#a splash of orange a thread of gold

[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.

[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?

[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.

[vagueiish]

i don't know if i should just surrender myself to the inevitable and make oliver's color scheme blue, red, and gold (because i got his hair/eye color combo specifically from roy fire emblem. because roy's my boy.)

...or if i should try to follow the thread of my association between him and autumn. reds and oranges (well, brown mostly, but brown is just orange with context) with a splash of green or blue here and there

[musecaravan-info]

Finn Ilios

"You are magic. Don't ever apologize for the fire in you." ~ Unknown ~

Basic Information

FACE/BODY CLAIM: Amy Adams

AGE: Very Old; born in 8000 BCE - probably during the summer months

EYES: A blue so pale it's almost disconcerting

HAIR: Bright Orange; she usually wears it long and loose down her back

HEIGHT: 5'4

PRIMARY OUTFIT: She loves a variety of styles, but the themes tend to stay the same: lots of warm colors - red, orange, gold, yellow - with a splash of shine, sparkle, or glitter as accents

Personality

On the outside Finn had a very bubbly, friendly demeanor - it’s not all that she is, but it does play a large part. This is what often gives others the impression that she’s naïve or simple-minded. It’s not a façade, per say, it’s just how she chooses to be - to always see the happiness and good in things. She knows there’s bad and evil in the world, but she doesn’t want to give it power by acknowledging its existence. Like all dragons, she has a wisdom that isn’t often matched (even by Apollo) and if someone managed to make her angry it would come in a sharp burst of intensity - the kind where she wouldn’t realize or regret what she’d said or done until she’d had a chance to calm down.

Powers & Weaknesses

To avoid repetitiveness, go here.

Romance

Finn isn’t an overly sexual creature, despite how one might be mislead by her physical appearance and overly-friendly personality. She’s not immediately going to hit on someone she finds attractive, although she will openly and honestly compliment them. But Finn doesn’t see it as the same thing - she’s just being honest - not flirty. However, she appreciates sex as an act that creates pleasure for both partners, and is rarely offended or put-off when someone expresses an interest in her. Finn also doesn’t see any reason why two people need to be ‘in love’ to take part in such things, so if she were propositioned, she wouldn’t be likely to say no if the one suggesting it was someone she found physically attractive. There might be other things which would factor in that might lead her to say no (like a really terrible personality) but in general, she won’t.

Where to Find Her

Finn is one of those people that can be found just about anywhere, so in regards to picking a place to start an RP, I'm pretty flexible. Here are some generic ideas:

Ballet/Music/Theater performance

City park/botanical garden

Famous landmarks

Fashion show

Museum

Verses

Just because a verse isn't listed here doesn't mean I'm not interested in writing it. I adore all kinds of AUs, and welcome the chance to get creative with my muses. If you've seen a verse that another of my muses has, and you'd like to see this muse in something similar, let me know. You can also check out my 'Plot Ideas' tag, too. ^_^

Main Verse:

Finn's main verse can actually be explored in this bio post. It seems silly to re-type it all here. ^_^;

Current/Ongoing Threads

If your thread with Finn isn't listed here it's probably because it's been long enough since your last reply that I thought you'd dropped it. Message me to let me know you're still interested, and I'll happily add you to the list (with no pressure for a reply.) ♡

Marcella:

The Nature Of Secrets

Stuff That's Good to Know Before Starting a Thread

She has a sun-shaped scar over her heart where Apollo critically wounded her.

Apollo was the love of her life - her mate; there won't ever be anyone who comes close to him. However, that doesn't mean Finn isn't capable of caring/loving someone new. It won't be the same for her, but she can still show affection for someone given enough time and trust.

Links

Please keep in mind, this blog is an ongoing work in progress. Not all of these links may lead somewhere, but they're here because they link to potential tags for this muse.

All Things Finn

Headcanons

Drabbles

All Threads

Ask Replies

Meme Replies

Aesthetics

Face

Special Links

Original Blog

Finn's Wardrobe

Return To Full Muse List

[beniourainrugus]

Moroccan rugs

Moroccan rugs can add a splash of culture and color to any room. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes, and their unique patterns are as varied as the people who make them. Some of the more popular patterns include Beni Mrit, Taznakht, and Boucherouite.

