#^ marbled's arsenal if anyone's wondering

[cellgatinbo]

sidenote: also just discovered that one of the mods on the server adds a bunch of gas masks/hazmat suits/military uniforms/etc. and also just. a full on maid uniform set. for some reason.

bolas.

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

whumptober

12 October: grief

Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent

"Could you tell me what happened?" Bruce asked.

Clark paused to consider the question, or, rather, the shape of it. In the kitchen at the lake house, steel and black marble surfaces dimly glittered from the glow of a single lamp on the windowsill. He didn't need light to see by, but he found himself almost desperately curious to parse Bruce's inquiry and, in the effort, to watch Bruce for some further clue. 'Could' had been proffered. The chosen form wasn't an order. Bruce's posture spoke of ease, as though he asked nothing tasking from the barstool opposite the one Clark sat in. What did Bruce assume he'd say; what would be the subsequent result for any given response?

Clark was rarely bothered by inclement weather. The hollow feeling in his chest was not caused by the extant temperature of the room.

“I understand Diana's the one who's concerned," he said, "and it's on me to reassure her--"

"We're all concerned." Bruce held up a hand before Clark could protest. "We know Circe didn't hurt you physically, other than throwing you into animated suspension for a few minutes to keep you busy. We don't think your ability to do your job has been compromised. We're not." He stopped and looked at Clark. "We are not worried about that." 

It seemed to Clark that Bruce struggled, just a little, on the word 'we'.  

"Circe showed me something," Clark said, feeling some part of himself begin to slip out of kilter, as if he were sinking beneath a sheet of ice, paralyzed. "Not a dream, nor a hallucination." He cleared his throat. "Or I don't think it was." 

Two heartbeats silenced, blackened agony gaping in him wide and infinite. 

Bruce had gone motionless, watching Clark with dismay plain in his expression. Bruce hated missing things, Clark knew; he would hold himself personally responsible if something had harmed Clark and he hadn't even known to try to prevent it.

Clark didn't have the energy to bear the way Bruce was looking at him, not with having slept at most no more than an hour or two at a stretch for going on two weeks. Easily remedied. He closed his eyes. 

"What she showed me, I." The words stuck. He pried and a few more came loose. "There's another universe, or timeline -- another Earth with another us." Clark took a shallow breath; an echo of pain cracked against his sternum. "And in it, I'm everything you've ever feared I could become."

He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. His fingertips dug into his palms. 

"Whatever you think you were shown, you're not him." Bruce spoke at a pace so steady it had to be deliberate. "Clark," he said, his voice just a little sharper on the name. "You must know that." 

"It doesn't make the people he's killed less dead." Clark wanted to spit the words out like blood, but instead he'd barely raised his voice. He knew Bruce would hear anyway.

"And that's what you've been grieving," Bruce said. "That other world." 

Clark shook his head. He finally opened his eyes, to Bruce waiting with as much patience as Clark had ever witnessed from him. 

"It should be, I guess. Those victims deserve to be mourned." Clark uncurled his fingers, kept his stare on the furrows in his palms. His lungs were filled to drowning. Saltwater stung the back of his throat, his eyes. "The other me. He loses his family. It… Everything he does afterwards is because they die at his hands, or that's his excuse, anyway." 

He could feel, at the furthest edge of his senses, the way Bruce was counting his own breaths to keep from interrupting, how intensely he was listening. Clark knew it should have been a comfort, but there were all these words left, a chain of them winding around his chest in a vise as crushing as Circe's magic had ever hoped to be. 

Because Bruce was being kind and because he was his best friend, Clark managed to say, "I keeping thinking about how when I was a kid, I was scared of everything. Of being found out, of what people might do to me. Of hurting someone accidentally." Words like ropes, like rusted nails, like knives that would flay humans with the lightest pressure. "Maybe most of all, I was scared I would never have a family of my own." 

He was almost out of air. He inhaled shakily. Too late to quit. 

"I knew my parents loved me; I knew Lana and Pete loved me. The idea that I'd never find anybody to share my life with -- it was sorta more terrible than I could even let myself think about." He gave a small laugh. His cheeks were wet, and Bruce's eyes were too dark to look into. "But for all that, I never thought. I never thought it might be better if I didn't find...if it really was dangerous for people to be with me…"

As a writer, Clark weighed words constantly and therefore understood their limitations. Sometimes, however, they were all that was left of the truth. "I'm a weapon," he said, the words tumbling out like flat stones he wouldn't be able to budge once they landed. He'd closed his eyes again. "I'm not supposed to be someone's home." 

There was a noise only Clark's abilities would've caught, as though a thin blade had been cleanly slid into the most vulnerable point beneath a ribcage. He didn't catch up quickly enough to realize he himself wasn't the one who'd made the sound before Bruce said, "You haven't eaten much recently."

Clark blinked. "What?"

Bruce's expression had changed to open, neutral, downright placid. "Food, Clark."

"Ah. No. I haven't been hungry." Clark shifted on the barstool. He blinked again, wiped his face, clasped his hands together. Some strange veiled heaviness had been lifted from his peripheral vision, from his shoulders and hips. 

Bruce was stretching his legs and standing up, headed a few feet to the large refrigerator. "I should call your fretful mother and tell her you're wasting away."

"Don't. Guilt tripping me by invoking my mom is dirty pool." Was this what whiplash felt like? Clark wondered. He couldn't remember. "You don't have patrol tonight?"

"It's raining," Bruce said, like something as common in Gotham as rain was a well-known Batman deterrent.

Clark hadn't noticed the water sheeting down the windows, nor the insistent drum of a downpour on the roof; probably not the best sign of mental stability. "Pizza'd be all right, if ChowWagon will deliver out this far."

"They would. I'm Bruce Wayne," Bruce said with the flair he usually reserved for taking the piss with reporters who weren't Clark. He tugged open the bottom freezer drawer and removed a large disc. "But we already have pizza."

"Convenient. Alfred?"

"Hn. I can forage for sustenance all on my own." Bruce poked at the oven display. "I can even toss a crust and slow-simmer a red sauce." He picked at an edge of plastic wrap until he figured out how to unwrap the pizza and made a cagey face at Clark for a second. "Don't suppose you'd care to share who other-you was married to."

Clark suppressed a groan. He sighed and said, "Lois. You absolutely cannot mention it to her, ever."

Bruce quirked up an eyebrow. "Noted."

"It's not-- She's great." Clark winced. Well, she was. She was one of his smartest, scariest friends. He hadn't been anguished specifically about her counterpart's death in another reality, or even the thought of her and a child they might have together dying because of him. His grief, he'd discovered, was less bound to them, there, and more rooted in his own terror in this world. "I'm keeping this info in my arsenal, for future occasions where she's so mad at me she's about to kill me."

Bruce's other eyebrow appeared to have an opinion on the matter.

"I'm counting on being able to make her laugh hard enough to forget why she's about to kill me," Clark said.

"Good plan." As Bruce placed the twelve inch pie on the middle rack, he said, all mildness, "You know why your conclusion that 'Being alone forever is best' is bullshit."

It didn't seem like the kind of not-question he needed Clark to answer. 

"First," Bruce said, "to merely temporarily remove you from action, a powerful sorceress tortured you for one hundred and eighty-nine seconds with visions of another universe the existence of which you cannot possibly be expected to either confirm or ameliorate. Second, whoever you saw in those visions who looked like you isn't you. Worth repeating. Third, you are not responsible for him." 

Clark didn't quite believe him, and didn't quite trust Bruce believed such logic either. But Clark could let him finish his lecture. Bruce had opened the long fridge door and taken out two beers in bottles. He gave one to Clark, pausing for a second as if making sure Clark was paying attention. He sat back on his barstool, and Clark clutched at the cold glass with both hands.

"Fourth. There aren't any guarantees about what may or may not happen to anyone who becomes part of your family," Bruce said, like it wasn't the biggest understatement he could utter. "You meet people every day who've suffered the worst, most unimaginable tragedies, sometimes of their own doing, and they take that pain and loss and accomplish astonishing things with it. They found non-profits and fund scholarships, serve their sentences, advocate for victims' rights or new legislation. They get better. They live to honor their loved ones. Most people, in mourning or otherwise, don't become homicidal despots. You're not as strong as them?" He took a drink of beer in a manner that Clark would describe as almost smug.

Clark thought about both pinching and hugging him. The heaviness in his shoulders had come back. He was hunched forward, trying to breathe against it. He wasn't sure he was even strong enough to keep having this one conversation.

When Bruce spoke again, there was no trace of arrogance in his tone. "What are we up to, fifth? Fifth, not to be mean about who you were as a kid, but." He tapped his fingernail against his bottle. His thoughts on Kansas farm life and Clark's once-upon-a-time place therein had been the source of delicate ribbing as long as they'd known each other's real identities. 

Bruce gave a rueful head tilt. "You missed a key element of the bigger picture when you were younger and you're doing it now, and not just because of course you, you specifically, are supposed to have a family." His voice sounded a little odd. But then he went on, turning so that he was looking out the window. "One person isn't really a family." More softly, he said, "If you decide to keep everyone away, it also means you're keeping out someone who might want to be your home."

Clark's hands seemed too stiff. He put the beer on the counter to keep from shattering the bottle and opened his hands, feeling the cold lift away from them. When he looked at Bruce's profile, he saw him exhale very, very slowly, as though he were lowering to the ground something immense but easily fractured. Clark heard the rain on the metal roof of a barn seventeen miles away and the ticking the oven made as it came up to full temperature. He waited until Bruce looked over at him again. He sat perfectly still and held his gaze as gently as he could. The minutes passed between them, quiet, shadowed, and warm, until Clark was able to find a place to start whatever was to come next.

"What's on the pizza?" he asked eventually, not bothering to be embarrassed at the roughness in his voice.

Bruce smiled small at the corner of his mouth. "Mushrooms, tomatoes, green olives. Asiago with extra mozzarella." 

An order in a greasy pizzeria years ago, the two of them battle-wearied and starving at three a.m. One of the first times, perhaps, Clark had sat across from Bruce and thought of him as anything more than a teammate. 

"My favorite," Clark said, reaching for Bruce's wrist.

"I know," Bruce said, letting him.

[im-totally-not-an-alien]

He was riding out from Midgar after just dropping off a package to a worker there. His next stop was to the W.R.O. to drop off a rather large parcel, though, why they needed so much of these things so quickly was anyone's guess.

He hadn't been riding long before the ground shook beneath him, pulling him from his thoughts. He wasn't concerned though, the entire Midgar area had been having earthquakes often lately, though no one can seem to figure out why. They've all been pretty small and haven't done any significant damage so most people choose to ignore it. Another earthquake hit, jarring him slightly, but he paid it no mind.

Suddenly the ground gave out beneath him, abruptly dropping him into the green depths below. Cloud groaned, holding onto Fenrir for dear life, "...not again."

********************************************

"Cloud is so dead." The trooper deadpanned, eyes wide with shock.

"Oh gods! What do we do?!" The second trooper freaked out beside him, He clutched his head, panicking as swarms of other troopers ran around the Midgar wastes, frantic. The recent monster attack still had everyone agitated.

They stood there for a few moments just staring at the green pool of mako. The same one they were told to 'watch out' for so they wouldn't 'fall in'.

"Hey guys! What'cha staring at?" A voice asked from behind them.

The two troopers whirled around to face a SOLDIER 2nd class, "Hey what's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

The second trooper went hysterical, begging for forgiveness, "I swear we didnt mean to! I got distracted and bumped into him! And! And..." he looked forward the green pool.

The spiky haired 2nd followed thier gaze and just stared for a few moments before something clicked and a flash of realization lit up his eyes.

"Shit!" He jumped in, startling everyone around them into a new frenzy. A few calling out to "Get commander Hewley!"

After a few moments Zack resurfaced with a little blond trooper in his arms.

"Zack!" A tall muscular man raced towards him.

Zack paid him no mind as he quickly crawled out of the mako pool and laid Cloud on the dusty ground of the Midgar wasteland, before immediately turning around and walking back torwards the pool.

Commander Hewley grabbed Zacks wrist, "Zack! What the hell do you think you're doing?" He bellowed, eyes wide with concern.

"There's someone else down there Angeal! I saw them!" Zack struggled to get out of his grip, "We have to help him!"

Before he could make a counter argument, however, the mako pool started bubbling. The bubbles growing into a mound and growing more ferocious by the second. People were standing stock still staring at it in wonder before something large and black blasted out of the pool. The object flew over thier heads effortlessly, landing several meters away from them.

"What the hell?" Angeal could only stare, as the dust settled and the shock wore off.

"Oh Gaia! Is that a motorcycle?!" Zack yelled enthusiastically, running over to the now idled bike, whose rider was slumped over clutching thier head.

Angeal took a few minutes to process the scene. The man didn't seem to be armed, despite the mess of sword harnesses on his back, but how long was he in that pool and why? Did he fall in? When? What's in the crate strapped to his bike? He figured he might as well walk over and save the man before his student drives him insane. When he got there however the man was staring at Zack as though he hung the moon and stars. Zack didnt seem to notice and kept babbling on about how cool motorcycles are and that Shinra was there for a training exercise with the troopers.

"Am I dead?" The man suddenly asked, causing Zacks mouth to click shut in bafflement.

"No? Why would you think that?" Zack asked, tilting his head.

"You just...look like someone I used to know." The blond sheepishly replied.

"Oh, guess I should introduce myself then! I'm Zack Fair, SOLDIER 2nd Class!" He flashed the blond a mock salute.

The man's face paled and Angeal's eyes narrowed in response. This man was hiding something. "Strife. Just...Strife." Strife introduced. Yeah, definitely hiding something.

"Well, Strife," he spoke up, grabbing the blondes attention, "You mind answering a few questions?" Strife's face went blank, but he nodded all the same.

"Good. Come with me." Angeal turned towards camp, not bothering to see if they were following.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"So. You were suddenly attacked by a monster and drove into the mako pool on accident?" Angeal asked, incredulous.

"That's what I just said." The blond huffed. He shifted in the metal fold-up chair in the commander's tent.

"Why didnt you drive out? You've already shone you could have." He questioned.

"I hit my head on the landing. I woke up when I heard yelling."

"Oh, that makes sense!" Zack helpfully replied, "We must have woke you up when we were yelling about that trooper." He smiled. "Wait! You said your name was Strife right?" Strife shifted in his seat again but reluctantly nodded. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Cloud Strife would you? You look so much like him!" Angeal stared at him, his interest peaked.

"Mabey. I don't really know if I have any living relatives." Strife shrugged. Angeal begrudgingly accepted this.

"Cool! I'll take you to him when he wakes up!" Zack excitedly exclaimed, "Spike is gonna freak when he sees his cool biker cousin!"

Angeal gave him a look. "Cousin?"

Zack shrugged, "Figured it was as close as were gonna get untill we know for sure."

"Spike?" Strife asked.

"Yeah! You should see his hair! He would totally poke an eye out!" Zack boasted merrily, earning a soft smile from the blond.

"You're one to talk, you have an entire arsenal. " Zacks jaw dropped and Angeal turned his face away, his gloved hand covering his smirk, "He's got you there, Zack."

"Hey! Angeal! Who's side are you on?!"

Angeal crossed his arms, "I wasnt aware there were sides."

Strife just sat there smirking.

"So Strife," Angeal started, "Where are you from?"

Strife's smirk dropped, "Up north."

"Like near the icicle area?" Zack asked.

"Yeah. But I mostly travel around with Fenrir. I deliver packages sometimes, and I'm trying to make it into a legitimate business." Strife pulled out a black business card from seemingly nowhere and handed it to Angeal. On it was a motorcycle that looked similar to the one outside the tent. And below it in gold letters read: Strife delivery service.

"Huh." Was Angeal's only reply.

"My number is on the back." Angeal flipped it over and, sure enough, it was there. "Would you mind if I kept this?" He asked.

Strife raised an eyebrow, "That is what business cards are for."

Angeal shook his head, but before he could respond the tent flap was opened, revealing a trooper with a red scarf in salute "Excuse me commander, sir."

Angeal sighed, whatever he was about to say slipped his mind as he addressed the trooper. "At ease." Angeal waited for him to get into parade rest before asking, "What do you need?"

"I've come to inform you that the drills have been completed and that Cloud Strife has awakened, as per your request." Angeal nodded, "Thank you, you are dismissed."

The trooper nodded and gave a quick "Sir!" before he left.

Before Angeal could react, Zack had grabbed Strife's arm and all but dragged the startled man out of the tent. Angeal chuckled, then went to follow them.

Angeal soon found them in the infirmary tent, the smaller Strife was sitting on a cot while the men stood on either side, both blonds looked uncomfortable while the pup chattered on. "Zack." He warned.

"Angeal!" Zack shouted excitedly. Angeal absently wondered if he could see a wagging tail if he looked hard enough, "See how similar they look? These two chocobos could have hatched from the same egg!" He proudly proclaimed.

"Hey!" Both blonds shouted at the same time, "Err-um. Sorry sir." The smaller one said, suddenly more nervous than before.

Zack just waved him off, "Naw, it's my fault for insulting you in the first place."

Cloud looked taken aback, as though no one had ever apologized for wronging him before. Angeal suddenly felt protective of the boy. By the looks of it, Strife was feeling the same way.

Strife suddenly popped out one of his business cards and handed it to the smaller blond. "I heard that it was thanks to you and your friend here that I was saved. I owe you both. Seriously."

"W-What? He's not my-!" Cloud began only to be stopped by Zacks dramatic gasp, "I save your life and this is how you repay me? By denying our friendship?" He placed his hand over his chest in a mock expression of hurt.

Cloud looked horrified, "Wait. No- that's not what I-"

"Zack, that's enough," Angeal cut in. "You're going to give him a panic attack."

Zack frowned and scratched the back of his head, "Sorry, I was just playing, I didnt mean to scare you."

"It's fine." The small blond murmered into his scarf.

Angeal looked over to Strife, who had been quiet this whole time. Strife sat silently, with only the smallest upturn of his lips to show his amusement. Angeal was struck by how much Strife resembled Sephiroth in that moment and decided to file that information away for later.

Strife noticed Angeal staring at him and took that as his que to cut off Zacks attempts of consolation. "So, as I was saying, if you ever need anything. Just call." He flicked another card torwards Zack, who caught it easily. Strife pat Cloud on the head, much to the others dismay. "Stay safe."

Cloud blinked owlishly at him before nodding once, full of fire and determination.

Strife got up and pulled something from his pocket. "Hold out your hands."

Both Zack and Cloud looked confused, but complied anyway, which earned them a little red marble in their hands.

"What? No way! I love you man!" Zack glomped the poor man, sending him staggering back a step.

Angeal noted that this man was able to take the full force of one of Zacks infamous tackle hugs and not be knocked onto his back. He had noticed a mako glow in his eyes before, but had wrote it off as a side effect from his time in the spring. Now he wasn't so sure.

"What is it?" The younger blond asked.

"It's a summon materia." Angeal answered, "If you feed MP into it, it will summon a monster to fight for you. They tend to be very rare."

The little blond looked surprised, "And you're just giving it to me? Why?"

Strife shook his head. "I want you to be safe. I've never..." he cut himself off, "you're my cute little cousin now. I need to look out for you."

The trooper turned an impressive shade of read and sputtered as Strife fled the tent. "Their names are Alexander and Knights of the Round, by the way."

Angeal groaned. Genesis had been looking for Knights of the Round for quite some time. He was going to have one hell of a time keeping Gen away from the kid. Not to mention he needed to fill out the paperwork for the kid to use it in combat.

The roar of a motorcycle cut through his thoughts.

Zack turned to the smaller blond. "Let's get you a bracer chickabo!"

The resulting squak made him laugh.

