#Regal Serve ware

[dredgesnails]

stardew valley au where joel and skizz are new residents to pelican town (hermit town?). joel just inherited a large farm from his late grandfather and skizz is moving in with his old friend after reconnecting with him and wanting a fresh start. and the townspeople are like, kinda weird.

bdubs is fine enough - he’s a sweet man with a fun personality and he’s the local builder, but it’s almost frightening how fast he constructs new buildings when joel needs them. pearl, their resident postmaster, is also pretty normal other than the fact that skizz never seems to be awake early enough to catch her delivering mail. scar is lovely but he’s never available when joel wants another chicken. the mayor, xisuma, is pleasant too, if a little eccentric at times, but he doesn’t really seem to do much in town.

for the most part, skizz is settling in well. he’s moved in with impulse, who runs the local blacksmith in town, and he gets along well with most of the local townspeople. he’s started spending his evenings at the local saloon listening to ren regale the patrons with fantastical tales while he and stress serve up food and drinks, and he finds himself growing close with cleo, the local sculptor. he even gets a new wardrobe from hypno free of charge, and sometimes helps cub out with his totally scientific studies and creations.

skizz also joins forces with beef (who helps to supply the local general store that xb and keralis run) in terrorising the local manager of the corporate chain grocery store that no one likes. doc is a terrible manager but would make a fun supervillain (according to joe hills, the bookseller who appears once in a blue moon but seems to know doc more than anyone in town).

joel, on the other hand, seems to only be interacting with the strangest residents in town. he discovers the adventurer’s guild after only a couple weeks. false promises to give him prizes if he can kill enough monsters, which is not something joel had expected to be doing when he pictured farm life, but here he is. he stumbles upon a travelling cart one day, and the man inside insists he’s a knight from a faraway land, that he risked his life to make it all the way here to sell his wares. it’s all stuff joel can get cheaper elsewhere.

he’s pretty sure the local doctor has no real medical training, but then he passes out while fighting monsters and he wakes up completely fine, so zedaph probably knows what he’s doing. maybe. when joel isn’t passing out he sometimes makes trips to the library-slash-museum, which is probably almost completely empty because mumbo, who begs joel for anything to display, looks like he’s never fought a duggie in his life. eventually mumbo gives joel a key to the sewers, which are way cooler than they have any right to be, and that’s where he finds jevin’s secret sewer shop. jevin lives in town. he just also has a shop hidden underground. joel has stopped asking questions by now.

and then there are the three who live by the beach. etho spends most of his time tinkering around the fishing hut or hovering around bdubs, but sometimes he drives the bus to the desert. only sometimes. there might be something under his mask. no one knows for sure. gem runs the fish shop most days and she claims she’s a sailor, but joel has never seen a single working boat around despite all the ocean. she can also hold her breath underwater for an uncannily long amount of time, like, scarily so, and will sometimes disappear for a few days and return with an abundance of treasures. joel has never seen her leave by boat. grian fishes a lot and runs the shop when gem can’t, and he sometimes talks as though the sea can speak to him. skizz has caught him staring into space for extended periods of time. one time he waded into the water and just stood there, head down, muttering to himself.

apparently there used to be a lighthouse but “it’s gone now”. gem says if they ask bdubs nicely enough maybe they can build another one, but she and grian are banned from build requests after the last incident with their pet snails (joel has never seen the snails, but scar complains about them enough to convince him they’re real).

there also might be some kind of wizard who lives in the creepy tower in the woods. skizz has heard he’s the one who helps maintain the power in the valley, and joel’s convinced he hallucinated seeing him once until he recieves a letter from the wizard himself, and visits him only to find that the strange fire-creature he saw that one time was, in fact, tango, who is human for the most part, he just sets himself on fire sometimes.

[comatosebunny09]

Inspired by @sserpente’s The Sunwalker’s Gift.

Imagine being a shopkeeper, selling heirlooms and antiques in a quaint mom-and-pop shop.

Business is incredibly slow. You find yourself flipping through the worn, deckled pages of a book, your chin cradled in your palm. There is nary a customer in sight. Not since that new, mainstream jewelry store popped up down the street.

You’re about to close up shop early to enjoy what’s left of the day—it’s lovely outside. Too pretty to be tucked between these browning walls. But the jangle of the store’s bell lures your attention to the door.

Finally.

You look up as you prepare to greet the store’s newest occupant. But you forget how to talk—forget how to breathe—rooted to the floor like a basilisk has petrified you.

He’s ethereal amid the sunbeams pouring into your tiny store. All wintry-skinned, thin, and tall, dark lenses perched on his sharp nose. Rounded cheeks, petal-pink lips, and foxlike features.

His hair is what entrances you. Swaying like snowflakes in the breeze, and you wonder if it’s as soft as the snow it resembles. Vaguely, you register it sifting through your fingers, smell it exuding the faintest hints of rosemary and firewood.

The stranger surveys your shop, one hand tucked in his pants pocket, the other holding onto an oversized coat. Even his stance is princely. Nothing captures his attention for too long as he peruses through your wares, feigning interest in your rickety things.

You suddenly feel insecure; small—he strikes a picturesque figure amid the dusty antiques lining your shelves. The store across the way would probably suit someone so devastatingly beautiful better.

Nevertheless, you remember how to speak. Square your shoulders, plastering on your most welcoming grin despite your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin.

After smoothing out the wrinkles of your attire, you offer the customer a warm, rehearsed “Welcome!”

He perks up at the sound of your voice. Lips twitch into a half smile, silver brows lifting slightly. Your heart hiccups at the sight.

The stranger saunters towards the counter, carrying with him the scent of bergamot and brushed sage. It’s a homely scent. Somehow nostalgic as he leans towards you, tilting his shades down to ingest you with eyes the color of smoldering coals.

“Good afternoon, love,” he drawls, his accent thick with regality. The purr of it causes your body to flood with warmth. It’s almost dizzying, the ground shifting beneath your feet.

You swallow, your throat thickening with your voice. “What brings you in today?”

“Actually.” He looks thoughtful, a long finger tapping his chin. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers like all the world’s secrets bare themselves to him. “Maybe you can help me with something.”

You watch with bated breath whilst the stranger retrieves something from his coat pocket. It catches in the sunlight. Glints a pretty ruby red as he places it on the display counter with a resounding clack.

“I’ve been trying to part ways with the damned thing for ages. Yet somehow, it always finds its way back to me.” His gaze is far off for the barest of seconds before he replaces it with a nonchalant shrug, waggling his hand dismissively. “It’s long since served its purpose. An antique, if you will. I wondered how much it would go for if it still holds any value.”

He speaks of it so contemptuously. As if it’s been a burden to carry all this time. But it’s beautiful in its simplicity. Tarnished gold, carved with intricate runes you can’t quite decipher. It houses a gorgeous crimson stone that seems to hum and swirl with energy—with power. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light or your nerves causing you to hallucinate.

You’re delicate as you hold it against the sun’s rays, further studying its design. In your peripheral, you capture the stranger’s eyes, regarding you with something you can’t quite place. Disdain? Curiosity? Fondness? Whatever it is, it unnerves you. Makes your mouth fill with sand as you clutch the ring in your palm, intending to scrutinize it some more in the back. It radiates against your flesh despite it being so frigid.

“I’ll have to take a more thorough look at it,” you conclude, masking your shakiness. You muster another smile. “Would you like some tea in the meantime? It may take a while to appraise it properly.”

“No thank you, darling,” replies the fair-skinned stranger, leaning against your counter in an easy slouch. His smirk is back, boasting what you mistake for a fang, peeking through the plushness of his lips. “Never had a taste for the stuff.”

“Coffee your thing?”

“Gods no.”

“Water?”

He waves you off with a quiet scoff, venturing away to prod and examine the other little trinkets in your shop.

“Take all the time you need, love. I’ve nothing but time to spare. And, by the looks of it, so do you.” He eyes you over his shoulder with mirth gracing his countenance. A flash of affection colors his gaze before he busies himself again.

You huff a laugh at his peculiar mannerisms, disappearing behind the curtain of the back room to fetch your jewelers loupe. All the while, your mind swims with wistfulness.

You can't help but feel like the handsome stranger who’d fatefully wandered into your shop is watching you, burrowing deep into your soul, even through the thick veil of your curtain.

masterlist

[fateandfragments-fanfiction]

A Game of Wit - Reader x Enver Gortash

Baldurs Gate 3

What begins as playful exchanges between Gortash and Reader quickly spirals into an intricate game of wits.

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In the depths of Baldur's Gate, there were many alliances forged in shadow and deceit, but few as peculiar as the one between [Name] and Gortash. It had started innocently enough—or at least, as innocent as two minds steeped in manipulation and wit could allow.

[Name] had been lingering in the city, half-heartedly nursing a temporary truce with Gortash. Despite her disdain for his ambition and the gilded tower he lorded over, she couldn’t deny the allure of poking at him. It was easy to rile him, far too easy to see that charming mask falter. Their sparring was addictive, and on a day she deemed particularly dull, she decided to start something new. A simple idea, harmless in theory. A prank.

The first was modest: swapping the wine in his goblet for vinegar. She hadn’t stayed to see his reaction, but her informant in the tower, a chatty maid with loose lips and a penchant for drama, regaled her with the tale of Gortash’s sour expression mid-toast. He hadn’t said a word apparently—just quietly endured it with that ever-present smirk of his. A dangerous smirk, as she’d later realize.

Days later, she returned to her apothecary cart to find it decorated with garish ribbons, the sort one would expect at a wealthy merchant’s ostentatious wedding. There was even a poorly scrawled sign that read, “Congratulations, Madam [Surname], on the Grand Opening of ‘Fungal Frolics’!” The crowd it drew was both irritating and embarrassing. But when she spied Gortash watching from the shadows, that smirk firmly in place, she vowed revenge.

Thus began the war.

The next prank involved a carefully concocted mixture of herbs and powders that caused harmless, though unsightly, blue stains to bloom on one’s skin. She ensured it found its way into his gloves, the dye only activating hours later under the warmth of his hands. By the time she passed him on a busy street, his fingertips were unmistakably azure.

“Striking color, Lord Gortash,” she quipped, walking by as if she hadn’t noticed the slight narrowing of his eyes.

But Gortash was not one to be bested, especially in games of subtlety. She awoke the next morning to find her supply of medicinal herbs replaced with gaudy flowers. It was a childish move, but the note attached—written in that flourish she detested—was what grated her most. “A healer with no herbs is like a merchant with no wares. Do enjoy the blossoms, [Name].”

She gritted her teeth and began plotting her retaliation.

The exchanges escalated over the weeks, each one more clever and infuriating than the last. Gortash turned her rain-collecting barrels into fountains of foam by some alchemical trickery. [Name] retaliated by sneaking a harmless but foul-smelling potion into the pipes of his tower baths, ensuring every wash left him reeking of sulfur.

Yet beneath the annoyance, something else began to grow—a thread of tension neither of them openly acknowledged. Their paths crossed more often, their words laced with double meanings, their gazes lingering longer than they should.

It was during one of these encounters that Gortash upped the stakes. He invited her to an elaborate banquet, sending a courier with a formal letter sealed with his crest. She nearly laughed at the absurdity of it but attended anyway, curiosity getting the better of her.

The dinner was elegant, far more so than she anticipated, but it was also a trap. The wine she was served turned her teeth a deep shade of purple. She realized it only after a passing servant subtly tried to avoid laughing. Gortash, seated across from her, raised his glass in a mock toast.

“To clever minds and sharper tongues,” he said, his voice smooth as silk.

“Oh, you’re going to regret this,” she replied, though her lips curved into a grudging smile.

That night, as she plotted her next move, she realized the humor had shifted. What started as a lighthearted rivalry had become an intricate dance. She could feel it in the way he looked at her, the way he angled his head when she spoke as if hanging onto her every word. And though she hated to admit it, she wasn’t immune to the effect either.

The culmination of their war came a week later, though neither could have predicted it. [Name], fed up with his arrogance, snuck into his quarters late one night. Her goal was to leave behind an enchanted object—a simple charm that would cause any mirror he gazed into to reflect him as a bedraggled, wild-haired version of himself.

But Gortash was waiting.

“Do you often break into men’s chambers uninvited, or am I a special case?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

[Name] froze, hand still clutching the charm. “I could ask the same. Do you always lay traps for unsuspecting women, or is this just for me?”

He pushed off the doorframe and approached, his steps measured. “Only for you, I’m afraid.”

There was a weight in the air, a shift neither could ignore. She tucked the charm into her belt and met his gaze, refusing to back down even as he stopped mere inches away.

“You’ve gone to great lengths to get my attention, [Name],” he murmured, his voice low.

“And you’ve been insufferably smug about it,” she shot back, though her voice lacked its usual venom.

His lips twitched into a smirk, but it softened quickly. “Tell me, is this war of ours truly about pranks? Or something else?”

The question hung between them, heavy and unspoken for far too long. [Name] wanted to laugh it off, to insult him, to do anything but admit the truth. Yet as his gaze held hers, she felt her defenses cracking.

“I suppose that depends,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended. “What do you think it’s about?”

Gortash reached out, his hand brushing the side of her face. It was a simple gesture, yet it sent a shiver down her spine. “I think,” he said, his tone laced with uncharacteristic sincerity, “we’ve been avoiding the answer for quite some time.”

For once, she had no clever retort. Instead, she let the silence speak, the distance between them narrowing until it disappeared altogether. And as their prank war dissolved into something far more dangerous and intoxicating.

[Name] couldn’t help but think she had won after all.

~Fin~

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One more BG3 fic left in the queue--won't be the last, but the end of this streak, promise!

[noidawale01]

Palika Bazar Delhi ( History, Timings & Shopping )

Palika Bazar Delhi Overview

Palika Bazar, Delhi is a bustling underground market known for its lively atmosphere and bargain deals. Here, shoppers find themselves in narrow lanes filled with vendors eager to sell their wares at prices much lower than one might expect. From clothing mimicking famous brands—with playful twists on names—to a plethora of accessories awaiting discovery, this bazaar offers something for everyone. Despite every item boasting big discounts, price tags are hard to come by; haggling over cost becomes part of the shopping adventure. Visitors plunge into an experience where vibrant commerce meets spirited negotiation under Palika's roof.

Palika Bazar Delhi History

Palika Bazar, once the heart of Delhi's shopping scene in the 1980s and a forex hub, has seen its popularity wane despite remaining busy. With an estimated 15,000 visitors daily, this pioneering air-conditioned market offered relief from Delhi's intense heat. It provided vital services for travelers needing more money abroad due to foreign exchange restrictions at the time. However, over years palika bazar, delhi has faced decline but was rejuvenated by NDMC efforts around the Commonwealth Games period into its current clean and modern form.  Also Read: Sarojini Nagar Market,  Delhi ( History, Timings & Shopping )

Palika Bazar Delhi Timings

Palika Bazar, Delhi welcomes visitors nearly every day. Yet, it shuts on Sunday and Monday for a break. So plan your visit from Tuesday to Saturday. Here is the updated information of timings including Sunday and Monday, with their respective closed status: DayOpening TimeClosing TimeSundayClosedClosedMondayClosedClosedTuesday10:30 am8:00 pmWednesday10:30 am8:00 pmThursday10:30 am8:00 pmFriday10:30 am8:00 pmSaturday10:30 am8:00 pm

Best Time To Visit:  Palika Bazar Delhi

Palika Bazar, Delhi opens its doors at 10:30 in the morning. It stays open till late, around 8 at night. This gives shoppers plenty of time to explore and shop through the ample variety of items on display within this bustling underground market located in Connaught Place aka CP right at Delhi's heart. Remember, bargaining is key here; come ready to negotiate prices with the vendors who are known for high starting rates but can be reasoned with for better deals.