Boucherouite

The Boucherouite Moroccan rug is a unique rug. It is made from recycled textiles. These include wool, cotton, lurex and synthetic fibers such as nylon and polyester.

Boucherouites are handmade by Berber women and are considered an upcycled form of art. Traditionally, they are made from fabric scraps and bits of other rugs.

They are often found in a riot of colors and are sometimes geometric. They are ideal for children's rooms, kitchens, bathrooms, and more. However, the rug should be made from 100% recycled wool.

In the 1960s and 1970s, Moroccan weavers began using recycled fabrics. Their designs were freeform, and the materials used included torn garment strips, bits of cotton, and gold thread.

Boucherouites are also known as crazy rugs. They have a lot of symbolism and are considered amateurs of tribal art.

Beni Ouarain

If you are looking for a rug that is made of natural wool and is a work of art, then you should consider buying a Beni Ouarain's Moroccan rug. These rugs are a timeless piece that will last a lifetime.

The traditional Beni Ouarain's Moroccan rug features a diamond pattern. It is a simple yet elegant design that is perfect for any room. You can also customize the rug with a custom design to match your style.

In addition to the classic geometric diamond pattern, this rug also features curved line work that compliments the plush high pile. This rug will be a unique addition to your home.

Beni Ouarain's Moroccan rugs are a favorite with interior designers and everyday people alike. They are a great way to add a soft element to your home decor.

Taznakht

Taznakht Moroccan Rugs are produced in the town of Taznakht, in the southern part of Morocco. They are made by the local people of the area, and feature motifs such as Amazigh letters and symbols.

The rugs are made with excellent quality wool, and are known for their lustrous sheen. Some rugs also feature diamonds or squares. It takes a couple of weeks to make a rug.

Traditionally, the women of the tribe would make the rugs for personal use. Today, the rugs are sold at the Souk, where men buy the raw material and sell them.

Many women of the Taznakht tribe perform the weaving process, which involves a number of steps. These include setting up the loom, warping and shearing, as well as tribal practices.

Boujad

Boujad Rugs are a great addition to your home. They are hand woven and are made of natural wool fibers. These rugs are colorful and are made to last.

This kind of rug is used for floor and wall decor. They are also suitable for indoor and outdoor use. The colors used in these rugs are mostly bright and bold.

Boujadi rugs are known for their beautiful shades of pink and orange. You can find them in different patterns and sizes.

These rugs are made from 100% wool. The pile is generally low. It helps to show the intricate designs and geometric shapes of the rugs. Some of the rugs have a soft and fluffy texture while some are thick and rigid.

Moroccan rugs are known for their colorful and sophisticated patterns. They are handmade and are inspired by the culture of the Berber tribes in Morocco.

Beni Mrit

A Beni Mrit Moroccan rug is a great way to add a touch of Moroccan style to your home. This berber rug has a soft, minimalist design that complements any room. It's also durable and long-lasting.

Beni Mrirt rugs come in many different colours and styles. They are a great addition to any home and are an ideal decorative element. These rugs are made of natural organic wool.

The Beni Ourain rug is one of the most popular types of Moroccan rugs. Historically, these were made of extra-fine wool by men who sheared sheep. Today, they are often crafted with thinner yarns. However, they are still very well-preserved.

The Beni Mrirt's aforementioned talisman is a small, hand-knotted wool rug. It features a simple geometric design that pays homage to the region's history.

