#and instead has a big fat hilarious baby crush on Magnus hahaha

[sichore]

So a while ago, the server was on a Jane Austen kick and we had tons of fun, and I daresay we had our strongest round of writing yet. And because this is Metalocalypse, naturally we added zombies to the mix, incorporating the lore from Seth Grahame-Smith's trio of novels into that of the show and what we'd established across various AUs.

Paint the Sky chapter 3 is coming along... very slowly, but I've still been writing behind the scenes. Here's an offshoot of that Regency zombie drama in a scenario where Magnus isn't a cringe fail Scorpio.

(Magnus tends to be part of the overpowered and older group in these AUs and it's so fucking funny considering his canon and current incarnation ahahhhaha.)

Deth & Diligence: Shadowplay

Feat. Magjam (MagnusxOC) and mentions of Dr. Amomolith Chesterfield and OCs from @thatwritingho, @m3gahet, @the-loveliest-lotus and @mrfelixfischoeder.

As always, Jamila stands out amongst the rest of the gathered dancers like a spot of soot upon a fine dress. It's an unbecoming way to think of herself that Mary would scold her for, but it's hard not to think of, when her stone-faced partner endeavors to look anywhere but at her.

Mercifully, once the lilting notes of the string quartet fade and the final bow is made, he swiftly turns away in search of a more comely lady, and Jamila sinks back until she is as one with the shadows on the wall. Even here, she doesn't fit among the least handsome women in appearance.

Indeed, if the pearls were to fall from her hair, her tulle and fine silk replaced by rough linen, she would be invisible. Only standing out because she would be expected to be among the staff never to be seen. As much as Dr. Chesterfield may dress her up and present her as his most prized oddity, Jamila will never be British, never be highborn. Never be one of these high class vermin more concerned with riches and matchmaking than the hordes of undead ever threatening to overrun their dear England.

In that sense, she should take comfort in the fact that she is not vermin. But the terms in which Jamila defines herself are not so kind, and as she can hear the voices of Mary, Olive, Lucy, and Robin chiding her, she silences all thought instead.

She raises her eyes. Her father is preoccupied with conversing with other esteemed gentlemen, and appears to have run out of younger men to play at propriety with her. It's just as well. Truthfully, Jamila would rather be among the various mercenaries stationed outside the room, around the estate, keeping watch for dreadfuls. But Dr. Chesterfield only allows her to wield a blade when he can make a spectacle of her ‘savage’ origins; she wasn't even allowed her dagger tonight. Tonight, as on so many nights, Jamila plays the part of a lady.

And tired of playing as she is, she slides away from the wall, through the shadows, finding solace where none would dare look, and retreats to a nearby area that gives her a measure of peace.

The gallery, much like everything else about Jamila, is a space meant to advertise all that is her. Her life, her body, her art – all of it is up for sale, for consumption, displayed for the attention of men looking to devise any use they can out of her. She finds she rather hates the work once it is finished, wishing to destroy it rather than have it land in the hands of these white demons.

But while she is painting, for those few precious hours, there is only the brush, the canvas, and her. Images from her mind take form through paint and practiced strokes, bringing to life a world without violence, without lies. Just the peace of solitude.

The gentle clack of Jamila's low heels grow more audible as she moves away from the gathering and towards the gallery. The guests grow more sparse, finding fewer tucked away couples or wilting wallflowers, until she's alone once she reaches the door. Surely, her father won't notice her absence for a brief while.

There is near silence as Jamila closes the door behind her. She sighs, and before she can breathe in relief, her skin prickles in warrior instinct.

The gallery is quiet, but not empty, and she is not alone.

The man standing in the middle of the gallery is a slayer, as evident by the worn leather boots and coat he wears, if one could not tell from his stance. He appears lax, his hand on his hip rather than sword, but the slight lean of his body lets Jamila know that he's aware of her presence, and fears no threat.

