#and the fish net as a sort of veil

[iwantofall]

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[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave  {{xx}}

"Jus' because I wasn't, doesn't mean I don't know. An' I tole you...I know everyt'ing," she quips even if that's patently untrue. If she did, or she had any talent with the sphere of Mind, she wouldn't even need to ask him, though doing so would fracture this new relationship they were building atop the bones of the old. She also isn't so callous as to think she has the right to lay him bare for the simple sake of idle curiosity. It doesn't stop her lips twitching though, hidden as it is beyond the superficial fence of the book's covers. Something sweet, adoring exists in that flutter before it drowns in the coffee that she brings up to her lips. One of a dozen of her shark mugs. A slim dark brow raises when he makes his confession. One thing she could never deny is that Stephen's magnetism is electric. His confidence while standing before an entire auditorium of students ~all of whom hang off his every word~ is mesmerising. Something she can not fake at her best moments but seems as natural to him as breathing water is to fish.  A place of honour that suited him as does the fit of a bespoke tuxedo from an award or symposium. Hearing him describe his experience and realising how much they share when it comes to public speaking is a little mind-blowing. She would never have guessed. Something in the pit of her belly softens for him and she would like nothing more than to reach out and lay her hand over his. What keeps her from doing so is knowing he'd shrink back. Perhaps physically from surprise or pain, or emotionally. She chose to ask about vulnerability because Stephen very often doesn't let any of the cracks in his foundations show. Had she been more confident in herself in her younger years, she might have been able to provide her a certain level of comfort as a close confidant. She and Stephen had never held many secrets from one another, and anything brought up by one or the other was honestly answered to the best of their ability. At the same time, there had been boundaries she'd never felt she had the right to cross. Which is how they arrive at this moment. His voice snares around her like a net and draws her gently back out of her depth of her thoughts. With it she blooms a newer smile. This one is more fully fledged and it scrunches her nose at the corners of her eyes. She hides the points of her teeth with another sip. The seed isn't the flicker of his long, graceful fingers. It doesn't come from the books themselves. If she could pinpoint the source she might say it is more his tone. His posture. Both are far more relaxed, and there's a glint of light in his gaze. Beth rises from her seat and sets her cup aside before she slips behind him. Slowly her hands come to rest on his shoulders. Thumbs begin rubbing small circles along his c-spine before gradually she sets her other fingers to work in that rhythm on the muscles beneath. As she does so, she pours a portion of her gifts into him. Soothing inflamed nerve, providing a buffer between the misfiring communication and his neural pathways to lessen the spasms and sensations sparked by injury. A permanent sort of paradox that seems too cruel for the crime he was convicted by fate. She's asked before if he wanted her to fix it. To alter reality to her whim. Each time he's politely declined. Just as she adamantly refuses to lean in and breath in the scent of his hair, to press her lips above her fingers. "Spoken like a true philomath. Now dat you've seen behind da Veil, wha' do you t'ink is your favourite kine to study? Wha' feels like a burden dat you'd cast aside f'ya could?"

[dontcallmecarrie]

writer’s block bites, what can I say. Set in the early ‘90s, because why not. heads up for dubious morality, because villain protagonist

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For some reason, it didn’t quite hit home until after Justin Hammer was back from his first conference, the whole “yes I did just rub elbows with an arms dealer with IRA connections and she has godawful taste in music” realization.

Because they’d...fit right in.

Veiled threats and thin-lipped smiles, expensive suits and even more expensive cologne, and they’d felt right at home. No mercy, no restraint; the bodyguards hadn’t even tried to hide just what kind of firepower they were packing, even though the security patrolling should have been more than enough of a deterrent for anyone dumb enough to approach without an invitation in hand. Hell, Justin’s invitation had received plenty of scrutiny by the staff, and the organizer had given it to them personally.

Granted, Justin had been the youngest in attendance. Had been there because their father “couldn’t make it”, which, more often than not, was code for either “I don’t feel like it”, or “I already have plans to screw around”— both of which translated into “foist this problem onto someone who gives a damn”, which, nine times out of ten, meant Justin was the one picking up the pieces.

Exhibit A, the number of times Justin had forged their father’s signature on everything from permission slips to defense contracts. Exhibit B, the conference, which was only the latest of many obligations their father had skipped out on now that he’d apparently deemed Justin to be “of age to handle it”.

Well.

Either way, it had been a very new experience, and a grim but necessary reminder that no matter how hard he tried, Justin was still nothing more than a small fish in a very big pond. As gratifying as it was for Tony Stark consider them good enough to be a rival, the conference served as a reality check from the moment Justin first set foot in the building: it’d taken all the wits they had just to keep afloat, and no small amount of bullshitting to pretend they knew what they were doing for the rest of it.

All Justin had going for him was...money, basically. And the ability to navigate conversations like minefields, which was useful at galas but became downright invaluable when it came to dealing with assholes like Ulysses Klaue and, incredibly, even shadier types— all of whom looked at Justin like he was fresh meat the entire time.

It was a very informative experience, to say the least.

Justin was the youngest in the room, but had somehow managed to keep up with the worst these guys had to offer; was able to speak with arms dealers like they were any other potential client, and while Justin had attended other security conferences before, those had all been above-board things with diplomats and policymakers, not... people on the other side of the law.

In a place like this, catching people off-guard when they found out Justin knew what he was doing didn’t net him pleasantly surprised looks, but sharp, assessing gazes that wanted something from him, and didn’t bother to hide it. This wasn’t just playing with the big boys anymore; this was swimming with sharks while there was blood in the water, and rules no longer applied.

It wasn’t anything particularly new, but it had been a tad bit unsettling.

It’d also paid off; while this wasn’t the sort of thing that had people sharing business cards, Justin’s list of contacts still grew. Not by much, but they’d definitely garnered interest and that was the important part when it came to finding potential clients.  

Because Justin hadn’t missed a beat, had managed to fit right in with everyone else and hadn’t even noticed until now, in the relative safety of their apartment.  

Because Justin had been rubbing elbows with arms dealers when his classmates were using spring break to screw around in Cancun, and that...

That hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time, just something that needed to be done, and had felt just like home with the family.

A place where Justin had been watching his back and every step and every word, and of how and where he stood relative to the others. Where he was acutely aware of just who he was dealing with, what they were capable of. Where the entire time had been spent learning just what made the people around him tick, and determining how he could leverage what he had to achieve his goals in a room full of people with incredibly mercurial moods.

Oh. That’s why they felt so faint right now, wasn’t it?

Because once upon a time, they hadn’t been like this. They couldn’t remember a thing anymore, but...they’d known kindness, once. Knew how to be gentle with their words, even if no one else was; had been familiar with the feeling of extending a hand to those in need, even if no one had ever taught them how.

All of that had felt right, once. Had been ingrained into their soul when even memories failed to leave their mark. The outline of compassion a ghost time could not erase, just as fundamentally a part of Justin as all his other echoes and experiences were.

But.

Justin Hammer had practically been born as a means to an end, and was nothing more than a product of their environment. An entire lifetime of training to be the perfect Hammer Industries heir, with the casual cruelty that came with parents who were never meant to be parents, who had never even tried, and... here they were now, ice-cold and not a shred of kindness to be seen. Perfectly at home rubbing elbows with some of the worst the world had to offer, and for what?

Ha.

It’s funny; all those years of training with the most expensive tutors money could buy, of being pushed to the breaking point and past it, but it’s all those holidays of being stuck under the same roof as their family and having to be the one to keep things from imploding that gave them the skills they needed to succeed.

If that’s what they were calling it now, anyway, because ‘blackmail’ and ‘manipulation’ sounded ugly and ‘conflict resolution’ sounded like something from a training seminar. Mediation? Negotiation, perhaps? They’d certainly practiced that one a lot.

...what a joke. He’d known what he was doing, had gone into this with his eyes wide open.

Had needed to, for the good of Hammer Industries. Needed to, because last quarter had been ugly after one of their distributors screwed up and got slammed with enough sanctions to completely shut down operations in the region and unless someone stepped up, they’d be lucky to round out this fiscal year without losing investors— so it fell to Justin to fix it. Like always.

And so he had risen to the occasion.

Not in a particularly impressive manner, granted, but as he constantly had to remind people, he wasn’t Tony Stark. Nearly two decades into their rivalry, and people still didn’t seem to get it: trying to act as if one were just like the other was a massive disservice to both.

Justin would never be able to effortlessly churn out dozens of new patents over a carafe of coffee the way Tony seemed to do on a daily basis; on the flipside, though... wait, no, how would Tony have handled the conference?

Justin had been right at home, but they were a realist on a number of levels. Were grounded, self-aware, and with enough emotional maturity and self-control to keep from punching Klaue five minutes after having had the displeasure of meeting him, but Tony?

Tony was an idealist, even now. Even after a lifetime of having been raised for it, he had somehow managed to have a moral code more ironclad than all the weapons he’d ever designed put together.

...he wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, if that.

Useful connections or no, Justin knew Tony well enough to know his lines in the sand, and his rival was innocent in a way Justin couldn’t even remember being, not even as a kid.

They both had blood on their hands, but only one had hope for a better future.

Justin...had made their choice long ago. Now they had to live with it, for better or worse.

.

aka, the one where Justin massively underestimates their charisma stat—

Justin: yeah, I’m just Some Guy™, all I’ve got going for me is emotional IQ and dubious morals, idk what to tell you ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

everyone else: ...

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aaand the more I write of this AU, the more it feels like Justin’s still stuck with the same inferiority complex we see in canon, only it is 1000% more subtle because they don’t try to compare themself to Tony but everyone around them does it anyway! Resistance is futile, I guess.

Also, the more Justin’s family comes up, the worse they seem to get, whoops. tfw your family drama leaks into everything you write

[virtues-end]

So how does magic work? Like why are some people better with it when it's held outside the body? Why does it need to be held outside the body at all? How do people decide what spells they like and are good at? Is there a limit on how much they can use before it's harmful?

How does magick work?

The use of magick was made possible by the thinning of the veil between the physical plane, Aerd, and Hel. Magick draws power from Hel, and it's more powerful near places where the veil is the thinnest.

Why are some better at magick than others?

Simply put, they have either dedicated their life to the study of magick, or they have an aptitude for it. With enough practice and study, anyone could become a mage, but those with a knack for it will truly excel.

Why does it need to be held outside the body?

Magick is not held outside the body, it comes from within. The sigils serve as a focus/guide for their spells; they are not strictly needed but it would be like capturing a gale in a net, or a very slippery fish with your bare hands. Only the most skilled of mages can tame that sort of chaos without a focus to rely on.

Tattooed sigils are the easiest to draw upon due to their proximity to their wielder, but objects such as jewellery work as well; objects also have the added benefit of being able to hold a reserve of magick.

How do people decide upon their spells?

Mostly necessity, really. Common folk rarely have access to any sort of magick, only those in certain positions. Magick is reserved for those with privilege or those in servitude to the Order.

Elexis and Penrose are not magick wielders themselves, for instance, while Idris and Shea are.

Are there limits?

Yes. I've likened it before to how swimmers train to increase their lung capacity. Once depleted of magick, the caster will need to rest to replenish it. Those who push beyond their limits will rapidly weaken and physically deteriorate.

[jojo-reader-hell]

can you do a scenario w/ avdol x reader where he walks into their room and sees her singing to their sleeping baby and watches them from the doorway as she's falling asleep herself? (for some reason the song that i kept imagining was lovely by billie and khalid)

Oooooooof Avdol Daddy got me feeling some type of way 😩 HELP

“Come on bunny... we’ve been doing this for hours, bedtime now.”

“Mmppbbbt.”

He leaned against the door frame, watching you both cuddle in a nest of blankets and pillows, your little girl trying her very hardest to kick away the blankets while your hand ghosted over the roundness of her belly. He knew it to be warm, full of milk, and he could imagine the good clean smell of soap that permeated the baby’s skin as you nuzzled her brown cheeks. The room was dark, save for the lamplight from the living room that cast beams of light into the bedroom. Both of you were cuddled up in the bed you and Muhammad Avdol had shared for the past three years of your marriage, the bed pushed up against the wall where there was a single large window. Of course it was blocked off with wicker shutters and transparent mosquito netting to prevent the bugs from disturbing your rest, the corners of the wicker shutters flapping listlessly when they caught a breeze.

Yours was a fortune teller’s home. A simple home. Not much even for the eighties. No modern conveniences (you both could hardly afford a luxury like air conditioning, and you had to spend wisely), but it was a cozy home none the less now that there was a baby in the equation. You both made it work. Poor as you both were you never went hungry, the baby was always clean and happy, it was a good life.

“Nah uh... no more playing. Bedtime.” You told her, your voice stern yet laced with that sing song tone that suggested you needed sleep.

“Mah!�� your daughter argued.

