#ancestral masquerade

[ivyprism]

Mermaid OCs (Info Dump)

Warnings: Violence, mentioned, long-ish, lots of info. OG characters revived.

Hala - A Mermaid Princess

Personality: Her inquisitive, bold, and lively attitude is well-known. She possesses a high level of emotional intelligence and is adept at reading people. She's a well-known flirt and one of many mermaids admired for their beauty and grace. She's also a rule-follower and a spitfire. She's known for being bold but not extremely clever. She also knows considerably more than she acknowledges, but the majority of people do not trust her. She does not sing since it is difficult for her to do so when she recalls her upbringing. She is frequently ferocious and unpleasant.

Appearance: Hala is roughly 5'5". She has a slim and muscular build. Her hair is brown with red tips and is long. In her mermaid form, she has red fins and a red tail. She has a locket that has a hala flower on it.

Hina - A Mermaid Princess

Personality: Hina appears to be a nice and loving person, however, she is immensely harsh to certain humans (specifically corrupt people). She is less curious than her sisters, yet she is forced to follow them to keep them safe. Her manner resembles that of a saint. She is also an accomplished sword fighter. She is more introverted and avoids flirting whenever possible. She supports her younger sisters' individuality while wanting to keep Hala out of trouble. She is a very protective woman who, if necessary, will fight or murder to defend her siblings.

Personality: Hina is roughly 5'2". She has a slim form. Her hair is brown with blue tips and is long. In mermaid form, she has blue fins and a blue tail. She has a locket with a hina flower on it.

Amaryllis - A Renegade Mermaid Princess

Personality: Amaryllis is a mischievous mermaid who also happens to be a "princess." She is, in fact, a kind and caring lady. She goes out of her way to help others and be patient with them. She is highly brilliant and unconventional, and she is obsessed with fashion and style in general. Except for the Phantoms, she is extremely loud and obnoxious. To shield and conceal her emotional and sensitive side, she has created an ego-centric firewall. She's a little naive, but she only wants to help everyone. Regardless matter her purpose, she strives to help everyone she can. She enjoys supporting everyone who needs it.

Appearance: She is roughly 5'5". She has a slim but muscular form. Her hair is blondish with pink tips and is short. In mermaid form, she has pink fins and a pink tail.

Dahlia - The Oldest Mermaid Princess

Personality: Dahlia was the most beautiful mermaid in her community. Her soft and pleasant attitude was highly known, and her curiosity guided her. She was astute and caring. She was willing to go to any length to defend her sisters, even if it meant leaving them behind. She felt horrible for burdening Amaryllis with the belief that she had died. She was so proud of Amaryllis for sacrificing herself to save her sister. She is scared of causing distress to others. She has a sweet and kind disposition and is highly compassionate and patient.

Appearance: She is roughly 5'6". She has a slim form. Her hair is brown with red tips and is long. In mermaid form, she has red fins and a red tail. She has a locket with a dahlia flower on it.

Dianella - The Lost Mermaid Princess

Personality: Dianella is Dahlia's twin sister. She is a resourceful and astute magic user. Unlike her twin, she was wary of defying her mother. For her, she is easily misunderstood, but she is more withdrawn than most people. She has been traveling since leaving her previous life with her mother. She is both patient and perceptive. She wants to free her twin sister from her unhappy marriage and prevent other unhappy marriages from happening, but she lacks the authority to do so. She is a gentle and kind woman with a fiery temper who doesn't take crap from anyone.

Appearance: She is roughly 5'5". Her hair is brown with purple tips and her hair is long. She has a muscular, but chubby figure. In mermaid form, she has purple fins and a purple tail. She has a locket with a dianella flower on it.

Daphne - The Forgotten Mermaid Sister

Personality: Daphne is the youngest of three sisters, the other two of whom are her older sisters, Dianella and Dahlia! She is shy, withdrawn, and easily surprised. She is simpler to control than her two older sisters because she was her mother's favorite as a child. She dislikes being favored because it makes her feel bad and makes her doubt her own value. Despite her difficulties, she is a really sweet and compassionate individual who is also intelligent and gentle with her family and friends. Because of her mother's incessant dishonesty, she lacks faith in her decisions, yet she is confident once she has made a decision.

Appearance: She is roughly 5'1". Her hair is brown with blue highlights. She has a petite and slim figure. In mermaid form, she has blue fins and a blue tail. She was chosen as the favorite as her tail is very similar to her ancestor Damica’s tail.

Cynthia - The Guardian

Personality: Dahlia's best friend, Cynthia, has been tasked by Dahlia's mother with bringing her daughter back. She is bold and confident, yet she is also intelligent and caring. She refused to return Dahlia to the community, knowing she would return on her own. She wanted Dahlia to be free, so she accompanied her before returning to the village. She is a fiery individual who will never back down from fighting for what is right. She is extremely protective of Dahlia's sisters and goes out of her way to keep an eye on and protect them.

Appearance: She is roughly 5'6". She has long brown hair with orange tips. In her mermaid form, she has orange fins and an orange tail. She has a slight scar on her left eye. She has a muscular figure.

Damica - The Oldest Ancestral Weapon Spirit

Personality: Damica is a dignified lady. She has faith in her sisters and descendants. She has a calm disposition and is always eager to help the workers. In contrast to her younger sister's mischievous and trouble-making attitude, she is known to shift items for ease. She chose Hina because they both possessed outstanding sword-fighting ability, and she would rather have her weapon in her hands than anybody else's. She adores her descendants and watches them quite often. She worries about them constantly and tries to help when she can.

Appearance: She has light brown hair and purple hues. Her long hair is usually tied up in a ponytail. Her tail style is recessive so it’s not entirely common to find a descendant with her tail. She’s about 5'7". She has a scar on her torso as a result of how she died. She was killed by a slash to her torso. She’s technically a ghost monster.

Astrea - The Middle Ancestral Weapon Spirit

Personality: Astrea is noted for being both stubborn and caring. She'd become irritated and would refuse any other descendant who tried to grab her weapon. She actually is very sweet and gentle. Despite the objections of her sisters' spirits, she stays unaffected and will not change her mind. As a spirit, she teases and frustrates the crew by poking them or knocking things over. She isn't as mischievous as her younger sister, but that doesn't stop her from getting into trouble. She never had a relationship, unlike Damica, because she died before she could. She often is very patient too.

Appearance: She has darker brown hair compared to her blue hues. Her long hair is usually untied! She’s about 5'6". She has a scar on her neck where she appears to have been stabbed in the neck, resulting in her death. She is technically a ghost monster.

Ilysse - The Youngest Ancestral Weapon Spirit

Personality: She is mischievous, clever, kind, and shockingly mature! Despite being the youngest, she has a habit of mothering her older sisters because she has a very motherly personality. She loves to help people and is very kind. She enjoys caring for others and does enjoy laughing at pranks. As a spirit, she is concerned for all of the skeletons and mermaids (especially Georiga) who become ill after passing away from illness. She is the most mischievous of her sisters. She loves to paint and read. She is very good-hearted and a bit hesitant.

Appearance: She has light brown hair with red hues on the tips. Her hair usually is tied in a side ponytail. She’s about 5'5". She has a small scar on her left eye.

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@kioko-noodles / @kiokodoodles @miscneilleaneous @und3rwat3r-a5tr0naut @hearty-dose-of-ranch

[ariadne-mouse]

Thinking about Dorian's new wardrobe - specifically the swap to gold signifying his new heir status and the "sluttiest" shirt etc - and remembering earlier in the campaign when the party went to the masquerade ball. Dorian had been planning to wear something he wanted to wear (the flowy beige chiffon outfit he wore in the pageant in ExU) but when the plan changed to subterfuge, he very pragmatically chose something conservative, militaristic, and introduced himself as "Brontë Secondsun of the Silken Squall". Notably, he discarded the outfit he'd originally wanted (3x12):

As I do, put those things away, I'm going to reach into my bag and pull out the outfit that I had, which was this chiffon outfit that I had previously gotten a long time ago, and look at it for a minute. Then I'll pull out the mâché mask that I had, and I'll crumble them both up and throw them in the bottom of the bureau, and leave them behind and go back down to the group.

He'd been looking forward to a chance of expressing himself, and when he realizes he can't (by choice, for the sake of the mission), he literally buries his feelings. Having to lean into his family identity is not a happy occasion for him; it represents everything he's trying to escape and a suppression of the self he's trying to become.

What's interesting about his most recent costume change is that in learning the reason for swapping silver to gold, it also tells us that Dorian has actually been wearing a reminder of his status in his family this whole time, on his everyday clothes. His winged boots are ancestral, but they have the excuse of being a useful magical item - Dorian could choose whatever metallic accent style he wanted for his clothes. And in using all silver, he never completely erased Brontë Secondsun Wyvernwind, he just embedded the title in his color scheme. Wearing gold now feels like grieving Cyrus as much as it does the grim acceptance of his new inheritance, but the two things are intertwined.

The "sluttiest" shirt meanwhile is a pretty straightforward continuation of the flamboyant style he yearned for in the masquerade. And with such loss behind him and the dire mission before them - if not now, when? If they get out of all this alive, he may return home and have to resume whatever pomp and circumstance are required there. Life's short; wear a sheer blouse.

All told, Dorian's new outfit and presentation are such a wild mix of messages. My brother is dead. I'm the heir now. My familial duty is part of me and I acknowledge this despite having very complicated feelings about it. But I'm also going 1000% on my dramatic personal style that doesn't match what I would wear at home as a prince. I have left behind beloved familiar instruments and chosen new ones. I am simultaneously reinventing myself in my desired image, cutting away things I think I must, and reaffirming my roots to which I am tied now more than ever. And I'm gonna do it all tits out.