Things to Buy in Palika Bazar Delhi 

Palika Bazar is like a dream come true for people who love a good deal. You can find almost anything here at prices that are hard to beat. For the females, there are lovely blazers, shirts, and accessories.  - Ladies' Suits - Belts - Watches - Ladies accessories include shoes, sandals, and jootis. - Coats and jackets - Perfumes - Mobile and Electronics - Handbags Suitcase

Gates Of Palika Bazar Delhi 

Let's get to know Connaught Place's gates better. They're here to make it easy for us to find our way and get where we need to go. Knowing which gates have ramps, are closed, or lead to key areas helps all visitors. It ensures that they've a smoother, easier time. Gate No.Description1Main gate. Faces Connaught Place Central Park, with F Block on the right and Palika Underground Parking on the left. Staircase entry.2Faces Palika Underground Parking. Handicap ramp entry.3Not in use. Faces Palika Underground Parking. Closed to the public.4Spiral staircase entry with two doors, one not in use. Door in use faces Parliament Street, Regal Building, and Jeevan Bharti building.5Spiral staircase entry with two doors. One door faces Janpath, N Block, and Jeevan Bharti building, the other faces towards Palika Underground Parking.6Staircase entry. Faces N Block and F Block.7Handicap ramp entry. Faces F Block.

How To Get To Palika Bazar, Delhi?

By Metro:  Nearest Metro Station: Rajiv Chowk Line: Yellow Line and Blue Line Exit: Use Exit Gate 6, which leads directly to Palika Bazar. By Bus: Bus Stop: Rajiv Chowk or Palika Kendra Bus Routes: Multiple DTC buses serve this area, including routes 711, 73, 610, and others. By Car: Parking: Palika Underground Parking is available near the market. Landmarks: Drive towards Connaught Place Central Park and look for parking signs.

Conclusion

At Palika Bazar, discover Delhi's colorful culture. It's conveniently accessible by subway, bus, or vehicle and offers a diverse selection of low-cost apparel and items. Although it can be crowded, exploring its underground market is worthwhile. Palika Bazar opens from 10:30 AM to 8:00 PM from Tuesday To Saturday. If you are living in India it is a must visit place once in your life, such is the charm of the Palika Bazar Delhi. FAQs Q1) What Are The Timings Of Palika bazar, Delhi?Ans) Palika Bazar opens from 10:30 AM to 8:00 PM from Tuesday To Saturday. Q2) How To Reach Palika Bazar, Delhi?Ans) You can reach Palika Bazar by metro, bus, car, auto-rickshaw, or cycle-rickshaw. Nearest metro station is Rajiv Chowk and you can use Exit Gate No. 6 which will take you directly to Palika Bazar.Q3) What Can We Buy At Palika Bazar, Delhi?Ans) Well, You can buy almost anything but Palika Bazar is Famous for clothing, electronics, Cd's and Stolen Goods. Read the full article

[gentyalapreeti]

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Apart from its luxurious residences, the project features an amazing range of facilities that horizon elevate the quality of life to a remarkable degree. This detailed review of the project's features highlights the many aspects that make Codename Elevate the best option for people looking to live an opulent and satisfying existence.

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Codename Elevate Thane offers an array of luxurious features and finishes, such as vitrified tile flooring and high-speed elevators. The fittings include top-tier Jaquar and Cera sanitary ware, with walls adorned in premium paints from Snowcem and Asian Paints. Electrical installations feature Havells and Anchor switches along with ISI-certified cables. The main entrance is equipped with a fire-rated door, and additional flush-laminate doors enhance the interiors. The kitchen is designed with a black granite platform, a 4-foot dado, and a stainless steel sink.

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The project features advanced security measures, such as video door phones and strategically positioned CCTV cameras throughout the enclave. These measures ensure a safe and secure environment for all residents, complementing the serene and welcoming atmosphere of the community. Codename Elevate is designed to provide a true sense of home for everyone.

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[stxrmnight]

Dark Knight I

This post became not just a gpose retread but FrayNemi development pretty much, so it will all be under the cut. Covers 30-50 quests.

Trying to collect gossip on the higher structures of Ishgard, Nemi heard a man mock a victim of trial by combat. Curious and angered in equal measure, Nemi trailed to where the body had been discarded. She beheld the armor and the sorry state of their wound. What was the rationality of giving a body you feared proper sepulture?

But then a voice rang in her mind and everything went dark, and... The body off the grave held her, gently. She could not believe that her presence returned a soul from the grave, but a girl's scream set that aside to save a victim of corrupt knights. The synergy as she fought and learned made fighting more, fun? And intimidating the Knights gave her satisfaction.

Back in the Brume, she understood what Fray had spent their life standing against and the unfairness of their trial. But now, that brush of injustice could not suppresss their mission. They compelled her to train further in this path, but Nemi felt she would have no time with how things were moving in House Fortemps. But she would consider the option.

After rescuing Raubahn, Ilberd's worse and the attitudes in Ishgard made her walk back to Fray's presence, asking them to run her through the training before the preparations onto Dravania are ready. Their eyes seemed to smile as they led her back to Thanalan, slaying Peistes and other greater threats to Little Ala Mhigo. Though she was heartened to see Gundobald again, his comparison of her mood to Wilred took her by surprise. How could she not seek more strength with the travels ahead of her?

The darkness coalescing around Fray did make her hesitate to commune, but she pressed on and dwelled on the words while looking together at the night sky...

They rested that night in a spare room, and set off to Eastern Thanalan. Engaging in more pursuits, Nemi questioned if Fray was not looking out for something in particular in her, and challenged Fray to swordfight this time against something worse. Fray took on the challenge gladly, flashing angles that pulled Nemi further into oggling their form and their armour. She gently asked if they could share a meal in Ul'dah after this, but then Isembald interrupted with summons to rescue a caravan that traversed guard less due to brass blade ineptitude.

Fray fought more viciously which frenzied her to cut one tempered man more deeply than expected and, feel her hair stained in red.

She froze self aware under the captives' eyes, but Fray steadied her shoulder and praised her precision even as their arms trembled. Something lightened in her heart as they stood by her side while the rescued looked afraid. Later in communion, she pondered why the voice spoke to feeling trapped, but her stomach interjected and compelled them to feast popotoes at the top of Camp Drybone. As the stars descended, she found herself regaling of her goldsmith talent and her humbler days before adventure. Why could she talk to Fray so freely?

Fray had teased some disclosure of their past with Nemi's progress in the Abyss, and their trip to Limsa was proof of that... Even while Fray nagged a flaw in her posture that made her pout.

They would talk of a loved they lost to a dangerous mission despite all the warnings, and their wish to protect the truly defenseless but not lose their life or anyone they loved to self-serving whims. They reached their hand to Nemi with this declaration, and she reached back. They resolved to train with more game when a trader demanded Nemi's services rather than go with the local authorities.

She reluctantly agreed to go and retrieve his wares from some band of Qiqirns, but she simmered in anger when Fray faltered at the end of the battle. They got ahead in yelling back at the Merchant who demanded pay for blood on the wares he could just clean off.

Taking them to the bay to commune, Nemi felt her heart race as she contemplated under the moonlight. Their words of seeking a new start far away didn't escape her. She said she couldn't commit now, but she was sure of one thing and hugged them tightly, kissing their crown. Fray looked up at her in awe, declaring she's seen the answer in their heart then. They brought her cheeks down to whisper she'd need only ask what else she desired, out of sight. Nemi had never run to an inn faster to reserve one room this time, and find truth of how intensely two bodies could burn together. Fading into blissful sleep, she wondered if Fray could not just join her instead? She could show them there were people at her side who cared deeply.

Next morning, they stumbled their way to a bath and breakfast. Fray said they had business to settle back in Ishgard, and that some last emotional attachments made need for them to commune there. Nemi received a linkshell call with Tataru's worries, and she asked if they could not meet at a greet point. Alas, Nemi would be pulled away in an urgency for aid against a mighty monster. Nemi saw no lack of tact with how earnestly the Ishgardian lancers thanked her, while Fray watched her be pulled away, again.

Nemi realized the time and called out in search of Fray, but what she would find would be bodies bleeding at Whitebrim. Seeing the truth of their being, Nemi staggered at the physical strike of her repressed pain and fear now crying out for her heart, demanding her for being oblivious to what truly happened to the human Fray's corpse, willing to go as far as to take her over to not lose her again. She almost fell to her own strengths and techniques now plain for her to see, but when she emerged victorious nonetheless, she stabbed her claymore on snow and rose her mirror's chin, thanking them for seeking her despite how much she's buried them. Fray understood her truth and her genuine want to aid the causes she cast her lot in.

With this middle ground, they were one again. Though, a shadow would always caress the corners of her mind and curl around her limbs in the loneliest nights. Their romance never died.

[upkarma3]

Make Your Kitchen Convenient With The Best Kitchen And Serveware

The kitchen in our house is a fascinating place. It is where along with mouth watering dishes, unforgettable memories binge with giggles and laughter. The aroma doesn’t leave you with any choice but to follow.

When you are in the kitchen , what draws our attention is the place near the burner where the real work happens. The aroma is so hypnotic that it’s a result of mixing of ingredients together. But there is something more crucial to this. They are the utensils we use to either cook or serve the food. The taste and flavour of the food depends on the type of pot used to serve and cook. This is where Upkarma plays a key role in venturing to this category of best kitchen and serveware in India.

We all have a dining table in our home where everybody sits together and have their meal. And the serveware is an important component of the dining table. We cannot have our lunch, breakfast and dinner without them. Each set of meal or beverage has a unique and dedicated apparatus. Mugs , pickles , milk pot, soup bowls , butter dish, serving bowl, chip dip serve, sugar pot, plates and bowls are list of those kitchenware which is uniquely designed catches many eyeballs. Upkarma, is the best place to go to be amazed by beautifully designed hand made ceramic kitchen and serveware collections in India. It truly keeps you up with the latest trends along and most importantly the hand made touch of our local artisans who have contributed to make the product so special.

These ceramic kitchen and serveware  is particularly made of ceramic and known as crockery.People have been using ceramic tableware for long time but using it as serveware is even a better option. This is because ceramic is healthiest material, non-porous and safe to use. We at Upkarma have a list of Kitchen and serveware in our best sold ceramic collections in India:-

Expresso handmade Mugs Organic Ceramic- Impress your guests with these cute little mugs that can go with any snack or serveware to complete your coffee serving.

Calla Spoon Rest- This single piece pack spoon rest is the best for your kitchen with the organic handmade touch.

Cobalt Cleaver handmade Ceramic Pickle Pot- The 2 jar set is beautifully hand painted in floral pattern and can act not just as pickle pot but for any dips or sauces.

Regal handmade Ceramic Milkpot-The beautiful hues of red and blue classic combination stands right to your tea time crockery array.

Jacobean handmade Ceramic Milk Pot- Blue Hue is love at first sight and coordinates with Jacobean Sugar Pot, Chip and Dip, Coffee Mug to make a perfect tea set.

Hand made Organic Ceramic Soup Bowl- This organic stone ware ceramic bowl is a all purpose serveware. If you are a maggie lover just hold it tight and enjoy your delicacy. The Offwhite and Orange color is the icebreaker and makes it look subtle and bright at the same time.

Regal handmade Ceramic Butter Dish with Lid- Serve and store butter in stylish way now with this two pieces base plate. This also serves an alternative purpose for serving chopped fruits, cakes or snacks.

Ozee Ceramic Serving Bowl with Lid- This set of three vibrant blue colour serving bowl has a natural interior and can be bought as  single pcs or as a set too.

Jacobean Chip and Dip Server-The beautiful leaf shaped serveware makes a style statement to your table with the detailed handmade design.

Regal Handmade Ceramic Sugar Pot- Make your tea time a personal moment with this stunning red and blue sugar pot that adds a classic touch to your tea-time crockery.

From ambience to atmosphere, from savouring your favourite to trying new cuisines , everything about dining outside sounds fancy and attractive. But what if the same experience can be bought to your home in an organic style. Upkarma, the best ceramic kitchen and serveware brand in India brings the most uniquely designed hand made antique kitchen and serveware to create your own kitchen experience. While you have a party or small family get together or your own me time with just a coffee mug in your hand, experience is what brings joy. Be it your food, decoration, music or plates, everything has to be on point and impressively put-together. Upkarma’s handcrafted , environment friendly products are perfect for all kind of aura. Choose from their best ceramic collections of kitchen and serveware , and make your table or cooking space more presentable.

To know more: https://upkarma.co.in/collections/kitchen-and-serveware

[mogulinterior4]

Rediscover Charm and Elegance with Vintage Furniture: Armoires and Sideboards

Vintage Furniture: A Timeless Appeal

Vintage furniture possesses a unique quality that transcends fleeting trends. Each piece carries a story, reflecting the craftsmanship and design sensibilities of its era. From the ornate carvings of Victorian armoires to the sleek lines of mid-century sideboards, these pieces evoke a sense of nostalgia while remaining relevant in contemporary settings.

Armoires: Regal Storage Solutions

The intricate detailing found in vintage armoires adds a touch of opulence to interiors. Elaborate scrollwork, floral motifs, and decorative hardware contribute to their timeless appeal. Moreover, the sturdy construction of these pieces ensures their longevity, making them valuable heirlooms to be cherished for generations.

Sideboards: Functional Elegance

Sideboards, also known as buffets or credenzas, blend form and function seamlessly. Traditionally used for serving food and displaying serving ware, these pieces have evolved into versatile storage solutions for various spaces. Whether utilized in dining rooms, kitchens, or as media consoles in living areas, vintage sideboards bring a sense of refinement to any setting.

The sleek lines and minimalist designs of mid-century sideboards offer a striking contrast to the ornate elegance of their Victorian counterparts. With ample storage compartments and often featuring sliding doors or drawers, these pieces cater to modern storage needs while adding a touch of retro flair to interiors.

Rediscover Vintage Elegance with Mogul Interior

For those seeking to incorporate vintage charm into their homes, Mogul Interior offers a curated collection of exquisite armoires and sideboards. From intricately carved wooden armoires to sleek mid-century sideboards, their selection showcases the diversity and timeless appeal of vintage furniture.

Explore Mogul Interior's collection and embark on a journey to rediscover the allure of vintage furniture:

Visit Mogul Interior

In a world where trends come and go, vintage furniture stands the test of time, continuing to captivate with its enduring elegance and allure. Whether adorning a cozy corner or commanding attention in a grand foyer, armoires and sideboards breathe life into spaces, serving as reminders of a bygone era while remaining timeless in their appeal.

Contact Us

ADDRESS

MOGUL INTERIOR 238 W MARVIN AVE, UNIT 102

LONGWOOD, FL 32750

Email : mogulinterior@aol.com

Phone : 239-603-7777

[gwendollin]

:: 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆 :: Featuring 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐳𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐲𝐨

♡. w//c. 2.6k

♡. t//w. [ Safe for work. ] Royal Court AU. Slight angst. Female Reader. Jester Sanzu. Queen Reader. Yandere Sanzu. Poisoning. Assassination.

♡. sy//ns. You are a Queen beloved by all of your people, reigning over your Kingdom with a gentle hand. When the dear King falls ill, you can only bring yourself to take refuge from your grief in your court jester, a dear friend and confidant; unbeknownst to you, he carries a dark secret.

♡. a//n. This idea has been plaguing me since my old blog. I've only recently gained the inspiration to write something down for it!

Your kingdom was glorious. It prospered around you, it's people well fed and poverty kept at a minimum. Farmers were happy to work their hours and earn their wages, while artisans and merchants came from faraway lands in an attempt to share their wares and craftsmanship with your civilians to make their living. You've reigned since you were barely a teenager, taking the throne at the young age of thirteen. You'd come from a neighboring land, wedded to your now husband in an attempt to gain political virtue and yet you'd grown to love your newfound home and husband with a sincerity that had at first startled you.

To those around and onlooking you were seen as a benevolent ruler, holding the utmost dignity and respect for your community while maintaining an untouchable sense of regal and poise. Mannerisms were always polite, contained, and well manicured to the point where little girls had revered you as an idol while men had lusted or proclaimed their trust in a way that left you both admired and utterly adored.

With great power comes great responsibility however, and you and your husband tended to navigate affairs together. While perhaps unorthodox to some, the two of you acted as a team and your husband regarded you as a personal confidant in political states and war measures. Not that your peaceful reign warranted any sort of wars to be concerned with, but you'd argued it best to be rather safe than sorry should the need for force arise. Likewise an army provided jobs and relief to the people, keeping their worries at bay while soldiers found their purpose serving your reign.