“Shhhh... we need to wind down now. Bedtime baby.”

Avdol chuckled. The baby didn’t want to listen. Instead she wriggled her fingers and her toes, twirling strands of dark curly hair and giggling at every little thing she could see. Sometimes Avdol wondered if his daughter could see the crimson bird that stood guard next to him, arms crossed and the vestiges of a smile on its beak as it watched its young nestling coo in delight. Your own Stand was draped across the windowsill, like a cat, yawning and dabbing the tears from its eyes with a corner of its veil. It’s twin fish tails, oceanic imitations of feet, curled as though they were parchment paper in a hot oven. A soothing whisper of a melody slipped passed her lips, cooing a tune for you to follow.

“Should I sing to the baby Queen?”

Queen of Cups sighed, waving her damp scarf over you and the baby for a refreshing drink of cool air. She continued to hum, a funny little tune she’d heard on the radio this morning as you fed the baby her breakfast.

“Alright. I’ll sing for you then baby.”

Your little girl shifted to look at you, the eyes of her father bright and glistening as you began to sing softly under your breath. Avdol looked on, his protective stance softening as you crooned to your moving baby. He made to join the two of you, letting several layers of clothes fall to the floor (he’d take care of them later). As you sang, Avdol continued to strip, removing his heavy jewelry and layers upon layers of clothes until he was suitably cool enough in his undergarments to join the two of you in the warmth of the blankets, even letting down his hair from its usual coif to tumble down his temples in messy black cascading curls. Devilishly handsome, with a knowing look on his face that could make anyone’s toes curl. You wouldn’t last long from the sound of your voice. By the way it lilted in and out of consciousness he knew you had maybe two minutes tops before you began to surrender to the exhaustion of dealing with a fussy baby and the searing desert heat, keeping house and doing all sorts of little necessities that was required for the care of a new infant.

Your Stand welcomed Magician’s red as he cuddled in close, joining in her spot in the windowsill. While your baby slowly started to succumb to your soothing voice, Avdol moved in on the other side of the bed, causing his daughter to turn and reach for him. Even though the simple act of seeing his smiling face renewed her energy, she was helpless when her father took a chubby brown hand in his, fingers dwarfing her palm as he let her soak up the warmth of his hand. Between Avdol’s heat and your slowly fading singing, the baby was like butter melting on warm toast, her eyes fluttering shut as she settled down into the blankets.

“She’s asleep now darling.” Avdol whispered to you.

“Mmm... good...” you murmured, “I can’t remember how the rest of the song goes.”

“Are you alright? Is it too hot?”

A very familiar snore from your Stand was his answer. Your eyes fluttered shut, mimicking Queen of Cups’ snore as your baby suddenly began to sound off. How he got any sleep, he didn’t know, but Avdol knew there was no other place on earth that he’d rather be right now.

The fortune teller was content. Content to be nested in bed with the two most dearest loves of his life.

[antihero-writings]

Red and Gold (Ch1)

(Absolutely incredible cover art by _xstylyricax_ on instagram!! I’ll put a link to her profile in a reblog!!)

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Fic Summary: Memories of a strange music box in Ada's occult shop intertwine with a present where she meets the equally mysterious pirate Vincent Nightray...

Notes: Originally written for phsecretsanta2018 for tumblr user @endoreon!!​ 

I'll put chapter 2 in a reblog, and links to both chapters in a reblog too!

Chapter 1: Whispers

Ada placed an old compass on the shelf, between an antique sextant and a dull crystal.

She turned to face the rest of the shop, smiling and putting her hands on her hips, proud of her work; she had just finished tidying up the place, putting everything in order, and could finally have a moment to relax, and admire the way everything gleamed.

Outside the sun always shone bright, reflecting off the white sand, sending green shadows onto the ground as it sifted through the palm leaves. Inside, the low light that filled the shop, emanating from candles, lanterns, as well as a few crystals hanging from nets, (and the occasional mysterious object), bouncing off the wooden walls, creating an atmosphere of dormant animation in the darkened place. Almost like the shop itself was lying in wait for something to happen, like if you broke a single object, all the spirits would come spilling out, and the place would live.

“Mew!”

Ada knelt down to scratch her cats’ ears.

She had had this shop for a few years now; for a long time, she had tried to learn about the occult, in attempts to bring her brother back from the Abyss, and in the midst of her research, had become a bit of an enthusiast, and had collected too many occult artifacts for the spare Vessalius house to hold. She didn’t use all of them, so she decided to start selling them to interested parties. From there she started collecting things just to sell. When she was at school, or otherwise couldn’t man the shop, she had servants watch over the place, (she warned them not to tell her uncle, or anyone who might not approve, or start spreading rumors). She had also hired someone to find more artifacts—(at sea, buried beneath the sand, anything)—both for her own fascination, as well as the shop.

Those who knew of her knew that she wasn’t just some collector, she was very knowledgeable in the ways of the occult, and novice practitioners, or fanatics, would come to her for advice on spells, or the authenticity of the objects they had found on their own. Some of them genuinely shared her interests—(she could talk to them for hours if she didn’t curb her excitement)—but sometimes people came in who were more…creepy than anything. Of course, by the nature of her hobby, often she herself couldn’t tell the difference.

“Now, now, you’ll have to wait outside. You’re not old enough to take part in the ceremony yet.”

Ada gasped, spinning around wildly. “Who’s there?!”

“Mew!” Snowdrop responded.

She petted her cat once more, looking around.

No one. Wooden walls and a breeze.

She breathed out. It wasn’t exactly unheard of that objects such as these could give off strange visions, or spill voices into one’s ears, and she was no stranger to the dark and the dangerous. It was surely just a particularly powerful object, which was simply doing its job, and someone would buy it soon enough.

Despite her mind’s attempts to reassure her, she probably should have been listening more carefully.

For the next few weeks, intermittently when she was in her shop, whispers would tread the air around her. Simple words, cries, accusations, voices that—dare she admit it?—she recognized.

Her brother’s, her uncle’s, her father’s, and—somehow worst of all—her own.

Her own voice, sounding so pitiful, so lost, and tiny.

Did she still sound like that?

After a while, it wasn’t hard to recognize what they were: memories. Memories of a past calling back to her. A sad and empty past that she had tried to forget. A past in which the Baskervilles threw her brother into the Abyss, and that place kept him from her for ten years.

Was this just her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her head? Nothing real?

But, of course, these memories were real. She just didn’t think of them too often, because she didn’t quite like that fact.

What kind of an object could do this? Why would someone create such an object in the first place? What should she even be looking for?

She tried to block them, to find something else that would drown them out, to cover her ears, but the whispers seeped in through the boards she nailed over her mind’s doors, and the cracks between her fingers.

The murmurs followed her. They pooled in her brain when she left the shop, and didn’t drain away. They grew louder. There came a point when she tore apart her neatly polished shop in search of the offender, and found…nothing.

But as she turned to leave one day, she saw her reflection in the door window, and behind herself, the curtain to the back…She turned, and did something dangerous:

She started thinking.

Hidden away, back there, like a caged beast, was in an old chest, and within it, something she had been warned about, but whose purpose had never quite been explained to her.

Her hand shaking ever so slightly, she fingered the necklace she was wearing, pulling it from beneath her shirt, holding the end up before her eyes, twinkling in the low light; a tiny, old silver key.

*****

Ada walked out into the darkened school grounds. There was something about the cool night air that made everything seem less inviting, less pure. The person waiting for her, during the day, would—(if a little odd)—have been an ordinary student, but in the dark he was a figure, a mystery, harbinger of more mystic nights to come.

They weren’t supposed to be out after dark—and she was one of those adamant rule-followers—but there had been something about the plea to his voice earlier…

“Good evening, Leo-kun.” Her small, but strong, voice broke the silence.

Leo turned to her, half moonlight reflecting off his glasses, and bowed.

“Yes, Good evening, Miss Vessalius.” He smiled, though there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrayed its reality.

“If I may, can I ask how you found out about my shop?”

He scratched his chin, looking around as if the courtyard had suddenly become more interesting. “I simply heard about it from some of our fellow students. You know how they can be prone to gossiping.”

Who knew about her? And why they wouldn’t say anything about it to her? How did they find out? How many people knew by now? Or, what if he was lying? If so, why didn’t he want her to know how he knew?

“Ah, I see.” She didn’t press the issue, but wasn’t completely satisfied with the explanation either.

She was surprised that Leo would even come to her in the first place; he only ever spoke to her through Elliot—and was always with Elliot in general—so she didn’t want to scare him off with extra, unnecessary questions. This was already the longest conversation they ever had. Though the question of who knew about her shop, and how, troubled her, what was important was this object he was giving to her. It was the reason for their meeting, after all. If she badgered him too much, he might decide not give it to her at all. Nevertheless, the simple fact that he had arranged this late-night meeting, alone with her—without Elliot—in the first place, meant that whatever he was trying to give to her was affecting him deeply.

Or maybe it was affecting Elliot.

“So…you have something for me?”

“Right.” He seemed relieved she wasn’t going to ask any more questions. He set his bag on the ground, and knelt down to fish something from it.

But once he retrieved it, the cloth-covered object gave her few more answers than questions.

She cocked her head to the side, leaning forward, puzzled, but intrigued, trying to keep her excitement from bubbling over.

Leo breathed out the answer to her unasked question. “It’s a music box.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of enchanted music boxes before!” her obsession started to peak through, “What’s this one called?”

She reached out her hand towards it, but he jerked it away from her.

He seemed to realize the suddenness of the action, and relaxed a little. “I…Sorry, I just…” the veiled agitation bled out from behind the curtain.

What was it that made him so jumpy? Usually he was quiet, but confident. Was it this object? Or could it be her? He didn’t seem very comfortable around most people who weren’t Elliot, so maybe her sudden movement just startled him a little? Although…if it was the object itself… should she be scared too?

She decided not to let it bother her. Once again, this wasn’t exactly the first time someone had acted strangely when trying to get an occult object off their hands.

“So…might I ask what its purpose is?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m…afraid I’d rather not say.”

“Eh? It’s going to be rather hard for me to sell if I don’t know what it does, you know.”

“Sell it?” fear came to the surface. “No, no, no, no, you can’t sell this! You can’t even open it!”

She blinked.

“So…you’re giving me something; you wouldn’t like to tell me what it does, and you…don’t want me to sell or use it? Forgive my rudeness, but why don’t you simply hide it yourself? Or destroy it?”

“I’ve,” he cleared his throat, “tried both.” He looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck, and she often wished she could see the look in his eyes behind those glasses.

“And?”

He stayed silent, but it was obvious both had failed.

“But you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, right?” he spoke up again, “So I thought you might have methods of keeping it from…activating. Or be better be able to,” he mumbled the next few words, “tune it out.”

“I’m sure I can handle it!” She smiled, though she was losing confidence the more they spoke.

The same phenomenon seemed to be happening to him.

“Please listen to me, Miss Vessalius;” he placed a hand on her shoulder—and how afraid, how insistent, would the look in his eyes have been, if she could have seen it?—“I can’t force you to accept this, or teach you how to stop it. All I can do is give you a warning; do not open this. For whatever reason, if you start to hear things, cover your ears, if you see anything, cover your eyes.”

“Huh? But why?”

What exactly did all that mean? What sorts of things would she hear or see? Just how powerful was this thing?

He rubbed his temple as if that would keep his aggravation from spilling out.

“This is…dangerous. Maybe the most dangerous thing you’ve ever handled.”

“Well, I have handled—”

His expression shut her up.

“So…” She cleared her throat, trying to keep from getting annoyed herself. “Why do you have it in the first place?”

He shook his head, looking at the veiled box. “Just a mistake.”

He proceeded to pull on a chain around his neck, which ended in a small silver key. He pulled it over his head, pooling it in his hand, holding it out to her his head bowed (out of respect, or a desire not to look at it, she didn’t know)—though he did so as if it were a gun—“Please keep this with you at all times.”

This was more than she bargained for, or guessed the care of this object would entail. Usually if she got a call, even if it was something dangerous, they wouldn’t be so cryptic, and they often just wanted to get rid of it, they didn’t bother with warnings and precautions.

Still, nothing she couldn’t handle.

She nodded, taking it and slipping it around her neck.

He bit his lip, his grip tight around the box, his hands shaking a little.

“Please hide this in the most secure location you can find.”

He thrust the box towards her, though his death grip made it clear he didn’t really want entrust it to her. She wrapped her fingers around it, looking curiously at him as she felt his resistance, before tugging it away from him.

“I promise to take care of it.” she tried to reassure him.

“Promise me you won’t open it.” His voice was the most serious she’d ever heard of it.

She smiled, giving a curt nod.

“Promise.”

But what do people do when presented with a mystery, a curious object, and an unshakable warning about it’s volatility?

They do the very thing they’re commanded not to do.

