, smoked autumnal spices, dried grasses and fungi, Tibetan incense, cedarwood, rum soaked agarwood, and borneol

Samhain - Haus of Gloi  

freshly turned earth, wet leaves, cold wind

if you made it this far 1) thank you lol and 2) i hope you enjoyed! if you have your own thoughts i would love to hear them!

[novapark]

Hi! this sounds strange but I've built a whole world using one of your own as a template! it's been a long time and i never got around to tell you that haha. I believe it started out as the university world and it's basically , it's my greatest project on Sims 3.

I'd like to share it you you and if that's ok i'd like to share it with everyone, just don't know yet how's the best way to go about that haha.

I think you're talking about my Oakwood Plains edit? Definitely share it however you feel most comfortable! The original is an edit of the EA university world, then I edited that so it just makes sense that someone else would edit it further right? That's how I see it anyway, hope you had fun with your worldbuilding!

[lboogie1906]

Oakwood University is a private Seventh-day Adventist HBCU in Huntsville. It is owned and operated by the Seventh-day Adventist Church. Oakwood was established on November 16, 1896.

Oakwood University is accredited by the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools and the Department of Education of the General Conference of Seventh-day Adventists to award associate, baccalaureate, and master’s degrees.

Oakwood University owns and operates the Christian radio station WJOU 90.1 FM, formerly WOCG.

Adventist Colleges Abroad is a program that allows Oakwood students to spend time studying at Adventist universities outside of the US while earning credit for the degree they are pursuing at Oakwood. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence #hbcu