#Spice Extract Market

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; v

ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴜʟ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪɴʏ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴀᴍᴇ.

word count: 11.2k warnings: canon-typical violence, allusions to past abuse (feyd rautha warning), blood, v light allusions to smut, choking, height difference mentioned (paul is taller), more mommy & daddy issues, nothing else i can think of but always lmk if you see anything notes: okay part five!! yay!! referendum/arraignment is coming v v soon ... also i know that the beginning parts may be boring (i try hard to make them interesting!!) but they're becoming increasingly important to the plot so just letting u all know!! feedback very much appreciated :) series masterlist

Houses Prepare to Assemble for Landsraad Council:

Next week's Space Trade Referendum, set to take place on the capital planet of Kaitain, will see the great houses Major and Minor deciding on crucial galactic matters, foremost among them the future of space trade routes.

Following these decisions will be the proposals to establish standardized protocols for resource extraction and deposit of space debris; as well as the final arraignment in the trial of House Bourbon and their case against House Harkonnen. 

Expected on the agenda is the recent and surprising disruptions in Spice supply, which has forced the Spacing Guild to explore alternative fuel sources in preparation for the increased traffic of intergalactic travel for the Referendum. Nexarite and Petroleum have both arisen as proposed substitutes by Guild engineers. Although Nexarite proves to have dimensional warping implications if used at lightspeed, petroleum is still secondary and, similarly to Nexarite, less effective than Melange. 

Pressure has befallen Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, whose governance over the planet Arrakis provides House Harkonnen the most influence in Melange trade; While petroleum may serve as a stopgap measure in the absence of Spice, its inherent limitations underscore the urgent need for a sustainable, long-term solution to the galaxy's Melange consumption. 

Will there be a decision drawn up at this Referendum, or will the scarcity of Spice thrust the market power of these new fuel sources? 

– Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

CASTLE CALADAN HUMS WITH LIFE IN THE EARLY MORNINGS.

Even before the sun rises over the cliffs, before the bright orange and pink haze begins to leak into the sprawling halls and tickle the high wooden beamed ceilings, there is movement. 

Coughs, whispered words, faint laughs. They ebb and flow, the foam of the sea curling along a dewy and sleepy shore; footfalls, approaching and disappearing outside the heavy doors to your chamber. 

Today you dress yourself in thick layers of gauzy Pine – slow and syrupy, mind numb with the languid whispers of memory; A strange way to wake up, gasping in fear with Paul's name turning to ash on your tongue.

A sharp gasp, a glint of crimson – Paul, slumping against you, those mossy eyes fading to gray. Your throat is tight; the scent of the drying lingonberries upon your table sends your stomach churning. 

You’ve left them for days; a favored snack, one you’ve enjoyed since childhood. Hestia brought them days ago – you’re not sure how she knew they were from Sabberon, nor why you’ve refused them – or why you protested their departure from your chambers. 

Rotten fruit, your mind hums in some amused way – and your gaze tears from the mirror before you.

Your nameday blade sits untouched upon your boudoir across the room; today you leave your chambers without it, a sick taste upon your tongue as it glints mockingly in the morning light. 

The halls hum with life, though you float through them – for the Strategy Council awaits, and you are not one to keep them as such.

You arrive in the chamber, heart thrumming, mind cast far away from the Referendum, from the arraignment. No – as you walk into the room full of House attendants and members, you think of one thing. 

One thing, one dream, one memory; of a blade plunging into flesh, of eyes turning in eerie familiarity. The gasp of recognition. You think of him.  

And his chair is absent. 

Though your face remains placid, you swallow back the biting inhale of concern that claws up your throat. Paul’s chair is absent. 

Your worries are not eased as you take your seat, nodding numbly along as Duke Leto begins the meeting, avoiding casually as Lady Jessica stares through your skin; and though there is a hushed din of murmurs, it is ceased with the caramel lilt of Duke Leto’s voice. 

“Before we begin, there is a matter of great importance to address,” Duke Leto’s eyes find your own; an intent tone, which brings memories of your own incompetent father to shame. 

“The arraignment of House Bourbon is set for the day following the Space Trade Referendum. It is imperative that we prepare for it accordingly.” 

You blink. It has all but been accepted in your mind that, come next week, you’ll be labeled a criminal in front of the Imperium; and during sleepless nights you've prepared yourself, through painstaking bitter humility, to beg the Atreides to buy your bail in front of the Landsraad Houses. 

You’d not expected to discuss it – and certainly not at a Strategy Council. 

Your hands shake; you clutch them in your lap. Ever since news of the charges levied against your house and the consecutive assassination of your family came, you’ve efficiently ignored the inevitable. But now, it is here. 

You must look it in the eyes. 

You nod, glancing to the empty seat beside Duke Leto. “Yes, my Lord,” you steel yourself with a flare of humiliation at the heavy stares around the war table. Your lips part again, heat floods your cheeks – no words come. 

But Duke Leto gracefully fills the deafening silence, curbing the unwanted attention upon you and commanding it towards himself with a flash of something warm in his eyes. Your stomach curls in something like shame. 

“The council and I have discussed it, and I am fully committed to advocating for your house’s interests during the arraignment on behalf of House Atreides.” He leans, elbows firm upon the table, “I plan to do everything in my power to convince the other houses to see reason and vote in your favor as well.” 

Your brows raise, mind swarming with the warmth of gratitude and the icy stab of fear in your stomach. Given the political complexities surrounding the case, your doubts flicker. 

Your lips puff before you find your voice. “This...could put you in a precarious situation, my lord,” you begin, swallowing around a dry throat, “I appreciate it more than you'd know, but…” 

Your throat stings; and around you, faces that were mere enemies to you weeks ago. All of them, loyal to the end of the House they serve; the House that is claiming you as one of their own, even in the looming presence of what might come. 

You clear your throat. “The Harkonnens are –” you flounder under the scrutiny of attention, and you’re struck with a sudden embarrassment. “Powerful,” you finish dumbly, cheeks hot, heart filled with dread. 

“We understand your concerns my dear,” comes a voice from down the table; Lady Jessica, with lips poised and eyes kind, “But you are a part of our House. We will protect you.” 

A surge of gratitude bursts through your chest as you concede, nodding smally, catching the gaze of Duke Leto before lowering to stare at your curled fists to hide the sting in your eyes. 

“House Bourbon has long been allies of House Atreides,” Gurney Halleck affirms from down the table, “this is a return of the favor.” 

Your voice comes, and it is warm for what might be the first time in a long time. “Thank you,” you breathe, knowing your cheeks are warm still, “Your support means more to my h– to me than I can express.”

You force a smile onto your face, hoping it comes across less as a grimace.

“I cannot speak for the other houses,” Duke Leto admits, “but I worry there may be those who seek to exploit this situation for their own gain. Whatever the outcome, you have the support of House Atreides behind you.”

He has voiced your very own concerns; The great houses are not in your good graces, and you not in theirs. And Harkonnen pockets run deep. 

As the subject is laid in preparation of the upcoming off-world travel, you try your hardest to absorb the information about the Referendum next week; though your mind gnaws at its cage. A small gnat lumbers past your vision, and you blow it off-stream with a gentle breath, watching it flutter towards Paul’s empty seat. 

The council ends after only a few hours – by now the sun has risen in the sky, and your gut has twisted from fear into a sharp, pressing anxiety.

The council is dismissed; You fight off visions of your dream as you rise and bid farewell. 

A pained voice gasps in your ear; labored breathing, a stutter of your name curdled with blood. Feyd-Rautha’s sickly skin glinting in the sharp sunlight. 

Blood spills, and it sounds like rain. 

The hallways are alive.  

You must find Paul. 

IT DOES NOT TAKE ANY SHEER FORCE OF WILL, NOR A MIRACLE, FOR YOUR LUCK TO BE STRUCK.

Duke Leto accompanies you out of the council; and to your surprise, invites you to his own quarters for another meeting.  

It is the first of what is likely many wedding planning sessions; A smaller party in number than the Strategy and War Councils, yet infinitely more intimidating. 

You were never awarded a voice in your wedding plans with Feyd-Rautha; perhaps, in some ways, that is why it never came to pass. Though you haunted the dark halls of Giedi Prime for four long cycles unwed, you are fortunate indeed that he spent those years instead behind the closed doors of war rooms, spice councils, and roaring arenas. 

He was a beast infinitely more loyal to conquest than vows – and, if the matter ever did surface, it was dismissed with the flick of a knife and an insistence that marriage meant little unless you bore him an heir.

And though the taste of power that leaked from the bite of baroness on your tongue was sweet, you knew just as well that it dripped with poison; and you learned to bite your tongue. Not that you ever dreamed of veils or vows – but here you are; and what are you to do when your future is carved by another’s blade? 

And so the pleasant enthusiasm you express, however incredibly minute, goes over well with the Duke; for perhaps he reads the lilt of your eager yes to be some girlish fantasy of gowns and handsome boys. Though truthfully, the verity of your willingness lies in the assurance that Paul could not possibly miss this meeting – lest his parents chastise him like a petulant child. 

You walk the halls to his quarters. The Duke makes for a surprisingly easy interlocutor; you find comfort within his voice, a welcome distraction from the shadows of dread. You even draw out a short huff of laughter from him – after admittance of your interest in learning to pilot a ship, Duke Leto informs you that he himself wished to be a pilot when he was young. 

The Duke’s Study is a more intimate room; a round table with five chairs, two of which are occupied – and the moment you cross the threshold behind Duke Leto, you find what you’ve searched for all morning. 

Paul stands abruptly from the table – a jolt of water spilling from the glass before him, his lips part. Though you are far more focused, dead in pace, upon the alarm swimming within his gaze. 

He must know. 

A curling horror slides through you at the thought, and you hardly blink before Paul has crossed the space towards you, drawing the surprise of both his father and the other person in the study. 

His hair falls unruly; your neck cranes as Paul steps towards you, glare stony as it slips from your visage and lower, as if searching you once more. What you search for rests far away in another wing of the castle, you wish to tell him, it is not here. 

But just then: A blink. A furrowed brow as he flicks his gaze suddenly back up to your own, then to your mouth; and Paul stares at you, nearly bewildered in the tense silence. A sickening thing grows unnamed and unknown in your stomach.

Yet he seems to remember himself; A barely visible shake of his head. “Good morning,” he greets stiffly. It comes breathless and heavy with unspoken urgency, with a gaze struck with alarm.

Your heart stamps into your throat as you greet him back. You must speak – but not now. 

And so Paul guides you tersely – eyes screaming, swimming – towards the table, pushing your chair in and accidentally brushing against the twist of your hairdo as he lowers himself into his own seat. Two pairs of eyes stare in varying degrees of observation as you and Paul settle stiffly, cheeks aflame, hearts racing. 

“Thank you both for joining us. This is our House Administrative Assistant,” he introduces the woman to you; a woman with a strong nose and an accent from the Eastern continent of Caladan. 

You wish indeed that you could be more grounded in the moment, for she draws an interest from you that the subject material cannot; but alas your mind drifts, uncooperative, shielding you from the weight of what this truly is. 

The thought of planning a wedding — your wedding — is dull, distant; for much more pressing is the threat that looms beyond silken ceremonies. 

War brews; economic or perhaps otherwise – and you know far too well who pulls the strings. Sinister, manicured hands which reach into every House, every bed, every bloodline. And you want no part in the role they’ve written for you. 

Or, if his words from last night are true – for Paul.

It’s then your gaze slips to the final empty chair. Of course — it must be for Lady Jessica, who has not attended. You find yourself regretting her absence; for her poise, her loyalty to both House and Sisterhood are, in truth, admirable.

Beside you, Paul has shifted – his fingers trace the curve of the table absently, knee bouncing restlessly underneath. There is some residual relief in your heartbeat now that you have located him; and this very thought draws stubborn hackles upon your back.

You look away from his profile, gaze slipping into the middle distance – when did you start to see yourself on Paul’s side? 

Hardly was it the lunch shared between you, nor the books of your culture kept so diligently at his bedside – you know better than to place your trust in something as futile as kindness.

Was it his candor about his mother – and about the Reverend Mother’s visit? Are you truly so simple as to forget one adversary, when a larger foe emerges more present in the distance; so foolish as to believe that the enemy of your enemy is your friend? 

No.

Perhaps, it’s the dreams.

Not those laced with heat and hunger — those, you insist to your rebellious heated cheeks, are irrelevant. Desire is a weapon, not a weakness. You are not so easily undone.

But it is the other ones that stay with you. The darker ones, that feel more like memory than fantasy.

And just as your thoughts begin to turn, you are pulled from the depths by the accented voice drifting from the table. 

The coordinator launches into plans – gliding over the surface of logistics, a blade over still water. 

You nod along with a placid enough expression as she glides from venues to guest lists to ceremonial rites. And you – a ghost at your own table, drifting just beyond the veil of the present. Beside you, Paul traces the grain of wood with his nail absently. 

An evening affair – elegant and grand, with most of the court and family in attendance. A traditional wedding.

Memories of marbled floors and echoing halls, of feasts and grandeur while flurries of snow pile high and squalls howl outside castle doors; and you are washed with a horrible bout of nostalgia. 

A traditional wedding – a mockery of an idea.

The words come before you can think twice, and they curl around a sharply vicious stare. “Shall we invite my father to walk me down the aisle as well?”

The room stills at your words. 

A horrible thing, the slow stares of three virtual strangers – uncomfortable, tense, discomfited. Duke Leto sits straighter; the woman pursing her lips as words die on her tongue. Paul’s eyes flicker in your peripheral, latching upon the pendant round your neck. And you, alone, a pine in a clearing of skeletal trunks; shivering in the dead of winter. 

Your regret comes instantly. 

In the quiet, you see it too clearly: a body crumpled in the arena, the crack of spine against sand, head flung back. The glint of a crushed signet ring, a snarling wolf coated in slick, black blood. Weak, lifeless.

A puppet with severed strings.

After a thick silence, the coordinator forges through with a hard blink and a clear of her throat as shame curls around your cheeks and flushes over your throat. 

“I would actually like to speak to you on the matter of your family’s traditions, if that is okay,” the coordinator delivers delicately. Images still cling like cobwebs as you snap your gaze to her own: a blood-slick blade, the gasp of a dying breath, brown curls soaked in crimson.

“We’ll be sure to incorporate them into the ceremony as you see fit.”

A slow shame draws your brow, for she doesn’t elaborate, which leaves you little room to feign understanding. Your hands fold tightly against the table, as if to keep yourself from unraveling. Paul’s fingers tap once more against the grain to your right. 

“I must admit,” you start, “I’m not as familiar with my house’s traditions as Paul is.” 