*****

It was a few days later still, when she gave in.

She knelt on the floorboards in her back room, a battered chest before her, its hinges rusty, its wood splintering. The rug was folded back, and the trap door the chest had been heaved out of propped open.

Did Leo know, then, about the whispers? About how they nagged and poked and prodded at one’s mind? How they staked themselves there, laying claim to her heart? Did he know how powerful it would be? How much it would affect her life?

She told herself he didn’t.

When she knew full well he did; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so adamant, so tense.

The chest’s maw, creaking as she lifted the lid, revealed the veiled oddity sitting at the bottom. Waiting, like a black bride, for her groom.

Surely it wasn’t this object, so small and unassuming, that was capable of invading her thoughts so entirely?

It wasn’t such a big deal. Just one peak. Listen to a few notes. Keep the whispers at bay.

“Come on, Ada!”

She drew in a breath, and lowered her hands into the depths, as if into murky waters, and gently took the dark bride’s hand, pulling her from the waves.

It was light, as if she was holding the whispers themselves. Yet the longer the bride held her hand, the tighter her grip, the heavier the weight of their vows.

“Say, what’s Abyss?”

The voice was louder this time.

Just breathe.

It’ll all be over soon.

She pulled the cloth, unveiling the wretched face she was destined to kiss.

“Well it’s a sort of prison…”

The box was black, ornate silver designs, curls and borders on the sides and top. Other than that it was relatively plain. But holding it made her breath catch, and the room darker.

She told herself it was just her own fear.

Letting it sit in her hands for a moment, she weighed it, along with Leo’s words. Part of her brain begged her to listen to him, screamed at her to return it to its place in the ground.

But it was too alive to bury.

“for bad guys…”

A lump grew in her throat as she tugged on the chord to the key around her neck.

As curiosity often bids us, she did the very thing he demanded she never do. For the simplest reason as a few whispers, and a rickety past.

“Please, let me in! My brother’s in trouble!!”

She gasped, reaching her fingers gently to her lips, as if not quite sure if she had said it herself. The shout had sounded so real, less ephemeral, less there, more here…

Shaking, her hands sweating, glancing around as if someone would see her breaking into something that belonged to her, she fit the key into the lock.

Though the weather was perfectly calm outside, she could hear rain beginning to pound.

“Oz Vessalius, your sin is…”

The pronunciation felt like it was coming down on her own head, like the past-born rain.

She was that little girl again, soaked through with water and fear, begging to be let in. The rain breathed; it was talking to her with the fluttery voices of those she loved, and those she had grown to hate. Some words broke through the crowd—brushing shoulders and pushing others down, louder, stronger—but the memories were so many by now that the whispers seemed like a mob.

Hands shivering, shutting her eyes tight, she turned the key,

—It clicked—

Placed her fingers on the wood of the lid—

The rain was so loud….

“Your very—“

And lifted it.

The action was like a conductor bringing down his baton; those whispers, the breath of the wind and rain, were all simultaneously silenced.

She glanced around, as if she would be able to see their smoke dissipating in the air.

The silence was almost worse…Almost.

Because silence is empty, and can be filled.

When she tipped it open, no tiny dancer twirled around. No frilly art or pretty words decorated the inside. She could see the cogs beneath, like if a ship’s deck were glass, and you could see the rudders, all the working parts and windswept waves that kept it going.

Though the look of it was plain, and rather unexciting, the inside of the lid held a peculiar inscription:

To he who dares play this song

You may yet still know it wrong

If it’s for redemption that you’ve asked

And the answer, you believe, in long awaited past

Without map, without wind, in the end, no sign of treasure

Too late, the hands of time will show you your own measure.

Upon seeing the words, questions boiled in her thoughts. What could this mean? What was she looking for in opening it? If she wasn’t looking for redemption, did that mean it was safe to listen? What about the past? Why would she want to hear whispers of, look into, the past? But if she didn’t…what was she doing here? Could this be more than simple attempts to shut the whispers up? Was there real temptation behind her current actions?

Then, without warning, or winding, the music began to play.

Though the notes were slow and few, they plucked at her heart. They tugged on her veins and sent vibrations through her, like she was their true instrument.

She slammed both the lid and her eyes shut, breath heavy.

She peeked open an eye.

Just a music box. Nothing strange. Nothing to tell her it was capable of great and terrible things. Just an ordinary music box. No notes fell out unannounced.

Taking up the key to lock it again, she felt another presence in the room.

She turned to see—

[vulturhythm]

1/2 I (Skyleen) am sorry to hear you're sick! I hope you feel better soon and have someone there to comfort you until then. Lots of orange juice and such. I'm glad you enjoyed the new album and that it gave you Arthurian feelings too! Speaking of feelings, your most recent thoughts on your most recent fic (currently, my dearest love) have been churning in my brain all day. I just can't stop thinking about how desperate Jaskier must have been to have Geralt with him, and how he might have used

(2/2) his words, the last and best tools at his disposal, to try and convince him to stay. He means his words to be a net, inescapable, binding Geralt close. Instead, they are only fish hooks - not enough to keep him close, but enough to tear at him as he leaves: "Please, just another half hour. Tell me a story. I won't argue when you go." (It would be funny, how much he sounds like a child at bedtime, except. Geralt can't remember what laughing feels like)" "It hurts worse when you're not here."

Hi again, sweetheart! I really appreciate that. I’ve got my cats, plenty of warm soup, a good book, and lots of orange juice, so hopefully I’ll survive.

The album is absolutely outstanding! I’ve listened to it so many times already, and I truly don’t know if I’ll ever be able to put down on paper all of the emotions it evoked. It just feels... ancient, wild, untamed, raw, you know? Like the heart of Camelot.

I love how you’re still thinking about that fic - honestly! It makes me really happy and sort of proud.

The mental image of Jaskier begging like a child for another bedtime story would be so precious, if not for all the bandages, I’m sure. Geralt is so used to having stared death down and fought it to the end, that it’s difficult for him to fathom the reaper coming for his bard so easily.

He thinks, surely, he has enough time.

Maybe Jaskier will forgive him for leaving, right?

That’s what he hopes, anyway.

If Geralt survives - if he outlives his beloved - no doubt he lives every day in misery, wishing he had listened, had stayed behind... had thought about anyone except himself.

Maybe, one day, he gives up.

Maybe he sinks to his knees before a diving wyvern, or lets his sword drop from his hand when faced with an angry mob.

Maybe he invites death - begs for it - welcomes it with open arms.

Maybe he thinks Jaskier is waiting for him past the veil.

[sidhewrites]

April Showers, Part 1

Hoping to build a feeling of a studio Ghibli film with this. It’s very slow paced so far, but I think it’s evoking the right feeling of a sleepy, easy life where the smallest things are important. If not, then at least it’s some self indulgent niceness you all get to read instead. Approx. 2100 words.

Yarn over, pull through. Yarn over, pull through. Sunlight filtered in through the wide window, cracked open a few open to let in the early morning breeze. It played with the leaves on the plants, the petals of the flowers, all in various hand-painted pots, arranged so they got just the right amount of sun. Yarn over, pull through. A half-finished cup of tea sat on a side table covered with a small, embroidered cloth. Beside it, a portable radio announced the weather - humid but cool after last night’s rain. Yarn over, pull through. 

Twenty stitches this way, then twenty more back. Soon enough, it would turn into a scarf. A small project, something anyone with a hook would be able to do, but Lise would be proud of it all the same. She worked slowly. Her hands were rarely without pain, especially on cold mornings like this, but she worked all the same.

The radio announcement ended, and a song took its place. Clouds passed overhead, and Lise turned the scarf over, starting work on the next row. She’d draped a crocheted shawl over her shoulders to keep warm, one of the first things Great-Aunt Marya had taught her to make, using heavy wool yarn dyed any number of greens and browns from just down the way.

Judging by the smell, Great-Aunt Marya was just now finishing in the kitchen. Eggs were on the stove, and bread in the toaster. From the other side of the house, Lise heard the kettle announce itself, and her ears burned with shame. She must have forgotten to keep the first one warm. Great-Aunt Marya wouldn’t say anything about it, but Lise hated to make a mistake in their routine.

She continued working, trying to focus as Great-Aunt Marya’s footsteps echoed down the hall, but there was no use in it. By the time the door clicked open, Lise had set the work down and looked out the window. Clouds passed by slowly. The sun continued to rise. Great-Aunt Marya entered the sun room with a tray of food and tea, and the usual, cheerful greeting of, “Good morning, Lisabelle.”

As always, Lise puffed up her cheeks with mock indignance. “You’re still the only one who calls me that, you know.”

“I do know, and I’m never going to stop.” Marya set a plate down on the side table besides Lise, shut off the radio, and took a seat in the other chair, dressed in woollen quilts, and a half-finished lace bridal veil. Eggs on toast, and sweet tea for breakfast, just as always.

Lise didn’t mind Marya using her given name. It wasn’t a deadname, not in the same way her best friend Cass’s given name was. But it was embarrassing. The sort of fancy, girlish thing her parents had loved, as if they wanted her very name to make people think of lace and ribbons when they heard it. No-one but family was allowed to call her anything but Lise, and Great-Aunt Marya was the only family she had left. They looked similar -- sleepy eyes, hair that was always braided back. But Marya’s had long since turned from brown to grey, and she wore glasses everywhere she went. Lise liked to imagine she’d look like Marya

“What did you dream about, Great Marya?” she asked, looking down to work another stitch into the scarf.

“Nothing particularly interesting last night, I’m afraid.” Marya paused to take a bite. “I’ll tell you if you put that down and eat.”

Lise sighed, but did as she was told, setting the scarf aside in favor of breakfast. She made a performance of the first bite, and swallowed with an exaggerated gulp, as if to prove she’d eaten anything at all.

Marya chuckled, and nodded. “I had a dream that I went to the ocean. I was a great scientist that the world loved. They’d just discovered a fish that they had thought was extinct for the longest time.”

Lise’s breakfast sat half-forgotten already. These were some of Marya’s best dreams, when she was a scientist, or when she found something fantastical. 

“But there was something special about this fish, they said, and I just had to see it for myself. This time, though, it wasn’t just a talking fish. It was singing.”

“Singing!” Lise echoed.

“Eat your breakfast, Lisabelle, and I’ll tell you more.”

Lise pouted, but Marya remained firm. There was no fighting her though, not on matters of breakfast, so Lise groaned, and stuffed her face.

“Eat it slowly,” Marya warned, “or you’ll get sick.”

Lise groaned again. “Great-Aunt Marya, I know how to eat breakfast.” But, still, she did as she was told, and ate measured, sensibly sized bites. It was good food, after all. Everything Marya made was. 

Only after Lise ate enough did Marya continue her story. “So this singing fish -- they’d caught it in one of the fishermen’s nets by accident, and they wanted me to see if I knew anything about it. And when I saw it, it was beautiful. With these shiny rainbow scales, and these big, sparkling eyes.”

“What did it sound like?”

“The most amazing thing in the world. Like…” She gazed out the window dreamily. “Like someone had given the wind itself a voice. Like all the orchestras and all the singers were mixed together in a pot and topped with honey.”

The breeze whistled outside, quiet but familiar. Lise looked outside as well, hardly able to imagine the fish’s voice. Her mind turned to far off dreams and the tiny, glittering strip of blue on the horizon. Her thoughts slipped out unintentionally. “One day, I’m going to see the ocean.”

“What’s that, Lisabelle?”

“Oh, uh--” Lise’s ears burned, and she stammered in search of the right thing to say. A faint barking saved her, and she set the nearly-finished plate aside. “Cass is here!” She pushed up to her feet, all but stumbling to the windowsill to look outside and wave. Marya rushed after her, one hand going to the small of Lise’s back instinctually.

Cass was only a little ways away, his bright red hair blowing in the wind beneath his sunhat. Mops hung off his broad shoulders like a child, tail wagging furiously. He shifted the sheepdog to one arm in order to wave and call out, only to nearly topple over from the weight. Mops barked, jumping to the ground and righting himself without an issue. Cass, however, fell to his knees with a yelp, getting mud all over his yellow pants.

Lise gasped, but wasn’t able to keep from laughing as she called out, “Are you okay?”

Mops was at Cass’s side in an instant, but he was laughing as well, frustrated and amused in equal measure, and waved again. “I’m all right! Stay there, I’ll come get you!” He hesitated, looking over at Mops and his now-filthy paws. “All right, I guess you’re walking the rest of the way.” He adjusted Mops’ little backpack, and brushed himself off as much as they could before resuming the hike up hill.

“Not a chance!” Lise backed away from the window and turned for the door. Her head spun, and she nearly lost her footing, catching herself quickly on the chair. 

Marya moved to her side once more, helping her stand upright and taking most of Lise’s weight to ease her back into the chair. “You shouldn’t move so fast. You get dizzy.”