[theroyalthornoliachronicles]

Royal Family Returns to Ancestral Home Before Masquerade Ball

La famille royale has made a surprising return to Manoir de Thornolie for a brief respite from their royal duties. This unexpected move comes just days before the highly anticipated bal masqué, where Monseigneur L'Épin is set to announce his choice of bride after months of courting during la saison.

The return to Manoir de Thornolie, a picturesque estate nestled in the heart of the Thornolian countryside, has sparked curiosity and speculation among the public and royal watchers alike. With the bal masqué scheduled to take place at le Palais in only three days, many are questioning the reasoning behind this sudden retreat. Is there something more happening behind the scenes, or is it simply a chance for la famille royale to relax before the grand event?

However, the primary focus remains on the forthcoming announcement from Monseigneur L'Épin. The nation is abuzz with anticipation and excitement as speculation over his choice of bride reaches fever pitch. The two leading contenders for the prince’s heart appear to be Mademoiselle Aurora Aubert and Mademoiselle Eleanor Valery.

Mademoiselle Aubert, known for her grace and charm, has been a favored candidate among many royal enthusiasts. Her poise and dedication have won her considerable admiration, and many believe she would make an excellent future queen. On the other hand, Mademoiselle Valery, who has captured the hearts of many with her quiet intelligence and beauty, is rumored to have long held Monseigneur L'Épin's affections. The two have often been seen together throughout la saison, fueling speculation that she may be the one he ultimately chooses.

Despite the clear favoritism shown by different factions of the populace, uncertainty remains. Monseigneur L'Épin has been seen courting both Mademoiselles Aubert and Valery throughout la saison, leaving the public guessing. Could there be another contender entirely, or is le Monseigneur himself still undecided?

La famille royale has remained tight-lipped about the le Monseigneur, adding to the air of mystery surrounding the upcoming bal masqué. While some see the retreat to Manoir de Thornolie as a chance for le Monseigneur to reflect and finalize his choice, others wonder if there are underlying issues or preparations taking place away from the public eye.

As the day of the bal masqué approaches, excitement and tension continue to build. The nation eagerly awaits the moment when Monseigneur L'Épin will step forward and reveal his future bride, a decision that will undoubtedly shape the future of the Thornolian monarchy.

For now, all eyes remain on Manoir de Thornolie, where la famille royale is ensconced in the tranquility of their historical home. The nation holds its breath in anticipation of the grand revelation that is sure to come, with the hopes and dreams of Thornolia hinging on the choice of one man’s heart.

Previous | Beginning | Next

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Winter Solstice Masquerades.

All winter masquerades have something deep in common, as if they arise from the same ancestral spirit. But at the same time they are very different, each one has its charm, energy and a way of approaching the ritual that makes it unique.

Available at Arte Feudo Etsy Shop.

[fatehbaz]

While sugarcane has defined Caribbean islands since the onset of European settler colonization, a little-known African species, guinea grass, has invaded sugar plantations from within. Cultivated to intensify sugar production, guinea grass ironically became a weed of the plantations while providing material and spiritual resources to enslaved and marooned Africans and their descendants. [...]

While sugarcane was imported from Austronesia, guinea grass hails from the western coast of Africa. Sugar was the principal crop of many Caribbean plantations; guinea grass was imported as fodder for the oxen that labored in the fields and for the cattle that fed the planters. [...]. A 1707 account by Hans Sloane, whose collections would form the core of the British Museum, describes the grass (then known as “Scotch grass”) as widespread in Barbados and Jamaica [...].

The imported grass was celebrated by eighteenth- and nineteenth-century planters for its high grazing quality. Bryan Edwards sang its praises in Jamaica, writing that it may be considered as next to the sugar-cane, in point of importance; as most of the grazing and breeding farms or pens throughout the island were originally created, and are still supported, chiefly by means of this invaluable herbage. For Edwards, guinea grass had an almost equal status to sugar cane because it could feed “the plenty of horned cattle both for the butcher and planter.” [...] By 1786, the African grass had become naturalized in Guadeloupe, and, by 1813, it had reached Mississippi, writes Parsons. It spread widely throughout Central and South America [...].

Indeed, one observer in New Granada (modern-day Colombia) was so enthusiastic as to argue that whoever had introduced the plant deserved a statue “as high as New York’s Statue of Liberty” [...].

In Cuba, the grass appears in an 1816 report of José Antonio de la Ossa, the first director of the Botanical Garden of Havana, who wrote: “It is an abundant and convenient pasture grass, because it multiplies its stalks in the same way as Sugar cane[.]” 

Like Sloane and Edwards, Ossa compares guinea grass to sugarcane. The two foreign grasses seemed to them similar in morphology and function, because they both [...] promoted the economic development of the islands’ cash crop societies. [...] While sugar was introduced to Cuba long before guinea grass, it was guinea grass that allowed for the intensification of Cuban sugar cultivation with large herds of oxen.

---

Yet something strange happened in the history of this ostensibly symbiotic relationship. 

Although guinea grass was meant to support the sugar economy by feeding its beasts of burden, ironically, it became a virulent weed to the sugarcane plants. By 1977, guinea grass was rated the number one weed to sugarcane in Cuba. In 2012, the journal of the National Botanical Garden of Cuba (Revista del Jardín Botánico Nacional) listed it as [...] an invasive species of greatest concern. In this way, the two imported grasses became stalky antagonists in the daily competition for light, water, and soil nutrients.

Their cultural meanings, however, had long since diverged. If sugarcane supported the economic interests of European planters, guinea grass was appropriated by enslaved and marooned Africans across the Caribbean for practical and religious purposes. 

Diasporic Africans in the Virgin Islands used the dried grass to make masquerade costumes for Carnival and other festivals. In Cuba, priests used it to make omiero, [...] of the Afro-Cuban Reglá de Ochá religion. 

Moreover, some of the enslaved canecutters used an ancestral West African technique to thatch their mud huts with guinea grass. [...] In fact, the famed maroon Esteban Montejo described using this method of thatching during his escape from a Cuban sugar plantation in the late nineteenth century: [...] I had never left the plantation before. I walked uphill, downhill, in every direction. [...] My feet were blistered and my hands were swollen and festering. I camped under a tree. I made myself a shelter of guinea grass in a few hours and I stayed there four or five days. [...]

Guinea grass has continued to take on new meanings for Caribbean writers in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. In Alejandro Aguilar’s 1997 short story “Landscape of Clay,” [...] [t]he untamed grass, like the cadets’ expressions of sexuality, subverts the rigid structure of the institution.  Likewise, the storyteller in the 2002 play In the Time of the Revolution by the Guadeloupean writer Maryse Condé bemoans the fact that “people’s dreams are not made to grow freely like guinea grass on the banks and highways. Some people try to pull them up, to mow them down, to dry them out, to burn them and see them go up in smoke.” [...] In undermining the economic ambitions of the plantation system, guinea grass has come to represent acts of subversion [...].

---

All text above by: Hannah Rachel Cole. “Plant of the Month: Guinea Grass.” JSTOR Daily. 1 December 2022. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Beware: Angst ahead. Also, while this particular WIP doesn't have any +18 topic, in virtue of the fact that Vampire the Masquerade revolve around +18 content, all material will be presented as such. Therefore, Minors DNI.

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Laying on the plushy velvet blanket of her canopy bed - one of the few amenities she still possessed from the days of her human life - Dorothea just stared at the ceiling, unblinking eyes that saw far beyond the roof of her boudoir, hands folded in her lap.

Not a single emotion could be seen on her face, immobile in that unnatural stasis that was of her kind.

A pool of complete stillness: nothing further from the immense chaos that churned just beneath the surface.

A rivulet of fresh blood trickled from the side of her lips, running down her neck until it blended with her golden white curls.

She didn’t know how long she had been standing so still, in that inertia that always caught her after each feeding and imprisoned her with her memories.

A soft snoring rose just besides her, distracting her from the solitary journey of her train of thoughts. She slowly turned her eyes to look toward the man sleeping peacefully besides her, enveloped in the blissful afterglow of the ecstasy that the Kiss always brought upon humans.

The blood always quenched the ancestral necessity of the curse of her kind, but did nothing to erase the emptiness that left behind.

His soft hair fell like a curtain over his face, hidden against the soft down pillow.

Eyes still unblinking, Dorothea broke from her inertia and raised her hand; hesitant, almost trembling, she caressed those black curls away from the man’s face, hoping against hope to see a glimmer of what her memories always showed her. But that face was wrong, completely different from what she expected: the curve of the jaw was not as defined, the zygomas not as sharp, his skin far lighter, his lashes not as long, the nose not as straight, the eyes not as upturned and, when they were staring at her, not dark and sweet, but blue and cold.

It wasn’t him.

She felt like heaving, a whole rock sitting on her stomach, a tightness in her throat that just wanted to find release in purging.

The blood had been to her taste, coppery with undertones of nutmeg and the spumescent aftertaste of all the alcohol in his system, irreverence and joie-de-vivre, and touch of spiciness that every Spaniard carried with themselves.

The vessel provided had indeed been delectable, as it always was when the preys that succumbed to her resembled the one man always in her memories.

Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of utter disgust that had encompassed her, a feeling akin to the time she had made the mistake of feeding off the wrong type of blood, as a fledgling, when she hadn’t figured out what her type was yet .

Silent as a cat and in need of complete loneliness, she rose from the mattress and slipped a plum-colored robe on her naked body, the smooth fabric softly caressing her skin. Careful to not look behind, she left her master bedroom, mindful to lock the door behind to avoid any possible escape.

She would get rid of the man later.

With quick, inaudible steps, she reached the opposite side of her suite, where her boudoir was located, the only room in the sleeping area of her apartment that didn’t have obscuring blinds.