Paul’s gaze meets yours – steady, unreadable until he betrays some glint of amusement. A tilt of his head: I offered you the book, his eyes remind you with a boyish flicker.

Your eyes flash in reply, your embarrassment melting into some unfamiliar warmth: I know.

The corner of his mouth lifts, brief as a candle flicker — gone before it can fully become a smile, lest the idea of one. And yet still, something coils in your stomach.

You look away sharply – across the table, where the Duke’s lips twitch into a quiet, knowing smirk. He’s seen something, read something in the moment; something you didn’t intend.

“Is that right?” the Duke asks his son – and Paul nods, gazing out beyond the treeline of the window, detached and unbothered, though his cheeks have grown pink in the stormy light of morning. 

Duke Leto nods once more, the remainder of his smile bringing heat to your own cheeks. “Whatever rituals you deem appropriate will be incorporated into the ceremony,” he promises, “We're aiming for a date just before the galactic year’s end.” 

His gaze lingers on you, quietly gauging your reaction. You give him none. 

He nods in lieu of your silence. “I believe that concludes things for today. Perhaps the two of you can review Bourbon and Atreides customs and speak with our coordinators once you've agreed on what feels fitting.”

Paul nods with the practiced ease of a well-trained highborn, his eyes flicking to you like a signal. 

You meet his glance, stare unwavering – silent, urgent. You nod once, with a rush of heartbeat in your throat and a buzzing desire to talk without prying ears. 

“Do you still have the book on Bourbon customs?” you ask, voice flat as polished stone; and Paul, if he’s as perceptive as he prides himself to be, will understand what you’re really saying.

“I do,” he answers simply. Behind his stony stare, there are machinations; a strategy forming in his mind. 

“Perhaps we can reconvene after the Referendum,” he offers. “In the meantime, Lady Bourbon and I will review our house traditions and decide what feels most appropriate for the… ceremony.”

A flicker of approval touches the Duke’s features — satisfied, though glinting. Analyzing.

Dismissal follows swiftly, but Paul is already on his feet, striding toward the corridor before you’ve even begun to rise.

The required pleasantries are traded with the coordinator and the Duke, each word a small weight as you glance over your shoulder to the empty threshold; your mind whirs, buzzing to trace the disappearing footsteps out in the hall. 

You move swiftly, shadowing Paul’s retreat with a pace that’s nearly a chase; Your blood thrums, fingers itching for the familiar feel of worn leather. 

Your urgency is buried expertly beneath silk and etiquette, but it thrums below your skin.

“Paul.”

Your voice carries far down the dim hall leading to Paul’s quarters; his tunic is nearly gray in the low light.

“Paul.”

Your footsteps echo off the stone, hard and fast as you try to match his pace – mercifully, he stops, though only just enough for you to catch him.

Your name escapes his mouth edged in urgency and, without pause, he takes your wrist and pulls you with him, deeper into the shadows. 

You nearly stumble after him, off-balance, jarred by the feverish anger so suddenly radiating from him; He’s always been precise, measured – but there is a burn in his eyes now, something wild. Something familiar. 

You hardly make it into his room before he spins on you, voice low and sharp as a blade. 

“It was you.”

There’s a look in him you haven’t seen before – dark, unguarded. You don’t ask for clarification. 

Your nod is solemn, heart clenching. “Yes,” you affirm. Then, after wetting your lips, slowly turning your head, pacing around him in slowly measured steps as he turns in your radius, tracing your movements with his gaze. “And you–” you cut yourself off, wary of the fear stabbing your stomach. 

He barely inclines his head, but the gesture is enough. Your breath catches.

“It was ordinary at first,” he affirms, wide emerald gaze hooked on your own, voice thin with disbelief, and cheeks pink after the word ordinary. “But then we were standing there – and…I felt it.”

He stares you down, jaw tense. You feel sick – and then, his voice comes again. “I know it was you.” 

Before you can react, his hand grips the edge of your robe and yanks it aside – fingers searching, expecting the familiar hilt at your hip. “You used this.”

But where he expects to find the incriminating evidence, there’s nothing. No blade, no sheath, just the quiet press of your skin against fabric.

He stills in a moment of surprise, and you use it to your advantage, catching his wrist and wrenching it away – but you keep him in your grasp, tight and defensive. Charged.

Paul's lips part slightly, confusion clouding the jungled fury that lives in the outskirts of his verdant irises. Eyes roam, hungry and searching – scanning your figure as though the weapon might still be here somewhere.

It takes the moment of hesitation, the look of uncertainty in his visage, for it to hit you. Your stomach drops as you realize it – 

He dreamt that you stabbed him.

Your bewilderment must reflect upon your visage. “Paul. I didn’t–” you begin, voice tight, “I didn’t stab you.”

His eyes shift to the stone wall behind you, sharp breath leaving his nose. His wrist is heavy, warm and sharp in your grasp. His heart races in your grasp, wild and erratic. “You did.”

Your voice comes stubborn, breathless. “No, Paul. He was behind you.”

The room cracks with a strange heat, a static hum in the air between your bodies. As if awoken from a trance, Paul rips his wrist from your grasp and your hand drops to your side, fist curling tight in the absence of his weight.  

“Feyd-Rautha,” your voice is laced with the hackles upon your back, “he had my nameday blade.”

Paul’s brows draw; a devastating scowl, a pout laced with stubborn apprehension. “You stabbed me. I felt you.” He sighs sharply, tongue dipping over his lower lip. “You were with me.”

An urgent fear arises in you, and with the knowledge of fate hanging in the balance in just a week’s time, you have suddenly lost whatever control you had. “–I know I was,” you snap. “But you’re not listening.”

“–Why should I?” His voice breaks the hush of urgency, sharp and cold. 

“I—” You drag your hair from your burning eyes. “Fuck, Paul. I don’t know.”

And you don’t.

But the implications strike, a sharpened blade plunged into the soft side of your stomach.  But it felt so real – not a dream, but a memory. And if what passes between you bleeds into dreams and reality alike… your heart seizes, and a darker fear begins to fester.

Staring up at Paul – who watches you in turn with a heaving chest and wild, fearful eyes – you swallow thickly. Whispers curl in the depths of your mind, at the edges of his irises. 

The fear grows, festers. 

And you pray, silently and without hope, that Feyd-Rautha has been sleeping in dreamless silence. 

Because if he hasn’t – then something far older has already chosen your path.

After a moment, Paul’s voice comes faint, solemn. 

“We can’t trust her.” 

You blink, nodding faintly – he needs not elaborate of whom he speaks. “I know,” you breathe, licking your lips in an anxious tell. Paul’s gaze catches the movement, dropping lower for a moment over your frame. 

You are suddenly aware of the slight chill upon your bare shoulders; the tank-top you wear is breezy without your robe to cover your exposed skin. The material pools lazily around your bent elbows and yet you do not move to pull it up.

“We can’t risk telling her,” Paul murmurs, urgency threading his voice. “If she finds out about the dreams, she’ll never let us pursue Sabberon.”

It catches you off guard – that he’s already done the calculations in his own head, staked claim without needing convincing.

Again, you’re struck by the quiet insistence despite what you tell yourself: that he is not only sharp, but merciful – a future ruler shaped by something perhaps more than just ambition. And a match worthy of, perhaps, more than just circumstance.

You drag a hand down your face ungracefully. “So we just hope she can’t read us?” your voice is bitter, “Paul – that’s nearly impossible.”

He pauses, a shadow settling behind his gaze; unnamed, heavy. “She’ll stop at nothing if we stray from their orders, whatever they may be.” His voice drops low, eyes swimming. “We just…don’t know what we’re doing. Yet.”

Your spine is rigid. Steel lines your voice. “I won’t let them take my planet.” 

You don’t know if you mean the Sisterhood or the Landsraad; or if, in the end, they’re simply the same serpent with two heads. But before he can answer, footsteps fall down the stone corridor. 

The echo of them is short, distant after a moment – but it serves to startle both of your erratic dispositions. 

Paul’s hand grasps your arm swiftly, both bristling like startled hares in a disrupted burrow; Without a word, you together draw back from the doorway, further into the hush of his quarters. 

Near the bedpost, he leans in; you circle him once more. His breath is warm against your skin, your cheeks warm under the sidelong beam of sunlight. 

Paul’s curls hang loose, uncombed, and his eyes are rimmed with sleepless thought: Rumpled, real. Your throat tightens. 

His gaze flits to the table, then back to you. “I think...” he swallows thickly, “I think you need to let my mother train you.”

You blink – the shock lances through you like icewater, sharp and buried deep beneath your ribs. A bitter, disbelieving laugh escapes you.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But somewhere quiet and traitorous within you, you know he does.

Paul’s stare does not leave your visage. “I do. And you know it.” His voice is grave, “Even if we can’t lie to her, we need to know what the Sisterhood wants with these dreams. They mean something, or they wouldn’t keep coming. She wouldn’t keep asking about them.” He whispers your name softly, sternly. “We need to be ready.”

You lift a brow, folding your arms. His gaze breaks to follow your movements before returning sharply to the uptick of your chin. “And if nothing comes of it?”

He searches your face, something flickering in his expression, some exasperation leaking through. “You really think this is all in our heads?” 

There’s a crack of vulnerability in his tone; a leak, a glimpse. Just enough to hear the boy beneath the heir – hoping the terror might be imagined. 

Your sigh is sharp; He takes it for the answer it is.

“You didn’t bring up the Harkonnen petroleum reserves for no reason,” he presses. “Or the materials on Sabberon. The threat is real — and even if it isn’t, the dreams are. That should be enough.”

Sharp, glistening fear flirts with the nerves in your chest. 

“You sound like your mother,” you snap, the words cutting out too quickly. “She clutches at every syllable that comes from the Reverend Mother like it’s gospel.”

His eyes flare, incredulous. “And you were in my dream. Or have you forgotten?” His voice: steel behind silk, boy behind heir.

“Unless we unknowingly drank Spice before bed, that was real.” His sardonic tongue needles at your temper; He’s right, though this merely carves the dread deeper.

Paul was raised under the Sisterhood’s doctrine, you remind yourself; You stare at your betrothed for a moment in the late morning light. 

The curls which hang by his temples, the pout upon his lips, the turn of nose, his sparkling, sharp stare. His chest, rising and falling with the same futile attempt to calm his heartbeat that you mimic. 

A male Bene Gesserit. 

The possibility scratches at the edges of your mind, begging a name; A prophecy. Whispers curl in your mind, but you do not understand them. The shortening of the way, they taunt.

The phrase shivers through you – Ancient, unmoored; You do not know what it means, but the words feel as though they were pressed into your bones long before you were born. 

In a moment of paranoia, you wonder if Jessica had somehow dosed your morning tea – some odd alchemical manipulation; a Spice-laced seduction of the subconscious. 

But even a drug-induced fate feels almost kinder than the truth that haunts your blood, slinking in shadows and whispering through empty, ransacked halls leagues away: that this has always been coming. 

That this path was carved before your ancestors ever drew breath.

“Paul.” You start evenly, brows knitting upward in what you know might reveal a vulnerable expression, the first of any such thing to cross your features in his presence. He drinks it in patiently, eyes boring into your own. 

“This is a bad idea,” you say plainly, grateful – truly grateful – that you can argue with your husband-to-be without threat of a palm across your cheek. That he allows you your voice and, within the last day, even seeks it; even when it cuts. And, in a bristle of defiance, you tilt your head, “why should I trust your judgment?” 

He exhales, a dry scoff. “Why should I trust yours?” His arms cross, a mirror of your own. “You try to kill me in half my dreams.”

Your glare is instant, vicious, and your huff is exasperated. “Well, I haven’t killed you yet, have I?”

His returned look is dry. “I know my house better than anyone. I know my mother better still.” Your glare is hot at the growing resolution in his tone. “So... We train with her. Together. It’s the only way to unearth what they want from us. And Mohaim can’t know.”

You sneer. “You’re naïve if you think she won’t. This is futile.”  

Paul’s jaw ticks; your eyes track the movement. “I’ve spent my life preparing to make choices like this.”

Your voice whips back. “And yet you choose wrong.”

His eyes flash, stooping down towards you. “Watch your tongue.” His voice; low, quiet – a warning laced with silk. “I will be your Duke one day.”

“And I your Duchess,” you retort swiftly, lifting your chin. “That title means little to me, my lord.”

You are close now – so close you can smell the hush of his soap, the warm edge of sweat, of citrus and the forest far across the grounds. His breath is tight, visage angled to take in your molten gaze. He’s nearly regal in his anger; sharp cheekbones, curled locks, shadowed eyes.

“That means little to me, my lady,” he returns, cruel and quick. “You’re here, so you’ll do as I say.”

His eyes are greener than the billowing grass fields outside his window. Something wild coils in you.

You’re mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve. Feyd’s voice, twisted and slick in your mind – and for a sickening moment it morphs. It becomes Paul’s.

Your hand flies without thought. 

A burn of instinct and old scars; You aim to slap him, to strike, to wound, to reclaim your breath.

But he catches you.

Faster than you imagined – his fingers wrap tight around your wrist, stilling your blow an inch from his cheek, hovering with a buzzing heat that makes your heart stop. 

Time freezes – the chimes by the window stir, whispering in the stillness, in the back of your mind. Paul’s nostrils flare, and as the energy in the room shifts, his lips barely move.

“Don’t.”

Not spoken – but threaded into you; It ripples through your spine, turns marrow into ice, turns your limbs into jelly. Not yet refined, not yet absolute – but there, unmistakably. The Voice.

You truly, stupidly fight the urge to obey.

You fight the weight that pushes your hand down, as if you could still strike the boy in front of you despite the way you cannot move your arm.

A trickle of fear rolls down your spine – a whisper.

Power: Real, ancient, terrifying. His.

You knew Jessica trained him, though perhaps you haven’t thoroughly understood what that truly means. 

You linger in limbo, thoughts warring in your mind of what it means to see patterns where others see only dust.

 The Shortening of the Way. It echoes in your blood like prophecy remembered, though you snap from your haze with a sharp inhale and a renewed fury.

You twist your wrist in an attempt to wrench yourself free – though his grasp is resolute, and your other hand comes to shove hard against his chest, sliding your thigh to pin on impact. 

Paul’s spine thuds against the wall beside his bed with a dull knock. A sharp exhale of breath, his grip iron-locked upon your wrist, your fear bubbling into rage. 

Your forearm comes to flatten against his chest, holding him to the wall as his heart thuds fast, uneven beneath your grasp. His eyes are wild, and in their reflection you seethe. 

“Do not ever use the Voice on me again.”