[in-flagrante]

The wait is over

THE TIARAS HAVE BEEN DUSTED OFF AND THE PEARLS POLISHED. FOUR LONG YEARS AFTER THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF DOWNTON ABBEY, IT’S BACK, THIS TIME ON THE BIG SCREEN. BEN LAWRENCE WENT ON SET TO UNCOVER SOME FAMILY SECRETS

The Daily Telegraph

31 Aug 2019

As Downton Abbey sweeps majestically on to the big screen, Ben Lawrence joins the cast reunion on set

It is a crisp, clear morning at Wentworth Woodhouse, the stately home in South Yorkshire. Built by the 1st Marquess of Rockingham, it has the widest façade in Europe, boasts at least 365 rooms (no one is certain of the exact number), and represents two and a half acres of building. This perfect specimen of English baroque is the setting for the new Downton Abbey film – in which George V and Queen Mary tour the north of England (which also includes a visit to Downton itself, filmed as usual at Highclere Castle in Berkshire) – and today they are shooting a grand ball at the home of the Countess of Harewood in the film, attended by the royal couple and Downton’s Crawley family.

Inside the house, a production unit zigzags in and out of huge vaulted rooms with cables and film cameras, while extras in 1920s ball attire chat nonchalantly on makeshift chairs. Meanwhile in the ballroom – a giant marble space, adorned with deep-red damask wallpaper and enormous flower arrangements – Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton (two of the stars of the original series) slip through the lines of dancing couples in diaphanous silks, as a small orchestra plays a waltz. In the background, an assistant producer is being told off by one of the volunteers of Wentworth Woodhouse for wandering into a disused room. This isn’t jobsworthiness. The carpet in some rooms is nearly 300 years old and will disintegrate

if anyone breathes on it. The wallpaper, meanwhile, is laced with arsenic (as was the fashion at the time) in order to make it a certain shade of green.

Away from the action, Michelle Dockery, who plays Lady Mary (the eldest Crawley daughter), is sitting in her trailer, her sharp features accentuated by period make-up, feeling slightly in awe of the whole process. ‘It was during my costume fitting when it hit me. I got really emotional.’

Downton Abbey made Dockery and many of her fellow cast members international names, and no wonder. The ITV series, which ran from 2010 to 2015 and followed the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants, was sold to 220 territories worldwide, achieved a global audience of 120 million and was nominated for 53 International Emmys. In America, it became the most successful British drama import of all time. It also set the bar for costume dramas, at least in terms of visual sheen. The Crown, Netflix’s lavish regal series (which returns this autumn), has clearly been influenced by Julian Fellowes’ series, which cost, on average, £1 million per episode to make.

Everyone expected that a film would be made, but it was quite a feat getting the cast together. ‘It was like herding cats,’ says Dockery. ‘But I just love it. It’s so familiar and doesn’t feel like work.’

Despite rumours to the contrary, Maggie Smith is back as the Dowager Countess, famous for her

‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a party at The Ivy and everyone cried’

withering put-downs, as are Hugh Bonneville’s paterfamilias the Earl of Grantham, his American wife Cora (played by Elizabeth Mcgovern) and his two surviving daughters, Lady Mary, of course, and Laura Carmichael’s Lady Edith. Others involved include Penelope Wilton’s sensible cousin Isobel and many of the downstairs staff: Jim Carter’s stentorian Mr Carson and his wife, the no-nonsense housekeeper Mrs Hughes (Phyllis Logan); Mrs Patmore (Lesley Nicol), the plainspeaking cook with Escoffier abilities, and her protégée, the occasionally mutinous Daisy (Sophie Mcshera).

When I talk to Fellowes though, he is adamant that a film was never inevitable. Rumours circulated about a prequel, following Robert’s courting of Cora for her money and subsequently falling in love with her, but nothing came of it. ‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a lovely party at The Ivy and everyone cried, but that was it as far as I was concerned. Then, as the years rolled by, there was a sense that people hadn’t quite finished with it, and eventually I formed an idea for a feature film.’

The Downton Abbey film, directed by Michael Engler, is set in 1927, just over a year after the series ended, and focuses on the Crawleys and their servants as they prepare for a royal visit. It causes much excitement below stairs, but the staff soon find the monarch’s entourage taking over – including a temperamental French chef (played by Philippe Spall) and a pompous head butler, played by David Haig, who refers to himself as the ‘King’s page of the back stairs’. Other new cast members include Simon Jones and Geraldine James as the King and Queen, Imelda Staunton (real-life wife of Carter) as Lady Bagshaw, lady-in-waiting to the Queen and a relative of the Crawleys, and Tuppence Middleton as her mysterious lady’s maid, Lucy.

Fellowes was inspired, in part, by a book he had read called Black Diamonds by Catherine Bailey, which details a 1912 visit by King George V and Queen Mary to South Yorkshire. As well as tucking into lavish 13-course dinners, which included puddings served in sugar baskets that took four days to weave, they also met local miners and toured pit villages. Although the film is set 15 years later, the King and Queen did make similar, unlikely tours around the country, as Fellowes explains. ‘After the First World War, there was a period of unsettled feelings about things – not least the monarchy. It had to re-establish itself as many members of European royalty had disappeared – the German Emperor, the Austrian Emperor, the Tsar of Russia. The structure had to be restated as having an integral role in society and they [George and Mary] were very successful in doing so. By 1930, the Crown was back at the heart of English life.’

For Dockery, making the film was not only a chance to catch up with old friends, but also to further develop a character that the nation took to their hearts.

‘Mary is so complex. We met her at 18 and she was this rebellious teenager – she was bored, and

‘It is pompous, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right’

because she was a girl, she wasn’t what her father wanted [an heir to Downton]. Ultimately he became very proud of her, though, and I think everyone really responded to that. Seeing her journey was what hooked people.’

Now we see Lady Mary very much in control, happily married (to Matthew Goode’s Henry Talbot) and more than capable of taking over the ancestral pile when the time comes.

‘Julian writes really well for women and I think that has something to do with his wife, Emma [a descendant of Lord Kitchener]. I see a lot of her in Mary, just her expressions and things,’ she says.

Dockery has had a particularly successful career post-downton. She brought rigour and a dash of fun to her part as an ambitious TV exec in Network (the National Theatre production based on the acclaimed ’70s film), and a sort of watchfulness to the role of a hard-edged widow in Netflix’s warped western Godless. Next year, she will be showing her versatility further in Guy Ritchie’s film The Gentlemen, in which she plays the wife of a drug lord (played by Matthew Mcconaughey).

One character who has a particularly meaty storyline in the film is gay footman Thomas, played by Robert James-collier. We meet at Shepperton Studios, where the kitchen scenes are being filmed. It’s a cavernous setting which production designer Donal Woods describes as ‘like a noirish, Scandi film, as opposed to the glorious technicolor of upstairs’. For the TV series, the servants’ quarters were created at Ealing Studios, but the set has been flat-packed and sent over, as have the copper jelly moulds, kettles and pans.

This time, we see Thomas befriend a footman from the Royal household (played by Max Brown), and he ends up in an illicit gay drinking den in York. This was an era when homosexuality could result in a prison sentence, but, says James-collier, for one brief moment his somewhat malevolent character is liberated.

‘He is introduced to this other world that he doesn’t know exists, and there is this sense of relief, this sudden realisation that there are kindred spirits and that he is not this “foul individual” as Mr Carson once described him.’

The irony that Downton Abbey has been sold to countries where homosexuality can be punished by death is not lost on James-collier, and he feels a grave sense of responsibility about his role. ‘I have received letters from young men who say that watching Thomas’s journey has helped them. All I can say is that it’s an utter privilege. It’s the reason why I do it.’

The film’s 1927 setting marks a period in Britain when country houses such as Downton were beginning to feel the austerity of the interwar years. Death duties had to be paid and households streamlined, which meant that many servants lost their jobs. Meanwhile, the General Strike of 1926 – in which the TUC fought against worsening conditions for the country’s miners – underlined a growing sense of solidarity among the working class. In the film, however, there are no such concerns, and that reflects the point that Downton is in many ways a fantasy. One criticism of the original scripts was that the Crawleys were too benign as employers, that the relationship between master and servant was much more remote, without any of the Earl of Grantham’s well-meaning paternalism. Fellowes disagrees.

‘This notion that people were horrible to their servants is wrong. Most of us, if you think about it logically, and putting aside the moral view that that life should exist at all, would want to get on with the valet or lady’s maid. When you see a character snarling at his butler, you think this isn’t a way of life. None of us would want to be in a position of speaking to people you disliked.’

If Fellowes is the arbiter of psychological accuracy, then Alastair Bruce is the gatekeeper of protocol. He was Downton’s historical adviser at the beginning and describes himself, among other things, as the posture monitor.

He explains. ‘The cast tend to put their bums here on the seat,’ he says indicating the back of his chair. ‘But in those days, you didn’t – you would sit at the front. Also, [people’s] shoulders have fallen forward because everyone is on their mobile phone all the time.’

Bruce also helps the actors with their diction and mentions the word ‘room’. Many tended to accentuate the ‘o’s when it fact it should be shortened, so they sound very nearly like a ‘u’.

‘It is pompous bollocks, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right,’ Bruce adds. ‘Michelle would quite happily let me describe her evolution in life as a long way from Downton Abbey, but I have some pretty grandiose friends who can’t believe this is the case. I am very proud of the fact that she now has this incredible poise – you never see a curve in her back – and her accent is on point.’

Several months later, I ask Fellowes whether he has plans for a sequel (although in truth, certain scenes in the film suggest a full stop rather than a pause). ‘There is never any point in answering that,’ he says. ‘In this business as soon as someone says that’s the last time I’ll put on my ballet shoes, there they are, a year later, dancing Giselle.’ Downton Abbey is released on 13 September

[hedwigsaardvark]

From the Telegraph.

The wait is over: Downton Abbey hits the big screen - and a visit to the set uncovers family secrets 

By Ben Lawrence

30 AUGUST 2019

Harry Hadden-Paton, director Michael Engler and Matthew Goode CREDIT: CHARLIE GRAY

CREDIT: CHARLIE GRAY

It is a crisp, clear morning at Wentworth Woodhouse, the stately home in South Yorkshire. Built by the 1st Marquess of Rockingham, it has the widest façade in Europe, boasts at least 365 rooms (no one is certain of the exact number), and represents two and a half acres of building.

The tiaras have been dusted off and the pearls polished. Four long years after the final instalment of Downton Abbey, it’s back, this time on the big screen. 

This perfect specimen of English baroque is the setting for the new Downton Abbey film – in which George V and Queen Mary tour the north of England (which also includes a visit to Downton itself, filmed as usual at Highclere Castle in Berkshire) – and today they are shooting a grand ball at the home of the Countess of Harewood in the film, attended by the royal couple and Downton’s Crawley family. 

Inside the house, a production unit zigzags in and out of huge vaulted rooms with cables and film cameras, while extras in 1920s ball attire chat nonchalantly on makeshift chairs. Meanwhile in the ballroom – a giant marble space, adorned with deep-red damask wallpaper and enormous flower arrangements – Maggie Smith and Penelope Wilton(two of the stars of the original series) slip through the lines of dancing couples in diaphanous silks, as a small orchestra plays a waltz.

In the background, an assistant producer is being told off by one of the volunteers of Wentworth Woodhouse for wandering into a disused room. This isn’t jobsworthiness. The carpet in some rooms is nearly 300 years old and will disintegrate if anyone breathes on it. The wallpaper, meanwhile, is laced with arsenic (as was the fashion at the time) in order to make it a certain shade of green.

Away from the action, Michelle Dockery, who plays Lady Mary (the eldest Crawley daughter), is sitting in her trailer, her sharp features accentuated by period make-up, feeling slightly in awe of the whole process. ‘It was during my costume fitting when it hit me. I got really emotional.’

Downton Abbey made Dockery and many of her fellow cast members international names, and no wonder. The ITV series, which ran from 2010 to 2015 and followed the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants, was sold to 220 territories worldwide, achieved a global audience of 120 million and was nominated for 53 International Emmys.

In America, it became the most successful British drama import of all time. It also set the bar for costume dramas, at least in terms of visual sheen. The Crown, Netflix’s lavish regal series (which returns this autumn), has clearly been influenced by Julian Fellowes’ series, which cost, on average, £1 million per episode to make.

Everyone expected that a film would be made, but it was quite a feat getting the cast together. ‘It was like herding cats,’ says Dockery. ‘But I just love it. It’s so familiar and doesn’t feel like work.’

Despite rumours to the contrary, Maggie Smith is back as the Dowager Countess, famous for her withering put-downs, as are Hugh Bonneville’s paterfamilias the Earl of Grantham, his American wife Cora (played by Elizabeth McGovern) and his two surviving daughters, Lady Mary, of course, and Laura Carmichael’s Lady Edith. 

Others involved include Penelope Wilton’s sensible cousin Isobel and many of the downstairs staff: Jim Carter’s stentorian Mr Carson and his wife, the no-nonsense housekeeper Mrs Hughes (Phyllis Logan); Mrs Patmore (Lesley Nicol), the plain-speaking cook with Escoffierabilities, and her protégée, the occasionally mutinous Daisy (Sophie McShera).

When I talk to Fellowes though, he is adamant that a film was never inevitable. Rumours circulated about a prequel, following Robert’s courting of Cora for her money and subsequently  falling in love with her, but nothing came of it. ‘When we finished the series, we didn’t envisage a film. We had a lovely party at The Ivy and everyone cried, but that was it as far as I was concerned. Then, as the years rolled by, there was a sense that people hadn’t quite finished with it, and eventually I formed an idea for a feature film.’

The Downton Abbey film, directed by Michael Engler, is set in 1927, just over a year after the series ended, and focuses on the Crawleys and their servants as they prepare for a royal visit. It causes much excitement below stairs, but the staff soon find the monarch’s entourage taking over – including a temperamental French chef (played by Philippe Spall) and a pompous head butler, played by David Haig, who refers to himself as the ‘King’s page of the back stairs’.

Other new cast members include Simon Jones and Geraldine James as the King and Queen, Imelda Staunton (real-life wife of Carter) as Lady Bagshaw, lady-in-waiting to the Queen and a relative of the Crawleys, and Tuppence Middleton as her mysterious lady’s maid, Lucy.

Fellowes was inspired, in part, by a book he had read called Black Diamonds by Catherine Bailey, which details a 1912 visit by King George V and Queen Mary to South Yorkshire. As well as tucking into lavish 13-course dinners, which included puddings served in sugar baskets that took four days to weave, they also met local miners and toured  pit villages.

Although the film is set 15 years later, the King and Queen did make similar, unlikely tours around the country, as Fellowes explains. ‘After the First World War, there was a period of unsettled feelings about things – not least the monarchy. It had to re-establish itself as many members of European royalty had disappeared – the German Emperor, the Austrian Emperor, the Tsar of Russia. The structure had to be restated as having an integral role in society and they [George and Mary] were very successful in doing so. By 1930, the Crown was back at the heart of English life.’

For Dockery, making the film was not only a chance to catch up with old friends, but also to further develop a character that the nation took to their hearts. 

‘Mary is so complex. We met her at 18 and she was this rebellious teenager – she was bored, and because she was a girl, she wasn’t what her father wanted [an heir to Downton]. Ultimately he became very proud of her, though, and I think  everyone really responded to that. Seeing her journey was what hooked people.’

Now we see Lady Mary very much in control, happily married (to Matthew Goode’s Henry  Talbot) and more than capable of taking over the ancestral pile when the time comes.

‘Julian writes really well for women and I think that has something to do with his wife, Emma [a descendant of Lord Kitchener]. I see a lot of her in Mary, just her expressions and things,’ she says.

Dockery has had a particularly successful career post-Downton. She brought rigour and a dash of fun to her part as an ambitious TV exec in Network (the National Theatre production based on the acclaimed ’70s film), and a sort of watchfulness to the role of a hard-edged widow in Netflix’s warped western Godless. Next year, she will be showing her versatility further in Guy Ritchie’s film The Gentlemen, in which she plays the wife of a drug lord (played by Matthew McConaughey).

One character who has a particularly meaty  storyline in the film is gay footman Thomas, played by Robert James-Collier. We meet at Shepperton Studios, where the kitchen scenes are being filmed. It’s a cavernous setting which production designer Donal Woods describes as ‘like a noirish, Scandi film, as opposed to the glorious technicolor of upstairs’. For the TV series, the servants’ quarters were created at Ealing Studios, but the set has been flat-packed and sent over, as have the copper jelly moulds, kettles and pans. 

This time, we see Thomas befriend a footman from the Royal household (played by Max Brown), and he ends up in an illicit gay drinking den in York. This was  an era when homosexuality could result in a prison sentence, but, says James-Collier, for one brief moment his somewhat malevolent character is liberated.

‘He is introduced to this other world that he doesn’t know exists, and there is this sense of relief, this sudden realisation that there are  kindred spirits and that he is not this “foul individual” as Mr Carson once described him.’

The irony that Downton Abbey has been sold to countries where homosexuality can be punished by death is not lost on James-Collier, and he feels a grave sense of responsibility about his role.  ‘I have received letters from young men who say that watching Thomas’s journey has helped them. All I can say is that it’s an utter privilege. It’s the reason why I do it.’

The film’s 1927 setting marks a period in Britain when country houses such as Downton were beginning to feel the austerity of the interwar years. Death duties had to be paid and households streamlined, which meant that many servants lost their jobs. Meanwhile, the General Strike of 1926 – in which the TUC fought against worsening conditions for the country’s miners – underlined a growing sense of solidarity among the working class.

In the film, however, there are no such concerns, and that reflects the point that Downton is in many ways a fantasy. One criticism of the original scripts was that the Crawleys were too benign as employers, that the relationship between master and servant was much more remote, without any of the Earl of Grantham’s well-meaning paternalism. Fellowes disagrees.

‘This notion that people were horrible to their servants is wrong. Most of us, if you think about it logically, and putting aside the moral view that that life should exist at all, would want to get on with the valet or lady’s maid. When you see a character snarling at his butler, you think this isn’t a way of life. None of us would want to be in  a position of speaking to people you disliked.’

If Fellowes is the arbiter of psychological accuracy, then Alastair Bruce is the gatekeeper of  protocol. He was Downton’s historical adviser at the beginning and describes himself, among other things, as the posture monitor.

He explains. ‘The cast tend to put their bums here on the seat,’ he says indicating the back of his chair. ‘But in those days, you didn’t – you would sit at the front. Also, [people’s] shoulders have fallen forward because everyone is on their mobile phone all the time.’

Bruce also helps the actors with their diction and mentions the word ‘room’. Many tended to accentuate the ‘o’s when it fact it should be shortened, so they sound very nearly like a ‘u’.

‘It is pompous bollocks, but if you are recreating the ’20s you may as well get it right,’ Bruce adds. ‘Michelle would quite happily let me describe her evolution in life as a long way from Downton Abbey, but I have some pretty grandiose friends who can’t believe this is the case. I am very proud of the fact that she now has this incredible poise – you never see a curve in her back – and her accent is on point.’

Several months later, I ask Fellowes whether he has plans for a sequel (although in truth, certain scenes in the film suggest a full stop rather than a pause). ‘There is never any point in answering that,’ he says. ‘In this business as soon as someone says that’s the last time I’ll put on my ballet shoes, there they are, a year later, dancing Giselle.’

Downton Abbey is released on 13 September 

Source and copyright The Telegraph

[iamnotyouarenotme-blog]

Day 1 11/01/19

Hi all! I thought I would share my first experiences with you all and I hope you will share yours with me. I decided to attempt to form my Tulpa for two main reasons. Primarily out of pure curiosity. I have always been interested by the strange and hard to explain things in the world and this seemed like the first I could take into my own hands and try for myself. I also hope that my Tulpa could take over in some situations, granting me decisiveness and a critical mind when I did not posses it.

I decided my Tulpa should be a blank slate humanoid with wings so that he may fly and not be bound to as many limitations as myself. This was not too hard to create an image of, he was around my height but floated around a foot off of the ground, with his wings behind him. It seemed that he needed them. He possessed a head, torso, legs and arms but all were featureless for now. In line with my eventual aims, I named him Arsene after both the gentleman thief and the Persona character, as they are rebellious, clever and quick witted.

