#a splash of orange a thread of gold

[augustblackberrywine]

I was Mormon.

That word washes over me like watercolor memories of sprinklers on the church lawn, of reading from thin-leafed pages in a circle with the pink-orange skies above, of the feeling of my socks running across the scratchy blue floors chasing my friends.

The word feels like big round tables wheeled out for every event, cheap plastic-y tableclothes and potlucks and trunk-or-treats, it sounds like the clanging of metal chair racks and rushing to be the strongest. It sounds like when they rented bouncy houses for the kids, or a dunking machine for the bishop, kids excitedly ramming whiffle balls at the target to send him splashing into the water.

It smells like hot, wet pavement where water balloons fights were, where mutual every Wednesday was a collection of girls who loved each other - sitting on the carpet, in the gym. Talking about Buzzfeed Unsolved mysteries, and vines, and creating a goofy instagram page, and early morning seminary where kids fell asleep, but we tried to do activities. Dressing up like King Benjamin and standing atop a fort made of those cushy blue Relief Society chairs. The mutual activities of standing in the kitchen making baked goods. The pink and rainbow decorations for Young Women's, gold torch necklaces, beautiful women leaders crying that they loved us girls, babies bouncing on their lap, telling us to please live our own life, and know that you're beautiful on the inside, and God loves you.

The weeks and weeks of arts and crafts. White paint and gold glitter paint on picture frames housing a silleheoutte of myself, brookies and glitter gel pen journals, gingerbread house temples.

The squeak of the missionaries' shoes on the gymnasium, always playing basketball. That one youth dance with those two guys dancing with each other to Africa by Toto when that was a meme. Tearing open glow sticks with my teeth in the dead of night at girl's camp, splattering glowy paint over everything. Sitting around the campfires, swimming in the lake, the little bottle of Bath & Body Works hand sanitizer a girl gave me. Youth Conference and positively weeping when we all sang How Great Thou Art.

It sounds like, "I like to look for rainbows, whenever there is rain...."

I want to die when I think of it all.

Never a thread was woven so deep as it was in me and what I saw when I looked up to great men, telling me in whispered tones to go the world over if it meant telling of my love. Never so safe did I feel as when my young women's leaders saw something in me, a smart, and brave girl, a bright girl - so many things to do to make the world a better place, and I would figure out how. Never did rainclouds parting in the spring make the air smell as fresh as riding the schoolbus and praying, and reading scriptures, and feeling overjoyed to receive my patriarchal blessing - something that made me sob uncontrollably for years at even the mere thought of having love with someone, of having earned "God's trust", of all things working together for good... Never so proud was I when my dad told me what a great example I was, how he... looked up to me. How the older gentleman said he loved when I prayed for a group. How the girl I know today as queer put her head on my shoulder and told me she trusted me and I....

I see the person in the mirror who betrayed that.

I slip into the memories of privately feeling heartbroken in the temple, searching to understand if I could still feel the Spirit there indicating I was worthy, when I knew in my mind I had problems with sexual thoughts and urges. Of the humiliation of telling these secrets and sexual divulsions to leaders and crying that I thought I was fogiven, because I felt like God still loved me.

I slip into the knowledge that it wasn't even until I left that I could contemplate how much I had given up on love existing, until I looked in the eyes of so many women who smiled down at me, or up at me, and realized that there was something healing in the sunflower smile of a woman. When I thought about love, it felt like how the words "my wife" sounded in my mouth, and dancing in my childhood home's warm kitchen light, and waking up to her smile every single day, forever.

I think of all the numerous kids I went to school with my whole life. I live in a predominantly Black area. There is still so much diversity as well from all corners of the world finding themselves here. I am not sad for long - I am reminded because of setting aside the stupidity of it all that whatsoever makes me not be a good friend is, well, evil. You can't take my friends away from me. You can't make me look every person of color in the eyes and tell them that they are saved in a kingdom in heaven that has no care, no love, for who they are. That would send White kids from Utah to tell them the saving is finally come to them, too. That when they read the words in class - of the Lamanites being cursed with dark skin, of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young having servants and this very mouthpiece of God returned to the earth says that you are not fit for the kingdom. That the pressure of the fucking 1970's made God first consider that His gifts to humanity included... "your" kind of humanity, your kind of darkness of skin, your kind of life. That God is White. That God, is a White God. That God who first made humans in the continent of Africa, who patterned his firstborns of Adam and Eve there, has nothing to say while his children are suffocated to death underknee in the street shouting for a mother -- felt nothing when that happened years after it did to another Son of his - and feels no compulsion to whisper in you, your Prophet's ear, that perhaps you will pay for this if you remain silent? That perhaps you are no less a wolf even if your coat is White, and you lead sheep into your pearly white jaws saying not a bleat, not a bark, and God's Shepherd does not look kindly at that? That God has nothing to say about the second-class rate of people of color in His reformed, restored Church?

What would it take for me to enact that again? To be as self-righteous, as deluded, as ignorant, as oblivious, as complicit?

Would it be if I was in another institution that fed my spiritual hunger? Perhaps my counseling job. Would I find within the hallowed halls of academia and mental health counseling the same accountability? Would I see something in my role as serving the greater good, justifying my harm? Would sanctimonious meetings across from board members and professors and deans quietly telling me that the sound of science is one that stakes no claims in petty, subjective, emotional pullings toward volatile politics, and my clients will isolate themselves from their loved ones, and insurance companies denying to pay me because I told them no therapy can help them with a fucked up, racist, homophobic, xenophobic world, and will I dull the bruising of pain?

Would it be in another faith tradition? Perhaps the pagan paths I cross from time to time, or the humanistic, Universality who my belief in might strengthen until I feel called along by another purpose? One that negates, neglects even, the lives around me? All paths may lead up the mountain, but the mountain be damned when the villagers at its base are suffering. When sparkly clouds of woowoo and picking and choosing hallucinate a voice in my ear again, and the depression takes over my sense of having a future, and it is by the voice of Providence that I have a Purpose for living again? A voice that shushes me that caring about a fight is how I die even easier, and I have fought so hard, and that it is unhealthy to be so angry, that there is safety in privileged silence? To save myself from nihilism, who would I throw aside?

Would it be amongst company that I love?

Would it be when my family dies?

Would it be if I lost my dad? My brother?

Would I find myself weeping in the office my dad was bishop in for years? Would I find myself sobbing in the Young Women's room beneath a portrait of Christ? Would it be in the pews, imagining my dad in the stands? Would it be when I look at the mission plaques on the wall - see my brother's hanging there? Know he spent 2 years of his life with a nametag bearing the name of this church, and elders would come far and wide to mourn him, saying they knew my brother like a dear friend?

Would it be if my mom died?

Would I crawl along the ground in agony, desperately searching for somewhere to plead to be heard in prayer one final time - to know she is in the Cosmos? Would I be angry, and wrest each portrait of each prophet off the wall, demanding to know why she was taken, until the only face responding back to me is that pile of prophets, the only ones bearing witness to child me that there was certainly an eternity? Would I embrace the warmth of any faith that told me her ghost was in the wind?

What if I lost my wife?

Would I search and search the world over and never find again the love I thought I had, until I believe I am cursed, and grief fools me into thinking I need to return to right this curse?

Would it be if I find myself amongst the company of solely, or majority White people? White friends, White coworkers and co-counselors, a White wife? Adopt White babies?

Would it be if I became suicidal again? Begging for a way to walk back again, and having lost so much faith in myself, I believe that maybe there is nowhere to go. Maybe there is only the embrace of comfort, comfort that rocks me to sleep with the vision that life is too simple, too short, too sweet to bother with suffering - even suffering for the sake of others? Of compassion for their struggle?

Would it be after democracy turns around? If it does? Would we have another Obama, another Bernie, another somebody who represented something hopeful. An effective re-organization of the people. But lulled into the joy of victory and blue flags and belief that things are normal? That a government who is once again capable of delivering thoughtful, inspiring speeches equates to safety? That trust can ever be earned back, when vigilance is the price we pay for never letting our people - the humanity of us all - be destroyed? Would it be if there were leaps and bounds of liberal goodwill memorializing every hero in history, promising to make good on every wish, imbibing our textbooks once again with the value of diversity? Would it be if the Constitution was somehow more "protected"? Would it be if policing measures were just slightly better? Would it be when wages went up just a bit? Would it be when people of color and trans people and queer people are written into the Constitution? Would it be when we have Cabinet members who are themselves trans and queer people of color? When the relief feels so utterly strong that there is a flinch at the rememberance of that which my privilege never had me bear - and each symbolic gesture feels like...enough? That I can breathe again? That I forget others have never had to stop holding their breath, rationing out their oxygen? Lest they be held on the streets with a knee to their back. What if the uniformed looked like me? Sounded like me, talked like me?

Would it be in my old age when the joy of seeing kids playing together who look different or speak different languages, parents who wear different religious garb, find themselves giggling together, and I want so badly to feel like their dream is safe, and to consider that it's not would corrupt that joyful moment, so I choose to believe otherwise?

I didn't choose to come here and be born.

I'm glad I am.

I didn't choose a life raised and held by the Mormon Church. I didn't choose to be ignorant of all that it was.

I didn't choose the thought-stopping, the information control, the shame cycles, the distrust of my body, the fear in authority, the judgmental superiority of my belief.

But wrong isn't always chosen. What's chosen is doing nothing. Resisting conscience. Dehumanizing. Tolerating that which shouldn't be. Staying comfortable. Staying within a way that gives you permission, that sees in you what brokenness you are but how special it is, that tells you that this is simply the medicine, drink from that bitter cup and be happy.

I hope that we are more than the voices in our head, but maybe we are what listens.

All I hear sometimes is: I was Mormon, I was Mormon, I was Mormon.

How I wish there was more beyond "I'll never be again."

[lifeofpriya]

Kit Couture - Jack Draper

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

summary: a playful fashion show helps Jack choose his winning look for the Oceania swing...

You stand in the living room of your shared apartment, Jack's eyes sparkling with excitement as he tears into the freshly delivered Nike parcel. The sound of plastic and cardboard fills the air as he pulls out kit after kit, each one more vibrant and cutting-edge than the last. You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm; his cheeks flushed with the anticipation of the upcoming Oceania swing.