“I know, I know. It’s a good day, though, I thought it’d be fine.”

“Clearly it’s not.”

Lise groaned. Still, she waited for her head to stop spinning before she sat up again, putting a stitch marker into the scarf and tossing it over her shoulders.

Marya set it aside for her gently, and helped Lise back to her feet. “That’s looking great so far. Looks like you’ll be done in a week.”

“Yeah, I hope so. It’s been forever since I finished something.” Lise grabbed the radio, and made her way with Marya to the front room. She used the furniture and walls for balance, finally coming to a stop outside the mudroom. Cass grinned at her through the window in the door, here already. 

Lise frowned. “I told you I wasn’t going to wait.”

Cass shook his head, and pointed to his ear, pretending he couldn’t hear.

Marya stepped forward to swing the door open with a polite, “Good morning, Cassius. Here for Lisabelle?”

Cass’s smile grew. “Actually, I thought I might take you out today, Ma’am. You’d fit right in with the group.”

Lise made a face and spat out her tongue, while Marya gasped with mock indignance. “How forward. When I was your age, a young person would never --”

Cass shrunk away, suddenly guilty and not recognising the joke for what it was. “I’m sorry, I only meant it as fun.”

Marya smiled and reached out with an upturned palm. “So did I.”

Cass hesitated, but nodded, reaching out to brush his fingers against hers, an unspoken apology and forgiveness between them. 

Satisfied, Marya nodded and began making her way to the kitchen. “Wait there a moment. Let me get your lunches.”

Lise meanwhile down onto the small bench, and put her things aside to exchange her house slippers for hardy boots. Cass stepped inside to sit beside her. He gestured at Mops, signalling that he could stop working for a few minutes, and the dog’s patient demeanor changed instantly. He bounded in with a bark, tongue lolling out and tail whipping back and forth as he fell against Lise’s legs. She pet him obediently, running her fingers through his long fur with a laugh. “How’s your morning been?”

Cass shook his head. “Josephine cooked breakfast, if that tells you anything.” His youngest sister, nine and a half, had a particular fondness for jam on her eggs -- something Cass didn’t care for in the least.

Lise let out an exaggerated sound of disgust, sending Cass into a new round of laughter. “I hope she grows out of it by her next birthday,” he said, and shook his head.

“Is she doing any better in school?”

“Yeah. She’s doing long division now. It’s hard, but I think she’s getting the hang of it. Anyway, she still just wants to paint every day.”

Marya returned from the kitchen with two small boxes in hand. “If you ask me, you should let her. There’s nothing to be lost from spending the day making something. Lise, get your shoes on.”

“Tell the teacher. You know how important she thinks math is.”

“Math is important,” Lise insisted. “You can’t crochet properly without math, and you can’t build houses without math, and --”

“You can preach all you like, Lisabelle, but that won’t change how I feel. Get your shoes on.”

Cass gestured for Mops to begin working again. The dog lay down obediently while Cass packed the lunches his backpack, and grabbed Lise’s cane and cardigan off the hook for her. “Do you need anything from town today, Ma’am?”

“Otto should have our eggs for this week. Oh--” Marya rushed to the kitchen and back with a small parcel and a thermos. “And here’s Hattie’s shirt. Tell them to stop letting the kittens climb all over them, and maybe they’ll stop getting so many holes in their  clothing.”

Lise pulled out her own small backpack out from under the bench, and put the parcel inside, alongside the radio and scarf. “What about this?” She gestured with the thermos before packing it.

“Leftover tea. Just because you let it go cold doesn’t mean I will.” Marya tut-tutted, but smiled. “I hope you enjoy it, Cass. I tried something new.”

“Any chance you used blueberries this time?”

“It’s berry tea,” Lise said, “but no blueberries.”

“That’s a good idea, actually. Here.” Marya pulled her wallet from her own bag on its hook and pulled out a bit of money for them. “Pick some up for me, would you?”

Now ready, Lise slung the backpack onto her shoulders, and let Cass help her onto her feet and up onto his back. He carried her weight easily, and turned around to nod at Marya. “If you need anything else, call the general store. Hattie’s working there today, so they can get me the message.”

With a few more goodbyes, Cass made his way out the door, past the front garden, and onto the winding road down to town.

[gem-quest]

[QUEST o2. - E N T H R O N E D]

(written by @bebemoon)

mentions: @ayzrules @elissastillstands & @armadasneon​

. . . Quest 2 .

A few days passed without word from Inferna, and Neddy was beginning to think she'd been forgotten.

A pair of players were marrying in the gardens the week following the meadow fair. And Neddy made an appearance out of sheer curiosity-

The ceremony was within a tumble of pale pink blossoms beneath a flowering tree, and the fae—and even all who were stuck on the level—were in attendance, surrounding the couple of Moonstone players. Neddy recognised the groom as the gleaming Moonstone jouster from the fair. The bride was a tiny Healer with hair matching the blossoms overhead and a veil of glimmering chain mail set with white crystals. They seemed blissful- so much so that Neddy wondered about them.    

Besides, was this a binding union in the real world? Probably not since Finvarra was the one to marry them, and Neddy rather doubted the Prince was ordained for such an affair. He wasn't even real.

Maybe it didn't matter to them- at any moment, any of them could be skewered with a sword and die at once in two worlds. Might as well live happily and love when possible.  

Neddy shook her head. What an outlandish situation they all found themselves in . . .

-

There was a celebration afterwards, but in Yue City. Understandably, the happy couple wanted to be able to eat together as well as remain free of the fae.

Neddy stayed behind to put her feet up on the feast table alongside some of Finvarra's tittering wives to watch the dancing for a while. The feeling of isolation began to creep up on her once again.

Suddenly, there was a familiar trilling from her rucksack at her feet, barely audible over the fairy music. It was the sound the Plexus' messaging function made when a new message was received.

Excitedly, Neddy dug into the rucksack and drew the Plexus out. She swiped the screen, and the new message appeared. It was from Inferna- "Jack's Girlfriend" [fire emoji] in the Plexus.

The message read: WYD ???

Neddy replied with a long message detailing the wedding she'd just witnessed, overseen by the Prince himself.

To which the redhead pithily replied, "Bruh xD".

Neddy grinned at her screen.

Inferna went on to ask Neddy if she was ready to take on Aydina, and when Neddy indicated that she was "ready as she would ever be", the other girl sent back:

“Btw I invited 2 other ppl to join us for dodgeball- Morningstar and Balestra if u wanted to look them up! Hope that’s okay 💖💖💖 say hi to jack 4 me!!!!”

Attached to this was a selfie of the candy-redhead eating the apricot tartlets Neddy had paid her with.

Morningstar wasn't a name that Neddy recognised- but Balestra, she knew immediately. She was another Moonstone player- a celestial knight- with a griffin mount. If Neddy wasn't very much mistaken, the griffin ate some of the garden's fae NPCs. And Finvarra still recounted the incident like some sort of disastrous Biblical tale.

Maybe it would be good to have someone like that on her side? If Balestra's griffin ate Aydina, would that be an automatic win?

Neddy replied simply to Inferna with a thumbs-up emoji, but she couldn't help feeling a twinge of doubt.

-

I C T U I U M . to . M E R M A I D . C O V E .

Inferna and her two companions were already waiting in the level 30 foyer—a wide glass room looking into the beachy landscape beyond with huge, flat screens showing players already in action on the level—when Neddy blinked in.

Seeing the sparkling sea spread out to her left, Neddy's first inclination was to start singing “La mer”.

Inferna's disappointment that Neddy had shown up sans Jack was instantly perceptible. The redhead pushed her lip out and raised one hand to her hip.

“Where’s Jack?” she said, pouting dramatically. “I even brought him a huge thing of sugar cubes! And a fresh batch of sauce.”

Neddy pulled an apologetic face. "Sorry, he's been M.I.A. for a couple of days," she told her. "He does that, I'm finding."

A slip of a girl with a crown of curls and a longsword on her hip was leaned up against one of the glass walls. She nodded at Neddy by way of a greeting.

Inferna jerked her chin at her. "That's Balestra," she said, grinning. "Moonstone rider like yourself. Maybe you know her?"

Neddy didn't want to bring up the gardens fiasco in case it was a sore spot with Balestra, and so she lied. "Oh, er, no- I-I don't believe we've met, actually," she stammered. "I'm Neddy. I swear I'm a real rider- my mount is just . . . I don't think he'd be much good at dodgeball anyway."

Three pairs of eyes regarded Neddy. She didn't know why she was so nervous, but she knew everyone could tell that she was.

At least Inferna seemed to be enjoying herself, as usual. She snorted in the silence. "And that's Morningstar over there," she said, thumbing the other player in the foyer.  

The third pair of eyes were almost too haunting to properly look into. They belonged to a ribbon of white slashed with violent red- a crown of berries, Neddy realised. Intimidatingly, a crystal scythe lay across her shoulders and her arms were draped over either side of the polearm. She looked a bit crucified.

The phantom made no move to acknowledge Neddy. However, her strange golden eyes stayed pinned to her.

Neddy merely raised her hand in a meek wave. "Hello."

Morningstar said nothing.

Inferna clapped her hands to break the bizarre tension between the four of them. "Well, let's go kick some ass!" she declared and punched the air. “I just confirmed with the other seven people who agreed to join our party. Three Ammolite, two Obsidian, two Moonstone.”

Neddy was impressed. Inferna was certainly on top of things. Perhaps more apricot tartlets were in order.

Inferna flashed them a cheeky grin. “Let’s go down to the beach?”

-

Neddy considered herself fortunate to have gotten some intimidating figures on her side for this dodgeball match- especially considering the others Inferna had rounded up. Not an inspiring bunch. But Inferna had only been looking to fill out the team.

Mermaid Cove was beautiful. The beach was blush and the sky was bright. The harbour was bustling at one end of the shore and magnificent pirate ships bobbed in the offing. Up the beach, giant pink conch shells were set upright in the sand and hollowed out into stalls that sold necessities like medi-elixirs, pep potions, and replacement gear. An old one-eyed woman with a blue parrot on her shoulder was selling fried octopus tentacles in shell-shaped baskets. A length of fishing net was draped over the market area and all manner of scavenged sea treasures and seashells were strung up, dangling over the customers as they browsed.

Neddy wanted to roam the market area for a while, but Inferna was all business. 

Inferna led them through the intro ordeal, having one of the other players activate the in-game event with the NPC shopkeeper, since Inferna herself had already completed the level and therefore could not activate it again. 

Inferna tapped her foot impatiently as the NPC ran through her whole sob story about how the mermaids had created Angel’s Breath to revive drowned humans, how the pirate queen Aydina and her eleven crew members had killed off all the mermaids to keep Angel’s Breath for herself-

Finally, the NPC said, “If you get the pirates to leave the town, I’ll show you where the last Angel’s Breath is hidden.”

“Great, let’s go,” said Inferna, then she directed the rest of the group to the shoreline.

As they stood on the beach, she threw her finger in the direction of the sea where a massive dome was rising slowly out of the water.

"Look, look!" Inferna shouted. "There it is!"

The others crowded around to watch in awe as the dome continued to surface, throwing off water and a terrible mechanical noise that scraped the ears.

"We're going into that thing?" Neddy asked, her stomach flipping.

Meanwhile, a pirate ship-complete with a skull and crossbone flag-sailed into view. Inferna rolled her eyes. “Yeah, in a sec,” she replied. “Aydina has some dialogue that we have to sit through. God fucking damn, but the NPC shit in this game gets so tedious.”

It wasn’t much longer before Aydina, the pirate queen, sauntered up over to them, her crew right behind her. With an unruly mane of fiery red curls, fierce eyes, and dressed in sheer black chiffon that billowed dramatically in the breeze, with lacy black gloves that went up to her elbows and a pair of badass black boots to match. 

Inferna cut to the chase. Apparently, sometimes you could skip the intro dialogue if you talked faster than the NPCs. “Yo, Aydina! Get the fuck out of here.”

The NPC gave Inferna a disparaging look. “How are you going to make me?”

“I challenge you to a dodgeball game,” she replied tightly, and Aydina nodded her agreement.

“Time to go!” Inferna crowed, evidently pleased that she’d successfully gotten Aydina to skip through most of the annoying dialogue. 

A narrow walkway of roped-together driftwood began to rise out of the sea. It did not look the least bit steady, and Neddy was ready to forego the whole thing just at the sight of it.

The sea is beautiful, yes. But it is also crushing and fathomless. And Neddy had always had a fear of it. The prospect of going beneath the ocean's surface was almost debilitatingly frightening. 

She hated herself for wishing Callum was there to hold her hand.

But no sooner had the thought of him crossed her mind that Inferna was taking her hand and pulling her towards the rickety walkway. 