His breath is as wild as your own, and your lip curls. “No man holds power over me,” you spit. “And you are no different.”

His breath changes minutely, but he doesn’t let go. Neither do you. And there you remain, both sucking in air through flared nostrils, two creatures caught mid-transformation, mid-dream; mid-destruction.

His eyes are hooded with shadows you cannot find as he tilts his head to you calmly. Far too calm. 

“It’s not just men you should fear.” His gaze does not waver, though a curl comes across his brow as he shakes his head gently. “Whatever else they are – the Bene Gesserit can give us power.”

The weight of it presses on your ribs; Your fury simmers, but something more weak coils underneath it: dread. Destiny. 

In your faltering heat, Paul snuffs the flame. “After all, you should be used to living with enemies.”

Your jaw sets to snarl, to lash out; but something whispers in your mind – that he is right. You are used to this. The Sisterhood is not your friend, but neither is it wholly your enemy. 

Slowly, your arm drops from across his chest. 

Though your other hand falls, his fingers still clutch your wrist with some leaking wariness – the flicker of fear that if he lets you go, you might drive a hidden blade through his stomach. 

He’s right, you know; to walk blindly into what waits ahead without any attempt at control is a foolish fate. Independence – that stubborn thing that laces the straight line of your spines and tilts your chins high – will not be enough. 

You are not thinking clearly these days – a storm brews, and in its thunder is the promise of the upcoming arraignment. 

Paul still watches you, hackles raised, chest heaving. Eyes wild. His breath is warm against your cheek. Your lips part to speak, but just at the very moment–  

“Paul?”

 The voice is not yours.

It cleaves the silence, a blade through gauze – and you both jolt, heads whipping to the door in tandem, marionettes startled from rest. 

“I’d hoped to speak with you about my absence—” But the words wilt in Lady Jessica’s mouth as she crosses into the threshold. A Houseworker follows behind her, arms cradling a basket of linen, stopping with a short blink. 

Quite immediately, Lady Jessica’s gaze drifts – first to your flushed face, then to Paul’s, then in a horrific series of quick equations in her mind – to the bed so dreadfully close to you.

You can almost see the thoughts rolling through her surprised stare: The heat, blooming thick in the air, a rustle of bedsheets warm from the sudden absence of bodies. 

Your face burns, a wildfire of panic and embarrassment – and your stomach, knotting tight as a sailor’s rope. 

Lady Jessica’s poise is impressive, though a strange color rises to her cheeks – surprise, suspicion, and something stranger still.

Your heart freezes. How much did she hear?

Between you and Paul, a glance unfurls wordless, warlike, and quickly flashing into a shared agreement. The truth is perilous, but the lie is easy; almost comforting in its simplicity. Caught lovers. It is decided in the blink of two pairs of eyes. 

“Forgive me,” Jessica murmurs in her polished steel, “I hadn’t realized—”

Paul at once steps away from the bed with an awkwardly careful grace. “No.” 

You gather your composure like a young bird draws in a broken wing – unease, tilting on uneven feet with a slight flutter. 

A quick breath before Paul's knuckles brush your shoulder; he's adjusting the sleeve of your robe, untwisting it over your shoulder as you hide an unwanted shiver under a glance to his rouged cheeks.

Lady Jessica’s eyes follow the movement with something warm and almost approving; you let out a quiet breath. Good – better to be caught in passion rather than treason. 

“We were just... discussing,” he excuses, “the wedding.” 

The Houseworker has busied herself leaving the basket beside the door, her lips pressed in a tight line. You know how the words will wind their way back to Hestia by this evening, you’re sure of it; your cheeks heat at the thought of the inevitable lies you’ll have to sew to her. 

Jessica’s smile is soft, knowing. “I did not mean to interrupt, truly. My apologies. I can find you later.” 

She turns to leave, and you blink with a short breath, lips moving quick. “No – please, my Lady–” 

She pauses kindly and you fix her with a smile; a tender, paper-thin thing that feels rather alien still after all this time. “I was just leaving,” you assure with a small nod. 

And with your words, with your heart hammering in your chest, quaking with the worry that Lady Jessica had heard much more than she let on – you drift toward Paul soft-footed, swift. 

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you hoist yourself upon the tips of your toes – he stiffens, eyes flaring as if you might unsheath a blade and gift it so sweetly to the flesh between his ribs. 

And perhaps if this were another moment, another day, another life, you'd have giggled at the panic behind his calm visage, at the swirling irritation and bewilderment living behind the mossy banks of his gaze.

But you hardly give it time. 

And as your breath stirs against his cheek, he bends imperceptibly down towards you –  sharp, he is, and he has found your cover at last. 

His hands are fists, but still they come to your hips as your lips hover by his cheekbone. “Find me later,” you whisper, soft as breath.

His curls brush your face as he nods just imperceptively; and so you press a brief kiss to the sharp ridge of his cheek. 

Over his shoulder, Jessica averts her eyes.

And as you pull away, your heart thuds with the hope that the scene is convincing; shy young lovers, stealing a moment. If only it were that simple.

When you turn to leave, there is a slight blush blooming across Paul’s cheekbones. 

A convincing actor, then. 

You offer a quick bow to Jessica before you slip past them, heart in your throat, palms clammy. 

PAUL DOES FIND YOU LATER.

Out in the gardens of Castle Caladan, the season ends with the turn of the year – the plants that bloom are resilient to the less rainy months that come. Paul watches the fatter drops of dew slide from thick corded leaves beside him as he winds his way into the garden. 

Light trickles down from gaps in the clouds, spilling like thin milk over garden stones. His hair catches in a disjointed wind, warmer than cold – Paul walks past petals which close when they should bloom; in the near distance backwards birdsong echoes in the forest. The air tastes faintly of copper and cinnamon. 

He finds you drifting ahead of him, barefoot, your pale dress damp and whispering at your heels. A slow thing; so unlike you to walk with little purpose, syrupy and languid all the same but with less resolution.

He steps closer, though before he can call your name, your body snaps in reaction to his presence behind you.

A creature startled — you turn, pressing him into the hedge with the same force you’d unyieldingly used just this very morning; thorned leaves tickle his neck and Paul’s hands find your form with more instinct than intent. 

One, falling to brace at your hip – the other, sliding to cradle the winged muscle of your shoulder; as your eyes flash into his own, the pad of his thumb presses into the hollow at your throat to stabilize your wrath. 

Though where he expects anger, fear, fury – he finds none.

Your voice comes syrupy and knowing. “I dreamt of you this afternoon,” your voice trickles, thinner than rain. Paul fights a vague uncanny haze, blinking as he watches your humming frame. An odd mood he’s found you in this evening – it serves to wholly unease him. 

“Did you?” he wonders breathlessly.

You lean closer, lips grazing his; there’s no kiss, merely a whisper, and his heart beats at his throat in confusion. He swallows thick, ears humming with lapsed birdsong and an upwards roar of sinking waves in the far distance. 

“In a throne room,” you confirm. The words unfurl, soft petals in the first shy glance of spring; your breath mists upon his neck and his fingers flex just to feel the erratic beat of your heart below his palm. “Spice, glittering in the sand that trailed in through the doors.” 

There is a numb alarm in his chest, though it dissolves with the stroking of your hand. You curl further into him, eyes sharp as a reverence, hungry as a threat. Paul sinks into the thorned hedge, still holding you close despite the unnerving glint in your stare. 

“You were on the throne,” you breathe, “...and I knelt before you.”

His stomach flips; Your hands slide lower.

The alarm is a faint memory now; Paul lets you guide him. Lets you sink, a priestess before some altar, eyes flashing with gold and flicks of strange cerulean hues. 

Paul’s vision swims; velvet, static. Hands trail down his stomach, and his hands grasp a veil he cannot see. 

You speak against him, lips brushing his tunic; Paul’s warmth and confusion grown in a sick tandem. You smile; an omen. 

“I heard it, Paul.” You hum, “But it wasn’t your voice.”

Paul tries to recall what you’re saying – what you’d said before; anything, perhaps, to make sense of your uncharacteristic behavior and why he is not putting a stop to it –but your mouth is warm and you’re humming softly. The garden spins. A moan escapes him, gasping, quiet.

And when you look up, your face is beautiful and wrong, blurred around the edges; a painting submerged in oil. 

Behind you, the garden grows darker, wilder – a glint in the hedges, the glint of a blade behind thorned leaves and a faint glimpse of sickening, pale skin. Above him, the sky is bruised with clouds, and it begins to rain; though the drops seem to rise up from the ground.

Paul opens his mouth to speak, but the taste of cinnamon and copper curls in his throat, and then he’s–

Paul jolts upright, breath caught in his throat like a noose; cold sweat sticks his tunic to his chest, the breeze from the open window chilly. The room is bruised with the dusk-light of a sky about to break open – already, the rain has begun to weep.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice ragged as his head drops back against the pillow, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Water whispers against the yard outside his open window. He must’ve slept for hours – the sun was high when he returned from his lesson with Thufir to his chambers, lying down to rest only for a moment. 

Now, the sea churns and swallows the light – the castle’s wing is quiet and bare. He’s missed supper.

Dragging himself up, Paul stumbles under his shower – frigid water to cool heated skin and a racing, betraying heart; and he stands there, unmoving, as it bites through to his bones. 

And still, the dream clings. The memory clings. 

And the dread remains. 

EVENTUALLY, PAUL RESIGNS TO SEEK YOU IN THE LAND OF THE LUCID.

He emerges from his chambers – shower-freshed and storm-eyed, steadfastly ignoring the whispers of his dream, pacing the corridors in search of any hints of you. 

It’s late; you’re likely finished with lessons by now, perhaps stowed away in your quarters with supper and your stubborn solitude. 

His footsteps carry him to your chambers with a lilt of hesitance; the dream lingers, taunting and mocking – his cheeks remain red as summerberries even when his knock echoes through the corridor.

He calls your name into the still room, when there is no response, eyes cast down in hopes of avoiding any improper sights – tracing instead over the few personal belongings scattered through the chamber. 

“Paul?” 

He rounds the corner to find Hestia, standing beside your modest table. She blinks at him as if he is some apparition, arriving before its haunting hour. 

“Oh,” he says simply, brow twitching upward. “Hi.”

Before her sit two place settings; a crumb stubbornly remaining at the corner of her mouth. She nods at him, eyeing him warily – a waver in her stance, clearly just as thrown off by his presence as he is with hers.  

There is a set for two that she gathers from the table and a flicker of interest curls in his gut. “You’ve been eating together,” he observes, “voluntarily?” 

Her lips press together, brow raising, “Perhaps I like her better than you,” her voice comes with no regard for status between them; a thing Paul quite admires about her, even when she is taking a tone of tease. “She doesn’t sulk nearly as much.” 

His expression must be incredulous – for she laughs shortly, shaking her head as she clears a jar of jam. 

“Well, I guess she just has better reasons to sulk,” Hestia mends, “–And she does it more gracefully.” 

Paul gave her a flat look, though he knows it’s true. “You’ve known her for two weeks.”

“Some people don’t need years to be tolerable.”

A short breath exits through his nose — a growl that’s halfway to a laugh, yet bristled. “Where has she gone?” He wonders, eyes flicking to her own now. 

A smirk grows on her visage, arms crossing. “Who?” 

Paul’s eyes narrow, some odd warmth spreading in his stomach. 

“My betrothed,” he levels, less than placated by the teasing glint in her gaze. 

With a hum, she glances to the lapsed rain, where night covers the misty ground. “She left for the gardens.” 

Paul’s stomach drops in surprise. 

Out your window is a distant view of the rolling sea; far and glinting in moonlight, it is swallowed by marshes and moors of darkened green and whispers of long grass in the shadows of night. Lost in thought, Paul notices after a few moments the odd look in Hestia’s stare. 

“What?” He asks, nearly defensive. 

“It’s a little uncanny, you asking after her like this.” She says bluntly, lifting a brow, “you’ve not exactly been showing her much… gallantry.” 

He fights the twitch of his lips, something shameful curling in his gut. His voice comes out the same, sharp and defensive. “I speak to her.” 

She blinks at the crossing of his arms across his chest, her lips quirking. “Barely.” 

Paul shifts. “I listen to her.” 

Her brows raise incredulously. “When?” 

A retort dies on Paul’s tongue as he scoffs – cheeks grow warm, lips flounder. The night’s sky is speckled and clotted with clouds which draw heavier and low by the minute. 

“Do you plan on pestering me all night, or will you let me leave?” 

A huff falls from her nostrils – an amusement at his exasperation that curls over the bend of her lips and the crow’s feet of her eyes. 

“Depends. Are you going to tell her you came looking?” Her accent, a thing of deep Caladan native heritage, rolls thick off her tongue just as her mother’s. 

His eyes roll to the heavens and back to her. “Why else would I look for her?”

Hestia seems to be enjoying herself. 

“Plenty of reasons,” she flashes a grin, “though, none either of you would admit.”

He lets out a bitter sound and backs toward the door with a parting glare. She’d do well to remember her place; though he’s never once chastised her for speaking her mind before. 

“Hestia,” he grumbles, instead, “do try not to gossip too much before I find her.”

“And you,” she calls sweetly after his retreating figure, cheeky grin bleeding through her lilt, “try not to look so desperate when you do.”

IT DOES NOT HIT PAUL UNTIL HE IS ALREADY TOO DEEP WITHIN THE GARDEN.

He retraces phantom of footsteps past shadows; down hedgerows, damp earth curling into the air, a flicker of lamplight beyond the sprawling walls of green – he was here not hours ago in a dream.

But Paul is awake now; and any warmth that climbs onto his cheeks is quenched with a roll of his eyes towards himself. Coincidences won’t kill him, he reminds himself, but you might. 

You repose against a bench at the center of the garden – wrapped from head to toe in piney gauzed fabric, face bare in the moonlight as you squint up towards the soft mist darkening the sky. 

He calls your name from far enough away; Your gaze finds him slowly, as an owl might watch a mouse meander over a field from her perch. “Paul,” you greet in that rich cadence – whispers of your homeplanet seeping from your tongue. 

He comes to rest beside you; wind threads through the night, a breath from the cliffs that climb higher still than the ones this ancient castle sits upon. The sky clotted with thick dark clouds that rumble gently, heavy with the remnants of rain. 

“I told your mother I will resume my training,” your eyes remain upon the clouds, “I don’t believe she heard anything today.” 

A breath unravels past Paul’s lips as he drags a toe through the moist dirt below. You’re watching him with that look of yours, eyes wide, wise beyond your years. 

“She seemed pleased,” you add, voice drifting like a solemn, faraway lyre. “Suggested I begin after the Referendum.”