For my first adventure, I decided to create and explore a "wonderland" with Arsene to see where my imagination would take us. Having some experience with meditation techniques, I did not find it too difficult to be in the correct mindset to slip into a wonderland and create new areas on the fly.

When I first arrived, I tried to imagine Arsene floating close to me while I lay down against the root of a tree. We were both in an expansive area, filled with tall, thin and dark trees that ended with dark leaves far far above us. I tried to explain to Arsene who I am and who he was, with no response as to be expected. After rambling to him for a short time, I decided we should explore the woods and expand the wonderland.

We first came to a log cabin with a wooden set of steps leading up. It had been built on a raised platform on a raised portion of the forest floor. Whilst explaining to Arsene exactly what a shelter was, I was suddenly greeted with Arsene sharply opening the door to the cabin. Unsure of whether I had made Arsene perform this or not, I decided to gloss over this and have Arsene enter the cabin before me. Arsene moved to the center of the room looked towards me with his blank, black face. Although in retrospect, this was rather creepy, I did not feel scared at all at the time. To me, it was clear that something behind the blank face was looking out and listening to me. The cabin was quite small, having a sofa, a small kitchen area and a wooden ladder leading to a raised bed. I glossed over these with Arsene and jokingly remarked that he had better not ruin the marble counter tops. Arsene did not respond. Seemingly at a loose end, I decided to take us both outside. I opened the door, had Arsene leave before me and I closed the door behind him.

Turning to Arsene, I asked him where he would like to go now. He pointed with a new hand to the tree canopy. His hand was dark with long black fingernails that pointed out of long sleeves similar to that of robes. The colors of the robes were still unclear, but his hand was very much so. I was certain I had not made Arsene do this. I was sure I had mentioned prior that he would probably like to see what was above the trees. In that moment however, I was sure he decided this for himself. What convinced me of this is there was no movement in my mind to the action. He was just suddenly pointing, which is more jarring now than it was at the time. I proposed that he fly to the treetops as he had the ability to do so. Unsurprisingly I was met with no response, so I demonstrated how to climb the trees. Also no response. Unsure of what to do next, I decided to head back to the area we had met.

Funnily enough, there was now a small stream of running water around 10 meters away from where we had first met. Mid-explaining what this was, Arsene stuck his hand into the running water. Again, with seemingly no movement. I was just suddenly aware he had moved. In response, I suggested the water was probably quite cold, which was also met with no response. As I was explaining that the water must have started and ended somewhere, Arsene pointed upstream. Then it was decided, we would head upstream.

As we started moving, I found that I kept interrupting our journey with discussion. I began talking about my past self and how I am not proud of who I used to be, I felt a faint whisper come from the back of my head. "You" was all it said. It took me a second to realize something had been said, and pinned it to Arsene. Unsure of how to respond, I realized we had stopped moving and that we should continue upstream. On the way, I trudged through plenty of mud and sang and danced to myself. I was feeling very loose now, I had begun to act how I would when I was home alone, which amused me. I turned to Arsene again to speak with him and noticed that his head had changed. There was now a clear black dome over where his facial features and hair would be that was in stark contrast to the red of his neck. I was surprised by this and remarked to Arsene how wonderful it was that he was already making his image his own, unsurprisingly to no response.

We reached the top of the steam and, to my surprise, it was a rock beach pulled straight out of my childhood. I recognized the perspective, I was looking up to the rocks I had climbed down with my Grandparents while on holiday. Again, while telling this to Arsene, he pointed to the top of the rocks. We ascended the rocks and before I could speak, he pointed to another peak that was around 3 meters higher than when we had stopped. I did not recall this extra peak, but I obliged all the same and ascended.

Upon reaching the top, I took a deep smell of the salty sea air. This was one of my favorite places in the world and the last time I was here was with one of my most favorite people. As a child, my Grandparents would bring me to a camp site not far from this beach. I had lost my Grandfather around 2 years prior, and the sorrow at his passing welled up inside me. It was more intense than I was used to, but I attributed this to my relaxed state. Whilst explaining this to Arsene, I felt the sensation of tears and then something quite odd. It didn't feel warm, and it wasn't physical. Had Arsene tried to comfort me? I couldn't be sure. I imagined him putting an arm around me but I realized this was not the same as Arsene moving on his own so I left it at that. I stood up and decided that now was not the time to dwell upon sadness and that we should head for home. I noticed a gravely path that led downwards off the rocks. The path wound into the trees and eventually led to wooden bridges across the most muddy parts of the wood, ending at a bridge that crossed the stream a little further down stream than where we had started.

I was unsure of how much time had actually passed, but I thanked Arsene for meeting with me and told him I would return soon. After a second or so of preparation, I got up from my bed and wrote as much of this down as I could in a journal that I shall continue to update.

Well, I feel like a lot happened in what ended up being about an hour of concentrated thought on a world and Arsene. Does anyone have any similar stories to this? Is Arsene responding to me, or am I just pulling his strings for now? Any and all thoughts are appreciated.

Ta all!

Silver

[sunevial]

The Followers: The Young Priest

My sixth and final installment of my DMP fanfic for @internetremix (or is it?). The Murder God belongs to @miss-goggles and some scenery in the work is inspired by @missvulpix212‘s own DMP fanfic. Enjoy!

The brick walls rose high above the young man’s head, covered in interweaving vines and greenery whose name was just at the edges of his memory. He ran his fingertips over the low bushes and hedges, peering down the the rows of carefully cultivated daisies and roses separated by decorative hostas. While he shouldn’t have been able to see much of anything at all this time of night, the whole garden was lit up in the soft blue glow of moonflowers scattered throughout the otherwise picture perfect rows. One of those mysterious flowers, however, certainly would not be thriving in between the stone steps. Taking the shovel out of the small bag at his side, he carefully uprooted the small pale flower and carried it over to one of the hosta patches.

“You know, it’s never going to bloom as brightly as the others,” a strange female voice echoed, bouncing off the walls and ringing deep within his skull. “It’s already so much smaller and so sickly. Honestly, it would make better fertilizer than anything else at this point.” The young man shivered, nearly dropping the plant in his hands. He didn’t have to turn around to know there was someone standing right behind him. But he kept digging.  

“Maybe, but it’s not the flower’s fault the seed decided to land where it did,” he replied, placing the roots into the damp soil and piling the excess around the base. “Better soil, more light and water, and a little helping hand can make all the difference.” He delicately touched the petals of the pale flower, watching as the stem and leaves perked up, reaching for the skies above until it towered over the resting hostas and shone with a brilliant blue light.

“Oh great, another one with needlessly flowery language, exactly what I needed at this exact moment in time and space,” the woman grumbled. He could feel her eyes on him, gazing over his sweater vest and collared shirt, or rather, maybe it was more accurate to say he could feel her gazing through him instead. She made a small click with her tongue; he didn’t need to see the smirk splitting her face. “Well well well, this is going to be a bit of a problem, now isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am is something wrong?” he slowly asked, carefully standing up and brushing the dirt off of his trousers. He caught a glimpse of a transparent red dress and delicate black heels, still trying to keep his eyes on anything else but the woman. Steady now. Don’t be rash. Play it safe.

“You know, I was going to reassure you and say ‘no, everything’s fine’, but you’re kind of missing a soul there, bud,” she replied, Her gaze moving towards his hair, colored not unlike the very bricks that he just passed by. “And that’s kind of important in the grand scheme of things, you know?”

“Is it though?” the young man asked with a chuckle.

“I mean, if we want this conversation to continue in a more…civil manner, I kind of need a soul,” she replied. A strange yellow light fell to his sides, light that was slowly fading into a deep orange. Before long, the stones were bathed in an eerie blood red. Well. This was…not exactly going how he’d imagined an encounter with the literal incarnation of death and murder would, but all things considered, it wasn’t as bad as he expected it to be. He was still alive; he honestly didn’t think he’d get that far.

“Does it have to be my soul?” he asked, slowly reaching into his bag and pulling out a tightly sealed glass jar. There was a small glowing ball inside, surrounded by ethereal ribbons of colored light and giving off a comforting amount of heat even through the thick glass. Taking in a sharp breath, he whipped around and held out the jar in front of his face. Standing there was a woman he had several inches on, her hair the color of early morning sunlight and her ears ending in dainty tips. A small black star rested on her collarbone, visible through the sheer mesh at the top of her dress. There was a curious smile on her face.

“So you’re a clever one then? You’ve got moxie. I’ll give you that,” she said with a raised eyebrow, reaching out one of her stained hands and pushing the jar down until he was forced to look her in the eyes. “So, what’s your name, kid?”

“Uh…call me…Cole Hector,” he slowly replied. He blinked a few times, wondering if what he was seeing was real. If anything he was seeing was real.

“Cute nickname, almost believable too,” she said with a cackle that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. “And you know about the name rules too, this is just getting better and better.” The smile turned into a wicked smirk. “Okay, smart guy…what’s your story?”

“You tell me. That’s kind what you do, after all,” he replied, returning with a weak smile of his own. He glanced down at the small wisp in his hands, holding the jar more tightly to his chest.

“You’re right, I could tell you about your missing parents. Or your fight to put food on the table. Or your poor sickly sister. Or that right now, you’re about as alone in this world as anyone could possibly be because that little soul in your hands probably could’ve saved her life, but no, she decided to be a martyr and give it to her dearest brother who she loved more than life itself. But that’s just the boring facts that no one really pays attention to anyways,” she said with a dismissive wave of the hand and a glint in her eyes, her words sharper than any dagger in her arsenal.

“They might be boring facts, but that’s the only life I’ve ever known,” the young man said, gripping the small jar hard enough to turn his fingers white. “And that was her choice. Not mine.”

“A little on the defensive side, are we? Did I hit a sore spot? I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” the woman remarked with what could’ve equally been a sarcastic smirk or a genuine smile. She yawned, clicking her heels and turning her back to him in one smooth movement. “Come, walk with me.”

Nearly tripping over the uneven stones, he followed her down a meandering stone path that took them out of the walled gardens and into the iron wrought fences of the cemetery. The marble tombstones had been eaten away by the acidity of the rain, blacked and barely legible after all of these years. Freshly cut flowers were draped over the granite monuments, some of them clearly cut from the rows they had just been walking while others looked to be brought in from outside. Just like the gardens, the whole plot was lit up by dozens upon dozens of moonflowers. He shifted in his shoes, waiting for her to make another of her witty remarks and just say something, anything. The silence pressed down on his shoulders as if the sky was collapsing.

“Why am I here?” he finally asked, though it came out as more of a distressed sputter.

“Because you bought Old Priestess a bus ticket and she liked you enough to dump you here and send me on what I was pretty sure was a wild goose chase up until about, oh, seven minutes ago,” the woman said, casually inspecting one of the grave markers and tracing the name carved into the worn stone.

“No, why am I here?” he asked, setting down the jar on one of the larger monuments and turning to face her. “The other woman, when I told her about the book and about, well, slight curiosity in finding you, she said that she was…looking for a replacement, someone who could be one of your elite…I think she used the word Followers? And if that’s referring who I’m thinking, then…why me? I’m not one of your cultists, I don’t have anything really special to offer except making flowers bloom, I’m not really one for bloodshed to begin with, I’m…nothing compared to them. Why would you, why would they, need me?”

The woman finished tracing the carved name, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Well, you’re right. They don’t need you at all. Their job is to go out into the world and, well, mostly do what they want up until I need them to rally the forces or do something really specific, but between the five of them, they’ve got everything they need to wreak havoc to their heart’s desires,” she said with a smirk. “No, see, honey…I’m the one that needs you.”

“You…what?”

“Tell me, what do you know about my games?”

“Uh…um... there’s usually ten people or more people in a game,” he stammered, ticking off his fingers and trying to keep his voice level. “You have two werewolves, a seer, a witch, a gunslinger, a gardener, and then four regular townsfolk. The werewolves pick a person to die each night, and everyone has to try and figure out who the werewolves are, who’s got the special roles, and who’s just a regular person. The seer can figure out people’s roles, the witch can both save a person and kill a person, and the gunslinger can kill someone if they get killed.”

“What about the gardener?” she asked, plucking one of the moonflowers out of the ground and twirling it between her fingertips.

The young man hesitated for a second. “Well…the gardener doesn’t really…do much of anything from a gameplay standpoint. They just…give people nice things.”   

“Alright, now, I want you to to repeat what you just said, but this time, explain what all of those roles do from a storytelling standpoint,” the woman said, picking off the petals one by one and dropping them to the ground.

“Um…well…” he slowly said, tapping a finger against his chin and furrowing his brow. “Obviously the werewolves are the antagonists of the story. Without them, there’s no conflict and there’s really not much of a story to tell at all. They drive the story along by force, but they’re vulnerable because no matter what game they play, they’re always outnumbered. The seer fulfils the opposing role, given they’re the best chance the townsfolk have at surviving, at the risk of being highly exposed should they say anything. They add suspense because everyone knows they’re there; it’s just a matter of when they’re going to play their hand.”

He started pacing in front of the monument, one eye on the glass jar and the other on the woman. “The witch…well, the witch adds variability, excitement. They can save someone and kill someone, and no one knows how either will get used. Maybe they’ll save themselves, maybe they’ll kill someone innocent, maybe they’ll actually get the right person with a lucky guess. Who knows? As for the gunslinger, they’re…I guess they embody a strange sense of justice? While the other townsfolk are defenseless and can only use their words, they can take matters into their own hands if their life is in danger. There’s nothing they can do to save themselves, nothing they can do to right this wrong, but they sure can take someone with them.”

“And the gardener…the gardener.” The young man faltered, his paces slowing to a halt as the gears that had been whirring in his head skidded to an abrupt halt. “Well, the gardener is…well, I’m not really…sure…”   

“Wow, you actually just took the time to say all of that. Cut out the overly descriptive narration and I might actually be impressed,” the woman said with a chuckle, letting the stripped moonflower stem fall to the earth. With a small huff, she jumped onto the tombstone and let her legs dangle off the side. “Sit down, won’t you? I want to tell you a story.”

“You still really haven’t answered my questio-”

“SIT.”

The young man immediately grabbed the jar, crossed his legs, and dropped to the grass.

“That’s better,” she said with a smug smile, lightly tapping her heels against the stone. “You know, I’ve been running the games for, let’s say, a really long time. And you know, I really enjoy it. Building up the worlds, crafting scenarios, watching it all unfold and seeing my insufferable meatsacks play around. The thing is, after a while, the games started getting boring, and that’s a problem because boring games don’t make for good stories. And there’s no easy fix to that either. More roles meant there wouldn’t be enough townsfolk, and more people mean the games get kinda messy and then I have to do more work. But a townsfolk who just helped build up the atmosphere and make the games feel a little more real? Now, that I could do.”

She tilted her head to the side and grinned, giving him a glimpse of her pointed fangs. “The problem was that I’m sometimes a little too...how should I say…removed from my players and games and, well, there are some details that a mortal eye is better at picking out,” she continued with a casual hand gesture. “So I went and started looking for another Follower and just so happened to meet a nice young man so full of life and so ready not to die. Was a pilot, good man, kind heart. His plane crashed during a battle and instead of pleading for his life, he only asked for me to end the fighting and save his family.”

She snickered, the sound grating on his ears and making him want to dig his eardrums out of his skull. “Well, naturally I thought his compassion could be useful to me and I made him into my Young Priest,” she said, mindlessly tapping the top of the tombstone. “And he was really good at his job. He could build up worlds and mold personalities like he was playing with clay, and he had this spark he put into the players. He made them remember what it was like to be alive, for the games to have stakes and for life and death to mean something. He gave them back their humanity. He gave them hope. And man did it bring the games back to life.”

“But he ended up being more…human than I thought,” the woman said with a sneer that slowly formed into a sly smile and holding out her hand. “But that’s not important. What is important is right now, my games are about to start back up, and if this is going to be as good of a run as I think it’s going to be, I’m going to need my gardener.”

The young man peered into the woman’s eyes, seeing the red and yellow chaos swirl through her irises. He studied at the delicate soul in his hands, feeling the warmth emitting from something that he had sacrificed everything to obtain. He stared at the moonflowers around the cemetery, following their light to the stars above and found five stars he was sure had not been there before.

He stood up and held out the jar.

With a wave of her hand, it flew out of his hands and settled just under her palms. In one motion, she twisted off the top and touched the soul. He watched as it faded into her skin, the stains on her arms seemingly growing darker, though that could have been a trick of the dimming light. She gazed into his eyes, a sadistic grin splitting her face.

“Your name.”

He told her. And felt himself fall.

“You’ve made the correct choice. Just relax. This won’t take long at all,” She said, drawing a strange symbol with Her finger into the air. His body felt like it was made of lead; he could barely even lift his eyes to watch Her movements. “You’re mine now.”

“C…Captain, may I ask a question?”

“Of course, my sweet.”

“My…job is to give the players their humanity…right? To give them…hope in that desolate place they can never escape. Isn’t that…really cruel?”

The Murder God smiled.

“You’ll make a wonderful Young Priest.”   

Blood red light filled his vision. Then a soft blue glow. Then nothing at all.

[missmcspooks]

DEADLY WOMEN DAILY: GIULIA TOFANA

Did you know that the world's most successful serial killer in the entire world was a woman from Italy during the 17th century? Meet Giulia Tofana. This woman was LEGENDARY. I’m not just talking about her crimes. I’m talking about her as a human being. She was a LEGENDARY human being.This woman’s story is so, so wild. Honestly, I can almost guarantee that you won’t even be able to hate this woman at the end of this story. The end of this story is such a slippery slope, it really makes you wonder if all serial killers are actually bad people. Let’s begin with her story!

How do you think the 1600’s were in regards to how women were treated? You guessed it. It was TERRIBLE. Men back in these times had everything, especially power, while women were treated as property and had no say at all. Women during these times ultimately had three choices to choose from, and honestly… They all really suck. They just had to pick which sucky choice they were okay living with. These options were the following: Get married and hope that your husband doesn’t mistreat you and demean you. Don’t ever get married and just become a prostitute to get you enough money to get by in life. Or, the option that the more wealthy women chose to do… Kill their husbands and become a widow. Honestly, can you even really blame them for picking option three? Imagine having a life where it meant either being forced into sex work, or to be treated like garbage for their entire lives? It’s no wonder some of these women lost their marbles at some point. How did these women kill their husbands, you wonder? Probably the easiest way to kill someone, even in the present day. Poison. Who was the craftiest woman to create and distribute this poison? Giulia Tofana. 

Due to the fact that this case took place so long ago in the 1600’s, there’s very little information regarding her childhood and upbringing. It’s stated that she was born and raised in Palermo, Italy, and was the daughter of a woman named Thofania d’Adamo, who, get this… She was executed in 1663 for killing her husband with a poison she had created. It’s speculated that Giulia actually got this recipe from her own mother. 

Giulia Tofana created and ran an underground black magic market, which is speculated to have also been run by six other women who took over after Tofanas death. Her poison was laced with arsenic, lead, and belladonna, and named it Aqua Tofana. This poison came in both a powdered and liquid form, and was packaged to make it look like makeup, so the women were able to carry around more freely and have it sit out on their night stands or vanities  without running the risk of looking suspicious to their husbands. She instructed all the ladies to administer the dosages in three to four separate doses. The first dose, which was normally diluted by liquid, would cause exhaustion and physical weakness. The second dose, would cause stomach aches, vomiting, and dysentery. The third or fourth doses would inevitably kill them. Tofana wanted it to be administered this way so it would trick doctors and authorities into thinking that the victim actually just died of natural causes of an illness. Due to the slow process that the killing took, the victims were able to get all their affairs in order and the wives were able to control exactly how things went, finally giving women some form of control. 

Tofana’s business FLOURISHED. However, she didn’t just give this poison to just anyone. She had to make sure that the person was completely trustworthy, and knew that they would not tell a soul about anything that went on in this business. These women mostly consisted of women she knew personally, or women that her past clients have vouched for. She went as far as keeping a list of everyone who purchased the poison from her, and made it clear that they were going to be put onto this list, because if she goes down, then everyone else is going down with her. This made her extra confident that no one would ever spill the poison. However, like most serial killers, there's always a downfall. 