While the two of you acted together, you'd also a personal cabinet that discussed foreign affairs. In your case, there was a special one person that had grown to become a dear friend and proven to be cunningly wiser than his younger age suggested. This man was, much to no one's surprise and yet to some a baffling conundrum, your devoted court jester. Haruchiyo Sanzu had been his name, with hair as vibrant as his impish personality while piercing blue eyes saw more than he dared ever let on. You'd met him in your younger years, his foolish ways garnering him both laughter and flustered hysterics from those around him. Nonetheless, he left lasting impressions on those he met, his words strung throughout with metaphors and fables that you'd found to lead to deeper understandings when you'd come to him for advice on subjects.

Yes, he was dearly trusted. Trusted to make you laugh and for your guests to be left utterly speechless in awe by his theatrics when you'd choose to entertain. While your husband had found him grating at first, there was no denying the joy he'd brought to your face when he would spit something unusually crass or hyperbolic. Your husband had grown to become accustomed to Sanzu's peculiar ways, and over the years the jester had proven himself capable of being a trustworthy advisor. So he stayed, if nothing for you, and only for you alone.

For what seemed like an eternity, you lived in peace and harmony taking up days with your joker in the gardens, laughing in all of your memories as he had pulled from his sleeves a fully fleshed bouquet comprised of marigolds, daisies, and tulips. Their colors would splash together in oranges, yellows, and whites in your recollection while their scent had been so pleasant against your senses when you'd taken their stiff stems delicately into your hands. In every recount you were smiling.

That was always your dear fool's goal; to see you smile. To watch you laugh, dance, and sing to the instruments he would play in your grand ballroom. Yes, you were beautiful to all, but especially to Haruchiyo. Haruchiyo, who'd grown to adore you in all of your seemingly perfect imperfections that you dare never show to the world. There was an intimacy between you that could never be denied no matter how hard the two of you tried. While he'd seen you dressed in your fine gowns and with your hair pinned and contorted in a way that was lavishly unnatural, the man had also seen you dressed modestly in nothing but a floor nightgown with hair left tousled from a night's rest. Haruchiyo who'd witnessed your outbursts of frustration, sadness, glee, and irritation that never escaped the walls of the castle. It was he who'd been able to truly see the woman you were, rather than the Queen that ruled the kingdom with a sacrosanct demeanor.

However, all must good things must meet their end. Unfortunately, you were no exception to this rule of life, try as you might. It'd started as a simple cough in your King, which progressed to a throat that had grown terrible sore. He'd assured you it was nothing to worry about, and yet still you fretted over him. It wasn't until the nausea had begun to come into play did he start to grow concerned, and only after did his skin turn a sickly sheen of ash did he take to his bedside and call for the finest doctor throughout the continent to come to his aide. Yet there was nothing that could be done for now while you waited, and from your place beside him as he lay feeble, you wondered if perhaps you'd lose him.

Haruchiyo had remained in the room with you when you would come to remain by your husband's side. A hand would place itself along your shoulder, and as your husband lay asleep, you would crumple into your jester's side and weep.

"Am I going to lose him?" you'd whispered into the garish fabric of Haruchiyo's clothing. A weight had formed within your heart, the sensation so strong that it threatened to tear a hole through your chest from the sheer magnitude it possessed. It ached and throbbed, the pulses of sadness so palpable and tangible you'd felt them along your hands in rippling shocks. The sheer thought alone made you want to wail and scream, but you swallowed the urge, used to having to bottle away the unsightly emotions from years and years of practice.

Haruchiyo stared down to you sympathetically. The hand on your shoulder moved to gingerly touch the crown of your head, hands stroking along in an attempt to soothe. It worked, slightly, the touch warm and inviting. You'd nestled closer, wanting to bury yourself into the man, to hide away.

"No," he said comfortingly, the single word holding such a tender tone that it pulled at your heart. Not once had you seen him so kind, so somber, so serious. Normally he held that maniacal grin on his face, crystalline irises bright and vivacious. When you'd peeked up to look at him, you were shocked by how hollow they seemed. Empty. Lacking that brightness that would glimmer under the sun in your gardens. Thin lips moved, voice following suite; "You will not lose him. The doctor will arrive in a fortnight and cure him, if only he fights that long; he shall. To leave you behind would be a personal sin he could never redeem."

Your stare lowered. Tears budded at the corners of your eyes before they were blinked away, the droplets sinking down the slopes of your face before pooling to drip from your chin. Your lips quivered as you spoke, but you maintained an even voice; "I can't bear to lose him, Haruchiyo. I cannot. If I do, I don't know what I'll do with myself."

The pink haired man continued to stroke your head, fingers moving to your temples until finally tracing the outline of your face. Palm gently cupped your cheek. Thumb brushed delicately at one of your eyes, wiping the tears away.

"You are stronger than you think," he'd murmured softly. "Though it will not come to that. If it does, you know I'll always be here by your side."

A little smile twitched on your lips at the thought. "Do you promise?"

"I do."

The fortnight had come to pass and the doctor had been called. Blood was drained and medicinal plants were ground down into powders and pastes to be administered in the form of potions. At first, your husband's condition improved. A sheen of life returned to the color of his skin, bearing a semblance of newfound health. At one point, he'd even been able to clamber from his bed and go a day without vomiting. It was joyous, the emotion flooding you in a way you'd never experienced before, igniting your soul and biding your blood to run warm beneath your skin. Relief had washed along your body and released all of the tension you'd carried on your bones and undid the knots in your stomach. There was hope.

That was until it all seemed to fail. Once more your husband grew ill, unable to hold food or water down at dangerous levels. Advised by the doctor, many objects had been removed from the room on the pretense something could be making him ill. It was trial and error, urine sampled and observed in a flask before more potions were crafted in the hopes to save his life.

It was a mystery as to why his condition was failing so miserably. A mystery that ate at your heart, leaving it wrought with constricting pain day after day. The people would leave flowers by the doors of your castle, accompanied by bread and prized meats. You knew that they were just as worried as you were.

"Oh Haru," you'd wailed, the two of you accompanied together in your bed chamber. "I'm losing hope."

"You mustn't," he'd said, taking your hands into your own. Those blue eyes seemed pleading, glimmers of their light reflecting in the candlelight. "The King - he is strong. He will bear through this. For you."

You'd sniveled and choked on a sob. Long had passed since you'd first broken down before your jester, and it seemed you could only truly confide in him. Haruchiyo, your dear friend, who still to this day was the only man who could see the true you.

He'd drawn you in for a hug, arms warm and tight as they wrapped around your body. You practically collapsed into him, your own arms coming to clutch onto him. The warmth you felt upon his touch was invaluable, anchoring you from your raging tide of emotions that threatened to drag you into the undertow. Haruchiyo lightly placed his chin atop your head, eyes falling half lidded in thought.

“He needs his medicine,” you’d uttered through a hiccup. “The doctor is not here to administer it, and I’m afraid I can’t bear to see him right now. Haruchiyo, could I please burden you with the request to see him for me?”

The jester smiled to himself, giving a gentle pat to the small of your back. A squeeze had been given as confirmation of his acceptance, and you drew away from him with hands wiping the corners of your eyes to dry your ever flowing tears. Haruchiyo offered an exuberant bow to you, one that earned a smile, before he assured you. "Of course, my lady."

As he'd made his way down the corridors of your castle, the jester's movements were filled with a lilt. Steps were a bounce and muscles seemed to spring him forward in a musical dance, a strange jovial air wafting and curling around his body. It was disconcerting the way that he moved, fingers trailing along the paintings of you and your dear husband as he past. From his lips a tune was whistled, until finally he'd rounded into the bed chamber.

Your husband lay still beneath the duvet covers, breathing shallow as chest rose and fell only slightly. Haruchiyo simply observed for a moment, watching the way the once strong man now appeared more feeble than a newborn deer. The jester took light steps in, his footfalls near silent as he'd rounded to the bed.

"Good evening, my King," he'd murmured softly, offering another grandeur bow that sank his torso low until body nearly folded in half. One arm had crossed along his chest with palm splaying over his heart while the other extended out to his side in a wide, theatrical display. Eyes cracked themselves open from the man he was addressing, the King staring up at the pink haired jester with a hardened look.

"It's you," he'd mumbled, the words rasped and low.

"It is I," Haurhchiyo practically purred. "I am here to administer your medicine. You see, [Y/N] couldn't bear to see you in this state, so the Queen asked for me to be your nurse this evening. Isn't that sweet?"

Eyes narrowed, but as much as his suspicions were risen high, the King could do and say nothing.

The joker crossed to the nearby table where there were slight clinks of bottles and the drip of liquid. Unbeknownst to the king there was a second bottle opened, the dropper being plucked delicately and a lethal dose of arsenic was administered into the concoction.

Although perhaps a shock to all, it would become of no shock to the King. Perhaps sensing his final day, he would no longer remain quiet as to his suspicions.

"Are you ready?" Haruchiyo murmured, holding the cup in hand with a gleeful smile.

The King's eyes fluttered shut. "Do as you must, Haruchiyo. But know you must live with these consequences."

The words struck him as odd. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know as I mean," was the quiet response back. "And may you live with this sin for the rest of your life."

Haruchiyo hummed. "Ah, so the King isn't as dull as the blade he bears. That is fine. No one will be able to save you come morning, no matter how hard they try."

"And what is it you want, Haruchiyo? What does this accomplish?"

The jester's head tilted. "Why, isn't it obvious?"

Eyes reopened to stare. A grin formed along the pink haired man's lips, the stretch so wide it'd nearly split his face in two. Haruchiyo leaned in a bit, words soft as he spoke; "I wish for your Queen, dear [Y/N.] She is what I want. She has all I have ever wanted. And with you out of the way, I will achieve that goal."

The King's eyes shut themselves again. A deep sigh had been drawn in, lifting his chest and wracking it with a cough before it'd settled into a restful peace. Words were weak; "She will never love you."

"You won't be around to see if that's true or not," Haruchiyo mumbled, as if in a taunt he'd rotated his wrist to juggle the liquid within the clear glass. "But I will never stop, my dear King. That we can both agree on."

Before the King had a chance to respond, the liquid was forced down his throat and jaw was kept still with an iron-like grip from the harlequin. As it slid down his esophagus, the only images that had come to his mind were of you.

When it'd all been drank, Haruchiyo stepped back, that wide grin still wide on his lips. There was a glimmer in those blue eyes, a sheen of light that reflected against the pale light of the flame from the candles within the room that were reminiscent of a predator's eyes shining. The King resigned himself to silence.

"I suppose this is checkmate, King," the jester murmured, giving another bow.

"You've lost."

[jackoshadows]

A fascinating and educational twitter thread about how Prohibition helped Botswana become one of the most stable countries in Africa. 

For decades since its independence in 1966, Botswana was an island of black sovereignty & stability between apartheid South Africa and white-supremacist Rhodesia. Some say it was the inspiration for #Wakanda in the movie #BlackPanther.  

In southern Africa as the world over, the Brits and European colonists ran the EXACT SAME PLAYBOOK of alco-colonization.

Read more at the link

Step 1: Introduce hard liquors--industrial distillates--to native populations with no experience with drinks of such mind-bending potency.  4/ Step 2: Clutch their pearls, and recoil in horror at the drunkenness and violence that predictably occurs within the native community and against white colonizers and liquor purveyors. In Africa, they called it the “black peril.”

Step 3: Cite that drunkenness as evidence of natives’ inability to be “civilized,” thus justifying white political domination over them. Africa, Asia, North America, even Ireland--everywhere it was the same pattern. See also: opium in China.

Hard liquor (whiskey, rum, gin, vodka, schnapps, etc.) was the perfect tool of exploitation. Highly potent. Concentrated. Easy to transport. Highly addictive. Didn’t spoil like fermented brews. Easy to make. Incredibly lucrative.

European colonizers would share liquor as a gesture of goodwill, and then once the alcoholic stupor set in, get tribal leaders to scrawl an “X” and sign-away their land, resources, and even people.  8/ More importantly, promoting widespread addiction to liquor made indigenous populations reliant on the colonists, just as junkies rely on drug dealers. Again, see also: opium in China, and two Opium Wars resisting it.  

What did natives have that colonists wanted? Ivory, food, furs, ivory, exotic ostrich feathers, rubber, ivory... the land and the minerals in it, and everything living on it. Also: ivory. And finally, the natives themselves were commodities: as labor or slaves.

If you’re a European trader & the locals trade ivory or furs for (say) your iron kettle, the entire village can use that for 20 years. Blankets might last 5 years before they need to trade with you again. There’s little demand for your wares. Or you. But if you can hook the community on booze that ONLY YOU supply, they’ll have to come back to you all. the. time. Now you’re indispensable. Addiction is self-renewing demand. Becoming the sole drug dealer to a community of addicts is ridiculously profitable. Need proof? Riddle me this: What was the first factory on the continent of Africa? Of course, Africa is rich in every resource imaginable: minerals, gems, ivory, rubber, oil, cocoa, fruit and timber that could be processed into goods.  

Here it is. In 1881, the Dutch Transvaal government granted a monopoly on distilled brandy to the Hatherley Distillery near Pretoria. The company was called “De Eerste Fabriken”--the First Factory. It wasn't first because the white settlers drank it. They largely didn’t.

Instead, with the discovery of gold & diamonds, white mine-owners needed black labor. They lured workers to the mines with promises of liquor, knowing if they had large booze debts to pay back, tribesmen would have to work longer, rather than returning to their village.  

(South African Breweries--today the world’s largest brewer--was founded soon thereafter to provide British-style beer to a white clientele, while the cheap liquor from Hatherley was reserved for indenturing black workers.)  

Consequently, every native leader worth his salt was a prohibitionist--defending his people against the “white man’s wicked water.” King Moshoeshoe in Lesotho. Chief Waterboer in Griqualand. Tembu headman Mankai Renga & hundreds more. In Africa as around the globe, temperance and prohibitionism became the banner for subaltern sovereignty against the white colonial junkiemaker.

Which brings us back to Botswana. Or Bechuanaland, as it was then known. It had long been ruled by tribal chiefs, led by Bamangwato King Khama III ("the Great"), who’d allied with the British against the Dutch Boers.

Three months after ascending the throne in 1873, he informed all white traders on his territory that trading liquor w/ his people was now prohibited. “If, when you give one another a drink, you turn around and give it to my people also, I shall regard you as blameworthy.”  Europeans scoffed & kept selling--until Khama expelled them all: “I am black and am chief of my own country. When you white men rule then you will do as you like. At present I rule, and I shall maintain my laws which you insult and despise.” Prohibition was sovereignty.   “There are 3 things which distress me—war, selling people, and drink,” Khama wrote the British in 1876, asking the Queen’s protection. “All these I shall find in the Boers.”

By 1884, Bechuanaland was British protectorate, respecting Khama’s prohibition.   Meanwhile the 1890s, Britain’s Cape Colony was dominated by the notorious Cecil Rhodes: founder of the De Beers diamond syndicate, quintessential imperialist and unapologetic white supremacist.

“I contend that we are the finest race in the world and that the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race,” Rhodes wrote. “Africa is still lying ready for us--it is our duty to take it.”   In 1889, Rhodes organized his mining interests into the chartered British South Africa Company (BSAC), which had its own government and army. In 1890, he also became Prime Minister of the Cape Colony.   In the First Matabele War (1893-94), 750 BSAC “police” with machine guns killed over 10,000 Matabele spearmen, bringing Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) under Company control. Khama’s Tswana tribesmen served on the side of the Company.

According to BSAC shareholder reports, one of the first items of business wherever the Company set-up control was to farm-out the liquor trade to white settlers. Profits are profits, regardless of prohibition promises.   Rhodes famously dreamed of building a trans-African railroad connecting Cape Town to Cairo... which meant taking Bechuanaland, even though Khama was regaled as a loyal British ally.

From 1892-95, the conniving Rhodes used every administrative trick possible to place Khama’s Bechuanaland Protectorate under the sovereignty of the Company, but was stymied either by Khama or the Colonial Office in London.   By 1895, Khama had enough. Together w/ fellow chiefs Bathoen and Sebele, he voyaged to London to petition Queen Victoria’s government to keep Bechuanaland out of Rhodes’ grasp.