Paul knows better than to say I told you so, but it sits smug on the back of his tongue.

He’s not surprised; only days remain before the Houses leave for the Referendum – and your arraignment. It would be trifling to begin training in the looming shadow of such events. 

A cold shadow brushes the back of his neck; the dulling loom of the arraignment. Your eyes catch the low light – and in them, dark and glinting, there is encroached dusk, the glow of the castle windows – a blanketed storm of flurries.

“How do you feel about it?” At his words, you exhale sharply through your nose – that familiar, clipped disdain that leaks through girlish tones of amusement; though tonight, there is none of that.

“You must know how I feel about the Bene Gesserit by now, Paul,” you whisper into the swirling mist of eve; and Paul tilts his head to catch the glossy tresses of hair that slips away from the ornamental wrappings of your clothing. 

“No,” he murmurs, cheeks warm despite the bite of an early spring chill. “The arraignment.”

You, a pine stilled in an ancient forest, shifting only in the breeze as you blink – calculated, measured. There is a ripple in the pool of your masked emotions, and Paul sees it for what it is. 

Fear. 

He knows that very phrase that echoes in your own head as much as in his own at this moment; a silence, punctuated by the whispers of women long past. I must not fear.

But the silence persists, and he does not rush to fill it.

When he does speak, he blinks ahead at the climbing green walls, at the rustle of thick brush and the distant swish of wild grass far off in the nighttime breeze. 

“The Baron is a cruel man,” Paul glances to you, studying the turn of your nose in your profile. “We’ll do everything we can to keep him from swaying the other Houses. And when the time comes…” Your throat bobs only slightly where it disappears in the swaths of fabric, but Paul continues, “We will defend your heritage.”

A slow brush of wind drags your gauzy dress skirt along his calf. A chill brings shivers down his spine. Paul’s voice is a whisper in the soft sway of hedges. 

“We will defend you.” 

And after a breath – a shift, a shake of snow from the petals of a winterbloom – your lips curl into a smile. Soft, elusive; a ghost passing through frost. 

It is a slow thing, one that suits you almost too well. It is a beautiful one. 

“You’re so much like him,” your voice comes oddly reflective; As if speaking through a door not quite open. “Your father.” 

A bloom of pride curls in his stomach – though he doesn’t know why you say it. There is that familiar haunt clouding your eyes as you watch a toad hop lazily from a pond out to the walking stones, a baby upon its back. Paul watches your lips twitch as the small toad holds on to its mother tightly. 

He doesn’t know why you say it, but Paul also doesn’t ask – and as two fingers trace the damp stone beneath him, he realizes a part of him simply doesn’t mind. 

A hush settles between you, and then, quietly: “You’ll be a good Duke.”

From you, it is not some empty praise.

Paul’s chest tightens as your words curl around the mist. There is something here, his mind whispers; perhaps, days ago, he’d think your words were some slithering trick. But for once, he doesn’t bristle or deflect.

His cheeks are warm, and he knows well that he cannot hide the twitch of his own lips. “And you,” his voice is far too soft, “will be a good Duchess.”

You laugh, breathy and laced with disbelief. You do not meet his eyes, and he does not dare push you to – but your cheeks glow even in the faint lamplight through the windows of the castle.

The silence ebbs when you take a deep inhale, voice coming once more hollow and steady. 

“I know House Bourbon holds no true claim over Sabberon anymore,” your nails pick at the loose cut of your gauzy dress absently, lips bitten between breaths, “But it still falls under our sovereignty–” you purse your lips, blinking languidly. “–My sovereignty, by decree,” you mend with a glow upon your cheeks again. His heart cinches. 

Hedges sway slowly across the way, listening as if your words are being pulled out from some cavernous place within you.

“When I lose it next week,” you continue, so sure in the future that it blends and obscures in that way that dreams have begun to, “when that decree is rewritten–” Your lips purse, though he sees the tremble beneath.  “It cannot go to the Harkonnens.”

There’s something deadened in your tone, but something burning beneath it, too, as you shake your head towards the cloud-muddled moon high above. 

“They are… unfathomably evil.”

And Paul knows; he does. But he understands, now, that he does not know like you do.

Your fingers graze absently over a faint scar on your hand, spun silky and webbed in the moonlight. 

He has seen the blade that made it; in waking, in dreams. 

He has read the histories, the customs, the barbarism hidden beneath their traditions. 

A nameday knife, meant for a bride of House Harkonnen.

You came to Caladan in a kennel; teeth bared, voice barbed, fury like a hound at your heels. Paul should never have been so childish enough as to blame you for it. 

A beast, you wanted to be seen as – but you are not a beast.

You are difficult. Frightening, often – just as storms, or change. You are frightening, he decides as your eyes meet his in the dark night of spring, but you are not unknowable.

You are just a girl, as he is just a boy; Thrust into the hands of old men and old women and older laws.

And today; the memory curls back into his mind as your toes trace idly along the damp earth in a stunted, unknowing waltz with his own – a memory of warm breath on his cheek, lips pressed against skin. 

A teasing remark over the books by his bed. A joke about Paul’s word choices. A laugh tampered down before it could turn girlish and true. 

A glimpse of someone real; Not a specter, or a strategy, or a title.

You speak before he can come to terms with the realization. “My aunt is the Lady of Ginaz,” you murmur – though it is a fact spoken more to fill space than inform; Paul watches with growing tension in his jaw as your fingers dig along the edge of the stone bench, worrying at the crumbling cracks. 

“On Giedi Prime, her letters were destroyed before I could read them.” You stop with a slight pause. “But I’ve been speaking with her again.” 

Paul says nothing; with you, silence carries more weight than answers, and his head has begun to ache from the waves of fear that tremor through his skull each passing moment. 

“They’ve long remembered their oaths to House Atreides. If we need bodies – projectiles, blades – I could write her. Ask for the Swordmasters.” Your voice carries with the wind – the word blades curls, smoke in the air; you say it far too softly, too familiar. Paul’s nerves dislodge.

You sigh then, nearly a smile – a ghost of a thing which flits across your visage like a leaf stirred by the wind. “We’ll have to invite her to the wedding, of course.”

It is a brittle joke, a poor one, but Paul huffs a quiet laugh nonetheless, lips curled like he’s chewed something bitter. His eyes catch your own. “You looking forward to choosing the flower arrangements?”

You tilt your chin; the moonlight kisses your cheekbone. “I suppose it’s a good thing our house colors are both shades of green,” you muse in that rolling tone, “one less decision to fight over.” 

He huffs smally, “more time to argue over the ribbon for the handfasting.” 

The breeze blows a spray of mist-thick air over Paul’s nose, lashes fluttering in the chill air. Your gaze is upon the hedgerow – the very same one that has swallowed both Paul’s and your stare again and again. 

Your lips purse and then puff out a small breath, “whose tradition is that, yours or mine?” 

Paul’s swallow is thick, a pang of contrition singing in his veins. “Yours.” 

You nod slowly, and Paul suddenly cannot look at you any longer. A deep churn of his stomach catches, and he lowers his gaze to the flowering shrubs along the path in the dim midnight air. 

“When you arrived,” Paul murmurs, “I was cruel to you. Because I knew you were Bene Gesserit.”

You watch him; he can feel your gaze hot upon his profile as he sets his jaw. “How did you know for certain?” You wonder.

His jaw clicks, recalling the cool drop in the back of his mind the moment he saw your veiled figure slink out of the transporter in the rain those weeks ago.

“I just...knew it. When I saw you.” 

If it is significant to you in any way other than disbelief, you do not reveal it in your expression; your stare penetrates, and Paul continues despite the slowly accelerating beat of his heart.

“And I knew what kind of power you could hold over me if it was true.”

You look at him, and it is not a kind expression. “And are you not afraid of that same power, which your mother holds over you?” 

A twitch of irritation, Paul’s jaw ticks – though he does not let you disarm him. He does not answer your question; instead shakes his head, “my mother loves me too much. If she knew we were both dreaming of death, she would not let us go to Sabberon.”

You wipe away one lone raindrop from your thigh and he continues in a slow murmur, “You don't love me. If you were Bene Gesserit, and knew what path the sisterhood intended for me - for us - you wouldn't hesitate to encourage it." He admits, and feels no particular heartbreak at the concept; after all, you hardly know each other. 

You appear similarly unaffected. “I don't know,” you sigh, “but I'll be Bene Gesserit again soon. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.” You mutter bitterly, voice imbued with regret. 

A curl of your hair ripples in the breeze; His own lashes catch the cold dew of the coming rain.

Your resentment to the idea formulated is clear, and Paul sighs quietly. “I know you don’t think training with her is right,” he murmurs, “but what would you have us do?”

“I don’t know,” you answer sharply, “but it feels like we’re walking straight into a trap.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Paul mutters, the phrase worn; armor that no longer fits.

“I know we don’t,” you insist with crossed arms, “But... what if every good thing we try to build is just another step toward the wrong path?”

It is a thought too many times agonized in his mind; and now, out loud with you, Paul is struck with a miserable foreboding. Something is coming; it stirs in the storm clouds, lurks upon the horizon. He knows you feel it too. 

“So then... we play the hand we’ve been dealt,” he says – stiff. Empty.

Your voice, when it comes, is frost crawling over glass; icy, uncaring. Sharp.

“But that's so easy for you to say.”

Paul’s gaze snaps to yours, a curl of heat in his chest at your tone – your eyes blaze with some spitting condescension and your lips curl around the words that come next. “It’s all means to your end, isn’t it. Aren’t I?” You scoff, “You were never meant to suffer for this. You were groomed for it. Studied for it. Taught secrets that should’ve been forbidden.”

A long-awaited reaction; from the very moment Paul told you he’s trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit, he has awaited the moment that festering seed of mistrust would bloom – yes, the accusation is not new, but it still stings. You do not truly trust him. 

He has power, he knows; and you remind him of it not because he forgets that he has it, but because you never can.

And despite how your words are received unobjected to him, despite the truth in your argument – you, too, are highborn. And you, too, speak as though in some ways, the Sisterhood has already claimed you, throat and hands and soul alike. 

Paul was meant for something. So were you. 

He wonders, suddenly, if you know more of the odd prophecy whispered behind doors shut than he does. One of two candidates, the voice whispers. You have more than one birthright, boy.

Paranoia grows; Paul can imagine your nerves are tender from the upcoming arraignment and the fear of the trade war impending. He, too, faces the silky webs of despair in the quiet moments within his mind. But there is pride laced into Paul’s heart. And where there is pride, it can be wounded.

Paul’s voice is sharp – the last knife in the drawer.

“I don’t know why you pretend to know me.”

You don’t flinch. Your voice is small, but it is ice. It cuts cleaner than any knife could.

“Me neither.”

There is nothing left to say; in three days, the House will leave for the Space Trade Referendum, and you will accompany him and the representatives to Kaitain. Only a few days after, you will be representing your own House for the final arraignment. There is nothing to do now but wait.

You don’t look at him any longer; your nails trace along the cracks in the stone, jaw set, eyes shining with wrath. 

He leaves you in the gardens, surrounded in the dark. 

THAT NIGHT, PAUL DREAMS OF YOU AGAIN.

Beneath the Great Pine that cracks and weeps resin, there is a hiss; serpentine, unseen. Below him, you tremble in his hands, buzzing and alive, breath fanning warm against his throat. 

But somewhere beyond that velvet dark, something watches. 

A flicker of silver: a knife, unfamiliar in shape but not in meaning. A pale hand wraps around the hilt. Then, in the midst of some trembling, ground-shattering distraction, your gasp comes; sharp, small, broken.

Visions crash through his mind: a reddened horizon, a warm desert wind; your face, streaked darker than water, washed away by freezing rain. And Sabberon. Always Sabberon.

And then, threaded through it all – a voice. Not yours, not his mother’s, nor the Sisterhood’s.

It coils, smoke through a keyhole: low, sweet, curling, rotted at the root.

“I will never let them keep what is mine, my pet.”

You – pressed half in agony and half in ecstasy at his throat, teeth scraping along his racing and fading heartbeat – do not hear it.

 But Paul does.

And when he wakes with your name in his mouth, the echo of it clings like ash to his teeth, dying on the dry heat of his parched tongue.

I will never let them keep what is mine.

follow @sandpoet for updates & notifs.

[sinkovia]

Yes, Lieutenant: I

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Violence, suggestive themes.

Yes, Lieutenant Masterlist

Under the scorching sun, the team gathered in a huddle as Price provided the final briefing for the mission in Al Mazrah. Intelligence had pinpointed the location of Iván Espiga, Valeria's new right-hand man.

The stakes were high – capturing him was crucial for extracting any information about Valeria's potential hideout following her escape from Alejandro's prison.

As you move swiftly through the labyrinthine streets of Al Mazrah, your eyes flicker over to Alejandro, engaged in small talk with a local vendor.

Vigilant, you keep a watchful eye on his back, prepared for any indication of trouble. The urgency to find Ivan before he slips away from the city fuels every step.

Navigating through the bustling market, you seamlessly blend in with the local populace, your senses attuned to the surroundings. The air is thick with the scents of spices and the murmur of haggling voices.

Alejandro and you find a momentary refuge under an overpass, your eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of Ivan's presence. Amid the ambient sounds, your radio crackles to life, interrupting the tension.

"Bravo 1-1, this is Echo 3-1, how copy?" Alex's voice crackles over the comms, and you glance at Alejandro, your silent communication understanding the urgency in the situation.

"Alex, talk to me. You pick anything up?" Alejandro queries.

"Affirmative. You see that big tower with the bell. It's south, about half a click away from our entry point." you and Alejandro began to move.

"I see it. We are down the street from it. Two minutes. How far are you and Farah?"

"About five minutes. Do not engage, wait for Ghost and Soap to rendezvous."

"Copy, out."

As you approached Ivan's supposed safe house, the atmosphere grew tense. Guards were everywhere, and infiltrating without being seen would be a challenge. Taking cover behind crumbling walls and rusty vehicles on the side of the safe house, you instinctively took the safety off your weapon, ready for any unexpected confrontation. 

In the distance, a faint whistle caught your attention, and you saw Soap with Ghost following closely behind, both crouched behind some barrels. Glancing around the perimeter, you signaled to them that it was safe to cross over and join you.

Soap approached your side, speaking softly. "Aye there, lass. Are Alex and Farah here yet?" 

You turned to Soap and nodded your head. "They mentioned they were slightly behind the rest of us. They're probably still making their way over," you replied, noticing Ghost crouched behind you, his gaze fixed upon you. 