[mainsgraph]

Dream league soccer kit chelsea

West Ham’s new third kit launched this morning 😬 /M6iioVZ9Vf Lovely clean look and a splash of orange to liven it up. As for the third kit, it’s pretty decent. A real beauty and right up there with the best away kits. The away kit is superb, with the all black shirt and the colorful trim on the sleeves. The home kit is quite snazzy isn’t it!? The paint/graffiti designs on the shoulders are out there, but I like it. What are your thoughts on the new threads? Manchester City has revealed its away kits for the 2022-23 season! The third kit stands out and is a nod to some of their classic fluorescent numbers in years gone by. The away kit is also a classic red and black stripe number but the horizontal lines are just a little off. The badge being in the middle of the jersey gives it a retro feel too. The maroon trim on the home kit is very different and it’s pretty cool to see City mix it up a little, as there’s only so much you can do with all blue jerseys. Retro feel to both Man City kits and I like it. As for the home kit, having Fatboy Slim launch it is epic and a slight change from the usual blue and white stripes was needed and this works well with the gold trim and stripe giving it a pop. That crimson looks sensational with the black trim on the away. Very strong look for Brighton with their home and away kit and it really works. The 2022/23 away kit will be available to buy from the official online store and stadium store with early access from 31st August! #ItsAChelseaThing | #CucurellaIsChelsea /Ot5p95W8Df 🦁Ĭucu looking at home in the new away strip! 🤩 The away kit is very slick too and there’s just enough going on to make it interesting.Ī tribute to ex-manager Ted Drake, the man that introduced ‘lion rampant regardant’ which features in the collar of the shirt. This is the perfect example of how you can mostly keep a classic look and add a little tweak to make it pop. Great shade of blue, as always, and the collar is different but works really well. Pre-order our new away kit from 5pm today 👕 Introducing our new away kit for the 2022/23 season 💛💙 Introducing our home kit for the 2022/23 season ❤️ We’re assuming there will be a sponsor added to this at some point, while their away and third kits are also winners with vibrant colors. Forest are back in the Premier League and they’ve gone for a simple, clean look with their iconic Garibaldi red shirts for the home kit. Introducing our 2022/23 Third Kit! 🙌 ⚽️ #DareTogether Introducing our 2022/23 Away Kit 🎬 ⚽️ #DareTogether Lovely stuff.��xclusively available online and in-store from Spurs: It’s out there, but the blue really works. Not sure about the badge being in the middle on this one and the random yellow panel is a bit off putting. A recent retro feel to it (reminds me of the kits Gareth Bale dominated in about a decade ago) and I like the yellow trim. Introducing our new 2022/23 third kit! 🟢 #MUFC It's time to put our 2022/23 away shirt under the microscope 🔬 #MUFC /OUcGLcdNKG Now it's time to take a closer look at our 🆕 home shirt 👇 #MUFC || /J1QQ5tUuQ7 As the third kit? Well, it won’t be for everyone but it’s definitely different. The away shirt is clean and distinctive too and the white, red and black just works. The badge is also distinctive and this home shirt really stands out. Guaranteed that Bruno Fernandes is wearing that collar up. With a nod to Eric Cantona and countless United legends, it will be cool to see which players wear the collar up or down. Like Arsenal, Man United have gone for the collar and I really like it. Our Arsenal 22/23 third kit has arrived! 🦩Īvailable now at Arsenal Direct, and selected retailers 👇 Introducing The Arsenal x 22/23 Away Kit 😎 £5 from every new home shirt you buy through Arsenal Direct goes to The Arsenal Foundation 🤝 /44FdWaF9a1 And the third kit is Arsenal’s first-ever move to a pink jersey and it looks warm and inviting. As for the away kit, that is a lovely design and the nod to Arsenal’s U.S. Really like the collar and it is just classic Arsenal. The home kit is one of those jerseys you can wear with a pair of jeans and sneakers and it looks decent and not out of place. What a video, for both the home and away kits. The Breakdown: Analyzing the top plays from across the Premier League –.

[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

[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.

[yellowfingcr]

She tells her of the things that lurk between land and the depths deep below the skies. Whispers sing-song tales of her wanderings and her work to the Astrologer in the dead quiet of night. Together, they lay upon their backs, starstruck by the vast expanse of heavens above them. By flame light, she weaves to her words of ashes and bone, medicines and potions, spell work and curse. Speaks life into the creatures that dwell between worlds, that slumber beneath the soil and answer in ancient tongues. She speaks of things that raged against the gods before they too were snuffed out. All of these words, stories she kept beneath her breast, things she has swallowed and burned within the depths of her ravening gullet; everything she so selfishly held now she shared with her as if they had known each other for an enternity.