“The two points on which the natives seem to be apprehensive,” the Imperial Secretary in Cape Town telegraphed London, “are the questions of land and liquor.”   The 3 kings arrived in September 1895, and were supposed to meet with Colonial Secretary Joseph Chamberlain. But he--like the rest of the Queen’s government--had left for their annual vacations until November.   “I have for years tried to abolish the use of strong liquors in my country, and prevent the importation of European drinks,” Khama told the London press, lamenting that his efforts “should be hampered by agitation in my country and outside it.”   While awaiting for an audience with Chamberlain or Queen Victoria, Khama, Sebele and Bathoen toured the width and breadth of the British Isles, winning British public opinion to the side of their temperance and sovereignty. 

The Review of Reviews reprinted Khama’s plea that “you, O British people, will not paralyse my efforts by compelling me to submit to the invasion of my country by the trader with his poisonous liquors.”   If Britain were to ignore Khama’s calls for help, the papers editorialized, then the British people “should stand condemned as the most God-forsaken set of canting hypocrites on the whole round earth.”   Following the kings‘ temperance visits, a flood of popular petitions inundated the Colonial Office from across the country, strenuously opposing giving Bechuanaland over to Rhodes‘ Company.   Prior to the meeting, the kings plead their case to Chamberlain: “We fear the Company because we think they will take our land and sell it to others. We fear that they will fill our country with liquor shops, as they have Bulawayo.”

The kings offered concessions and the payment of additional poll taxes, if London would only delay the inevitable annexation by Rhodes’ Company by 10 years. “Do not let them bring liquor into our country to kill our people speedily.” 

On Nov. 6, 1895, Chamberlain finally met with the chiefs to dictate terms. The chiefs would pay a hut tax and sacrifice a strip of land for Rhodes‘ railway in exchange for maintaining their sovereignty as a protectorate.   “White man’s strong drink shall not be brought for sale into the country, and those who attempt to deal in it or give it away to black men will be punished. No new liquor license shall be issued, and no existing liquor license shall be renewed,” Chamberlain declared. 

Weeks later, Chamberlain escorted the Chiefs to Windsor castle for an audience with “the Great White Queen” herself, Queen Victoria, who confirmed the arrangements that Chamberlain had made.   “The sale of strong drink shall be prohibited in your country &those who attempt to supply it shall be severely punished,” the Queen declared. “I feel strongly in this matter, & am glad to see that the chiefs have determined to keep so great a curse from the people.”   Pleased, though unaware of British protocols, Sebele told the press: “Her Majesty if a very charming old lady... But I had no idea that she was so short and stout... I shall go back home contented.” They did.   Far less pleased was Cecil Rhodes, who telegraphed London: “I do object to being beaten by three canting natives especially on the score of temperance.”

And then: “IT IS HUMILIATING TO BE UTTERLY BEATEN BY THESE NI***RS.” 

Bechuanaland’s stay of execution may have been short lived, were it not for what happened next. Upon returning to Bechuanaland, Khama met Sir Leander Starr Jameson, who was leading a BSAC military force.  Jameson’s orders were to instigate an insurrection across the border in the Dutch Transvaal, whipping-up British sympathizers and lead to an all-out British invasion to topple the rival Dutch Boers.  But in a crowning irony, Jameson’s Raid was doomed by liquor. To take the Dutch by surprise, the British would cut the telegraph lines so Boer outposts couldn’t sound the alarm of invasion.  Instead of cutting the telegraph lines, a drunken British soldier instead cut a farmer’s wire fence. The Dutch anticipated and tracked the whole raid, ambushed and decimated the attackers & imprisoned Rhodes’ brother Frank.

London condemned Rhodes‘ reckless adventurism, forcing him to step down from the BSAC in disgrace. The imperial threat to Bechuanaland’s sovereignty and sobriety was over.  The British honored Khama’s prohibition & sovereignty right through Botswana’s independence in 1966. Today the bronze Three Dikgosi Monument honoring Khama, Bathoen & Sebele is the most visited destination in the 🇧🇼 capital of Gaborone.

Were it not for their 1895 temperance mission to Britain, what is today Botswana would’ve long been absorbed into either Britain’s Cape Colony (now South Africa) or Rhodesia (Zimbabwe)--much to their people’s detriment--instead of becoming its own independent country.   Without prohibition, there’d be no Botswana. And in honor of their Founding Fathers, Botswana emblazoned the picture of the chiefs‘ 1895 temperance mission to London on their 100 Pula note.

HEY! If you liked this liquor-politics thread, may I humbly suggest checking-out my new “Smashing the Liquor Machine: A Global History of Prohibition” book, which contains literally dozens of them. 

[bitchin-beskar]

Lost

Chapter 1: Foundling

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Heyo! It’s been a long time coming, and I swear, I kept trying to write so I can update my story on Wattpad, but this little idea just wouldn’t leave me alone. So, here I go, diving into the Mandalorian fandom! Funnily enough, this chapter doesn’t even have Mando in it, whoops. I literally just finished this chapter today (I’m also unbeta’d so whoohoo!), so we will see how long it takes me to get up the next chapter. I’m also posting this on Archive of Our Own under the username mindless__ramblings, so if you prefer that, feel free to head on over there! I hope you enjoy! 

Walking through the streets of the marketplace, in the middle of the throngs of people, two women stood out amongst the rest. The first, a tall, regal-looking woman, with deep auburn hair pulled up into an elaborate coiffure, her gown spotless and shimmering in the sunlight, was the perfect image of a Grand-Moff’s wife. She strode through the streets, pausing here and there at stalls, peering at the wares offered, before moving on to the next stall. 

The other woman drew just as much attention, for much the opposite reasons. She followed after the regal woman, but by comparison, her dress was made of cheap cotton, although just as spotless. Her head was held just as high, however her eyes were cast downwards, carefully avoiding any and all eye contact. Her brunette hair was pulled away from her face in a simple plait, and she carried a simple woven basket in front of her, which she placed her mistress’s purchases into. 

As they reached the marketplace center, the regal woman slowed, eyeing the display set up in the central square of the market. There, on a small stage, was the main reason she’d come to the marketplace today. For today was the first of the month, which meant there was a new assortment of slaves for purchasing. On Lyerra, slavery was not just allowed, but encouraged. The royal family had built their wealth on the backs of slaves, and it was considered a sign of status to own a slave, and the more you owned, the more important you were considered to be. 

As the wife to a Grand-Moff, it was of no surprise to anyone that she had come to the marketplace on this particular day. With twenty slaves already in their employ, the Grand-Moff and his wife were the only ones in the entire city to have just as many slaves as the royals. It was an open secret that the Grand-Moff kept a close eye on how many slaves were employed in the royal household, and whenever that number increased, he sent his wife to the market to purchase more. So, here she was, surveying the potential purchases.

Standing next to her mistress, the young woman was a picture of the perfect slave, perfect posture, but not so much that she drew attention, head slightly bowed, hands folded neatly over the basket she carried. But as she stood there, she slowly observed the slaves on display. There were the usual ones who stared angrily out at the crowd, defiant and obstinate. Then there were the few who were meek, beaten down, staring at their shackled limbs, those who had clearly become used to this life. To her sorrow, there were also three children, the metal shackles too big on their too-thin wrists.

Confusingly, there was also a basket on a pedestal on the stage as well. She couldn’t see into the basket, and before she could think about it too much, her mistress grabbed her attention. “Well Cerliah, what do you think?”

Cerliah looked over the slaves. She hated this part of the trip, she always had. “Well, M’Lady, there’s a fine selection today,” she said, tasting bile in the back of her throat as she forced the words out. Luckily, her mistress didn’t notice the pain in her voice.

“Mmm, yes indeed.” Ettela Tarrel, her mistress, stepped forward, critically eyeing each slave. “Cerliah, come here.” Ettela had stopped in front of the basket on the pedestal.

Cerliah jerked, quickly moving to stand next to, but just behind her mistress. “Yes, M’Lady?” She asked, praying that her mistress wouldn’t ask for her opinion on which slave to choose, as she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pick. 

“I discussed with my husband the possibility of allowing you to pick a child, since you were denied yours.” Cerliah’s eyes widened, and it was only her years of servitude that prevented her from jerking her head up to meet her mistress's eyes. 

She felt tears well in her eyes, and she forced herself to take deep breaths. “M-M’lady?” Cerliah could feel her mistress’s eyes on her, and she struggled to keep her voice level.

“He has agreed to allow you a child of my choice, for the two years you would have been allowed to keep your own.” Ettela gestured to the basket. “While this child may not be your species, I trust you will accept this… gift?” 

Her mistress paused, and Cerliah knew what was being left unsaid. This was not a request, not something she could deny. Her only choice was to graciously agree, as for a slave to disagree with their master, and publicly no less, could see them executed. 

“Of course M’Lady, I would be honored to accept,” Cerliah told her mistress, watching as she turned, and after ordering the merchant to charge her husband’s household, gesturing for Cerliah to step forward. 

Slowly, she stepped forward, climbing up the stage, and peering into the basket. Staring up at her was the cutest life-form she’d ever seen. The child was small, about the size of a human infant, but that was where the similarities ended. Large black eyes peered up at her, perched above a comically small mouth and nose. The child’s skin was green and wrinkly, with fuzzy hair on top of its wrinkled little head. But the oddest thing about the child were its large, green, petal shaped ears. Letting the basket she carried hang in the crook of her arm, Cerliah reached down, picking the child up out of the basket, cradling it in her arms. 

She faintly noticed the merchant giving Ettela the trigger for the child’s transmitter, although she was far more focused on how the child had snuggled into her arms, burying its head in her neck and clutching onto the neckline of her dress with one small, three-fingered hand. She felt tears come to her eyes again, although for a much different reason than her mistress assumed. 

“I’m pleased it suits you.” Ettela eyed her servant with a critical eye. “Come now, there are still chores left to do for today.” 

Cerliah followed her mistress out of the square, weaving through the crowd as they made their way back to the mansion. She could hear the child sniffling against her neck, and she felt warm tears against her skin. Quietly, she began to hum a lullaby from her childhood, desperate to calm the child. Her mistress had been kind so far, but that was liable to change depending on her mood, and a crying baby was a surefire way to change that mood instantly.

Finally, they came to the base of the grand mansion that housed the Grand-Moff and his wife. Opulent and extravagant, the mansion was a thing to behold. A white marble staircase led to the front of the house, with grand pillars stretching all the way to the roof. Windows adorned the front of the mansion, allowing in light to dazzle off of the glass chandeliers and the marble floor. As they entered, Ettela dismissed Cerliah for a few hours, allowing her to make her way to the small servants bedroom that she called her own, branching off of the master bedroom. 

As the personal handmaid to the Lady of the Mansion, Cerliah had a slightly bigger room than most. Her bedroom door was hidden, a discreet cut out in the wall that swung inward from the master closet. She had to be close, so as to better serve her mistress' needs. She quickly made her way into her room, shutting the door behind her, and dropping onto her bed, careful to not jostle the child, which had fallen asleep in her arms. 

As she sat, she stared down as the sleeping baby, her trembling hand tracing its features. She hated that such a small, innocent baby had already been sold into slavery. No doubt he, or she, had parents out looking for them. Cerliah felt tears run down her cheeks. Even though this baby was not hers, she would care for them as though they were her flesh and blood. Anything she could do to protect this innocence for as long as possible. 

She let the baby rest on her bed, as she moved about her room, constructing a rudimentary cradle from her meager possessions. Once the cradle had been constructed, she placed the child inside, before quickly moving to her mistress’s room to put away the packages purchased that day. While she’d been given a few hours before her dinner, Cerliah was going to make sure that nothing she did angered her mistress, lest she take the child from her. 

Time passed rather quickly, and before she realized, it was time for dinner for the household staff. She made her way to the far end of her bedroom, where another hidden door led to a staircase, which spiraled down into the basement of the mansion, where the kitchens lay. As Cerliah entered, she was bombarded with questions from her fellow servants. 

“Cerliah, is it true, is it?” Aterra, a young Twi'lek serving girl, practically assaulted her as she walked into the kitchens. “Did the master really allow you to have a baby?” The word baby was said in a whisper, as though speaking of the child too loudly would cause it to disappear. 

All Cerliah could do was nod. “Yes, M’Lady picked out the child at the marketplace today. I am to be allowed to keep it for two years, the same amount of time my child would have been with me.” 

The young girls who had all crowded around Aterra oohed and awed, while the older servants just looked on fondly. But Aterra had a funny look on her face. “Why do you call the baby it? Don’t you know if its a boy or a girl?” 

The Matron, a no-nonsense older woman who was in charge of the kitchens, whacked Aterra on the back of the hand with a wooden serving spoon. “Girl, be quiet! You know better than to disrespect those older than you! Have you learned nothing?” Despite her stern tone, Matron allowed a small grin to grace her lips, eyes shining with amusement as Aterra tried to hide behind one of the other girls.

Cerliah laughed softly. “The baby isn’t a species I’ve ever seen before, Aterra. I’m not sure if its a boy or a girl, although they are very cute.” Immediately, all eyes were back on Cerliah, as she sat upon a small stool, and she began to answer as many questions as she could. 

Before long, the servant’s allotted time for dinner was over, and the kitchens emptied quickly as the staff dispersed to attend to their nightly duties. Cerliah stood from her stool, but before she could make her way to the door leading back to her chambers, a hand on her arm stopped her. Turning, she saw the Matron, a worried look in her eyes. 

“Are you okay Cerliah?” As she opened her mouth to voice her confusion, the Matron pierced her with a small glare. “Truly, child, are you alright? I know how much you hurt when you lost…” Matron trailed off, her hand moving from Cerliah’s arm to her belly, unable to speak it out loud. 

Cerliah’s eyes widened, and it was all she could do to not break down in the Matron’s arms. While it hadn’t been a secret that she’d been pregnant, the Matron was the only one Cerliah had ever talked with about her baby, the only one she’d ever shared her hopes and fears with.

“I wonder if the mistress truly meant for this child to be a boon, or if perhaps she had another reason for allowing you this child. I don’t want to see you broken, Cerliah, and I’m worried this child will have the power to do that.” 

The Matron drew Cerliah into her arms in a rare show of affection. Other than Cerliah, the Matron had been in the employ of the Grand-Moff the longest. She was the one who trained every new servant, and as such, they all looked up to her as the pseudo-mother of the household. 

Cerliah gripped the back of the Matron’s dress, burying her face in the Matron’s neck. She allowed herself a few moments of weakness before she straightened up. “Truthfully, I do not know what I will do when It comes time for the baby to leave,” she whispered, meeting the Matron’s gaze. “But for now, I will care for it as my own, and I will cherish the time I have.”

The Matron laid a hand against her cheek, fingers brushing away the few remaining tears. They stood in silence for a moment longer, before Cerliah broke away, making her way to the stairwell, and ascending the many floors back to her chambers. 

Cerliah stepped into her room, and not a minute too soon, as the small bell that hung in her chambers began to ring, signaling that her mistress was summoning her. Pausing briefly at the cradle to check on the baby, she moved through the door, and into her mistress’s room. 

She stood quietly by the door to the fresher, head bowed as she waited for orders. After a few moments, her mistress called her over to the vanity, so that she could braid her hair before bed. As she stood behind her Ettela, her fingers moving through the auburn strands, forming them into one of the elaborate Nubian braids favored by her mistress, the bedroom door opened, and the master of the Mansion came into the room. 

Cerliah stiffened imperceptibly. While she was technically the slave to the wife of the Grand-Moff, she was still considered to be in his employ, and as such, he had final say over her fate. She was lucky, as she rarely had dealings with the man, but she still felt fear whenever she had to be in his presence. 

Grand-Moff Tarrel was a particularly intimidating man. He stood well over six feet tall, and while he spent most of his time in official dress, it was clear that he was just as comfortable and deadly with weapons as he was with words and orders. His greying hair did nothing to detract from his fearsome appearance, and the near permanent scowl on his face often sent slaves scurrying to stay out of his way. 

