#and the less fortunate who dwell in the ruins of the city )

[inkedroplets]

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing. (I've been soaking up these rich girl snippets like a sponge but take as much time as you need! I'm sure it'll be worth the wait ❤)

So this really small snippet is from my Lena erases her memory fic. Kara ends up rescuing the woman that Lena's just started seeing from a bit of trouble.

“You’re a long way from National City,” the woman said, looking as if she still wasn’t sure that it was really Supergirl that had been the one to pull her to safety. “I happened to be in the neighborhood,” Kara said, wondering if the woman would chalk it up to a bit of good fortune on her part. Something that couldn’t be further from the truth.Kara had already long run through her flimsy list of excuses as to why she made so many trips to Metropolis. Especially when she knew what a risk it was to do so but this time at least, something good had come of it. “I can handle myself,” the woman said, sounding the teensiest bit annoyed. “Not that I don’t appreciate the rescue,” she added quickly. “Thank you.” Kara shook her head. “Sounds like you could have handled them on your own,” she said. That got a laugh out of the woman who looked as if she couldn’t decide Kara was being genuine or simply humoring her. “Don’t let my ego get in the way of rescuing me again if the occasion ever calls for it.” The woman grinned but the smile fell away when she realized that the bouquet she had clutched securely in her right hand was completely destroyed. All that remained were a few bent stems and one mangled bit of Queen’s Anne’s Lace that looked like it had been through the ringer. "You don't mind me pinning the blame on you for the flower situation, do you?" the woman joked. She smiled effortlessly and Kara felt a small pang of jealousy, refusing to dwell on it. "My date," she began to say before Kara floated up off the ground. "Back in a minute," Kara said, knowing it would take her even less time than that if she was quick. "Here," Kara said. She presented a fresh bouquet of flowers to the woman who took them from her after a brief moment of hesitation. "Wouldn't want to ruin your evening," Kara said and found that she couldn't say the word 'date'. "What, are you crazy?" The woman smiled again. "I have a much more interesting answer for when my girlfriend asks me how my day was," she joked. "And you even replaced my bouquet. You really are Super." "It was nothing," Kara said. Girlfriend, she thought and felt a strange sinking in the pit of her stomach, blaming it on the fact that she had gotten far too close to Lena, once more, knowing that if Alex knew she would never let her hear the end of it. "I have to go," Kara said and rose into the air, ready to put Metropolis behind her, reminding herself that she shouldn't make a return visit. "These flowers," the woman said and held out the bouquet, almost looking as if she were trying to present it to Kara in a strange of proposal. "I've never seen them before. Was the shop all out of roses? Are roses cliche?" "I wouldn't know," Kara said, rising ever higher. "They're plumerias," she said, not glancing back as she took to the sky.

[magmahurricane]

Carey’s dad, Bernard! I gave him heterochromia based on my URL namesake, a childhood dog of mine named Pidgeon, who had one blue eye and one brown. 

Bio under cut! CW for descriptions of death, illness, and mentioned suicide! 

Name: Bernard Jess (Birth name: Ralph Ellis) Playlist: Here! (Spotify)

Age: 48 Occupation: Con artist Location: Varies; travels around Northamer in his RV Birthplace: Sand Blast City  Alignment: Chaotic Neutral 

Species: Dog (Based on tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel) Sexuality: Bisexual

Personality: +Positives: Charismatic; Clever; Exuberant; Jolly; Optimistic; -Negatives: Conniving; Fraudulent; Cowardly; Selfish; Opportunistic A real “people person” at his core, Bernard knows exactly what to say to get people to drop their guard around him. Armed with his wit and a silver tongue, he picks his marks and runs his scams, playing his short cons and booking it at the first sign of trouble. While he isn’t shy about his lifestyle of lying, cheating and bullshitting his way through life, he does truly love his wife, and holds the memories of his mother and father close to his heart. Likes: Bluegrass; Country music; Whiskey; Swindling people; Dislikes: The law; working; his hometown; dwelling on the past; violence; hospitals  Hobbies: Acoustic guitar, fishing, storytelling, people-watching

Backstory (remember to heed the content warnings above!): 

 Born to Shirley and Maverick Ellis in the smog-filled, dome-covered rogues gallery known as Sand Blast City, Ralph had a fairly average childhood. While he attended school, his mother Shirly worked as a waitress in a dingy but well-known diner and his father, Maverick, worked the nearby mines. The Ellis family were very poor, and young Ralph often wore hand-me-downs and frequently struggled to keep up with his peers, making him a target for bullying. 

When Ralph was 9 years old, Maverick perished as the mine collapsed. Shirley took a second job in a desperate effort to both pay for his funeral, and provide for their son. Ralph found himself targeted by bullies even more, though found support from other children who lost family in the mines. Life went on, the Ellis’ struggling to make ends meet and cope with the death of Maverick. 

With no one to babysit, Ralph began heading into the diner after school, sitting at a booth and doing his homework. Over the years, he came to know its patrons, became familiar with its regulars and staff, and slowly began to master the art of people-watching. Ralph would sit, and listen, and watch these people - and got an earful of all the latest gossip. He learned that the man living in the apartment across had a nasty divorce and was a recovering alcoholic. The mother of one of his bullies was working the streets to keep food on the table. The stories of the neighborhood gambler, the old woman who also lost her son in the mines, the local politicians, of the baker who was having an affair, of the rich tourists who would make yearly stops in town - Ralph knew everyone. 

And just like that, school life had become easier. No one would dare cross Ralph Ellis, because Ralph had all the dirty laundry on everyone - kids were less keen on bullying him when he threatened to expose their families as drug addicts or whores, or when he could tear their family apart with news of an affair. It wasn’t long until Ralph realized the power he held over his peers, and began blackmailing them into doing favors, such as carrying his stuff, doing his homework, and buying him clothes -- for the first time in his life, Ralph was able to wear more than hand-me-downs from the local thrift store.  Life was starting to look up, and things were good.

Then it wasn’t. When Ralph was 15, his mother discovered she had cancer. They couldn’t afford treatment, and Shirley certainly couldn’t stop working her two jobs. Ralph took up a part-time job as a delivery boy, then a full-time job as Shirley’s condition worsened, dropping out of school to help. Within a year, she passed away. 

And suddenly, at the tender age of 16, Ralph found himself orphaned, and within a few months, homeless. Despite everything - his father working his whole life and dying in those rotten mines, his mother taking two jobs, and Ralph himself giving up his education and taking up work - the Ellis family just couldn’t get ahead. Honest work didn’t pay. But he remembered coasting along in school, being able to pull peoples strings and manipulate others into working for him. He remembered the woes and weaknesses of the people around him. In a dog-eat-dog world, Ralph was determined to make his mark and make the most of the lemons life gave him. 

Then, when Ralph was 19, a great plague swept over Sand Blast City. People were dying in the streets, and even more were panicking, desperate for a way to save themselves. Ralph saw an opportunity - his customers already trusted him, and he’d made it this far. It was time for his biggest, and riskiest, con yet. With a few local herbs, clean water, and a bit of cheap cold medicine, Ralph began marketing his miracle potion, promising immunity from the plague. With help from his silver tongue and the trust of the locals, the potions flew off the shelves. Ralph made more money than ever, and was, briefly, toted as a local hero. He knew he should have packed up shop and gotten the hell outta dodge, but he wanted to milk this operation for all it was worth. He stayed, intending to make and sell more of his miracle tonics… 

And then, the plague got him. 

 The virus wracked Ralph’s body. For days, he lay by his wagon, delirious with high fever, struggling for breath, believing this would surely be his end -- and it almost was. Family of his customers tracked him down, furious that their loved ones weren’t protected as advertised. They beat the sickly con artist, and left him at death's door.

Ralph survived by the skin of his teeth, although not unscathed; as if a reminder of his treachery and what he’d done, his lungs were ruined, leaving him athsmatic, with a persistent cough and physically frail. But Ralph was nothing if not determined - as soon as he was well enough, he high-tailed it out of Sand Blast City.

Ralph would spend the next 5 years as a vagabond con-artist, selling cheap or bootlegged wares, which he either stole from yard sales or breaking and entering homes, pulling cat-in-a-bag cons and change raising, and continuing with his snake-oil salesman act. He often found himself being chased out of town, or on the run from local bounty hunters for crossing the wrong people. He also began using different names, switching his alias every few months or every year. 

Then his life was changed when he stumbled into the Southern Baronies; an uppity, bountiful region famous for its large chao gardens and wine exports. It was then he met Margaret Blanche, one of Josiah Blanche’s daughters.

The Blanche’s were a prestigious family, renowned for their famous vineyard and exports, as well as owning the land upon which the Chao Garden was located. They were filthy rich, and acted the part -- which may be precisely why when Ralph, under the name ‘Bernard Jess’ - showed up, Margaret was smitten. ‘Bernard’ was exciting; he was handsome, charismatic, entertaining, funny, and judging by the stories he told the Blanche family, he led quite an adventurous life. Margaret had grown so bored of her life and wanted what Bernard had. Likewise, Bernard wanted what the Blanche’s had - their lavish lifestyle and money. He had come to them with the intention of robbing them blind, but found himself enamored with Margaret.