Tofana’s downfall was a bowl of soup. This bowl of soup was made by a woman who was planning to kill her husband, but at the last minute got cold feet and whisked the soup away and came clean to her husband about what she was about to do. Obviously, he was furious, and he dragged this woman to authorities and forced her to tell them everything about Giulia Tofano and her poison, along with the people who worked for her. Tofana had heard that the authorities had a warrant out for her arrest, and seeked sanctuary at a local church. However, once a rumor spread that Tofana had poisoned the water supply, the church was invaded and she was arrested and subjected to horrible torture. She admitted to killing 600 people between 1633 and 1651 in just Rome alone, however that number could be even higher. This legendary woman kept this a deadly little secret for twenty years! Guilia was executed in 1659, along with her daughter and three of her employee’s. Additionally, authorities found around 40 of Tofana’s lower class users and they were also executed, while women who were upper class were either imprisoned or got away with it completely, as they said they had no idea it was poison. It was stated that her body was lynched, put into some form of bag, and thrown over a wall as an example and shame. Even though she was executed, it’s believed that the underground black magic business was never located, and women continued the operation for many years after her death. Her poison was even assumed to have killed a very famous man over a century later, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. While on his deathbed he said, “I feel definitely that I will not last much longer, I am sure that I have been poisoned. I cannot rid myself of this idea… Someone has given me Aqua Tofana and calculated the precise time of my death.” It’s unknown what actually caused Mozart’s death. While some believe he was actually poisoned, most people believe he didn’t die of any form of poisoning, and just of a normal illness. 

This is why I said the end of her case would be such a slippery slope. It makes it really hard not to feel bad for her. It makes it hard to hate her, and definitely makes it hard to think that she was a bad person because of her killing spree. I mean… on one hand, she killed many people. But on the other hand… she was helping hundreds of women, during these very hard times, it was pretty much the only thing she or anyone else could really have done. Plus, she only supplied the poison. It was everyone else’s choice to use it. I don’t know. It’s a super gray area. Of course back in the day, people wouldn’t see it this way. Especially because authorities and jury’s were only ever consisted of men. To this day something like this wouldn’t slide by law, but maybe by moral it would be totally understandable, and even respected. Let’s compare this to the TV Series Dexter. In that show, Dexter was a serial killer, however, he only killed other serial killers, or just generally very bad men. So, is Dexter a monster? Or was he just contributing to the greater good? He’s out there doing the work that law enforcement should’ve been doing. In the end, Giulia Tofana had the highest respect from all of her fellow women, and she helped so many people, and that was good enough for her. 

[anthonybialy]

Indecent Weakness

You'd think those who want politics in everything would know how specifics work. For one, advocates should be able to discern between goodness and hegemony. But thinking swell intentions solve anything leaves everything busted. The conflict between those too monstrous to stop hassling others and too soft to intervene has left humanity as the losers.

Raw strength is an indifferent quality. Results and ethics have everything to do with how it's wielded. The method preferred by bullies requires neither consideration nor concern for the soul's ultimate destination. The righteous must stick to a push-ups regimen in order to dissuade cafeteria jerks.

Power without justness and justness without power both lead to tyranny. Countries with no interest in conquering others spend treasure on arsenals they hope not to use for the same reason citizens have the right to arm themselves. Discouraging fiends is easy when you have your own barrels to point.

Audacity is not to be praised on its own. Research whether those acting with uncommon confidence are defending borders or ignoring them. The refusal to verify which explains why Vladimir Putin doing as he wishes.

Noting ignoring autonomy makes the invader formidable is not an endorsement any more than a retweet is. You don't have to put the disclaimer in your bio. Those unable to determine why the two don't necessarily overlap may as well shriek upon noting Rommel won a few battles. Lunkheaded airplane armrest sizer Putin only has brute force at his disposal like he's commander of an Imperial Star Destroyer, and the distinction between strategic brains and brute force is yet another lost in our very subtle world.

Having no rules seems awesome. In reality, it's less awesome to learn why there are rules. Rueful comeuppance is part of growing up. Those seduced by the childish fantasy of nobody enforcing a bedtime wonder why they're constantly exhausted. The world is full of goons who feel entitled to take toys belonging to nice children. With innate consciences in short supply, property respect is the task falling to adults on the planet who are willing to be what kids ironically think of as the bad guy.

There's a world of difference between admiring KGB thug twerp Putin and noting he does whatever he can get away with in a world where immoral aggression goes unchecked. Those conflating the two while railing against anyone who notices Russia disrespects property lines are actually admitting to how they see the world. Inadvertent declarations are the only times many people are honest.

The sect of Americans who plague themselves with their own commitment to worshiping authority in a moral vacuum are confused by principles in action. We're still coping with the remnants of the Trump faction who proved what vigorous alpha males they are by worshiping an authority-hungry beast who didn't win at all costs. It's no wonder their very virile kingpin can't manage to avoid ambivalence about a villain too cartoonish for Marvel movies.

Let's at least ascertain lessons from an entire presidency composed of the inability to distinguish between authority and how to not be a horse's ass while applying it. Otherwise, we suffered for no reason. One of these years, the professional boaster will convince others he dominated in business even though the practical result amounted to a couple hideous skyscrapers clad in black glass and identified by a rather unpalatable name in tacky gold. Wait until you see how much pink marble is in the lobby.

Conflating strength with rectitude was bad enough. Faking owning the former merely makes the toxicity more annoying. Not coincidentally, Trump also places winning above what's being won, which continues to make his loss extra amusing.

The only bad part was who beat him. Joe Biden offers neither the willingness for boldness nor the conviction to do something worthwhile. But at least he doesn't possess any sense. It's apparently asking too much to get one president who's willing to address how Russia sucks.

Suckering those begging for it takes the fun out of the grift. The adorable presumption that everyone is decent explains the worldview of those allowing cartoonish demons to rampage. This seems like a good time to remember Biden was vice president while Barack Obama decided bribing Iran with funds plundered from American taxpayers would keep maniacal mullahs from dreaming of nuking Tel Aviv.

By astounding coincidence, international attempted placaters are the same ones whose ideology leads them to presume those arrested domestically are society's victims. Ending cash bail has shown who the real threat is. Nobody ought to be surprised even if they're not presently being stabbed. Meanwhile, the only villains unofficial advocates of repeat offenders can find are cops.

Our globe's villains attempt to be amoral and muscular, although Ukraine's stubborn resistance exposes the latter's flaccidness in Putin's doughy case. Storming into private territory isn’t clever any more than it is honorable.  It's too bad Russia hasn't spent as much time developing a market economy as they have trying to convince exhausted neighbors that they should unlock their doors.

Biden is both dissolute and enfeebled. He offers the best of both worlds aside from that. The doddering evader is doing something to discourage wickedness after barbarians advance again as long as pouting counts. Meanwhile, your American business is guaranteed to get harassed. There's surely plenty to cover insane taxes thanks to Treasury checks falling from the sky. The best hope for world peace is destabilizing Russia by letting Biden commandeer their economy. War inflation is dragging down the whole globe.

[withoutbounds-fr]

Trigger warning: panic described after cut. Skip the first chunk if you are sensitive to this content

Oh, he was cruel. He was so, so cruel. He had, of course, just left Devi alone with herself, and she was a fearful mistress. 

She’d backed herself into a corner. Stupid. She’d tried to count Beachcomber’s steps, to know when it was safe to- to… Gullible. Her vision blurred. God. Breathing came in ragged gasps. You’re being irrational. She fell to the ground, front paws scratching at her eyes. Stop this. A choked sob escaped into the air. She found herself outside Trinkets sooner than she expected and only barely remembered the walk over. Everything had been a blur and the word ‘disassociation’ buzzed up in her fog-drenched mind, A burning need sat heavy in the Guardian. An impulsive one, where she so desperately wanted to rip her chest apart and spill the secret she knew. To the world. To Al. To Transmutation. Al. He deserved to know the truth; deserved better than the mongrel that was his husband. But right now, what she wanted more than anything was someone who she could grieve with. Call her selfish for bringing her friend down with her, but she was going to tell him regardless. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity to be comforted by someone who could feel sympathy towards her, rather than just a false sense of pity. There was something to be had between two people feeling lied to. But you haven’t been. Lied to that is. You haven’t been. Beachcomber cannot be trusted and those books are nothing but brainwashing and propaganda and Salem. With a soft whine, she pushed open the door. Devi didn’t know what she’d do if she found Beachcomber waiting inside. Maybe she’d kill him. Trinkets was uncharacteristically dark and musty. The establishment, which was usually breathing with fresh life, hung still and motionless. It seemed as if the chill of the city had followed Devi in. Had it? "Al?" she whispered. The situation seemed to call for it. "Al?" louder this time, but still no response. She knew the Spiral was here; magic hung too heavy in the air for him to be anywhere else. Muttering under her breath she moved deeper into the belly of the beast. Buildings built out of pure magic like this one were, in the most literal sense, alive. They were not places you navigated without a guide, as each was equipped with a nasty arsenal of inlaid defensive spells. Not to mention an indulgent amount of dragon-like sentience. Steeling herself, she dove into the mess of halls and rooms and doors. She wandered deeper into the house. The corridors clenched around her like a swallowing throat, pulling her down and down and down. In this realm, there was a natural silence, and the calming quiet brought on comfort. Most days. Now, it just warped the gaping, winding, starving house. Footsteps followed her. They were hers. She'd checked. Though2 that knowledge didn't stop her from looking over her shoulder every few minutes. Each and every time she did Devo expected Al, or Beachcomber, or BloodMagic, or Barachiel, or some eldritch abomination summoned by Trinkets to be standing there, waiting to murder her. But each and every time Devi was only met with her reflection, painted against the glass of a window and glittering with stars. Trinkets had been built into an eternal night; the Spiral loved astronomy and stargazing with Beachcomber and built an observatory just to take advantage of the fake stars he'd put in a fake sky to watch with a fake mate. Stars whose constellations he already knew by heart because, after all, he'd put them in that sky himself. At least he'd known the stars were fakes. But her reflection wasn't fake. Here, it was still bound by the same physics as it would be in the capital. So they'd stare at one another for a bit, and then Devi would breathe, shuddering, and turn around. And be alone again. And carry on with her pilgrimage. She prayed the feeling wasn't an omen. Judging by the pulsing magic saturating the building, the magician had to be in the spell room so she headed there, and held the memory of it in her mind like a shield, desperately seeking its silk lined, white marble door. Alphonse had to be there, and if she became lost or too nervous the house would mark her as a stranger. And facing off against the dormant magic her friend had gifted the house was the last thing she wanted, because now, more than ever, she felt ill-equipped to go up against spells that powerful. Glancing the pale silhouette of the door from around the corner, she ran to it. Desperate but rejuvenated at the sight of it, she half forgot the grim reason she was visiting. Finally. Her legs drummed across the wooden floorboards for a moment and then - stopping, one set of claws resting on the doorknob. Anxiety had suddenly riddled her core. What if she interrupted an important spell and the magician hurt himself? What if he didn't believe her? What if he was dead and Beachcomber had killed him. Or maybe this pushed her friend over the edge. Devi would admit that she didn't know what kind of mental state he was in, but this could do anyone in. Or Beachcomber! He could be in there with Al and then she'd have a competitor - someone trying to sway her friend at the same time she was. Devi wasn't sure she could handle that. And maybe there'd- "Oh, Dev! I didn't hear you come in!" and... when did she open the door. "Is everything alright? You look rather pale, well, paler than usual I mean." The Spiral gave a quiet laugh at his own joke as he approached the Guardian, abandoning the intricate spell circle on the floor. "I..." she turned away from his gaze, gods, he knew she hated it when he made eye contact like that, "Yeah. Can we sit down?" Devi padded over to one of the window seats, praying Al would follow unquestioned. He did, which was a small blessing. "I need to tell you something, it's important... and..." the Guardian swallowed around her words. "Yes?" the poor Spiral looked so worried, so concerned. Oh, he thought this was about her. Again, his fatherly traits struck at Devi's heart. This time, however, they didn't bring to mind the happy memories of squeaking hatchlings she'd half considered her own, but just reminded her that Beachcomber's lies had brought up a family. Those kids had never properly been Al's. Devi wondered if they knew about the affair, about their heritage. She kneaded the fabric beneath her, sucked in a breath through her teeth and then, "It's about Beachcomber."

Ask to be added to the pinglist

8/?

What Did You Think?

FR Thread

The Lore That Inspired This

Devi | Alphonse

[promptopolis]

May Flowers

dad!Cor, PG-13

Word Count: 1,683 words

Cor never considered himself to be a family man. Married to the military, strength in independence and victory through survival were the only things he’d ever known. Sexual urges were uncommon for him, and when they did happen, it was nothing he couldn’t take care of himself when he hit the showers after a long grueling day. Unlike men his age, it seemed the urge to seek a romantic partner had also bypassed him. Cor liked to be alone, to work alone, to have to look after no one but himself, yet through it all he’d managed to acquire something of a small demon spawn that had attached itself to his hip.

A child. The demon spawn was a child. His child, as Regis irritatingly called her when he went gossiping about it around the Citadel.

Ironically enough, the last time he’d engaged in sexual intercourse of any kind was nearly two years ago on a desperate whim, yet unlike some of his comrades who held long-term lovers, he was the one who somehow ended up with a babbling young child toddling after him in the hallways. Even worse, the child was a girl. Cor hardly knew anything about women his age, let alone how to take care of a two-year old who preferred bottled milk to glasses of hard liquor.

He’d been more than bewildered when Regis had handed the child to him nearly a year ago, a sombre expression on his face. “A victim of the war,” Regis had informed him. “Her village was eradicated by the Empire. Cor, I trust in you to care for her, until the court arranges a suitable home to foster her.”

But that arrangement never came, and what he thought would be a short-term, month-long task turned out to be two months, and then four, and then seven, and before he knew it, a year had passed and the child was now stumbling behind him wherever he went, suckling on her thumb and offering her bottle to anyone and everyone who passed by. Worst of all was an amused Clarus, who although had a young son of his own, had never been seen with any kind of child on his hip and especially not one who constantly vied for his attention.

“You’ve become a more tender man,” Clarus would comment at any given opportunity. For a long time, Cor brushed off the statement, until he found himself alone in his apartment, muttering gentle encouragements to the stubborn child as he held a spoon up to her closed lips the night she made the switch from bottled milk to solid foods. When he caught himself, he straightened up stiffly in his chair and was suddenly never more thankful to have been living alone. That would be a secret he’d carry to his grave.

Another month in, he finally found himself seeking out the king to ask what he should’ve asked months ago.

“Her name?” Regis chuckled softly. “It was lost in the war, though she would have been far too young to remember it anyhow. Why don’t you give her one?”

And because Cor was uncreative and had far more important matters to attend to, her name became the name of the current month – April. And because the members of the Citadel also had far more important matters to attend to, she had acquired an arsenal of accidental nicknames by the time she turned three, particularly March, May, June, and somehow, December (thank you, Gladiolus).

With the child constantly hanging off his coattails, he began to garner teasing gazes from not only the Glaives, but interested glances from young, single Lucis women. But Cor was not interested in a lover, and although neither had he been in a child of his own, the king’s orders were absolute. Despite Cor’s initial apprehension, Regis found April to be bathed, groomed, fed, and happier than any other on the Citadel’s grounds. He was pleased. He had plans to raise the child in the Citadel as young Gladiolus and young Ignis were now, perhaps to be groomed into that of an advisor of sorts if the court were to continue to have issues securing a home for her, but Regis had not realized how deeply the child had embedded herself into Cor’s heart until Regis had called for his presence, wishing to discuss the option of a foster home that would become available in the new year, a mere few days after little April’s fourth birthday.

Cor had entered the throne room alone, coming to stand before he and Clarus, and though Regis was mildly curious about the child’s whereabouts, he had no concerns about her safety. Cor was her caretaker, after all.

“Your highness,” Cor bowed, with all the rigidness and perfection expected of a Crownsguard Marshal. “Clarus.” Cor spoke and nodded, receiving a similar nod in response.

“Ah, Cor,” Regis greeted as he leaned back in his throne, his face unable to betray the amusement he felt. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, sir.”

“And little April?”

Cor looked up. “She’s fine.”

“It seems so, if Clarus’s reports are true. It seems Gladiolus enjoys April’s company much more than Ignis’s.” Regis chuckled, a hand coming up to stroke his greying beard as he and his shield exchanged similar looks.

“Ignis is quite mature for his age after all,” Clarus sighed. “Gladiolus still enjoys that silly cartoon show that comes up on Saturday mornings. The name slips my mind now…”

“Paw Patrol?” Cor suggested, the name of the cartoon that April liked to clap her hands to on weekend mornings slipping through his lips before his mind had a chance to catch up to his words.

Regis and Clarus stared at him for a moment, before Clarus erupted into booming laughter at the same time Cor cleared his throat. “Yes! Paw Patrol - that is the one.”

“My,” Regis says, a grin on his lips. “You have quite the memory, Cor. I expected nothing less. The little child must have made quite a dent in your day-to-day routine, hasn’t she? Though worry not, you will be relieved of your duties soon enough. Now let’s see here…”

Cor’s heart stopped at that moment, stomach lurching at the king’s sudden words. “I... I beg your pardon?”

“The reason I’ve called you here today is to discuss little April’s future beyond the Citadel. The court has found her a suitable foster home.” Regis explained, shuffling through a few papers that Clarus had handed to him, unaware of the uncharacteristic paleness of the Marshal’s face. “So thank you for all that you have done for her. The extent you’d be willing to exercise your duty to the citizens of the kingdom has been proven immensely in the last year. I’ve had utmost faith in you, Cor, and that faith has not shaken. Looking after a young child must have been difficult alongside your duties. But the courts have found a wonderful home now, and-“

“No.”

Regis stopped in his speech as he and Clarus both looked up, greeted by the sight of Cor’s jaw clenched and his hands tightened into fists so hard his knuckles had turned white.

“No?” Regis echoed, an eyebrow arched questioningly.

“Don’t take her away,” Cor pleaded through gritted teeth. “Please.”

At that moment, a squeal was heard through the doors of the throne room before it was being pushed open, slowly but surely. The panicked shout of Nyx Ulric echoed next, followed by the appearance of a wide smile belonging to a particular little girl peeking through the gap in the door.

Despite the commanding presence of the King of Lucis and his Royal Shield, the little girl had eyes for no one but Cor.

“Dada!” She squealed. Her bottle clattered loudly to the ground, forgotten as she ran as fast as her short chubby legs could take her, her light-up shoes clapping ridiculously across the marble floor. It didn’t matter what important figures Cor was in the presence of. He caught his little girl halfway, his biceps flexing as he swung her up into his arms. He held her protectively against his chest, as if the lightest of winds would be enough to take her away. April simply continued to squirm and giggle in her father’s arms, blissfully unaware of her future at stake.

Regis leaned back in his throne, observing the scene before him, feeling pleasantly surprised at the new development. He had not known the little girl had begun to refer to Cor as her father. Perhaps he should have known as much. How foolish of him, Regis thought to himself, chuckling.

“I see,” Regis spoke, handing the papers back to Clarus who took them without a word. “Very well. I suppose it was foolish of me to disregard the bond she must have formed with you while she remained under your care. To rip her from you, and you from her would be most cruel.” He smiled. “There is room in the Citadel for her, but she is your responsibility as she has always been. When she is old enough, I expect her to serve the kingdom as all in the Citadel have done before her.”

“Yes,” Cor breathed. “Of course. Thank you, your highness.” Despite the simplicity of his words, they could hardly hold the weight of the emotion behind them.

Cor often let April walk (read: stumble around) behind him on her own, but for the first time in half a year, he refused to let her down until they’d reached the safety of his apartment.