He stalked into the room, making his way to the other side of the room, where he began to disrobe. Cerliah pointedly looked at her mistress’s hair, finishing off the braid, and tying it neatly with some spare ribbon. She stepped back, standing next to the vanity, waiting until her dismissal. 

She nearly jumped in shock when, instead of dismissing her, the Grand-Moff called out for her. “Cerliah, I understand that my wife allowed you to pick your child today at the market?” She nodded, her breathing shaky. Was the Matron right? Was she to only have a few hours with the child before it was taken from her? Had she done something to anger them? Why- 

Her panicky thoughts were cut off by the Grand-Moff’s next words. “I understand that the child isn’t human? Would you permit me to see the babe?” Knowing she had no choice, no matter how the order was phrased, she nodded once again, making her way quickly to her adjoining room.

She peered into the cradle. The baby was laying on its back, its huge eyes closed as soft snores resonated from its tiny mouth. She hated to wake the child, but knew she couldn’t disobey the master’s orders. She lifted the child into her arms, rubbing her fingers against the soft skin of one of its ears, watching as the child blinked sleepily up at her. 

Cradling the child in her arms, she left her small quarters and returned to the master chambers. Entering, she moved to stand in front of the Grand-Moff, reluctantly handing over the child as he held his arms out. 

She watched as the Grand-Moff handled him with remarkable care, looking the child over for a tense minute, looking at the child while it stared back unblinkingly, before offering the child back to her. 

Gratefully, she took the baby back into her arms, bringing him to rest against her chest. She continued to keep her eyes lowered, as she curtseyed, before moving back to stand against the wall. The Grand-Moff chuckled, and she got the feeling she was being laughed at, although she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

“Well, it's certainly an odd looking thing, I’ll grant you that.” He continued chuckling to himself. “You’re dismissed for the night, Cerliah.”

Feeling as though a weight had been lifted off her chest, Cerliah curtseyed, before quickly moving to her own chambers, dimming the lights along the way. Once she entered her room she shut the door, moving to sit on the bed with the baby still clutched in her arms. The child grinned up at her, little teeth peeking out of its tiny mouth. 

“I bet you’re hungry, huh?” Cerliah muttered, setting the child down as she moved over to the small tray that had been set on the table next to the staircase. “Looks like Matron wanted to make sure you got dinner.”

Grabbing the small tray, which had a small bowl of mashed fruit and some bread, Cerliah made her way back to the bed, where the small child had sat up eagerly, reaching out with tiny hands for the tray of food. Smiling softly, she sat on the bed, tearing up the bread into bite-sized pieces, and feeding the child one at a time. 

While the baby munched on its dinner, Cerliah’s thoughts drifted. While there were certainly worse households to be a part of, the life of a slave was no life for a child, especially one as little as the baby in front of her. But there was no way out, at least as far as Cerliah knew. As the servant to the Mistress of the Mansion, she knew certain things that other servants didn’t. Such as where all the slave triggers were kept, along with the secret stash of credits in case of an emergency. 

But the only reason she knew any of this was because her Mistress was confident that Cerliah had been broken. And she wasn’t wrong. There was no life for her outside of the Mansion, no family to return home to, the Imperials had made sure of that. She’d been a slave since she was a child, she knew nothing else. But now…

Now she had this sweet, innocent little baby relying on her. It wasn’t just her own interest she had to look out for, but this child’s as well. The baby didn’t deserve this, but she had no idea how to go about escaping. The mansion was crawling with security, and she’d never be able to grab the triggers before escaping, which would make the escape useless in the first place. 

Sighing deeply, Cerliah stood, moving the now empty tray back to the table, before tucking the child back into bed. As she went through her routine before bed, Cerliah resolved to continue thinking about a way to escape, at least when she was alone. It wouldn't be a good idea to think about being disobedient, at least in front of the mistress.

[pyrewriter]

Growing Guild

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I remember staying beneath the water for days at a time as we crossed the planet, our enemy didn't appear to have any interest in pursuing past land. Many suffered from churned stomachs due to the unsteady nature of the planet's waters. Only when we surfaced for circulating air to prevent stagnation and to survey the surrounding was their illness alleviated. With no way of knowing how other sects around the planet and across the system were affected, assuming they were hit at all I could only imagine. There was little point in dwelling on it however as even if I did know I could do nothing.

Instead I chose to focus on what Esyra had bestowed upon me, her helm and weapons were mine while the fate of the rest would be left to Ogethres. As a Vandal I was not allowed to wear a Captain's helm into combat but since it was Esyra's the final will, then ,should I live to obtain the rank of Captain, her helm would become mine. Her weapons on the other hand I could wield and they were far better than the standard weaponry that almost every Eliksni went into combat with. 

Esyra's shock rifle was exquisite, instead of the cobbled scrap it was solid wood stock that covered much of what would be exposed parts so one could rest their cheek for better use of the aperture site. The sidearm was standard save for it's odd internal wiring, upon inspecting it further I found that the pistol could discharge whatever energy was left in the cell in a single high powered burst. Her twin Captain's blades were thicker and heavier than a marauder's, making them more durable and able to handle more arc energy. I inspected, cleaned, and repaired each reverently before placing them on their respective racks on the wall of my living quarters.

After many weeks' travel we arrived on the other side of the planet ,nearer to the Great Machine but there was even more enemy activity in this area of the world. However such problems would have to wait as we had a more complicated issue at hand. Many different Eliksni from many different guilds, bands, and communes with leadership ranging from Captains to other Arkons were evacuated and spread across different Ketches. I received more than a few looks as I helped to sort every Dreg, Vandal, Captain, and Sprog. Sorting was the easy part however, now we needed to get them all to their proper leaders. 

Thanks to the abnormal density of our enemy there was a high risk of being detected so landing a large number of ships was out of the question. Instead Brykis and myself were sent as escort aboard a skiff for Ogethres' chosen envoy to propose a congregation to discuss the return of all. In short Ogethres and all the leaders who agree are to meet on the water between the ships that will serve as a neutral area to prevent having to go to each leader individually. 

A neutral ground provided no advantages to any leader as well as worked to prevent any kind of incidents from happening. House Dusk was system spanning and comprised of every house so factionalism was rampant and the lack of House identity within the new generations worsened the problem. Even if we survived the initial onslaught and exodus by throwing differences aside there was no telling how each leader would act in this calm period. To help ensure that every leader would come, three guards and a pilot of their choosing were welcome to accompany them. Some said they would think on the matter rather than agreeing almost immediately like most of the others. Leaders of smaller bands and communes were happy to be included let alone having their people returned.

It was a weeks time until the congregation but I did not sit idle in that time. I was assigned to prepare the Skiff our Arkon would be using as both transport to and a podium at the congregation. Since this was a relatively formal gathering of leaders only the most regal and pristine of Skiffs was to be used. Unfortunately no such Skiff was available so Ogethres chose one in a mild state of disrepair and then hand picked those who would work on it, I of course was part of this group. As a whole the craft was largely undamaged ,however, the hull was dented, discolored from ware and many parts were outright exposed.

Without the input of Ogethres himself we had no point of reference or point at which we were told stop so work continued until there was nothing left to work on. We worked around the clock on that Skiff to prepare it for the meeting, some worked themselves to the point of collapse but we continued until the day of the congregation. By the end the forward end had been almost entirely replaced. 

Just as I stepped back with the others to admire the fruits of our labor my communicator chimed on the bench next to my armor. It was a message from Pyrrhaks, I opened it. 

;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;

Sons Brykis, Ellrimksyt, prepare yourselves. 

We accompany Arkon Ogethres to congregation. 

;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;

I groaned, gathered what equipment I had brought with me to the hangar and headed for my quarters to finish preparing. When I opened the hatch Brykis was struggling with some of the straps of his armor, after helping him get settled he helped me in return. We grabbed our weapons, connected the ether tanks left, meeting with father on our way to the bridge. As all three of us entered the bridge we were greeted by Ogethres, "Prepared?" he clicked.

"Yes my Arkon, brought sons as asked, we ready to accompany" Pyrrhaks replied formally. 

Ogethres let out a low satisfied hum before ordering "Follow to hangar, then we go congregation, discuss next group movement". He stood from his seat at the helm and moved passed us with purpose in his stride, gesturing for us to follow as he passed. Entering the hangar we were met with House Dusk banners and Eliksni forming a path leading us to the Skiff. An unarmed pilot ,as per agreed upon, was already sitting in the cockpit to ferry us. Climbing onto the spine of the Skiff we clanged our feet to confirm our readiness and we were off. 

All but a handful of leaders did not appear at the congregation all of whom were leaders of smaller communes or bands. Talks were uneventful, consisting largely of how resources would be allocated to ensure all were returned to their people. I had zoned out for the grand majority of the discussions until something caught my ear. 

"Leaders of small communes, bands, many seek to swear under you, Arkon Ogethres" an Arkon of another guild stated with an informative chattering. 

A Captain of larger stature nodded his head "Indeed, word spreads, some good, other chiding, most of the three, your guard".

Ogethres paused for a moment to sigh before speaking, clearly and firmly "Those I favor, my concern only, regardless I accept those who swear under me, will gather during returns and-".

"Tell, who, what is your guard?" asked an ostentatious Baroness who was sent as a representative of a rather vain Arkon from one of the larger guilds. 

Beneath my helmet I cast my gave about to the handful of Captains and Arkons and felt their many eyes fall on our Skiff. Most had indifferent or curious gazes but the Baroness's peered straight at my Arkon. Tightening the grip on my shock spear I too looked to Ogethres to see how he would answer. I saw his body stiffen ever so slightly, whether it was out of anger for someone questioning his choice of company or fear of infighting about to erupt I couldn't tell. Thankfully that tension quickly disappeared as he spoke, his delivery was practiced, "My guard, raised from sprog like all, taught like all, he is one of guildi, that all you need know". 

The Baroness's seemed prepared for such a response, "Perhaps they show themself then".

“Irrelevant” another Arkon moaned, annoyed "All brought guard, what matter about his?".

Now the Baroness was annoyed "Quiet" she snapped with a chitter "Question not for you, it for Arkon who raised tainted-" 

"Enough idle chide!" Ogethres barked, "Your guild in shambles, mine grows, my guard among my greatest Barrons, his sons earned Forge Rights. Pyrrhaks, Wllrimksyt, Bykis, worthy of Kell Guard!".

"Ellrimksyt HUMAN!" the Baroness retorted.

I failed hold my tongue, "I AM ELIKSNI, if need to demonstrate, come see for self!" I growled furiously, stepping in front of uncle. Bringing myself to full height I drove my shock spear into the Skiff's hull before spreading my arms wide. I heard Ogethres start to say something but he stopped when two sets of footsteps came from behind me. My brother Brykis and father Pyrrhaks stood to either side of me, out of the corner of my eyes I saw them drive their weapons into the hull and spread their arms as well. None dared return the challenge.

By the day's end the congregation had ended peacefully with everyone being moved to the proper Ketches to be returned to their people. Of course Ogethres had reprimanded and  struck us for our actions following the congregation but I could tell he was ,as humans say, pulling his punches. In private he actually laughed and actually praised me for not taking the Baroness's insults and my father and brother for standing with me. Our guild had grown much thanks to the congregation, enough to fill the Ketch a pledging commune had brought with them which brought our guilds size to near double what it was.

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[phati-sari]

Arshi FF: Tere Bin - Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Dooriyan (listen while reading)

Arnav

It was called Saatvik Misthan Bhandar.

It had taken him over an hour to find, despite Mohan’s instructions. He’d been forced to park his car and walk the last hundred meters. Situated at the end of an alleyway and backing onto a residential area, the store was tiny. A yellow and red sign heralded the name, and bi-fold doors announced prices to customers when open.

He’d have dismissed it without a second thought — Mohan’s cousin may enjoy the wares but Nani was sure to have a greater appreciation for the desserts of the larger stores on the main streets — if it hadn’t been for the string of fairy lights hanging above the entryway. A sudden breeze tousled his hair.

Khushi.

He couldn’t say how he knew. Perhaps it was the memory of her bedroom in Laxmi Nagar, stars hanging from the bed frame and fairy lights decorating the walls. But in that moment, he knew that she’d strung them there.

Arnav took a few hesitant steps towards the shop, heart thundering against his ribs. But a pair of women blocked his view of what was inside.

“This is where she works,” one of them was explaining. “The girl from the TV. Her father owns the shop. Such a respectable man, how did they raise such a daughter?”

His arms recalled her soft weight. The tremble of her body.

“I heard that she’s adopted,” supplied the younger woman.

“And the other daughter, her wedding was called off because the younger one ran away”.

Memories slashed at his insides. A string of broken pearls. A rush of tears behind locked doors.

“Well … I heard it was because the groom demanded a dowry at the last moment.”

Arnav felt his mouth twist in a grimace as he tried to get around the gossiping women. Oblivious, they moved into his path to avoid a nearby cart.

“Whatever it was,” the older woman waved a dismissive hand, “I say the groom’s side narrowly escaped. Can you imagine? The girl fell into some man’s arms!”

“Not just any man. Arnav Singh Raizada. My daughter insists that she’ll only marry if she can wear AR Designs.”

Deciding he’d heard enough, Arnav shouldered past them, ignoring their affronted squeals. He paused at the entrance to the shop.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

He hadn’t, until this moment, realised how much tension he’d carried in his body. Muscles relaxed as he watched her, his pulse seemed to slow as his breathing deepened. Her hair was tied in a loose knot, though tendrils had escaped to frame her face. She smiled as she greeted customers and bounced around to fill their orders, chattering non-stop. Her dupatta was knotted at her side, the green of material contrasting with the pink of her kameez.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

Now that he was here, now that she stood in front of him, his resolve to leave without speaking to her crumbled.

Just a few words, to see if she’s okay.

He stepped inside. Khushi looked up distractedly and froze.

Though he’d expected anger, confusion, and maybe even tears, he’d never, not in a hundred — a thousand — imaginings, anticipated the fear that shadowed her eyes. Khushi trembled visibly, stumbling over her polite goodbyes to the one remaining customer. Her hands shook when they were the only people left in the confined space. Bands seemed to squeeze around his chest as he watched her shuffle away from him.

He tried to speak, found that he’d forgotten how.

“Khushi,” he managed eventually.

Whatever response she might have made — and perhaps it was wishful thinking that she would’ve made one at all — was interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged man in a kurta.

“Bitiya?”

Khushi snapped to attention, “B- babu-ji.”

“Have you been served, young man?”

Arnav’s heart kicked.

“My Nani is feeling nostalgic,” he directed his words to Khushi. “She wants sweets from Lucknow.”

She snatched up an empty sweet box and poised expectantly with plastic tongs. Her father filled their charged silence.

“You can taste the sweets before you buy.”

“I’m diabetic,” he explained without taking his eyes off Khushi. “You can select them. I’ll need three boxes.”

Her eyes widened briefly before she busied herself with the task. Her father turned to him, perhaps finally realising something was amiss.

“Do you two know each other?”

A deep breath to gather his thoughts, but Khushi answered before he could.

“Babu-ji … he’s my … he was my boss in Delhi.”

“Ahh,” a nod from the older man. “Thank you for taking care of her while she was in Delhi. She was far from home.”

What do you think? That I don’t feel pain? Your personal life is your personal life, and I have no life at all?

The memory of her words seemed to echo between them. Arnav curled his fingers into a fist.

Khushi placed the sweets on the counter-top between them. She didn’t move when he offered cash, though some part of him had hoped she’d reach across to take it from his hand. He placed the notes on the glass as her father stretched to tuck something into the topmost box.

“Our card,” he smiled. “For the next time your grandmother needs sweets.”

Aware that Khushi was yet to speak to him directly, Arnav caught her eye again as he reached for the boxes.

“Thank you.”

She fiddled with her dupatta, mouth open in a soundless gasp as her father’s attention switched to the woman who’d arrived. He retreated, aware there was one more thing to be done.

                                                       #####

He returned to Delhi the next day. Di greeted him with delight, embracing him on the driveway before mischievously asking for her present. He proffered the sweet boxes after some teasing and escorted her inside, leaving Hari Prakash to follow with his luggage.