Josiah, of course, didn’t approve. He forbade the young couple from seeing one another, and had Bernard escorted from the property, deciding the young man wasn’t good enough for his daughter. Bernard knew he couldn’t really do anything about it, and focused on his cons with the other families in the Baronies. He and Margaret occasionally crossed paths during this time, and the two would spend time together in secret. Margaret fell more and more in love with the whimsy and rebellious attitude Bernard had towards life, and when it came time for Bernard to leave the Baronies, Margaret ran away with him

Life on the run together was golden. The two of them staged robberies, worked cons, and had made a small name for themselves. However, within a year, things suddenly took a turn when Margaret realized she had become pregnant. Fearing for her future, she pleaded with Bernard to take her back to the Baronies -- this had been great fun, but she was already tired of living off meager meals and on the run, and the pregnancy scared her. She wasn’t cut out for Bernard’s lifestyle, but promised him that upon returning, they would marry and he would join the Blanche family proper, and be able to leave this life behind.

And so they returned to the Baronies… Only to be humiliated by Josiah and the rest of the Blanches as they sneered and mocked and chastised Margaret for her stupid naivete and revealed that during her year-long romp with Bernard, they’d completely disowned her. Margaret, Bernard, nor their unborn child would see a penny of the Blanche fortune, nor were they even allowed on the property. Margaret was disgraced, disowned and suddenly, for the first time in her life, left with absolutely nothing. She was terrified and heartbroken, and all Bernard could do was be a shoulder to cry on - while knowing all too well this was his fault. 

Bernard managed to make a very small arrangement with Josiah to make things just a little easier; on the very edge of the Baronies, hidden out of sight so as to not tarnish the view of the Chao Gardens and beautiful manors, was a small trailer park known as Barrow Creek. Bernard convinced Josiah to at the very least buy them a small plot of land, allow them to set up a RV to live in so Margaret could, at the very least, have a roof over her head. Josiah agreed, and the young couple moved into their new home.

Carey was born that year.

Margaret hadn’t wanted the child; as far as she was concerned, this was more Carey’s fault than Bernard’s. It didn’t help that Carey had been born with a defect - her left arm hadn’t formed past the shoulder. The baby was weak, requiring constant care and attention, and oh, how Margaret wished to smother the life from it and be done with this burden.

It was only on Bernard’s insistence that Carey was kept alive and fed; already, he was scheming how to make the most out of the situation. He felt nothing towards his daughter but inspiration -- he could make this work to his advantage. A disabled child would bring out the sympathy in people, making his cons go a lot smoother. People would give money out of pity or adoration for the disadvantaged family, he could spin a thousand sob stories about how she lost her arm, open donations to go towards putting her in school or getting her a prosthetic - in reality keeping the money for himself - and the possibilities for profit were endless.

For much of her infancy and childhood, Carey was toted around during Bernard’s many schemes, helping rake in donations from charitable and kind people. As she got older, Bernard got Carey more and more involved in his cons, reciting lines with her and having her partake in more elaborate schemes. He also taught her the art of picking pockets, breaking locks, lying, and stealing. By age 7, Carey was doing all this and more, being made to cook and clean and was expected to earn her keep for living with them, with Bernard making sure she understood that she was a financial burden unto her parents, all while using his charisma and manipulation to keep her adoring him.

However, during all of this, Margaret’s mental health was declining. 

Gone was the bright, sheltered woman who wanted a life of risk and adventure - Margaret was bitter, angry, and jealous… but never directed any of it towards her husband, instead taking it out on their daughter and anyone else unfortunate enough to cross her path. She spent most of the day drunk and unhappy, or waiting for Bernard to return when he’d drive with Carey out of town to run a con. 

Bernard was oblivious, for a time - and when he did become aware, he tried to ignore the problem. The rising tension between Margaret and Carey, Margaret’s drinking problem, and their growing debt were all things he tried to brush off, even as Margaret attempted to drown Carey out of jealousy for her spending so much time with Bernard.

By the time Carey was 10, the Baronies were no longer safe for the Jess family. People had wisened up to their act, the bounty hunters were closing in, as was the law. Desperate to get some cash for the road ahead, Bernard conspired to rob the Blanche’s estate. It would be a final sendoff, the last big gig before the Jess family laid low for a long time. Margaret was eager to reclaim what she’d left behind, but Carey had grown ill from neglect. She was sick with pneumonia, and thus sluggish and of little help - and so Bernard put her on guard duty, to keep an eye out if the cops or other signs of trouble appeared. 

The heist didn’t quite go as planned.

In the end, the cops were called, and Bernard had shot and killed Josiah in an altercation. As Bernard and Margaret fled the scene, they left behind Carey purposefully, knowing the cops would stop for the small, sickly child. This allowed the couple to make a clean getaway, while ridding themselves of Carey’s burden. 

It has now been 13 years since that day. 

Bernard’s working alone now, with Margaret having taken her own life a few years ago. He carries that weight with him, knowing full well he ruined her life and that his neglect led to her deteriorating mental health. He still wears their wedding band, and insists on remaining loyal to her memory, though he does oftentimes feel lonely. 

It’s difficult to pin where Bernard is at any given moment, as his cons often see him travelling all over Northamer. He’s still running his cons, hoping for that one big break and dodging bounty hunters and cops at every corner, keeping his past and his regrets close to his heart and hidden under lock and key.

[ampleappleamble]

—

The next morning saw the Lady of Caed Nua just as reluctant to leave her keep as she had been delighted to arrive, and no wonder: although the giant pests and undead monsters that rose steadily from the depths of the Endless Paths terrorized all who dwelled on the grounds, holing up in her relatively comfortable home seemed the vastly preferable option when compared to the tasks she had yet to face in the city. Unfortunately, those matters requiring her attention were simply too urgent to comfortably delay any longer, and the messenger who had stood waiting in the main hall that morning had only added to them.

"Let me make sure I understand you correctly," Axa had sighed, massaging her temple. "Chancellor Warrin wishes to meet me... at a tavern?"

"Y-yes, m'lady," the messenger had stammered, wiping a bead of sweat from his stubbled jaw. "At the Charred Barrel in Brackenbury, at your earliest convenience, if you please."

"What," Hiravias had mumbled, "he wants a date?" Sagani elbowed him in the ribs.

"It's to do with Gathbin, no doubt," Aloth had murmured over Axa's shoulder. "What exactly he's planning, though, remains to be seen."

"Whatever it is, he's got the worst possible gods damned timing," she'd sighed. "Can't be helped, I suppose. Good thing we're headed to the city today anyway."

And it was. Wenan was quite eager to finally receive the special Engwithan weapons he'd sent the little woman after nearly a week before, although he ended up rather disappointed with the rusted, crumbling artifacts she'd actually brought back. As it turned out, Axa patiently explained, the reason behind the weapons' incredible properties had less to do with the materials or methods of their construction and more to do with the soul essence the Engwithans had imbued them with.

"You can't be serious," Wenan snarled, disgust plain on his face as he regarded the sword in his hands. "They fused their fuckin' souls to these things? Like they were gods damned animancers or somethin'? Fuckin' Engwithans..." Hiravias twitched, baring his teeth for just a moment, but he quickly tamped down his temper.

Axa shrugged. "The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess. This is why understanding your opponents, what exactly it is you're fighting against and why, is important." She gave him a pointed look, but he was either purposefully ignoring her or he was too distracted to notice. She pressed on. "Speaking of opposition, I'm afraid I've more bad news for you. My crew and I, we ran into the Giantslayers on our way to the ruins."

That got his attention. The old tough raised an eyebrow at her. "Oh yeah? And how'd that work out for you?"

"They wanted a fight. I didn't." Axa smiled wryly. "Fortunately, I was able to dissuade them from trying anything stupid with me. But when I got to Lle a Rhemen, I found them lying dead near the entrance. With a patrol of Crucible Knights standing over them."

Wenan's lip curled into a scowl. "Bound to happen sooner or later. Byne always had a bad habit of showin' his ass. I'm downright puzzled as t' how he didn't get it kicked proper a long time ago."

"Hel of a way to memorialize your dead buddies," Edér grunted. "Real solidarity, there."

Wenan glowered at him. "Just 'cause they did good work sometimes don't mean they were well-liked. You lot oughtta know all about that." His gaze flicked back to Axa. "Now, about the Knights. You deal with 'em?"

"Not like they gave us much of a choice." The little woman narrowed her eyes at him. "Thinking back now, though, it was a little strange how easily they got the jump on us. Almost like they'd known all along that we were gonna be there."

He turned and faced her full-on now, his intense stare boring into her as if daring her to challenge him. "Maybe they did. Maybe I needed 'em off my ass for a minute, so I sent 'em your way. And maybe I also wanted a little extra reassurance that you weren't two-timin' us, still pallin' around with 'em behind our backs." He glanced at each of Axa's companions in turn, sizing them up, drinking in their stunned silence.

"Ain't that just like the Dozens," Edér snarled, stepping aggressively toward Wenan. "We agree to do you a gods damned favor, and you show your appreciation by tryin' to get us all killed. And you wonder why no one respects you."