Despite his hunched position, his dominating presence was evident, his towering figure, broad shoulders, and muscular frame drawing your attention. As you held Ghost's gaze, his brown eyes burned a hole through you. Even in the midst of tension, he exuded a calm demeanor that caught you off guard.

A deafening explosion rocked the air, ripping you from your thoughts. Peering over the wall, you witnessed the front gate of the safehouse blown up, and men in civilian clothing rushing through the debris. The chaotic scene sparked questions – was the safe house under attack by a rival gang?

Gunfire erupted from every direction as bullets whizzed past, kicking up dust and debris. The team ran for better cover behind the safe house, adrenaline surging through your veins. Ghost turned around, and all attention focused on him.

"This is our only chance to infiltrate while we still can before Ivan catches wind and leaves. Soap, I want you to breach the back door so we have a way in. Alejandro and I will clear the first floor, Y/N and Soap will find the stairs and clear the second."

Soap quickly planted and detonated the door, the team moving in unison. Bullets found their marks, dropping cartel members one by one. With the path clear, you and Soap advanced towards the stairs, leaving Ghost and Alejandro to handle their assignments.

Slowly ascending the stairs, you and Soap took out a few enemies, clearing each room systematically. As you opened another door, a man lunged from behind, slicing your arm. Reacting quickly, you slammed the door against him, sending him sprawling back into the room. Soap entered from the room across, pointing his gun at Ivan.

"It's over, Ivan, we have you like a cornered rat," Soap's Scottish accent cut through the tense atmosphere.

While Soap remained oblivious, you noticed Ivan's hand slowly reaching for something next to him. Your eyes zeroed in on a small pocket knife, just inches from his grasp.

Acting swiftly, you grabbed a throwing knife and aimed for his hand. The knife went through his hand and embedded itself in the floorboard below, incapacitating him from reaching the weapon. Ivan screamed in pain, unleashing a string of curses.

"Ahora sabes cómo se siente, perra. Mira lo que le hiciste a mi brazo" (Now you know how it feels, bitch. Look at what you did to my arm). You turned your arm to show him the small cut he had inflicted, and he sneered through the pain.

"Eso no es nada comparado con mi maldita mano. Te voy a matar, perra" (That's nothing compared to my fucking hand. I'll fucking kill you, bitch). You laughed as you retrieved handcuffs from your vest and secured them on his wrists. Rendezvousing with Ghost and Alejandro downstairs, Ghost noticed your arm.

"You alright sergeant?" you look at him a bit confused before you realize he's talking about your arm.

"Oh yeah, it's just a graze L.t I'm good" You hold eye contact for a couple of seconds before breaking away to walk outside through the back door you breached. You all made it back safely to the exfil where Price was waiting.

The mission in Las Almas spanned three days, and you are eagerly anticipating a much-needed shower. After checking your weapons back in, you make your way to your room to get a change of clothes and your shower bag. You head towards your personal shower, turning the knob you wait for it to warm up. However, after running cold water for about five minutes, you curse to yourself.

"The hot water probably isn't working on this side of the base"

For fucks sake. With a sigh, you collect your belongings and navigate your way toward the communal showers. It's 3 am, so fortunately, the area is pretty empty with everyone else heading to bed or watching the interrogation with Ivan. As you turn on the water, you shed your clothes, allowing the warm cascade to envelop your body. The sensation of scrubbing and lathering your hair fills your senses, the fragrance of your shampoo adding a refreshing touch.

Lost in your own thoughts, your peace is abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone entering the shower area. The walls dividing each shower stall aren't particularly tall, granting you a clear view over the top. Curiosity piques, and you cautiously peek your head over the wall, spotting the familiar sight of a Ghost mask.

"Im guessing your shower was cold too huh?" you remark, turning back around to rinse the shampoo from your head.

"Shit was colder than the motherland" he states in his brooding voice, eliciting a laugh from you. Ghost's rare sense of humor always brought a welcome respite from his typically solemn demeanor.

"How's the arm?"

"It was nothing, won't even leave a scar" he hums in response. Both of you shower in silence, and as you turn off the water, Ghost does the same. Reaching out to grab your towel, you realize with a mental curse that you left it behind in your bathroom.

Frustrated, you turn to Ghost, "Hey, Ghost, could you do me a favor? I left my towel in my bathroom. Would you mind getting one for me from the cabinet?"

He steps out of his shower stall, only in a towel that dangerously hangs low around his waist. The alluring sight of water droplets cascading down his chiseled chest captures the soft glow of ambient light. Each droplet follows its own path, delicately tracing the contours of his well-defined muscles, only to vanish upon reaching the edge of the towel.

You watch the subtle movement of his muscles beneath his skin as he reaches into the cabinet to grab a towel. Before you can register the intensity of your gaze fixed on his exposed torso, he stands in front of your shower stall, towel in hand.

"And here I thought I was the one with a staring problem," he teases, a blush heating your face as you hastily take the towel without uttering a word.

Oh god, what the fuck is wrong with you. Ghost just caught you staring at him like some hungry ass dog. You mentally let out a string of curses as you begin to dry yourself off. Quickly changing into the fresh clothes you brought; a pair of black sweatpants and a short-sleeved black shirt.

Slipping on your slippers, you step out from the shower stall. You make your way towards the counter adorned with a small mirror. Ghost emerges from his own shower stall, now dressed in a combination of sweatpants and a form-fitting short-sleeved t-shirt.

"I'm sorry for staring earlier, it was rude and I shouldn't have done it" He halts his approach towards the door, diverting his path to stand directly in front of you, his imposing figure towering over your smaller frame. A sense of vulnerability washes over you as you instinctively try to retreat, only to find yourself trapped by the counter.

"Why were you staring?" he asks, taking another step towards you, his hands firmly planted on either side of the counter, effectively caging you. Caught off guard by his question, you struggle to find the right words.

"I, um, I-I don't..." you stumble over your words, flustered by how close he is and the intensity in his gaze as his head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes land on your lips.

"Come on, Sergeant, use your words," he urges, his tone laced with a hint of teasing, igniting a rush of heat to your face. You find yourself at a loss for words, paralyzed by the way Ghost is addressing you.

"I don't know what to say, Lieutenant," you finally exhale, almost in a whisper, lifting your gaze to meet his eyes that meet yours with unwavering intensity.

In a daring move, he raises his hand, his fingertips brushing against your jawline, trailing down to your chin. With gentle yet deliberate force, he cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip.

"Should I help you then sergeant?" he mutters, causing your heart to race within your chest, and your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. 

"Yes," you breathe out, releasing a shaky breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Yes, what, Sergeant?" Ghost's grip on your chin tightens slightly, not enough to cause pain, but enough to assert his dominance in the moment.

"Yes, Lieutenant," you mutter, your cheeks growing warmer at the closeness between the two of you, acutely aware that anyone could enter the showers and catch you in this compromising position.

"Good girl," he utters, his free hand lifting his baklava to rest atop his nose. Before you can fully absorb his features, his lips press against yours. On instinct, your hands rise, one resting on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck to let you deepen the kiss. Bodies entwined in a heated exchange, you both press closer, driven by a ravenous desire for one another.

His hand trails down from your jaw to your throat, giving a gentle pressure that elicits a breathy moan of pleasure. With a sense of urgency, he hoists you up and settles you on the edge of the counter, stepping into the space between your legs, you felt him press against you. 

Whose horse is that?

The friction between you causes a low moan to escape your lips as desire courses through your veins. You've never had sex with anyone before but you know if this is where it's heading, you would let ghost be your first. Your tongues melt together in a frenzied embrace, exchanging kisses that leave you both breathless, gasping for air.

As you part, gazing up at Ghost through hazy eyes, he looks down at you, his gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips, down to your body, and back up again.

Something changes in his expression, his lustful look morphing into the cold, distant gaze he always carries. He releases his hold on you and abruptly pushes himself away from you, turning and leaving the showers without explanation, disappearing into the unknown, and leaving you alone.

[buffetlicious]

If all Zong Zi or Rice Dumplings look the same to you, you’re not alone! Zong Zi (粽子) or Bak Chang are a variety of glutinous rice dumplings traditionally eaten by the Chinese during the Dragon Boat Festival (端午节). Here are six types of popular Zong Zi from various dialect and ethnic groups in Singapore.

Hokkien Rice Dumpling (福建咸肉粽) - One of the most common Zong Zi that can be found in markets and stores, the Hokkien Zong Zi is wrapped in bamboo leaves is recognized by its dark appearance from soy sauce infused rice and distinct aroma from the five-spice seasoning. Usually made with pork belly, salted egg yolk, chestnuts and dried shrimps.

Cantonese Rice Dumpling (广东咸肉粽) - The ingredient that sets Cantonese Zong Zi apart is the filling of mung beans or green beans. One can also order a variation with a salted egg yolk. The glutinous rice is also seasoned with salt and garlic oil instead of soy sauce.

Nyonya Rice Dumpling (娘惹粽) - The Nyonya Zong Zi is the most distinguishable rice dumpling for its bright blue tip that is typically made from the extract of the butterfly pea flower. It is also sweeter in taste and aroma because of its pandan leaf wrapper and candied winter melon.

Teochew Rice Dumpling (潮州粽) - The savoury yet sweet taste of a Teochew Zong Zi comes from various ingredients such as red bean paste or lotus paste, fatty pork belly, earthy mushrooms and dried shrimp. Chestnuts are also added to the dumpling for texture.

Hainanese Rice Dumpling (海南肉粽) - The Hainanese Zong Zi’s most distinctive trait lies in its portion. It is filled with generous chunks of pork belly, whole chestnuts, mushrooms, and seasonings of savoury additions like five-spice powder, dark soy sauce, and black pepper. It is also usually served with a dollop of palm sugar syrup, adding a nice balance of sweetness to its savoury and slightly spicy flavour.

Hakka Rice Dumpling (客家粽) - Steamed in bamboo leaves, the Hakka Zong Zi consists of preserved vegetable filling, juicy pork belly strips and savoury mushrooms. It is also sometimes filled with beans.

Zong Zi info from here and images from Ministry of Culture, Community and Youth.

[herkonular]

SEVENHİLLSSHOPPİNG - MEGA+

Turkish cuisine is famous for its rich flavors and unique combination of spices and ingredients. Turkish cuisine has been influenced by many cultures such as the Ottoman, Middle Eastern and Mediterranean, resulting in a wide variety of dishes and flavors. One of the most popular aspects of Turkish cuisine is its desserts, known for their sweetness and unique texture. Two of the most famous Turkish desserts are baklava and Turkish delight. Baklava is a pastry made from layers of phyllo filled with chopped hazelnuts and honey syrup; Turkish delight, on the other hand, is a sweet, chewy confection made with starch and sugar, often flavored with rose water or other natural extracts. These traditional sweets are widely available in Turkish markets and specialty stores such as Seven Hills Shopping, which offers a wide range of Turkish baklava and other desserts. Turkish cuisine is known for its desserts as well as popular beverages such as herbal teas and Turkish coffee. Herbal tea is made from a variety of natural herbs and flowers such as sage, chamomile and rosehip. This tea is often consumed for its health benefits, including its ability to calm digestion, boost the immune system, and promote relaxation. Turkish coffee is a strong, rich coffee made using a special method of boiling coffee grounds in water and serving it without filtering. Turkish coffee is often served with a small glass of water and Turkish delight, making it a popular and enjoyable social experience. If you want to try traditional Turkish desserts and drinks, there are many options available online. Sultan Bazaar and Grand Bazaar Istanbul are two popular online retailers specializing in Turkish products such as baklava, Turkish delight, herbal tea, and Turkish coffee. These retailers offer a wide range of high-quality products, including mixed baklava flavors, saffron and specialty Turkish products. Hafız Mustafa 1864 Istanbul is another popular brand that offers a wide variety of traditional Turkish desserts, including baklava, Turkish delight and chocolate. Whether you want to pamper yourself with a sweet treat or enjoy a cup of Turkish coffee or herbal tea, there are many options to experience the unique flavors and traditions of Turkish cuisine. You can access the product you want through our website.

[wumblr]

there's this cruel irony of imperialism -- obviously many of them -- and there's a good chance somebody is going to call me either shortsighted, highfalutin, ungrounded, or reaching for saying this, but i've been thinking about the networked effects of extracted resources. first it was spice colonialism, then the spices all turned out to be too aphrodisiac and this eventually led to the industrialization of cornflakes

they used to construct elaborate fictions for conflict minerals, this item is unbelievably valuable and the only appropriate use for it is to commemorate a lifelong, monogamous and reproductive relationship (diamonds). now the conflict mineral (lithium) is an unnecessary substitute for an herb (tobacco) and it has become disposable

the nature and progression of imperialism requires continual growth and this means the conflict minerals can't maintain their value, they turn from precious heirloom jewelry to litter, simply because litter is less rare and so more profitable. first they had to mine the raw metals to build out an electrical grid, and then the materials to build roads and cars, and now that the grid requires baseload batteries parked in your garage we're throwing lithium on the ground. plastics have an irrevocable hold on the market simply because they're petroleum byproducts

cities could never have become as large as they did without the development of firefighting and now the baseload batteries are inextinguishable. progress of ever-smaller fragmentation for profit leads to contradiction. the city cannot move forward without the conflict mineral battery, but it can't put the fire out and it can't stop throwing them away, ostensibly to suppress use of an herb, once medicinal, now an adulterated vice. because adulterating it not only increases the rate of cancer but attributes it to personal choice, which is necessary, because otherwise it would be more attributable to the materials that keep the system running (uranium). it's incredible

the state with the lowest rate of cancer is downwind of the test site, because it's populated by yet another extremist christian wing of imperial progress, so extreme that they don't smoke or drink, because these personal choices have an outsized influence in comparison to the global contamination that the development of the bomb caused. a bit of the money made from the extraction of resources is put towards repayment for citizens of the imperial core, for exposure to the product that created their way of life, but the program expires and nobody cares because they seem to think it didn't affect them

anyway somebody threw a whole clock radio in my garden. i took the battery and now i can't do anything with it unless i want to figure out where to take it to be recycled. holding this blue plastic-wrapped cylinder of fire risk conflict mineral in my little hand and ruminating on it. do you think it traveled further than i have to get to me? i should never have left it sitting next to my keys i've been glancing at it in passing every day for weeks. of course you're not supposed to throw them on the ground, but i've already criticized the abdication of responsibility by corporations for the waste their products become. makes it into another issue of personal choice when they wouldn't have existed if they hadn't been industrialized

[velvetalliances-if]

Provinces within the Valdorith Empire

I have received some asks regarding the other provinces within the empire and so I have created this list of each individual province listed in order of economic power.