Being with his family was simple and easy. Mami reacted as though he’d been away for ten months, not ten days. Jija-ji welcomed him back with an embrace and regaled him with stories from his own trip to Chandigarh. It was after dinner, when Aakash had briefed him on the state of the office and his family had settled in to enjoy the sweets and reminisce about the party they’d thrown for Di’s anniversary two weeks ago, that Arnav retreated to his poolside to make a call.

Lavanya agreed to meet him at a late-night cafe. She kissed his cheek in greeting, settling at the small table while telling a story about one of her friends. He waited until she paused for water.

“It’s not working,” he told the woman he’d been dating for six months.

“Wh-what?”

“It’s not working. I think we should part ways.”

She stared. Blinked once, twice. He watched as her shock melted away, replaced by disbelief.

“What? Just like that?” her voice rose. “I fasted for you! I did … I did everything your sister asked and … and you …”

Her words ended in a splutter. He waited to feel something other than relief.

“They all warned me,” she hiccuped a sob, “… but I thought …. I thought …”

She was an excellent 2IC but it would be difficult for them to work alongside one another after this.

“Your parents are in London,” he spoke when it was clear that she wouldn’t. “Let me know if you wish to arrange a transfer. We’ll need someone capable of managing things there in the next few months.”

Aware that he’d handled things badly, that she’d deserved his candour before he’d left for Lucknow, Arnav scraped back his chair. When he left the cafe, she was still seated at their table, her head bowed and knuckles white where she gripped her water glass.

The business card stayed in his pocket.

Chapter 3

[gentyalapreeti]

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[etherati]

Wellspring [14/14]

Posting this today because I think we’ve all been through the emotional wringer and could use a return to simpler, happier times for our favorite characters. And I think the closing sentiment remains true, always, as long as we don’t give up hope.

No content warnings (aside from Trevor’s language), not here at the end of the story. I don’t roll that way.

*

It’s a beautiful day as they approach the town, the sky blue and crisp and the air unseasonably warm the way it can sometimes be in mid-autumn, a respite from all the mist and rain. It’s possible that some distant thunder and the drama of a lightning strike or two might have served to herald their arrival with more portent, but then the people would all be indoors, hiding from the weather, and this serves no purpose if no one hears it.

Whatever ‘this’ turns out to be.

Trevor hasn’t entirely decided yet, has refused to even try to script it out in advance, and he knows that has Sypha and Adrian nervous. It’s making him a little nervous too; his off-the-cuff speeches in the past have ranged from soaring, moving masterpieces to Listen, I used to fight fucking vampires. He figures he’s stacking the odds in favor of the former by not doing this drunk off his stupid arse, but there’s always an element of rolling the dice.

He’s dressed for a fight, in full emblazoned Belmont glory. Whip coiled against one hip, ancestral sword on the other, throwing knives tucked into place, everything freshly laundered and mended. His face is still a mess of healing lacerations, a few of the remaining bandages visible here and there—a broad swath just under the curl of his tunic’s collar where a slice had been deep enough to require stitches, and another creeping out from the cuff of his bracer to span his palm where one of the spines went straight through. Look at how stoic I am, it all says, in the face of the damage I took saving your sorry arses.

So much of this is going to come down to showmanship, and honestly, Trevor needs all the props and assistance he can get.

Adrian and Sypha are walking that same balance: Sypha’s in full robes but with her hood down, and is lending the air around herself a crackle of magic without making it obvious that that’s what she’s doing; Adrian has his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the intimidating length of it trailing out behind his regal, gold-trimmed coat, and he is making no effort to avert his uncanny eyes—but not a bit of fang in sight, and they’ve made sure he’s well-fed enough to have some color in his face. The sunny day provides another layer of cover. Let the townsfolk be unsettled but not threatened; let them have a glimpse of their strength, but give them no means to point at them and hang names or words on them, words that will stir the fear of the crowds and doom them all. Witch. Vampire. Heretic.

It doesn’t look like Acasă has been troubled by any more attacks in the intervening days; they’ve cleared away the rubble, turned over the dirt where the ground had been scorched, are already halfway through rebuilding the broken structures—stoneworkers mending the town’s injuries as surely as Adrian and Sypha had mended his. It’s nominally a market day—they seem to have them twice a week—but with so much of the square unusable, it’s less bustling than it might have been. There are still plenty of people milling about, working on repairs or doing some bartering on the side or catching up on gossip or just being social, the ones who are too old or infirm for labor. And the more dedicated stall keepers are doing what they can, crammed together in the one corner of the square that took less damage, wares spread out on blankets on the ground wherever the carts and stands don’t fit.

That’s where they aim for, heads high, aware of every look they garner from the crowd but careful not to acknowledge any of it. By the time they get to the most populous corner, there’s a small crowd trailing behind them, following out of morbid curiosity or maybe just ordinary curiosity. A lot of them are young, may have heard the name Belmont in passing but never seen the crest on his back before today.

The three of them stop as one, perfectly synchronous without needing a word to pass between.

They’re not high up; there’s no speaking stage here, no good place to address a crowd from. There is a band of space around them, the entire crowd giving them a wide berth, splitting open as they walked like the red fucking sea. Trevor doesn’t care, just claps his hands twice, sharply, to get the attention of those nearest by. The rest will fall into place once he starts talking, he hopes.

Two dozen heads turn toward the noise. There are more looks, more shocked expressions. He feels a thrill of uncertainty rip through him, a wave of tension that straightens his spine and locks his jaw, and he thinks, Am I really the one who should be doing this? Not just between the three of them, but is he even the Belmont that should be doing this? Is he the representation his family needs, the best face forward that’s going to finally clear their name? What kind of ambassador is he?

For just a second, he can’t imagine why he ever thought this was going to work.

Sypha, a whisper at his side: “Trust yourself, Trevor.”

A leather-clad hand settles onto his opposite shoulder. He can hear words in that, too: And trust us to have your back.

Trevor takes a breath, clears his throat. “You’re all busy people, so I’m going to cut straight to it,” he says, lending his voice as much volume as he can without actually shouting. “We were here three nights ago. I got myself torn to hell fighting off the demons that came here to kill you. You know who I am.”

“You’re the ghost of the ruins!”

“Right, because ghosts are so well known for fucking bleeding,” Trevor says, holding the bandaged hand up and rolling his eyes at the idiot at the edge of the crowd. He’d really expected better, in terms of crazy accusations. “Could you try to pay attention?”

A wild muttering ripples through the crowd then, and Trevor can’t say he likes the tone of it, but at least the heckler shrinks back a bit, looking confused and embarrassed—like a dog scolded for shitting in the bed without fully understanding why it was wrong.

“You know who I am,” Trevor repeats, “And I’d wager you know why I’m here.”

“To summon demons down on us!” shouts one indistinct voice.

“To sacrifice us to the devil!” shouts another.

“To take your revenge,” says a quieter voice, from somewhere behind him. It sounds female, aged, almost infirm; it sounds like it’s speaking from experience. And no wonder: all around them, the detritus of one man’s bitter vengeance.

“I’d be justified,” Trevor says, and he’s smiling against his will, doesn’t know where it’s coming from. It feels like reinforcement, like steel bars across a door. “Fifteen years ago, a good chunk of you stood by or helped while the church murdered my family. You let a boy get away—sent him off with a bloody gash and a fear of fire and an entire family’s excommunication to bear on his back. And I’m not sure what you thought would happen when the boy grew up—when he outgrew the fear and the scars and giving a shit what the church thought of him.”

That’s got them—they’re rapt, hanging on his every word. Maybe waiting for him to declare his vengeance officially, to pull the sword from his belt and swear an oath on their lives, to demand retribution in blood. Or maybe too many of them just honestly don’t know what he’s talking about and are fascinated by the dramatic turn market day has taken.

And that’s the real crux of it, isn’t it?

“I’m sure you didn’t expect him to come back and fight for you anyway,” he continues, keeping his face tipped into the light. “Honestly? Neither did I.”

Too many of them weren’t here all those years ago, is the problem. And they probably deserve better than to be abandoned to the forces of darkness just because they moved into a house previously owned by a murdering shitstain. Maybe. Deserve the benefit of the doubt, at least.

Out in the crowd, in the midst of all the confusion Trevor can see lazily bubbling to the surface, the man from the terrible vegetable stall is grinning like the top of his head’s going to fall off. The more level-headed woman from the fruit stand is looking up at them thoughtfully, curiously, no hasty bad decisions brewing. The stranger from the water line, the one who’d tried to get him to take a break from his efforts while he bled into the buckets, is squinting at him, edging closer, trying to get a look at the scabby mess of his face.

Maila, further out, her expression charged with a grim, subdued hope. And all the others, their faces ranging from hostility to fear to unease to cautious optimism.

Time to get all the cards on the table, then, and stop playing this game with his motivations. Trevor sighs, crosses his arms in front of himself. “Here’s the thing. I was going to go on about how we’re the courageous idiots who took out Dracula for you all,” he starts, and that’s true; he hadn’t scripted it but he’d had an idea about content and tone, and now he’s going off those rails completely, but: trust yourself. “About how we saved the world and you ought to be grateful—and yes.” He holds one hand up as if forestalling a protest. “I realize there are still demons wandering through sometimes, but they’re the stragglers of a war that’s over. The fact that you’ve got the bastard’s castle looming over the town and you’re not dealing with horde attacks and blood raids every single night should be proof enough of that.”

Another wave of incomprehensible mumbling, but there’s an up note to it that sits a little better in his ears than what they’d been doing before.

“Now,” he continues, when the murmur dies down, “That’s all well and good, but we’re not asking for a damn hero’s parade, here. All we’re asking for is to be left alone. And I think you owe us at least that much.”

“You caused all of this!” a voice shouts from midway through the crowd, and Trevor scans the faces, looking for—ah. Yeah, okay, that’s a face he fucking recognizes. Easy—count to ten. Now’s not the time. “Of course you’ve stopped the attacks—you’re trying to trick us into letting our guard down!”

More confused tittering. “But… Dracula…” the man next to the heckler starts.

“Dracula my arse,” the man says, vicious. “Dracula’s a myth, a made up pile of bullshit to get us to overlook the real, human evil behind it all.” He points at Trevor, accusingly. “Humans playing with forces they shouldn’t, and evil we thought we burnt out of our lives for once and for all!”

Trevor breathes carefully through his teeth. He can feel Adrian tensing beside him, can feel an uptick in the temperature to his other side. He puts on his best I don’t give a shit face, blended up with a little I can’t believe you just said something that stupid, and looks out at the crowd. Waits, expectant.

“But if he’s a myth,” a third man finally says, genuinely confused, “and all of that was made up the whole time, then where did the castle come from?”

A stretch of silence, as the first man visibly loses his momentum. “Ah… I mean��� we don’t know…”

“You’d really rather believe,” Trevor says, fixing on the man with a gaze that feels like a razor, “that alllll of that death and destruction and pure fucking evil was the work of a single, ordinary human doing it for no apparent reason, than accept the existence of a well known and extensively documented supernatural figure who had a completely legitimate reason to be furious with us? Really?”

“I’m just saying,” the man continues, digging in his heels like someone who’s put a lot of time and effort into making a mistake and isn’t willing to stop making it. “We don’t know that’s Dracula’s castle.”

“But we found all of those dead vampires,” the woman next to him says, like this is a commonplace thing one finds outside of one’s town every day, just littering the goat pastures. Honestly, living in the shadow of the Belmont estate for four hundred years, they might think that it is. “Couldn’t get the smell out for weeks! Was that a myth, too?”

And, well, that answers the question of what Adrian did with all of the bodies littering the castle. Dropped them all outside and then forgot about them, it seems like. To be fair—and Trevor finds he’s a lot more inclined to be fair, these days—he’d had a lot on his mind at the time, and not a lot of clear thinking to go around.

“Speaking of vampires,” another man says, closer to the front of the group; he’s been sidling up slowly, eyeing Adrian the entire time but silent until now. His tone is contemptuous, vaguely threatening. “How do we know you aren’t working with Dracula? I don’t much like the look of your friend, there.”

A collectively drawn breath at the implication, and damn these people actually being astute, after all those centuries in proximity to the greatest hunters of the supernatural the world has ever seen.

So Trevor huffs a laugh, covers it with his hand like he’s trying to stifle it. Looks to Adrian, who’s smirking back at him with a very convincing incredulity. Then Trevor lifts the hand up to gesture at the sky—the brilliantly sunny sky, only the wispiest clouds in sight—and looks to the man who’d spoken with his eyebrows raised, a nonverbal Well?

“...oh,” the man says, flatfooted. “Well, I mean… I…”

“You said something stupid,” Trevor says, making every attempt at good natured, magnanimous humor. “Don’t worry, happens to the best of us.”

A chuckle, here and there. The man still looks angry, but just in that way of having been caught making a mistake. Like the first heckler, the one with his ridiculous assertion that Trevor was a ghost, he shrinks back. If they’re lucky, the two accusations will carry equal weight, going forward.

“Look,” Trevor says, once the attention is back on him. “My family lived in that house for four centuries, and we fought the dark things for you, and we never asked for anything, and we never brought any misfortune down on anyone. The church told you otherwise, and I get it—they’re hard to stand up to. But those of you who’ve been around a while should remember that this town was once the safest place to live in all of Wallachia.” Truth. He’d been shocked as a boy, the first few outside towns he’d seen, how afraid people were of the dark, and how afraid they were of each other. “Because we were here. Because we protected it. Not for our own gain, but because it’s what was right. If you want that back? All you have to do is leave us be.”

We. Us. Not the same us it used to be; not the Belmonts. Adrian has shifted an inch closer, his shoulder brushing Trevor’s, and Sypha’s got a hand to his back, mostly out of sight. Something warm and painful and soft-edged swells in his chest. “Leave us be, and we’ll keep watch over that awful castle and keep anything worse from moving in, and we’ll come down here and spend money in your market, and we’ll hunt down all the terrifying things that come sniffing around this place. And hell,” he says, smiling grimly at his own marvelous generosity, “we’ll even leave your church alone, if it leaves us alone—no matter what kind of hypocritical fucks you’ve got running it these days. Just don’t listen to them when they try to tell you who to kill, or the deal’s off.”

It’s weird—there are still no obvious church men around. Just like the other day. He knows they exist, Maila said as much, but he’s yet to see one, and for reasons he can’t pin down, that’s making him nervous. Maybe he just likes to know who his enemies are.

“The church ain’t real!” shouts a half-drunk farmer from the edge of the crowd.

Oh. That’s… interesting. “How are they not real?” Adrian asks from his side, pitched for Trevor and Sypha and otherwise only audible to the nearest of the townspeople.

“I have no idea.” Trevor’s admittedly a little thrown off; there are so many ways something could be ‘not real’ in this day, and he isn’t sure what angle to approach from.

“We’re not the same church,” comes a quiet voice from his side, low and serpentine but not overtly threatening. A snake sunning on a rock. “And some of the locals haven’t come to terms with that yet.”

Trevor turns his head to regard the… what, the priest? Deacon? Pastor? He’s got that air of moral superiority but he’s not dressed like any church man Trevor’s ever seen, draped in dark green and grey, so it’s a little harder to tease out a title. He’s managed to step right up beside them, into the gap that everyone else had found uncrossable, is uncomfortably inside of their collective personal space. Doesn’t look armed. Doesn’t seem to be tensing for a fight.

“Come speak with me,” he says, nearly a whisper, glancing between all three of them. “After you’re done here. Behind the church, where the gazebos stand by the creek.”

Not in the church—behind it. Either he’s seen through the sunlight ruse or he’s in agreement with Trevor as to an excommunicant’s odds of catching fire inside the actual building. Either way, he’s clever, and that could be dangerous.

“Fine,” Trevor says, guarding, doing his best to keep all of that out of his voice. “We’ll find you.”

The man nods, quietly excuses himself. Trevor turns back to the crowd, finds them watching expectantly.

“Right. As I was saying,” he forges on. “You can leave us be, or you can give in to fear, and try to burn this family of mine out of our home like you did the last one. But it won’t go well for you.” He grins, tries to look as amiable and harmless as he can. “That’s not a threat. It’s simply what will happen. We aren’t distracted; we don’t have kids and servants to protect this time. It’s just us.”