Fire flashed in the older man's eyes. "You tryin' to say you think I expected the fuckin' Knights to win? That ain't why I hired the Wildcat of Caed Nua!" He poked his finger in Edér's chest. "Listen, son. Those animancy trials're comin' to a head sooner rather than not, and those little soul-butcherin' lordlings have got the duc's ear. We gotta do what we can to prepare for a worst case scenario. If I'd known y'all were gonna whine about havin' to off a few fancy lads–"

"That's enough!" Axa stepped between the two men, shoving them apart before whirling on Wenan. "Wenan. I don't know exactly what you think is going to happen in this city once the animancy trials wrap up, but if you're thinking about anything other than the security of the citizens–"

"Of course I'm thinkin' of the citizens!" Wenan's chest swelled with defiant pride. "The Dozens are of the people, for the people! Always have been, always will be."

Axa crossed her arms across her chest. "If that's really so, then you need to start thinking about how to work with the Knights, not against them. They're funded, they're organized, their authority is recognized by the government and the people. Even if the duc rules the way you'd like him to, they're not just going to tuck their tails between their legs and leave." Her angry glare softened with compassion. "And the people here need stability and cooperation between the forces that would protect them, not another small-scale civil war."

"Yeah, yeah. Tell it to them, why don't you," Wenan scoffed, even as his expression shifted into something approaching thoughtfulness. "...But you do have a point. We ain't gonna give up on our city no matter what the duc decides, that's for damn sure, but Magran knows the Knights ain't goin' anywhere neither. So I'll try 'n keep your advice in mind." He smiled down at her, then, seemingly genuinely impressed– and then he lifted his head to glare at Edér again. "Meantime, you might wanna keep your own followers in check yourself."

"And tell 'em to keep a better eye on their things. Anybody other'n me saw you carryin' this around, they'd fuckin' gut you just on general principle." Wenan's foot twitched, and the Readceran standard topper Axa had helped dig out of the mud at Clîaban Rilag skittered across the weathered floorboards toward her, bouncing off of the toe of Edér's boot before coming to a full stop. He stooped to pick it up, eyes still fixed on Wenan, and he didn't let the man out of his sight until they were out the door.

Even after they'd started making their way across the city to their next destination, Edér kept the little metal sunburst clenched firmly in his fist, clinging to it like a nobleman to his coinpurse in a bad part of town. Axa studied her friend's drawn, ashen face with no small amount of concern. He'd been distracted and moody ever since they'd left Dyrford, somehow managing to smoke even more than usual, and their trip back to the city hadn't improved him any. She could kick herself for only really noticing now, wrapped up as she had been in her own foolish problems. Still, at least with him she actually knew something she could do to help.

"Edér." Axa touched him gently on the wrist. "We can just go there now, if you'd like. To Hadret House, get this thing looked at. I know how important this is to you, and you've been–"

He didn't let her finish. "Thanks, but it's fine, really. I'm fine." Edér smiled his crooked little smile at her like he always did, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've waited fifteen years, what's another couple of hours? Like I said before– Woden ain't gettin' any deader."

As accustomed as she was to Edér's dark sense of humor, she still couldn't help but be taken aback a bit. Something about his curt, clipped tone, his obviously forced nonchalance... it didn't sit well with her. Well. No point in trying to force it. Better to let him do this at his pace, on his terms.

"Alright, then," she replied, trying hard to sound casual. "We'll go to the Charred Barrel next, see what Warrin has for me. Probably won't take too long. After that, we can hit the Hall of Revealed Mysteries and the Ducal Palace, finish up our business with those two." She grinned, glancing up at Edér out of the corner of her eye. "I wonder– will it piss off the gods, do you think, ruining two priests' days in a row like that?"

Even Pallegina chuckled at that. Edér didn't react at all.

Desperately, she continued. "And then, finally, Hadret House. We'll check in with Webb, and then we'll go to Kurren and have this standard topper read. He'll know what to do, I'm sure." She turned to Edér, making sure he knew she was addressing him. "Sound good?"

"Yeah, sure. Sounds like a plan." He knew she was talking to him, alright, but that didn't mean he was listening.

Brackenbury wasn't far, but all the same Axa could feel herself rushing, unconsciously speeding up her pace, and not just for the benefit of her sullen companion. She felt oddly exposed out on the streets, as though people were watching her– and to be fair, many were. She'd made quite a name for herself in a very short period of time, and tales of her fantastical exploits made for a decent distraction from the misery and drudgery of everyday life in the thick of the Legacy. Still, all the extra attention was going to take some getting used to. Especially the staring. And the nicknames...

So I'm the Wildcat of Caed Nua now? ...Better than Kitten, I guess.

Warrin was easy enough to spot. Not only was he was by far the best dressed kith in the Charred Barrel, but the eatery was also oddly deserted, especially considering the time of day. The midday rush should have been in full swing, but for some reason, only a few scattered patrons lingered at the bar or at the long, low tables that took up most of the dining area. Even the stage stood empty, the conspicuous absence of some two-pand bard cranking away at a hurdy-gurdy only serving to punctuate the unusual quietude.

"Lady Mala! There you are." Chancellor Warrin spotted her just as easily as she had him and beckoned her and her retinue to his seat near the center of the room, carefully setting his tankard down amongst the dearth of scrolls and other paperwork he'd brought with him. "I can't tarry long, unfortunately, so forgive my brusqueness, but I'll have to ask to you to get straight to the matter, if you please." He gestured vaguely at her, smiling distractedly as he did so.

"An' a fine auld day to yerself there, ye gobshite," Iselmyr snarled under Aloth's breath. Hiravias nearly choked on his own saliva.

Axa blinked at him, surprised. "Chancellor, you were the one who summoned me here. I thought maybe something had come up regarding my claim on Caed Nua."

"You could certainly say that."

As her gaze shot to the source of this new voice, only then did Axa realize that the few kith loitering around had all risen to their feet to surround her and her retinue– and they'd drawn arms.

Warrin froze, his serious, businesslike expression shifting abruptly to confusion, and then to realization– and fear. "Oh, dear," he muttered, slowly lowering himself beneath the table to hide. "Oh, no, no, no..."

Captain Emery threw back her hood, her closely-cropped hair a black halo that perfectly framed her angular face. "I'm afraid so, Warrin. Don't worry, though. I've no direct orders to kill you."  She smirked as she slowly, deliberately drew her pistol, taking aim directly at Axa. "Only her. And any fool who dares to stand between us."

Several of Axa's allies– Pallegina, Kana, even Edér, distracted as he was– moved to do exactly that, but Axa stubbornly pushed past them to face her opponent head-on. "He actually did it," she growled, slowly reaching for the blade at her hip. "Gathbin really is that miserly and depraved, that rather than pay me the paltry recompense the Erl decreed was owed in exchange for Caed Nua, he really just went ahead and sent you to murder me for it instead."

Warrin's terrified voice warbled up from under the table. "I-it really was a... a modest fee..."

Emery chuckled dryly, shook her head. "He is a bastard, isn't he? But unfortunately for you, he's a wealthy, noble bastard– and for better or for worse, he's my employer. And I have my orders." A strange look swept over her sharp features. "A shame, really. If even half of the stories I've heard about you are true, you're like some sort of modern-day storybook hero. Rescuing merchants from the Doemenels, solving crimes and mysteries all over the city, aiding the downtrodden... To be perfectly honest, the Dyrwood could probably use a few more charitable, upstanding types like yourself." She shrugged, cocking the flintlock mechanism on her gleaming black pistol. "But, as it stands–"

"But nothing," Axa barked. "You know that the stories you've heard about me are all true. And you know that Gathbin is nothing but a miserable little despot. You know he won't win this ridiculous pissing contest he's instigated between us because you know he's in the wrong, and you know that so long as you continue to support him, you are, too." She stepped forward, and Emery did not back down, but neither did she open fire.

"You're afraid of him, aren't you? Of what he'll do to you should you defy him. But it needn't be so." Axa carefully lifted her little hand from the hilt of her sabre, extended it to the bewildered, scowling woman in front of her. "Stop trusting your coinpurse and start trusting your gut, Emery. Join me, at Caed Nua. I'll protect you from Gathbin, and once we've settled things with him, you can start a new life– a better life, doing honest work for an honorable thaynu."

Something between a wry laugh and a startled yelp leapt from the elf's throat, her pistol wavering in her hand just slightly. "Ha! You really expect me to buy that?" She steadied herself, straightening her wrist and narrowing her eyes. "I've been around for a century and then some, pipsqueak, and I'll tell you now: no one's that generous. Not truly. Not even the famed Kitten of Caed Nua."

"It's Wildcat of Caed Nua, now, actually," Edér corrected, baring his teeth at her. "Don't Gathbin keep y'all up to speed on current events?"

"Stay out of this, hayseed," Emery snapped in return, glaring at him briefly before refocusing on her target. But her pistol hand was noticeably shaking now, her breathing quick and shallow, and Gathbin's lesser cronies stationed around the dining room were whispering and exchanging looks with one another now, doubt and confusion starting to take hold. And still Axa stood before her offering her hand in goodwill, her devoted comrades at her side, her violet eyes pleading...

Finally, Emery reluctantly let her arm drop to her side, pistol still clutched white knuckle‐tight in her hand, and she regarded Axa with a mix of disgust and grudging respect. "You've some strength in you, Mala, I'll grant you that. But if you think lofty principles and persuasive arguments alone are enough to keep Arledr Gathbin at bay, you've got another thing coming. Ask me how I know." She winced. "Still... maybe I'll just tell His Lordship that you aren't as stupid as you look and you never showed. He'll throw a fit, I'm sure– Wael knows he spent a lot of time and coin concocting this ingenious plan– but he'll get over it. He's got bigger and better plans, after all. As for what exactly those plans entail, well–" Another smirk crept across Emery's pale cheeks, sickeningly smug and icy-sweet– "that's for us to know, and you to find out. I guess we'll see just how strong you really are then, won't we?"