As the front door swung closed behind them, Cor took in the sight of his unruly apartment. What was a once a clean and orderly unit was now littered with crayons, brightly coloured plastic utensils, safety scissors, and more plush toys on the couch than he had pillows. But for once, his heart sagged in relief at the sight of the mess.

“Dada!” April babbled once more.

“Yes,” Cor murmured, one corner of his mouth lifting upward as he gently pushed back her unruly hair. “Welcome home.”

[elfnerdherder]

Where the Wicked Walk: Ch. 1

You can read Chapter 1 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 1:

           When four non-descript SUV’s pulled into Will Graham’s apartment complex, he knew something had happened.

           He hadn’t seen a column of cars like that for quite some time –six years, in fact. The first time they’d come to question him, he’d been near-frightened by the manner in which they sequestered him and talked circles around him to the point of dizziness. Now, outside as he was with his dog, he saw them before they’d parked, and he had enough time to mentally prepare himself for the onslaught.

           Agent Jack Crawford led the group, and honestly that was just the icing on the cake.

           “I’m not seeing any psychiatrists,” he said, rubbing Winston’s ears to reassure him.

           “Is that what you thought I was going to ask?”

           “The last time you showed up at my house, it was to pester me about my psychiatrist and if he’d ever mentioned anything suspicious,” Will replied, not looking at him. “You, in fact, asked if he’d ever ‘confided in a desire to cannibalize anyone.’”

           Jack Crawford, despite Will’s prickly tone, smiled. It made the crinkles around his eyes emphasize the mismatched colors of brown. “How have you been, Will?”

           “Good,” he said, glancing to Jack’s dress shoes. They were scuffed, indicative of a lot of foot work in the past day or so. “Not so good for you, though.”

           Out of the corner of his eye, he noted two agents ascending the stairs towards his apartment. One of them barely avoided kicking a terra cotta pot off of the ledge as they went.

           “What makes you say that?”

           “There’s at least four agents per car, and four cars in the parking lot,” said Will, and he sat down on the metal bench to get somewhat comfortable. He sensed the lengthy conversation like the dips in the warped metal. “The only reason you’d come to me with that kind of arsenal and unpolished shoes means something happened.”

           Jack sat down as well, and that solidified Will’s suspicions. Things were grave indeed.

           “I haven’t been home to give them the proper shoe shine,” he admitted with a bark of laughter. The forced ease sat on the back of Will’s neck and made him cringe.

           “Is it about Hannibal Lecter?”

           “Yes.”

           Will sighed and looked up at the sky. Sensing his uncertainty, Winston put his head in his lap and whined.

           When he said nothing else, Jack ventured, “That’s a nice dog, Will.”

           “I adopted him,” Will replied absently, scratching Winston’s ear. “He was going to be killed at the shelter, but I adopted him before they could.”

           “You empathize with dogs, too?”

           “I empathize with anyone,” he retorted. “Even those no one should empathize with.”

           “People like Dr. Lecter?” Jack tested.

           “I haven’t heard from him, Agent Crawford,” Will said, looking to him. He focused on the fat of his earlobe and frowned impressively. “He sent me a letter last year, congratulating me on my doctorate. I burned it.”

           “Other graduates frame his letters,” said Jack. Will could sense his admiration, that he wouldn’t want to keep something from someone like Hannibal.

           “Other graduates weren’t his patient.”

           Jack hmm’d low in his throat and nodded. He was at odds with what he wanted to say, a hesitance in his mannerisms. Behind him, the other agents that had tarried around the SUV’s fanned out through the apartment complex.

           “Just tell me,” Will prompted.

           “I’d show you if I thought it would help.”

           “Just telling me is fine.” Will didn’t want to see whatever it was Jack wanted to show.

           Jack nodded and shifted on the uncomfortable bench. “A woman walked into a police station just the other day. In front of everyone, she strode over to the nearest officer and gutted him with a linoleum knife. She was shot down, and autopsy revealed that underneath her clothing, she’d written over every inch of her body from the neck down.”

           The mention of the linoleum knife was enough. “Which article of his had she written on her skin?”

           “Evolution of Violence from Human Ancestry,” Jack replied.

           Will nodded along, lips pressed so tight he felt the blood leave them. He rubbed Winston’s ear with a little more vigor, chastised himself silently for even asking. He hadn’t needed to ask. He didn’t need to know what sort of sick person paid homage to someone like Hannibal Lecter.

           “Well, what matters is that he hasn’t contacted me,” he said at last.

           “Has anyone contacted you about this?”

           “No one. I hadn’t even seen the news report.” Will smiled, grim and just as ugly as Jack’s. “How’s your wound?”

           It was a savage attack, all things considered. Jack Crawford, despite being a prickly and obsessive agent when he was on the case, was a decent person. The gut wound he’d taken from Lecter when he brought him down had nearly killed him. If Will hadn’t found him, walking into Hannibal’s office for his appointment, he’d have certainly died.

           Sometimes, Will still dreamt of how Jack’s blood had felt all over his hands.

           “Very healed,” Jack assured him. “Aggressive tactics when you’re feeling cornered won’t work on me, Will. I’m just concerned for you.”

           “I know,” Will said, and that was as apologetic as he could make himself sound. He dipped his head and used both hands to rub Winston’s ears. Self-soothing through use of an animal, and it tended to work as far as he was concerned.

           “Given how he’s behaved around you, I just want to make sure that you’ll call us if anything happens.” A pause. “You will call me if anything happens.” It wasn’t a request.

           “He’s still locked up, isn’t he?”

           “Yes. I had a chat with him this morning.”

           Will nodded, logging that fact away as an immense relief. Hannibal Lecter was best suited behind bars, not walking as a free man in any place.

           “Then I’m fine,” he assured Jack. “I’ll call if something odd happens, but I don’t think he’d give much consideration to me. I was one of many patients.”

           Jack gave him a look that said he thought Will had clearly lost his marbles. “He asked me just this morning how you were doing,” he said slowly, like speaking to a toddler. Will opened his mouth to object, and Jack continued, “Above that, you were the one that found me, Will. You called for an ambulance, and as you tried to staunch the blood flow, he stood not ten feet from you and didn’t kill you.”

           “I was his patient,” Will repeated stubbornly.

           “I would bet my life that if it were any other patient that walked in that door, we’d both be dead,” Jack countered.

           His confidence bled from his pores, and Will found himself taking some of it as a result, an unconscious act that left him feeling strangely lucky to be alive. He’d sometimes wondered at that; as he’d stood on the stand and answered questions against Dr. Lecter, as he’d sat at the back and listened to the verdict, and for many years after, he found himself wondering just how he’d survived Dr. Lecter. It wasn’t luck; that was certain. Dr. Lecter had stood hidden in the shadows of his opulent office, watched Will as he tried desperately to save Jack, and he hadn’t killed him. He’d made the conscious decision not to hurt Will –he’d even snuck out of the exit rather than even engage Will in any sort of threat or banter. Sometimes, Will woke in the middle of the night with the sensation of someone’s eyes burning into the back of his skull, and he considered asking Dr. Lecter just why he’d decided to spare him.

           Then common sense would set in, and he’d go back to sleep.

           “The officer died, didn’t he?” he asked suddenly, feeling cold.

           “Yes.”

           They considered one another, and Will sighed, patting Winston’s side. The dog licked at his pant leg and sidled off to sniff about the grass; the cold seemed to grow with his departure.

           “I’m sorry.”

           “No need to be sorry, Will. We’re hoping this is an isolated event, but I just wanted to check on you.” Jack could sense Will retreating within himself, lost to his thoughts of the cop that’d died so that a fanatic could make a statement. He took that as his cue to leave, and he stood, holding his hand out to shake Will’s. After a beat, Will followed suit, shifting from one foot to the other.

           “If he’s still talking about me, I don’t know what that means,” he said. “I mean, maybe if we were soulmates, but that’s not the issue.”

           “What do you think the issue is?” Jack asked.

           “I’d say it’s a lot of him wanting to pick at you the only way he knows how,” Will replied. “And since you’re here, that’s a pretty easing picking on his part.”

           He was doing that thing that he did when he was nervous about something, picking up the tone and cadence of phrases from others. He felt Jack’s stare like a sunburn, and he shifted again, stepping away. He’d tried to work on that, once, when he’d been seeing a therapist.

           Then that therapist went and ate a lot of people, and therapists didn’t seem like such a good idea after that.

           “Keep in touch, Will,” Jack reminded him. He grabbed a walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket and pulled it out, murmuring a curt, “Move out,” into it before he headed back to his army of cars.

           Will watched him leave, each car peeling out of the parking lot with smooth, uniformed efficiency, and he let out a slow breath burned on the way out.

-

           The news was horrible when it wanted to be. It made a light mockery of the baffled FBI and DC police, all the while spreading a fear-mongering sort of behavior regarding the illustrious ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’. Will sat on his apartment couch with his roommate, Beverly, Winston curled up at their feet.

           “How does he still look good, even after six years of no sunlight?” Beverly wondered, elbow-deep in the popcorn bowl on her lap. The photo provided was of him in profile, stark cheekbones lethal, giving way to deep-set eyes and a prominent brow. The orange jumpsuit didn’t give his skin the same sallow look that it gave others. Will scowled at the photo.

           “He’s going to enjoy the attention,” Will noted.

           “You think?”

           Will tried often enough not to think about the not-so-good doctor, but at her innocent, unobtrusive question, he tried. He thought back to the days he’d sat in a comfortably crafted, leather chair and attempted to open himself up to the sort of scrutiny that would potentially help him combat his hyper-empathy. He thought back to the calm, witty, and oftentimes remarkably clever doctor and how Will always left feeling as though he’d taken some sort of monumental, pivotal step in understanding himself.

           He thought back to those god-awful ties that Dr. Lecter always, always wore, and he snorted.

           “Yes. It’s been years since he’s been in the news, and if there’s one thing that an intelligent psychopath like Dr. Lecter needs, it’s an audience to admire his work,” he said after a minute. When the news cut to commercial, he muted the television and rubbed the stress from his eyes. “Someone admiring him so acutely that they painstakingly wrote his words on their skin, then murdered a cop the way he tried to murder Agent Crawford? I’ll bet the son-of-a-bitch is just preening in his cell right now.”

           Beverly nodded and chewed noisily around an over-stuffed mouth of popcorn. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but what was it like to be in therapy with him?”

           “…Far more calming than you’d think,” he said slowly. Her nonchalance in asking made it easier to be honest. “Despite everything he did outside of work, he was actually a very good therapist.”

           He unmuted the television when the news came back on, and he stared at the picture of the woman that had made the gruesome attack. Due to the nature of her death, they didn’t show a crime scene photo, but they did show her Facebook profile picture. She was innocent-looking, from her blonde hair to her dark brown eyes and her engaging, full-lipped smile. The picture of kindness. The picture of something sweet.

           “Authorities have revealed the woman as Melinda Carson, a full-time worker at a local convenience store with a soulmate and a son that made the attack on Officer Henson,” the news anchor said. Her own mismatched eyes narrowed in mock-speculation. “Her boyfriend is unavailable at the time for questioning, but sources say that she seemed, for all intents and purposes, a completely normal young woman.”

           “They all seem normal, don’t they?” Beverly commented. She shoved another handful of popcorn into her mouth.

           “You’re the one studying criminology,” Will replied.

           “So far, I’d say they all seem normal until you start finding body parts in their freezer.”

           Will thought so, too. As the picture cut away from her and back to a picture of Lecter, he looked instead to the decorations on the wall that Beverly had insisted upon putting up. Never one to really care about wall décor or if the curtains matched the paint, he’d let her have at it with the critical eye of someone that enjoyed Pinterest far too much.

           “I mean, she’s got a soulmate, too,” she continued, “and a son. How does someone just…do that when they’ve got a family to think about?”

           Will had taken classes on that, given his current occupation. “He’s either involved with her and completely supportive and aware of it, or she’s placed her obsession far above his head,” he replied.

           “What do you mean?”

           “She has a soulmate. If there was any fault in the soulmate, from his behavior to his looks to their connection, she’d naturally place her interest somewhere that she felt she’d never reach. A desire and connection for someone she’d never have, therefore she could give her fantasies a place to go wild.” He snorted. “Just because she has a soulmate doesn’t mean she particularly likes them. Hell, it could just be a half-connection, and she resents the shift of her eyes.”

           “That’s true,” Beverly allowed. “I read your thesis. You should have titled it ‘Soulmates Aren’t the End-All.”

           “I thought about it, but I also wanted to graduate,” Will replied. “The entire panel of judges all had soulmates. Hell, even you have a soulmate, Beverly.”

           “Saul is a good guy,” she replied, “but even I know that not everyone gets a good guy as a soulmate.”

           “When am I going to meet him?”

           “Soon, I promise.”

            The news cut to commercial once more, and he muted the TV, stealing a handful of popcorn. He’d never met Saul, busy as he was with his residency and Beverly firing on all pistons for her final semester of grad school. Despite how comfortable he was in her presence due to the last four years of rooming together, Will didn’t know too much about her apart from her design quirks and her avid adoration for Mac‘N Cheese when she was drunk

           It was better that way, though.

            He still felt Jack’s concern like a sheen of dried sweat on his skin, so he muttered a quick goodnight and made his way to the bathroom to try and wash it off.

-

           He woke with a start to someone in the room.

           They weren’t quiet about it, if he was being entirely honest. His desk chair clattered to the side, and there was a muffled uumph as they ran into the edge of his dresser. Silence descended, save for their heavy breathing, broken by a stifled sneeze. Will sat up and stared into the shadowed outline of their presence, and he let out an irritable, slow sigh.

           “Molly, what are you doing?”

           “Sorry, go back to sleep,” she hissed, and despite himself, he cracked a grin.

           “I can’t go back to sleep. Hang on.”

           He turned on the lamp to the side of the bed and blinked blearily up at her frozen form near the end of the bed. She held her high heels in one hand and a clutch in the other, her cheeks flushed from drinking far too much. Her matching, darling blue eyes were wide and shiny like marbles.

           “Sorry, sorry,” she said, tossing her things down. “I thought to surprise you.”

           “I am surprised,” he promised her. At the foot of the bed, Winston guarded his legs and watched Molly with the sort of wariness that only a loving dog could provide. When she extended her palm, he sniffed it and allowed her closer with a wary fwapping of his tail.

           “Can I get in?” she asked, nudging the bed with her thigh.

           Will debated it, then sighed and scooted over for her. In the time it took for him to get situated, her clothes were discarded on the floor, and she was sidling up to him beneath the covers, smelling of sweat, grenadine and peach vodka.

           “We went out dancing, and I thought of you,” she said. “I’ve thought of you all night.”

           “We can’t keep doing this,” he murmured, but he found himself wrapping an arm around her all the same. As they laid back, she snagged the lamplight and they lay pressed together in the dark, the alcohol-induced heat of her skin warm and inviting in his foggy mind.

           “You say that every time, but you’ve never asked for your key back,” she said lightly. Kindly. Molly was never the mocking sort, and their on-again-off-again relationship was made all the easier for it. “You still let me go on walks with Winston, and when you got into your car accident, I’m the one you called.”

           “I know,” he said, tracing idle designs against her shoulder. Her bare skin, despite smelling like she’d been partying, was tempting. Stress is what he’d label the thoughts surrounding Hannibal Lecter, and Molly was the sort of person that eased his thoughts, took the stress away. Caring about Molly was easy. In the four years he’d known her, caring about her was as natural as breathing.

           In reality, it was his fault that it was an on-again-off-again sort of thing. In the words of Molly last time he ended things, if she had her way then they’d always be on.

           “You’re not going to kick me out of bed, are you?” she asked when he didn’t reassure her. “If you did and I had to get back into that sweaty dress in order to go sleep on the couch, you’d be a cruel sort of person you know.”

           “I like you in this bed,” he assured her.

           “For now,” she said, and she leaned across his shoulder to kiss his bare chest. “That means you’ve either reevaluated your stance on ‘Will Graham in relationships is a terrible idea’, or you’re feeling particularly vulnerable right now.”

           Well, there was that. Molly, for all of their pauses and their more-off-than-on relationship, probably knew him better than anyone else.

           “…I’m feeling particularly vulnerable,” he admitted after getting a feel for how the admission would sound. Calm and level, all things considered. His voice was low and smooth, even though his blood felt like it didn’t quite fit in his veins. Her mouth passed along his chest, paused at the dip where the ribs met in the center of his chest.

           “Bad day?”

           “…You saw the news, didn’t you? Is that why you came?”

           She wasn’t a liar by any means. She kissed her way to his collarbone and paused there, biting it. “I did.”

           “You were worried about me.” His hand slid along her arm, glided beneath the covers to press to her bare hip.

           “Despite your stance on us only ending in misery someday, I maintain that I do care about you.”

           “I care about you,” Will said. He rolled to his side to stare at her shape in the dark, and he sighed. “I care about you, Molly.”

           She kissed his lips and adjusted around him. Her mouth tasted like the maraschino cherries from mixed drinks. “I know, Will.”

           “Jack Crawford came to see me. He was worried, too.”

           He couldn’t see her smile, but he could hear it. “Do I have to share with Jack Crawford?”

           “This bed can’t fit you, me, Winston, and Agent Crawford.”

           “Thank god.” She kissed him again, pressing into him as her arms curled over his shoulders with fingers tangled into his hair. “We’re good together, aren’t we?” she whispered against his lips.

           “We’re good together,” he promised. Her kisses made him dizzy, made him feel like he was the one who’d spent his evening drinking.

           She rolled them so that she could straddle him properly, knees pressed to the beginning of his ribs as she leaned down to kiss him properly, all tongue and wicked, sinful things that made some of the anxiety that’d crept up his spine fall away. His hands settled low on her hips, and Will focused whole-heartedly on every inch of her skin that was pressed tight against him. They were good together.

           Things were good.

-

           Despite the late night, Will woke early. It was a shame, since he didn’t have to show up for his residency until early afternoon, but it wasn’t the worst that’d ever happened to him. Pressed snug against his side, Molly’s halo of dirty blonde hair was disheveled and mussed, her face hidden by the curve of his arm. He stared at it, blinking bad dreams from his eyes, wondering just what had woken him –had his dream been bad enough to wake him? Had she elbowed him in her sleep?

           It took far too long for him to hear his phone vibrating by his bed, but once he recognized the sound, he grabbed it and hit accept, pressing the phone against his ear with a blurry, slurred, “Hello?”

           “Will, it’s Jack. Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

           It was his tone that made Will tense, so much so that it stirred Molly from her still-drunk slumber. She murmured something under her breath and kissed along his arm, nuzzling it before closing her eyes tight, reaching over to rub shapeless designs into his chest.

           “I was asleep, Agent Crawford. People at” –he paused to look at the clock by his bed, scowling –“seven AM are normally asleep.”

           “I’m going to need for you to pack an overnight bag, Will,” Jack said, and there was that damn tone again. Will sat up, detangling his arm from around Molly’s hold. In that moment, between the sense of knowing and unknowing, he felt vulnerable once more, all of Molly’s hard work dashed against the rocks.

           “What’s happened?”

           “I’ll explain more once we get to you, Will, but right now I just need you to listen to me.”

           He thought to argue, but a numbness crept into his skin, something cold and hollow. It stifled whatever stubborn retort he had, until all that he could do was nod dumbly against the phone.

           “Will?”

           He gave a start. “…I’m listening, Agent Crawford.

           “First, I want to reassure you that everything is going to be okay. I’ve got my guys headed your way, and I’ll be following right behind them. They’ll be there within the hour.”

           “First,” Will echoed. Unaware of anything wrong, Molly curled around him, snoring lightly.

           “Second, I need for you to reassure me that you’re going to follow my instructions once I’m there.”

           “…Okay.”

           “Will you follow them, Will?” Jack prompted.

           “I will.”

           “Thank you.” The phone crackled with the sound of his long, tired sigh. “Third…early this morning, Hannibal Lecter escaped from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He was aided by what appears to be four accomplices.”