Jack holds up the first kit, a sleek, electric blue ensemble with neon green accents that pop against his tan skin. "What do you think?" he asks, eager for your opinion. You nod, taking in the way the fabric clings to his muscular frame, showcasing the hours of training he's put in on the court.

"It's bold," you say, your eyes lingering on the reflective material that shimmers under the lights. "It'll definitely make you stand out."

Jack grins, tossing the blue kit aside to reveal the next option: a pink and teal combo that reminds you of a tropical sunset. "How about this one?" he asks, holding it against his chest with both arms outstretched. You lean in, tilting your head to one side as you assess the colors against his complexion.

"It's…different," you admit, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "But you've got the confidence to pull it off."

Jack's grin widens as he tosses the pink and teal kit over his shoulder and moves on to the next. A kaleidoscope of colors emerges, a blend of purple and orange that seems to pulse with energy. "And what about this?"

You tilt your head, scrutinizing the kit. "It's… striking. It'll be like you're playing under a disco ball."

Jack laughs, his eyes lighting up. "Exactly the effect I'm going for!" He tosses it onto the growing pile and pulls out a kit that seems to be all white with a subtle pattern of light blue waves. "How about this one?"

You nod thoughtfully. "It's clean, classic. It says you're focused on the game, not the flash."

Jack's eyes scan the room, searching for the next kit to model. "What about this?" he says, holding up a kit that's a symphony of navy blue and gold. The material looks luxurious, the gold threads woven in a way that reminds you of the gilded edges of an ancient book.

You nod approvingly. "It's regal," you murmur. "It's like you're a knight ready to joust on the tennis court."

Jack's cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink at the compliment, and he playfully bows before holding out the next kit—a fiery red number with black and silver stripes that scream speed and power. "How about this?" he asks, the excitement in his voice palpable.

You study the kit, the way the red seems to vibrate against his skin, the sharp contrast of the black and silver stripes giving him the aura of a panther ready to pounce. "It's intense," you say, your voice low. "It's like you're bringing the heat of a volcano to the tennis court."

Jack's eyes light up, a hint of mischief playing across his features. "I like that," he murmurs, holding the kit closer to his chest. He glances down at the pile, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the next choice. It's a cool mint green with splashes of navy, a refreshing change from the boldness of the previous ones.

"This one's for the ocean breeze," he says, holding it up. The minty hue brings out the brightness of his eyes, giving him an aura of calmness amidst the storm of competition. "What's your verdict?"

You cross your arms, tilting your head as you consider the kit. "It's cool," you say with a nod. "It'll keep you looking sharp and fresh, even in the Aussie heat. You know what, Jack, why don't you try them all on? Let's see how they look in action."

Jack's grin widens, and he eagerly starts to strip out of his casual wear. "Which one first?" he asks, his excitement palpable.

You gesture to the electric blue and neon green kit. "Let's start with the first one," you say. "It'll set the tone for the fashion show."

Jack's laughter fills the room as he quickly changes into the outfit. The fabric is lightweight and stretchy, perfect for the intense matches that await him in Australia. The blue seems to pulse with every beat of his heart, the neon green lines tracing the contours of his body as he strides over to the makeshift catwalk—the plush carpet leading from the couch to the balcony door. He does a little spin, showing off the kit from all angles. "What do you think?" he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

You watch him, his excitement contagious. "It's eye-catching," you say, "like a bolt of lightning across a clear sky."

Jack nods, his eyes alight with the thrill of the upcoming tournaments. He quickly changes into the next kit, the tropical pink and teal one. He struts over to you, his gait playful and full of swagger. "Ready for the sunset on my shoulders?"

You can't help but chuckle at his charm. "It's definitely unique," you say, your eyes sweeping over the vibrant hues. "You'll be the talk of the town in this."

Jack winks and then quickly changes into the next kit—the kaleidoscope of purple and orange. He struts down the makeshift catwalk, mimicking his signature serve, the material stretching and moving with his body in a mesmerizing dance of color and light. "Now, this one's got some pizzazz," he says, twirling around.

You clap your hands together. "It's like you're going to play in a box of Skittles," you tease. "But you know what? It totally works."

Jack laughs, his eyes lighting up with the thrill of your approval. He quickly shimmies out of the purple and orange ensemble and into the navy and gold kit. The material is luxurious under your fingertips as he struts back over, the gold threads gleaming like stars against the rich blue fabric. "Now, this is how you play tennis," he says, striking a pose.

You nod, your eyes widening at the transformation. "It's like you're wearing the night sky," you murmur. "The gold threads look like constellations guiding you to victory."

Jack's grin widens, and he does a little victory dance, the material swishing around his legs. He then peels off the royal attire and dons the mint green kit with navy splashes. The room seems to cool down with his every step, the mint hue a stark contrast to the warm tones of the previous kits. He twirls the racket in his hand, the motion fluid and graceful. "What do you think of this one?"

You lean back on the couch, crossing your legs. "It's like you're bringing a piece of the ocean with you," you muse. "It's elegant, Jack. Like you're gliding through the waves."

Jack beams, performing a light jog, the mint fabric fluttering around his legs. "It's comfortable, too," he says, jumping up to touch the ceiling.

You watch him, his movements a blur of grace and power. "It's like you're one with the court," you murmur. "Which one do you like best?"

Jack pauses, his mint-green clad form frozen in mid-air. He looks down at the pile of discarded kits, each a testament to the hours of thought and design that went into them. Then he looks back at you, his eyes searching yours for a hint of preference. "I like them all," he says, his voice earnest. "But I want to know what you think."

You sit up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Jack," you say, your voice gentle. "You know I think you look amazing in all of them. But if I had to choose…" You lean back into the couch cushions, considering the options. "I quite like the teal and pink one. It's different, and it really brings out your playful side."

Jack's eyes light up, and he quickly strips down to his boxers before pulling on the teal and pink kit. He twirls around, the fabric catching the light and casting a colorful shadow on the wall. "You really think so?" he asks, his voice filled with hope.

You nod, a smile playing on your lips. "It's unexpected," you say. "It shows that you're not just about the power serves and smashes. It shows you've got style, too."

Jack's eyes light up, and he strikes a pose, the teal and pink kit hugging his body like a second skin. "Style, huh?" he says, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "I can do style."

You laugh, watching him as he practically glows in the vibrant colors. "You definitely can," you say, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

Jack takes a bow, his grin never leaving his face. "Alright, I'll take that into consideration," he says, his voice filled with playful confidence. He starts to take off the teal and pink kit, but you stop him with a hand on his arm.

"Hang on," you say, your eyes scanning the room. You spot your phone on the coffee table and snatch it up. "Let's get some photos. For…research purposes," you add with a wink.

Jack laughs, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink as he obliges, striking a series of poses that range from serious to playful. You snap away, capturing the way the colors play with the light, the way his muscles flex, and the pure joy on his face.

"Alright, now let's get serious," you say, standing up from the couch. You approach him, your eyes scanning the kit. "How does it feel? Can you move freely?"

Jack nods, mimicking a few serves and volleys, the teal and pink fabric fluttering around him like the petals of an exotic flower in the breeze. "It's comfortable," he says, bouncing on his toes.

You take a moment to appreciate the way he moves in the kit, the fabric seemingly an extension of his body. "It's like it's made for you," you murmur, snapping a few more photos.

Jack laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure Nike had a whole team behind it," he says, a hint of humility in his voice.

You hand him the phone to see the photos you've taken, and his smile widens as he scrolls through them. "Wow, these are great," he says, admiring your photography skills. "You've got an eye for this."

"You're not so bad yourself," you tease, nudging him playfully. "Now, let's see how they look in action." You gesture to the mini tennis court you've set up in the living room, complete with a makeshift net made of a yoga strap and a couple of chairs.

Jack's eyes light up even more, if that's possible, and he grabs his racket, already dressed in the teal and pink ensemble. He bounces on his toes, his eyes focused on the "net." "Ready to be my opponent?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "I'm no match for you, but I'll try to return a few," you say, grabbing your own racket from the corner.

Jack's eyes light up even more, and he takes his position on the makeshift baseline. "Alright, let's do this," he says, his British accent making the challenge sound almost like a friendly suggestion.

You stand opposite him, feeling a bit nervous. You're no professional tennis player, but the excitement in the room is infectious. You serve the ball, and Jack returns it with ease, the teal and pink kit moving with him like a second skin. You can see the difference in his stance, his confidence boosted by the vibrant colors.

"You've got this," you call out, your voice echoing slightly in the apartment.

Jack nods, his eyes never leaving the neon green ball you've served. He hits it back with surprising precision, the teal and pink kit a blur as he moves swiftly around the makeshift court. You manage to return it, but he's already on the offensive, sending the ball back with a fierce volley that you barely get your racket on.

"Nice try," he says, his voice filled with the thrill of competition. "But you're going to have to do better than that."

You laugh, feeling the excitement build as you watch Jack move with the grace of a gazelle and the precision of a hawk. Each swing of his racket sends the ball zipping through the air in a blur of color. The teal and pink kit is definitely a good choice, you think to yourself, as it seems to enhance his playful spirit.

Jack pauses, catching his breath, and looks at you expectantly. "Well?"

You bite your lip, contemplating. "You know what?" you say, setting down your racket. "I think the teal and pink might just be the lucky charm you need for the Oceania swing."

Jack's smile reaches his eyes, the colors of the kit mirroring his excitement. "Yeah?"

You nod firmly. "Definitely. It's got that 'wow' factor that'll make the crowds remember you."

Jack's grin grows, his teeth flashing white against the vivid colors of the kit. He does a victory pose, one fist in the air, the other holding his racket like a sword. "Alright, it's settled then," he declares. "Teal and pink it is for the Oceania swing."

You can't help but laugh at his dramatic flair. "It's going to be a fashion statement and a half," you say, shaking your head.

Jack grins back at you, the teal and pink kit a stark contrast against the neutral tones of your apartment. "I'm all for making an entrance," he says, winking.

You laugh, shaking your head. "You always do," you reply, unable to resist his charisma. You pick up the phone again, eager to capture more of Jack's fiery spirit in the vibrant outfit. "Alright, let's see the full range of your moves," you say, holding up the phone like a professional photographer.