She whipped around abruptly, addressing the thugs surrounding Axa and her companions. "Alright, people! We're withdrawing. Turns out this isn't the orlan we were looking for after all. Easy mistake– they all look alike, anyway." She sneered over her shoulder at Axa one final time before turning to the door, but still Axa could see an odd sincerity shining in her eyes. "See you around, Watcher of Caed Nua. I'd watch your back if I were you."

And with that, Emery and her posse filed quickly and quietly out of the Charred Barrel, leaving Axa and her companions staring after them in stunned silence.

"Quick question: this sorta thing happen to you every time you come to the city?" Hiravias blurted, utterly flummoxed.

"Actually, this is technically only my second time coming here," Axa answered, dazed and trembling as the adrenaline started to wear off. "So I don't really know what to tell you."

"I know exactly what to tell you, Lady Mala." Warrin's sweat-drenched face popped up from under the table, pale and twitching. "She's not joking when she says Gathbin's got plans, for you and Caed Nua both. This was a bold and somewhat unexpected act of aggression in itself, but Erl Bademar has mentioned observing some rather... worrying activity in Gathbin's lands as of late." He fixed Axa with a serious look, his eyes wide with alarm. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it sounds like he might be trying to amass an army."

"Fantastic," Aloth sighed, glancing worriedly at Axa as he reholstered his weapons. "Exactly what we need."

"Indeed." Warrin struggled to his feet, hands shaking as he gathered his paperwork up from the table. "It might be in your best interests to keep a close watch on your staff at Caed Nua– be on the lookout for spies and saboteurs; vet your hirelings carefully. Rest assured, I'll do what I can to discourage any more mischief on Gathbin's part, but you must be very cautious from now on."

"I suppose I must, yes," Axa muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. "In any case, I appreciate the advice, Chancellor. Sorry I almost got you killed."

He shook his head. "No, no– I firmly believe I was in very little danger, if any. Gathbin's no military strategist, but even he would be too wary to order the captain of his personal guard to assassinate a government official in broad daylight. He was definitely only after you and your companions. The reason he summoned me here, I suspect, was because he wanted me to bear witness. To see what happens when the Ducal Palace refuses to bend or break the law just for him." He picked up his tankard, peered into it, frowned. "Quite frankly, excluding Gathbin himself, I don't believe anyone wants to see that swaggering ignoramus get his way."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Sagani agreed, clapping Axa on the back. "Tantrum-throwing brats like him deserve no quarter."

"I certainly can't argue with that. But if he's truly plotting something of a larger scale than a mere barroom shootout, Lady Mala will need a great many more allies than just you loyal few." Warrin gave the dwarf a tired little smile before clearing his throat and addressing Axa again. "Well, I'm afraid I am still rather busy– and because of all this unpleasantness I now have even more work to do– so I must be off. Good day to you, roadwarden. Take care of yourself." The Chancellor nodded curtly at her and rushed to the exit, his papers clutched tightly against his chest.

They all stood for a while in the eerily empty dining hall, Axa gathering herself, fighting to keep her composure while inwardly screaming, and her companions watched her with quiet concern. Eventually, she felt a large, warm hand on her shoulder, and she didn't have to turn and look to know who it belonged to.

"Hey." Edér was as eloquent as ever, but he at least managed to sound a bit more emotive than the last time they'd spoken. "Y'alright?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled. "Everything's fine."

He winced. "Heard that one before. From myself, actually, talkin' t' you a few minutes ago– and I'd wager it's just as much a lie comin' outta your mouth as it was comin' outta mine."

"So now you wanna talk feelings?" She huffed a quick, angry sigh. "...Sorry. It's not your fault, I just– It's not every day my life is threatened like that, you know?"

"Since when?" That got a laugh out of her. Encouraged, Edér continued: "Hey, maybe Lady Webb'll have some ideas for what to do about Gathbin. Spies 'n subterfuge are her specialty, after all. Who knows, maybe she can whip us up some sorta Cipher army, send 'em over to Caed Nua, scare the piss outta Engrim. Again."

Axa chuckled. "I doubt it, but... can't hurt to ask." She peeked up at him, a hopeful little smile brightening her face. "After we get your questions about Woden answered, of course."

He smiled back, his expression as warm as the sun despite the anxiety chewing at his guts. "Of course."

"If you two are quite finished?" Pallegina tilted her chin impatiently at the two of them, standing between the open door and the rest of the group. "We have much yet to do today, Watcher. Hadret House awaits, and the sanitarium as well, if memory serves."

A groan rose from Aloth as the little party stepped outside onto the cobblestones. "Don't remind me."

As they walked, Pallegina watched Axa curiously. "Sparing that fool Verzano despite all the trouble he made for you, attempting to sway your enemy to your side even as she sticks a pistol in your face– your soft heart is either your greatest weakness or your greatest asset. Or perhaps it is both. Time will tell, I suppose." She smirked down at the little woman, amused and exasperated in equal measure. "You might do well to join the Kind Wayfarers someday, Watcher, should you ever seek a higher calling. Or, perhaps, if you wish to be taught how to fight properly."

Axa cocked an eyebrow at the paladin. "What's wrong with the way I fight?"

The Godlike made a face as though involuntarily recalling a particularly bad meal. "It... defies explanation. It is somehow both too sloppy and too rigid. As though you were taught stance by a fencing school dropout and form by a peasant militiaman."

Axa burst out laughing as her erstwhile instructors both leapt to defend themselves– Edér muttering, "Now hold on just a minute–" while Aloth cried, "I beg your pardon–"

"Axa Mala! Stop and face me! You will face retribution for the death of my beloved!"

You've got to be kidding. Axa stopped in her tracks, her allies stopping with her, and she glowered wearily at the man blocking her path. "Do I know you?"

The red-haired, red-faced folk man standing before her seemed almost too consumed with rage to even speak properly, let alone fight, but the hired thugs accompanying him more than made up for it. He stammered and spat, his hand quaking as he pointed accusingly at her. "I am Cendric Duleare. You... you killed my betrothed, my Danna, and for your insolence, you will now pay with your blood!"

Hiravias threw his hands up in frustrated resignation. "Oh for fuck's sake–"

Pallegina rolled her eyes as she reached for the greatsword on her back. "Well, Watcher. I did warn you about making enemies of the Doemenels. Something tells me you will not be able to talk this one down."

Axa drew her sabre with a grim finality. "Good thing I've got a lot of nervous energy to burn off."

—

[captainjaspenor]

Fire in My Bones

So I haven't written anything in YEARS, especially not fanfiction, but what can I say? I've been inspired. Anway, here is my first stab at fanfiction in neary ten years. This will be a multi-chapter fic. Please read and let me know if you'd like to be on the tag list.

Show: Cursed

Pairing: Weeping Monk x Reader

Warnings: Violence

Summary: I tried to write one and honestly I sucked at it, so here is a little excerpt instead.

"From the trees, shrouded in smoke, he emerges. The Weeping Monk. Around you the terrified screams of the Fey and the pained groans of the dying fade away. You forget the acrid smell and taste of the smoke and ash as it burns your throat and lungs. You forget Nimue, who is hiding behind you, clutching at your cloak, shaking like a leaf."

Chapter 1: I Saw A City Burning

You see the smoke and know it has to be coming from your village. 

Nimue. 

You dig you heels into your horse’s side and take off at a gallop. You hear the screams and the fighting before you reach the town. As you come to a halt at the top of the last hill to look down at your village, you see the small huts the Sky Folk use as homes are ablaze. The Sky Folk are running around in a panic, pursued by figures robed in red. Red paladins. You heart skips a beat in your chest. Part of you wants to flee into the countryside and leave the Sky Folk to their ruin, but you know you can’t leave Nimue and Lenore behind. You dismount give your horse, Xanthos, a reassuring pat. You hate to go on without him, but you know he is safer in the Iron Wood. And a horse would do you no good in this chaos. You unsheathe your sword and check that your dagger is in place in case you need it. You lift the small pendant hanging from the chain around your neck to your lips and kiss it before tucking it safely into your shirt. 

You take off in a swift jog toward the center of town. The smell of smoke overwhelms your senses and your eyes begin to water almost immediately. You drop into a crouch next to one of the huts that isn’t entirely engulfed in flames and survey the scene in front of you. Many of the Sky Folk are fleeing for their lives, but some brave souls have turned to face their enemies head on and are engaged in battles that are often to the death. You look around, hoping to spot Nimue or Lenore, but you don’t see anyone you recognize. You send up a small prayer that they’ve already gotten themselves out of the village, but you won’t leave until you’re sure they’re safe. Your best chance at finding them in in their hut, but that means running headlong into the fighting in front of you. You swipe at the sweat gathering at your brow and readjust your grip on your blade. 

You sprint toward the next still standing shelter a dozen yards ahead of you. A red paladin falls to the ground in front of you, with a spear sticking out of his thigh. He screams and clutches at his leg, but before he has too much time to feel the pain from the wound, you deliver a quick thrust to his chest. The man tries to let out a startled yell, but only a small cough comes out and droplets of blood splatter on his chin. You shove your foot against him to free your blade. You don’t stick around to watch as the life leaves his eyes.