“Come on, move your ass,” Inferna said, shooting her a playful look as she tugged her along. “Be careful during the actual game, though. Aydina can randomly let water into the court and drain it out whenever she wants. It’s the biggest pain ever.”

Neddy wanted to sink inside herself at that, but- it felt almost as if Inferna was passing some of her chaotic strength through her fingers into Neddy’s. And her feet moved to follow after the redhead. 

-

They marched into the dome, and the door sealed off behind them, metal clanging as the dome sank back under the sea to rest on the sea floor. The dome itself was made out of some kind of transparent material, allowing them to see the various sea creatures and coral formations surrounding the place. 

Inferna paused, causing Neddy to pause too. The redhead seemed to have noticed a throng of excited players making their way back to the foyer, where they’d be able to watch the game on the screens. 

“What?” Neddy wondered, dividing a look between the Inferna’s face and the other players. 

“If we win-” Inferna cut herself off and then winked at Neddy. “When we win, those players will be swarming all over us the second we get back to land- for the Angel’s Breath. Best to have a few ictuium potions on hand.” 

Inferna said as much to Balestra and Morningstar as well. Then, Aydina was explaining the rules of the game to them.

“If the ball-” and here she summoned the “dodgeball” out of thin air, which was an enchanted turtle shell- “hits you, and then hits the ground, you’re out. If you catch the ball, you’re safe. If the ball bounces off of you and one of your teammates catches it, you’re both safe. But, if the ball bounces off of you and someone on the other team catches it, you’re out.”

Inferna cast Neddy a sideways glance. “Don’t get hit,” she advised. “That thing packs a punch on its own, but depending on her mood, Aydina can make it stab you with barnacles, shock you, or spray disgusting gross poisonous stuff that’ll kill you before the time is up.”

Aydina rolled the ball over to where Inferna was standing. “I’ll let you guys have the first go,” she said, smirking confidently at them, looking directly at Inferna. “Since I feel sorry for you. How many brain cells do you have, to be wearing such an atrocious hat?”

“Fuck you!” Inferna shot back as she picked up the ball. “You’re such a fucking cunt.”

The pissed-off redhead gave the other eleven people a questioning look. “Well, should I go for it? Or do one of you guys want to do the honors?”

-

[ You can pick up here or back up a bit or do as you like if you end up taking this quest up ! No instructions for Neddy (but keep in mind she’s not a strong player), just do as you like and make sure they win ! ^^ And, if you need any help at all, just ask either Ayz or me~ ] 

[tcm]

Happy International Hat Day: Bowlers and Fedoras and Cloches, Oh My! By Jill Blake

Hats have been a staple in fashion for centuries, with origins that date back to ancient Egypt around the year 3200 BC. Of course, hat styles have changed over time, but their purposes are pretty much the same: either functionality by providing protection from the sun and other elements, or merely serving as a fashion statement. Historically, hats also often represented an individual’s social standing, with different types of hats worn by certain social classes and for certain events or occupations, from ornate wide-brimmed hats, to high quality bowlers, to newsboy caps. Hats were also part of social convention, with men wearing hats when outside and women wearing anything from pillbox hats to fascinators to complete their outfits for church or other social functions. For International Hat day, here’s a list of some popular hat styles of the 20th century. Many of these hat styles can be found on the TCM shop.

Pork Pie Hat

The pork pie hat dates back to the early-to-mid 1800s and was quite popular with men. The hat was often made of high-quality felt, but also could be made out of cotton or straw. The pork pie, or “stingy brim”, hat has distinctive features with a low crown and narrow brim. After the Civil War in the United States, the pork pie wasn’t as popular in men’s fashion. In the 1920s, silent film star and director Buster Keaton made the pork pie an integral part of his on-screen persona, helping popularize the hat once more. And in William Friedkin’s THE FRENCH CONNECTION (’71), Gene Hackman’s character, Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle, sports a pork pie hat.

Bowler Hat

The Bowler hat originates from England and was created by Thomas and William Bowler in London during the mid-1800s. The Bowler is typically made of felt and has a rounded crown, narrow brim and is very durable. While it looks formal by today’s fashion standards, the bowler was considered a more informal hat for day-to-day wear and was mainly worn by middle and upper-class men from butlers and valets, to bankers and members of the aristocracy. Perhaps the most famous bowler in classic film belonged to Charlie Chaplin, who wore the trademark bowler for his iconic Little Tramp character in films such as MODERN TIMES (’36), CITY LIGHTS (’31), and THE KID (’21). Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy also famously wore bowler hats in many of their films, like the short ANOTHER FINE MESS (’30). Other examples include Jack Lemmon in Billy Wilder’s The Apartment (1960) and James Cagney during the “Harrigan” musical number in Michael Curtiz’s YANKEE DOODLE DANDY (’42).

Fedora

The fedora is perhaps the most iconic hat in film history, particularly throughout the 1930s up through the 1950s. It’s typically made of high-quality felt, ranging from wool to cashmere to mink. The hat also usually has a wide, soft brim and a pinched crown that is indented at the top with some kind of ribbon running around the base of the crown. The fedora dates back to the 1890s and was originally considered a ladies’ hat. By the 1920s, the fedora was popularized by male members of the British Royal family and became a staple of men’s fashion. By the 1930s, the fedora was associated with gangsters and tough guys, as well as private detectives and plain clothes police officers. Almost every modern film from the 1930s through the 1950s features a fedora, including James Stewart’s Macaulay Connor in George Cukor’s THE PHILADELPHIA STORY (’40); Dick Powell’s Philip Marlowe in Edward Dmytryk’s film noir MURDER, MY SWEET (’44); and perhaps the fedora’s most famous wearer, Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine in Michael Curtiz’s CASABLANCA (’42). Ingrid Bergman also wore a variation of the fedora as Alicia Huberman in Alfred Hitchcock’s NOTORIOUS (’46).

Fascinator

The fascinator is more headpiece than an actual hat, but has long been a staple of women’s fashion, particularly in Europe. Fascinators are typically decorative and are clipped or pinned into the hair. They can be made of a wide-range of materials, including silk, wool and feathers and can have netted veils. Fascinators are mainly worn in traditional or formal settings, such as during church services, weddings or funerals. There are countless examples of fascinators in classic film, but one of the most popular is the one that Rosalind Russell’s Sylvia Fowler wears with her Adrian-designed eyeball blouse in George Cukor’s THE WOMEN (’39).

Top Hat

The top hat is one of the most recognizable hats in history. It is typically associated with formal dress dating back to the 1700s all the way up to the mid-1900s and is still worn today for certain social events. The top hat is tall, with a flat top and wide brim, and is usually made of silk, beaver fur or cloth. The hat was typically associated with wealth and prestige but eventually became accessible to a wide-range of social classes. Like the fedora, the top hat is featured in countless classic movies. Fred Astaire often wore one in his RKO musicals with Ginger Rogers, such as the appropriately named TOP HAT in 1935, directed by Mark Sandrich. Then there’s Fredric March, who always wears a top hat for a night out in Victorian-era London, whether he’s Dr. Henry Jekyll or his sinister alter-ego Mr. Hyde. But the top hat wasn’t limited to men—Marlene Dietrich famously wore one in her first American film, Josef von Sternberg’s MOROCCO (’30), as did Josephine Baker—both women pushing the boundaries of gender and redefining femininity.

Cloche Hat

The cloche hat was one of the most popular hats for women in the early 20th century. The cloche dates back to 1908 and was designed by French fashion designer Caroline Reboux and named for its bell shape. The cloche was one of the most versatile hats in a woman’s wardrobe, worn with casual, everyday clothing, as well as fancier versions for evening wear. The cloche was also popular because it accentuated the shorter hairstyles that were becoming more popular at the time. Joan Crawford, Josephine Baker, Nancy Carroll, Norma Shearer and Louise Brooks all famously wore cloche hats. One of the most stunning examples is in Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s technicolor masterpiece, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP (’43) and worn by Deborah Kerr.

Hunter/Trapper Hat

The hunter or trapper hat is sort of a variation on the deerstalker hat, typically associated with the literary character Sherlock Holmes. The trapper hat can be made of fur, leather, wool or flannel, and it has ear flaps that can be tied back. The hat is more function than style, providing warmth for a variety of outdoor activities such as hunting, fishing or selling Christmas trees, like Rock Hudson’s Ron Kirby in Douglas Sirk’s ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS (’55).

Bonus: Doris Day’s Many Hats

Doris Day has rocked some hats in her day, particularly in her three films with Rock Hudson: PILLOW TALK (’59), LOVER COME BACK (’61), and SEND ME NO FLOWERS (’64). Pillbox hats. Cloche hats. Fur hats. Straw hats. Bubble hats. Bucket hats. Sun hats. And plenty of “I-don’t-know-what-that-is-but-it’s-fabulous” hats. In the late 1950s and 1960s, Day re-popularized many of the hat styles from the 1920s and 1930s, with a funky, mid-century twist. Doris wore them all and she looked absolutely fabulous.

[geneshaven]

The Distance Between Two Hearts

Oliver lost consciousness before hitting the ground in the prison yard. Blood gushed from multiple places---his face, his neck and a puncture wound under his ribs from a shiv. He had taken a particular vicious beating this time. After only two months being locked up, Oliver had been fighting a constant barrage of attacks. When word got out that the Green Arrow was now part of the general population, the criminal element that made up the prison’s inmates lined up to get at the former vigilante, to get some pay back and to enact as much damage as possible. The attacks were brutal and often sudden, but Oliver was not some new fish swimming in a tank of sharks. He was a seasoned warrior who had just as much deadly skill as his assailants. He gave as good as he got.

But after so many beatings, Oliver was constantly on guard. The only moments of peace he found was alone in his cell, usually licking his wounds and slowly healing after the outcome of said beatings. He was not sleeping very much and the exhaustion from this was beginning to take its toll, slowing down his reactions and leaving him open to the kind of engagements that has currently left him out cold on the hard -packed dirt ground of the yard.

No one came to rescue him.  He was like a toy being played with by the population. Even the guards were in on the abuse, laying bets on Oliver’s survival, on the outcomes of the small battles he was fighting and how many inmates he could take out before falling under the weight of numbers. As Oliver lay on the ground, it started to rain, mixing his blood with the dusty earth beneath him and creating scarlet streams of running anguish.

*

Oliver came to in the prison infirmary. He was stretched out on a small gurney and an IV was attached to his arm. He could feel a gigantic headache crashing through his brain as he came more awake. His left eye was covered by some sort of bandage and he had cotton stuffed into his broken nose. Oliver tentatively reached down and ran his fingers over the wound below his ribs. The area was covered by gauze wrapped around his chest. But he was breathing and had his senses about him.  He had survived another encounter with inevitability.

There was only one other person in the room with him. It was another patient laying on another gurney across from him. Despite the bandages covering the man’s face, Oliver recognized him. He had been one of his attackers out in the yard. Oliver had taken him out of the fight early on, with a backhand to his face and a knee in his stomach. The man appeared to be asleep and Oliver ignored him. Then he caught movement to his left and turned his head that way.

The prison doctor---Simmons was his name, came into the room. He approached Oliver’s gurney and stood over it, looking down and shaking his head.  “Mr. Queen, you are one tough customer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone in my five years here who has taken as many beatings as you have and lived to tell the tale.”  

Oliver directed his one good eye at the doctor. “Yeah, well it has been my MO for a lot of years,” he deadpanned his answer. “I have been through a lot worse than some inmates beating on me. I’m a survivor doctor, and I have learned over those years how to come back from the brink.”

“Well,” Simmons responded. “I’m pretty sure you can’t survivor many more of these types of beatings. But whatever you say. Despite having a fresh set of cuts and bruises, I think you can go back to your cell.” The doctor paused for a moment, as if he was contemplating giving some advice. “Mr. Queen,” he went on. “I’m not here to help you find your way. I don’t care if you’re here because you deserve this kind of punishment or that you being the Green Arrow is noble or even heroic. You are just another inmate I have to care for in this crazy jungle. But I just wanted to let you know that there is a movement going on in Star City by thousands of its citizens. They have signed petitions and have protested outside the local FBI office. They want you freed. After everything came out about the corruption and the way you assisted in ending that corruption---well, a lot of people think you do not belong in here. Maybe that will help you deal with what is happening to you in here and maybe it won’t.” He stopped his monologue for a few seconds and then finished his conversation with Oliver. “If I was a betting man, I would put my money on you.”

Oliver still showed no emotion, but there was a slight shift in his heart. It was a small touch of gratitude.

*

Later that evening, Oliver was stretched out on his cramped bunk in his cell. He had a notebook binder open and a pen clutched in his hand. He was about to start a letter to Felicity. He was having some difficulty adjusting his depth perception onto the page with his one good eye, but he knew what he wanted to say and fought through it.