Viremont; the royal capital, never sleeps its streets alive with merchants, diplomats, and travelers weaving through sprawling markets beneath towering marble spires. The scent of spice and ink lingers in the air, mixing with the hum of countless voices weaving deals, secrets, and ambitions beneath the empire’s watchful gaze.

Aldercrest; the second oldest province in the empire Aldercrest is steeped in legacy, standing as a monument to tradition, its ancient manors and towering halls whispering of generations past. Ornate stonework bears the marks of centuries old craftsmanship, preserving the pride of its noble bloodline. Here, family and honor are not just virtues, they are a legacy carved into the province itself.

Orlanthia; a province of endless inspiration, where artistry and refinement shape every corner of its cities. Here, expression is as vital as commerce, and the very air seems charged with creativity. What begins in Liraevan swiftly becomes the empire’s standard, shaping tastes and trends with each new artistic movement. The heir to its throne also happens to be Séraphan’s ex. 

Marleaux; the heart of the empire, it is the center of internal trade. Its grand trade halls hum with the voices of merchants, each deal forging the empire’s stability as goods move between provinces. Caravans laden with wares fill its streets, ensuring every corner of the empire remains supplied, prosperous, and indebted to Marleaux’s markets. Here, wealth opens doors, but true power lies in securing the right connections, those who master both don’t simply thrive, they shape the empire itself.

Elandorin; The empire’s breadbasket, Elandorin’s fields yield an unmatched bounty of grain, fruits, and produce, feeding the empire's vast population. Its prosperity is undeniable, yet whispers linger of the time when it stood united with its northern neighbor, a single force too powerful for the empire to allow.

Rovathar; your home, the cool mountain air is all the MC has ever truly known. House Rovathar’s economy is built on mining and metallurgy, supplying a significant portion of the empire’s weapons and armor. Its skilled smiths and miners ensure a steady flow of iron and silver, keeping the province vital to the empire’s military and industrial growth. In recent years, House Rovathar has expanded into forestry, seeking to diversify its industries and maintain stability for the future.

Eirmoor; a province of vast farmlands and proud resilience, Eirmoor was once part of a greater whole until imperial decree split it from Elandorin, ensuring no single province controlled the empire’s food supply. Unlike Elandorin’s sprawling fields and plentiful orchards, Eirmoor is a land of vast ranches and rolling pastures, where livestock reigns over crops.

Delvarin; a province of deep mines and untapped wealth, Delvarin is the empire’s primary source of gems and precious stones. Beneath its rugged terrain lie veins of emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds, yet its economy remains centered on extraction rather than refinement. Without the infrastructure or population to cut and craft its own gems, Delvarin exports raw stones to other provinces, ensuring its wealth flows outward rather than staying within its borders.

Calvernric; a land of tradition and scholarly pursuit, Calvernric is home to some of the empire’s most prestigious academies. Here, lineage and learning go hand in hand, with families placing great emphasis on education and historic deeds. Its grand estates house libraries filled with ancient texts, and its universities attract philosophers, historians, and legal scholars, ensuring that even as its economic power fades, its intellectual influence remains strong.

Fenlaren; vast forests and deep, sprawling lakes define both its landscape and its people’s way of life. With an economy rooted in forestry and fishing, its people are pragmatic, self-sufficient, and deeply tied to the land. Though Fenlaren lacks the wealth and prestige of the empire’s central provinces, its noble house remains steadfast in its ambitions, seeking political leverage wherever opportunity arises. It is no secret that your grandmother remains steadfast in her determination to see your house bound to Fenlaren through marriage, no matter Avelyne’s resistance. 

Kelbrant; has long been at odds with imperial governance, its people known for independence, skepticism, and an enduring reluctance to submit to centralized rule. Bordered by two of the empire’s richest provinces, Kelbrant has long struggled for identity, its discontent growing, its people restless, wary, and unwilling to conform. While its mining economy keeps it afloat, political tensions simmer beneath the surface, making Kelbrant a thorn in the empire’s side, never quite rebellious, but never truly compliant.

Ormere; defined by its dense forests and sprawling wildlands. Its people are rugged and pragmatic, earning their livelihood through expert tracking, skilled leatherworking, and the steady trade of pelts and furs. Though nobility exists, wealth is scarce. Ormere’s rulers wield little influence in the empire’s greater politics, their focus set instead on maintaining order across the province’s vast territory. 

Harrowyn; the empire’s northernmost province, is sparsely populated yet rich in rare resources found nowhere else within imperial borders. Beneath its tundras lie veins of precious metals like gold and cobalt, while its isolated wilderness fosters the growth of rare medicinal herbs prized by healers and alchemists. Though trade routes are difficult and settlements few, Harrowyn remains an essential supplier of materials that fuel both the empire’s wealth and scientific pursuits.

Branthorne; holds a unique position within the empire as the only province with a traversable land border with another nation. Prioritizing military strength above all else, it dedicates the vast majority of its manpower to defense, leaving its economy underdeveloped. To ensure its forces remain ready and unburdened by economic struggles, the empire fully subsidizes Branthorne, allowing it to focus entirely on its duty as the empire’s vigilant guardian.

[blissfulip]

Dopamine

On AO3

Viktor x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, dubious science, mostly canon compliant, no use of y/n, chemist!reader, eventual smut.

Cw: That weird guy being weird

Words: 1.6k

[A/N: tags and content warnings to be updated in each chapter, updates weekly. (also, let me know if you want to be tagged in fic updates!)]

Previous Next

Chapter 2: Walking through water

He slept in for the first time in over a year, and although catching up on all those missed z’s was a welcome feeling, as soon as he woke up and sat at his desk, the uneasiness of not knowing what to do rushed over him.

Walking through water instead of air, the feeling of resistance that accompanied every task Viktor worked on drove him up the wall. It was bad enough that he had no access to any of his equipment, but he was also not allowed to retrieve any of his annotations from the lab to take home, so he was left with a pair of notebooks and some blueprints he had in his briefcase. It wasn't enough. 

Resignation. He was usually capable of extracting even the smallest things from thin air, but the circumstances and the maddening lack of resources had finally gotten the better of him. Before long, he felt the onset of something he hadn’t experienced in years: boredom. The invitation of his brain to play, desperate for stimulation. But Viktor was lost, this wasn’t something typical of him, and he didn’t know how to quench this thirst. 

He rummaged around the few volumes he had on his desk—nothing he hadn’t read at length before. Cleaning was quick and fruitless, it turns out that not spending any time in your own home proved to be the best way to keep it clean and organized. And of course, the fridge was empty, he didn’t remember the last time he ate a meal in that kitchen, let alone made one, but at least this need for sustenance could be turned into an assignment, so off to the market he went. 

It was sunny out. Not scorching, but pleasant enough to make this short walk enjoyable. The bubbling sounds of children running around, two people fighting near the fruit stalls, and vendors trying to talk over each other, the citric scent that turned into earthy basil that turned into peppery spices almost overwhelmingly fast—it was nice, he thought, and he lazily dragged his feet along the market, lingering a bit too long before walking back to the dormitories with what he needed.  

Cooking was surprisingly enjoyable as well, and he tried (unsuccessfully) to find a justifiable reason as to why he didn’t do it more often. Soon enough, the meal was finished, the food eaten and the dishes done, and the gentle feeling of rich accomplishment he had felt so far melted away when he found himself bored stiff.

And when he accepted that this problem had no solution, his mind landed on you, the culprit. He recalled all the previous instances in which you had interfered with his work before, like the time you had burned your eyebrows off with some strange flammable substance and had the progress day presentations postponed, and the time you had used all the magnesium alloys for an (excessively scaled, he thought) ‘experiment’ and left him without any for the pieces he was manufacturing, or the time the first hextech intern he ever hired had a complete meltdown over you rejecting him and had to be transferred. Granted, that last one wasn’t your fault, and Viktor never really held it against you, but it was just another case in point to prove that if something was related to you, it would probably be a problem for him. 

When memoirs are written about exceptional minds in history, there’s always something about all the trials and tribulations they had to endure—the obstacles on their way to greatness. And it’s not like Viktor thought he would ever get something like that written about him, but if he did, if he ever invented something revolutionary enough to warrant something like a memoir, it pained him to think that there would probably need to be a whole chapter about the pesky chemist that constantly tormented him. 

Even when he wasn’t working, you were there, a constant. Your thunderous laugh and the clicking sound you always made when you were in deep thought, your sarcastic remarks and the eternal self-satisfied grin you carried. Viktor found himself thinking about that way too often. 

-----------------------------------------------------------

The notification on your door to be present at the conference hall the next morning ruined your mood. You had been having quite the day off and were already making plans to get back to reading all the poetry books you had bought at the fair last summer, so the sudden promise of work had you deflating like a balloon. 

You noticed that the hall was packed, and that it probably wasnt equipped to host the entire roster of researchers the Academy had. You tried to distract yourself from the claustrophobic feeling brewing in your stomach by chatting with Moira about the crazy date she'd had the night before. Unfortunately, you were not going to get to the best part, since Heimerdinger came up and tapped the microphone lightly before she could talk about the guy's bad table manners.

"Attention, please, everybody! There, quiet down, please. Yes, thank you.” He started. “I’m sure you might all be wondering why I have gathered you here, and I am happy to announce I have great news to give you!”

Murmurs could be heard from various places along the hall.

“As you all know, the Academy had to make the difficult decision to close the laboratories temporarily due to the recent explosion at the manufacturing facilities. We know how distressed and impatient you must be to go back to your work and how frustrating the prospect of an entire month of idleness feels to brilliant people like you all,” he paused, seemingly for effect. “Thus, the Academy has decided to organize a seminar with some of our brightest minds at each of our research divisions, which will take place at the conclusion of this month-long absence of activity.” 

The quiet muttering gradually became a cacophony of confused exclamations and flat-out grunts of annoyance, but after people started to quiet down again, he continued.

“Everyone will be required to attend, but only one person per department is to be voted internally, both to be involved as an organizer and as a speaker. I shall leave you to it now, and expect a list of the chosen people at my desk by the end of the day, as well as one update at the end of each week leading to the date of the event. Good luck, my dears!” 

With that, he jumped off the platform he had been standing on to reach the microphone and left the room, ignoring any and all clamors of bewilderment. After some minutes of complaining, though, the people from each department begrudgingly got together to get the voting over with. Some of them chose randomly, others put it up to an actual vote and chose the person everyone thought was a better speaker, and others had volunteers. To your dismay, you were chosen to speak on behalf of the chemistry department. And, not surprisingly, Viktor volunteered on his end. 

No more than 30 minutes later, everyone else had left, except for the chosen people. A man from Biology you weren’t familiar with, Lara from Arts and Performance, a lovely older lady from History and Anthropology, Corso from Language and Literature, that weird guy from Poli-sci, Viktor, and you

The morale was not up the walls, even though you were all happy to have something to do, having to organize an entire workshop conference as well as the presentation each one of you had to give felt like more work than you would normally do at your respective labs. Not to mention, you knew this was nothing more than a copout for the academy, throwing this at you so that you didn’t get any free time without them having to get involved in any organizing themselves. 

Regardless, after a short talk, you decided to split into three groups. One would be in charge of the scheduling and agenda; the second would take care of the venues; and the last would take care of advertising, leaving Lara to design and print the flyers and posters. 

“Let’s team up, sweetheart, I know this amazing place downtown where we can organize everything.” You came to learn that his name was Asher, and you thought that name was not fit for how much of a sleaze he was.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m banned from that part of the city. I caused a three-way collision between 2 horses and an electric bike; there were no casualties, but I can’t be within a 3-mile radius of there.” You said with a deadpan expression. 

“What? Seriously?” He asked. Everyone else was either completely confused or mildly horrified, but Viktor knew you well enough to let out a small huff. 

“Of course not.” You chuckled and then picked up one of the folded-up pieces of paper Lara had been writing on for everyone to draw a name from. 

It was your turn to be horrified when you unfolded the paper and read Viktor’s name on it. After the initial shock wore off, however, you could’ve sworn you felt something akin to relief. Perhaps it was due to being saved from having to go with Asher, or maybe it was because Viktor was the only person there that you knew, even if you didn’t get along. 

But as it usually happens, any positive sentiment you ever harbored towards him came to a halt as swiftly as it came, when you heard him grunt in displeasure. You weren’t in the mood to throw any jibes at him in front of everyone, so you simply rolled your eyes. 

“1:00 p.m. tomorrow at the café near the night market. Bring a notebook, I left all of mine at the lab.” You said not bothering to look up at him as you gathered your things to leave the hall. 

You interpreted his silence as agreement. 

[channel4sims-cc]

TS4: Animated Sign Override - Welcome Back, Jin!

Sul sul ^^

I guess all K-Pop fans probably know that Jin from BTS will be discharged from his military service on June 12th.

He'll be the first BTS member to be discharged.

So I made this sign override to celebrate it!

You need "City Living" expansion for it to work. You can see this sign around San Myshuno, especially at the Spice Market neighborhood :)

Some pictures of Jin will be displayed with the text "Welcome back, Jin! 아미에게 돌아온 걸 환영해 (Welcome back to ARMY).

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

ABOUT THIS MOD:

❤️This mod will only conflict if you have another one that overrides this sign that comes with City Living. You'd have to remove it from your Mods folder before using Jin's override.

The only mod of mine that conflicts with it, is the "brazilian objects override".

❤️As I said above, you need "City Living" expansion for it to work. If you don't have it, don't worry. There's a base game K-Pop mod coming soon for everyone :)

❤️ Download, extract it and put it in your Mods folder. When you don't want this override anymore, just delete it from your Mods folder :)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

It's just a simple way of celebrating this day :)

For those who are ARMY, I hope you'll have a lot a fun with Jin's comeback and welcome him well 💜

I hope you'll enjoy it a lot!

Happy Simming! And welcome back, Jin! 💜

*-* DOWNLOAD (free/no adfly) *-*

[kirbyofthestars]

Cheese is a food derived from milk that is produced in a wide range of flavors, textures, and forms by coagulation of the milk protein casein. It comprises proteins and fat from milk, usually the milk of cows, buffalo, goats, or sheep. During production, the milk is usually acidified, and adding the enzyme rennet causes coagulation. The solids are separated and pressed into final form. Some cheeses have molds on the rind or throughout. Most cheeses melt at cooking temperature.

Hundreds of types of cheese from various countries are produced. Their styles, textures and flavors depend on the origin of the milk (including the animal's diet), whether they have been pasteurized, the butterfat content, the bacteria and mold, the processing, and aging. Herbs, spices, or wood smoke may be used as flavoring agents. The yellow to red color of many cheeses, such as Red Leicester, is produced by adding annatto. Other ingredients may be added to some cheeses, such as black pepper, garlic, chives or cranberries.