Without thinking, she put on some music from her own personal playlist, the only thing that could help calm her soul. As the notes started to rise in the sweet air of the evening, she took a deep breath, trying with all her might to will her memories away.

She didn’t want to.

She never wanted to will them away.

But she had to.

She sat on the small ottoman by the window and leaned against the windowsill for a while, laying her cheek on her crossed arms, eyes lost as she watched the world outside of her haven.

Snow was falling ever so softly, in an elegant dance that almost seemed to invite her to twirl around under the gentle flakes.

But she couldn’t.

Not now.

Not ever again.

Suddently the soft rendition of a cover of “Iris” hummed in Dorothea’s ears, the soft voice of the singer and the gentle notes of a guitar enveloping her in the soft penumbra of the boudoir, as she rested her head against the frame of the window.

“And I'd give up forever to touch you Cause I know that you feel me somehow You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be And I don't want to go home right now

'Cause all I can taste is this moment And all I can breathe is your life So and sooner or later, it's over I just don't wanna miss you tonight

And I don't want the world to see me 'Cause I don't think that they'd understand When everything's made to be broken I just want you to know who I am”

“I wish,” she murmured to herself.

“Never knew you were a Goo Goo Dolls appreciator, Dorlé,”

A gentle voice, warm as a late summer wind - one she would recognize among thousands - spoke behind herself. Dorothea turned her head slowly, giving the man that had just entered a long cold look.

Arno Dorian was standing tall against the frame of the door, his long dark hair hanging on the side of his face, enhancing his already otherworldly beauty. Dressed as sharply as ever, Dorothea could have been inclined to think that he was about to go to the club on the Strand - his favourite hunting ground.

“Just because I gave you permission to come and go in my abode as it pleases you, that does not mean that you can avoid to knock before entering, Arno. I could have been naked for all you knew.”

The man gave her a knowing look: her sulkiness could signify only one thing.

"Feeding night?”

“Yes, as if you weren’t in the known already! And as such, I must apologize but I am not inclined for social call of any kind tonight, not even from you.”

A small smile of sympathy touched his lips.

“Had it been any other night, I would have been the first one to block the passage of any visitor to your haven. But, as much as it cross me having to bother you when you are at your most fragile, You will heed my words, Dorlé. Because I am not here in vest of your sibling but as your Sheriff, my Prince.”

Dorothea’s expression transmuted from miffed to suddenly alert. If he was addressing her by her title, even in the privacy of her abode, she could not ignore his silent demand to be received.

“Speak. What happened?”

“Earlier tonight we had a breach in our Domain, just outside the perimeter of Saint Paul.”

“A rogue Lasombra?”

“Worse.”

Arno handed her a small object: a calling card, not so dissimilar to the one that she herself had seen used by her own father when she was still alive. Dorothea took it and her lips thinned in a grimace of irritation as she recognizing the symbol filigreed on the heavy coarse paper: a rook holding a knight in its talons, bright yellow against a murky green background.

On the other side of the card, there was only one word: "tonight".

So garish.

So presumptious.

She knew precisely who was sending her that invitation.

“The galls and gumption of not even penning a proper invite! To say nothing of the lack of protocol! I am in no mood to meet that barbarian, tonight, nor any other night for that matter, and certainly not without him taking a bath first.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory of the stench of the Thames that always seemed to hang to the Baron like a tick to a dog’s coat. “Have my Senechal do the honors and oversee this affair as he sees fit, and have him report to me once the meeting is done and over.”

Arno shook his head with resignation.

“I am afraid it won’t be possible. Monsieur Kenway is…unavailable for the night, my Prince. Besides, the Baron reported that he will speak to no one but you, and made it quite clear that he won’t take no for an answer.”

Fighting the impulse to roll her eyes, Dorothea stood up with a fluid movement and sat at her vanity. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, scouring for something only she knew about, before opening a small wooden box containing her perfumes and dabbing the sweet orange flower fragrance along the side of her neck.

“Always so aggressive in his ways, so disrespectful of the Traditions that have uphold this whole Masquerade ever since the coming of the Dark Father. I see the past century has not helped assuage his temper nor made him any wiser than when he was fledgling jumping around the roofs of London. His unruliness is what caused his own downfall in this wretched unlife,” she murmured in annoyance, starting to brush each of her golden white curls with meticulous care. “I always had a soft spot for his sister, you know: as much as she disliked me, I always thought her rather reasonable and quite agreeable. We were similar under many aspects. I was even given permission to Embrace her. She would have made for a fine Senechal in our Court, had it not been for that encounter with a Garou,”

Raising her gaze, she glanced again toward Arno, her eyes as cold as the winter wind that was blowing just outside the window. “Did he mention any particular reason for his haste?”

Arno hesitated for a moment, long enough for Dorothea to notice.

“He did not say his motives but-”

Dorothea narrowed her eyes, turning toward him.

“-But your instinct tells you that there is something there.”

“Correct. I have known Jacob-“

The young woman hissed and snarled through gritted teeth.

“Do not utter his name here!”

“Forgive me, Prince. For a moment, I forgot,” he murmured softly. “As I was saying, I have known the Baron for as long as you have, but never had I seen him so..distressed. Considering that he was willing to risk his neck coming straight into our domain in person, without any mediator, I gather that whatever is worrying him, it might have the potential to be a danger for us as well.” He weighted his next words carefully, before speaking.” It could be worth listening to what he has to say.”

Dorothea let out a long breath.

There was truth in her Sheriff’s words, a truth she didn’t want to agree with, at least not wholeheartedly.

She hadn’t spoken to the Baron in over seventy years, not since the Blitz in the 40s, not a single word passed directly between the two of them.

He had tried - oh, if he had tried to speak with her.

But she had closed herself to any form of dialogue with him.

Up until that point.

As her mind was frantically running around, trying to find an anchor to center her thoughts, she pursed her lips even more: she was nervous. Anxious.

He made her nervous.

The idea of seeing his face again, hear his voice again, rendered her nervous.

And there was nothing in the world that she hated the most as feeling nervous.

Yet, she could not risk the safety of her Court because of her uneasiness.

“Very well, then.” She murmured, taking one of her own calling cards and a plume and starting to carve an invitation with impeccable calligraphy. ”With Haytham absent for the night, I will have to ask you, my Sheriff, to give the Baron my answer and bring him my invite to join us at the Elysium at the next full moon.” She said, underlining the last three words with voice that didn’t allow any kind of rebuttal.

If he wanted to meet her, so be it.

But it would be on her own terms.

Suddenly, her eyes lit up and a satisfied smile spread on her face.

“Might be a good idea to extend the invitation to the Italian Triumvirate as well.” she chuckled.

Arno furrowed his heavy brows, his lips turning thin in displeasure - something that didn’t elude Dorothea.

“Does this displease you, Arno?”

“The idea of having the Italians in our sacred abode doesn’t truly sit well with me. And to have a Anarch come into our sacred abode and wreak havoc? Even less so.”

Dorothea finished penning the invite, apposing her signature with fanciful swirls. Then she gave it to Arno.

“He will behave, I am sure. A proper scoundrel he may be, but even the Baron knows better than to break the Fifth Tradition in my Elysium. He asked to speak with me, but considering his lack of... specification of any particular condition, we will make those conditions for him. And if he won’t speak with anyone but me, then, I say, have him come to us. It will be also an occasion to show that our strength lies in our unified bond, and what better occasion to showcase this if not during one of our gathering?”

Arno’s mouth quirked in a grimace of disagreement.

“Ahh, I see. So, now it is indeed my Primogen talking to me now, not my loyal Sheriff. Very well, Arno of the Clan of the Rose: what is it that is causing that deep wrinkle on your forehead?”

“Lucia. Why calling upon her as well? One renegade at the time is enough.”

Dorothea smiled benevolently, flashing her fangs as she did so.

“Because you see, brother of my soul, there is something that you do not know about the Baron.”

Arno raised his eyebrows, silently asking her to continue.

Dorothea chuckled, but there was no warmth in her laughter.

“Something happened in his early days as Kindred, something that left him with a level of aberration for the Tremere that rivals only the hate the Tzimisce have for them. He swore on his sister’s grave that he would never allow any of the Thaumaturges to even come close to his territories, let alone associate with him. And it is not only this, oh no! If he “just” abhors the Tremere, he is absolutely terrified of Lucia for the hand she had in what he had witnessed.”

Arno nodded, his long hair brushing his cheek as he did so: he could definitely see why Jacob would be terrified of Lucia, if the rumors around her coincided with the truth. (……………)

“Very well, if this is all, I will leave you return to your duties-“

“I….this is not all, my Prince,”Arno stood where he was, his eyes turning even darker than what they had been when he was alive.”I saw you today, not long before sunrise. Outside of that studio, waiting under the rain.”

She gripped the brush in her hands, catching herself at the last moment so not to pulverize it, her jaw tightening.

“Your point?”

“I am not one to tell you what to do, my Prince, nor would I ever fathom your motives. But the Court will start asking… questions, if they were to get a hint of why you have gathered such keen interest in a particular kine.”

Dorothea didn’t answer, not right away at least.

She took a long breath, even though she didn’t need to.

It just felt like something she would have done, had she been human.

Human.

Something she hadn’t been for more than 150 years.

As if on cue, she felt The Beast stirring up withink, somewhere deep in her abdomen, brushing its sharp talon against her still heart, its breathing hot against her neck, whispering, a soft, seducing murmur ever present in all her waking moments: a monster constantly lurking for the mere hint of weakness to exploit and destroy whatever humanity she had still left in her.

She touched the small ampule hanging over her breasts, the blood turned dark by the decades past.