Jack nods, his eyes focused on the imaginary opponent across the net. He starts with a few practice serves, the teal and pink kit stretching and moving with each powerful throw of his arm. You snap away, the camera capturing the fluid motion of his body, the fabric rippling like a wave.

"Alright, let's mix it up," you suggest, your voice filled with excitement. "Some forehands, backhands, and maybe even a drop shot or two?"

Jack's eyes light up at the challenge, and he nods, ready to show off his skills. He starts with a series of powerful forehands, the teal and pink kit accentuating his swift movements. You capture the images, the fabric a blur of color against the stark white walls of the apartment. Each shot is met with a grunt of effort, the sound of the racket meeting the ball echoing in the room.

"How about a backhand?" you suggest, and Jack pivots gracefully, his body a study in motion as he executes a perfect stroke. The kit seems to come alive, the teal almost glowing with the power of his swing.

"Ace!" you exclaim, the word hanging in the air as the ball sails past the makeshift net. You snap a photo, catching the moment of victory in the flash of light.

Jack laughs, the sound filling the room like the sweetest melody. He's in his element, the teal and pink kit a canvas for his athleticism. "You think?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with the thrill of the game.

"Absolutely," you reply, nodding emphatically. "It's like you're bringing the vibrancy of the reef to the concrete jungle of the tennis court."

Jack's eyes widen with excitement, and he starts to rally with an invisible opponent, the teal and pink kit flashing as he moves. "Okay, okay," you say, raising a hand to stop him. "Let's not break any lamps."

Jack laughs, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He lowers the racket, the teal fabric of the kit fluttering with his breath. "Fine," he says, his grin never leaving his face. "But you're going to have to deal with this much energy in Australia."

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. "I think I can handle it," you say, your voice teasing.

Jack laughs, his eyes sparkling. "That's the spirit," he says, setting down his racket. He starts to strip off the teal and pink kit, his movements quick and efficient. "But for now, let's order some takeout and watch the sunset," he suggests, his voice warm and inviting.

You nod, already feeling the tension of the day start to melt away. "Sounds perfect," you reply, heading to the kitchen to grab your laptop. You sit cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through the various restaurant options as Jack pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a plain white tee, his usual post-workout attire.

"How about Indian?" you ask, knowing his love for spicy food.

Jack nods enthusiastically. "Curry night it is," he says, his voice echoing with the same passion he has for his sport. You place the order, and as you wait for the food to arrive, you both sit down at the dinner table, the discarded kits a colorful mess on the floor. The setting sun casts a warm glow through the balcony door, painting the room in shades of pink and gold.

"So," you say, leaning back in your chair, "what are you looking forward to the most about the Oceania swing?"

Jack's eyes light up as he thinks. "The energy," he finally says. "The Aussie crowds are always amazing. And the chance to play on those iconic courts…" His voice trails off as he stares out the balcony door, lost in thought.

You nod, understanding. You've watched Jack play on TV, seen the way the crowds come alive, the way the sun seems to shine just for him. It's not just about the game; it's about the experience. "And what about the fashion?" you tease, nodding towards the pile of kits.

Jack laughs, his eyes crinkling. "Oh, that's just a bonus," he says, his voice filled with the easy charm that's made him a fan favorite.

You both sit in companionable silence, the anticipation of the upcoming tournaments thick in the air. The apartment is a whirlwind of color, the discarded kits a testament to Jack's excitement. The sun has dipped below the horizon now, casting the room in a soft, golden light that makes the colors of the kits seem even more vivid.

Jack leans over to kiss you, his lips warm and gentle against yours. "Thanks for helping me choose," he murmurs, his eyes sincere.

"Anytime," you reply, smiling as you lean into his touch. The apartment feels alive with the energy of his excitement, the vibrant kits scattered across the floor like a colorful mosaic.

The doorbell rings, breaking the silence, and Jack jumps up to grab the takeout. The smell of spices fills the air as he sets the food down on the table, the steam rising like a warm embrace. You both dig in, sharing bites and stories from past tournaments, your laughter mixing with the clink of silverware.

As you eat, you can't help but notice how the teal and pink kit seems to be winking at you from the floor. It's like it's already whispering tales of victory, of the cheers and gasps it'll elicit from the Australian crowds. Jack catches your gaze and grins, his teeth flashing white against the deepening shadows of the room. "I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when I walk out in that one," he says, his eyes glinting with excitement.

You laugh, shaking your head. "You're going to be the talk of the town," you say, popping a piece of naan into your mouth.

Jack grins, his teeth gleaming. "That's the plan," he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You both laugh, the tension of choosing the perfect kit dissipating with the warmth of your shared amusement. The apartment buzzes with the promise of the upcoming adventure, the kits a colorful reminder of the grand stage awaiting him.

[zenithgenderroyaleacademyelite]

**Prompts for Emotional Dissonance Between Fetish Models and Apex/Stuffed Partners**

---

### **1. Unsuccessful Bond**

**Prompt:**

"A Glass Heart Fetish kneels in a desolate academy hall, her hands outstretched toward a fractured Apex doll. Cracks spiderweb across its porcelain face, its once-glowing core now dim. Ghostly threads of psychic energy fray between them, dissolving into ash. The air is thick with static, and the walls drip with ink-like shadows symbolizing failed connection. Style: Desaturated colors, cold blues and grays, with faint golden light trapped under ice."

**Symbolism:** Shattered chains, fading halos, wilting mechanical roses.

---

### **2. Forced Pairing**

**Prompt:**

"A Fetish model is bound by glowing crimson chains to a distorted Stuffed plush, its button eyes bleeding black ooze. Her regalia tattoos burn angrily as she struggles, while the plush’s seams tear to reveal writhing thorned vines. The background pulses with oppressive crimson runes, and cracks split the ground beneath them. Style: High-contrast reds and blacks, jagged edges, and oppressive shadows."

**Symbolism:** Barbed wire, broken marionette strings, a cracked hourglass.

---

### **3. Scorn & Rejection**

**Prompt:**

"A Zenith Fetish turns away from her Apex partner, now a Hollow Doll with empty eyes. His once-regal wings are skeletal, and shards of his glass heart litter the floor. She clutches her own chest, where thorned vines pierce through her robes. Storm clouds swirl above them, rain melting into acid tears. Style: Monochrome with splashes of blood-red and sickly green."

**Symbolism:** A shattered mirror, wilted laurels, a discarded Glass Heart locket.

---

### **4. Heartache & Grief**

**Prompt:**

"A Fetish cradles the lifeless form of her Stuffed partner, now a limp plush with frayed stitching. Glowing doves (her healing power) dissolve into smoke as she weeps. The battlefield around them is littered with broken mecha parts and frozen Zenith shadows. A lone dove escapes, trailing a ribbon etched with ‘*Try Not to Break*.’ Style: Soft pastels corrupted by inkblot voids and decaying gold leaf."

**Symbolism:** Wilted flowers, a stopped pocket watch, crumbling angel statues.

---

### **5. Madness & Corruption**

**Prompt:**

"A Glass Heart’s psyche fractures as her Apex transforms into a grotesque marionette, its strings controlled by Zaddies’ obsidian puppeteer hands. Her regalia tattoos spiral into chaotic scribbles, and her eyes glow mismatched colors (one gold, one void-black). The sky warps into a kaleidoscope of screaming faces. Style: Surrealist horror with neon-pink static, glitch effects, and melting architecture."

**Symbolism:** Broken music boxes, inverted halos, a clockwork heart rusted shut.

---

### **6. Turmoil & Betrayal**

**Prompt:**

"Twin Fetish models—once allies—face off in a shattered Doll Chamber. One commands a blazing angel mecha, the other a corrupted Stuffed plush oozing black ichor. Between them, a cracked Glass Heart pulses erratically, refracting their fractured bond into prismatic shards. Style: Split composition—fiery oranges vs. oily blacks—with a central rift of unstable light."

**Symbolism:** Torn alliance flags, a scales tipping into void, a dying dove mid-flight.

---

### **7. Forced Unity (False Harmony)**

**Prompt:**

"A Fetish and Apex stand rigidly side-by-side in gilded Zenith armor, their forced smiles cracking like porcelain. Their joined hands drip golden blood, and marionette strings tug at their limbs from above. Behind them, a stained-glass window depicts their ‘perfect’ bond—now splintering into lies. Style: Baroque opulence with hidden rot (peeling gold paint, moldering lace)."

**Symbolism:** Puppetmaster shadows, hollow crowns, a music box playing off-key.

---

**Technical Notes:**

- Use **high contrast** to emphasize emotional extremes.

- Incorporate **fractured/double exposure effects** for internal conflict.

- Reference artists like *Beksinski* (horror) and *Kimiya Yoshida* (delicate decay).

Let me know if you’d like to refine a specific prompt or explore additional emotional states! �💔

[punkzombie]

starter for @pxrolee

The sky over El Paso glows a pale gold as the sun inches over the horizon, painting the craggy mountains in soft amber light. Kerry leans against the side of his car, a sleek but weathered sports vehicle that looks out of place in the cracked parking lot. The glossy lines of its design still manage to turn heads despite the scratches and faded patches in its once-pristine paint job. He prides himself on the car—his one piece of pride left—but it’s far from perfect. The engine’s temperamental, and the AC gave out months ago, but it still runs, and that’s all he needs.

He props open the side mirror and balances a shallow tray of water on the hood. The car is his makeshift home these days, the only place he can afford to rest his head, even if the cracked leather seats leave him stiff every morning. He pulls out a razor and an old bar of soap, its faint lavender scent a strange contrast to the gritty, sunbaked air.

The sunrise spills across his face as he lathers up, pale skin catching the light and making the fly tattoo on his temple stand out starkly. His fluffy blond hair, white-looking in this soft light, catches the morning breeze, unruly as always. His downturned cornflower-blue eyes flick between the mirror and the horizon, his expression unreadable but tinged with something close to curiosity.

El Paso stirs around him. The hum of early traffic begins, faint but growing, as trucks rumble toward the construction sites that have taken over much of the city. He drags the razor across his skin carefully, watching the soap and stubble disappear with each pass. The car mirror isn’t ideal, but he’s learned to make do with it, just like everything else.