You try to move quickly, but your path is often cut off by people locked in duels for their lives or panicked animals trying to escape the fire that is spreading around you. You duck as another arrow flies over your head. This one was closer than the rest. Before the archer can take aim again, you run. You’re almost to the hut you’d planned on hiding behind for cover when a red paladin on a horse spots you and changes course toward you. He brings his sword up to strike but you wait until it starts to come down before you roll to the side. His swing goes wide as he races past. He yanks on the reins and turns the horse around to come for another pass, but you’ve already snagged one of your throwing daggers from your boot. It hits him square in the eye and he falls backward off his horse, dead. You keep moving. 

Ahead Lenore and Nimue’s hut still stands, one of the few homes that have not yet been set alight. You push your way past the hides that serve as the door and enter the small dwelling. You are both delighted and dismayed to see that neither woman is here. You don’t have much time; this place could go up in smoke at any moment. You cross to the corner where Lenore keeps a chest with the family’s valuables. Inside you grab the coin purse that holds Lenore’s life savings and tucks it into your pocket for safekeeping. You then go to where your own belongings are stored. You dig beneath your flimsy mattress to pull out your own, much lighter coin purse. In the dresser you share with Nimue, you retrieve three more daggers, which you slide into your boots. You take one last look around at the small hut that had served as your home for the last thirteen years and try to commit it to memory. 

You step out of the hut but stayed hidden under the slanted roof. It wasn’t much, but even if it only obscures you a little bit, it is better than standing out in the open. At least this way, you know your back is covered. Beneath a hut not far ahead, a familiar figure is hiding in a similar fashion. Nimue!

You can’t believe it. You’d found her! After checking that no red paladins were looking your way, you run to the hut Nimue is crouched beside. “Nimue!”

“(Y/N)! Oh, thank the gods you’re here. I can’t find Mother! And one of the red paladins grabbed Pym!” Nimue pulls you in for a desperate hug. 

“I checked the hut. Your mother isn’t there. Do you think she ran?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.” Nimue is panicking, you can tell, but now isn’t the time. 

“Think, Nimue. You know your mother better than anyone. Where would she go?”

“I guess, she… she’d go to the… I-I don’t know,” Nimue says and begins to cry.

“Okay. It’s okay. We’ll find her. And after we find Lenore, we’ll find Pym.” You reassure her. “It’ll be okay, Nimue.” Nimue doesn’t look sure, but she gives you a weak smile anyway and, honestly, you appreciate the effort. 

You check around you and see if any red paladins have spotted you. Fortunately, it seems as though no one is the wiser of two Fey girls hiding almost in plain sight. You try to mentally plot out the best place to search for Lenore without being seen…or without being seen by more red paladins than you can take on in a fair fight. You’re only just coming up with a plan when Nimue begins to violently shake your arm. 

“What?” Nimue doesn’t answer, only continues to shake your arm. “What, Nimue?” You look at her, concentration broken. You realize Nimue is terrified. You turn on your heels to look where she is staring, and your heart catches in your throat. This is what you had been afraid of before.

From the trees, shrouded in smoke, he emerges. The Weeping Monk. Around you the terrified screams of the Fey and the pained groans of the dying fade away. You forget the acrid smell and taste of the smoke and ash as it burns your throat and lungs. You forget Nimue, who is hiding behind you, clutching at your cloak, shaking like a leaf. 

He is dressed from head to toe in black and gray. Even his horse is as black as pitch. Speaking of his horse, it’s the biggest horse you have ever seen, standing at least two hands taller than your own. Reluctantly you draw your eyes away from the mass of black muscle and take in the monk for the first time. He rides slowly. Confidently. As if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if Fey aren’t being slaughtered all around him.

He dismounts and immediately two red paladins come up to take the reins from him. It takes the both of them to lead the horse away. You watch as the monk walks up to an older man and drops to one knee. You wonder who this older man is to command such respect from someone as dangerous as the monk. The older man greets his younger compatriot by putting a hand on his shoulder. You realize they must know each other well, with the familiarity the two share. The monk rises as the two converse and you become entranced by the interaction in front of you. The spell is broken when you feel Nimue tug at your arm once more. 

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)! It’s Squirrel!” Nimue says. You tear your eyes away from the pair in front of you to look over and see the small boy in question wandering aimlessly and dragging a large sword behind him. You realize if he keeps walking this way he’ll be right in the monk’s line of sight. You glance anxiously back at the older paladin and the monk, but they continue to talk, unaware of the young boy headed straight for them.

You have to move. Fast. “Come on.” You grab Nimue’s hand and drag her behind you as you sprint for Squirrel. You pass mere feet from the monk, but the gods must be on your side today, because he doesn’t seem to notice two stray Fey women.

You reach Squirrel and Nimue tells him to follow the two of you as you lead them around an abandoned wagon into one of the last standing structures. “In here,” you tell them. 

The three of you duck beneath the safety of the roof. With your back to them, you keep your eyes on the battle going on outside. You know that you are all that stands between them and a red paladin’s blade. You overhear Nimue tell Squirrel to go hide in Old Man Rock in the Iron Wood and you can’t help but smile, despite all that is going on around you. You’d taught her that when you both were children. 

The two talk for a moment more before Squirrel darts out from behind and disappears into the trees. You make sure he isn’t followed, but no one sees the small boy and as quick as he is, he’s out of sight in no time. You’re thankful he’s out of harm’s way. One less person to worry about. 

“Squirrel says he saw Mother near the temple.” Nimue tells you.

“Then that’s the first place we’ll look.” You say and go to exit the hut. 

“No.” Nimue pulls you back down. “I want you to go with Squirrel and make sure he stays safe.

“If you think I’m leaving you behind, Nimue, then you don’t know me very well. There are dozens of red paladins out there and they’ll kill you if they catch you. They don’t care if you’re girl.” You argue. 

“I can handle a few red paladins.” Nimue argues. 

“You can handle them better with me.”

“(Y/N), I don’t need you to protect me!” Nimue snaps. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what you want. When Mother isn’t here, you take orders from me.” 

“It doesn’t work like that when your life is in danger,” you retort.

Nimue sighs. “Then I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you, as my friend. Please, keep Squirrel safe. He’s like family to me. Please,” Nimue asks. 

You clench your teeth and let out a growl of frustration, but give her a curt nod. “I will protect him with my life.”

“Thank you.”

You stand and pull Nimue over to the edge of the hut. You point out a nearly hidden path in the brush a few yards away. “The quickest way to the temple is down that path. It’s not used anymore, so you shouldn’t run to anyone.” You bend down, pull a dagger from your boot, and offer it to her. “For protection.” 

Nimue smiles and takes the dagger from your hand. “Go,” she says.

You spare one last glace at the ruined village behind you before turning and sprinting off into the woods after Squirrel.

_____

And that’s a wrap on Chapter 1! The title of the fic and the title of the chapter are lyrics from songs. Let me know if you figure out which song the chapter title is from!

In the next chapter, the Reader will meet the Monk for the first time, and let’s just say, sparks will fly. 

Thanks again for reading, and let me know what you think!

[miraizu]

Open Book - 8. Small Talk

Open Book Ship: Chrollo Lucilfer/Reader Part: 8/?? [PREV] | [NEXT] Word count: 1,748 Warnings: None. Synopsis:  Everybody has to make a way of living. Some are hunters, some are thieves, some are just regular civilians trying to enjoy their lives. You? You’re an informant, and in York New City, a city that never sleeps, you’re about to find out just how much of a commodity that really makes you.

        "You don't have your sword."

        Looking up at the familiar, accented voice, you hummed, eyes crinkling up slightly.  "No," you responded.  "I abandoned it after you abandoned me in Meteor City."

        You hadn't meant for your words to sound so callous, but Feitan being, well, Feitan, took offense.  In an instant, your arm was twisted painfully behind your back.  Even though Feitan was shorter, he was just as strong as you had remembered.  "You forget you're not a part of the Troupe yet.  I could kill you."

        Just as quickly you had twisted your arm around, flinging Feitan over you.  You had the satisfaction of seeing the momentary surprise in his black eyes, although his reflexes hadn't dulled since your time apart.  He had separated from you and landed on his feet with ease, glowering at you.

        Satisfied, you sat back down on your pile of rubble, crossing your arms in unamusement.  "And you forget that we grew up and trained together, apparently."

        The other nearby members were watching in curiosity, especially as you switched back to the common tongue.  All of a sudden, a nearby man started to guffaw, and you looked over, raising an eyebrow.  He was tall and in a terrible looking tracksuit with his dirty blond hair slicked back.  Not a member you had officially met, yet, but you figured you were going to meet him in a moment as he strode over.

        "Lost your touch, Feitan?"  The man teased, Feitan's eyes squinting even more.

        "Joke not funny.  I'll kill you."

        You snorted, not climbing to a stand yet as the member approached you, holding out a hand for you to shake.  You eyed it suspiciously before taking it - his grip was extremely tight, and would definitely break a civilian's bone.  No, scratch that - the hand would be completely crushed.  You didn't wince, didn't blink at all though and returned his grip with just as much strength.  His smile turned into a wide grin.

        "Phinks," he said.  "You've got spunk."