Words and memories were like spells after all, to speak of such was to resurrect the dead. To deny death, was grievous in these lands between -- yet they stood unfortunate and defiant.

Speaking, singing, laughing.

She tells her of the things that follow her, of the one who hunts her to the far reaches-- of every failing and every curse. A story of obsession and freedom. She tells her everything and more without hesitation as she nestles flowers within her hair, as if it were simply tea time and that these stories were nothing more than fanciful fairy tales of things long forgotten. The Astrologer answered in turn, a riddle, a story, a joke, a laugh and then the sweet and seldom sense of serenity. Sing-song words, sincere and with an arsenal of tales all her own, for she too shares a likeness in this creature she called comrade. She speaks of the stars, of the things beyond clouds, of the shape of what was beyond that world-- and she smiles.

To share words was burden of truth, and here they were, laying together, trading war stories as if they had happened yesterday.

((I give you a drabble, no need to reply unless you can, I just wanted to do a thing for the Elden ring verse for u))

Tell me a story you’ve already told, Helena.

I’d like to hear it again.

The sky is blue and orange and pink as they lay down in the grass, splayed as starfishes, its endless surface threaded through by branches of the brightest gold, spreading thinner and thinner as the capillaries of the heart of the world. If Heysel looks at it too long her eyes begin watering- it is so bright, it is too bright- but it is a sight so beautiful that to not do so would be a crime, and so she continues, undeterred, letting her stare plummet far above, feeling herself weightless with contentedness. She is lucky to be alive. She is lucky to be here, and to be here brushing knuckles with the witch laying next to her.

Tell me a story. I’ll trade one of mine.

Once Helena, black-veiled and claw-gauntleted, her shape cutting a naked bramble silhouette of sharp angles against the dawning light, lifted a little bell, and twitched her wrist just enough to have it produce a gentle tinkling sound; and before Heysel’s eyes, wide with awed delight, coalesced the phantom bodies of a cat, of a stag, of a snake, limned in lucent grey, transparent echoes of a life long gone, yet so tangible, so real. And laughing she told her, my friend, there is no end to your talent, you treat with herbs and devour sins and commune with the dead, such excess of skill, surely there must be something you cannot do; and yet as she bent to pet the ghost cat’s lean back something somber and unnamed curled behind the brown of her eyes, then slithered in the depths of her, and disappeared.

Once, through ankle-tall marshwater, they kill a hunter of Tarnished who for three days and two nights had been following them on foot. A blur of violence as they do the deed, steel and sorcery and fury; the water splashes, wets her robes and her clothes, and as Heysel rams the edge of her staff again into their assailant’s skull with a crack of splintering bone she says: see, I’m glad you’re here. This is not so fun alone. And for you? I’d do this a hundred times.

She flashes her a roguish smile. The man, broken and half-drowned, gurgles underneath them, facedown in the mire. She draws back and lowers her fist quick and hard as a bolt leaving a crossbow. Then there is no more gurgling, and just the smile, and just them.

Helena tells her a story and Heysel trades her a joke. Why are frogs so happy? Ah! They eat whatever bugs them. Get it?

Helena tells her a story and she tells her a path around a truth around a question. You know, my favorite blasphemer, devourer of sins. You do. Of the leather armor underneath the robes. The way I balance my weight, the sword sharp intent. The way I move like I was trying to outrun my own uniform. It is no secret. You know I am a student of the stars. I read the constellations. I learn the comets. But there’s the blood. I’ve inherited the worst from my parents. They weren’t like me. They were good people, truly, despite everything. I’m not. And I’ve been talking with- there is something out there- we know all the first bloodletter is the mother-

Nevermind. I ramble. I’m sorry, Helena. Let’s keep going.