When he’s done, he rinses his face with water from the tray, the cold splash a jolt against the morning warmth. He dries his face on the collar of his shirt and tosses the tray into the back seat before sliding into the driver’s seat. The car’s engine sputters twice before roaring to life, and Kerry gives the dashboard an affectionate pat. “Still bloody got it,” He murmurs.

He drives slowly toward the gas station he scouted yesterday, keeping an eye on the streets. Construction sites line the main roads, orange cones and half-built scaffolding creating a maze that forces him to navigate carefully. When he pulls into the station, he parks away from the pumps, near the side where shadows still linger.

Kerry steps out, grabbing a plastic jug and a length of tubing from the trunk. His hands move with practiced ease, threading the tube into the tank of an old truck parked nearby. The gas flows steadily, the soft glug-glug sound almost soothing in the quiet.

His gaze flicks up briefly to the skyline, muted against the haze of the waking city. He doesn’t have a plan, not really, but the curiosity remains. He wonders what the day might bring, even if it’s just another morning of survival under a sky painted gold. His eyes flicker briefly. He feels the stinging pull of strangers eyes on him and instinctively, he starts putting his things way and drags the black hood of his jacket over his head more deliberately.

[more-than-a-princess]

Hello! Random anon here with a random question! What is a color that Sonia would associate with themself? Do they have a reason? Similarly, what is a color you would associate them with?

Hello anon, thank you for the ask! I've spent some time considering this question, and I think there's an important aspect missing from it: what colors are associated with Sonia, by design, due to color analysis. Because this shapes which colors I would associate her with, for one important reason: because of Sonia being the princess she is, she has paid staff to ensure she is not wearing, or living, in the 'wrong colors.'

Sonia doesn't have much say in her own wardrobe, cosmetics, or living spaces, and they are all designed to flatter her and her family. And the vast majority of her family, stemming from her father's side though also including her mother?

They're a family of Light Summers, of course. Cool undertones, with little contrast between hair, eyes, and skin color: everything is light. And looking at the color chart, from Sonia's default deep blue-green pinafore dress, to her SDR2 game wetsuit, to her champagne princess gown splash art, to her DR: S pink bikini, to her 10th anniversary white and blue gown...they're all on the light summer color palette.

So, with that in mind as well as Sonia being a firm believer in her femininity being 'hella boss!,' I associate her with cool-toned pastels and rich jewel tones. Despite being the biggest fan of autumn and horror movies, those colors aren't ones I associate with her: they wash her out and make her look sickly, which is a fun contrast to how much love she has for her hobbies. They quite literally don't fit with her entire aesthetic! And yet, her passion persists. Gotta love a woman who won't be deterred by a silly thing like 'flattering.'

In threads, I tend to put her in blues and greens, some purples as well, to show her calm and compassionate sides, with the rare appearances of pink. In her older verses, she avoids the sweeter, more delicate pastel pink shades when she can: they tend to make her look younger, which isn't always what she needs when she's trying to convince a room of aristocrats that she's well-equipped to lead the country one day.

Either in threads I've already written or threads that are coming and I've plotted, deep emerald greens and icy silver blues tend to show up in Important Moments. Much of the Royal Family's design and upholstery places a focus on sage green decor, with cool-toned gold and silver accents.

But as for Sonia herself?

She'd probably say Novoselic green, which is the blue-based teal green shade that appears on both the Novosonian flag and is the color of her In Utero pinafore dress. Forest greens and emerald is also favored by her, and she tends to prefer blues and greens anyway, with a cool-toned red here and there. She wants to be surrounded in pretty, feminine pastels and rich, deep jewel tones, and despite it often clashing with her life, some black as well (something she usually has to keep hidden, thus her preference for black underwear, lingerie, and silk nightgowns).

tl;dr - Sonia and I pretty much agree on her color palette, mostly due to her circumstances in life. That will, however, not stop her from embracing the burgundies, oranges, and browns each autumn when her dark academia side starts flaring up and all she wants are pumpkin spice everything, chocolate, cozy drinks, and horror movies. She looks a little ridiculous trying to embrace all the warm, Earthy tones, but she does her best.

[eikooowie]

Wishes Upon the Starlit Sky (A Bottleman DX Tanabata Tale)

Title: Wishes Upon the Starlit Sky (A Tanabata Festival of Fates)

Author: CosmicConnectors

Fandom: Bottleman DX

Pairings: Kota Koka Colamaru DX / Kazumi Lemonade DX & Ryo Hokari Aqua Sports DX / Kayoko Tropicana DX

Rating: K+ (Romantic, Festival Atmosphere)

Genre: Romance, Slice of Life, Festival, Poetic

Theme: The enduring love and whispered wishes of the Tanabata Festival, uniting distant stars and flowing waters.

Summary: Under the shimmering Milky Way, the Tanabata Festival brings joy, wishes, and a touch of magic. For two unique couples – Kota and Kazumi, and Ryo and Kayoko – this star-crossed night reveals the depth of their bonds, as they celebrate a love as enduring as the legendary Orihime and Hikoboshi, their wishes intertwining beneath the vast, watchful sky.

Chapter 1: Threads of Destiny

The soft glow of countless paper lanterns illuminated the bustling festival grounds, painting the night in hues of crimson, gold, and indigo. Tall bamboo branches, adorned with colorful tanzaku strips bearing handwritten wishes, swayed gently in the evening breeze. It was the Tanabata Festival, the annual celebration of wishes and the fabled meeting of the Weaver Princess and the Cowherd across the celestial river.

Part 1: Kota & Kazumi – The Dazzling Collision

Kota Koka Colamaru DX moved through the crowd like a force of nature, his usual boisterous energy amplified by the festive atmosphere. "Whoa, Kazumi! Check out that takoyaki stand! And those goldfish scooping games! You think I could scoop a dozen?" he boomed, gesturing wildly, nearly bumping into a passing vendor.

Kazumi Lemonade DX, ever the composed strategist, smoothly guided him with a hand on his arm, her eyes scanning the crowd with practiced ease. "Perhaps, Colamaru, if you apply a precise, calculated scoop, rather than pure enthusiasm." She wore a light yukata, its subtle pattern a contrast to Kota's more vibrant choice, but both seemed to harmonize with the festive lights.

They paused by a large bamboo display, the air thick with whispered hopes. Kota grabbed a tanzaku and a pen, his grin wide. "Alright! My wish is... for even more awesome Bottleman battles and maximum power for my Koka-Cola DX!" He scribbled it down with gusto and tied it to a branch.

Kazumi took her own tanzaku. Her wish, written in neat, precise strokes, was more nuanced. It wasn't about raw power or victory, but perhaps about unwavering synchronization in battle, or the continued stability of a certain radiant presence in her life. She tied it higher, where it caught the gentle breeze, shimmering like a distant star.

Later, as they found a quieter spot away from the main bustle, looking up at the vast expanse of the Milky Way, Kota softened. "You know, all those stars... it's kinda like our Bottleman battles, huh? My attacks are like the big explosions, and your moves are all the super-precise, beautiful sparks that fill the sky after."

Kazumi, for once, didn't offer a logical counter. She simply looked at him, her gaze reflecting the starlight. His raw, boundless energy was indeed like the initial, powerful burst of a firework, grabbing all attention. And her precision, her "Energy Burst Splash DX," was the intricate, beautiful design that followed, a dazzling display orchestrated in the chaos. Together, they were the complete, unforgettable spectacle. In the quiet understanding beneath the stars, their connection felt as destined as Orihime and Hikoboshi meeting across the celestial river. It was their own dazzling, intimate "Midnight Fireworks."

Part 2: Ryo & Kayoko – The Gentle Convergence

Across the festival grounds, Ryo Hokari Aqua Sports DX and Kayoko Tropicana DX found solace in a more serene area, near a small, illuminated pond where paper boats floated gently. Kayoko, her yukata a vibrant blend of orange and blue, clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, Ryo! It's so beautiful! Like a little piece of the ocean on land!"

Ryo, in his deep blue yukata, smiled, his calm demeanor perfectly complementing her effervescence. "The tranquility is quite refreshing, Kayoko-san. And the lights reflect beautifully on the water's surface."

Kayoko eagerly chose a tanzaku. "My wish is for everyone to have a super bright and happy future, full of smiles and sunshine!" She tied it to a low branch, her optimism radiating like a small sun.

Ryo carefully selected his own. His wish was simple, yet profound: for continued balance and harmony, for the undisturbed flow of their shared current. He tied it with a quiet reverence, his gaze drifting from the tanzaku to the distant stars, then settling softly on Kayoko.

They settled by the pond, watching the paper boats drift. For Ryo, Kayoko was the vibrant life of a coral reef, bringing color and boundless energy to his calm depths. For Kayoko, Ryo was the deep, reassuring current, providing an unwavering sense of peace and understanding. Their love wasn't about explosive displays, but a serene, profound connection, like the quiet strength of the ocean and the vibrant life it sustained.

"Do you think Orihime and Hikoboshi are happy they only get to meet once a year?" Kayoko wondered softly, leaning her head on Ryo's shoulder.

Ryo gently squeezed her hand. "Perhaps their longing makes their reunion all the more precious, Kayoko-san. It teaches the value of enduring connection, even across great distances." He looked up at the vast, star-filled sky, seeing their own journey mirrored there. Their love was a gentle river, flowing steadfastly, always converging, always finding its way back to each other. It was a beautiful, enduring "Under the Sea Aquarium" of their souls, calm yet full of life, a constant reminder of their perfect balance.

Author's Note:

Happy Tanabata, Bottleman fans! 🎋✨ This festival of stars and wishes felt like the perfect backdrop for both Kota/Kazumi and Ryo/Kayoko, showcasing their unique ways of connecting under the vast, magical night sky. Which couple's Tanabata moment resonated most with you? What kind of wishes do you imagine them making? Share your thoughts in the comments! ❤️

[ronaldanthony4]

I’ve done it again—another digital artwork completed, another expression of my love for creating something cheerful and heartwarming. It feels even more meaningful this time because it aligns with something close to my heart. With World Children’s Day this Wednesday, I dedicated my entire week to illustrating children. Childhood is a fleeting yet powerful part of life, filled with innocence, joy, and curiosity. Capturing that essence has always been my passion.