           The words took on an odd cadence as Jack said them. Sitting there, bemused and still half-asleep in his bed, an icy sort of sensation slithered down his skin, much like someone had poured a bucket of water over him. He let out a strangled, muted noise, a mix between a squawk and a whine, and he had to catch his phone as it started to fall from his grasp.

           “Will?”

           “How?” he asked when he could force words from his lips. “How did he escape?”

           “We can discuss that when we-”

           “How, Jack?” he pressed.

           Jack sighed, and Will could hear his years in the noise, rocks tumbling to crush against his back and break him. “He was helped by a nurse, a guard, and two visitors.”

           “Okay,” Will replied. “Okay.”

           “I’m on my way, Will,” Jack promised. “I’m going to make sure nothing happens to you.”

           Will hung up and stared blankly around his room. He thought of his dreams, memories distorted with the past, time strong enough to take some of the sting away. He thought of how it’d felt to walk into Dr. Lecter’s office and see Jack Crawford bleeding all over the rug he’d dug his feet into for the past two years, a mix of horror, surprise, and disbelief. The blood was warm on his hands, Jack’s dress shirt cold. He’d used his own jacket to try and staunch the flow.

           Unbeknownst to him, Hannibal Lecter had stood just ten feet away and watched.

           He thought of luck, and how there hadn’t been any true luck in his living, how Lecter could have simply gutted him and been done with it if he’d wanted, made a quick getaway with none the wiser. He hadn’t, though. He’d let Will call an ambulance, and he’d let the two of them live. Hannibal Lecter had given Will time that day, had given him enough time to live and grow and dream.

           It seemed that that time had run out.

[icedfairy]

Fate / Touhou Servant Caster Post

Marisa Kirisame, the Witch of Crimson Nightmares Primary Class : Caster (Secondaries : Archer) Strength : E+ Endurance : D Agility : A Magic : A Luck : C (Ex) Skills: Territory Creation: C While Marisa can create a workshop, she does not invest much time or energy in it, leading to a mediocre design Item Creation: C+++ While Marisa can't create the wonders many other casters can, she is incredibly skilled at creating many minor magic items quickly.  Within a day she can create an entire arsenal of single use magic items. Magecraft: A(+++) While a hedge mage, Marisa has a near instinctive ability to read into other people's spells.  This allows her to quickly analyze enemy magic and even reuse it, though at lowered rank.  Her own spells focus on Fire, Light, and Necromancy. Danmaku Mastery : B Skill in danmaku style dueling.  While non lethal, the skill trains many combat skills.   This level of mastery allows for near impossible dodges. Noble Phantasm :

Mini Hakkero : B (Anti Army) A small device that carries the eternal flame, this simple tool allows Marisa to enhance her combat magic a full three ranks on a whim. Sacred Sword Kusanagi : D (Anti Person) The Imperial sword of Japan, it's rank is vastly decreased in Marisa's hands due to her not being of noble blood.  However she can still use it's power to control the winds.  When combined with the eternal flame, this can turn into a dangerous attack with near unlimited power. Improbability Potion : EX (Enhancement) The culmination of her research, the potion made her a youkai, despite being designed not to.  Like all Magician youkai, that spell is imbued on her soul, giving Marisa this unique ability.  A strange power that hands the user a goal they are actively avoiding.  For example, if Marisa used it while running away from a battle, a portal would open in front of her, dropping her into the fight.  It could be considered an ability to make the users the luckiest or unluckiest person alive, depending on the whims of fate.  Due to her lack of control over the power, Marisa rarely uses it. The Crimson Nightmare Witch has been famed for a long time, ever since she destroyed the City of the Dead.  A witch feared worldwide for her mastery of attack magic, and her willingness to use it.  Her true personality is that of an irreverent woman with little concern for rules or strictures.  

A caster who prefers to fight on the front lines, she's considered one of the most dangerous servants despite how common magic resistance is in the grail war.  Her master needs to be far more worried about their servant's thieving habits.

Patchouli Knowledge, the Great Unmoving Library

Primary Class : Caster

Strength : E

Endurance : E-

Agility : D

Magic : A

Luck : D

Skills:

Territory Creation: A

Patchouli can create a ‘Library’, which is superior to a 'Workshop’.

Item Creation : B+++

Patchouli’s item creation skills are average, however she has spent a great deal of time to learn how to construct a Philosopher’s Stone, and can create that item with little effort.

Philosopher’s Stone : A

At A Rank, a counterfeit immortality can be bestowed upon a target.  In addition she can sacrifice the stones as imitation gemcraft gems.

Magecraft: A+

A Grand Master of Kabbalistic magic, Patchouli knows more elemental spells than any other mage in existence, in addition to understanding all other branches of magic.  Beyond that as a true Mage, she has access to High Thaumaturgy even as a Servant manifested by the Grail.  Her poor health however makes casting spells with a large number of lines difficult.

Noble Phantasm:

Voile, the Grand Library : EX (Enhancement)

Patchouli can call upon the library she was most famous for.  The ultimate repository of the witch who named herself Knowledge.  Originally miscatagorized as a Reality Marble, it’s actually a transportation spell that displaces the surroundings with the actual Library.  After centuries being displaced in time and space, it takes almost no effort for Patchouli to bring the Library forth.

With millennia of research at her fingertips, Patchouli can create items and spells easily, as well as research whatever she desires.

While hardly a combat magus, the temptation to summon the famed witch of knowledge has to be great.  After all who wouldn’t dream of reading the many tomes of Voile?  But, it would be better to do this outside a Grail War.

In the event that she was summoned however it is likely Patchouli would try to leave the fighting to familiars and traps, creating a magical fortress around her Library.  However if faced in direct combat she’d use her vast array of elemental spells to crush any attackers.  Masters are unlikely to receive much direct opposition, but her tongue is very sharp.

Yuki, Baroness of Consuming Flame Primary Class : Caster Strength : E Endurance : D Agility : B Magic : A Luck : D

Skills : Territory Creation : A- Yuki can create a "Barony" which is stronger than a workshop, however it needs to be staffed to reach its full potential. Charisma : D Capable of running a massive household with few conflicts. Blessed by Fire : B Fire elementals will avoid conflict with her, non magical fire won't burn her, she can ignore smoke, and she has a great resistance to magical fire. Magecraft: B(A) Yuki is a master mage, knowing a wide array of spells and high thaumaturgy.  She has a focus on fire spells and transmutation, and can use both abilities at a higher rank.  Unlike many other mages from the era, Yuki will use her magic to shapeshift herself and others instead of just boosting physical powers. Noble Phantasm: Soul of Fire : B  (Anti-Army) Yuki's mage transformation turned her very soul into elemental fire, and this spell proves that to the universe.  When used everything within range will catch fire instantly.  Anything that can burn will, even if the substance is wet or has a very high flash point.  This includes Yuki herself, though that won't hurt the mage. As might be expected, over time the number of casters available to the grail war has increased.  Magicians always desire something great, just the lack of fame prevented Magi from advancing.  Yuki stands slightly above the new crowd, both magically and due to her old position within Makai's hierarchy.

As a servant Yuki goes full speed ahead.  She'll use her weak summoning and powerful shapeshifting abilities to go on the attack.  Masters had best accept her determination, or there will be trouble.  She has little respect for the master servant contract, and even less respect for mages weaker than her.

Mai, Treacherous Maiden Primary Class : Caster Strength : D Endurance : B Agility : A Magic : A Luck : C

Skills : Territory Creation : B Creation of a Workshop is possible. Divinity : D Mai stole the body of a Fallen Angel.  While this makes her two stages removed from true divinity, the original rank of Angels is such she still maintains a divine connection. Honeyed Words : C The ability to convince others Mai is working in their interests.  While she is famed for her betrayals of Lady Shinki's many enemies, she's capable of convincing targets that 'this time it's different'. Magecraft : B(A) Yuki is a master of summoning and binding, with knowledge of many other fields of magic on the side.  She possesses knowledge of many High Thaumaturgies. Noble Phantasm: Corruption of the Fallen : D (Anti Area) Having stolen the body of a fallen angel, Mai can use her body's ability to corrupt the natural world around her.  Corrupted areas and animals are hostile to everything except demons.  The stain on the world doesn't linger past a day due to Mai not being a true fallen angel, but she can effortlessly continue the corruption if she's in the area. Another magician, Mai is far more stereotypically evil then her partner Yuki.   The betrayer is well known for using her tricks to maintain Shinki's control over her netherworld, and that legend infuses her makes her even more dark when summoned as a servant.  That combined with the fact that she rarely speaks will try any master's patience.

A traditional caster, Mai will use her ability to summon familiars and demons to amass a army.  She rarely fights openly, using betrayal and servants to get her kills.  If forced into direct battle she's surprisingly strong due to her angelic body, but that's her last resort.

Eirin Yagokoro, Brain of the Moon Primary Class : Caster Strength : C Endurance : A Agility : B Magic : A+++ Luck : E-

Skills : Divinity : A Eirin Yagokoro is a greater god, even with her renunciation of Lunar Society.  She has some of the highest divinity. Territory Creation : EX Eirin can create a “Sealed World” which is effectively an alternate reality. Within that world she can alter physics to create a maze, and hold several specialized workshops. Item Creation : EX Eirin’s creations are limited only by the grail and the mana of her master.  Her creations rival the strongest magic and technology, and within her territory she has a nigh unlimited supply of materials Magecraft : A++ Eirin can use any spell that isn’t a True Magic.  She has created spells unknown to modern magi.  Her sole weakness is that she often forgets what spells she has access to and has to recreate them. Brain of the Moon : A Eirin can analyze anyone she meets, quickly building a profile of them and determining how they’ll act in a variety of situations.  This is most effective outside of combat, as impulsive decisions are harder to predict. Noble Phantasm : Hourai Elixir : EX (Anti Self) Eirin Yagokoro can not be killed.  Her existence is part of the universe, and causality will erase any lethal damage she suffers..  The only way to stop this process is to kill her Master or drain them of mana.   How it is possible to even summon Eirin Yagokoro is a mystery.  Possibly it is due to her creating the new grail system.  Whatever allows it, this Eirin is obviously just a facsimile, as all the hourai people will never die and join the throne of heroes.  The grail system similarly limits her abilities.  The real Eirin is much stronger.

Still a simple look at her stats reveals her power.  She would appear to be a strong servant to summon.  Any mage believing that should probably be killed before they do something stupid.  Eirin Yagokoro is a genius who acts in her own interests, and her only interest in this form is winning the grail. She will almost certainly kill her master to prevent any of her secrets from leaving.  Add to that the fact that the only way to stop her is to kill her master, and death becomes almost certain.

No one is quite sure why she has an E- rank luck stat.  Possible reasons include the grail disliking her, her other stats being too high, or perhaps Eirin isn’t quite as lucky as she appears.  Sadly this is likely to remain conjecture.

Kaguya Houraisan, the Eternal Princess Primary Class : Caster (Archer) Strength : C Endurance : A Agility : C Magic : A Luck : B

Skills : Charisma : A++ At this level it's honestly more of a curse.  She can charm the entire world, but she can't guarantee respect.  It's likely she'll end up with a mess of suitors again. Territory Creation : A+ Kaguya can create a court, superior to a Workshop.  The court comes staffed with rabbit familiars. Collector : C Kaguya has collected a large number of items.  Summoning her as a Caster lowers the skill a rank, but she can still easily produce items of high quality and rarity at a whim. Magecraft : C++ While Kaguya's magecraft is low, she has access to several powerful mystic codes and reagents allowing her to cast very powerful spells. Battle Continuation : C Kaguya has a very high pain tolerance, and can fight through incredible suffering. Noble Phantasm : Hourai Elixir : EX (Anti Self) Kaguya can not be killed.  Her existence is part of the universe, and causality will erase any lethal damage she suffers..  The only way to stop this process is to kill her Master or drain them of mana. Impossible Request : EX (Anti Person) The right to battle the Moon Princess must be earned.  Kaguya is immune to attacks from a person until the person offers her an item equivalent to a holy relic or noble phantasm.  Kaguya of course gains the item, and becomes its owner.

Counterfeit items can be offered to her, allowing a single attack, but after that blow the universe will retaliate against the cheater, turning their efforts against them. Right of Ownership : EX (Anti-Grail) As the current owner of the grail, Kaguya can ignore command seals.  This breaks her servant contract with her master, while at the same time using a lot of mana, so she quickly loses form after using it.

While the grail refused to give us information on this ability, researchers know she used this at the end of the second grail war in her Archer form.  It's unlikely the switch to Caster would remove it. Due to her summoning as an Archer during the second new grail war, we have a great deal of information on Kaguya.  She claimed at the time to want to earn the grail for herself, as she earned her other treasures.  She was much more active than reports of her claim, using her myriad of noble phantasms to nearly win, before her master tried to take her as his own prize and got killed.

Her Caster form was listed due to her unique Noble Phantasm, and because listing her Archer's powers would be a research project in itself.  Likely if summoned as a Caster, she'd be more defensive, remaining in her court and defeating enemies one by one.

Byakuren Hijiri, the Fallen Youkai Nun Primary Class : Caster Strength : D+++ Endurance : C+++ Agility : C+++ Magic : A Luck : C

Skills : Self Enhancement : A Unlike other Casters, Byakuren does not create a territory outside her body, but rather she focuses that power inside her body.  This grants her incredible physical prowess, at the cost of the magical boost territory creation normally provides. Magecraft : C While Byakuren's Magecraft is relatively low for a caster, she has access to unique spells that no other living magician knows.  Even other heroic spirits find her spells confusing. Charisma : D The charisma needed to start a cult.  It won't convert those opposed to her ideas, but it will quickly gather those interested in the possibilities she offers. Unnatural Body : E A fake "Natural" Body skill created by her magic.  At this level it mostly allows her to keep her body shape no matter how many calories she eats. Ride : E Mastery of motorcycles and motorcycle variants.  Researchers are still baffled why she has this skill.   Byakuren refuses to comment. Noble Phantasm : Superhuman Byakuren : B (Enhancement) The spell that made Byakuren a true magician.  This is her dedication to becoming eternally youthful and strong, even if it makes her a demon.   When she activates it, her physical abilities go up yet another rank, and she gains resistance to damage. Like her brother, Byakuren Hijiri is a very physical Caster, using heavy blows to defeat her enemies.  However she uses black magic instead of divine power to accomplish this.  While this means her strength isn't as great, she does have access to a number of magical spells and mystic codes to add to her strength.

While it's odd for a monk who preaches tolerance and equality to take part in a war, everyone in the Gensoukyo region can attest to Byakuren's confrontational nature.  She likely will push forth her unique brand of Buddhism with her words and her fists equally.  Her master had best agree with her values if they don't want a turbulent relationship.

Seiga, the Wicked Hermit Primary Class : Caster Strength : D Endurance : D Agility : C Magic : B Luck : D

Skills : Territory Creation : B Creation of a Workshop is possible. Magecraft : B Seiga is especially knowledgeable about taoist magic and necromancy. Item Creation : B The ability to create items and servitors.  Seiga especially likes building jiang-shi. Noble Phantasm : Eternal Servitude of the Maiden : EX (Anti Person) When Seiga was a young woman she was taught many things by example.  She was taught the Tao was more important than family, that wisdom brought power, and that love and friendship were transient.

And so was born the wicked Hermit.

However she desired someone she could trust.  Someone who she could rely on even in her darkest times.  And her twisted mind came up with a plan.   She’d make someone who would protect and serve her, even beyond death. And so was born Yoshika Miyako.  Where Seiga goes, she follows.

—–

Yoshika Miyako, Demi-servant Class : Shielder Strength : C Endurance : B Agility : E Magic : E Luck : E

Yoshika’s Skills : Undead Body : A Yoshikais already dead, and thus ignores pain and physical damage.  If struck down she will rise again unless her body is totally destroyed. Service : A Yoshika serves Seiga unfailingly, using her own body as a shield, so long as her seal remains on her head.  No magecraft can override this.

—-

Seiga the Wicked Hermit is not a very well known figure, but Crown Prince Miko still mentions her.  The grail reveals her in all her twisted glory.  Possibly one of the most dangerous hermits ever to live, if only because she believes in her warped philosophies.

Another traditional Caster, Seiga will happily use Yoshika as a shield and sword while she prepares familiars and items to unleash on her enemies.   However unlike most Casters, her master will have to keep her entertained, otherwise she’ll go wandering out looking for fun herself.

Mamizou Futatsuiwa, Tanuki Master Strategist Primary Class : Caster (Assassin) Strength : C Endurance : B Agility : C Magic : A Luck : C

Skills : Territory Creation : C Creation of a "Hideaway" is possible.  While not giving a bonus to her magical abilities, it grants her Presence Concealment within the area. Shapeshifting : A+ Mamizou can transform into almost any form, including other youkai and inanimate objects.  She can also imitate other humans or servants with great skill. Magecraft : C++ Her magical skill is more that of a hedge mage then a true master.  However she has a number of mystic codes and artifacts, and her mastery of illusions is on a totally different level than her other magic. Charisma : C- Mamizou is quite adept at gathering other tanuki to her cause.  However she's less adept at handling other youkai. Noble Phantasm : Futatsuiwa Clan's Curse : B (Anti Person) Tanuki are trickster who use their powers to befuddle and bring down those that think themselves strong.  This spell uses the shapechanging and trickery of the tanuki to transform Mamizou's foe into a harmless animal or lesser youkai.  This strange power is considered a Marble Phantasm, as it's linked closely to the nature of the floating world.

Strangely Mamizou's own magic is sealed while this spell is in effect.  It's not certain if the ability uses all her magic, or if the nature of the spell forces her to play "fair". The ancient leader of the tanuki, Mamizou is an oddball even for the time period.  She's famous not for any one action, but centuries of little acts.  And her abilities reflect that.  The power to scurry back and forth between her hideout, harrying and harassing enemies and allies alike.  Masters should expect that's how she'll approach a grail war.

Interviews with tanuki state she's cheerful most of the time, and actually surprisingly helpful to people, unless they're foxes.  Her rivalry with kitsune is irrational, but inescapable.  She also can have a mean streak, but it's mostly for show.  Mostly.  Masters should remember that.

Aya Shameimaru, Grand Paparazzi Primary Class : Caster Strength : B Endurance : C Agility : A++ Magic : B Luck : B Skills : Territory Creation : C Aya can create a “Study”, where she writes and prints her papers. Tengu Art of War : C The battle techniques taught by the Tengu.  Aya studied when she was a child, but she forgot most of her lessons by the time she became well known.  Provides bonuses to close-combat power such as swordsmanship, archery and spearmanship, as well as Skills such as Military Tactics and Magic Resistance. Magic Resistance : D Cancels Single-Action spells. Magic Resistance of the same degree of an amulet that rejects magical energy. Master of the Winds : A As a elemental of the air, Aya can control the winds as a Marble Phantasm.  At this level even gale force winds can be controlled. Danmaku Mastery : C As someone who studied danmaku for a long time, Aya has an above average mastery of the art.  At this level of practice, she can perform dodges even at high speed. Noble Phantasm : Camera that Captures the Soul : C Tengu apparently mastered the art of conceptual weaponry earlier than previously thought, though mostly by accident.  Taking from the legends of cameras stealing the soul, Tengu empowered their cameras to capture magical energy.  As a famous tengu of that era, and one of the most famous photographers, she has perhaps the most powerful camera, one infused with the strength of her legend.

Aya’s camera can absorb any magic or prana that it snaps a photo of, using that power to charge itself.  This ability can affect any spell or ability short of True Magic, and can even damage servants, though the power is fairly small.   She’d have to take several dozen photos to drain a servant, and they’d be able to fight until the last speck of magic left them.  Also she has to wind between each photo. Aya is another youkai whose legend benefited from being a friend of the first Shogun, though she was always an odd bird among her society.  A rumormonger and photographer who was constantly interested in the world outside tengu society, Aya flitted across Gensoukyo and then the world, getting (and making up) stories.

As a Caster she’s somewhat mediocre.  Her camera abilities, and story creation don’t really offer much offensively, and she lacks actual understanding of magecraft.  Her real power is in her control of the wind.  Still she’ll happily report on the conflict while she’s here.  Perhaps even making a little if it’s a dull stretch.