All that she had left of him that still somehow anchored her to her last remnants of who she had been once alive.

“How long have you been following me, Arno?”

“Long enough to notice a pattern in these “excursions” of yours, Dorlé, and long enough to know that what you are doing to yourself will only cause your soul to wither further away. He is not him.”

Dorothea’s face stood still, her eyes never leaving the man’s own brown irises, not a single emotion transpiring from either of them.

But no amount of temperance and composure could stop the single tear -carmine, pristine like a ruby, the only tears their kind could shed- rolling down her cheek before she had the time to stop it.

“You are wrong,” she whispered, as the man she had know her entire undead life came closer to her and gently patted away her tear with his handkerchief. “I know that it could not be possible, that it should not be possible. But Arno, you know - you know why I cannot be deceived. I know what I saw. I know what I heard. And it was real. Real.”

The man let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping a little at the thought of the man that had been his brother in all but blood.

“Dorlé… you said it yourself. It cannot be possible. Mathias-“ Arno swallowed hard, the lump in his throat gripping. He hadn’t uttered that name in almost a hundred years, and the pain was still too much to bear at the memories, the very same that, he knew, haunted Dorothea each time she fed. “Mathias is gone. He is in God’s arms now, and no matter how much this man resembles him, he is not him.”

Grief screamed inside Dorothea’s chest, her own anguish shrieking in her ears, an echo of her own voice that reached from across the mists of time. She felt Arno’s hands on her shoulders, as he rested his brow against hers, locking eyes with hers in the hope to force both their minds to block the memories of the last moments of Mathias on that Earth.

“Arno, I beg you to understand…you have seen him. I know you have. He has his voice. His eyes, his hair, his hands..his smile! Even his scent resembles the one he used to have! Everything that made me human, everything that moved me when I was still alive is screaming at me that the man I saw was him, returned to me! How can I ignore such call? How can I-”

Arno’s brown eyes softened in pity.

“You cannot. And I cannot stop you from doing what you think it is right for you, Dorlé, even if it pains me to see you in this state. But the Court might not share this sentiment, and you know that.”

She closed her eyes, lips stretching in a grimace of pain. None of the stillness of their kind was to be found on her face, but all the pain of sufference that belonged to humanity.

“Do you ever wish to be able to dream again?” she asked.

Arno lowered his face, shutting his eyes to keep at bay his own pain, always threatening to overflow from his unbeating heart.

He decided to listen to her instead: it was easier to focus on her pain than face his own.

Her memories, she would often say, were her most prized possession and her most lethal weapon, sharp as the edge of a double knife.

And yet he knew that being an active participant of her shared pain was a right she had bestowed only upon one person in her unlife, and he was one that person.

He still remember, clear as if it had happened the day before, when he found her, still a fledgling, hidden in the catacombs beneath Paris, scared to her wits, with no memories of who her Sire was nor how she came to be welcomed in the Embrace.

Yet, as they started to walk the Earth together and he brought her deeper and deeper in his world, they came to consider each other the brother and the sister that neither had had once alive.

The fact that fate would have soon joined them by the same kind of pain, born out of the same sufferance, was also the reason why he knew he was the only person in the entire world that she trusted completely with her thoughts.

“No. Not really,” he murmured, closing again the door of the bedroom. “When I lay down and await to plummet into the nothingness, I feel all memories coming back to me, clearer than I wished them to be. And I don’t want them. I don’t want that pain anymore. So no, I don’t want my thoughts to be anything but what I choose to think about, and dreams have the pesky peculiarity of coming unsummoned.”

Dorothea nodded as she listened carefully, her gaze turning sad as a small smile touched her lips.

“I am grateful for the lack of nightmares,” she whispered. “Although the memories of them are dimmer than I remember, they used to plague my mortal life. But the nothingness still terrifies me. You know, when I was alive, I always believed that through dreams we could somehow return to the people we lost. Eyes meeting eyes even if it is never to touch again. I hoped to see Mathias again, to find the comfort of his embrace at least when I am drifting away. But after having been turned-“ she sighed as she looked up to the ceiling. “How cruel it is having to face this emptiness alone for all eternity,”

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

MONDAY DRAFT?

MONDAY WIP?

MONDAY "ALMOST ALL CHAPTER"?

I have no idea how to call this post, just that OMG I AM SO HAPPY TO BE ABLE TO SHARE IT WITH YOU ALL.

Again, it's just a draft, and while I do multiple revisions of all my drafts while writing, sometimes mistakes escapes me, so please bear with me <3

I am sorry for the angst festival, but I PROMISE THAT IT BECOMES A BIT SWEETER. While I can write angst quite easily, I can't not reward everyone with FLUFF.

Well, I hope you will like this, just as much as I loved writing it! (and omg the fun I had to design the banner! I am such a sucker for vampire stuff, honestly).seriously, I went like a train while writing this, and it hasn't happened in FOREVER!! SO I TRULY HOPE YOU WILL LIKE THIS!!

--Nemo

[celluloidrainbow]

ET MOURIR DE PLAISIR (1960) dir. Roger Vadim Carmilla is torn emotionally by the engagement of her friend Georgia to her cousin Leopoldo, and it is hard to tell which party truly holds the better part of her unrequited emotions. During the masquerade ball celebrating the upcoming marriage, a fireworks display accidentally explodes some munitions lost at the site in World War II, disturbing an ancestral catacomb. Carmilla wanders into the ruins, where a tomb holding her legendary ancestor, her namesake, opens. A young woman dressed in white returns to Leopoldo's estate as the last guests depart, but is it really Carmilla? (link in title)

[drac-kool-aid]

Ok, so more on the doubling aspect of gothic fiction, as I feel it important to bring up what Bram's intentions were with the act of impersonation he has Dracula commit.

Spoiler alert: It's Racism.

Ok, so the loss of identity is frightening, right? Even in the modern day and age, your identity being stolen and used to nefarious ends is a great concern. It is, of course, heavily tied with financial concerns nowadays, though, as it usually involves a loss of significant income and a long arduous legal battle to regain some of your losses, if any.

But in Dracula, well, on the surface, it's still about a loss of identity and the loss of control that comes with it. The one-two punch of Dracula using Jonathan's identity to post the letters and to steal the child, thus cutting him off from aid of the villagers, is, of course, a horrifying exploration of Dracula's continued abuse. We know that, at least for Dracula, his intent with these actions is to further trap Jonathan (mentally and physically) with him in the castle, cutting off any avenues of escape.

But that isn't exactly Bram's intent. See, the horror of Dracula's impersonation of Jonathan isn't just Jonathan's personal loss of identity, the horror (to your average Victorian) would also be that a non-British person, a foreigner, is able to seamlessly masquerade as a British man.

And, it's not just the supernatural doubling occurring in this one scene. Let us not forget that Dracula has a library of books on Britain, that he first engaged Jonathan in their nightly long conversations, so to practice his English. English, that he wishes to practice until his accent disappears.

Nowadays, our reading of those scenes in the beginning focuses on the xenophobia from a different direction, that of the transplanted person, sympathizing with Dracula in a way (based on the posts I saw circulating when those days were released). Now, our concerns center around how it is unfairly expected for those who become expatriates to perfectly don the guise of their new home, sanding off anything that might denote them as "other". This isn't the wrong read, and that is a very important thing to consider because it is a very real and valid concern. Also, cause it's a hell of a lot less racist than what the concern was for the Victorians.

The Victorians saw someone who wasn't British (and I am using British here deliberately, as this fear extended towards anyone not British, like the Irish) learning to become British, to seamlessly join their society, and therefore work whatever "evils" they may upon them from the inside. Their fear, simply, is that they might not be able to tell the non-British from the British anymore, thus erasing any sort of idea of being inherently extraordinary.

For context, London has developed into the melting pot of different cultures it is today (fuelled, of course, by the rapid expansion of the British Empire), and the Victorians were getting a little nervous with the idea that the "British Identity" was expanding. Y'know, classic racism.

(That is not to say that Britain wasn't home to people from all races and cultures before Victorian era, just that the average Victorian was starting to notice.)

Americans were sort of the exception, in that by this point, British aristocrats were marrying American heiresses in order to fill empty ancestral coffers. By exception, I should say, accepted to an extent and expected to drop some of their more American traits, and thus nominally become British, with the caveat that they were (of course) not truly British.

Notice how the Victorians assumed everyone wanted to be them?

(Not quite counting Quincy here as no one would ever mistake him as anything but Texan, and in fact, he plays up his non-Britishness and thus is not a threat)

Anyway, tl;dr, Dracula's symbolic doubling of Jonathn is actually steeped in racism and xenophobia, and the Victorians were kind of assholes about anyone who wasn't both white and born in Britain claiming to be British.

[pannaginip]

Hundreds of families belonging to the Dumagat tribe lambasted the Department of Environment and Natural Resources for its failure to protect the Upper Marikina River Protected Landscape [UMRPL] and their ancestral domain from land grabbers masquerading as environmental advocates.

Alex Bendaña, chieftain of the Dumagat-Remontado group in Sitio San Ysiro, Barangay San Jose, Antipolo City, expressed fear over what he claimed as an aggressive effort to shoo them away from their “home” in view of moves to abolish the Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act.

A check on the records showed that the UMRPL alone accounts for 26,126 hectares. However, continued forest and habitat degradation, caused mainly by illegal tree cutting, construction of residential subdivisions and establishment of commercial establishments effectively reduced the watershed area by at least 408 hectares a year.

As for the Dumagat-Remontado ancestral domain, the group said that their area has been slashed by more than half following the memorandum of aggreement entered into by the late DENR Secretary Gina Lopez with the Blue Star Construction and Development Corporation (later renamed as Masungi Georeserve) in 2017.