This particular piece was inspired by a vector clipart I had saved in my archives for years. It was one of those simple designs that caught my attention back then but never seemed to demand urgency. I think I saved it with the thought, “One day, I’ll turn this into something special.” And here we are, years later, with that idea finally realised. As I worked on bringing the clipart to life, I found myself adding my personal touches and details that truly made it unique. The process of transforming a simple image into a vibrant illustration filled me with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

The artwork features a young girl in a serene field of blooming flowers, and she looks as though she’s stepping out of a storybook. Her golden orange hair is styled in two thick braids. Her hair almost glows in the sunlight, each strand catching the light like threads of gold. There’s a warmth to her expression—a subtle smile on her pink lips and her bright blue eyes looking straight ahead, brimming with life and wonder. The contrast between the soft pastel colours of the flowers and the bold hues of her dress adds depth to the scene, making it feel almost magical. The overall effect is enchanting, drawing viewers into a world of beauty and imagination.

She holds a single pink rose delicately in one hand, as though it’s her favourite bloom of the day, chosen carefully from the overflowing basket in her other hand. The basket itself is a work of art, woven intricately and filled to the brim with roses in shades of pink, white, and soft coral. Each flower looks freshly picked, with vibrant green leaves framing their soft petals. You can almost imagine the sweet floral scent wafting through the air as she walks among the blossoms.

Her dress is a pale blue sundress, simple yet charming, cinched at the waist with a bold red sash that adds a splash of vibrancy to her overall look. The dress sways gently as if caught by a soft breeze, and the light fabric captures the carefree spirit of childhood. The colour palette of her outfit harmonises perfectly with the surrounding field—a symphony of pastels, vivid greens, and bursts of pink and white flowers. The sun casts a warm glow on her golden hair, creating a halo effect as she twirls in the meadow. The scene is reminiscent of a painting, with the girl as the focal point of nature's masterpiece.

The background is just as enchanting as the girl herself. It’s a dreamy meadow filled with wildflowers, stretching out into the distance. The sky above is a bright, clear blue with just a hint of soft clouds, and the sunlight filters through the scene, casting a gentle glow on everything it touches. The combination of vibrant flowers and lush greenery creates an almost magical setting as if the girl has wandered into a hidden paradise to spend her afternoon collecting nature’s treasures.

Creating this piece was a joy from start to finish. As I worked on each detail—the softness of her braids, the delicate petals of the roses, the dappled light on the meadow—I found myself reminiscing about my childhood and the simple pleasures that once filled my days. It’s easy to forget those moments as we grow older, but they’re still there, tucked away in a corner of our minds, waiting to be rediscovered. The colours and textures in this painting truly bring the scene to life, evoking a sense of nostalgia and wonder. My attention to detail and ability to capture the essence of childhood innocence is truly remarkable.

This artwork isn’t just a celebration of childhood; it’s also a tribute to the importance of World Children’s Day. This day serves as a reminder of the value of nurturing and protecting the youngest members of our society, of giving them the freedom to explore, dream, and grow. Childhood is a time of wonder, a canvas filled with bright colours and endless possibilities. It’s a time when the world feels infinite, and every experience is new and exciting. As an artist, I strive to evoke these feelings in my work, creating pieces that transport viewers back to a time of pure joy and imagination.

As adults, we often lose touch with that sense of wonder. The responsibilities and challenges of daily life can dull our appreciation for the simple joys that once came so naturally. But I believe that celebrating World Children’s Day isn’t just about recognising the children around us—it’s also about reconnecting with the child within ourselves. By tapping into our inner child, we can rediscover a sense of curiosity, creativity, and boundless potential. Embracing this mindset can lead to greater happiness, inspiration, and a renewed zest for life.

We all carry an inner child, that part of us that still marvels at a rainbow, that feels giddy at the sight of a carnival, that loves to kick off our shoes and run barefoot through the grass. For some, that inner child might feel neglected, overshadowed by years of adult concerns. But days like World Children’s Day remind us to nurture that part of ourselves, to allow it to heal and flourish. Taking time to connect with our inner child can bring a sense of joy and wonder back into our lives. It's important to remember that embracing our childlike curiosity can lead to a more fulfilling and vibrant existence.

When I look at the girl in this artwork, I see more than just a character I’ve drawn. I see a symbol of the innocence and joy that every child deserves to experience—and that every adult deserves to remember. Her carefree smile, her delight in the flowers she’s gathered, her ability to find beauty in the simplest things—these are qualities that we can all strive to embrace, no matter our age. Embracing a childlike curiosity can help us see the world in a new light and bring a sense of joy and wonder back into our lives.

Children truly are a gift from God, bringing light and love into the world with their pure hearts and unbridled enthusiasm. It is important to cherish and nurture these precious beings, guiding them towards a future filled with hope and happiness. As adults, we can learn so much from children by embracing their innocence, creativity, and unwavering belief in the goodness of the world. Let us never forget the beauty and wonder that children bring into our lives, and always strive to protect and support them in every way possible.

World Children’s Day also highlights the importance of creating a world where children can thrive. It’s a call to action for all of us to ensure that every child has access to education, healthcare, and a safe environment. Children are the future, and the love and care we pour into their lives will shape the world they grow up in. At the same time, it’s a day to celebrate the magic of childhood—the laughter, the imagination, the boundless energy. It’s about encouraging children to dream big, to explore their creativity, and to embrace their unique qualities. It’s about showing them that they are valued and loved, just as they are.

For those of us who are no longer children, it’s a day to reflect on the role we play in supporting the next generation. Whether it’s by being a mentor, a teacher, a parent, or simply a kind and encouraging presence, we all have the power to make a difference in a child’s life. And in doing so, we can rediscover some of that childhood wonder for ourselves. I hope this artwork serves as a reminder of the beauty and joy of childhood, not just for World Children’s Day but for every day. Whether you’re a child or an adult, there’s something magical about taking a moment to appreciate the simple pleasures in life—a field of flowers, a sunny day, a basket full of roses.

For me, this week is about more than just creating art. It’s about celebrating the spirit of childhood in all its forms. Each piece I create will be a tribute to that spirit, a way of capturing the joy and innocence that make childhood such a precious time. As I move on to the next artwork, I’ll carry with me the hope that these illustrations can bring a smile to someone’s face, that they can remind someone of a happy memory or inspire them to create new ones. Because at the end of the day, art isn’t just about what you see—it’s about what you feel. And I hope this piece fills your heart with warmth, just as it did mine while I was creating it.

So here’s to World Children’s Day, to the children who light up our lives, and to the children within each of us. May we all find the courage to embrace that part of ourselves, to heal old wounds, and to nurture the joy and wonder that make life truly beautiful. As I take a step back and look at the finished artwork, I can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude. I am grateful for the memories that inspired it, for the tools and skills that allowed me to bring it to life, and for the opportunity to share it with others. It’s a reminder that no matter how complex life may become, there will always be moments of simplicity and joy waiting to be discovered—if only we take the time to look.

[hopeandsee]

Haldi Jewelry: A Splash of Tradition and Joy

Haldi jewelry is a fun and vibrant aspect of Indian weddings, adding a burst of color and charm to the Haldi ceremony. Known for its lively hues and playful designs, it’s an essential part of this pre-wedding ritual, symbolizing blessings and good fortune. 

Significance haldi accessories

 1. What is Haldi Accessories?  

- Haldi jewel is traditionally worn during the Haldi ceremony, where turmeric is applied to the bride and groom as a sign of purity and prosperity.  

- These pieces are typically made from flowers, beads, and lightweight materials, complementing the festive mood of the ceremony.

 2. Materials and Styles  

- Floral Jewelry: Fresh marigolds, jasmine, and roses are popular choices, creating stunning necklaces, earrings, and headpieces.  

- Beaded and Thread Jewelry: Simple, elegant pieces made from beads or colorful threads are a common choice for their lightness and durability.  

- Artificial Jewelry: Faux flowers and clay designs are increasingly popular for their long-lasting nature and ease of maintenance.

 3. Trending Haldi Jewel Designs  

- Necklaces and Earrings: Floral chokers, long hanging earrings, and delicate beadwork add a vibrant touch.  

- Hairpieces and Tiaras: Flower crowns or floral maang tikkas add a whimsical, romantic element to the bride’s look.  

- Hand and Leg Adornments: Bangles, bracelets, and anklets made from flowers or beads enhance the festive spirit.

 4. Haldi Jewelry Color Trends  

- Bright, Bold Colors: Yellow and orange are the classic Haldi colors, but soft pastels like peach, lavender, and mint are becoming trendy.  

- Metallic Accents: Gold or silver beads are increasingly added to floral designs, offering a chic touch to traditional pieces.

 5. Eco-Friendly Haldi Accessory  

- With sustainability in mind, eco-friendly Haldi jewel made from organic materials like jute, clay, and biodegradable flowers is gaining popularity. These choices allow couples to honor tradition while being mindful of the environment.

 6. Haldi Accessory for Everyone  

- For the Groom: Floral malas or simple brooches complement the bride’s jewelry for a coordinated look.  

- For the Family and Bridesmaids: Matching or complementary jewelry for close family members adds to the overall charm and unity of the celebration.

[tahomawhisperingwind]

The first light of dawn splashes across the vast expanse of the Arizona desert, painting the landscape in hues of gold and orange. Suddenly, in the stillness of the morning, a soft chant echoes through the air. It's the voice of an Apache hunter, preparing for the chase. But this isn't your everyday hunt - it's an intricate dance of respect and humility, a sacred ceremony that stretches back through the centuries. It is a dance that begins with a purification ritual, one that whispers the ancient wisdom of the Apache people and echoes their profound connection with nature.

Image generated by the author

The Dance of Connection and Respect

In the heart of the Apache culture lies a unique perspective that views hunting as more than a means of survival. It's seen as a sacred dance between the hunter and the spirit of the hunted game, a dance that goes beyond the physical realm and delves into the spiritual. This dance is initiated by purification rituals, ceremonies that serve as a conduit connecting the hunter with nature, their ancestors, and the hunted game.