Helena tells her a story. Heysel listens. She picks at the peeling skin of her lower lip until it bleeds a single red bead, observing, pensive. She tries to imagine her youth, conjures the image of a small black haired child collecting rabbit bones and daisies. Singing. Uncalloused by life, unscarred by trial and unjust punishment yet.

Helena tells her a story and Heysel after a long silence tells her, say, what kind of child were you? I wonder if you would have gotten along with child me. I think I would have liked to be your friend even then. I know I like to be your friend now.

Heysel tells her a story.

She says: I possess dice that grant wishes. Glintstone, cut to perfection. Roll double six and it will come true. I tell no lie. Here, do it. Roll them.

The dice clink prettily as they’re tossed. Light breaks against their leaping blue shapes, makes its every face shimmer like river water, and before they can finish their motions Heysel tells her close your eyes. Now.

The sound of hands rearranging little stones, of angles sliding against the floor.

Alright. Open them.

Before Helena the dice spell twice six. They’re absolutely not where they should have landed.

Ah! Fantastic! How fortunate, how fortunate!

Hope it was a good wish, my friend. Because it will for sure come true.

[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. 

[compressoexpresso]

~~✨🎧My Type🎧✨~~

Work had been exhausting that week, seeming to drain what little energy the department had at a steady pace. A huge mission had been going on, drug ring needing to be taken down and it was all hands on deck even for Haru meaning more dreaded papers piled haphazardly on his desk to deal with at a later date as the dusty blonde found himself having to trail along with the First Divisions. He got lucky though, landing the one Detective he had no qualms with, (Y/N). You were smart, funny and able to think on the fly unlike anybody else he ever met so it comes to no suprise that the male would purposefully try to get closer to you or learn more about you, a crush already growing within his chest.

Mission complete you were relieved more than anything, finally you could test, relax, and not have to deal with your slightly stuck up fellow detectives for a couple days as it was much easier to bury yourself in paperwork and cut off all outside contract. However luck wasnt on your side, a gentle hand to the upper arm keeping you from leaving as you glance back to meet a set of amethyst colored ones "Hoshino?" Realizing his mistake the Detective just let's go with a small apology "Sorry I was trying to talk with you before you left, the whole department is going out for drinks tonight you should join in" "since when were you the type for drinks?" "Since I'm exhausted and want to relax, anyway make sure you get there" Without another word the figure strode off past you, leaving you to stare at the Brunette's head, a deep sigh emeniting as now you have no choice but to go along.

Unbeknownst to you, Haru had the same situation, his friends blocking the door until the taller man relented, agreeing to go to the bar as he heard that a specific someone would be in attendance.

Walking into the bar any person is greeted with a cacophony of sounds, detectives chatting, drinking, listening to music and when they recognized someone often times greeted them. By the time Haru walked in you were already there, sitting by Ryo downing your alcohol of choice, (e/c) hues watching your friends and colleagues milling about, or at least you had until your eyes met with a familiar set of gold. Damn it he had to be here too, same outfit as always, messy hair and tired eyes but even then it didn't take away from how attractive this man was. For a brief moment you debate not drinking the rest are you were a lightweight but the though quickly dashes from your mind as Haru walks himself over with a grin "(L/N) didn't think you would be here" "could say the same to you Katou now get yourself soemthing to drink and sit down"

An hour passes and both of you definitely can feel a little buzsed, neither tipping the point to being drunk but the alcohol making you less reserved than normal while Haru starts to ramble a little about who knows what but soemthing catches your attention. A tune, familar but still not ringing the bell was floating around the room above the sounds of talking, some already getting up to dance as the first lines start.

"Oooh-ooh ooh ooh

Take a look around the room (Ahh)

Love comes wearing disguises (Uhh)

Break it down by shapes and sizes (Uhh)

I'm a man who's got very (Ahh) specific taste"

Haru recognised the theme immediately, humming along to the tune although gradually moving up to fully singing as he gives a grin, his eyes meeting yours

"You-you-you're just my type!

Oh, you got a pulse and you are breathing

You-you-you're just my type!

Oh, I think it's time that we get leaving

You-you-you're just my type!