Dear Felicity,

I know I usually write these letters for both you and William, but this one is just for you. I am not sure if these letters are getting to you, mainly because I haven’t received any from you since I came to this wonderful country club. Either someone in the chain of command is stopping them from reaching you or you don’t want to talk to me. If it is the latter, I completely understand. My guilt for not including you in the decision I made that put me in here still runs deep. You told me during my trial that we are married and that we’re supposed to protect each other. I did not give you that chance when I agreed to Watson’s terms. I am sorry for that. I don’t want you to think that my reasons were the same ones I latched onto two years ago when I kept you out of the loop with William. I told you that I wanted to protect  you and William and I could not find any other way to do that except by assuring myself that even with me gone, you two would be safe and taken care of. Felicity, knowing that helps me sleep better at night.

Oliver stopped writing and read back what he had written. It seemed veiled and did not go far enough to let his part in all this play out. But he was finding if more and more difficult to let his guard down enough to make himself vulnerable, even to his own wife and child. When he wrote these letters, it almost seemed like he was a kid at summer camp, covering the highlights of spending time away from home, but not letting on how lonely he was and how much he missed his family. The headache he had all day was notched down a bit, but he had another ache that was much harder to endure.

It was in his heart.

Oliver closed his notebook, capped his pen and placed them in the storage netting on the side of his bunk. Maybe Felicity had decided to ignore his letters. Knowing her as well as he did, it sometimes took her a while to process trauma, especially when it was aimed at her, at the way Oliver blindsided her with his deal with the FBI. He knew she was angry at him, and rightly so. His life wasn’t the only one set adrift. She and William’s lives had been just as plagued as his. Oliver’s incarceration was a shock to his family and his guilt over everything brought bad memories of him not being able to look into Felicity’s eyes in their last moments before he was taken away. It was him not giving his wife, his soulmate a hug and a kiss. Oliver just could not let himself touch her. It would have driven him over the edge and reminded him what he was giving up. Felicity’s fear of losing him danced in her leaking eyes like a victimized affront.  And that was Oliver’s deepest guilt. He once again shattered Felicity’s heart by keeping her away; by not letting her find any of her own comfort in a simple touch.

Oliver felt a tear leak out of his good eye as he turned over and started to search for a few hours of sleep. Rain was in the forecast for tomorrow and Oliver wanted to have enough rest to face it.

@it-was-a-red-heeler @memcjo @hope-for-olicity @almondblossomme @biermank @allimariexf @ajillgreen @silencehealth @mylittlesimba @cruzrogue @dmichellewrites @gabriellamarie97 @bandanab310 @wanhani @1106angel @omglovechrissie @marisatwit @swordandarrow @candykizzes24 @wordslovedreams @melolicity @starofaries

[renywrites]

The Unforgiving Sea

There was a storm due. Shiro had told him, but Keith could feel it in the tide and the undercurrents he liked to play in. The merfolk usually stayed away from the surface. There were too many horror stories about small sirens being swept away and left to die on the jagged rocks that tore ships apart in storms like these.

You’re insane. Pidge, Keith’s best friend, informed the young siren.

He just flashes her a toothy, excited grin. I’ve never seen the surface during a storm. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.

You’re gonna get yourself killed. She flicks her lithe, bioluminescent green tail to follow Keith as he darted through the coral reef so he wouldn’t be seen. Pidge apparently didn’t get the message; she was still floating conspicuously by the reef, arms folded against her small frame.

You’re gonna get me caught! Keith huffs, reaching over and dragging her into the reef. She lets out a surprised squawk, a bit of floppy seaweed smacking her in the face.

I don’t even see why you’re doing this, Pidge grunts, fixing her hair. Is it because of that human? The one that Shiro told you not to go near?

I have no idea what you’re talking about. Keith darts through another crevice, stopping to listen. The patrols were supposed to be on rounds on the opposite side of the reef, but Shiro had become unpredictable lately. He’d suspected his little brother wasn’t paying attention to the rules that he’d set, because Keith was far too… civil about them.

You’re going to get hurt. Pidge blows bubbles, glancing up at the distant, roiling surface. Even the undercurrents are strong enough to sweep you away. You’re tiny.

You’re one to talk, Keith grunts, peering around a rock. No sign of the patrol. From here, it was only clear water to the surface. There was nowhere to hide if he got caught. He hadn’t even come up with an excuse if he did happen to get caught, which was sort of stupid on his part.

He hesitates, his tail fins drooping a bit as he looked around. Cover for me? He asks, without turning to look at Pidge.

The tiny siren rolls her eyes, smoothing down her electric green scales. Don’t I always?

You’re the best. Keith looks back at her. I’ll bring you back something cool.

Yeah, yeah. Go on, before your brother finds you swimming in open water and locks you in a cavern for the rest of your life.

He makes a soft, appreciative noise, before he races toward the surface, leaving bubbles and a dubious mermaid in his wake.

In retrospect, going out on a boat right before a storm was a terrible idea. As his boat rocked and swayed and creaked wildly - it reminded him of the bull-riding matches he saw on television - Lance was starting to deeply regret his judgement.

The storm had only been a few dark, menacing clouds across a blue sky when the fisherman had gone out in his boat. The news had warned of a major change in weather, which was what had prompted him to take his little rickety boat out onto the water.

He had been sure he was going to be back in enough time. But when Lance had gotten to the rocks, he had lingered a little too long. Maybe he should have heeded the weatherman’s warnings to stay inside.

Okay, but, in his defense - those nets cost him hours of labor, and thick rope wasn’t exactly cheap! And… okay, maybe he was hoping to see a certain pretty scaled siren with purple eyes. That was the real reason he was out in this storm, if Lance were being honest.

Besides, he hadn’t meant to drift this far, but the angry sea had stolen away his only oar and nets weren’t the best tool to use as a way to get back to shore. Lance could see the shore from here, but it honestly could have been a world away. There was no way he could reach the shore now.

His suspicions were proved correct when the rain started coming down. His boat was filling with water faster than he could get it out, both from the thrashing waves and torrential downpour. Lance was throwing water as fast as he could with his cupped hands. He looks up to see a monster of a wave. And then his world goes dark.

When he wakes up again, it’s to somebody shaking him and calling his name. His eyes open, but before he can register anything, his body heaves and he starts coughing up water. He turns to the side, coughing and gasping for air.

There’s a hand on his back, rubbing small, slow circles. He doesn’t remember what had happened until he remembers his nets - what had happened to his nets? Lance sits up, jerking away from the hand and looking around frantically. There was nothing - nothing! No nets, no boat, no - anything.

He twists to see who was with him, to ask questions, and stops dead when he sees the siren looking up at him, wide-eyed.

Keith had put him on a rock, above the thrashing waves and with enough handles that he wouldn’t be tossed into the tempest. He was clinging for dear life, having retreated from off the rock when Lance had tried to throw him off.

Lance stares at him for a long moment. For a split second, relief washes over him to see that Keith was here and safe. Or, well, as safe as anyone could be during a massive storm. But that fades as quickly as it comes and Lance finds himself looking out at the waves. What had happened? Where was he? He... didn’t recognize this side of the coast.

“Where… what?” He rasps, dragging a hand over his face, the salt of the water stinging his eyes and making his throat feel like sandpaper.

I saved you. Keith ducks his head, pressing himself against the rock as another wave crashed over him. His arms were shaking, his body sagged with exhaustion against the rock. I saved you. You were dying and I saved you.

“I’m not- my boat! Where is my boat?” Lance scrambles higher on the rock, trying to look for it.

There was no boat- there was only you and the waves and the water and… no boat.

The Cuban sits back hard, his eyes wide as he stares at the raging sea. “That was my dad’s boat.” He says faintly, dragging a hand through his hair. There were too many emotions swirling in his chest.

His dad had built that boat with his bare hands when Lance was just a kid - it was all he had left of him! His brother’s and sister’s and father’s initials had been carved into it before it’d been sealed. It was his favorite possession, the only piece of his dad he had left.

Grief washes over him, thick and heavy, piercing through the clouded, grey veil of shock. But it only lasts a moment. Lance turns his gaze to Keith, the shock giving way to anger merely seconds later. It was horrible, he knew, but the circumstances were ridiculous and he needed somebody to be upset at. Keith just so happened to be the closest one at the moment.

“You have to find my boat!” Even as he says it, the part of him that had fallen in love with the ideation of sirens, the color of Keith’s scales, the musical sound of his voice in his head - it screams at him to stop. This wasn’t Keith’s fault. He was supposed to be happy that they were alive.

But how was the little siren supposed to know this? Keith winces, his fingers tightening on the crevices of his life line. There was no boat. There won’t be anymore boat, the sea will have torn it apart.

“You have to bring me my boat!” Lance shouts. “What- what good are you if you can’t give me something to get back to shore in?”

Keith’s eyes widen, fear making them a dark indigo color. It almost blended with the waves. I can take you to shore… he tries to offer, but Lance shakes his head, cutting him off.

“No, don’t even- don’t even bother.” Lance rakes a hand through his hair, rage flaring hot in his veins. His relief from before is drowned out by a sudden, terrible anger.  His boat was gone. He was far from home. His fishing nets were probably somewhere along the bottom of the ocean - another thing he had inherited from his father.

Even as the little voice in his head was begging him to be reasonable, pleading with him to see that Keith was just as scared as he was, he was fighting a losing battle. Lance’s logic had been poisoned by anger, his shock bleeding into something more manageable. Something easier to cope with.

As far as his brain was concerned, this had nothing to do with his recklessness. His mind was convinced that if he hadn’t met Keith, he wouldn’t be in this mess! At the moment, it seemed logical enough. It was easier than taking the blame.

“This is your fault.” He snaps after a moment, all his panic and shock rushing into this one feeling - and the only thing he could do was lash out, because if he didn’t, he was going to cry.

M-My..?

“If you had minded your own business and stayed out of my nets, I would have been inside for this storm!” He hisses. “And I wouldn’t be lost in who-knows-where Cuba with a stupid fish who can’t even be bothered to rescue boats!”

I didn’t… I didn’t mean to-

“Shut up. Just- go away. Get out of here.”

But I’ll-

“I said get out of here!” Lance picks up a clump of seaweed and possibly some gravel, hurling it at the siren. It bounces off his wrist, surprising the siren enough for him to let go of his perch on the rock. It isn’t long before the waves crash over him, dragging him back into the deep with their icy claws.

His heart twists painfully, words leaving his mouth before he even has the chance to take them back and apologize. “And don’t come back looking for me, because I won’t rescue you from anymore nets!”

That’s the last thing Keith can hear before he’s swimming away as fast as he can. He had only tried to help. He had saved the human - he had torn a gash in the thin membrane of his tail, which was causing him to swim funny, and now he had to find his way home, too.

The little siren swims as far as he can before fear and exhaustion takes over. He finds a hollowed out little divot in the bottom of a coral reef, curling up there. Keith trembles, wrapping his arms around himself and staring into the water. Shiro had been right, to some extent.

He sits there until he’s dozing off, until he hears something familiar in the water far off. He blinks his eyes open, peering out incoherently.

...eith!

The siren shifts, edging out to peer over the little section of the reef he was hiding in.

Keith!

Shiro. Shiro had found him. He makes a noise that’s a cross between relieved and scared, pushing himself out from behind the reef. His adoptive brother was scanning the reef, Pidge trailing behind him as they searched for him.

Shiro, Keith whimpers, propelling himself with tired fins toward his brother and best friend. Shiro!

Pidge looks up, freezing when she catches sight of him. She races over, jostling into his older brother and gesturing frantically when his body language changed from searching to annoyed.

When he catches sight of Keith, however, he stops dead. There’s one silent, heavy moment. Keith struggles to keep swimming, straining his tail fins, his body trembling with effort. Shiro edges forward, then takes off like a shot, hurtling toward his little brother.

His older brother scoops the little siren up, gripping onto him and burying his face into his hair. I’ve got you, he coos, I’ve got you.

You were right. He sobs, burying his face in Takashi’s shoulder. I should have stayed, I shouldn’t have met the human.

You’re okay. Shiro coos, scooping him up and carrying him back to Pidge.

Pidge darts around them, frantic. I know I promised not to tell, but you didn’t come back and I got worried and- I’m so sorry, Keith!

Keith doesn’t answer, his eyes closing. He wanted to go home. Shiro holds him tighter. I’ve got you, his older brother says again. You’re okay.

But all Keith could see, all he could hear, was the anger in Lance’s eyes and voice.