These rituals are more than just symbolic acts; they are the manifestation of the Apache's belief in the power of intention. They cleanse the hunter's mind, body, and spirit, stripping away any impurities and distractions. This purification allows the hunter to approach the hunt with a sense of humility and gratitude, aligning their purpose with that of the creature that roams the Earth.

Echoing the Lessons of Ancestors

As the hunter chants and bathes in the natural waters, they invoke the wisdom of their ancestors. This isn't merely a nod to tradition or a nostalgic look back at the past. It's a way of seeking guidance and strength, a way of remembering the lessons imparted by those who once walked these lands. This connection to the past enriches their hunting experience, reminding them that they are part of a continuum, a cycle of life that surpasses generations.

Historically, Apache hunters have turned to these rituals before embarking on a hunt. They acknowledged their reliance on the animals and the land, recognizing that every hunt intertwines them with the delicate balance of nature.

Preparation: Beyond the Physical

Imagine an Apache warrior, China, preparing for a hunt. His preparation doesn't merely involve sharpening his weapons or scouting the terrain. It goes beyond the physical to the spiritual. He partakes in sweat lodge ceremonies, chants prayers to the heavens, sings songs that echo the wisdom of his people, and uses the herbal sage for cleansing. His story underscores the significance of respect, gratitude, and humility in hunting.

Apache hunters commonly use sacred herbs like sweet grass or cedar for cleansing. They perform prayers of gratitude, observe a period of silence and meditation, and participate in communal purification ceremonies. These practices cast a light on the hunter's role within the ecosystem and foster a sense of responsibility. Each hunt becomes a balance between need and respect.

The Ripple Effect: Modern Hunting Practices

The wisdom encapsulated in these ancient rituals can guide modern hunting practices. By incorporating aspects of these rituals, modern hunters can enrich their hunting experiences, fostering a deeper respect for nature. They can enhance their mindfulness during the hunt, reminding themselves of the interconnectedness of all living beings.

The Profound Significance of Purification

Purification rituals before hunting are not merely a part of Apache traditions; they are the threads that weave the fabric of their identity. They strengthen community ties, reinforcing the bonds that hold the community together. The lessons from these rituals can guide modern society towards a more respectful and sustainable existence.

As the sun sets on the Arizona desert, the Apache hunter returns from his hunt. His heart is full of gratitude and respect for the creature that gave its life. He understands that he is part of a delicate balance, a dance that requires humility and purity of intention. And at the heart of this understanding are the purification rituals, the sacred ceremonies that continue to shape the identity of the Apache people.

To fully appreciate the depth of Apache spiritual readiness, one must become familiar with their terminology. The Apache terminology glossary, provided at the end of the article, introduces terms related to spiritual readiness in Apache culture. It serves as a stepping stone, a doorway to understanding the profound wisdom of the Apache people and their unique connection with nature.

In conclusion, the Apache purification rituals before hunting serve as a mirror, reflecting a culture that values respect, humility, and gratitude. They are a testament to the Apache's understanding of the intricate dance of life, a dance that we are all a part of. It's a lesson that modern society can learn from, a lesson that can guide us towards a more sustainable and respectful existence.

AI Disclosure: AI was used for content ideation, spelling and grammar checks, and some modification of this article.

About Black Hawk Visions: We preserve and share timeless Apache wisdom through digital media. Explore nature connection, survival skills, and inner growth at Black Hawk Visions.

[rebfile]

In the heart of a sun-drenched beach town where the waves hummed tunes of old seafaring legends, there was a girl named Maribel who could weave sunlight into threads of gold. With hair as dark as the stormy seas and eyes as deep as the ocean, she was the town's living melody, a symphony of grace and beauty.

Maribel wore her charm like a cascade of summer blooms, her top a canvas of orange and blush, splashed with the hues of sunset skies. Flowers adorned her hair, pink and merry, a tribute to the wildflowers dotting the nearby meadows. Her shorts were the color of twilight shadows, clasped together by a single silver button that shimmered like a star against the dusk.

Every day, Maribel strolled along the beach, collecting whispers of the ocean, which she fashioned into trinkets and baubles that sang of the sea. Today, she was gathering the giggles of children and the secrets of the sands, her fingers adorned with rings that caught the sunlight in a thousand playful prisms.

Maribel was the weaver of joy, a dance of light on the water. And as she walked, the townfolk would say that to see her was to witness the daybreak itself, a moment when the world seemed to pause and bask in the pure, unabashed wonder of life.

A scene from Azura Isle.

[thedalektables]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler Additional Tags: Missing Scene, Episode: s02e09 The Satan Pit, Shower Sex, Hints of Bad Wolf Rose, Telepathy, Hurt/Comfort, Ten and his oral fixation Summary:

‘Run’ was a beginning. This is where we stop running. Rose and the Doctor in the aftermath of Krop Tor.

[dwficfinder]

Hello! I dead need your guys help looking for a 10/Rose fic 😅🙏🏼 I had to have read this fic at least 6 years ago on ff.net (possible teaspoon). The basic premise was that Rose had the ability to see different colored strands connecting people. Her and Doctor were connected by a golden (possibly red) strand. I think she also had the ability to touch the strands but generally didn’t. Any help you guys can give me will be really appreciated 🥺

A Splash of Orange, A Thread of Gold by @abelinajt (rated e)

-cq

[veneli]

DAMN Polycule x Chinese!Freelancer CNY HCs

It's Lunar New Year tomorrow, so here's some quick HCs for a bit of festive cheer and to spread some cultural fun facts!! I love CNY so much and I'm so lucky I have people to celebrate it with!

When FL got the boys red packets, they were all confused and ecstatic (Red packets contain usually a lot of cash and they certainly did not expect to receive this much money from the FL)

FL has a QiPao, or a CheongSam, a Chinese form-fitting piece of clothing that originated from the liberation of women's rights in a new dynasty

they swooned as soon as they stepped out of the closet

high collar, intricate embroidery, thigh-high slit, braided buttons with red and gold thread to symbolize prosperity and good luck!

^QiPao dresses, suits, and jacket!

FL had explained to them beforehand some of the meanings of Chinese clothing and colour choice, and since they had an understanding of it and were encouraged by the FL (not at risk of cultural appropriation)

they all got to try on the traditional clothing of their choice!!!!

Damien loved the suits

Hux and Lasko were wowed by the silk embroidery

Gavin likes the braided buttons

they'd look pretty dapper in them if i'd say so myself

Cultural Foods and Dinner!

Then FL spent the entire day preparing for New Year's dinner!

every new year there has GOT to be a huge get-together with family/friends, and a day to eat very expensive food that all have meanings behind them

First off there was Fat-Choy, which was a seaweed type of thing (looks like a clump of hair but tastes AMAZING) and it means successes in business/finance

Second was Ho-See, dried oyster! (not a fan of it since i don't like oysters) but it means good fortune!

Fish was used to symbolize abundances of good things (money, happiness, fertility, good luck)

Mandarin oranges were used to symbolize good fortune as well!

Peaches were used to symbolize romance and prosperity!

while plums stood for strength, devotion, and determination.

Radish Cakes symbolized luck and fortune!

PoonChoi (or PenCai) was a large porcelain basin filled to the brim with lots of ingredients (usually expensive/rarely seen foods such as abalone, dried scallops, shrimp/prawn, specialty soy-sauce chicken, Fat-Choy, pig hock, and fish) of a Cantonese cultural dish. It is supposed to bring family together to share since it is a communal dish, as are a lot of Chinese dishes.

not a single person was left hungry, there was SO MUCH to eat

that was just the pain courses and appetizers we haven't even gotten to snacks and desserts

(snacks) Sunflower and lotus seeds for fertility, lotus for connections and threads, various types of deep fried biscuits for happiness and smiles!

(desserts) Rice cake for luck and fortune, almond soup for a dash of sweetness!

there was so much made, they had to give some away to neighbours and they even left some for the homeless <3

FL taught them some New Year's wishes to say to each other (mandarin PinYin used instead of Cantonese for ease)

commonly, "Gong Xi Fa Cai" - congrats on your financial success!

"Shen Ti Jian Kang" - wishing you good health!

"Long Ma Jing Chen" - wishing you a clear mind and good health!

"Gong Zuo Shen Li" - Good luck to your business/work!

"Xue Ye Jin Bu" - Good luck on your studies!

"Chu Ru Ping An" - may peace and safety follow you wherever you go

The Freelancer even showed them how to write couplets to they could stick them to the doors

they had to wear aprons at risk of splashing ink onto their clothes

it was very messy but they got the hang of handling the calligraphy brushes and produced some beautiful couplets

(above) from right to left: peace to all four seasons; LUCK; (2nd to left couplet from top to bottom literal translation: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter four seasons peaceful) peace and serenity in all four seasons; (furthest left couplet from top to bottom literal translation: east, south, west, north million things prosper) luck and prosperity in all four bearings

(below) from right to left: peace and success; great success in ten thousand things; may smiles and laughter fill your lives; peace in all four seasons

Decorations! Firecrackers and Lanterns

Freelancer showed them hw to make fake firecrackers to hang by the front door

they look like this! Unfortunately real ones are banned due to their dangerous nature, but the faux ones are just as pretty to look at. the real ones make one heck of a noise - they were meant to scare away demons and monsters in the new year!

They also got a few lanterns to hang up (these are beautiful) !

Red for good luck, and a lucky charm to keep away monsters.

Caelum joined in the fun and made his own little lantern to keep :D

Freelancer wrapped red and gold ribbon around his horns

Later that night, Freelancer gave everyone a surprise gift

new red silk boxers and pyjamas

red represents wealth, good luck, prosperity, fertility, and many other things (red is the "happy" colour in Chinese culture, that's why!)

and Freelancer told them all to wear them before going to bed that night so they could enter a new year as a new person

Gavin was deeply amused, so was Damien

Huxley did not catch their drift until Damien lifted Freelancer off the couch and headed off

Lasko was flustering

they did not sleep that night despite their exhaustion from preparing for this big event all week

Happy Lunar New Year to all who celebrate! May the year of the Tiger bring you peace, luck, strength and determination <3

[katharined]

Early-summer, 1531.