        That was definitely not a word commonly associated with you, but you appreciated the sentiment all the same as you gave him a humored smile.  "[Y/n]," you introduced yourself.  "I have to have something going for me since I grew up with that stick in the mud."

        Phinks laughed again - while not many of the Troupe members seemed to have warmed up to you, Phinks was earnest and open.  Most definitely an enhancer, you figured.

        Finally letting go of your hand, you resisted the urge to massage it as Phinks turned to Feitan.  "So what gives?  You two really grew up together?"

        Feitan grunted, walking away.  "Go die."

        Clever response.  Rolling your eyes, you answered for Feitan.  "Known him since I was born," you explained.  "And yes - he's always been like that."

        Coming up to the two of you was Shalnark, who also seemed curious.  "No wonder he seems to tolerate you more."

        It was true - Feitan had the strangest of ways to show his tolerance for people.  It was the closest he'd ever get to 'love', and while he would attack you and threaten to kill you, you knew he tolerated you much more.  Outside of Troupe members, he wouldn't hesitate to murder.  It was just his way of showing friendship - no, not friendship.  Camaraderie?  You really had no clue how to describe your relationship with Feitan.  He was the closest to family you had ever kept.

        "It's just how we are."

        The three of you continued to talk for a bit.  After Chrollo had confirmed to everybody that you would be joining the Phantom Troupe, some of the hostility had died down.  It wasn't completely gone, though - despite Chrollo's word being law around here, some people were adverse to you joining.  Nobunaga, in particular, didn't trust him.  You had learned he was closest to Uvogin besides Shalnark, but had taken Uvogin's death the hardest.

        Hisoka was the other one.  You had felt his eyes on you constantly, but when you'd look up he'd just be shuffling cards.  You had never trusted him before, but after your fortune, you trusted him even less.  There was no proof that he'd be the one to kill you, but the probability seemed high.  Why, though?  And how?  Sure, you weren't officially in the Troupe yet, but after this heist you'd be getting the spider tattoo.  Spiders couldn't kill each other, so if it was Hisoka, he was either going to betray the Troupe or defect before then.

        It was too confusing to dwell on right now.  You had enough to handle as it was.

        The great thing about conversing with Shalnark and Phinks was that they couldn't give two shits about the past.  They weren't nosy - you assumed it was just a habit picked up by all residents of Meteor City.  In a city forgotten and abandoned by society, survival was the only thing on anybody's mind.  Getting to know others wasn't a priority, and everybody had killed or stole to survive.  Lofty ideals and morals would just get you killed.

        Instead, you all mostly talked about 'adventures'.  You tried to share childhood stories of Feitan, but the man of honor had swiftly come back to try and punch you to shut you up.  You had deftly dodged, but after that he hung around to make sure you didn't say anything that would ruin his image.  It was too bad - you had a plethora of stories.

        The three of you, since Feitan was just hovering to make sure you didn't say anything stupid, had been talking about the other day when you had thrown that pitiful man out of your shop when Chrollo had come back.  He had disappeared at some point to go, and you quote, "run errands".  He was now in his normal attire again, and you had to avert your eyes so you weren't caught staring at his open chest.  He was ripped, and the last thing you needed was to give him even more reason to be cocky.

        Whatever Chrollo had gone to do, his mind was preoccupied as he spoke, half to himself, half to the rest of the Troupe.  "Kortopi, your copies function as en, right?"

        Kortopi - a tiny person covered in blue-gray hair that obscured all other features - confirmed.

        "I need you to find the scarlet eyes."

        As everybody started going through the crates in the base to find them, save for you, Chrollo explained his theory.  The chain user, the person who had visited you back before all of this started, was from the deceased Kurta clan.  He had joined the Nostrade Family in order to find the scarlet eyes, and was definitely trying to enact revenge upon the Troupe.

        After a few minutes, Shizuku had found the scarlet eyes, holding them up and passing them over to Kortopi.  He must have been a type of conjurer of sorts, although his ability was certainly unique.  Soon enough, they figured out where the chain user was staying, and you looked at the map Phinks had.

        "That's Hotel Beitacle," you confirmed, recognizing it immediately.  "The Nostrade family owns it."

        "Ah, that's right.  You've lived in York New for a while," Shalnark hummed, and you nodded once, tense.  He turned back to the map.  "That's where Uvogin had gone..."

        Nobunaga immediately turned to Chrollo.  "Danchou, let me go seek out the chain user, please!"

        Chrollo glanced over and nodded, surprising you and Nobunaga both.  "I'll go as well," he then said, turning around to look at everybody.  "Machi, Shizuku, Pakunoda - no."  He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought, seeming to recall something.  "I'm certain if Pakunoda comes with us, she will die.  [Y/n], you're not a part of the Troupe, but I want you to come and replace Pakunoda for this time."

        Replace the memory seeker, or the ninth month will fade...

        You weren't sure about Pakunoda's abilities, but would trust that Chrollo knew what he was doing - at least, for this.  Nobunaga wasn't quite as happy with the decision, but didn't protest.

        "So be it."  Shrugging, you stood up from your place.  "I know what the chain user looks like - unless he is in disguise, I should be able to point him out."  Now you were really cursing yourself for not grabbing his information when you had the chance.  It would have made this whole process a lot easier, since you could just use your glasses to pick him out.  You supposed that was on you, though.  And speaking of which...

        "Before we leave, though, I want to collect everybody's information."

        Chrollo raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

        "I can track the location of everybody.  If anything happens, I'll know where everybody is - I failed to do this with the chain user, but I already used it on you."

        Chrollo wasn't surprised at your admission despite others being in shock you managed to use your hatsu on Chrollo.  "I noticed," he said simply, amused.  "Hm...  Do it on those whose fortunes said they would die."

        His request made sense, and so explaining that you were just going to touch them while holding your book you had summoned it.  Shalnark, Shizuku, and Pakunoda were all confirmed - however, they weren't sure if it would be Kortopi, Phinks, or Feitan next to die either, so you got all of their information as well.  Feitan grumbled a bit, but otherwise didn't argue, knowing not to fight against the Danchou.  Done with your information gathering, you let your book vanish.  Everybody was on edge - not just by you, but on what was going on.  You were a dangerous variable, and Hisoka was clearly unreliable.

        Things weren't looking too good for the Phantom Troupe.

        "Let's go."

        Chrollo wasted no more time on small talk as he led everybody out.  It was raining pretty hard, and on instinct you summoned your glasses right away so you could keep an eye on heat signatures and other familiar faces.  So far, nobody except for your little posse, but it would certainly change when your group got closer to the city.

        The walk was slow, everybody on guard for any suspicious movements.  For a moment, you caught Killua's name through a building - without Gon, surprisingly enough.  You paid no heed to the name, though, knowing that he was lucky enough to not be involved in this mess.  Besides, you had bigger things to worry about.

        After all, one wrong step and you all would be marching to your deaths.

[rightfulcaptxin]

Value Me - CaptainBlack

Drabble Meme | Not Currently Accepting 

Value Me: I’ll write a drabble about my character telling yours how they feel about them.

The sound of a train thundered above, wheels screechingagainst steel, piercing the still silence of the night. The old stone bridgeshuddered, but held firm. Clouds of brick dust spiralled down, cast into theair by the unforgiving vibrations as the great machine clattered by, carriageafter carriage – clu-clunk, clu-clunk, clu-clunk. The light spilling fromwindows whipped by in a blur, the people cosily concealed within oblivious tothe outside world below. They were destined for a better place, carted throughthe undesirable realm of those less fortunate from the safety of the elevatedrailway. The murk and shadows wouldn't touch them. In an hour, two, they wouldbe within their walls, safe and secure, and wouldn't spare a thought for thoseon the outside.

Hidden in the shadows cast by the arch of the bridge, Edwardpressed his companion against the cool, slick stone, and stole from him a kisslong overdue. Hands gripped broad shoulders firmly, as though to hold him inplace, as lips moved smoothly against the other man's. A skinny cat with tattyfur streaked out of the darkness beside them, pausing only to watch them withgleaming eyes, before it disappeared into the dead grass ahead. The disturbancebroke their kiss, and Edward withheld a sigh of frustration at the tense,skittish expression that now tightened Liam's features.

"Just a bloody cat." He hissed, long fingersgrasping Liam by the chin to direct his gaze back to him. "Relax. No oneknows you're here. No one bloody knows I'mhere." It was the perfect location, and he'd scouted it out for weeks tomake sure of it. Whilst there was no shortage of abandoned and empty locationsin this shithole of a city – if you could even call it that these days – it wasonly a matter of time before some gang or other claimed it for their shadydeals. This was the fifth time he'd had to seek out a new spot in the lastthree months, though he doubted anyone would come to claim this particularlysorry corner of their territory.

"If we're seen-,"

"There's no one to see us." Edward cut in, fixingLiam with a look the other man should, by now, be rather familiar with. Heunderstood Liam's concerns, of course, and he was in no way trying to dismissthem as nothing. He knew what it would cost each of them if they were caughttogether, and Liam had a younger brother to think about, too. "If you'reso concerned, take this off." He fingered the sleeve of Liam's jacket, theworn, faded navy almost black in the shadow of the bridge, the equally fadedgold sigil on the shoulder only just visible.