She flushes in momentary embarrassment for not immediately being aware of the gallery being occupied. Though, considering the visitor, she should not be too harsh on herself.

He is tall as an oak, his presence drawing one's eye as a towering storm cloud does on the horizon. His prominent profile and rich, wavy hair instantly mark him as not British, and Jamila relaxes minutely. She knows this man. Knows of him, rather. The man recently returned from the Near East with his ill daughter, which is why he has been in the company of those Dr. Chesterfield does business with. Had been in the company of her warden himself, who was determined to ignore Jamila as nothing more than a mere prop. And in a wholly inappropriate – that is, thrilling – display, this man instead lavished Jamila without enough attention and praise to break through her practiced, stone-like demeanor, causing a faint blush to rise to her cheeks.

More than once over the course of the evening, Jamila's gaze has wandered to him. Not as a guest, no, but one among the shadows, a guard like the others on the outskirts of the ball. It was impossible not to notice him, towering above the pale elite, the only one besides herself with sun-kissed skin. Though she is darker than he, in appearance, if not demeanor.

Not one to be daunted, and within the prison she's made to call home no less, Jamila approaches the slayer: Magnus Hammersmith. In a show of defiance to no one besides herself, perhaps, she stops to stand at his side. The distance, or lack thereof, is not respectable, but she does not want to be seen as a lady at the moment. Jamila has sent more than enough of the unmentionable horde back to hell to fill the ball room to present herself as someone who, if not equal, is at the very least unafraid.

Besides, Magnus had already nigh embarrassed her with his honeyed compliments. It was only right she exact a sweet revenge of her own.

Still, it would be too forward to admire him so blatantly at this proximity, though Jamila does steal sidelong glances that reveal little more than the buttons of his coat. Instead, she turns her attention to the painting that has his apt attention.

It's dark. This painting has yet to find a buyer, the nature of it being so dim compared to her usual lush landscapes and blue skies. This one depicts a lake awash with the cloak of night, with even the moon obscured by the ebon veil. The only light to be found are in the stars, faint pinpricks of light, and the reflection in the small, cresting waves of the water.

Perhaps one with a keen eye, like a fellow slayer, could make out the other fine details to be found. The old tree stretched out from one side of the canvas. The lone swan curled and asleep on the bank. The faint sliver of the moon that is there.

Perhaps Magnus sees it. Jamila can only guess, as he has yet to speak or greet her in any way. And when she can take the silence no longer, and the warmth of his proximity – the scent of leather and cedar filling her nose – she breaks it with a small huff.

“I daresay you will find no dreadfuls within this painting,” she says. She casts her eyes askance, and the slight smirk that curls Magnus’ lips makes her hands twitch from where they are clasped before her.

“No,” he agrees. His voice reminds Jamila of the finest tea she's ever tasted; rich, dark, toasty, leaving her tongue just dry enough to ever want for another drink. ��I'm sure I would have better luck without.”

“Or you could stay within. The pitiful undead do not lack for company.”

“But these walls do?”

“Perhaps.” Feeling color rise to her cheeks again, Jamila returns her attention to the painting. “Are you looking to purchase? This one has been continuously passed over for being too dark.”

“That's fortunate. My eye is not one for the fine arts like this, but even I can see that this should be admired, deeply. Not locked away by some stuffy aristocrat.”

“So you are not looking to buy.”

“No. Just admire, appreciate, for now.”

“The brighter ones are not to your liking?”

“They lack the depth of this one. And I’ve always been fond of that which is found in the shadows.”

“Such as fear? Horrors?”

“Secrets, comfort. Pleasure, even.”

Jamila ignores her instinct and turns her face towards Magnus. His gaze is fixated on her. She stands on his blind side, that eye glazed over like the moon in a naked sky, but the other is warm and brown and boring through her. Whatever Jamila wants to say next is stifled behind lips pressed tightly together.

Swallowing to ease her dry throat, she faces the painting again.