Hatate Himekaidou, Hellish Spymistress Primary Class : Caster Strength : C Endurance : D Agility : A+ Magic : A Luck : C Skills : Territory Creation : C Hatate can create a “Study”, where she writes and prints her articles. Tengu Art of War : D The battle techniques taught by the Tengu.  Hatate was a poor study to start and let her skills slack off.  Provides bonuses to close-combat power such as swordsmanship, archery and spearmanship, as well as Skills such as Military Tactics and Magic Resistance. Magic Resistance : C Cancel spells with a chant below two verses. Cannot defend against magecraft on the level of High-Thaumaturgy and Greater Rituals.  Hatate’s enhanced magic resistance comes from her time in hell where she learned to resist the spirits floating about. Master of the Winds : A+ As a elemental of the air, Hatate can control the winds as a Marble Phantasm.  At this level even gale force winds can be controlled.  She lacks Aya’s creativity, but she has stronger magical power. Thoughtography : A The ability to take a picture of anything that she knows exists.  This power can bypass dimensions and realities, allowing for remote surveillance of anyone, anywhere.  It’s only limitation is that it takes some time to take the photos. Noble Phantasm : Judgement of the Press : E The manifestation of Hatate’s insane devotion to reporting the truth.  By researching, writing, and publishing an expose on someone, she can alter public perception of her target even if no one reads her article.  This can lead to people knowing the person’s name, actions, abilities, and even influence them towards liking or disliking the victim.  As the power targets the populace not the subject of the article, magic resistance or mental pollution is meaningless.

While the article represents only Hatate’s truth, she will never stoop to using lies with this power. Often called the Shogun’s spymistress, Hatate honestly had far more connections to the old hell.  However no matter what, she was famous for her dedication to her ideal of truth.  As nebulous and dangerous as that is for a youkai.  Her summoner will find her young, idealistic, but not totally clueless about life and combat.

Still she’s a terrible choice for a war.  She’s only barely a caster, and her powers are great at helping other servants, but useless one on one.  Add to that her unwillingness to sacrifice herself for lies and you end up with a rebellious servant who can’t win the war on her own.

Sanae Kochiya, Maiden of Miracles Primary Class : Caster Strength : E Endurance : D Agility : B Magic : A Luck : A++ Skills : Territory Creation : C Sanae can create a "Shrine" which enhances her mystical powers. Item Creation : E Sanae can create fortunes, holy amulets and other trinkets. Divinity : B A living goddess and a figure of worship in her own right, Sanae has a fairly high divinity. Magecraft : A- Sanae is a master of shinto magic, along with several other rituals.  In addition her connection to her goddesses gives her access to a number of other magical rituals and spells.  However she is limited to acceptable divine spells. Noble Phantasm : The Power of Miracles : A As a living goddess, Sanae can perform miracles.  Unlike the wishing power of the grail, or the miracles of saints however, Sanae can't create new miracles easily.  Instead she has the unique ability to duplicate previously performed miracles.  Given the range of divine miracles across time however that gives her access to an incredible range of abilities.  From turning water into wine, to stopping the sun in the heavens.

She can try use her powers outside existing miracles, but it mostly just boosts her luck. It's difficult to discern whether this Sanae is the one from the early era of Gensoukyo, or from during the early New Era.  After careful study, it's most likely she's an amalgamation of the two legends.  Or perhaps if rumors of her reincarnation are true, the same legend twice over.  In either case Sanae is excitable, cheerful, and kind hearted, if occasionally somewhat dense.  The grail seems to leave out some modern knowledge, not enough to hinder, but enough to make her obviously displaced.

Sanae is a passable Caster, though her Noble Phantasm is quite expensive for the Magus commanding her.  She's unlikely to thrive in a war though.  While she won the Grail War during Gensoukyo's golden age, it was mostly because the stronger servants all killed each other.

Alice Margatroid, the Girl of Death Primary Class : Caster Strength : D Endurance : D Agility : A+ Magic : A+++ Luck : C

Skills: Territory Creation : B+ Alice can create an Atelier, a Workshop that specializes in item creation. Item Creation : B+++ Alice specializes in creating dolls.  When focused on doll creation she can even create sentient dolls, given enough resources and time. Magecraft : A- Alice is a skilled magician who knows almost every field.  However she has personal issues with elemental manipulation, causing a slight weakness in that area. Protection of the Muse (True) : A As one chosen by the Grimoire of Alice, she is blessed by the muses of storytelling, acting, poetry, dance, and puppeteering.  All skills and magecraft related to those fields are enhanced. Noble Phantasm : Little Doll Legion : E The inexhaustible supply of doll warriors at Alice’s command.  These smaller dolls can wield weapons, serve as a magic conduit, and explode at a whim.  However the dolls are connected to her by her strings, so she can only use them in close proximity.  While a weak noble phantasm, it requires no magic from her master, so she can use it whenever she needs to. Through the Looking Glass : EX (Anti-World) As the most knowledgeable Alice, she has turned the Grimoire into a weapon of her own.  By performing a High Thaumaturgy ritual, she can open a link between the World and the Fantasy within the Grimoire.  The area affected starts small, but increases in size as she adds stanzas.  Every target within the area of effect is sucked into the story of the Grimoire.  A world where “Alice” is the sole heroine.

There is some danger in using this offensively though.  Other young girls might become an “Alice.”  And there are heroes and Noble Phantasms capable of destroying a world.  However most will at best be stranded in an alternate realm, with escape being very difficult. Alice is interesting, in that she’s perhaps the most well known Alice, and yet she pales in comparison to her more rowdy companions.  Still the Rainbow Colored Puppeteer carved her name into history with her innovative dollcraft techniques, and a willingness to stuff high explosive devices into plush toys.

A hybrid caster, she’ll clash with other Servants behind her doll screen.  However she’s not very big on conflict, and will often retreat if she’s not winning.  Similarly she’s harsh and judgemental, especially to other Servants and her Master, but reasonable.  She’ll do her best to crush her foes, in a dazzling display of puppetry.

Ran Yakumo, Fox Shikigami Primary Class : Caster (Berserker) Strength : B Endurance : B Agility : B Magic : A+ Luck : C Skills : Territory Creation : A+ Can create a “Hidden Village” superior to a Workshop.  It especially enhances her scrying abilities. Item Creation : C She has the ability to create mystic relics and codes, but she rarely does so. Shapeshifting : A She can transform into almost any shape, though she prefers her humanoid kitsune form. Magecraft : B++ Ran knows a number of spells, but she specializes in surveillance and boundary manipulation.  She’s one of the two magicians in existence capable of duplicating Yukari’s signature ability. Inescapable Calculations : A Ran is a master mathematician, and she’s put her calculations in use in combat.  This skill grants her a bonus to dodging, close combat and grappling moves. Noble Phantasm : Shikigami’s Link - Nil Ran’s story and nature are tied far closer to her stint as a shikigami than any other hero.  When summoned she appears in that form, preventing her from gaining a true Noble Phantasm, but making her a true shikigami to her master. This means she has a familiar link to her Master, and can access any of her Master’s powers and spells.  In addition she gains a bonus to all stats when she’s acting as her Master desires, even without the use of command spells.  However when acting against her master she suffers a penalty in all stats. Ran Yakumo is a subject of intense historical debate.  As a shikigami and kitsune, Ran is a huge series of magical contradictions.  As the sage, ruler, and protector of Gensoukyo for a period of time Ran similarly has a number of faces she used to maintain power.  The only thing everyone agrees on is she’s a coldly calculating genius, but not deliberately evil.

She might be the most Servant like Servant.  Her shikigami ability gives her master great control and ability to use her casting ability.  In addition she’s a close combat caster, using her strength and calculations to grapple and kill her enemies.  She’s not an unquestioning servant, but it will take a lot of effort to get her to disagree with her master.

[tlbodine]

Well, I’m done. 

This was...huh. I can’t call it a bad book. It was very readable -- I blazed through it in a couple days, choosing to read it instead of do a great many other things, so I have to give it credit for being absorbing. It’s competently written and has a few lines that pack a big punch, the sort of lines that make you nod along like, “Yeah! That’s it! That’s it exactly!” And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since, so obviously it was effective -- far moreso than the many, many easy-reading books that I’ve read and forgotten just as quickly. 

But on the whole, I don’t think I enjoyed it, per se. It left me frustrated, more than anything. 

Review under the cut. 

But let’s back up. Here’s the premise: 

Suzette, a 30-something interior designer/artist, is married to her dreamy rich architect husband, Alex, and has a beautiful daughter, Hanna. But all is not well in their home. Being a mother has thrown her life out of whack, and all of her dreams of doing better than her own mother go sideways thanks to a troubled relationship with her daughter. 

Hanna is seven years old and an elective mute. Around her father, she’s all smiles and joy. But she harbors a deep distrust for her mother, and decides that troublesome mommy dearest needs to be disposed of -- permanently -- so she can have daddy all to herself. 

The story is told in an alternating perspective between Hanna and Suzette, which is a bit unique -- I don’t think I’ve seen another “evil kid” story that gives the child’s perspective any consideration. And honestly, I found Hanna’s chapters more interesting. All of the characters in this book are awful people, but Hanna is probably the most sympathetic. 

Right off the bat, the story made me uneasy, and not in the horror-story kind of way. We start out with Hanna at the doctor getting a CT-scan of her brain as doctors try to rule out any physiological reasons for her mutism. We see this from Hanna’s perspective first, so we know exactly why it is that she doesn’t speak: 

“Inside, she was a kaleidoscope of racing, popping, bursting, exclamations, full of wonder and question marks. Patterns swirled, and within every secret pocket she’d stashed a treasure, some stolen, some found. She had tried, as a little girl, to express what was within her. But it came out like marbles. Nonsense. Babbling. Disappointing even to her own ears.” 

Of course, there is another benefit to her silence: It drives Mommy crazy. While her father is indulgent with her, Mommy is frustrated with her inability to communicate, and Hanna uses that as one of many tools in her arsenal to drive a wedge into the family. 

The doctors aren’t much help. They suggest early on that there’s a difference between “can’t and won’t” and suggest seeing a psychologist. 

As a reader, I’m already internally squirming at this point, because it seems ridiculous to me that we have a bright, nonverbal 7-year-old and at no point does literally anyone bring up the possibility of autism. Also, why in the world don’t you already have your kid in therapy by this point? The family can obviously afford it. Your kid is five-plus years past the usual “starting to talk” age and you’re still back at the “ruling out brain problems” stage? That’s...odd. 

When autism does finally get a passing mention in the text, it is...not handled delicately: 

“descended into autism” 

Yeah. Um. That’s not how ANY of that works, but okay. 

As we get to know more about the family, I started to wrestle with uncertainty. Surely the author didn’t intend for us to like these people? Surely the point is that these parents are awful, self-absorbed, shallow people who are exacerbating their daughter’s issues to the point of turning her into a monster? They’re the villains here, right? 

Right? 

I’ve finished the book and I’m honestly not sure at all.

Hanna successfully manipulates her way out of several schools by acting out, forcing her mom to try home-schooling her -- which does nothing to quell their mutual animosity. She also develops an alter-ego, a witch she read about on Wikipedia (why is a 7-year-old unsupervised on the internet? am I showing my age here?). Through Marie-Anne, she gets a voice, but the only things she says are threatening proclamations. 

There are a series of disturbing events that lead the mother to kinda-sorta think her kid might be possessed, and then a series of attacks that are almost comedic as Hanna tries to dispose of her mother. Never mind that most of the problems in the book could easily have been solved with a bit of common sense: 

The mother could use her damn phone to record Hanna’s behavior as proof for her husband so he could stop disbelieving his little angel did anything wrong. 

The family could have made some effort to lock up sharp objects, hammers, matches, etc., especially after the first time Hanna attacks someone. 

They could have enrolled her in therapy years ago 

They could have at least made an effort at disciplining the kid and enforcing some rules and boundaries as opposed to alternating between lashing out and coddling. 

But, well, again. Surely the parents are the bad guys in all this. Surely the point -- by the time they reach the end, having sent her away to a special home for low-empathy youngsters and realizing they’re happier without her -- is that they are the monsters. Surely our take-away when Hanna, homesick and frightened, finally summons her voice to call home and beg to come back, when she says, “Don’t you love me” and her mother replies, “Not enough” and hangs up the phone -- surely this ending means that her parents are the monsters all along. 

Alas. I am not convinced. And judging by the response of many reviewers I’ve read, if that WAS the author’s intent, it certainly doesn’t come through clearly. 

This is a first novel, and I think the author is talented enough that her future books might be better. Perhaps Baby Teeth is too ambitious. It tackles a difficult topic and seems unable or unwilling to take a side, to really indulge in its nastiness. The result is a book that’s a little bit spineless, that plays it too safe. 

It’s billed on the cover as “We Need to Talk About Kevin meets Gone Girl” and that might not be doing it any favors for me as those are two books I really love -- and Baby Teeth is just not in the same class. 

There are a lot of similarities with We Need to Talk About Kevin, but it’s just a fundamentally different book. From the outset of WNTTAK, we know that Kevin has done an awful, unforgivable thing, and we spend the rest of the story trying to puzzle out why and how he got there. But young Hanna is not beyond redemption. It’s more similar to Gone Girl -- which is, of course, a story about two truly awful people who are somehow made for each other -- but it lacks the sharpness or (pun intended) the teeth. Gone Girl is transgressive in ways Baby Teeth lacks the courage to be. 

I could forgive Baby Teeth for its indecisiveness, but I worry about its danger. I worry about the mixed message it sends -- that perhaps we should give up on bright young Hanna, who cannot give words to the thoughts in her busy head, who prefers her own company, who loves color and shape and order, Hanna with her witchy special interest and her imaginary friends. That Hanna, for committing the sin of being too much, too fierce, too smart, too independent, is unforgivable; that the casual, intermittent cruelty her mother sometimes thoughtlessly sends in her direction is the price to pay for not living up to parental expectations. 

I like Hanna. I know what it is to be that kid, to an extent. I know what it means to be lonely and smarter than everyone around you, to be unable to communicate everything that goes on in your head, to want so badly for people to understand. 

I think if Hanna had been older, the book would have worked better for me. If she’d been 11 or 12, her adoration of her father would have been creepier, her malice more clearly defined, her schemes more dangerous, her imagination more unambiguously delusional. But at 7? I’m not convinced a 7-year-old really understands what death is; I certainly don’t think they can conceive of the consequences of murder. 

So ultimately that’s my frustration with this book. There are several directions it could have gone that would have made it really good. But instead it kind of half-heartedly tries to tick off all of the boxes instead of committing to one, and it falls flat because of it. 

First book of the new year, and the “child monster” trend continues. Odd bit of synergy in that.

I do feel like there’s an undercurrent of ableism and...autismphobia? Is that a thing? It’s making me nervous about where this is heading but I’ll stick it out. Hoping it surprises me.

[binsofchaos]

Chef David Tanis’s Low-Tech, Economical, and Beautifully Soulful Kitchen in the East Village

by Julie Carlson

We’ve been following chef David Tanis over the years and wondering how he pulls it all off; after heading up the kitchen at Chez Panisse, he made an arrangement with Alice Waters that allowed him to work half time in the Berkeley, California, restaurant and live half time in Paris, where he ran an under-the-radar supper club called Aux Chiens Lunatiques with Randal Breski, his partner, the former maître d’ at Chez Panisse.

These days, the two live in a two-room garden flat in the East Village (they bought it from their friends, artists Bruce Nauman and Susan Rothenberg, who occupy the upper levels of the townhouse), and David writes the weekly City Kitchen column for the New York Times and produces cookbooks. His latest, David Tanis Market Cooking, is a beautifully photographed exploration of “how to be more discerning in the market and freer in the kitchen.”

On a recent Saturday, we dropped by to poke around his kitchen, ask a few questions, and admire his low-key approach to cooking and entertaining.

Photography and styling for Remodelista by Heidi’s Bridge.

Above: A set of steps descends to the apartment’s entry, which opens directly onto the kitchen. David and Randal found the Ikea shelving on the street and mounted it atop two vintage wooden blocks. They’ve stocked the shelves with an artful display of vintage and newer ceramic pieces they’ve collected over the years.

Remodelista: What do you love most about your kitchen and living space?

David Tanis: The two rooms are 20-by-20-foot each, so there’s room for guests to gather in the kitchen for drinks, although we usually dine in our main room, what we call the West Wing, for dinner parties. Casual dinner in the kitchen is on stools, maximum four people. The island is on wheels and easy to move, which is great for opening up the space when needed.

RM: How do you use scent in the home? Smudge sticks and incense, et cetera? Is that for covering up cooking smells? (A Frenchwoman once told me she burns incense when she cooks fish.)

DT: I like to burn incense on the “veranda,” the exterior stairway entrance to our apartment, to mask traffic fumes, especially when guests are coming.

Above: The island on wheels is from Crate & Barrel; David and Randal added a cantilevered butcher block top to extend the work surface. For something similar, consider the Belmont White Kitchen Island from Crate & Barrel ($499) with an added set of Four Casters ($26). The bentwood counter stool is vintage.

RM: Did living in Paris influence the design of your NYC kitchen? Living with a smaller fridge, for example?

DT: Our Paris kitchen was minuscule. Living with a small, under-counter fridge was really no problem except when we had to store food for big parties, in which case we used a large picnic cooler. But even with the tiny kitchen we managed to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for 45 expats one year. So when we moved to New York, we adopted the under-counter fridge once again (although we do have a mid-size fridge in the cellar where we chill wine and store bulky stuff). We usually shop at the farmer’s market four days a week, but there always seems to be something needed daily from some other source, like the butcher, fishmonger, and supermarket.

Above: David and Randal slotted in four stacked Ikea cabinets in a recessed corner of the kitchen for additional storage.

RM: Kitchen appliance/gadget you think is absurd and unnecessary?

DT: I’m really a mortar and pestle person—you saw my collection. I avoid using electric appliances, if at all possible. An electric spice mill can be handy, though, and a blender is useful. Why anyone would use a garlic press is baffling.

Above: A freestanding vintage Ethan Allen dresser painted black serves as a storage place for spices, linens, and more. A copper tray perched on a lazy susan corrals essentials.

RM: You mentioned you like to shop at stores in Chinatown for items such as colorful plastic colanders. Favorite specialty/ethnic shops in your neighborhood?

DT: It’s also where I go for Asian ingredients—Chinatown is a ten-minute walk. I love Dual Spices on First Avenue at Sixth Street for spices and Indian specialties.

Above: David stores his spices in jars arrayed upside-down in the dresser’s top drawer. “That way I can see what I’ve got, and I don’t have to bother with labeling the jars,” he says.

Above: David stores mixing bowls and cutting boards on an industrial-style stainless steel restaurant cart with butcher block top and cooks on an NXR 30-Inch Professional Range ($1,799). The low-profile professional-grade ventilation hood is from Zephyr; for something similar, take a look at their Gust line, available from AJ Madison.

RM: Favorite kitchen knife? Carbon steel or stainless steel?

DT: I have a lot of Japanese knives. Generally I prefer carbon steel.

Above: David and Randal maximized the space at the far end of the kitchen; under the counter is a refrigerator with a dishwasher slotted in next to it. The kitchen is located partially below street level, adjacent to a church burial yard. “There are caskets stacked on the other side of the wall,” David says. “At one point we were using a vintage porcelain mortuary table as a kitchen island.”

Above: David and Randal keep their sink setup simple: Dishwashing liquid is decanted into an amber glass pump bottle (for something similar, consider the eight-ounce Amber Glass Soap Dispenser with Black Pump ($5.69 from Amazon), the palm fiber Kamenoko Tawashi Kitchen Scrubbing Brush ($7) is from Japan. The single-bowl Domsjo Sink is from Ikea ($186); the well-priced chrome Grohe Concetto Single-Handle Pull-Down Arc Kitchen Faucet is $169.53 from Amazon (see another kitchen that makes clever use of the Grohe Concetto at Aya Brackett’s Hippie House Update in Oakland).