Part 3 of The Children of the Sea

Part 1 | Part 2

[zneptunescub]

Scuba diving history

A scuba jumping position can allude to any place that includes participating in scuba plunging endeavors or that utilizes scuba plunging to achieve errands. Most positions in scuba plunging exist in the movement business, as numerous scuba jumping position center around making the travel industry encounters for individuals who travel. Nonetheless, you can likewise secure positions that include scuba making a plunge ventures like diversion, logical examination and development. Essential obligations: A local escort drives gatherings of travelers through extraordinary encounters while holiday, for example, trips and exercises that require specific information on the snorkeling in bali area to partake in securely. One sort of local escort is a submerged or marine local escort who assists vacationers with exploring outings that happen submerged. A marine local escort can lead bunches on scuba jumping endeavors, regulate visit bunches while on swimming journeys in vast water and work with gatherings among visitors and nearby marine untamed life, like dolphins, stingrays or sharks.

A blogger is an essayist who makes content for online distributions, frequently fixated on a specific subject of interest. Bloggers can compose articles and posts for their own sites or for managers, direct exploration on a particular subject to recognize entrancing points to expound on and participate in thrilling or exceptional open doors so they can expound on their experience. A blogger who expounds on movement or marine life could utilize scuba jumping as a subject to cover and as a strategy for social event data to use in their web journals.

The brightness of the human brain is to such an extent that we have made gear that empowers us to be constantly submerged for terms going from 30 minutes to even up to hours, and in a real sense swim like a fish in the profound oceans.The endurance 'Decide of 3' expresses that people can go 3 minutes without air, 3 days without water and 3 weeks without food.However, the splendor of the human psyche is to such an extent that we have made hardware that empowers us to be ceaselessly submerged for spans going from 30 minutes to even up to hours, and in a real sense swim like a fish in the profound seas.

A scuba jumper's stuff is a piece of virtuoso, intended for science, sport ergonomics and even style. Persevering through high submerged pressure, taking into consideration water opposition, being lightweight and minimized for the jumper to handily explore with, and moreover give the jumper the benefit to swim like a fish.The Buoyancy Control Device is an inflatable coat that assists the jumper with remaining light while plunging. It has an inflatable bladder associated with the air tank. The jumper can swell and collapse the bladder to keep up with positive lightness at the surface and nonpartisan lightness submerged.

‍Most jumpers use scuba tanks loaded up with basic separated and dehumidified air, packed into the tank. The standard volume of air for sporting jumpers is 200 bars, the utilization of which they can screen consistently through the air measure. Many high level jumpers likewise utilize enhanced air tanks (Nitrox) with higher sythesis of oxygen for better plunging performance.‍The scuba plunging gear list finishes itself with a wetsuit that the jumper wears to keep warm in cool submerged temperatures, a veil so that the eyes could see submerged, and blades for better submerged development.

Aside from the above bits of scuba jumping gear, numerous jumpers utilize extra embellishments like a plunge PC to design their jumps by checking jump time, profundity and other data, a submerged compass for route, surface markers to show the jumpers' area to plunge boats, blades for releasing oneself in the event of trap by fishing nets or weeds.‍ScubaPro is one of the main specialists of scuba plunging hardware on the planet. A full arrangement of mid-ran scuba hardware can cost from INR 70,000 to INR 1 lakh. Attributable to the significant expense and trouble to heft around, most sporting jumpers like to lease the gear from plunge shops they are plunging with.

[antihero-writings]

Red and Gold Chapter 1: Whispers—Pandora Hearts Fic for Phsecretsanta2018 (Vince/Ada Pirate AU) (Full Chapter)

Fic Title: Red and Gold

Fic Synopsis: Memories of a strange music box in Ada's occult shop intertwine with a present where she meets the equally mysterious Vincent Nightray...

Notes: This was my Phsecretsanta2018 gift for @endoreon!

Chapter Title: Whispers

Chapter 1: 

Ada placed an old compass on the shelf, between an antique sextant and a dull crystal.

She turned to face the rest of the shop, smiling and putting her hands on her hips, proud of her work; she had just finished tidying up the place, putting everything in order, and could finally have a moment to relax, and admire the way everything gleamed.

Outside the sun always shone bright, reflecting off the white sand, sending green shadows onto the ground as it sifted through the palm leaves. Inside, the low light that filled the shop, emanating from candles, lanterns, as well as a few crystals hanging from nets, (and the occasional mysterious object), bouncing off the wooden walls, creating an atmosphere of dormant animation in the darkened place. Almost like the shop itself was lying in wait for something to happen, like if you broke a single object, all the spirits would come spilling out, and the place would live.

“Mew!”

Ada knelt down to scratch her cats’ ears.

She had had this shop for a few years now; for a long time, she had tried to learn about the occult, in attempts to bring her brother back from the Abyss, and in the midst of her research, had become a bit of an enthusiast, and had collected too many occult artifacts for the spare Vessalius house to hold. She didn’t use all of them, so she decided to start selling them to interested parties. From there she started collecting things just to sell. When she was at school, or otherwise couldn’t man the shop, she had servants watch over the place, (she warned them not to tell her uncle, or anyone who might not approve, or start spreading rumors). She had also hired someone to find more artifacts—(at sea, buried beneath the sand, anything)—both for her own fascination, as well as the shop.

Those who knew of her knew that she wasn’t just some collector, she was very knowledgeable in the ways of the occult, and novice practitioners, or fanatics, would come to her for advice on spells, or the authenticity of the objects they had found on their own. Some of them genuinely shared her interests—(she could talk to them for hours if she didn’t curb her excitement)—but sometimes people came in who were more…creepy than anything. Of course, by the nature of her hobby, often she herself couldn’t tell the difference.

“Now, now, you’ll have to wait outside. You’re not old enough to take part in the ceremony yet.”

Ada gasped, spinning around wildly. “Who’s there?!”

“Mew!” Snowdrop responded.

She petted her cat once more, looking around.

No one. Wooden walls and a breeze.

She breathed out. It wasn’t exactly unheard of that objects such as these could give off strange visions, or spill voices into one’s ears, and she was no stranger to the dark and the dangerous. It was surely just a particularly powerful object, which was simply doing its job, and someone would buy it soon enough.

Despite her mind’s attempts to reassure her, she probably should have been listening more carefully.

For the next few weeks, intermittently when she was in her shop, whispers would tread the air around her. Simple words, cries, accusations, voices that—dare she admit it?—she recognized.

Her brother’s, her uncle’s, her father’s, and—somehow worst of all—her own.

Her own voice, sounding so pitiful, so lost, and tiny.

Did she still sound like that?

After a while, it wasn’t hard to recognize what they were: memories. Memories of a past calling back to her. A sad and empty past that she had tried to forget. A past in which the Baskervilles threw her brother into the Abyss, and that place kept him from her for ten years.

Was this just her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her head? Nothing real?

But, of course, these memories were real. She just didn’t think of them too often, because she didn’t quite like that fact.

What kind of an object could do this? Why would someone create such an object in the first place? What should she even be looking for?

She tried to block them, to find something else that would drown them out, to cover her ears, but the whispers seeped in through the boards she nailed over her mind’s doors, and the cracks between her fingers.

The murmurs followed her. They pooled in her brain when she left the shop, and didn’t drain away. They grew louder. There came a point when she tore apart her neatly polished shop in search of the offender, and found…nothing.

But as she turned to leave one day, she saw her reflection in the door window, and behind herself, the curtain to the back…She turned, and did something dangerous:

She started thinking.

Hidden away, back there, like a caged beast, was in an old chest, and within it, something she had been warned about, but whose purpose had never quite been explained to her.

Her hand shaking ever so slightly, she fingered the necklace she was wearing, pulling it from beneath her shirt, holding the end up before her eyes, twinkling in the low light; a tiny, old silver key.

Ada walked out into the darkened school grounds. There was something about the cool night air that made everything seem less inviting, less pure. The person waiting for her, during the day, would—(if a little odd)—have been an ordinary student, but in the dark he was a figure, a mystery, harbinger of more mystic nights to come.

They weren’t supposed to be out after dark—and she was one of those adamant rule-followers—but there had been something about the plea to his voice earlier…

“Good evening, Leo-kun.” Her small, but strong, voice broke the silence.

Leo turned to her, half moonlight reflecting off his glasses, and bowed.

“Yes, Good evening, Miss Vessalius.” He smiled, though there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrayed its reality.

“If I may, can I ask how you found out about my shop?”

He scratched his chin, looking around as if the courtyard had suddenly become more interesting. “I simply heard about it from some of our fellow students. You know how they can be prone to gossiping.”

Who knew about her? And why they wouldn’t say anything about it to her? How did they find out? How many people knew by now? Or, what if he was lying? If so, why didn’t he want her to know how he knew?

“Ah, I see.” She didn’t press the issue, but wasn’t completely satisfied with the explanation either.

She was surprised that Leo would even come to her in the first place; he only ever spoke to her through Elliot—and was always with Elliot in general—so she didn’t want to scare him off with extra, unnecessary questions. This was already the longest conversation they ever had. Though the question of who knew about her shop, and how, troubled her, what was important was this object he was giving to her. It was the reason for their meeting, after all. If she badgered him too much, he might decide not give it to her at all. Nevertheless, the simple fact that he had arranged this late-night meeting, alone with her—without Elliot—in the first place, meant that whatever he was trying to give to her was affecting him deeply.

Or maybe it was affecting Elliot.

“So…you have something for me?”

“Right.” He seemed relieved she wasn’t going to ask any more questions. He set his bag on the ground, and knelt down to fish something from it.

But once he retrieved it, the cloth-covered object gave her few more answers than questions.

She cocked her head to the side, leaning forward, puzzled, but intrigued, trying to keep her excitement from bubbling over.

Leo breathed out the answer to her unasked question. “It’s a music box.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of enchanted music boxes before!” her obsession started to peak through, “What’s this one called?”

She reached out her hand towards it, but he jerked it away from her.

He seemed to realize the suddenness of the action, and relaxed a little. “I…Sorry, I just…” the veiled agitation bled out from behind the curtain.

What was it that made him so jumpy? Usually he was quiet, but confident. Was it this object? Or could it be her? He didn’t seem very comfortable around most people who weren’t Elliot, so maybe her sudden movement just startled him a little? Although…if it was the object itself… should she be scared too?

She decided not to let it bother her. Once again, this wasn’t exactly the first time someone had acted strangely when trying to get an occult object off their hands.

“So…might I ask what its purpose is?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m…afraid I’d rather not say.”

“Eh? It’s going to be rather hard for me to sell if I don’t know what it does, you know.”

“Sell it?” fear came to the surface. “No, no, no, no, you can’t sell this! You can’t even open it!”

She blinked.

“So…you’re giving me something; you wouldn’t like to tell me what it does, and you…don’t want me to sell or use it? Forgive my rudeness, but why don’t you simply hide it yourself? Or destroy it?”

“I’ve,” he cleared his throat, “tried both.” He looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck, and she often wished she could see the look in his eyes behind those glasses.

“And?”

He stayed silent, but it was obvious both had failed.

“But you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, right?” he spoke up again, “So I thought you might have methods of keeping it from…activating. Or be better be able to,” he mumbled the next few words, “tune it out.”

“I’m sure I can handle it!” She smiled, though she was losing confidence the more they spoke.

The same phenomenon seemed to be happening to him.

“Please listen to me, Miss Vessalius;” he placed a hand on her shoulder—and how afraid, how insistent, would the look in his eyes have been, if she could have seen it?—“I can’t force you to accept this, or teach you how to stop it. All I can do is give you a warning; do not open this. For whatever reason, if you start to hear things, cover your ears, if you see anything, cover your eyes.”

“Huh? But why?”

What exactly did all that mean? What sorts of things would she hear or see? Just how powerful was this thing?

He rubbed his temple as if that would keep his aggravation from spilling out.

“This is…dangerous. Maybe the most dangerous thing you’ve ever handled.”

“Well, I have handled—”

His expression shut her up.

“So…” She cleared her throat, trying to keep from getting annoyed herself. “Why do you have it in the first place?”

He shook his head, looking at the veiled box. “Just a mistake.”

He proceeded to pull on a chain around his neck, which ended in a small silver key. He pulled it over his head, pooling it in his hand, holding it out to her his head bowed (out of respect, or a desire not to look at it, she didn’t know)—though he did so as if it were a gun—“Please keep this with you at all times.”

This was more than she bargained for, or guessed the care of this object would entail. Usually if she got a call, even if it was something dangerous, they wouldn’t be so cryptic, and they often just wanted to get rid of it, they didn’t bother with warnings and precautions.

Still, nothing she couldn’t handle.

She nodded, taking it and slipping it around her neck.

He bit his lip, his grip tight around the box, his hands shaking a little.

“Please hide this in the most secure location you can find.”

He thrust the box towards her, though his death grip made it clear he didn’t really want entrust it to her. She wrapped her fingers around it, looking curiously at him as she felt his resistance, before tugging it away from him.

“I promise to take care of it.” she tried to reassure him.

“Promise me you won’t open it.” His voice was the most serious she’d ever heard of it.

She smiled, giving a curt nod.