Although he had grown up hating that sigil and the men andwomen who bore it, he hadn't been able to bring himself to hate Liam, though hehad tried – oh, had he tried. By all accounts they should be at war, tradingblows instead of kisses, fighting to the death instead of sneaking away to theshadows just to be together. If someonehad told Ed a year ago he'd be consortingwith the enemy, he'd have probably put a knife in their gut. The Blue Coatshad taken his parents before he had the chance to know them, and so he owedthem a debt of vengeance – a debt he repaid by spilling as much Blue Coat bloodas possible.

When he'd first met Liam, that accursed jacket had beennowhere in sight.

"You know I don't believe in it." Liam's voice cutsmoothly into his trip down memory lane, and he lifted his eyes to meet thatcool, striking blue of Liam's gaze. "I had as much choice in this as youdid. You know if I had my way, I'd have no part in either side."

"So don't. Come away with me, like I asked you lasttime. Give up your foolish hope that those behind their walls will throw opentheir gates to the likes of us, and live in the real world for once, Li.They'll never let us into their perfect world. Why should they share theirwealth, their resources? To them, we're savages and thugs, the people fatechose to punish when the world came to a bloody end around us." Ed shookhis head, frustrated as always at the state of the world. "We're not likethem. We don't have walls keeping us from the freedom of the open country, wedon't have guards watching our gates, patrolling our streets. We could run,just like that, and no one would even notice we were gone. Get your brother,and we can be free of this bloody war once and for all."

"Ed, I can't… it's not that simple!"

"Bullshit it's not." As if to prove a point,Edward stepped back, and shrugged out of the black jacket with its red andsilver sigil, and tossed it down into the dirt at his feet. "See. It's assimple as that. We don't have to live like this, Liam. Wouldn't it be nice, tobe able to see each other whenever we liked, without having to look over ourshoulders every five bloody seconds? To not jump at shadows and stray cats,afraid that we'll find ourselves at gunpoint and facing the executioner?"

Shaking his head, Edward sighed, sweeping fingers throughhis tangled mess of black hair. Not for the first time he found himself wishingLiam hadn't been born to the wrong side of town, wishing that he'd been one ofthe Black Jackets instead of the Blue Coats, and that this wouldn't even be aproblem they had to face. The two sides didn't mix, and that was law – and tobreak one of the laws meant death. A cruel punishment, but one that kept thetwo sides in line without fail.

"If we run, and they find we're missing – which theywill, don't doubt that – then we'll be hunted the rest of our lives. We couldnever come back here, or anywhere near here. We'd have to travel so far beforewe could even think of being safe." Liam frowned, reaching to takeEdward's hand. "Do you really want that?"

"I want you."He shot back without hesitation, gripping Liam's hand tightly. "I don'tgive three fucks about anything else. Fuck this town, fuck this eternal war,fuck the Jackets and the Coats. Iwould paint the fucking target on my own back if it meant I could be free to love you instead of hiding in theshadows like criminals." Catching the surprise on Liam's face, he foundhis lips lifting into a smile despite his bitter frustration. "I love you, Liam. Nothing elsematters."

[hellouniversegoodbyeworld]

Martial, Epigrams. Book 1. Bohn's Classical Library (1897)

BOOK I.

TO THE READER

I trust that, in these little books of mine, I have observed such self-control, that whoever forms a fair judgment from his own' mind can make no complaint of them, since they indulge their sportive fancies without violating the respect due even to persons of the humblest station; a respect which was so far disregarded by the authors of antiquity, that they made free use, not only of real, but of great names. For me; let fame be held in less estimation, and let such talent be the last thing commended in me.

Let the ill-natured interpreter, too, keep himself from meddling with the simple meaning of my jests, and not write my epigrams for me.1 He acted honourably who exercises perverse ingenuity on another man's book: For the free plainness of expression, that is, for the language of epigram, I would apologize, if I were introducing the practice; but it is thus that Catullus writes, and Marsus, and Pedo, and Getulicus, and every one whose writings are read through. If any assumes to be so scrupulously nice, however, that it is not allowable to address him, in a single page, in plain language, he may confine himself to this address, or rather to the title of the book. Epigrams are written for those who are accustomed to be spectators at the games of Flora. Let not Cato enter my theatre; or, if he do enter, let him look on. It appears to me that I shall do only what I have a right to do, if I close my address with the following verses:----

1 Let him not make them his own, by the false interpretation which he puts upon them.

TO CATO.

Since you knew the lascivious nature of the rites of sportive Flora, as well as the dissoluteness of the games, and the license of the populace, why, stern Cato, did you enter the theatre? Did you come in only that you might go out again?

I. TO THE READER.

The man whom you are reading is the very man that you want,----Martial, known over the whole world for his humorous books of epigrams; to whom, studious reader, you have afforded such honours, while he is alive and has a sense of them, as few poets receive after their death.

II. TO THE READER; SHOWING WHERE THE AUTHOR'S BOOKS MAY BE PURCHASED.

You who are anxious that my books should be with you everywhere, and desire to have them as companions on a long journey, buy a copy of which the parchment leaves are compressed into a small compass.1 Bestow book-cases upon large volumes; one hand will hold me. But that you may not be ignorant where I am to be bought, and wander in uncertainty over the whole town, you shall, under my guidance, be sure of obtaining me. Seek Secundus, the freedman of the learned Lucensis, behind the Temple of Peace and the Forum of Pallas.

1 That is, a copy with small pages; a small copy.

III. THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK.

You prefer, little book, to dwell in the shops in the Argiletum,1 though my book-case has plenty of room for you. You are ignorant, alas! you are ignorant of the fastidiousness of Rome, the mistress of the world; the sons of Man, believe me, are much too critical. Nowhere are there louder sneers; young men and old, and even boys, have the nose of the rhinoceros.2 After you have heard a loud "Bravo!" and are expecting kisses, you will go, tossed to the skies, from the jerked toga.3 Yet, that you may not so often suffer the corrections of your master, and that his relentless pen may not so often mark your vagaries, you desire, frolicsome little book, to fly through the air of heaven. Go, fly; but you would have been safer at home.

1 An open place, or square, in Rome, where tradesmen had shops. 2  Have great powers of ridicule, which the Romans often expressed by turning up or wrinkling the nose. 3  People will take you into their lap, and then jerk you out of it, as if you were tossed in a blanket

IV. TO CAESAR.

If you should chance, Caesar, to light upon my books, lay aside that look which awes the world. Even your triumphs have been accustomed to endure jests,1 nor is it any shame to a general to be a subject for witticisms. Read my verses, I pray you, with that brow with which you behold Thymele 2 and Latinus 3 the buffoon. The censorship 4 may tolerate innocent jokes: my page indulges in freedoms, but my life is pure.

1 In allusion to the jests which the soldiers threw out on their generals while they were riding in the triumphal procession. 2  A female dancer. 3 A dancer in pantomime; a sort of harlequin. 4  Alluding to Domitian having made himself perpetual censor.

V. THE EMPEROR'S REPLY.

I give you a sea-fight, and you give me epigrams: you wish, I suppose, Marcus, to be set afloat with your book.

VI. ON A LION OF CAESAR'S THAT SPARED A HARE.

While through the air of heaven the eagle was carrying the youth,1 the burden unhurt clung to its anxious talons. From Caesar's lions their own prey now succeeds in obtaining mercy, and the hare plays safe in their huge jaws. Which miracle do you think the greater? The author of each is a supreme being: the one is the work of Caesar; the other,2 of Jove.

1 Ganymede. 2 Comp. Eps. 14, 22.

VII. TO MAXIMUS

The dove, the delight of my friend Stella,3----even with Verona4 listening will I say it, ---- has surpassed, Maximus, the sparrow of Catullus. By so much is my Stella greater than your Catullus, as a dove is greater than a sparrow.

3 A poet of Patavium, who wrote an elegy on the dove of his mistress Ianthis. See B. vi. Ep. 21; B. vii. Ep. 13. 4 The birth-place of Catullus.

VIII. TO DECIANUS

In that you so far only follow the opinions of the great Thrasea and Cato of consummate virtue, that you still wish to preserve your life, and do not with bared breast rush upon drawn swords, you do, Decianus, what I should wish you to do. I do not approve of a man who purchases fame with life-blood, easy to be shed: I like him who can be praised without dying to obtain it.

IX. TO COTTA.

You wish to appear, Cotta, a pretty man and a great man at one and the same time: but he who is a pretty man, Cotta, is a very small man.

X. ON GEMELLUS AND MARONILLA.

Gemellus is seeking the hand of Maronilla, and is earnest, and lays siege to her, and beseeches her, and makes presents to her. Is she then so pretty? Nay; nothing can be more ugly. What then is the great object and attraction in her? ----Her cough.

XI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Seeing that there are given to a knight twice five pieces,1 wherefore is twice ten the amount which you spend by yourself, Sextilianus, in drink? Long since would the warm water have failed the attendants who carried it, had you not, Sextilianus, been drinking your wine unmixed.2

1 Ten sesterces, the usual sportula, or donation from the emperor. 2 The Romans used to drink their wine mixed with warm water.