2024 Jan. 19

[hopewrought]

ace of pentacles; ffxiv verse

The Hawke family are displaced from their home village when it is decimated by voidsent. Malcolm Hawke, Bethany's father and a thaumaturge, is killed during their escape. They make their way to Limsa Lominsa seeking a fresh start and Bethany's elder sibling takes quickly to a life of piracy, somewhat dragging her along with them though she eventually chooses a life of slightly more questionable means as an adventurer.

Like her father before her, Bethany is also a thaumaturge and pursues the path of the black mage after she and her siblings investigate the Amell ancestral home where their mother was born. This once-grand estate had been reduced to a hub for slavers and after taking them all out, Bethany discovered a cache left for her by her grandmother and namesake, Bethann. In it was the woman's wedding band and soul crystal, revealing that she had been a black mage herself once.

Her precision and control over flames in particular attracts the attention of an ascian seeking a new, powerful vessel. Lahabrea (specific to @contemptim) attempts to possess her but Bethany proves his match, with the two of them struggling for control. Through his memories and fragmented psyche, she is able to glean that the ascians are working with the Garlean Empire and thus she has a new goal - to thwart their plans.

This draws her into conflict with (@contemptim's) Zenos; assuming he is merely a Garlean general and not the crown prince. After a battle that is frustratingly inconclusive she resolves to get stronger and channels her focus into learning to wield more powerful spells. She also returns to her family's destroyed former home and retrieves her father's staff, Bloodline, carved with two intertwining dragons.

Recruited into the defense of Ala Mhigo when it is under attack by the empire, Bethany encounters Zenos again; this time masquerading in the form of an elezen Ala Mhigan soldier. She defeats Zenos, but unbeknownst to her he is able to possess an Imperial soldier instead.

More TBA I haven't played SHB or EW yet 😭

Bethany is not a WoL but she is still very powerful! I'd love to write her as a companion of the WoL's

I will be working in Corypheus as a voidsent somehow as a personal quest for her

Mirza's Lahabrea and Zenos are exclusives for this verse

Upon becoming a black mage she eschews her usual signature white in favour of some gothy drip, example image below cut

[ciegeinc]

Movie Review...The Beast Within

(3/5)

In the shadowed realm where werewolves tread, ‘The Beast Within’ emerges—a film that deftly intertwines the monstrous and the mundane. However, beneath its supernatural facade lies a poignant exploration of domestic violence, veiled by fur and fangs.

‘The Beast Within’ cleverly employs the werewolf motif as a metaphor for hidden brutality. Just as these creatures masquerade as humans, so too does the film don a dual identity: part monster movie, part domestic drama. From a child’s eyes, the transformation of an abusive father into a literal monster resonates. The fear, the vulnerability—it all aligns. Yet, this dual lens requires delicate handling.

While the film successfully navigates this thematic tightrope, certain scenes remain cryptic. The blood-soaked arrival of the antagonist and the scene where he is chained demands explanation. Is it symbolic, literal, child’s imagination? Clarity here would elevate the narrative.

‘The Beast Within’ deserves credit for its unflinching portrayal of domestic violence. It reframes the monstrous within the everyday, forcing us to confront the horrors lurking behind closed doors. However, pacing falters. Moments drag, leaving us yearning for a tighter script. The film’s potential remains untapped.

As a reviewer, I appreciate the film’s unique lens. It sheds light on a crucial issue while wrapped in supernatural intrigue. Yet, pacing missteps dull its impact. ‘The Beast Within’ wears its dual masks well, but it occasionally slips. Perhaps, like the moon, it waxes and wanes—sometimes luminous, sometimes obscured.

Ten-year-old Willow follows her parents on one of their secret late-night treks to the heart of an ancient forest. After witnessing her father undergo a terrible transformation, she too becomes ensnared by the dark ancestral secret that they've so desperately tried to conceal.

[pwlanier]

Duein Fubara (Ancestor Memorial Screen)

By: Adenike Cosgrove

The Kalabari Ijo began creating ancestral screens during the nineteenth century as a way to honour, memorialise and communicate with deceased leaders of 'war canoe houses'. Called duein fubara (sometimes written as duen), the name of these memorials translates to 'forehead of the dead'. Its meaning originates from the Kalabari Ijo’s belief that the so, the fate that governs a person’s fortunes, resides in one’s forehead.

The duein fubara are installed inside a trading house’s primary meetinghouse. These ancestral screens take on a sculptural quality, intended to provide a form of mediation. The sculptural quality of the duein fubara fixes its position, allowing a means by which control may be exerted over disembodied spiritual beings.

The screens have elaborate designs, perhaps to recall the material, social and personal wealth of the tycoons who headed these trading houses. The imagery of these screens typically depicts ancestors of chief lineages. The intricate construction of these devices is telling of the immense amount of cultural exchange that the Kalabari Ijo experienced as a result of centuries of trade.

European vessels arrived at the coast of the Niger Delta in the late fifteenth-century. European practices influenced the Kalabari Ijo’s artistic practices, as evidenced by the construction and shape of these screens. The rectangular format might suggest exposure to European prints and photographs. The joinery is indicative of the Kalabari Ijo’s knowledge of European carpentry.

Around 1915, Garrick Braide, an iconoclastic Kalabari Christian prophet, destroyed numerous ancestral masks. However, duein fubara are still being produced to this day with offerings made to them at least once every eight days.

Distinguishing Features

Made of wood, strips of bamboo, wicker, pigment, and iron

Strips and wood tied or nailed to rectangular background

Screens made of pieces of wood held together using shipbuilding techniques such as joinery, ties, pegs, and nails

Central figure attached to middle of screen (representing deceased leader)

Size of the main figure's head is greatly exaggerated

Central figure flanked by smaller descendant figures

Figures face front

Figures have limbs attached to body by raffia

Figures usually dressed in Indian cloth and depicted wearing headdresses (or European-style top hats)

Figures hold accessories (associated with authority, rivalry, or war)

Most also wear miniature masquerade headpieces

Heads attached to top of screen (representing members of traders' guild or Ekine secret society)

Traces of colour pigment on some screens

IMO DARA

Connecting African art collectors with dealers and scholars, based on a foundation of

knowledge about the origin, use & distinguishing features of listed pieces.

[kmomof4]

A Mistress to No One Part 2 Ch4

We are back, y’all! Part 2 begins with a bang and our favorite couple are reunited... sorta... Thank you all for coming along on this journey with me! I so hope you enjoy this new chapter and would love to hear what you think!

All the love and thanks to the ladies who helped in some way to bring this fic to fruition. @hollyethecurious​, for whom it was written, @jrob64​ and @zaharadessert​ for their betaing expertise as well as being sounding boards and plot buddies, and @motherkatereloyshipper​ for her manips of Leroy and Astrid, and Killian in the artwork. And another thank you to @jrob64​ for keeping her up WAY past her bed time as she helped me revamp the artwork... 

Summary: Bastard Emma Swan enjoys one night of pure magic and romance in the midst of a life of drudgery and abuse- attending a masquerade ball and meeting aristocrat Killian Jones. 

Two years later, the same man she met on the best night of her life reappears, saving her from a dire fate in the process. Now, she must keep herself from falling in love with a man she can never have. But when that proves impossible, is there any hope for a happy ending between two people from such vastly different worlds?

Rating: M (smut in a later ch)

Words: 5100 of approx 61,6k

Tags: Birthday Fic, Inspired by Benedict’s Story in Bridgerton, Smut, TW for this chapter only- attempted sexual assault

On ao3 from the beginning/ current ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3

New Tag List! Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@jrob64​ @teamhook​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @xarandomdreamx​ @undercaffinatednightmare​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian​ @pirateprincessofpizza​ @tiganasummertree​ @anmylica​ @cosette141​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @zaharadessert​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @jennjenn615​ @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713​ @kymbersmith-90​ @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ @wistfulcynic​ @mie779​ @snowbellewells​ @lfh1226-linda​ @aprilqueen84​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @pirateherokillian​ @elfiola​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @poptart-cat-78​ @myfearless-love​ @goforlaunchcee​ @searchingwardrobes​ @gingerpolyglot​ @gingerchangeling​ @djlbg​ @cocohook38​ @cs-rylie​ @thisonesatellite​ @donteattheappleshook​ @deckerstarblanche​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @fleurdepetite​

Under the cut unless Tumblr ate it.

Two Years Later

Alcohol and cigars. Card games and lots of women, both hired and not. It was just the kind of party Killian would have enjoyed more than a few years back, but it had little appeal for him now.

How he’d gotten roped into coming, he still couldn’t understand. It was a case of a friend of a friend inviting him to a party held by one Neal Gold, a distant acquaintance simply by virtue of their social standing. What he did know of the man didn’t impress Killian at all. He hadn’t seen his own friend for the last several hours and Killian decided he’d had enough.

Good manners demanded that he find his host and inform him of his departure, but he’d been searching for the man for almost ten minutes, and still hadn’t located him. Going back into the house from the back gardens of the country estate, Killian turned toward the parlor where a high stakes card game was in progress. One of the men was sweating profusely. Probably a single card away from losing his family’s ancestral home. Killian shook his head. He hated card games like these where the stakes were higher than the participants could afford.

A little further on, he could hear rhythmic grunts and moans coming from behind a closed door. Killian rolled his eyes. At least they’d had the presence of mind to shut the door before commencing with their activities.

If he didn’t find Neal Gold in the next five minutes, he was leaving, good manners be damned. He came across a couple of fairly sloshed party goers who informed him that their host, whom they barely remembered, was out front. As Killian left them to their revelry, he could hear them singing Neal Gold’s praises for his excellent hospitality. He crossed to the front door, thinking he could be gone in five minutes time. It put him in a much better mood.