For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Most cheeses are acidified to a lesser degree by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, then the addition of rennet completes the curdling. Vegetarian alternatives to rennet are available; most are produced by fermentation of the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. Cheesemakers near a dairy region may benefit from fresher, lower-priced milk, and lower shipping costs.

Cheese is valued for its portability, long life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is more compact and has a longer shelf life than milk, although how long a cheese will keep depends on the type of cheese; labels on packets of cheese often claim that a cheese should be consumed within three to five days of opening. Generally speaking, hard cheeses, such as parmesan last longer than soft cheeses, such as Brie or goat's milk cheese. The long storage life of some cheeses, especially when encased in a protective rind, allows selling when markets are favorable.

There is some debate as to the best way to store cheese, but some experts[who?] say that wrapping it in cheese paper provides optimal results. Cheese paper is coated in a porous plastic on the inside, and the outside has a layer of wax. This specific combination of plastic on the inside and wax on the outside protects the cheese by allowing condensation on the cheese to be wicked away while preventing moisture from within the cheese escaping.

A specialist seller of cheese is sometimes known as a cheesemonger. Becoming an expert in this field requires some formal education and years of tasting and hands-on experience, much like becoming an expert in wine or cuisine. The cheesemonger is responsible for all aspects of the cheese inventory: selecting the cheese menu, purchasing, receiving, storage, and ripening.

[mythalsknickers]

Happy Friday! “Whiskey? In hot chocolate? Really?” “You want it or not?" made me laugh thinking about Lucanis.

Title: Snow and Cioccolata Calda Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte x Teigue de Riva Rating: T Word Count: 783 Author Note: Thank you so much for this prompt I had fun writing it. I laughed so hard. This is Pre-Veilguard but tagged as Veilguard due to the natures of the characters. Teigue de Riva uses He/They and Him/Them pronouns interchangeably as he is nonbinary trans masculine. @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

His cloak was covered in snow, mist was rolling in from the Rialto. In a few hours the snow decorated cobbles would be covered in a sheet of ice. His head pounded as he ducked into the covered market, the party the eve before had been his celebration. Despite the trials he had become a fully fledged crow though admittedly he remembered very little of the celebration, however Viago's lecture this morning he would have preferred to forget that.

He had a plan to order a spiced wine to at least take the edge off. Brushing past stalls and buskers, occasionally he would leave coin for them. he was not aware of the eyes on him but he did stop and admire a few daggers. Maybe after his next contract he would be able to stop and place an order. He ambled until he made his way to the cafe opening the door and pausing his cheeks drawing warm. Mierda. Dark hair, a laugh like honey and hair pulled back into a neat short trim, slicked back with just a tiny bit of oil, a hint of a five o'clock shadow and leathers that hugged his body. Lucanis Dellamorte, the current perfect heir of the First Talon. A small squeak left his lips unbidden as he entered.

He had spent the night before networking with other Talons per Teia's request, and their heirs. This was fine, Viago had not mentioned Lucanis was back in town. The last time he had seen the older crow was the disaster of he and his fellow fledglings getting drunk on Carnal. His cheeks warmed again as he made his way to the counter, his eyes flicking as he felt the weight of a gaze on him. Just get the wine, and get out. Avoid talking to the man that he admired and imagined scenes from his romance novels with.

"ciao, could I get a--" He paused catching a movement like the swish of a cloak out of the corner of his eye "Teigue, I was just wondering if Ilario and I would have to go break you out of Viago's mercies!" A hand went down next to his and he felt the warmth of the words against his ear. Glancing to his left he was effectively pinned to the counter and Ilario was not in sight, had he left? "Lucanis, I did not know you were home!" he managed to get out, looking at the way he was pinned to the counter, he could pivot, Lucanis could not be that close. Shifting his weight he spun under the older crow coming face to face with him and it was all he could do to suppress the squeak, oh they were closer then he had though. Mierda... "I-Uh-um just came to--" his brain froze when a smirk made it's way to Lucanis' lips, smug bastard...well he was not a bastard. "Come to celebrate Viago finally letting you fly off from the nest?" Swallowing the lump forming in his throat he nodded.

"Come and sit with me, I have the perfect drink to chase the headache from last night away." Oh Creatore...they knew about last night, he did not even remember a third of the night. Still he let Lucanis take his hand and lead him back to a table, could he say no and it not be an insult? He was not terribly certain and he was sure Viago was going to kill him either way. He sat down at a table towards the middle of the cafe and Lucanis had disappeared. He was too hung over to be stuck at a table, in the snow with the man he had imagined page 69 of Resourceful Lovers with, Creatore...he was going to die.

As Teigue tried to figure out the best way to extract himself from the situation, it was then Lucanis came back with two steaming cups and a large bottle of was that...Rare Brandy. "Is that Brandy going in the Cioccolata calda, really?" He managed to ask seeing the sweet warm chocolate. "Do you want it or not?" He glanced up at the older crow watching him pour a healthy amount into his own cup. "Alright, Alright." he held up a hand to take the brandy. He just needed to chase his hang over away, and then hopefully not say anything terribly unbecoming in front of Lucanis.

[hoardpiece]

what are the human geographical and political consequences of dragon honey as a luxury item akin to spices, from animals that cannot be herded?

Hedonis don't move territories much, so they're sorta like a deposit in that way, the locations of towns (at least those of civilizations aware of the uses of dragon honey) would be influenced by where hedonis live, building a town next to a hedonis has the added benefit of the hedonis fending off less friendly dragons and other dangerous creatures in their territory, and are fiercely protective of humans.

It is important to note that hedonis, like all dragons, are intelligent and opinionated creatures, and will likely respond to any impact access to their honey has other than it simply being on the market, if made aware of said impacts. They cannot be forcefully extracted, they will either respond violently or refuse to cooperate, political impacts such as profits from their honey being used to finance wars/oppression, or wars being fought over hedonis territory will likely result in the hedonis refusing to give honey or ensuring that none of its honey leaves its territory until an acceptable agreement on how the honey will be used is reached.

[snapmite1998]

### Dryden Vos: The Face and Force of Crimson Dawn's Criminal Empire

#### Overview

Dryden Vos, the charismatic and ruthless figurehead of Crimson Dawn, serves as both the public face and operational manager of the organization's vast criminal enterprise. As a loyal servant to Darth Maul, Vos is responsible for overseeing and coordinating the syndicate's illegal activities, ensuring that Maul's vision for Crimson Dawn is executed with precision and brutality. His role as manager of Crimson Dawn’s criminal operations makes him a crucial link between Maul’s strategic objectives and the day-to-day activities of the syndicate.

### Role and Responsibilities

1. Figurehead of Crimson Dawn

- Public Persona: Dryden Vos is the visible leader of Crimson Dawn, often engaging with allies, rivals, and potential recruits. His suave demeanor and charm mask a dangerous and calculating mind, making him an effective negotiator and strategist.

- Symbol of Power: As the public face of the organization, Vos embodies the power and menace of Crimson Dawn. His presence alone is enough to command respect and fear, reinforcing the organization’s reputation across the galaxy.

2. Loyal Servant to Maul

- Subordinate Role: Despite his prominent position, Vos is unequivocally loyal to Darth Maul. He understands his role as an executor of Maul’s will and upholds the Sith Lord’s vision for Crimson Dawn with unwavering dedication.

- Communication and Coordination: As Maul’s trusted lieutenant, Vos ensures that directives from the top are effectively communicated and implemented across all levels of the organization. He coordinates closely with Maul, providing updates on operations and seeking guidance on strategic decisions.

3. Manager of Criminal Operations

- Operational Oversight: Vos supervises the various facets of Crimson Dawn’s criminal enterprise, including smuggling, extortion, assassination, and black market trade. He ensures that these operations run smoothly and profitably.

- Coordination with Syndicate Allies: Vos manages relationships with key syndicate allies, such as Black Sun, the Pyke Syndicate, and the Zygerrian Slave Empire. His diplomacy and strategic alliances are crucial in maintaining and expanding Crimson Dawn’s influence.

### Key Activities and Strategies

1. Expansion and Control

- Territory Acquisition: Under Vos’s watch, Crimson Dawn aggressively expands its territory, seizing control of key locations and resources. He employs a combination of brute force and cunning tactics to outmaneuver rivals and secure valuable assets.

- Enforcement: Ensuring compliance and order within Crimson Dawn’s territories requires a firm hand. Vos oversees the enforcement units tasked with maintaining control, using intimidation, coercion, and violence to quash any dissent.

2. Resource Extraction and Exploitation

- Rich Resource Harvest: Vos orchestrates the exploitation of world resources under Crimson Dawn’s control, including mining operations for valuable minerals, spice production, and rare art collections. These activities are key revenue streams that fund the organization’s operations.

- Slave Trade: As part of Crimson Dawn’s nefarious practices, Vos manages the capture and sale of slaves, working with allied organizations to traffic individuals for labor and other purposes. This brutal trade enhances Crimson Dawn's economic power and extends its influence.

3. Smuggling and Black Market Operations

- Contraband Movement: Vos oversees extensive smuggling networks that move illegal goods across the galaxy. These networks transport spice, weapons, stolen artifacts, and other contraband, making Crimson Dawn a central player in the black market.

- Fleets and Transport: Managing the logistics of this trade involves coordinating fleet movements and securing safe transport routes. Vos’s strategic planning ensures that Crimson Dawn remains a step ahead of law enforcement and rival factions.

### Personal Attributes and Leadership Style

1. Charismatic and Calculating

- Persuasive Charisma: Vos’s charm and eloquence make him an effective leader and negotiator. He can inspire loyalty among his subordinates and sway potential allies or rivals to his advantage.

- Strategic Mind: Behind his suave exterior lies a strategic genius. Vos is always several moves ahead, calculating the implications of every action and decision to maximize benefit for Crimson Dawn.

2. Ruthless and Unforgiving

- Brutal Discipline: Vos maintains strict discipline within the organization, dealing harshly with failure and dissent. This approach ensures that his subordinates remain loyal and effective, while competitors and enemies are dealt with mercilessly.

- Relentless Ambition: Vos embodies the ruthless ambition of Crimson Dawn, striving always to expand their power and influence. His methods are ruthless, and he is unafraid to employ extreme measures to achieve his goals.

### Impact and Legacy

1. Strengthening Crimson Dawn

- Consolidation of Power: Under Vos’s management, Crimson Dawn has become a formidable force in the galaxy. His efforts have consolidated the organization’s power, making it a dominant player in the criminal underworld.

- Expansion of Influence: Through strategic alliances and relentless expansion, Vos has extended Crimson Dawn’s reach, ensuring that its influence is felt across vast sectors of the galaxy.

2. Legacy of Fear and Control

- Enduring Reputation: Dryden Vos’s brutal and efficient leadership style has left a lasting impression. His legacy is one of fear and control, with Crimson Dawn’s reputation for ruthlessness deterring potential adversaries.

- Succession Planning: Recognizing the importance of continuity, Vos plays a role in grooming and identifying future leaders who can carry on Maul’s vision and the ethos of Crimson Dawn.

### Conclusion

Dryden Vos stands as a pivotal figure in Crimson Dawn’s rise to prominence, balancing the public role of figurehead with the behind-the-scenes management of its vast criminal operations. His loyalty to Maul, combined with his charismatic and ruthless leadership, ensures that Crimson Dawn remains a dominant force in the galaxy's underworld.

Through his strategic oversight, efficient execution of operations, and ruthless enforcement, Vos embodies the ethos of Crimson Dawn, driving the organization toward Maul’s vision of a new order where power and fear are paramount. As long as he stands at the helm, Crimson Dawn will continue to thrive, expand, and instill its reign of terror across the galaxy.

[beautyisararething]

Scents and Sensibility

From Details Magazine, July 1992, by Brian Eno

I started thinking about smell in 1965. At art college, a friend and I made a little collection of evocative aromas, housed in about fifty small bottles. There was rubber, naptha, motorcycle dope, cuir de russe (used to make leather smell like leather rather than dead animals), gasoline, ammonia, juniper wood. In 1978, in a neglected and unlikely part of London, I discovered an old pharmacy that was crammed with oils and absolutes.

Their beautiful names - styrax, patchouli, franipani, amber, myrrh, geraniol, opoponax, heliotrope - and their familiar/strange aromas attracted my curiosity, and I bought over a hundred bottles. Soon I found myself actively collecting the primary materials of perfumery - in Madrid I found a crumbling apothecary's with dozens of mysteriously labeled phials; in San Francisco I discovered the strage olfactory world of Chinatown, of five spices and jasmine and ginseng; a woman I met in Ibiza gave me a minute bottle containing just one drop of an utterly heavenly material called nardo (I later came to think that this was probably spikenard oil, extracted from a shrub growing at between six and eight thousand feet on the Himalayas and used by wealthy Indian ladies as a prelude to lovemaking).

I started mixing things together. I was fascinated by the synergies of combinations, how two quite familiar smells carefully combined could create new and unrecognizable sensation. Perfumery has a lot to do with this process of courting the edges of unrecognizability, of evoking sensations that don't have names, or of mixing up sensations that don't belong together. Some materials are in themselves schizophrenic (or is it oxymoronic?) in that they have two rather contradictory natures. Methyl octane carbonate, for example, evokes the smell of violets and motorcycles; Dior's Farenheit uses a lot of it. Orris butter, a complex derivative of the roots of iris, is vaguely floral in small amounts but almost obscenely fleshy (like the smell beneath a breast or between buttocks) in quantity. Civet, from the anal gland of the civet cat, is intensely disagreeable as soon as it is recognizable, but amazingly sexy in subliminal doses (it features in Guerlain's Jicky, probably the oldest extant perfume, and one whose market has changed over the hundred years of its existence - it now has a following among gay men). Courmarin, the primary ingredient in Cacharel's Lou Lou, has the characteristic smell of late summer, from whose flowers and grassses it is derived, but then it carries strange overtones of powder, boudoirs, bedrooms...

You don't have to dabble for very long to begin to realize that the world of smell has no reliable maps, no single language, no comprehensible metaphorical structure within which we might comprehend it and navigate our way around it. It seems to compare poorly, for example, with the world of sight. If we want to think about color, we can use words like hue and brightess and saturation. We can visualize a particular sightly milky green, imagine where it falls on a spectrum chart, look at its neighbours and complemetaries, and the finally say that it is, say, "eau de nil" or "pale turquoise" or "jade." These are relatively precise numerically, in angstroms, for example, or (if you want to paint your house in it) as "British Standard paintshade number something-or-other." Similarly with shape: We use measurement and geometry and, of course, drawings, to communicate that type of information.