Then his expression narrows, brows pulling in. “And if you come for us, we will fight like hell. But I really hope—for all our sakes—that we don’t have to.”

A long pause, letting that sink in. Letting it really get in there, letting the gravity of the decision they’ve been presented with drag at their heels a little.

“That’s the choice before you,” he finishes, with what he hopes is a flourish. “Now, if you’ll excuse us. We’ve got a representative of the apparently not real church to see.”

The crowd is not, as they take leave of it, firmly on their side. It’s also not rallying to tear them to pieces, a risk they took by travelling this way, on the ground, among them. It does still part for them, respect or fear or both, and by the time they get clear of the square and into the sparser territory of the outlying roads, Trevor feels reasonably justified in letting out a sigh of relief.

The day isn’t over. The fight isn’t over. But they’ve planted the seed and they’ve gotten out with their skins intact, so far.

However. “What the hell,” he asks both of them, once they’re out of earshot of anyone else, “is a fucking gazebo?”

They look back at him, suddenly intensely amused, Sypha stifling genuine laughter. Clearly they know the answer, but they don’t deign to answer. Fine. As long as they're not worried, then fine.

Fine.

* *

Turns out, it’s just a fancy fucking word for a pavilion. He’s not some Philistine, he’s seen the damn things before, he’s just never heard them called that—and can anyone really blame him? Gazebo. It sounds like some kind of two-headed, baby-eating antelope.

The man who spoke to them in the square is standing under the gabled roof of the nearest one, afternoon sun slanting through the missing slats to stripe and mottle him, green eyes cool in the shadowed, fading daylight. He has his hands clasped in front of himself, posture relaxed. He is being as calculatedly non-threatening as it is possible for a person to be.

As if that’s going to fool any of them.

“So, let’s get this over with,” Trevor says, stopping just shy of the edge of the thing. “If you were planning to move against us regardless, you wouldn’t have asked to talk. You’ve got a deal to cut, so what is it?”

“I understand your hostility,” the man says, crossing the floor of the pavilion to meet them at the stair. “I’m not just saying that to placate you; I truly do. Yours wasn’t the only family broken to pieces by that particular branch of the church, by righteousness grown wicked on its own overconfidence.”

No, it wasn’t. Both the people flanking him can fucking attest to that. “I’m listening,” he says, committing to nothing.

“I’m the pastor of this parish,” the man says, extending a cautious hand. “But I was not operating on the church’s orders when I approached you in the marketplace.”

“You were just there at that precise time,” Sypha cuts in, skepticism plain in her voice. “That is very convenient.”

The pastor lets his hand drop to his side. “You don’t trust me, and I don’t expect you to. I can tell that none of you have been treated well by the church at large. But you should know that this appointment is… a somewhat remote position. I have no immediate oversight that isn’t a week’s ride away; the church at large isn’t a presence here. So should you truly wish to be left alone, I am amenable to that, on my own condition.”

“This should be good,” Trevor mutters under his breath.

“I ask only that you don’t meddle in our affairs,” the pastor says, and it should sound shady but there’s something pleading in his tone that takes Trevor aback. “We are struggling as it is, to win the minds of the populace here. Whether you believe it or not, we are here to help, and we do regret what others have done in the name of a God that we know would not approve.”

Trevor narrows his eyes, lip curling in a snarl. “How exactly are you planning on helping? Last time a man of the cloth told me he was helping his flock, it was by manipulating them into murdering Speakers.”

Eyes widening slightly, the pastor glances toward Sypha, then back to Trevor. He’s gone a little pale. “Christ in Heaven. Nothing like that, I assure you,” he says, rushed and appalled. “We’re providing shelter and food to those whose homes are destroyed in these attacks—one of the priests knows a touch of medicine.”

“That’s all?”

“We’re doing what we can. But if your vitriol against us undermines our efforts, the next pastor or priest that comes here may not even be doing those things. And he may be a lot more inclined to, as you say, move against you.”

“But you’re not,” Trevor says, blunt ended like it isn’t a question. “Why?”

The pastor looks down for a moment, sets his hand on the bannister of the gazebo. When he looks up again, there’s a pall of broken, disillusioned youth on his face, an echo of what Trevor remembers in those early years of discovering just how thoroughly the world had turned against him. On this man’s face, it is startling, jarring.

“I grew up here,” he says, and how old is he, anyway? Thirty, thirty-five? “I remember the time before and I remember the time after. It felt safer, after. It was not actually safer. Creatures still ran rampant in the night; black magic still crept its poisonous way across the landscape. Some claimed it was because your family was not eradicated thoroughly enough. But that was laughable. There was only a boy left—a child. You?”

Trevor nods, short and tight.

“I am a man of God,” the pastor says, bringing his hands back together in front of himself, a loose clasp. “I have faith in things that man cannot hope to understand, and I trust God’s plan. Blindly, perhaps. But contrary to what some people might say in the aftermath of Târgoviște—that does not make me a fool. I know what happened in the spring, up on that hillside where your home once stood, and I know what happened in the town square three nights ago. Anyone who could have watched that and not understood what they were seeing—well, perhaps they ought to pray to God for help with their vision.”

For a moment, that just sits there. The words read almost scripted, designed to appeal to them, to play to their egos. But it doesn’t feel scripted.

“So,” Adrian says, voice cool and tense, “you’ll refrain from violently persecuting us as long as we don’t stir the town against you.”

“Or start summoning demons,” the man says, with a tip of his head to one side, the faintest of smiles. “Though I don’t expect that’s on your agenda.”

Trevor can’t help but laugh then, a low sound of amused disbelief. “You people and your demon summoning. Do you not realize how bloody impossible that is? It took Dracula a year to get his army together; you think ordinary people can just summon them up over the weekend for fun?”

A stretch of silence then. Adrian looks like he wants to say something but also doesn’t want to. The pastor is just looking at him, a little more worried than before.

“You’re… missing the point, Trevor,” Sypha says, cautious.

“We’re not going to summon any demons,” Trevor says, rolling his eyes, because fine, okay, they want his word, they’ve got it. “Okay? Deal.” His expression darkens then, drawing in. “But if you’re playing us...”

“I’m not. I swear it on my faith.”

“If you’re playing us,” Trevor continues, “Then I hope that faith is strong, because God help you.”

* *

They make their excuses. They go back to the market, poke around, buy a few things. There are no chickens, because they take up too much space, but the woman who usually sells them promises she will have them here by next market day.

They get a few sour looks. A few children clutched away from them in fear. But there are just as many quiet words of thanks and subdued, awe-filled stares. A woman and a small child, the ones they saved from their hiding place in the square three days ago, walk up to them without hesitation; the child has a wrinkled sheet of paper in her hand, on which she’s scrawled a fairly decent—for a three year old—rendition of herself and her mother, sitting on the ground, loomed over by an abstract squiggle of black that can only be a night creature. A figure far less detailed than herself or her mother is attacking it with a stick that is probably actually a sword.

Not that he hasn’t taken on demons with little more than a pointed stick, once upon a time.

“Thank you,” Trevor says to her, serious as he would to any adult, kneeling down to her level to accept it; she gets shy then, tangling herself in her mother’s skirts. “It’s lovely.”

* *

The walk back from Acasă feels light, expansive. The unseasonal warm weather makes it feel like months ago, after the troubles they never expected to survive but before these recent events were set in motion, before everyday, not-saving-the-world life got so complicated and twisted up and real. The future had seemed so foolishly wide open and limitless then, and Trevor supposes that it still does. It's just going to take some careful maneuvering, some willingness to meet these things head on. So there are weird messages left by probably-vampires in the woods and shaky, uncertain relations with an entire town sitting within spitting distance and some bizarre business with the monster in the town, the one that’d seemed specifically designed to stymie a Belmont—and all the hovering threats still lurking further out, far enough out that Trevor can't really feel the shape of them. So what? They've dealt with worse, and he still has a home to rebuild and a legacy to mend up and people he loves like he's never loved anyone, and there are still parts of the castle that need cleaning and repairing—because the castle will never really be clean, never truly be whole, but there’s a catharsis in trying anyway.

He thinks about traversing the axle of those giant gears under Greşit, arms out to his sides because three points define a pivot, and he knows: it's about balance.

They wind up down at the stream, aimless and strangely unburdened. The current’s level is low, like it always is in the autumn, the high mountain peaks starting to lock up some of its water in ice and snow. There's no mistaking how late in the season it's become; the light is sharp and warm yellow, casting their shadows against the browning grass with a razor-edged finality. The red of his half-cape is unnaturally bright in the pre-sunset light, blown out and luminous.

It is warm, though, almost as warm as a summer evening, and it feels completely natural to settle down on the edge of the stream, Sypha toeing off her sandals and letting her feet dip into the rushing water. But if the air’s warm the water is still cold; she hisses between her teeth, flinching back instinctively before consciously overriding it, pushing her feet firmly under the surface. Her face is screwed up in a rictus of concentration and focus, and it’s hilarious.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she scolds, and that’s the only way Trevor knows he has such a stupid, amused grin on his face. She looks at him slyly, now that she’s seemingly adjusted to the shock. "I would very much like to see you do that without flinching."

"That sounds like a challenge," Adrian intones. He's already kicking lightly at the water with his boots still on, and it's on the tip of Trevor's tongue to accuse the man of cheating but he's... honestly not sure about the running water thing, whether it can actually do any damage, and it might start an argument that he isn’t really in the mood for right now.

Which means: he has to accept Sypha’s dare. "Fine," he says, grousing theatrically. He pulls a boot off, tosses it over his shoulder, reaches for the other one, strips off the slightly holey socks. "Overheated in all this gear anyway."

He pauses for a second with his feet above the water, takes a breath, and plunges them in and oh holy shitfucking christ on a bastard orange milkcow it's cold. But he doesn't flinch back. He doesn't. He exhales through his teeth, slow and measured—breathes through the awful feeling of his feet going literally white from the cold.

A slow clap from Sypha’s other side, Adrian being his usual arsehole self, and Sypha laughs and hangs off of his shoulder while he shivers, and the comfortable familiarity of it is warming enough that he—well, no, he notices the chill. It’s got teeth. But it’s just that little bit more tolerable, for their company.

* *

They stay down by the water until the sun disappears over the western horizon, taking with it the last of the day’s strange warmth and leaving space for the cool tendrils of night to wind their way in. They’ve all pulled their feet from the water, one-up-manship given way to the realities of the season, and in the twilight shadows, Sypha looks like a tree nymph—green plumes of plaited grass are stuck in her hair and behind her ears at every imaginable angle. The disguise is courtesy of Adrian’s restless fiddling with the long, soft grass that’s still alive and thriving down here by the waterline, a mindless habit they’ve seen him at before, in the garden and even in the baths, playing with the damp ends of his own hair.

It feels like the kind of thing Trevor would have teased him about, before—what kind of warrior-scholar son of the most powerful monster in the world knows how to braid?—but he can guess at the answer now and bringing it up would be its own kind of cruelty. He just leans back on his hands instead, chewing idly on a blade of the same grass, leaving them to their greenery and silliness. The season’s last fireflies are starting to come out, weaving in and out of the blades of grass like tiny, restless spirits; they’ve all earned the luxury of a little bit of whimsy, at this point.

That said, there is something more serious he has to attend to, here. He waits until their amusement spends itself, until they’re as quiet as he is, as quiet as the dusk is, the whole world silently breathing itself.

“So,” Trevor says, interrupting that tidal quiet. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Adrian says, knee-jerk, and Trevor can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Trevor says; he chuckles warmly. “We done?”

“Mm. Yes. Go ahead.”

Instead of continuing with words, Trevor reaches to his belt, draws out that Celtic longknife, the theft of which had set so much of this bullshit in motion. He grips it by the sheath, offers it wordlessly across to where Adrian’s sitting.

Sitting, and now also peering back at him with a narrowed, skeptical gaze.  

“Go on,” Trevor says, gesturing with the knife’s hilt.

“That’s consecrated, Trevor,” Sypha says, like she’s worried Trevor might have hit his head.

“Yeah, see,” Trevor says, smirking as he sets the knife back into his own lap, reaching to unhook the whip from his belt. “I have a theory about that. Because this is, too.” He lifts the whip into view, carelessly unspooling one of its loops. “And both times I hit you with it, it didn’t do shit.”

“I would beg to differ. It was exceptionally painful.”

“Well, sure,” Trevor says, shrugging. “It’s a whip. It’s meant to hurt like hell. But it didn’t burn you, or set you on fire, or do anything that a completely ordinary whip wouldn’t have done.”

He dangles the loose length of the whip between them, an unspoken dare. “So I have to ask, Adrian Țepeș. Have you just been assuming, or have you actually touched a blessed object, or holy water, or anything like that?”

A long, irritated sigh. “No. I haven’t. It seemed like a fair assumption, and not something worth experimenting with.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound very scientific to me.”

A long, charged moment, the challenge fairly humming in the air between them. And it looks like Sypha’s about to intervene, to push the whip back to Trevor and stop this nonsense before someone gets hurt. Then Adrian reaches out, lightning quick, and grasps the dangling bit of woven leather tentatively, like someone might grab at the handle of a fire iron that might be blistering. Ready to release again in an instant.

He holds fast instead, and Trevor catches himself holding his breath—but there’s no smell of burning skin, no wisps of smoke rising from the dhampir’s fist.

“See?” Trevor gloats, exhaling hard on a broken laugh. “I knew it. Nobody’s born damned.”

Sypha frowns. “I thought everyone was born damned, according to the church.”

“Well, sure,” Trevor says, shrugging. “If you buy that. But not damned enough to catch fire from holy water, or baptisms would be nothing but Sunday morning baby roasts.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing,” Adrian says, clearly fascinated by this turn of events to the point that he doesn’t even register Trevor’s smugness or the talk of burning infants. “It’s sort of… tingling? Humming, almost.”

Huh. That’s… interesting. That’s how he’d probably describe it too, that feeling he gets picking up anything consecrated—an extra sense, almost, and a gift that’s come down his family line. It’s how they’ve always been able to suss out the truly blessed weapons from the ones that just have a lot of flashy crosses on them or happen to have been found in a church with no other provenance. A natural affinity for the sacred, his father had told him once. A resonance.

“That’s weird,” Trevor says, more to himself than anyone else. He gives the whip a light tug; Adrian drops it, and he winds it back up into its usual tight loops to stash it back on his belt. It’s weird but he’s still managed to prove his point, and that’s what matters. And it’s probably two different effects entirely that they just happen to be describing in the same way. Lots of things feel like tingling—resonant energy, sure, but also something putting a pathetic, lackluster effort into burning the unholy flesh from your bones. “Anyway. Here,” he says, offering the knife again.

This time, Adrian takes it, and just like with the whip: no fire, no flinching away. “Why?”

“Couple of reasons.” When Trevor said he’d been thinking, he hadn’t been making that up. He enumerates them on his fingers. “One, we’ve got this unknown threat that, let’s be realistic here, is probably more fucking vampires. And Carmilla and all the rest of them are still out there, and they will not expect you to be carrying something like this. Probably don’t think you can, just like you didn’t. Two, it’s easier to conceal than the sword, so you won’t have to go unarmed ever, really. Three, it almost killed you, which as far as I’m concerned, gives you first right to claim it.”

“Four,” Sypha chimes in, “it is technically already yours, as it was in the hold when Trevor bequeathed it to you.”

“Four,” Trevor continues, shooting her a glare. “It started out with one friend of the family—I think it’s only right it end up with another.”

He trails off after that, suddenly captivated as Adrian turns the knife in his hand, admiring the pewter detail work on the crossguard. “Only four reasons?” he asks, a light tease. “You said you’d been thinking; I was expecting more than that.”

“Okay, fine,” Trevor says, rolling his eyes. “Five: You’ve got two fucking hands, start using them both.”

“...I was never actually trained to do that,” Adrian says, holding his left hand up as if it were a puzzle. “My weapons schooling was extremely… traditional.”