~*~*~

It was high time Emma Swan found a new position of employment. It had been two years since she’d been kicked out of her own home. Two years since she’d been forced to be completely on her own. When she left Spencer House that June morning, she’d immediately pawned the shoe clips she’d taken from Cora’s closet. They’d brought her enough money to buy a ticket to Wiltshire, where she’d been lucky to find employment quickly as an upstairs maid to Robert and Milah Gold. An ordinary couple, they expected good work from their servants, but did not demand the impossible. After slaving for Cora for so many years, this job was a virtual vacation.

All that changed when their son, Neal, returned home from his European tour, about a year after she’d arrived. He’d immediately taken a shine to Emma and did everything in his power to coerce her into his bed. When his subtle hints and innuendos were rebuffed, he got more aggressive.

As long as Mrs. Gold was in residence, Emma felt safe enough. She didn’t think Neal would attack her with his mother in the house. But then Mr. and Mrs. Gold decided earlier in the week to visit relatives in Brighton, and Neal decided to throw a party for a couple dozen of his closest friends.

She should have left as soon as her employers did, but she couldn’t bring herself to simply leave without giving notice. She changed her mind when she spent the first few hours after they were gone, literally running away and hiding from Neal Gold. Once he was gone from the room where she’d hidden herself this time, Emma snuck out, packed her bag, informed the thankfully sympathetic housekeeper, and slipped out the side entrance of the house.

It was a two mile hike to the village, but the moon was full and the evening pleasant. She was in much better financial circumstances than she’d been in two years before, so she set out with determination and a bounce in her step. She came around the front of the house and stepped onto the front drive when she heard a raucous cry. She turned around and her jaw dropped in horror.

Neal Gold. Obviously drunk, looking even meaner than usual, and surrounded on either side by two others, who looked even more drunk than he was. Emma turned, gathered her skirts and the cloak she wore, and ran. She hoped he was drunk enough that he’d be unable to catch her, but he was several inches taller than her and carried no burden like she did. He must have taken her flight as a challenge, because she heard him whoop with delight from behind her and then begin pursuing her on the gravel of the drive.

Her heart was in her throat as she could hear him drawing closer and she cried out when his hand landed on her shoulder and dragged her against him. They were both out of breath from the pursuit but his arms around her were like iron as she struggled in his embrace.

“Let me go, Mr. Gold!” she demanded, trying desperately to keep the fear out of her voice.

“Oh, I don’t think I will, Emma,” he whispered in her ear, his nose running up and down her neck. His words were slurred, but they were dripping with lust and Emma knew she was about to be raped. “What do you think, boys? Peter? Felix? Should I let the lady go?”

“Oh, hell no,” the taller of the two said. Emma shut her eyes against their leering twin gazes. “Although, ‘lady’ might be a bit above her station,” he added.

“Too right,” Neal agreed. “This one is a maid, and as we all know, that breed is made to serve.” All three of them laughed and Emma felt herself pushed forward. She stumbled before she hit another solid wall of male flesh. “Have a look at the goods, my lads.”

Emma felt the bile rise in her throat as whoever held her fondled her with rough hands. She was pushed again, into the arms of the third, but before he could do more than snake his arm around her waist, she heard a loud voice from the direction of the house.

“Gold,” the voice called. Emma tried to contain her terror and despair. Dear God! Weren’t three enough?

“Jones,” Neal called. Emma’s eyes flew open. “Come join us!” Neal sounded much more sober now and quite delighted with himself.

Jones? Emma thought. She turned toward the house to see a tall, well built man coming toward them. The lights from the house kept his face in shadow, but somehow she knew exactly who it was.

“What have we here?” the man asked.

Dear God in heaven, she’d know that voice anywhere. The one that haunted her dreams. It was Killian Jones.

~*~*~

Killian emerged onto the front portico and took a deep breath. The night air was cool and free from the smoke he’d been forced to endure while inside. He opened his eyes and could see movement of several people further down the drive, but he was too far to see who it was. He moved down the front steps and ambled in their direction.

“Gold!” he called, hoping that if one of the persons was not Gold himself, they’d at least know where to find him.

“Jones,” a voice replied. “Come join us!”

Killian moved a bit faster, pleased to have found his host at last. As he came closer he could see that Gold and his companions were surrounding a young woman. She wasn’t dressed like one of the guests of the party, and so he assumed she must be a servant. He wasn’t yet close enough to discern whether she was enjoying the attentions of the men around her, but if she wasn’t, he had far too many younger sisters to ignore her plight.

“What have we here?” he asked as he could finally see the faces of all four persons. The young woman’s face was utterly terrified, and Killian’s fury rose. One of the men had his arm snaked around her waist, holding her tightly against him, her back to his front. He could see the man’s other hand groping and kneading the girl’s ass.

“Just a bit of sport,” Neal answered. “My parents were kind enough to hire this prime specimen as an upstairs maid.”

Killian took a deep breath, keeping a very tight lid on his rage. He didn’t doubt that he could make very short work of all three men, but it was always better to hold those passionate emotions close to the vest, keeping his adversaries blind to exactly how much danger they were in.

“She does not seem to be enjoying your attentions,” Killian murmured.

Neal scoffed. “She’s enjoying it just fine,” he said, grinning lecherously. “Fine enough for me, anyway.”

“But not for me,” Killian said, stepping closer to where the girl was still held tightly around the waist.

“You can have a turn with her,” the man holding her said, “just as soon as we’re done.”

Killian chuckled lightly. “No, you misunderstand.” He moved into the man’s space and looked him square in the eye, a hard edge to his voice that even someone as drunk as he was should be able to understand. “Release the girl.” He watched as the man’s countenance ran through lust, humor, confusion, and finally to understanding. “I don’t want to fight you. And believe me when I say, you do not want to fight me.” The man’s eyes skittered over to where Neal Gold still stood, sputtering in his anger.

“You can’t just come in here and take her away from us!”

Killian raised an eyebrow. “And why not? I don’t believe rape is legal in this country. And I’m quite confident in my assessment that that is what you intended to do. Am I right?”

“She’s my maid and she has to do what I say,” Neal insisted, sounding more like a petulant child than a man.

“She’s your parents’ maid, you jackass,” Killian replied. “So no, she doesn’t have to do what you say.” None of the men moved to release the girl, so Killian rolled his eyes before his right fist shot out, catching the empty handed young man square in the face. He fell to the ground, blood spurting from his broken nose as he howled into the night sky.

Neal moved toward him then, his fist poised to strike. Killian caught it in his hand and twisted hard to the right until he heard the bone crack, bringing Neal to his knees. Killian released the man’s fist and readied his own punch, knocking Neal out cold. Killian turned to where the third man still held the girl against him. As soon as he caught Killian’s gaze, he released her, his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Get out of my sight,” Killian growled. The man needed no other urging. He turned and fled, leaving Neal and the other man still on the ground.

Killian turned to the young woman. “Are you alright?”

She was still too terrified to speak, and so nodded instead.

“Do you need to pack anything?” He noticed then a small bag laying on the ground. “Is this yours?” he asked, picking it up and handing it to her. She nodded, still looking like a rabbit caught in a snare.

He held his elbow out to her and waited until she looped her own through it. “Come with me,” he said, patting her hand in comfort. “I assume you were leaving the Gold household when they caught you?” he asked, looking down at her. She nodded again.

Killian inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. She was still in a bit of shock after her ordeal and Killian thanked God he had come along when he did. “Where were you going? Do you know?” When she only shook her head in answer, he stopped them in the middle of the drive.

“I planned to journey to My Cottage, which is about an hour away to spend the night before returning to London tomorrow. I can take you with me, if you’d like. I’m sure I could find employment for you in my mother’s household in London.” He couldn’t see her eyes very well under the full moon, but he could see them widen slightly in surprise at his offer. “I assure you, you’ll be properly chaperoned while at My Cottage. The caretakers, Mr. and Mrs. Miner, will not allow anything untoward to happen.” He paused for a moment to see if she would respond verbally. When she didn’t, he spoke again, injecting as much calm and sincerity into his words as possible. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

She looked up and into his eyes, and he had the strangest feeling that he knew her somehow.

Her voice was no more than a whisper and if he hadn’t been standing so close to her, he would have missed her words.

“I know.”

~*~*~

Ten minutes later, Emma sat next to Killian Jones in his phaeton on their way to his cottage. She was still having trouble coming to terms with this sudden chain of events, and an apparent reversal in her fortunes.

When Neal caught her, she’d never felt such terror in her life. At the very least, she knew he planned to use her to fulfill his base desires, and then pass her around to his companions as if she was nothing more than a hired whore. Her stomach still churned with anxiety over the fate from which Killian had saved her.

And then there was Killian himself. The moment she recognized his voice, she couldn’t contain her shock and dismay. When she’d met him two years prior, he didn’t seem the type to attend these kinds of gatherings, filled with debauchery and depravity. But then, she’d only spent a couple of hours with him. And just because she felt a connection with him- a soul deep connection she’d never felt with anyone before- didn’t mean that she knew what kind of man he truly was. But he had saved her. That was irrefutable fact.

“Thank you.”

He turned his head to her, startled. “For what?”

She turned and stared at him. Did he truly not know? Emma prided herself on being able to tell when someone was lying to her, and as she searched his face, she saw no artifice, no cunning or craftiness there to contradict the plain meaning of his words.

“You saved me,” she explained. “I don’t think I adequately expressed my sincere appreciation for that. Three against one, most men wouldn’t have intervened.”

“I have four younger sisters,” he told her. “There’s no way under heaven I would have left you to your plight.”

“Still,” she looked down at her hands clasping the small bag that held everything she owned. “It meant everything to me.” She turned and looked at him again. “Thank you.”