Oooh-ooh, ooh-oooh (Uhh)"

A gentle yank of the arm and before you can begin to comprehend, the two of you have joined the others on the dance floor, just laughing and dancing, swaying along with the music as the tipsy blonde still gives you that adorably sweet grin you love seeing but just watching him sing along to the lyrics breathes a splash of pink into your cheeks.

"When there's lovin' in the air (Ahh)

Don't fight it, just keep breathin' (Uhh)

I can't help myself but stare (Ahh)

I'm a man who's got very (Ahh) specific taste"

Right before the chorus starts he gently pulls you closer, practically hugging you as you two dance, that pink steadily increasing until your face is so red that your dance partner almost looks concerned for the blink of an eye although it's swiftly forgotten with the chorus

"You-you-you're just my type!

Oh, you got a pulse and you are breathing

You-you-you're just my type!

Oh, I think it's time that we get leaving

You-you-you're just my type!

Oooh-ooh ooh-oooh"

Haru was sober enough to know what he was saying, silently thanking the liquid courage for the chance to even speak it but as he watches you, a fear of being rejected resides behind those eyes although it dissolves like sand as soon as you send him a playful grin in return and start dragging him from the bar "Where we going?" "Shhh!" With a purpose he watches the much shorter figure drag him around the darkening streets of Tokyo until they reach a small park. It's nothing special, a small grassy block with a playground for children, benches littering the area for couples or parents to sit on, one of which they both sit on to admire the colors painting the sky in vivid orange, peach, and red. All is silent for a moment until the tune picks back up, coming from his crush who very slowly threads his fingers with theirs and using their free hand to tilt his face towards them as they sing the final chorus

"Oooh-ooh ooh-oooh

You-you-you're just my type!

Oh, you got a pulse and you are breathing

You-you-you're just my type!

Oh, I think it's time that we get leaving

Ooooh-ooooh"

As the final words drop from their like he is left in silence for a few moments, mostly disbelief that you seemed to reciprocate the feelings he harbored. Finally he came back from his little state of shock, leaning closer until finally you pull him all the way down, kissing him with a grin and hand wrapped around his tie to keep him close even as he breaks away but there is no reason to fear him running. A deep chuckle and soft eyes are what meet your own as he moves back enough to gaze at you while you wink at him "I think you are just my type~"

+the song is My Type by Saint Motel+

[m3kuroshirt]

Haven

Mermaid/Siren AU part 2

Part 1 here

Words: 1079

Warnings: none

“We’re not doing this again you wet nutcase,” Ichigo said with a groan, wringing out the water in his shirt. Water someone decided to splash him with, thanks to a very glittery, definitely pretty (but damned if he’d ever tell him) tail.

The sun was setting on the distant, never-ending horizon. Setting the sky on fire with yellows, oranges, reds, and even a scant bit of purple in the east. The hidden cove, ship sheltered by rocks jutting out from the cliffside—a perfect hiding spot for a pirate ship. The cliff opened up to a cave system, which lead inside the island.

“And I just got this dried you asshole.” Ichigo considered taking off his tunic and slapping the siren with it, but figured that’s what the needy guy wanted, so he wasn’t going to let him or his grabby webbed fingers win. Not this time.

Grimmjow let out a half-feral hiss before splashing his tail haphazardly around in the water. The small part of the beach with actual sand, was actually pretty smooth, all things considering. And for that small miracle Ichigo was glad, the ship having outrun a ship from the Los Noches fleet not a couple days prior. That armada was relentless, but had yet to capture or seriously injure anyone. Yet, anyway.  

“If you don’t stop throwing a tantrum you overgrown fish, I’ll throw seaweed earplugs at you.”

“Tch, you know I eat seaweed.”

Ichigo made a face, tongue sticking out, grimace of disgust on his face.

“That’s literally the worst thing you could’ve said.”

  Grimmjow had followed them the whole way, sometimes digging his stupidly sharp claws into the hull of the ship when he was feeling particularly lazy. He’d asked, once, for them to drop down a boat so they could pull him.