“Promise.”

But what do people do when presented with a mystery, a curious object, and an unshakable warning about it’s volatility?

They do the very thing they’re commanded not to do.

It was a few days later still, when she gave in.

She knelt on the floorboards in her back room, a battered chest before her, its hinges rusty, its wood splintering. The rug was folded back, and the trap door the chest had been heaved out of propped open.

Did Leo know, then, about the whispers? About how they nagged and poked and prodded at one’s mind? How they staked themselves there, laying claim to her heart? Did he know how powerful it would be? How much it would affect her life?

She told herself he didn’t.

When she knew full well he did; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so adamant, so tense.

The chest’s maw, creaking as she lifted the lid, revealed the veiled oddity sitting at the bottom. Waiting, like a black bride, for her groom.

Surely it wasn’t this object, so small and unassuming, that was capable of invading her thoughts so entirely?

It wasn’t such a big deal. Just one peak. Listen to a few notes. Keep the whispers at bay.

“Come on, Ada!”

She drew in a breath, and lowered her hands into the depths, as if into murky waters, and gently took the dark bride’s hand, pulling her from the waves.

It was light, as if she was holding the whispers themselves. Yet the longer the bride held her hand, the tighter her grip, the heavier the weight of their vows.

“Say, what’s Abyss?”

The voice was louder this time.

Just breathe.

It’ll all be over soon.

She pulled the cloth, unveiling the wretched face she was destined to kiss.

“Well it’s a sort of prison…”

The box was black, ornate silver designs, curls and borders on the sides and top. Other than that it was relatively plain. But holding it made her breath catch, and the room darker.

She told herself it was just her own fear.

Letting it sit in her hands for a moment, she weighed it, along with Leo’s words. Part of her brain begged her to listen to him, screamed at her to return it to its place in the ground.

But it was too alive to bury.

“for bad guys…”

A lump grew in her throat as she tugged on the chord to the key around her neck.

As curiosity often bids us, she did the very thing he demanded she never do. For the simplest reason as a few whispers, and a rickety past.

“Please, let me in! My brother’s in trouble!!”

She gasped, reaching her fingers gently to her lips, as if not quite sure if she had said it herself. The shout had sounded so real, less ephemeral, less there, more here…

Shaking, her hands sweating, glancing around as if someone would see her breaking into something that belonged to her, she fit the key into the lock.

Though the weather was perfectly calm outside, she could hear rain beginning to pound.

“Oz Vessalius, your sin is…”

The pronunciation felt like it was coming down on her own head, like the past-born rain.

She was that little girl again, soaked through with water and fear, begging to be let in. The rain breathed; it was talking to her with the fluttery voices of those she loved, and those she had grown to hate. Some words broke through the crowd—brushing shoulders and pushing others down, louder, stronger—but the memories were so many by now that the whispers seemed like a mob.

Hands shivering, shutting her eyes tight, she turned the key,

—It clicked—

Placed her fingers on the wood of the lid—

The rain was so loud….

“Your very—“

And lifted it.

The action was like a conductor bringing down his baton; those whispers, the breath of the wind and rain, were all simultaneously silenced.

She glanced around, as if she would be able to see their smoke dissipating in the air.

The silence was almost worse…Almost.

Because silence is empty, and can be filled.

When she tipped it open, no tiny dancer twirled around. No frilly art or pretty words decorated the inside. She could see the cogs beneath, like if a ship’s deck were glass, and you could see the rudders, all the working parts and windswept waves that kept it going.

Though the look of it was plain, and rather unexciting, the inside of the lid held a peculiar inscription:

To he who dares play this song

You may yet still know it wrong

If it’s for redemption that you’ve asked

And the answer, you believe, in long awaited past

Without map, without wind, in the end, no sign of treasure

Too late, the hands of time will show you your own measure.

Upon seeing the words, questions boiled in her thoughts. What could this mean? What was she looking for in opening it? If she wasn’t looking for redemption, did that mean it was safe to listen? What about the past? Why would she want to hear whispers of, look into, the past? But if she didn’t…what was she doing here? Could this be more than simple attempts to shut the whispers up? Was there real temptation behind her current actions?

Then, without warning, or winding, the music began to play.

Though the notes were slow and few, they plucked at her heart. They tugged on her veins and sent vibrations through her, like she was their true instrument.

She slammed both the lid and her eyes shut, breath heavy.

She peeked open an eye.

Just a music box. Nothing strange. Nothing to tell her it was capable of great and terrible things. Just an ordinary music box. No notes fell out unannounced.

Taking up the key to lock it again, she felt another presence in the room.

She turned to see—

[tealquacks]

The Song Of The Cliffs- chapter seven

When they returned to the village, the sun was lowering in the sky. It had to be around six o'clock, since it wasn't yet sunset, but too dark to be the afternoon. They didn't walk through the ship, Edgar refused to, so they climbed up the rocks to the top of the cliff. Somehow, Ed beat him to the top, but that could be because Wilford was still sore and tired from his excursions. The village was alive and unshaken, moving on as if there was no shipwreck in the cliff and not a care in the world, people and tourists going from tiny shop to tiny shop with bags in their hand, men with slicked back hair and women laughing at their attempts to seduce them. Wilford pulled his bag closer to his back, extending a hand to Edgar.

“Come on, I’ll help you open the bar up, old friend.”

“You just want a free drink.” Edgar deadpanned. He looked weird without his hat- Wilford could get it on his next trip down to the beach.

“And I always get one. Don't worry, I'll pay for the other drinks too this time.”

Ed rolled his eyes but took Wilford's hand, Wilford excitedly pulling him through the town, dodging people left and right as they ran, leaving the confession at the beach behind them; mostly, at least. Wilford looked behind him at Edgar, his face red and spotty but smiling, and wondered. In another time, one without the siren. Would he have loved him back? If he wasn't snared in the siren's net, then maybe. Only maybe. Dark was beautiful and mysterious, as if there was some sort of veil around him, hiding what he was actually like to him. What was the fun in an open book, read page by page over and over again? Looking at the same pictures, the same text, bit by bit. Wilford felt Edgar give his hand a squeeze as he pulled him.

“Hey, Wilford! Earth is calling!” Edgar called. Wilford jolted, looking back to his short friend.

“What is it?”

Edgar opened his mouth, but was cut off as Wilford was suddenly hit in the leg with something… stick like? Looking up from the ground, he was face to face with Host, who was smiling at him with that odd, tight-lipped smile that was so warm, but so unsettling. The smile took him back to cold meals and colder ground, Host with the butt of a cigarette between his teeth, looking out with golden eyes over no-man's land. Wilford remembered Host stole a general's lighter when he needed a light for his cigarette. Maybe he still had it, collecting dust on a shelf in his house, or buried in a pocket of his trench coat- something to remind him of the good old days.

“William, my friend,” Host spoke in a clipped tone, “how are you on this… sunny? Sunny day. I can feel the warmth on my skin.”

Wilford snorted. “I feel it on my face.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Wilford saw Host’s little doctor come running down the street, stumbling over his feet and clutching the bag of trinkets and tinctures, a lengthy linen bandage fluttering behind him as he ran. The doctor finally reached them, stopping by Host and straightening up, wiping sweat off of his forehead. Goddam, he was tall, especially compared to how short Host was. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, brows furrowed, but lightened up when he saw Wilford.

“Ah! You must be the Mr. Warfstache that Host told me so much about! It is very good to meet you!” His accent was strange, familiar sounding but odd nonetheless. It wasn't overly pronounced, like Edgar's accent, but subtle and sweet. Wilford couldn't place what it was- french, maybe? Italian? But his voice sounded soft and light.

Wilford shook his hand.

“Good to meet you too, Doctor-”

“Doctor Edward Iplier.”

Edgar stepped out from behind Wilford, looking up at Doctor Iplier, who smiled and waved down at him. Edgar waved back, clearly a bit flustered. It was from the run, probably. Wilford let go of Edgar's hand, looking at Edward and Host, standing side by side. Host was holding Edwards arm with one hand, his cane with the other, standing perfectly still. If he had eyes, they'd be gold- they used to be. The doctor, however, was a bit fidgety, looking over the bloodied bandages that were wrapped around Host’s head, fingers twitching. It was much like how Wilford’s hands twitched, except Edward was yearning for a medical thing of some sort, not the steady weight of a revolver.

“We were thinking of getting some drinks,” Host said plainly, “And now that you two are here, would you care to join us?”

Wilford felt the corners of his lips turn up, more memories coming back.

“The last time we got drinks together, you had to carry me home after I kicked that guy’s ass!”

“He was the one kicking your ass, if the H- if I remember that correctly, which I do.”

Edward took Host’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. Host turned his head up at the doctor, smirk warm on his face. Huh. Weird. Host almost seemed fond of his little doctor, the two locked together in an eyeless gaze as intense as the lowering sun.

Edgar coughed.

“I, um, well- the bar, I should probably go in, open up… what time is it? Has the sun been setting sooner? It's March, right? Or, um…” He ran a hand through his hair, laughing awkwardly and looking at the bar in front of them, ignoring the Host and his Doctor. Wilford raised an eyebrow at Edgar, it wasn't like him to shy away from conversation with anyone, even the deadbeat drunks that would drink him dry of beer, whiskey and patience. Hell, Wilford didn't even pay for his drinks, and yet he and Edgar could talk for hours and hours about everything and nothing all at once, listening to the waves crash like bombs onto frozen ground as they shared a bottle of whiskey or wine or the fancy Russian shit that tasted like nothing but fire.

Maybe it had to do with what happened down on the beach. The confession was more than fresh in Wilford's mind, and stung like the- what was it? Vodka? The vodka on his throat, making him cringe and cough at the strong taste. Maybe it had nothing to do with it, and Ed was just tired, but what did it matter? Images of Dark, lounging on the seabed, watching little fishes and the sun-stained water flow in an endless rhythm invaded his head again, and Wilford smiled. Maybe his siren would chase the little fishes, swimming and watching them scatter around in bright colors, tail flicking and gleaming like waterfalls of jewels on a rich ladies neck.

In his imagination, Wilford was swimming along with him, Darks powerful tail coiled around his legs as he held onto his waist. Long, beautiful claws caressing his face, combing through his hair. The siren smiling with pointed teeth as Wilford leaned in closer, lips meeting the cool skin of his cheek before moving along, pulling back for only a second before leaning in, Darks lips a whisper against his-

“Wilford! Hurry up! Aren't you coming?” Edward called out. Wilford snapped out of his head, looking to see that the other three were far, far ahead of him, already walking to the bar. He could show them his drawing, framed up in the bar, and talk about Dark all through the night, or at least until he was too drunk to talk or think straight.

He jogged to catch up with them, standing next to Host as Edgar unlocked the door, stepping into the old bar. Wilford smiled at the familiar atmosphere, eyes quickly finding the drawing of Dark, now proudly posted up on the wall. God, it came out better than he thought it had, but the one in his bag was even more beautiful than that one- he had spent much more time on it, adding detail to all the odd scales, using black, red, and blue to perfect them, paying more attention to the wisps of hair that stuck out from his waist long braid.

Host bumped up against him, grabbing Wilford's arm.

“There's a picture on the wall. What is it?”

Wilford stared at it.

“It's one of my drawings it’s…” he trailed off, staring at the blind man at his side, not knowing how to describe something so marvelous, something as divine as the siren on the rocks. The beautiful mystery wrapped up in scales like a king in a cloak, a general in his uniform. Dark had seemed so fascinated by the dog tags- how much about humans did he know? He could wear his uniform the next time he visited him, Dark would certainly get a kick out of that, touching all the metals and buttons, the worn, blood stained fabric that felt like home and smelled like gunpowder.

“It's a drawing of the full moon. It's all silver, the sea is blue, and the stars are beautiful, like gems. There are roses growing.”

Host nodded, lips twisting into a frown. His bandages were a rust colored red, probably from the flood of blood that poured from his eyes like a river.

“It must look beautiful.” He whispered.

Suddenly, music began to play from the record player in the corner. Wilford turning to see Edgar putting the needle onto a record, giving it a slight tap before the music kicked up, a very light, fast song that sounded like one of the bands after the war ended, one of the parties with all that booze and shouting, kissing pretty girls and boys, ending up with a woman on his arm and a man in his lap, all drunk and feeling him up as the band played on and on in a victorious song. Maybe Dark would like to try some type of booze, maybe he'd like whiskey, or maybe something sweeter.

Wilford tugged Host closer to him, awkwardly escorting the blind man closer to the bar, sitting right at the seat near the carving of his initials. The doctor soon joined them, muttering something in before sitting next to Host, Edgar slipping behind the bar, looking oddly happy.

“What will it be?”

Wilford grinned, locking eyes with Host. Well, locking where his eyes would be, at least.

“I'll have what he's having.”