He held her eyes a moment before speaking. “You’re welcome, Miss…?”

“Swan,” she informed him. “Miss Emma Swan.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Emma Swan,” he said, a smile on his lips. “I am Mr. Killian Jones.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Killian Jones.” She returned his smile with one of her own and tried very hard to tamp down her racing heart. She never thought she’d see him again, and sitting here next to him now, on her way to his cottage, and presumably to London on the morrow to be employed in his mother’s household, all the dreams she’d had of him came flooding back.

There hadn’t been a single day in the last two years she hadn’t thought of him. It was the only thing that brought any joy to her drab and dreary existence. Her dreams ran from the impossible to the purely fantastical. Meeting him at a ball thrown by her loving and devoted parents, followed by a true and genteel courtship. Or, Killian Jones finding her somehow, recognizing her as the lady he taught to dance at his mother’s masquerade ball, and saving her from a life of servitude. Of course, the dream ending the same way they all did- him sinking to one knee before her, declaring his everlasting love and devotion, and asking for her hand in marriage. Followed, of course, by several children. All born within the sanctity of marriage. It was a lovely thought.

But this reality was far different. Yes, he had saved her from a fate worse than death, but he didn’t recognize her. At all. And when she thought about it, she realized there was no real reason for him to recognize her.

Two years ago, a mask had covered half her face and she was dressed like a princess. There was a world of difference between that night and this. She looked down at her clothing- a simple cream, woolen dress covered with a dark blue cloak that tied at the neck. People saw what they expected to see, and there was no trace of the fairytale princess from two years ago in the appearance of a humble housemaid this night.

“You have a very refined accent for a housemaid,” he said suddenly.

She wasn’t terribly surprised at his statement, as she’d heard it often over the years. As such, she had a stock answer already prepared.

“My mother was a housekeeper and the family she worked for was very kind and generous, allowing me to take lessons with their daughters.”

Killian’s eyebrow raised slightly and he nodded in understanding. “I assume you’re not speaking of the Gold’s,” he said.

Emma shook her head. “No.”

“What made you leave?”

Emma tried to contain her surprise. No one had ever cared enough to seek more information about her upbringing. It took her a moment to come up with something that made sense.

“My mother passed on and I didn’t get along with the new housekeeper,” she finally settled on.

“I see.”

They both fell silent for a time, the only sounds the whistling of the wind and the clip clop of the horses’ hooves on the road. Emma looked up, noticing the full moon was now obscured by clouds.

“Was that a raindrop?” she asked as she ran her hand across the top of her head where something had just landed.

Killian looked toward the sky. “It didn’t look like rain when we left, but I do believe you’re right.”

“How far are we from this cottage of yours?”

“Still about thirty minutes, I believe.”

Although she didn’t relish getting caught out of doors in a storm, Emma smiled.

“I don’t mind a little rain,” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “There are far worse things than getting wet.” They both knew exactly what she spoke of.

It was only moments later that the skies opened, drenching them both in just a few minutes.

“I’ll get there as fast as I can,” Killian shouted over the wind and rain.

“Don’t worry about me,” Emma shouted back. Killian looked over at her and saw the way she clutched her arms and hunched in on herself, trying to present as small a target for the furious weather as possible.

“Let me give you my coat,” he shouted again, trying to get an arm out while still controlling the horses with the other.

Emma laughed. “That will only make me wetter,” she observed, “with it as soaked as it is.”

Killian shrugged in acquiescence and flicked the reins for the horses to pick up the pace. But the road was becoming muddy now and he sighed in annoyance.

This was just what he needed. He’d had a bloody awful head cold all last week that he’d just recovered from- he probably could’ve used it as an excuse to avoid Gold’s party, if he’d thought of it. But then, he wouldn’t have been there to save Emma, so he couldn’t truly regret it- and now driving through a blinding, freezing rainstorm was likely to set him flat on his back again.

Although, if he was forced to stay at My Cottage for more than just a single night, his mother wouldn’t be able to force him to attend every single party in town. Granted, she only wanted to see him happily settled down like Liam and Belle, but he knew the difference between his two beloved siblings and himself was that they had both married the right people- people they truly loved and were happy with. Killian, on the other hand, hadn’t met the right person yet.

Well… then again... His mind wandered back a couple of years to his mother’s masquerade ball. He had met someone that night. Someone who set his heart racing and made him believe that perhaps there was someone out there for him. As he led her in her very first waltz out there on the terrace, he felt a connection with her that he’d never known in all his born days. A desire, so much more than simple lust, a desire to know her, protect her, love her.

But her disappearance made that longing all but impossible to fulfill. It was as if she'd fallen off the face of the earth. Descending from heaven for that one night, making him think about his future for the first time in his life, filling him with hope, only to be snatched away and taken back to where she belonged.

When calling on the Spencer household looking for her proved fruitless, he’d had to simply look for her at every ball and social event of the season. And every season since. It had simply become part of who he was. He was Killian Jones. He had seven brothers and sisters, he was quite skilled with a sword and a drawing charcoal, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.

He knew she was out there somewhere, and while he also knew it was high time he married, he couldn’t quite muster up the enthusiasm to do so. What if he were to marry and the very next day, he found her? It’d be enough to break his heart.

No, it wouldn’t. It’d be enough to shatter his soul.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as the village near My Cottage came into sight. That meant they were only a very few minutes away and he flicked the reins again to get the horses to move just a bit faster. He couldn’t wait to get inside and into a warm bath.

He glanced at his companion, who shivered under the weather’s onslaught. She hadn’t offered a single word of complaint and he tried to think of any female of his acquaintance who would have held up to the elements with such fortitude and grace. He couldn’t think of a single one. Even Belle, who was as good of a sport as any, would have been howling about the cold by now.

“We’re almost there,” he shouted, moments before he was seized with a fit of coughing. The deep kind that rattled down in the bottom of one’s lungs. They felt like they were on fire and his throat felt as if a razor had been taken to it.

“Are you alright?” she shouted. He turned to look at her. Her face was filled with concern, but he couldn’t respond before another coughing fit took him.

Once he got control of himself, he tried to wave aside her concern. “I’m fine.” He flicked the reins again, trying to make up for the lack of direction when he’d been coughing.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Had a head cold last week,” he tried to explain before another round of deep coughs racked him. Damn, his lungs were sore. “Must have moved down.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “That does not sound like your head.” Another round of coughs took him and Emma reached for the reins. “Let me drive.”

He jerked his head toward her and the reins away from her. “I can drive!” he exclaimed, a bit indignant. His words were negated, however, when yet another deep seated cough overtook him. Emma reached for the reins again as he got himself under control. She flicked them and the horses picked up the pace.

“And how,” he said before being interrupted with another cough, “do you know how to drive a phaeton?”

“The same family I took lessons with,” she informed him.

“The lady of the house must have really liked you,” he observed.

Emma couldn’t quite hide her smirk as she remembered how Cora always vociferously objected when her father insisted that Emma receive the same lessons her girls did. All three of them had learned to drive a team the year before the earl died.

It was nice to find she could still do something from her previous life. There were some things you just didn’t forget how to do, she supposed. She’d worn fine clothes then, had good food to eat, and had interesting lessons. She sighed. It hadn’t been all bad.

“What’s wrong?” Killian shouted over the wind.

“Nothing,” she shouted back.

“You sighed.”

She turned incredulous eyes on him. “You could hear me over the wind?”

“I’ve been paying close attention.” He coughed deeply again. “I’m sick enough without you landing us in a ditch. Turn right right here.”

She took the turn without bothering to reply to his other statement.

“What’s the name of this cottage of yours?”

“My Cottage.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I might have known.”

Killian smirked. The effect was rather pitiful with as sick as he obviously was. “I’m not kidding.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she assured him. And sure enough, just a minute or two later, they arrived at the gate of an elegant country house, a small unassuming sign upon it which read ‘My Cottage’.

“The previous owner named the house,” Killian explained as he directed her to the stables. “But I thought it fit me as well.”

She looked at the house, which was not nearly as large as where they’d come from, but was by no means a humble dwelling. “You call this a cottage?”

“No, the previous owner did,” he replied. “You should have seen his other house.”

A few minutes later, they were out of the rain and Killian was trying to unhitch the team. His fingers were trembling with the cold.

“Here, let me help,” Emma said, stepping up beside him.

“I can do it,” he insisted.

“Of course, you can,” she placated him, “but it will go faster with help.”

They worked side by side until Killian was wracked with coughs once again. Emma didn’t like the rattle she heard coming from his chest, even after the coughing itself subsided. She took his arm and led him to a bench along the wall.

“Please sit down,” she begged him. “I can finish this.” To her surprise, he didn’t object.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Not very gentlemanly of me.”

“I think you can be excused given what you did earlier,” she told him. She tried to give him a smile, but for some reason it wobbled and she found that she was suddenly near tears. She turned back to the team, hoping he didn’t catch it. Her fingers trembled with the cold and a sudden barking sob escaped her.

Only a moment later, he was by her side and she was in his arms. He held her tightly as she cried, whispering soothing words in her ear, his hand rubbing circles along her back.

She cried for everything. She cried for what could have been her fate earlier this evening, she cried for her fate since she came to Spencer Hall all those years ago, she cried for the memory of being in his arms at the masquerade, and she cried for being in his arms right now.

She cried because he was so kind to her. Even though she was nothing to him- nothing but a housemaid- he still felt the need to care for her, to protect her. She cried because she hadn’t let herself cry in years and she cried because she was so alone.

Her tears finally subsided. Killian pulled back and looked her directly in the face. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded, because she did actually feel better.

“Good,” he said, before another deep cough seized him.