Orihime and Urahara had actually been for the idea, Ichigo just called him a lazy piece of shit fish and told him no. That had gotten him splashed pretty good, which was…fair, he supposed. But still. The guy had a tail, he could breathe underwater, he’d be fine.

Their ship, which Urahara fondly called The Candyman—which Ichigo, and the rest of the crew, minus Orihime, because of course she would, thought was the absolute dumbest name—had gotten damaged again, thanks to some hits from the Murciélago. Thankfully, they were able to land a few substantial hits of their own, and retreat to the island.

Their little hidden cove, a little-known part of an otherwise dangerous island, was their haven. Had its own society of runaways and outcasts. People who were doomed for execution over petty, senseless crimes, based political moves. It was ridiculous, and Ichigo prided himself on helping whoever he could, however he could.

Ichigo had been born on the island, his sisters were too young to take up piracy, and, if he was being honest, hoped they found other, safer ways to help. This was his job, as the big brother, and protector. His mother and father ran a clinic on the island, one of two, so they were pretty busy—the girls often helped with that when they weren’t in school or, in Karin’s case, causing problems on purpose.

 Right now though, a…fishy problem was his biggest problem.

“Aren’t your sisters going to be mad you left them,” Ichigo asked, remembering the other two siren’s who were with him when they met. Unlike their dumbass brother, they’d actually left the pirate party alone to repair stuff. Their tails were pretty as well, but…something about Grimmjow’s…just drew him to the siren. So far he’d been temperamental, high-strung, and very, very needy. But it was kind of endearing, really.

As irritated as the man could get Ichigo, he found he could irritate Grimmjow right back, and his irritated face, nose all scrunched up, brows furrowed down low, blue eyes almost glowing in the light, fin like ears flicking back and forth, was honestly kind of cute.

“Tch,” Grimmjow hauled himself onto the shore, completely, until only the tips of his pretty tail brushed up against the rolling tide. The sun was sinking lower, the reds growing deeper, darker.

“Bold of you to think they didn’t follow me,” he frowned, glaring out at the cove. Ichigo noticed one glitter in the water, the barest hints of sun reflecting off shiny scales, glittering gold like a fire on the water. Then another rose up and splashed down. Two different tails, two different sirens approaching where they sat.

“How come they aren’t as clingy as you are?” Ichigo was laughing as he spoke, chuckling harder as Grimmjow glowered beside him, making that cute, irritated face he liked so much. The siren had blabbered some nonsense about Ichigo being his prey, or whatever, and maybe he was, in a way, but a thought popped into Ichigo’s head sometime ago, and he couldn’t get rid of it.

The less he tried to think about it, the more it grew, until it was the only thing he could think about. His lips, the way his scales flashed and sparkled in the moonlight, how his hair draped around him in the water, like long tendrils of fine silk.  

Making up his mind, Ichigo leaned forward, pulled Grimmjow closer by tugging slightly on a long piece of hair slung over his shoulder, until their lips crashed together, sharp teeth grazing over Ichigo’s bottom lip, teasing. Clawed, webbed hands fisted and unfisted before dragging down Ichigo’s chest agonizingly slow, prickling against the fabric of his tunic, even ripping a few threads of the thinner parts.

Ichigo pressed his lips harder against Grimmjow’s, letting his tongue roll over the other’s, feeling the needle-sharp teeth, even letting one prick him, the slightly metallic taste stinging his tongue. Grimmjow growled, but the sound got lost in heat of Ichigo’s mouth, devouring each sound he pulled from the other man.

Hands wrapped around a damp, shirtless torso, on top of Grimmjow’s soft hair, fingers digging into his skin, right above his gills, causing the siren to arch his back with a low moan. Ichigo could feel him shiver against him, every time he pulled back and kissed him. Again. And again. And again.

Pulling the siren away from his mouth, he watched as blue eyes locked on his lips, his own parted, breath labored, waiting. Wanting.

Just before Ichigo dove down to devour once more, he whispered against the heat of the siren’s mouth.

“You’re my prey now, Grimmjow.”