“It’s not as hard as it looks.” Trevor sets his chin on his fist, watching with unmasked appreciation as Adrian pulls the blade free from the sheath and finds his grip on it, turning it in the fading light. He’d spent hours cleaning the thing, scouring away every speck of the blood that’d been burned onto its silvered surface, and it’d been worth it; it’s a thing of beauty. Perfectly suited to its wielder. “I’ll show you some things. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

“Easy for you to say,” Adrian muses, “being ambidextrous.”

“He is, isn’t he?” asks Sypha.

“I’m what the hell now?” asks Trevor, feeling vaguely concerned and more than vaguely insulted.

Sypha giggles, damn her. “It just means that you can use both hands equally well. Which now that I think about it, makes sense of some things I’ve seen you do.”

Pft. Trevor throws his spitballed piece of grass at Adrian. “You couldn’t just say that? Had to use some fancy word just to watch me get confused.”

“It’s the correct word for…” Adrian trails off, pulling the wad of grass from his hair. He flicks it away, vaguely disgusted, wipes his fingers on the trailing edge of his shirt—but he’s shaking his head, grinning despite himself. “...never mind. Thank you. I’ll do my best to put it to good use.”

“I know your type,” Trevor teases. “You’ll be better than me in an hour and still bitching about how poorly you think you’re doing.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Adrian says, sheathing the knife, wordlessly hooking it to his spare weapon belt. After a moment, guarded: “Friend of the family?”

Trevor laughs then, the tension finally broken. “Hey, as far as I’m concerned, you two are the only family I’ve got. But if,” he says, carefully emphasizing the if, because this is going to be presumptuous as fuck, otherwise. “If there are ever any more Belmonts, down the line—then yeah, I hope they can count on you being a friend.”

“Always,” Adrian breathes, with no hesitation. He offers his hand out, palm up in invitation; Sypha’s settles into it, and Trevor wraps his around both of them, and for the first time in his life, the future doesn’t look so scary—not just the next few years or decades, but the real future, the time he won’t be here to see but nevertheless knows, now, will be well taken care of.

* *

So they get up, after a while, and they walk the bank a ways, a stalling tactic to not have to end the night just yet. There are fruit trees lining shores of the stream, fat and heavy with the over-ripe remains of the season’s yield, and so the air is oversweet in that autumn-rot sort of way. It brings fallen leaves and wood fairies and bonfires to mind; It’s exactly the sort of night that lends itself to overthinking and ruminating and indulging ideas and thoughts that are so easily set aside in the light of day. It’s easy to get too hopeful, to get overambitious, on a night like this.

“…So,” Trevor says, after a prolonged stretch of silence. “I know that between the house and the castle, we’ve got a lot of projects already, and a bunch of other shit to worry about besides, but… I also want to fix the bestiary.” He’s trying to bring it up casually, not make it sound like some profound thing, because the weight it already has in present company is obvious. “It needs it.”

“Yes, it could use some editing,” Sypha says, traced with light sarcasm. “I could not believe the things it had to say about manticores!”

That throws his entire line of thought into a crooked spin; Trevor stops walking, looks to Sypha, searching for the joke, hoping for a punchline.

There’s nothing. She just looks back at him curiously, as if she’s said the most normal thing in the world and he’s the one being weird.

“What… do you know of manticores?” Adrian asks, and thank goodness; Trevor wasn’t keen on admitting that he’d never actually seen one of the things, nor had any other Belmonts in at least a few generations.

She smiles, and it’s the look of fond memory, of nostalgia. Starts walking again, forcing them to follow. “That they are much smaller than the book says���no larger than a farm cat. That they mostly eat cabbage and whatever other greenery they can find, not… babies, or dogs, or whatever else it says in there. And that they are attracted to magic users.”

“You’ve seen one,” Trevor says, because at this point it’s clearly not a question.

“I had one as a… companion, growing up,” she says. “Though I was not allowed to let the rest of the tribe see him.”

“What was its name?” Adrian asks, clearly thinking along the same lines as Trevor because if she is making this up to bait them, she won’t have a name ready—

“Kitty,” she says, without hesitating, and oh god, whether she’s making this up or not it’s too much, it’s too good.

“What?” she asks, as Trevor doesn’t even attempt to cover his laughter. “I was five, five-year-olds are not creative!”

“Apparently not,” Adrian says, aiming for sarcasm but Trevor can see the way he’s smiling out of one half of his mouth, trying to hide it.

Sypha crosses her arms in a mock huff, continues that way for a few seconds before all of them lose it, giggling in the dark like children.

“...anyway,” Trevor gets out, finally. “I’m not talking about making edits. I’m talking about redoing it completely. From scratch.” A pause, to let the scale of the task set in. “And I want the two of you to help.”

No reply, at first. The space around Adrian vibrates with a different energy now, though. Not angry. Guarded. “That will take a while,” he says, voice just as carefully under control. “Pet manticores aside, there are a lot of entries to correct.”

Trevor nods, kicking idly at a stone in the grass. “Yeah. There really are.” Something occurs to him then, something he hasn’t thought of until this moment; it was all in the way Adrian stiffened when he said the word, Bestiary. “Was also thinking about changing the name.”

“To something that doesn’t imply mindless monstrosity in everything contained between its covers?”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

“Your ancestors wouldn’t approve.”

Says the half-vampire son of Dracula that I gave the entire Belmont hold to. “I can’t honestly think of the last thing I’ve done that they would have approved of.”

Quiet for a moment, as they walk; the wind is picking up, and he can just about hear the gears turning in Adrian’s head.

“‘The Big Belmont Book of Things that Go Bump in the Night’, Adrian finally says, all profound seriousness, like it’s an actual suggestion.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “What is this, a book for kids?”

“Given what I’ve seen of Belmonts so far, very possibly.”

“How about ‘The Book of Monsters with Too Much Fucking Sass’. It’d be a short volume, though. Only one entry.”

“An Idiot’s Guide to—”

“The Belmont Family Compendium of Species,” Sypha says, sharp, cutting Adrian off.

And… actually, huh. That’s pretty good. Neutral, kind of boring, but scholarly sounding. Like it takes itself seriously. “That works,” Trevor says, looking to Adrian for his vote of approval.

“Why are you looking at me?”

Trevor shrugs, exaggerated. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe because all our names are going on the nameplate, so they should be under a title we agree on.”

Adrian just looks at him for a long moment; it seems like what Trevor’s suggesting is finally sinking in. A Țepeș, on the authorship page of a Belmont tome. A definitive version, even, that will hold up and be in use for a very long time. The legacy of an entire dynasty of supernatural hunters boiled down to accurate, useful knowledge, and him with a hand in it.

“What do you need each of us to do?” Adrian asks, in lieu of a proper reply.

Trevor smirks a little; he knew Adrian would be on board, once he got the whole picture. “I can handle the general information—the stuff hunters need to know. Sypha, do you think you can do something from a magician’s angle? Powers, weaknesses, what spells to have on hand, that sort of thing?”

She laughs. “You know that I can.”

He rolls his eyes. “Then will—”

“And the argument could be made that you also know that I will.”

“Fine, never mind, I’ll just be rude and take your help for granted. Adrian?”

“Mm?”

“Any scientific shit you know would be a good addition to the text, though obviously a lot of these things follow their own rules. But what we really need is an artist. A good one. You’ve seen the kind of work it’ll need to stand up to.” Trevor clamps a hand onto Adrian’s shoulder, jostles him playfully. “Know anyone?”

And Adrian just laughs, face turned down to his boots. It’s more than a little self-deprecating. “If you’re trying to get me to flatter myself, it won’t work. I’d sooner let Sypha fill your book with stick figures.”

And, oh. Oh, wow. That would be—Sypha is good at many things, but—

“There is charm,” Sypha says, a touch defensive, “in simplicity.”

“Perhaps in the same way a child’s drawings are charming.”

“Since when are you the rude one—”

“Fine, then I’ll flatter you,” Trevor interrupts, in a tone he hopes conveys This is galling even though really, it isn’t. “I’ve seen the shit you draw; you’re actually pretty damn good, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have illustrating this thing. There. Good enough, or do I need to actually beg?”

Adrian just nods, quiet enveloping him again. He’s smiling faintly for appearances, but he’s still off, and it’s not just because he’s a sensitive artiste.

Trevor nudges him with his hip, a questioning sort of Hey, you okay over there?

The question, when it comes, sounds haunted. “Are you intending to reproduce all of the entries in the previous book?”

Ah. Right. That issue; he’s a little surprised it’s taken this long to come up. It’s the kind of thing that would really benefit from a delicate touch, which is definitely not Trevor’s strong suit, so: bluntness instead. “I’ll be honest, I’m in favor of keeping it complete. The book’s meant to be useful, and it’s not like every dhampir is as good a person as you are. But I figured I’d leave it up to you. Do you want that entry to be in it? If it is,” he adds quickly, “you’d be completely in charge of it, beginning to end.”

The night isn’t silent; the stream is rushing over rocks noisily, and there are evening birds calling somewhere nearby, and crickets singing away in the brush. Even their steps through the grass make sound, a quiet rustling. But it feels like silence, deep and endless, as Adrian contemplates.

“If we leave it out,” Adrian says finally, “then the final word on the subject will be that horrific entry in the previous book. I think I would rather correct that misinformation.” He looks at Trevor, raises an eyebrow, somehow a visible gesture despite the darkness. “On one condition.”

“Oh, no,” Trevor says, dry. “I feel my virtue being threatened.”

That earns laughs from Sypha, a more surprising one from Adrian, subdued as it is. He shakes his head again, a gesture that says Belmont, you are ridiculous and awful. “The condition,” he continues onward, “is that we also include an entry on humans.”

Huh. Trevor gives it a few seconds’ thought. It’s a strange suggestion—the whole point of the book is to give humans the information they need to fight all the other creatures of the world, and even if they’re not all mindless beasts, they’re all at least beings with the potential for evil. Beings that can and do hurt people, that kill people.

Sypha looks at him, eyebrow raised in challenge. It’s obvious that she’s in favor.

He thinks about the bishop of Greşit, about the nine-fingered thug and his one-eyed friend, and those slobs in the tavern ready to kill him for his name and the mob of people willing to kill the Speakers just for being different—thinks about Sypha’s parents and Adrian’s mother and his own entire family, all the evil men have wrought in just the last few decades. And he shrugs. “Sure. Why not? Humans are fucking troublemakers too. And you probably know more about us than we do.”

“I imagine so, given that you don’t even understand why your own wounds become infected.”

“Yes, I do. The ground is cursed.”

He can just about hear Sypha roll her eyes. “If you got injured rolling around in a churchyard, and the wound still festered, would that be enough to convince you otherwise?”

Trevor smirks; they think they know so much, and maybe about scholarly stuff they do, but this is his territory. “Depends on when the land was consecrated, by who, under what circumstances, and what’s gone on there since. It’s surprisingly easy to desanctify holy ground, if you know how.”

“That,” Adrian says, thoughtful, “sounds like something that should go into the volume we’re putting together.”

“Yeah?” Trevor asks, startling a swarm of crickets out of a tuft of tall grass. “Some sort of… general information chapter, about how all of this stuff works?”

“Section 37B,” Sypha intones, stodgy. “How to enrage God to the point that he damns the land you’re standing on.”

“Magical curses and how to cheat your way out of them,” Adrian adds.

“Salt,” Sypha says, giggling. “Not just tasty on stew!”

“Are we ever,” Trevor moans, “Going to get that chicken you promised?”

“I didn’t promise—"

The path curves here, follows the stream, and they’re passing a particularly laden fruit tree—branches weighted down and drooping with clusters of sweet red pears. Through his laughter, Trevor notices movement out of the corner of his eye.

He sets a hand on Sypha’s wrist, squeezes Adrian’s shoulder. Stop for a second. He squints into the foliage. He’s not getting the sense of anything hostile, really, but these days…

“It’s just a game bird of some kind,” Adrian whispers. “Pheasant, partridge maybe.”

And maybe he should mostly be relieved that their night isn’t being ruined by some stupid fight, but all at once the only thing Trevor is aware of is how roaringly hungry he is; they never did manage dinner, and have spent way too long down here, letting dusk drift into full night. “You know… chicken stew, whatever, but I haven’t had pheasant in ages. Didn’t even realize I missed it until right now. If I had a bow…” He glances at Adrian, significantly. “Or a hunting dog...”

Adrian makes a noise halfway between exasperated laughter and a long-suffering sigh. He’s suddenly encircled by a thick curl of mist, and before Trevor can blink, the weight’s out from under his hand and there’s a huge white wolf stalking carefully toward the tree, its ability to sneak very questionable given the starkness of its fur against the darkened landscape.

There’s a leap, and a mess of leaves and branches flying in all directions, and a short, almost comical chase—but when the wolf comes trotting back over to them, all jaunty self-satisfaction, the heavy forms of not one, but two game birds are dangling from between his teeth.

Turns out they’re partridge after all, not pheasant, but Trevor finds he doesn’t care. Sypha starts them a fire right there in the grass, neatly contained like only magical fire can be, and they roast them up in their own buttery buckwheat-fed fat, pick the bones meticulously, eat and laugh and make dumb jokes at each other’s expense. At one point, Sypha leans in to give Adrian a tender, lingering thank-you kiss, gratitude for fetching dinner, the both of them painted in firelight like something fierce and golden and wild—then looks pointedly at Trevor as if to say, you should say thank you, too.

Trevor does, straddling Adrian’s lap and kissing him until his vision starts to white out, until all he knows is the taste of birdfat and gamey meat threaded through with the tang of his own blood, and the feeling of Adrian’s body pressed spring-tight against his, fingernails digging into his shoulders—that wild, wind-dizzy imbalance of teetering on a dangerous edge. They’re far too exposed, and he knows that, but there’s a primitive part of him, instinct that goes back and back, that just wants to be naked in the moonlight—wants to disappear into the sweet grass with Sypha and let Adrian block out all the stars. Wants to let the sweat and flush of sex warm them against the chilling night and mark this thing between them as something apart from the bland, bullshit horrors of the rest of the world.

It’s around that moment—playing with risky fantasies is fine but it’s time to come up for air anyway—that they all hear a voice calling from far away. It’s distant but it sounds desperate and afraid and maybe even hopeful. Sypha locates the source instantly, pointing off a ways, where a silhouette is approaching through the shadows, flickering lantern in hand. From the north—from Acasă.

Trevor sighs; one day, one day, maybe they won’t have to worry about this, but for now, these people are all parochial to the core at best, spies for the church at worst—until proven otherwise. He detangles himself from Adrian, settles back down in the grass alongside; he can get to his feet with sword and whip in hand faster than most people can even get their hand to their weapon, and honestly, he’s earned a relaxed night.

In the end, he needn’t have worried. The man is unarmed, is looking for them for help, not to cause trouble—something about his grandson being missing, monster this, demon that, blah blah—and so they invite him to sit by the fire with them, and offer him what scraps of the meat are left, and they hear his story.

Because the future is a finicky, tenuous thing, like Adrian’s shitty gearworks under Greşit; it needs constant maintenance and attention. It is built on big moments, the kind of events that shake and shape the world, but it’s built on small ones too: a pan of spice rolls, a garden coming into bloom, a moment of shared, horrific understanding over a long-dead child’s skull. An extra minute or two taken out of life to offer comfort to a terrified grandfather.

These moments, and one more: the tumbling fall of a rusted coin into a well, tipping out of a child’s hand, and the way the splash echoes up from the depths, a reassuring reminder that nothing is bottomless. That it’s only a matter of being willing to go deep enough, to wait long enough for that echo to reach the ears.

And the future is built and shaped and crystallized, up and out and forward and onward, every moment of every day—even this one, right now, faces smeared in partridge fat and illuminated by magical flame as they tell the man: It’ll be all right. It will.

It will be all right.

*

[upkarma3]

Health Benefits Of Using Ceramic Kitchen And Serveware

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When we think of serve ware there are various range of products that can be counted. Serve ware mainly consists of plates, bowls, mugs and all kitchen supplies used for cooking, serving and decorating the food and table. Ceramic serve ware or table ware is a set made up of plates and bowls used at meals. These are all made of ceramic, of different shapes, sizes and colors.

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Can we put ceramic be used in oven or high temperature?

Depends on handle.

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