But the best we seem to be able to do with smells is to evoke comparisons. We can say that karanal is "like striking a flint," that the aldehyde C14 is "like latex." As far as I know there is not even the beginning of a usable system of realting these to one another. Where does karanal stand in relation to tuberose? Or sandalwood to sage? Don't ask me.

Like others who've played with perfumes, I found this somewhat unsatisfactory. I wanted a system, a map. I briefly thought I might be able to make one myself, but this plan foundered as I jotted down the resemblance between strawberries and egg yolk, between breweries and certain types of horsehair bedding. I just knew I didn't have enough stamina to collect, let alone collate, all those sensations. I'd also noticed to my confusion that the substances "coriander" and "vetiver" were never quite the same twice. The vetiver I bought in the Walworth Road in London was distinctly different from what I got from the labs of Quest International in Paris, and the French coriander I found in 1988 was different from the French coriander I bought a year later. Even the names, it turned out, didn't describe anything stable. So, still lost, I abandoned the classification project (what a relief!) and decided to continue pleasurably stumbling around in the gloaming, rubbing bits of thei and that on anyone kind enough to loan me a patch of their skin, then sniffing to test the effects (it turned out to be a great way of getting to know people...).

It took me a long time to begin to realize that this was the way things were likely to continue. Just like with everything else, there was probably never going to be a time when I "knew what I was doing," when I had in mind some final, logical picture of the whole world of smell. The Linnaeus of smell was not to be, or not to be me.

It's strange how you arrive at ideas, how thoughts consolidate themselves out of the most disparate and unlikely beginnings, and how often those beginnings are realizations from experience that something isn't possible (or alternately is possible but not interesting). This is one such roundabout story.

During my dabbling with perfumes, I'd also been dabbling with other things, including music. Whenever I talked about sound, I stressed the inadequacy of the classical languages that composers had used to describe it. I said that the evolution of the electronic instruments and recording processes had created a situation where the whole question of timbre - the physical quality of sound - had been opened up wide and had become a major focus of compositional attention. Modern composers and producers working in recording studios were experimenting with sound itself and were quite content to use largely traditional "received" forms (such as "the blues") upon which to hang their experiments. It struck me that this had been completely missed by classically trained musicologists, who were always looking for innovation in places where it wasn't happening. They were expecting that any music that deserved the title "new" would be making breakthroughs in harmony, in melody, in compositional structure; but here they were faced with a music that, in those respects, had barely made it past the turn of the century.

When they failed to notice, or at least attach any importance to, was that their language, the language of classical written composition, simply didn't have any terms to describe Jimi Hendrix's guitar sound on "Voodoo Chile" or Phil Spector's production of "Da Doo Ron Ron" - arguably the most interesting features of those works. Rock music, I kept saying, was a music of timbre and texture, of the physical experience of sound, in a way that no other music had ever been or could have ever been. It dealt with a potentially infinite sonic pallette, a palette whose gradations and combinations would never adequately be described, and where the attempt at description must always lag behind the infinites of permutation.

So while I was happy to accept and exploit this wonderfully fluid situation in music, I was worried about finding myself in the same place vis-à-vis perfume. The inconsistency of these positions finally filtered through to me while I was delivering a talk to a group of businessmen in Brussels. My talk was called "The Future of Culture in Europe," and in it I tried to sketch out the breakdown of the classical view of Culture and art history in favor of a more contemporary one. Until quite recently, I said, Culture had been viewed as a field of hurman behaviors and artifacts that could be organized in some ideal way, the assumption being that, if only we sat down and talked about it for long enough, we would all agree that, say, Dante, Shakespeare, Beethoven, Goethe, Wagner, and a few other big names were the real kingpins of Culture, and that, say, chocolate-box designers, popular balladeers, walking-stick carvers, hairdressers, clothes designers, and Little Richard were all relatively marginal. The history of the history of art is really the story of people trying to make a claim form one orthodoxy in favor of any other, asserting that the particular line that they drew through the field of all the events we refer to as Culture had some special validity and the proximity to that line was a measure of originality, profundity, longevity: in short, of value.

For many reasons this idea of intrinsic, given value becomes less and less tenable. We don't expect to write books now called "The History of Painting" (as if there were only one), and only a dwindling band of fundamentalists (about 5.9 billion at the last count) still believe in "the True Nature" of anything. We become more and more comfortable with the idea that there are all sorts of ways of describing and organizing phenomena, that there are descriptive languages that don't translate into one another, that there is no absolute basis upon which to decide between one language and the other, and that anyway, "the same set of phenomena" is a shifting field of energies that we choose to give the same name to until it gets so confusing that we have to find another.

So, just as we might come to accept that "coriander" is a name for a fuzzy, not very clearly defined space in the whole of our smell experience, we also start to think about other words in the same way. Big Ideas (Freedom, Truth, Beauty, Love, Reality, Art, God, America, Socialism) start to lose their capital letters, cease being so absolute and reliable, and become names for spaces in our psyches. We find ourselves having to frequently reassess or even reconstruct them completely. We are, in short, increasingly uncentered, unmoored, lost, living day to day, engaged in and ongoing attempt to cobble together a credible, at least workable, set of values, ready to shed it and work out another when the situation demands.

And I love it: I love watching us all become dilettante perfume blenders, poking inquisitive fingers through a great library of ingredients and seeing which combinations make sense for us, gathering experience - the possibility of better guesses - without certainty.

Perhaps our sense of this, the sense of belonging to a world held together by networks of ephemeral confidences (such as philosophies and stock markets) rather than permanent certainties, predisposes us to embrace the pleasures of our most primitive and unlangued sense. Being mystified doesn't frighten us as much as it used to. And the point for me is not to expect perfumery to take its place in some nice, reliable, rational world order, but to expect everything else to become like perfume.

[top-leaders-in-india]

Business Opportunities for Agri & Food Processing Sector in Rajasthan: Col Rajyavardhan Rathore

Rajasthan, known for its rich cultural heritage and vast arid landscapes, is rapidly emerging as a hub for the agriculture and food processing sector. With its unique agricultural produce, favorable policies, and increasing investment in food processing infrastructure, the state offers a wealth of business opportunities for entrepreneurs and investors. Col Rajyavardhan Rathore, a prominent leader from Rajasthan, has consistently emphasized the importance of leveraging this sector to drive sustainable economic growth and uplift rural livelihoods.

Why Rajasthan is a Prime Destination for Agri & Food Processing Ventures

Rajasthan’s diverse agro-climatic zones and rich agricultural traditions make it a prime destination for ventures in agriculture and food processing. Key factors driving this growth include:

Abundant Agricultural Produce: Rajasthan is a leading producer of crops like millet, wheat, mustard, and pulses, as well as horticultural produce like guava, pomegranate, and ber (Indian jujube).

Strategic Location: Proximity to major markets like Delhi, Gujarat, and Maharashtra enhances logistics efficiency.

Government Support: Favorable policies and incentives to promote food processing industries.

Key Opportunities in Rajasthan’s Agri & Food Processing Sector

1. Cereal and Grain Processing

Rajasthan is the largest producer of bajra (pearl millet) and a significant producer of wheat and barley.

Opportunities include milling, packaging, and exporting these staples to domestic and international markets.

2. Oilseed Processing

The state is India’s top producer of mustard seeds, making it ideal for setting up mustard oil extraction and processing units.

Value-added products like mustard oil cakes for animal feed also present lucrative business opportunities.

3. Dairy Industry

With a strong livestock population, Rajasthan has immense potential in milk production and processing.

Opportunities include setting up dairy plants for products like butter, cheese, and flavored milk.

4. Horticulture-Based Businesses

Rajasthan is known for its high-quality pomegranates, kinnows, and dates.

Processing units for juices, jams, and dried fruits can tap into both domestic and export markets.

5. Spice Production and Processing

The state is a significant producer of spices like coriander, cumin, and fenugreek.

Setting up spice grinding and packaging units can cater to increasing demand from urban markets and exports.

6. Herbal and Medicinal Plants

Rajasthan’s arid climate supports the cultivation of medicinal plants like aloe vera, isabgol, and ashwagandha.

Opportunities include producing herbal extracts, essential oils, and ayurvedic medicines.

7. Organic Farming and Products

With growing awareness of health and sustainability, organic farming is gaining traction.

Export of organic grains, vegetables, and processed foods is a high-potential area.

8. Cold Storage and Logistics

Lack of adequate cold storage infrastructure poses a challenge, creating an opportunity for investment.

Businesses can also invest in modern logistics systems for efficient transportation of perishable goods.

Policy Support for Agri & Food Processing in Rajasthan

The Rajasthan government has introduced a host of initiatives to promote investment in the sector:

Rajasthan Agro-Processing, Agri-Business & Agri-Export Promotion Policy: Offering incentives like capital subsidies, tax rebates, and single-window clearances.

Mega Food Parks Scheme: Establishment of food parks to support processing industries with shared infrastructure.

Cluster-Based Development: Promotion of crop-specific clusters like the mustard cluster in Bharatpur and spice cluster in Jodhpur.

Subsidies for Startups: Financial support for agri-tech startups and small-scale food processing units.

The Role of Technology in Driving Growth

1. Precision Farming

Use of drones, IoT devices, and satellite imagery for better crop management.

2. Food Processing Automation

Adoption of automated equipment for sorting, grading, and packaging ensures efficiency and quality.

3. Blockchain in Agri-Supply Chains

Enhancing transparency and traceability from farm to fork.

4. Digital Marketplaces

Platforms like eNAM are helping farmers connect directly with buyers, ensuring better prices.

Col Rajyavardhan Rathore: Advocating for Agri-Business Growth

Col Rathore has been a strong advocate for leveraging Rajasthan’s agricultural strengths to create employment and boost the economy. His initiatives include:

Promoting Agri-Entrepreneurship: Encouraging youth to explore opportunities in modern farming and food processing.

Farmer Outreach Programs: Regular interactions with farmers to address challenges and introduce them to new technologies.

Policy Advocacy: Ensuring that government policies align with the needs of farmers and agri-businesses.

Challenges and Solutions in the Sector

Challenges

Water Scarcity: Dependence on rain-fed agriculture in many regions.

Post-Harvest Losses: Lack of proper storage and transportation facilities.

Market Access: Difficulty in connecting small farmers to larger markets.

Solutions

Drip Irrigation and Water Conservation: Efficient irrigation methods to tackle water scarcity.

Investment in Cold Chains: Preventing wastage of perishable goods.

Digital Platforms for Farmers: Expanding access to markets through e-commerce and digital supply chains.

A Promising Future for Agri & Food Processing in Rajasthan

Rajasthan is poised to become a leader in the agriculture and food processing sector, thanks to its diverse produce, supportive policies, and visionary leadership. With growing investments and technological advancements, the state offers endless opportunities for entrepreneurs and businesses.

Under the guidance of leaders like Col Rajyavardhan Rathore, Rajasthan is moving steadily toward a future where its agricultural wealth is fully harnessed to benefit farmers, consumers, and the economy at large.

[m1ntted]

do u like cheese .

Cheese is a dairy product produced in wide ranges of flavors, textures, and forms by coagulation of the milk protein casein. It comprises proteins and fat from milk (usually the milk of cows, buffalo, goats, or sheep). During production, milk is usually acidified and either the enzymes of rennet or bacterial enzymes with similar activity are added to cause the casein to coagulate. The solid curds are then separated from the liquid whey and pressed into finished cheese. Some cheeses have aromatic molds on the rind, the outer layer, or throughout.

Over a thousand types of cheese exist and are produced in various countries. Their styles, textures and flavors depend on the origin of the milk (including the animal's diet), whether they have been pasteurized, the butterfat content, the bacteria and mold, the processing, and how long they have been aged. Herbs, spices, or wood smoke may be used as flavoring agents. The yellow to red color of many cheeses is produced by adding annatto. Other ingredients may be added to some cheeses, such as black pepper, garlic, chives, or cranberries. A cheesemonger, or specialist seller of cheeses, may have expertise with selecting, purchasing, receiving, storing and ripening cheeses.

For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Most cheeses are acidified to a lesser degree by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, then the addition of rennet completes the curdling. Vegetarian alternatives to rennet are available; most are produced by fermentation of the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. Cheesemakers near a dairy region may benefit from fresher, lower-priced milk, and lower shipping costs.

Cheese is valued for its portability, long shelf life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is more compact and has a longer shelf life than milk, although how long a cheese will keep depends on the type of cheese. Hard cheeses, such as Parmesan, last longer than soft cheeses, such as Brie or goat's milk cheese. The long storage life of some cheeses, especially when encased in a protective rind, allows selling when markets are favorable. Vacuum packaging of block-shaped cheeses and gas-flushing of plastic bags with mixtures of carbon dioxide and nitrogen are used for storage and mass distribution of cheeses in the 21st century.

in short.... yes. im very much a lover of cheese. cheese. give me cheese..

[mcrinmyhead]

Cheese??

Cheese is a dairy product produced in a range of flavors, textures, and forms by coagulation of the milk protein casein. It comprises proteins and fat from milk (usually the milk of cows, buffalo, goats or sheep). During production, milk is usually acidified and either the enzymes of rennet or bacterial enzymes with similar activity are added to cause the casein to coagulate. The solid curds are then separated from the liquid whey and pressed into finished cheese. Some cheeses have aromatic molds on the rind, the outer layer, or throughout. Over a thousand types of cheese exist, produced in various countries. Their styles, textures and flavors depend on the origin of the milk (including the animal's diet), whether they have been pasteurised, the butterfat content, the bacteria and mold, the processing, and how long they have been aged. Herbs, spices, or wood smoke may be used as flavoring agents. The yellow-to-red color of many cheeses is produced by adding annatto. Other added ingredients may include black pepper, garlic, chives or cranberries. A cheesemonger, or specialist seller of cheeses, may have expertise with selecting, purchasing, receiving, storing and ripening cheeses. Most cheeses are acidified to by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, then the addition of rennet completes the curdling. Vegetarian varieties of rennet are available; most are produced through fermentation by the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Cheese is valued for its portability, long shelf life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is more compact and has a longer shelf life than milk, although how long a cheese will keep depends on the type of cheese. Hard cheeses, such as Parmesan, last longer than soft cheeses, such as Brie or goat's milk cheese. The long storage life of some cheeses, especially when encased in a protective rind, allows selling when markets are favorable. Vacuum packaging of block-shaped cheeses and gas-flushing of plastic bags with mixtures of carbon dioxide and nitrogen are used for storage and mass distribution of cheeses in the 21st century.

But yeah.... I loooooovveeee ChEEEEEEEEEEEEEse 🤤