The days were growing shorter, the nights longer; the maple branches that scratched against her windows were on one side brown, on the obverse blood-orange, ignited by the mid-September haze; the evening air perfumed with birdsong and sharp jade, latent with buzzing possibility. Twelve-year-old Katharine Brandon walks in beauty and, as the poets croon, ‘all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes; thus mellowed to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies.’

In the winter, she will be married. Henry Grey is only a few months older than her, his moon is in Leo, and he is tall and broad for his age, his face wide like a lion’s and coarse with pockmarks, a token of survival. But he is always mounted on the finest horse, always at the side of his formidable father, and there is no one in England who would not be dazzled by the besotted pair, Katharine slender and alluring as dark-honey and Henry open-faced and firm.

She would be the mistress of a grand estate, Lady Grey, one of the richest in the land, and her brothers would one day be dukes and earls – situated, like their father before them, at the right hand of their grandiose uncle, King Henry.

She can hear her brothers’ laughter rambling over the hills of Suffolk Place, booming above the thudding of mud-splashed hooves as they go soaring by; neck-and-neck like Castor and Pollox, Henry and Harry Brandon. She catches a glimpse of them – brushed by streaks of brilliant gold and rich scarlet, so bright as to appear two beacons of wobbling white light – darting out of the tail of her gaze. Galloping into the sunset, both so young, so clever and so handsome, and she swears to Holy Mother above that she can love neither of them more than the other; they are her future as much as she is theirs, and in her mind and in her heart, the poets will remember them for all eternity.

But in an unbidden flash, she remembers that her eldest brother – Henry – was many summers dead, and in a year’s time, little Harry would join him, his skin already sliding off his feeble bones. When she blinks, the film of moisture clouding Katharine's gaze dissolves, and the two figures racing toward the edge of the earth transform into wizened branches, swaying and creaking in the summer breeze, clouting at her window: a haunted whine, like a wounded beast. But in her heart, in her mind, her two brothers are still riding out together, still so young and so handsome, recklessly taunting one another. How will she ever endure an entire lifetime without them?

'One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o’er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place.'

Philippa is born in January, with a crown of blond ringlets, so buttery as to appear painted with gold-leaf, like the ancient manuscripts that crowd her mother’s library. But in the dewy glow of daylight, Katharine admires the threads of red-gold woven throughout Philippa’s lush mane, for they remind her of her own lady mother.

Her first winter of life is bitter, and constantly dripping, languished at Bradgate House, which, not yet the magnificent manor Katharine will transform it into, crumbles with mold and leaks constant rainwater, permitting a gruesome draft to penetrate even the costliest of furs. She fears Philippa will die in such a state, and begs Henry to move them to Westhorpe, to be with her sisters, but her mother has just died there, whooping up a lung, and her husband fears sickness like no other, though he is, himself, in the flush of youth, and as hale as a horse.

What, then, has Katharine Grey to do, but to protect this darling daughter of hers with both life and limb?

[void-adjacent-particles]

Content warnings: Death, gore, fire mentions, scars, murder, violence.

Totems of Undying are strange things. They’re warm, and will pulse in time to the heartbeat of whatever is holding them, emerald eyes glimmering even in the pure dark of the void’s absence of light. While Totems are made of gold, there is no malleability, they are as solid as bedrock. The emeralds and gold and magic have solidified into one unchangeable object until its use, and then it is gone.

They leave their mark on whatever uses them. For some this could be a prize, another thing to be proud of, because they survived the unsurvivable only through their own wits and forethought. To others it is a mark of shame, for ever having been in such a position to lose their life, even if it is only one of three.

On a specific server, there are those who have need for Totems in their long pasts, who have used them right before our eyes, and those who will surely use them in the future.

Technoblade was one such person to use one before our eyes. We saw him dragged from his home to a farce of a trial, facing justice on rigged scales for grievous cries nonetheless as he was pushed into a cage. The fall of the anvil, the crushing, crunching of a body that never seemed fragile until now when everyone witnessed its end. Then the sparkling cloud of green and yellow, bones clicking back in jigsaw puzzle pieces, the knitting of muscle and tendon and skin, and there is only a moment of paralyzing death before his heart skips a beat and he lives again. This is the prestige of his trick, no turn to raise suspense, and a pledge everyone who knew his name already was aware of, a promise and threat all in one that he always delivered on. Technoblade never dies, and he lives right now to kill again. Later he will be in his quaint cottage in the merciless tundra, and his own reflection will glitter strangely back at him, forcing him to examine himself instead of resting and trying to forget the lingering aches. He will stare as the night sky leaves the window more a mirror, lantern lights low, but the flashes catch his eyes anyway. His tusks, once white and bone, now seem to be fully made of gold. He taps one with his hoof, and feels the pressure reverberating subtly down into his jaws, as real as before. With a shrug, he moves his hoof away, only to watch as pink fur and skin split against the now razor sharp point of his tusks. Those tusks will remain as gilded as any enchanted apple, and as sharp as any netherite sword, until one day he will fail his audience, his pledge a battle cry he brings to one or more of his graves.

Quackity would covet a Totem in all of his paranoia, his fear of death and pain and losing even more than he already has. If he died, be it by pickaxe or nuke or strangling, desperate hands, the Totem would bring him back all the same. And all of his scars would ache in their newfound golden hue, shining and standing out even more as a testament to his inability to protect himself or what he loves. The scars would hurt, old and new, in warning of dangers to come. It only partly calms his paranoia, the fear ever present and simmering in the background of his mind, waiting to boil over and burn him.

When Tubbo or Tommy use their Totems of Undying they will appear unharmed. It is not until they bruise that it becomes obvious. A small bump against the corner of furniture, a tumble while out exploring the wild, a sharp elbow to the face, the blunt side of a weapon, they bruise the skin, blossoming into purples and dark indigos. They fade far too quickly, as if someone splashed healing potions on them. Yet then they stay at that disquieting green and yellow stage, where the next day it could appear as if they were never there, but they stay, shimmering slightly in the wrong lighting, still hurting as much as if they were fresh even weeks later. Only fading when forgotten about, and they have wonder if the bruise was ever there. If only they had Totems when they died before. Tubbo’s face would be a mess of bruised gold that would seep into the skin until only pink scar tissue remained, a starburst remnant of a festival’s fireworks, but he would still be alive, gasping for air and hunched over in that box, on that stage, but alive. Tommy would have handprint bruises around his neck, across the break in his nose, the imprint of a fist against his cheek that had whipped his head back too far, his neck slamming at the worst angle against the harsh obsidian walls. But he would have been alive, clawing his way back into life, latching his own hands around his killer’s throat, finishing the job, doing what should have been done instead of daring to imprison a dream.

George passes out if he uses a Totem. Instead of the rush of adrenaline, of life that floods the system of whatever uses one, it overwhelms to the point of just unconsciousness as his body repairs itself, fueled only by magic until his heart begins pumping and his lungs begin breathing again. Later when he wakes, maybe with cracked sunglasses, anyone who’s looking properly will see the dark bags under his eyes, a sheen of gold overlaying the dark purple of sleeplessness. When he sleeps it will be deeper, without dreams. Alarms and shaking won’t wake him. Nights will be sleepless as he examines the bags under his eyes, fretting over the burnt orange of the gold deepening, digging into his skin, around his eyes. He will continue to sleep, but days will pass, and when he wakes he wonders if next time he will simply be unlucky and sleep forever.

If Dream uses a Totem of Undying it will shatter him. He will feel every bone shake themselves into dust and back again, a glimpse of what everyone eventually returns to. His spine will burn with pain, arcing upwards to the base of his skull, spreading outwards like a deep set rot that always goes unnoticed until it is far too late and the structure crumbles. His mask shatters, likely from the final strike that killed him, but maybe just from his fall to the ground, a person one moment and a corpse the next, until the Totem brings him back. Gold lines every crack in the porcelain of his mask, across the monochrome of the glaze burned into it, bisecting an eye, a smile, a face. The green of him becomes so much more vibrant, deadly, similar to prey animals that evolve into their bright colors to indicate they are poisonous, saying if you kill me, I take you down with me.

If Niki ever uses a Totem, it would burn. She would feel it burning, more than the all encompassing pain of whatever killed her. Bright, sparking pain would race down her body, through every nerve, every blood vessel, until it was all she knew for that brief suspended moment on the precipice between life and death. She would grit her teeth through the pain, eyes narrowed as she reeled back from the magical force, only to march onward in doing whatever was necessary to achieve her goal. Later she would be looking at her hands, washing off blood real or metaphorical, and see that instead of chipping nail polish in whatever color of her choice, instead her nails would be intact, a brilliant gold. Nails that would make her appear vain, still absorbed with one final thing, or simply clinging to it. Nails that would sharpen into what some might call claws, digging into the fine wooden handles of her weapons, scoring lines that would never go away, even if the nails would upon her death.

If Hannah ever uses a Totem of Undying it will react strangely to her innate magic. Plants die off, withering away, leaving just the roots, the basis of their whole survival, to lie in wait underground until the rain falls again and the sun shines again. Any of her wounds will bloom with roses, the flowers ragged, shaped like bloodstains, but every leaf and petal will be edged with gold. The greenery of her roses’ vines will brighten and soak up sunshine more than ever, revitalizing her until her heart aches with it, until she finally lets fate claim the life stolen from it.

If Puffy ever uses a Totem of Undying, she wouldn’t notice side effects at first, aside from the usual anguish and pain from having died. The likely conflicts she had thrown herself into out of duty would capture her attention anyway, away from examining herself for any lingering problems. It wouldn’t be a problem anyway, not until she looked in the mirror and saw that all of her greying hairs from stress became gold, her mass of curls even heavier, no lock of hair without its reminder, its own thread of gold to weave into thick hair. Later, in a moment of true rest, when someone runs their hands through her hair, braiding it or simply trying to calm her, they would find that every golden thread burns and tries to tie itself around their hands, keeping them there, keeping them at her side where they could be safe.