“We really need to get you inside, out of the rain,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Race you to the door.” Emma’s eyes widened in surprise, stunned that he had the strength to make a joke like that. But he was off like a shot and she took off after him. By the time she joined him under the covered front porch, she was laughing with the exertion and the sheer ridiculousness of running through the rain to get out of the rain when they were already soaked to the skin. Killian banged on the door.

“Don’t you have a key?” Emma shouted.

Killian shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on stopping.”

“Do you think the caretakers will even hear you?”

“I bloody well hope so,” he muttered.

Emma looked at the darkened windows of the first floor. “It seems very dark,” she observed. “Are you sure they’re even here?”

“I don’t know where else they’d be.”

Emma was starting to think there was no one here to let them in. “I think you might need to start looking for an open window.”

“Not necessary,” he told her. “I know where the spare key is kept.”

“Ok, why the frown then?”

He coughed several times and then sighed. “Because it means I have to go back out into the bloody storm.”

Emma knew he must be nearly to the end of his patience. He’d cursed twice in the last few minutes, and he didn’t seem the type to curse in front of a lady. Even a housemaid.

“Stay here.” He dashed back out into the rain and it was only a few minutes later that she heard the doorknob rattle from the inside. The door swung open revealing a dripping wet Killian Jones holding a candle. “I don’t know where Mr. and Mrs. Miner are, but they are definitely not here.”

“We’re alone?” she asked.

“Completely,” he confirmed.

“I- I’d better find the servants quarters,” she stammered. He grabbed her arm.

“Oh, no you won’t,” he growled.

“I won’t?”

He shook his head. “You, my dear, aren’t going anywhere.”

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! Still deciding whether to keep with the twice a week posting schedule or go to weekly, but I will tell you, if I don’t post the next ch on Wednesday, I WILL post a sneak peek. Until then, y’all!

[newsalvations]

event masquerade ball location the chateau

although lucretius wasn't particular fond of parties, the masquerade balls were one of the few exceptions to this rule. they reminded him of the decadent balls he attended all throughout europe— none came close to the masquerade balls of his ancestral home, venice. although he was a guest, lucky wanted to make sure the entire thing was as close to the ones he used to attend. luckily eve never disappointed.

lucky's mask was one he'd worn in the past, it looked like it was made of bronze and diamonds. the beautiful and intricate work proved that it was handmade and done with extreme care. the djinn wouldn't accept anything less, of course.

he was more social than normal, flirting with men and even found himself out on the dance floor with a few of the young men who really got his attention. the djinn had just finished dancing with a human boy and returning to his table, where one of his other prospects was waiting. "now, now— don't think i've forgotten about you." the djinns fingers ran along the others jawline, pushing it up so they made eye contact.

@unveilstarters

[kentuckycaverats]

new son boy!! introducing oisin mcdewey, 10th gen lasombra antitribu (independent).

(left: faceclaim, right: everything else)

oisin is born in ireland in 1681 and spends his late adolescence/early adulthood on the open seas as a pirate during the golden age of piracy. one night his ship is boarded by a sabbat pack that embraces about a quarter of the crew and leaves without any further guidance--a feeding frenzy ensues as the newly embraced contend with their beasts and learn via trial by fire how ghouling, blood bonds, feeding, and embracing come to be. oisin doesn't know who sired him, or if his sire even knows that they did; he dies being fed upon by his crewmates and wakes to the taste of vitae, but there are a handful of other such scenes taking place on the same deck - bit of a mamma mia situation. the surviving crew enjoys a few decades of unfettered violence, plundering, and raiding, and they are never formally claimed by the sabbat--but they are a sailing Masquerade breach and a huge problem for the camarilla. oisin's ship is eventually gunned down by a cam fleet and he washes up on the coast of italy alongside some of his torpored crewmates. they meet final death by sunlight and oisin just barely manages to drag himself into a cave to seek shelter in time.

he's found by a local child exploring the caves along the shore, and the well-meaning child brings him some hunted rabbits for food. oisin slurps his way through enough rabbits (so, so many rabbits) that when the child offers him some of their own blood, oisin is able to control his beast enough to not kill the kid. it's the first time oisin has fed from a willing victim, and the first kindness shown to him by anyone outside of his late crew, and he imprints on the kid almost immediateltly. their name is angelo de laurentiis and thus, a lifelong friendship is born. angelo comes from a long family line of morticians and practicioners of funeral rites, so death is nothing new to them, and oisin quickly adjusts to the taste of fresh corpses (graverobber predator type).

oisin spends many years trying to convince angelo to let him ghoul or embrace them, and for years they politely rebuff him. their humanity is important to them, and death is a part of life. they get sick, terminally so, in their 20s and finally acquiesce to being ghouled to buy some more time. even then, their relationship is one of equals, not of typical thrall and domitor. oisin sees angelo as his tether to humanity, something he'd forgotten about for several decades. he loves this mortal with all his heart. after another few decades, angelo is tired of not aging while their loved ones grow older, and they ask oisin to let them go, knowing that doing so will kill them. devastated, and unable as ever to say no to angelo, oisin obliges, and angelo elicits a final promise from him: that he will look out for their family once angelo is gone. it's a promise oisin has kept for generations.

in modern nights he is an ancilla, and his relationship with the de laurentiis family is a symbiotic one: his haven, and their ancestral family home, is the funeral home that they run. they are open 24 hours, with oisin handling the overnight matters. primarily, he is the live-in nanny--helping the kids with their homework, preparing dinners, taking care of laundry, scaring the absolute daylights out of any 8 year old who dares to bully one of his kids on the playground. the de laurentiis children have all grown up with him and don't fear him in the slightest; the bright, beaded necklaces he wears were hand-made for him by some of the little ones. they call him by his surname, mcdewey, which gets abbreviated to "ewey" by the youngest kids who can't get their mouths around the consonants. they like to paint his nails and play dress up with him.

oisin has no interest in camarilla or anarch affairs and is perfectly content to stay on the outskirts of kindred society, as it is humanity that matters to him most. out of respect for angelo he does not ghoul or embrace any of the de laurentiises, but does claim them as retainers so that other kindred know they are not to be messed with. he will not hesitate to eliminate any kindred that threatens or attempts to feed from his mortal family, but he is very willing to assist fellow corpse-drinkers with feeding discretely from deceased clients.

he wears a cloak designed like this, which serves the dual purpose of (1) aesthetics and (2) a notification system. the crystals tinkle ever so slightly when he moves, not unlike a cat with a bell on its collar, and this helps alert both the de laurentiises and living clients to his presence (as he does have a tendency to materialize out of the shadows, to many a mortal's alarm).

[auburniivenus]

"I would die for you." ( medieval au :D )

Nestled   within   the   castle's   heart,   wherein   granite   walls   vibrate   with   ancestral   lore   and   the   air   is   permeated   with   the   fragrance   of   obsolete   parchment   and   lustrous   mail,   she   resides.   Her   allure   is   as   a   SONNET   exquisitely   crooned   by   the   incipient   light   of   daybreak,   her   gaze   comprised   of   liquid   amber   orbs   that   quiver   resplendent   with   the   sun's   own   profundity.   Her   soul,   however,   is   akin   to   a   concealed   eden,   prospering   with   a   love   as   verboten   as   it   is   impassioned—for   him.   This   embodiment   of   honor,   sculpted   from   valor's   quintessence,   is   depicted   as   a   tempest   coated   in   knightly   plate.   Emotions   fierce   as   a   hurricane   reside   in   his   stare—her   presence   alone   can   pare   them   to   a   tranquil   mien.   The   cadence   of   his   pulse   allies   with   the   clamor   of   clashing   blades,   yet   it   surrenders   to   an   esoteric   melody   in   her   proximity.

Their   clandestine   encounters   are   a   minuet   of   stealth   and   longing,   an   elaborate   dance   rivaling   the   complex   motifs   that   adorn   the   palace's   crafted   masterpieces.   He,   removing   off   his   knightly   guise,   garbs   himself   in   the   unassuming   attire   of   an   attendant—a   lupine   presence   in   ovine   masquerade.   His   broad   shoulders,   customarily   braced   for   duty’s   burdensome   yoke,   now   feign   subservience.   His   hands,   wrought   rough   by   the   sword’s PUISSANT   grasp,   presently   cradle   her   princely   palm's   delicate   weight   as   he   guides   her   beyond   the   bastion’s   daunting   portals.

Surrendering   to   guidance,   her   heart   drums   an   untamed   tempo   against   the   cavity   of   her   ribs.   Her   traditionally   serene   pupils   now   shimmer   with   adventurous   fervor—a   flickering   insurgence   amidst   courtly   restraint.   Her   hands,   once   a   pedestal   of   steadiness,   betray   faint   tremors   within   his   clutch—mute   harbingers   of   a   burgeoning   tempest   within   their   shared   bosom. “Don’t   utter   such   a   thing!   This   is   perilous!   Prudence   demands   we   seek   alternate   avenues   for   our   meetings.”   Their   passage   through   silent   aisles   composes   an   overture   of   furtive   glances   and   sotto   voce   colloquies—their   footfalls   crafting   a   covert   equilibrium   to   which   only   they   are   privy.   Emergence   from   the   fortress   conjures   an   atmospheric   pause:   zephyrs   entwine   their   appellations;   lucent   moonlight   illuminates   their   forbidden   traverse.   Night   becomes   their   tableau   vivant;   upon   its   canvas,   they   inscribe   vivid   hues   drawn   from   love’s   palette—their   sentiments   rivaling   in   brilliance   the   celestial   constellations   above   them.   “Are   you   taking   me   to   the   moon?”

OUR LOVE IS A FLAME THAT BURNS BRIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, FORBIDDEN YET UNDENIABLE