RM: Any takeaways from professional kitchen design that homeowners should know about?

DT: Ideally a kitchen should have a separate area for dishwashing, but it’s not possible in this small two-room flat.

Above: An array of low-tech tools: the double egg spoon is by Sicilian master blacksmith Angelo Garro of

Renaissance Forge in San Francisco (see the single version at The Legendary Egg Spoon of Alice Waters and Fanny Singer, Easter Edition).

Above: Proof you don’t need an arsenal of high-tech countertop appliances and gadgets: David’s lineup of old-fashioned kitchen implements includes a stainless steel Stovetop Toaster, his grandmother’s potato masher, a Rok Presso Manual Maker, a wooden-handled whisk, and a vintage marble mortar and pestle.

(For more low-tech tools, see 10 Easy Pieces: Editors’ Favorite Hand-Operated Kitchen Tools.)

Above: A Japanese tansu chest holds additional tableware and jars of home-pickled vegetables.

Above: David stores paper towels on a vintage brass meat pounder.

Above: A glass beaker holds garlic from the farmers market.

Above: “We built the bookcases out of cinder blocks and lengths of wood boards,” David says. His oeuvre includes One Good Dish, A Platter of Figs and Other Recipes, Heart of the Artichoke, and David Tanis Market Cooking.

Above: David’s recently released David Tanis Market Cooking

[godsandvillainsrpg-blog]

Congratulations, JULIE! You have been accepted as JAE-SEUNG KWON.

Note from Admin Jade: Your app absolutely screamed Jae-Seung. This Machiavellian serpent absolutely came to life in your app from the very first word to the very last. You did such a wonderful job of capturing the core of his essence — yes, he has the capability to know better, or even to truly care at times, but he’s never had the desire; that’s something losers resort to, after they’ve accepted defeat. But Jae doesn’t accept defeat, and you nailed his dangerous cocktail of snake-like charms and hedonism, sprinkled with the immaturity of a boy who’s never had to play by any rules but his own. I’m so excited to watch the way you bring Jae-Seung onto the dash, and I can’t wait to see what kind of trouble he’ll stir up for everyone!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Hi, my name is Julie.

Age: I’m 23 years old.

Preferred Pronouns:  she/her.

Timezone: GMT+1 (love from France).

Activity Level: For activity I’d give myself an 8/10 ? I’m usually trying to be on each day for an hour at least. I do have my yoga classes on Monday and Thursday but that’s only like an hour, and I have the odd exception with homework (when it’s school time) or if I decide to have a social life etc. I’ll be super active if I have not a really big thing to prepare like exam (fortunately it doesn’t happen too often). Sometimes I can be slow with replies, taking a few hours on a lengthy para reply, but I like to edit and proofread my writing before I submit it.

Triggers: REMOVED

Anything Else?  Thank you for your incredible work, thank you for your kindness, thank you for your patience. Thank you for GAV and Jae-Seung. I say it again, I’m amazed by everything you did and couldn’t be happier to have been part of it. Whatever happens, I won’t regret having been part of this adventure.

IN CHARACTER

Desired Character: Jae-Seung Kwon.

Describe this character in your own words:

Where do I even start in regards to my fascination with him? Jae-Seung, he’s a prince of darkness. And ultimately what draws me to him is his ruthlessness, his ambition, his calculating nature. He is a man who shows no weakness, for who morals are secondary, and who is loyal only to himself. He is not held by moral codes except for a loose structure he has created for himself. Jae-Seung’s code might be his, but this is not to say it is moral or abides by typical nobility. While he has the capability of selflessness, he is mostly selfish, does as he pleases, and cares about himself first before others. That does not exempt him from the ability to care or put himself on the line for his objectives, but this is all by his own standards and rules. He understands morals to a degree but that does not mean he exercises them and he is often unapologetically immoral.

He doesn’t think much of anyone else. It’s just a fact of life. It’s not that he doesn’t care - more that if you play with the big boys, you sink or you swim. And it’s always harder to swim if you need to think about how someone else is going to stay afloat. He burns through life with the reckless surety of a rich heir - never concerned about the effects of his actions - unless it’s about him. But after years of living in this environment, of having everything be about him, who could fault him for it? It is always about him, and if it’s not, it’s wrong. Perhaps Narcissus could be a cautionary tale, but he is two times smarter and ten times prettier than he would ever be. When you’re born the perfect storm, it’s difficult not to get swept away by yourself.

He is able to use the skills that he possesses to alter the situation in his favor. He can always come up with at least three ways to get what or where he wants, and is good at shifting plans on the spot when something isn’t working. He is able to improvise, to lie, to bullshit his way out of hell with only minimal casualty. His intuition is his power; his words his weapon. People are nothing but pawn, and should he move them the right way, he will win the game. He loves to watch people squirm, to play with their minds until they’re not even sure what is lies and what is truth. He loves to watch the fly get tangled in the web, only working deeper and deeper into the threads. Like most weapons, his intelligence is best left concealed, emerging only at the most convenient of times. Jae-Seung has come across people who suggest that he may occasionally bite off more than he can chew. But in his eyes, the obstacles that he faces are merely challenges - challenges that are able to be overcome, and will be overcome. When others are willing to give up, he stands in the dust of everyone else’s defeat, simply switching the facet of his point of view and getting to work at finding another solution. He looks at every problem as a new puzzle. Like a game of chess, he can only win. In the end, he knows he will get through it – no matter how much time it takes. To him, the world is a place full of challenges that were meant for him to tackle. There is no such thing as an obstacle impossible to defeat.  When he puts his mind on an objective, he works to the ends of the Earth to accomplish his personal mission. Like a barreling train, there is nothing that can hinder him when he gets into one of those modes. Passion and ambition are what define him as a person.

Being an only child, Jae-Seung was raised at the center of the universe. While he might not admit it, he often thinks he is the smartest person in the room. There’s no denying the wealth of intelligence and overflowing pools of cleverness that resides in one Jae-Seung Kwon. He is hunger and an insatiable need to win. To survive in a world where everyone is guilty playing innocent, you need to have quick wits and even quicker thinking. An easy social chameleon with a keen eye for observation, he doesn’t ever find himself in a situation he can’t talk himself out of. Fluid and smooth in all aspects of his life, there is no situation where he could be caught unawares. Nothing can top talent and pure versatility when things go south. It’s how he shot to the top and how he’s stayed at the top, without the need to cause something as low-class as a scene.  

That smooth, shimmering charm of his goes down like fine brandy, and he knows exactly what to say to win you over. Careful and calculated, he’s no fool. He knows exactly what kind of veneer to hide his Machiavellian worldview behind, but as you swallow each and every one of his buttery words, rest assured that he feels no remorse for the arsenic he’s been silently slipping you all along. His end truly justifies his means, and there’s no reigning sense of right and wrong to tell him otherwise. Of course, he can understand how others might scoff at his methods, which is why he’s ensured he keeps them wrapped up in a pretty package of pleasant conversation and well meaning smiles, but don’t be fooled into thinking he believes he’s done anything but what’s necessary to achieve the heights he’s destined for. Lulling his victims into a false sense of security, he’s smart enough only to let on to his true colors after he’s used you and thrown you away — if he ever lets on to the viper within at all.

What are this character’s motives?

Jae-Seung is the epitome of hedonism. He is greed in his want to obtain what he desires no matter the cost. He is lust in his full enjoyment of unbridled passionate sex, even better if he can taste a forbidden fruit. He is gluttony in that he consumes everything in his path until there’s nothing left. He exhausts women and men, he exhausts possibilities, and he exhausts power. He is sloth in the way that he feels no remorse. He does things without failing to realize that they might not be what he should be doing, but does them the same way. Jae-Seung is a fee spirit, a wild card; only doing what pleases him. He is driven by nothing other than his desires. He sees everything has a game he can’t wait to win.

He has goals for himself, and while they may seem frivolous to some, they are what he wants to achieve. However, these ambitions are not empty - he is also resourceful, knowing the best way to go about achieving them. He wanted to be free of his parent’s expectations and he succeeded. He made himself and he couldn’t be prouder of his accomplishments. He lives for the thrill. He lives for the success of each new con. He is satisfied with everything he has today; of course, he is. But, there’s always more, and Jae-Seung can help but to want it all. He wants to keep lying to his parents, wants the satisfaction to know they don’t suspect a thing. He wants to show Amara where her place is, once and for all. He wants to seduce Bella, because what a beautiful prize she would be. And as always, he wants to be seen as the best as what he does.

What potential plots do you foresee for this character?

REMOVED

Would you be open to this character’s death?

REMOVED

PARA SAMPLE

ONE.

The building opened into a long, narrow corridor, lit only by candles in sconces on the wall. When they reached the end, another guard opened a second door, and there was a sudden rush of noise–live music, hundreds of voices rising over one another, laughter and gaiety. It was opulence beyond what everyone could envision, and a usual night for him.

Everything was so grand, so ostentatious. The place was resplendent with candle-lit crystal chandeliers, casting the expansive ballroom in a glittering shower of flickering light. The walls, covered in dainty gold filigree, cast the luminosity back, which caught off the jewels and shiny buttons of the people inside, chatting on the sidelines or twirling in the middle of the marbled floor to fast-paced, tinkling music from the stringed ensemble on the dais. Immediately inside the door were small circular tables dressed in fine china and glittering crystal. Grandiose floral centerpieces spilled across the black tablecloths. Roses, orchids, hydrangea, and calla lilies in shades of yellows, reds, oranges, and blues were cut through with iridescent feathers and strings of sapphires and emeralds and the odd topaz. Among the flickering light of the scattered votive candles, they winked and sparkled. Long tables were stretched out between the floor-to-ceiling glass doors open to the brisk night air outside, covered in lace cloths and piles high with ornate sweetmeats and dainty, appetizing food. There was a veritable feast laid out over several long banquet tables–delectable canapés, mouth-watering hors d’oeuvres, oysters and escargot, dainty sandwiches, and on and on.

Masked wait staff stood at the ready to serve fine cuts of steak, chicken pinwheels, and slices from the entire roasted boar, stuffed and dressed, meat falling from the bone. Then there were the dessert tables. Fresh fruit and fountains of chocolates, petit-fours, cakes and truffles, and every decadent treat one could wish for. Champagne spilled freely, waiters cut through the crowd with flutes of it, glasses of white and red wine. Music played, a lovely golden sound in the background. Several people danced on a glossy wooden floor, wearing elaborate gowns or suits.

It was a fairytale coming to life and Jae-Seung was ready to play his part. He’d spent the night smiling so much his jaw ached with it. He’d littered grins around like sweets. Smiles across at silly little girls, compliments —with unrivaled ease— their parents. His every word tinged with the perfectly calculated amount of appreciation and politeness.

Noticing Amara’s presence, he locked eyes with her as he turned in her direction. He gave her a smile, and if there were a few too many teeth in it, well, no one else was there to witness it. He snagged a glass of wine from a passing tray, watching the scene with a sense of cold detachment as his eyes roamed until he spotted the ones he was truly seeking. His eyes flickered to her eyes before meeting her searching gaze. Chin held high, coy eyes, he definitively looked the part; the so handsome and unreachable Prince, perfect in every way. He walked toward Bella, half of a naughty little smirk quirked up one corner of his mouth. ‘My lady,’ he gently kissed her hand. ‘May I have the honor of dancing with you tonight? ’ The thrill of pursuit, of a worthwhile chase, seeped into his mind. The coy smile that graces her lips is something he doesn’t expect, but thoroughly enjoys all the same, light fingers gentle in tracing her shoulder, a feathered touch with his eyes never leaving hers even after he pulls away from her skin. His voice is low, words just for the two of them; fingers ghosting her wrist. ‘It would be my absolute pleasure.’ He smiles when her eyes light up, thinking only one thing.

Hook, line, and sinker.

TWO.

Jae-Seung’s eyes narrowed as none other than Stavros strode towards him with all the fire that characterized him. He sized him up considering, recognizing someone on a warpath. By the look of it, he was going to give him a piece of his mind.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ His eyes are trained on the menu when he speaks, and in doing so, he’s made it abundantly clear how unimportant he finds that conversation to be – if it can even be called a conversation. He sips tea from a mug, the steam masking a contemptuous look, if only briefly. The slight wisp of a smile that finds his lips doesn’t falter when heads turn in their direction. It’s hardly an unusual accusation. Hardly one he hasn’t heard before. He is Jae-Seung Kwon, the snake lying in wait. He can’t help but stir up trouble.

In his world, rules were made to be broken, people to be toyed with, and life to be enjoyed at its fullest. Only those who didn’t win thought life wasn’t a game. How boring! What was the point then? If he didn’t find a way to be entertained, he didn’t see the point in doing something. He didn’t have time for useless or boring things. Oh, did he love a little chaos. And this is what Jae-Seung knew best, the careful destruction of things under his hand —or with his help at least; all so he could rebuild something better for himself. He was never one to let an opportunity slide, always one to know how to get what he wanted. He would play his part, and would have fun doing so. He was just waiting for the first tip of a domino to fall, for the first mask to shatter — it would all come crumbling down like an avalanche soon and he would be ready to rise above it.

‘This is not a game!’ He didn’t bristle at his outburst; instead he observed him and waited for it to pass. He recovered quickly, his expression challenging. His jaw was locked, but there was an antagonistic glint to the smirk he gave him. ‘Don’t I know it.’ He cocked his head playfully at him, his childish action out of place in such a situation. He has to bite back a laugh; that’d be pushing it just too far but god, is he tempted to.

‘Everything is a game.’ He couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Your life had to be particularly dull with such a philosophy.’ Then, sighing, stretching his legs out to adopt a pose of indolent contentment, he inquired with an air of idleness. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what are the charges?’ He obviously knew what he reproached him, but it didn’t mean he would make it easy. He wouldn’t show his hand so easily. Stavros would need to play his game right if he wanted answers. A sly smile spread across his face and as he continued to speak, ‘It’s hardly fair to accuse me when I ignore what offence, if any, has been committed.’ The words hang in the air between them. Jae-Seung’s face is blank, an unreadable mask, waiting for his next step.

EXTRAS

My mockblog can be found <a href=“http://jskwoninspo.tumblr.com”>here.</a>

Name.

Jae (栽) “cultivate”.

Seung (勝) meaning “victory, excel”.

Kwon (權), meaning ‘authority’ or ‘power’.

Personality.

Alignment: chaotic neutral.

Mbti: entj.

Four temperament: the executive (choleric-sanguine).

Enneagram: type eight.

Nine type of intelligence: Interpersonal Intelligence (People Smart”).

more <a href=“http://jskwoninspo.tumblr.com/post/156361128087/headcanons-part-i”>here.</a>

Tropes.

consummate liar, unreliable narrator, the hedonist, the beautiful elite, gentleman snarker, magnificent bastard, man of wealth and taste, pretty boy, bi the way, tranquil fury.

Sexuality.

Greyromantic. someone who only occasionally, or rarely, experiences romantic attraction. They may experience romantic attraction but not often or could experience them with no desire for a romantic relationship or desire relationships which are neither platonic nor romantic.

Pansexual. the attraction to multiple genders, rejects the idea of gender binaries and accepts that there are more than the two genders ( male & female ) rather than the spectrum.

To jae-seung, sex is a matter of aesthetics: the hard, sharp planes of men and the lithe, delicate bodies of women. There’s no attachment to his flirtation, simply a desire for contact, for heat. It’s a definite bonus if he enjoys the person’s company, but there are never feelings, never any romance - it takes a lot more than physical attraction to find a place in his heart, and he isn’t sure that it’s even possible. He is woefully casual with all his affections. Romantically, he’s attracted to intelligence and wit in a person, though he’s a firm believer in trying to avoid relationships as much as possible – it’s a tricky business, and while he does love pulling a grand act, it’s exhausting when it comes to a relationship with a stranger based on a front. He has the capability, on some level, to love another. It’s just a matter of finding a proper match, an equal, a counterpart that’s actually worthy to stand by his side. Sadly, such candidates are few and far between. Jae-seung is a notorious flirt, you never know whether he really means it. Sometimes he does, but most times he doesn’t. Even when he does he tends to lose interest quickly.

Language & accent.

korean  (  mother tongue with strong busan satoori  )  —  mandarin (  fluent  )   — english  (  fluent  ) —  Italian (fluent) —   —  french  (  decent   ) — spanish (  learning  ).

As he grows he first acquires languages by necessity, but it soon becomes hobby, because they’re interesting, a challenge. The nuances that vary from language to language bringing a spark of excitement to bright eyes. He views each language he’s acquainted with as another badge — an accomplishment he can flaunt without needing to reduce himself to the crassness of bragging. Korean. The mother tongue, the language his ears hear first when his mother cradles him in her arms, wailing with his firsts cries to the world. Mandarin. As a toddler he follows his mother around the manors, trailing after her down long hallways on soft feet, listening in on rich and fluid sounds of a language his mothers speaks like she breathes. He drinks in English taught by his nanny before he even learnt to walk. French, his great-aunt insists he learn it, you can be an accomplish scholar otherwise, she said. Italian. The beauty of the language appeals to him, and as he loves to say you can never learn too many languages. Spanish. The most recent of his endeavors that he is by no means fluent – yet – but he wagers he’ll have it under lock and key in a few months.

Occupation.

Lawyer

He could be the new face of the Kwon name, could be the legacy his parents dreamed him to be. But why would he when it’s so much simple to pretend. The golden boy, the perfect heir: the liar extraordinaire. How could he resist when he saw a chance to shape his own future; in something even better they could have dreamt of.

Con man

The silver spoon in his mouth didn’t sate his hunger, he was still always starving. Starving for things to do, places to see, and people to meet. He reached his hands out in front of him and grasped all that he could see. He learned trades and slipped into the shadows, he took things that did not belong to him sheerly for the thrill and satisfaction. He learned how to use his boyish looks to get people to trust him and hand over the things he wants. He learned his way around words, and he learned how to become a friend of the dark. Becoming a conman was easy, it was in his blood, he carried it with him everywhere he went. Jae-Seung had wanted more, so he took it.

Deception comes so effortlessly to him that, he could only assume that he was born for guile and theft. He is the antithesis of James Bond, clad in stolen couture and silver-tongued lies. His quick tongue and innate ease makes fooling the targets an easy feat. He can play up the innocent act as easy as anything else, fluttering lashes and lilted tones making it easy for his deceptive cover eat up any sucker that dare believe it. He gains trust and demands respect, something that those around him are too scared to debate, making his efforts on the inside simple and effective. He’s good at it, or so he’s been told (but he knew as much already). There’s something of a talent in him for bending people to his will, making them believed those honeyed words he turns, gold threading through a spinning wheel.

Socialite

He is built for this world, this life. He commands attention and keeps it with no issues. Fashion icon. Socialite.  Jae-Seung Kwon is who you want to be, but also the one person you fear the most. A deadly combination that makes his time in the limelight unfleeting, a throne held with an iron fist. It was because of his innate hedonistic nature, a characteristic he had become an expert at hiding, wearing a mask of sophistication and superiority like a glove. The young man had an easy sort of charm about him, a flash of the eye or a well-timed joke had always been his forte, despite having barely any parental guidance. And those on the Elite would often describe him as a pleasure to have around.

Song.

Eyes on fire - blue foundation

( I’m taking it slow / Feeding my flame / Shuffling the cards of your game / And just in time / In the right place / Suddenly I will play my ace) ― his manipulation.

Emperor’s New Clothes, PANIC! AT THE DISCO

( Sycophants on velvet sofas / Lavish mansions, vintage wine / I am so much more than royal / Oh, yeah The crown / So close I can taste it / I see what’s mine and take it ) ― his ambition.

Quotes.

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul. ― William ernest Henley.

How characteristic of your perverse heart that longs only for what happens to be out of reach. ― Pierre-Ambroise Choderlos de Laclos.

I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times, hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best. — Marilyn Monroe.