If Antfrost or Fundy ever use a Totem, it settles on their skin like a weighted blanket, forcing their muscles to accommodate, forcing them to make room in their lives for the extra chance they stole. Later, when they rest, so much more tired with their aching bodies, they will curl up in the sunshine wherever they feel safest. When the sunlight catches just right, beige or burnt orange fur glimmers like a pelt of gold. Any breeze would be unable to rustle fur, their bodies motionless and unmovable as any statue, their breathing far shallower and subtler than ever before. If one wasn’t watching close enough, they’d assume there was a corpse just curled in the sunlight, begging for a final bit of warmth before letting go. They will start awake from nightmares with a hiss, and stretch out in the dying light to go pretend like they don’t feel that extra life weighing on them.

Phil only has one life to lose, and so he holds Totems close to his heart, always just one movement away from being clutched as the lifelines they are. When he’s killed holding one, wings splayed, feathers falling from the force of his death, mouth open and choking on last breaths, his death will hurt.  It will always hurt, the moment stretching through his lived centuries and snapping back into the present, so much life to flash before his eyes that they are rendered sightless and glassy, death clouding them greedily. Flashes of gold and emerald green dance on the sheen of inky feathers and glossy eyes as dead as a doll’s. When he lives again, his wings will no longer be the cape of shadows, the midnight extensions of self that they once were. His secondary feathers will be golden now, shining in the sun, always growing back that same shade. Those gilded feathers will just be another thing his murder of crows hoards, another shiny object, but to Phil it will be a permanent reminder of how he has always only had one life, and how fleeting it is.

If Wilbur got his hands on a Totem, he would never let it go. To die again and again and again, to suffer through the agony of an eternal listless limbo, to suffer again as he is replaced by a mockery of himself… he could not stand for it. So he never lets go of the Totem in hand, his thumb worrying over the facets of its emerald eyes when he thinks, nails breaking against the rigid golden effigy. There are many reasons he would die, several from his own actions, as it was before. If he did die, he would wake choking on blood and tears, hacking and wheezing and lacking all the grace and charm he once had. It wouldn’t be until he coughed once again into his hands that he would see his blood, no longer a dull red, now glimmering and golden. And he laughs, as he now resembles a god in all but the immortality, his blood turned to ichor in its molten sunlight, its deep dark shades of beauty and riches, and he keeps choking on his blood as the Totem works still to restore a body dead for the fourth time.

When Ranboo uses a Totem of Undying the magic will seep into his skin, counteracting strangely with his biology, trying to strengthen him, trying to mark him however it can. So the short black velvet of fur he received from enderman genetics will spread, the skin and fur stronger, in hopes of protecting him. It seeps like ink, a slow spread that burns as if trails of water settled on his skin. It hurts, and he hides for days, coming out with his green eye just a bit brighter, black crawling up the white side of his jaw like an outstretched hand. His own hand will reach out, and under the white skin on his forearm will be golden veins, burning with life stolen from a Totem. He forgets using Totems every time he does, the experience is so jarring and intense as it changes the fiber of his being, as with every use he appears more enderman than whatever else he is. One day, far in the future when he goes by another name, he will look in the mirror and see two emerald green eyes, his entire body the black void of fur his endermen kin have. 

Foolish is a being whose entire being had always been defined by death. Once, it was the carnage, the lives lost in droves, sent into Her embrace prematurely in their violent ends. Then Foolish changed and became a Totem of Undying himself, a god now more mortal than even he knew by resisting his domain. When he died the denial was almost too much to bear, the Egg trying to worm its way into his mind when it realized this weakness, a grief for what he lost. If he dies again, he will likely have a Totem in hand, maybe even one of his children, held close as he fears an end, selfishly cannibalizing the life force of one of his own in order to extend his last two lives. There will be no markings from the Totem. He is already one of them, eyes of gemstone and skin of metal, created and made of that space between life and death, the lull after a last heartbeat when the next is expected, the resting note in the song of life that he has conducted himself, has cut short himself, destroying all in his path without a single goal in mind in his times as a Totem of Death. There is no scar or blood or feathers or bruise to mark him, because he is a Totem. A Totem given sentience and life, given free will and thought, but at the end of the day a living doll, and the now lifeless, apathetically terrified look in Foolish’s emerald eyes is enough to show just what measures he took in order to survive another death.

[herald-divine-hell]

The world woke slowly, almost afraid. Fear gripped the whistling wind as hard as the white streams of frost. The pale pink light toward the west seemed to hobble and cower behind the mountains, dulled orange sunlight grasped their stony shoulders as if afraid to climb over. Esmyial could not blame it. It was rare to find Flame of the Mountains burn cold and somber, but now it appeared as if that was all that would come from it. Only cold-blinking anger resting in dead cinders and ash, the embers long faded. 

Threading down the long winding slope, his fingers brushed over stone marks, burning as cold as ice. He paid it little mind, even as it came away pink and only growing redder with each step. Thoughts swirled, never settling too long for him to understand. But he saw the wounding of fear in them, maimed with worry. Urgency drilled inside him, slamming into his gut with each step, but there was something within him as well. Joy. A terrible, sweetening joy. That fruit of joy that was terrible, but far too sweet to stop eating. Revenge sang sweetly before it hurled you into your grave. It drank you until you were silly, stroking your cheek and kissing your lips as the blade slid through plated armor and soft flesh. Just as it kissed you with all the love and care that could grace the world, the blade kissed the heart harder, drank it of everything, not only sweet passion and vile anger. He was afraid of revenge, more than vengeance. 

Ralia fell to it. She’s still falling to it right now. I cannot let Jac do the same. His twin had protested the so-called Army of Retribution, but made no moves to strip Ralia of Jader, nor halt the army from marching into Orlais a few weeks passed. He only hoped Ralia would stop at Halamshiral. Even worse, he hoped that the Orlesian had it in them to stop her. 

“You’re quiet.” 

Jolted out of his thoughts, Esmyial blinked the stinging tears from the cold wind scratching harsh knives along his eyes. His sister was at his side, staring at him from the corner of her eyes, with their father’s eyes. The pale silvery-blue of a winter moon, ever-watchful and chilling. Angry red strips spiraled all around her face. A nasty scar curved from temple down the edge of her cheekbone and over her cheek. The horror of them washed over Esmyial. They were not the thing that terrified him. It was the ones beneath the black-silver armor she wore, on the flesh and upon the spirit. The thick black cloak she wore, with its shoulder-shrouded great bear’s fur snapped with each hissing slash from the wind. Her once long copper hair so many adored was not cut short, the sides shaved off. Avvar-painted splashes marked her skull. Her claim as Thane-of-Thanes. So she already has the Avvar on her side. That is good. 

Despite the numerous scars now marring her face, Esmyial still thought her beautiful. Her hooked nose was proud and curve, her scarred lips full, her cheekbones high and her jaw strong. A warrior-queen come to life, helped by the massively curved greatsword. Coils of scarlet and gold and blue rolled over the ash-darkened steel, where magic kissed the sword for each fold and strike. She wore their father’s crown, too. A silverite crown wrought in the shape of twinned flames, each meeting seven points those rose up as a black spike. The spikes were her additions. 

Her leather-gloved hands rested upon the rounded pummel of her sword. Before them were three rows of piled wood, dusted in snow. A wooden pillar rose from each, strapped with a figure. Nobles, those nearest to Skyhold, who had a hand in their father’s death. There were fifteen stab marks. One for each, or so their dreams sang. Dreams carried whispers of truth, and it had taken days for Esmyial to strip each layer of lies to find it, buddling as a weakling flame. There were sixty. Twelve from the Kingdom of the Frostbacks. The rest from Orlais and Ferelden. Faces had been revealed, names learned, pealed back from masks of shadows. And now there twelve pyres. Here, where Haven once stood, forever buried in snow. 

“Had you offered them the chance for pardon?” asked Esmyial, though the words tasted like thick globs of poison in his mouth. They did not deserve it, but their father would be ashamed if forgiveness was not offered. 

Jac’s lips thinned, straight and pale. Those pale eyes hardened like shields of black ice. “Yes.” Her voice came clipped and hard and latched of emotion. 

Esmyial nodded. “And none took it?”

“No.”

He hated the joy that swam in his stomach at that. He punched it down with a fiery fist. Esmyial could not find his voice. He nodded.

His sister turned. He saw her back straightened like a lance, and her fingers grasped the pummeled with shaky hands. “Here me,” she said, voice carried by spell and wind, “traitors one and all. Long have I known each of you. Some I had laughed with. Some I had hurled curses at, and some I only as passing. You shunned forgivness, as you shunned the honors and kindness my father granted you, one and all. Your people do not deserve you. Your family does not deserve you. My father did not deserve you.”

There came wails from some, hard glares from others. A few titled their head down, as if in shame. 

Jac continued. “Nor will I forgive you. Forgiveness is in the hands of the Maker, in the kindness of Andraste. I cannot promise you will be forgiven by either. But for the honor of your family, I pray you do. May the winds carry you to the embrace of the Maker, away from the horrors of the Fade.”

Pleas curdled the air. Heads thumped against the wooden stands, and tears fell easily as a bard’s songs. Jac said nothing, and neither did Esmyial.

He felt it, the slow whisper of magic awakening. Despite the snow slicking the wood, he watched as gold winked upon the wood. Small at first, on each pyre. But slowly they glared red, prancing up along dead twigs and wood. Trails of smoke spilled up into the air. A blaze of orange flushed the skies, draining the snow into melts. Heat burst at his face, and melted away the morning chill. Screams of the dying met screams of the fire. They fought and clamored for control, throwing one off pitch, before they too were thrown back. For centuries on ending it seemed they battled. But soon the flames’ song clamored over at least, and the screams of crackling wood and soaring embers greeted the morning. 

All the while, Jac’s face was stilled as stone, washed smooth of joy or pity or lustful anger. There was nothing, and Esmyial found it was the same with him. He felt...nothing. No pride, no anger. Just a cold, empty depth at his heart. 

The fires bathed his sister in a mantle of ruby and gold. Her flushed cheeks took a ruddy shine. For a while, it seemed nothing to be a change. Then, he saw it. A flashing glint, strolling down the length of her cheek, bright as blood. Then another snaked down, mending with the first before parting in two streams. It froze as it fell over the edge of her jaw. 

His sister was crying. He reached out for her hand and found it. He squeezed and held, just as they did when they were children.  

 A sharp claw swiped at his chest, sinking deep where he thought it was empty. Only dully did Esmyial realize the truth.

He was crying, too.