XII. ON REGULUS.

Where the road runs to the towers of the cool Tivoli, sacred to Hercules, and the hoary Albula 3 smokes with sulphureous waters, a milestone, the fourth from the neighbouring city, points out a country retreat, and a hallowed grove, and a domain well beloved of the Muses. Here a rude portico used to afford cool shade in summer; a portico, ah! how nearly the desperate cause of an unheard-of calamity: for suddenly it fell in ruins, after Regulus had just been conveyed in a carriage and pair from under its high fabric. Truly Dame Fortune feared our complaints, as she would have been unable to withstand so great odium. Now even our loss delights us; so beneficial is the impression which the very danger produces; since, while standing, the edifice could not have proved to us the existence of the gods.

3 A plain near Tivoli.

XIII. ON ARRIA AND PAETUS.

When the chaste Arria handed to her Paetus the sword which she had with her own hand drawn forth from her heart, "If you believe me," said she, "the wound which I have made gives me no pain; but it is that which you will make, Paetus, that pains me."

XIV. TO DOMITIAN.

The pastimes, Caesar, the sports and the play of the lions, we have seen: your arena affords you the additional sight of the captured hare returning often in safety from the kindly tooth, and running at large through the open jaws. Whence is it that the greedy lion can spare his captured prey? He is said to be yours: thence it is that he can show mercy.

XV. TO JULIUS.

Oh! you who are regarded by me, Julius, as second to none of my companions, if well-tried friendship and longstanding ties are worth anything, already nearly a sixtieth consul is pressing upon you, and your life numbers but a few more uncertain days. Not wisely would you defer the enjoyment which you see maybe denied you, or consider the past alone as your own. Cares and linked chains of disaster are in store; joys abide not, but take flight with winced speed. Seize them with either hand, and with your full grasp; even thus they will oft-times pass away and glide from your closest embrace. 'Tis not, believe me, a wise man's part to say, "I will live." To-morrow's life is too late: live to-day.

XVI. TO AVITUS.

Of the epigrams which you read here, some are good, some middling, many bad; a book, Avitus, cannot be made in any other way.

XVII. TO TITUS.

Titus urges me to go to the Bar, and often tells me, "The gains are large." The gains of the husbandman, Titus, are likewise large.

XVIII. TO TUCCA, ON HIS PARSIMONY.

What pleasure can it give you, Tucca, to mix with old Falernian wine new wine stored up in Vatican casks? What vast amount of good has the most worthless of wine done you? or what amount of evil has the best wine done you? As for us, it is a small matter; but to murder Falernian, and to put poisonous wine in a Campanian cask, is an atrocity. Your guests may possibly have deserved to perish: a wine-jar of such value has not deserved to die.

XIX. TO AELIA.

If I remember right, Aelia, you had four teeth; a cough displaced two, another two more. You can now cough without anxiety all the day long. A third cough can find nothing to do in your mouth.

XX. TO CAECILIANUS.

Tell me, what madness is this? While a whole crowd of invited guests is looking on, you alone, Caecilianus, devour the truffles. What shall I imprecate on you worthy of so large a stomach and throat? That you may eat a truffle such as Claudius ate.

XXI. ON PORSENA AND MUCIUS SCAEVOLA.

When the hand that aimed at the king mistook for him his secretary, it thrust itself to perish into the sacred fire but the generous foe could not endure so cruel a sight, and bade the hero, snatched from the flame, to be set free. The hand which, despising the fire, Mucius dared to burn, Porsena could not bear to look on Greater was the fame and glory of that right hand from being deceived; had it not missed its aim, it had accomplished less.

XXII. TO A HARE.

Why, silly hare, are you fleeing from the fierce jaws of the lion now grown tame? They have not learned to crush such tiny animals. Those talons, which you fear, are reserved for mighty necks, nor does a thirst so great delight in so small a draught of blood. The hare is the prey of hounds; it does not fill large mouths: the Dacian boy should not fear Caesar.

XXIII. TO COTTA.

You invite no one, Cotta, except those whom you meet at the bath; and the bath alone supplies you with guests. I used to wonder why you had never asked me, Cotta; I know now that my appearance in a state of nature was unpleasing in your eyes.

XXIV. TO DECIANUS.

You see yonder individual, Decianus, with locks uncombed, whose grave brow even you fear; who talks incessantly of the Curii and Camilli, defenders of their country's liberties: do not trust his looks; he was taken to wife but yesterday.

XXV. TO FAUSTINUS.

Issue at length your books to the public, Faustinus, and give to the light the work elaborated by your accomplished mind,----a work such as neither the Cecropian city of Pandion would condemn, nor our old men pass by in silence. Do you hesitate to admit Fame, who is standing before your door; and does it displease you to receive the reward of your labour? Let the writings, destined to live after you, begin to live through your means. Glory comes too late, when paid only to our ashes.

XXVI. TO SEXTILIANUS.

Sextilianus, you drink as much as five rows of knights  1 alone: you might intoxicate yourself with water, if you so often drank as much. Nor is it the coin of those who sit near you alone that you consume in drink, but the money of those far removed from you, on the distant benches. This vintage has not been concerned with Pelignian presses, nor was this juice of the grape produced upon Tuscan heights; but it is the glorious jar of the long-departed Opimius 2 that is drained, and it is the Massic cellar that sends forth its blackened casks. Get dregs of Laletane wine from a tavern-keeper, Sextilianus, if you drink more than ten cups.3

1 Seated on the benches allotted them in the theatre. See Ep. 12. 2  The vintage of B. C. 121, in which year L. Opimius was one of the consuls, was extremely celebrated, and is frequently mentioned by the Roman writers. 3  The number to which persons at feasts usually restricted themselves.

XXVII. TO PROCILLUS.

Last night I had invited you----after some fifty glasses, I suppose, had been despatched----to sup with me to-day. You immediately thought your fortune was made, and took note of my unsober words, with a precedent but too dangerous. I hate a boon companion whose memory is good, Procillus.

XXVIII. ON ACCERRA.

Whoever believes it is of yesterday's wine that Acerra smells, is mistaken: Acerra always drinks till morning.

XXIX. TO FIDENTINUS.

Report says that you, Fidentinus, recite my compositions in public as if they were your own. If you allow them to be called mine, I will send you my verses gratis; if you wish them to be called yours, pray buy them, that they may be mine no longer.

XXX. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus had been a surgeon, and is now an undertaker. He has begun to be useful to the sick in the only way that he could.

XXXI. TO APOLLO, OF ENCOLPUS.

Encolpus, the favourite of the centurion his master, consecrates these, the whole of the locks from his head, to you, O Phoebus.1 When Pudens shall have rained the pleasing honour of the chief-centurionship, which he has so well merited, cut these long tresses close, O Phoebus, as soon as possible, while the tender face is yet undisfigured with down, and while the flowing hair adorns the milk-white neck; and, that both master and favourite may long enjoy your gifts, make him carry shorn, but late a man.2

1 Encolpus, a favourite of Aulus Pudens the centurion, had vowed his hair to Phoebus, is order that his master might soon be made chief centurion. Martial prays that they may both obtain what they desire. 2 Extend his youth as long as possible.

XXXII. TO SABIDIUS.

I do not love you, Sabidius, nor can I say why; I can only say this, I do not love you.

The following lines, in imitation of this epigram, were made by some Oxford wit, on Dr John Fell, Bishop of Oxford, who died in 1686:

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell; The reason why I cannot tell. But this I'm sure I know full well, I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.

XXXIII. ON GELLIA.

Gellia does not mourn for her deceased father, when she is alone; but if any one is present, obedient tears spring forth. He mourns not, Gellia, who seeks to be praised; he is the true mourner, who mourns without a witness.

XXXIV. TO LESBIA.

You always take your pleasure, Lesbia, with doors unguarded and open, nor are you at any pains to conceal your amusements. It is more the spectator, than the accomplice in your doings, that pleases you, nor are any pleasures grateful to your taste if they be secret. Yet the common courtesan excludes every witness by curtain and by bolt, and few are the chinks in a suburban brothel. Learn something at least of modesty from Chione, or from Alis: even the monumental edifices of the dead afford hiding-places for abandoned harlots. Does my censure seem too harsh? I do not exhort you to be chaste, Lesbia, but not to be caught.

XXXV. TO CORNELIUS.

You complain, Cornelius, that the verses which I compose are little remarkable for their reserve, and not such as a master can read out in his school; but such effusions, as in the case of man and wife, cannot please without some spice of pleasantry in them. What if you were to bid me write a hymeneal song in words not suited to hymeneal occasions? Who enjoins the use of attire at the Floral games, and imposes on the courtesan the reserve of the matron? This law has been allowed to frolicsome verses, that without tickling the fancy they cannot please. Lay aside, therefore, your severe look, I beseech you, and spare my jokes and gaiety, and do not desire to mutilate my compositions. Nothing is more disgusting than Priapus become a priest of Cybele.

XXXVI. TO THE BROTHERS LUCANUS AND TULLUS.

If, Lucanus, to you, or if to you, Tullus, had been offered such fates as the Laconian children of Leda enjoy, there would have been this noble struggle of affection in both of you, that each would have wished to die first in place of his brother; and he who should have first descended to the nether realms of shade would have said, "Live, brother, thine own term of days; live also mine."

XXXVII. TO BASSUS.

Yon deposit your excretions, without any sense of shame, into an unfortunate vessel of gold, while you drink out of glass. The former operation, consequently, is the more expensive.

XXXVIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

The book which you are reading aloud is mine, Fidentinus but, while you read it so badly, it begins to be yours.

With fruity accents, and so vile a tone, You quote my lines, I took them for your own.  Anon.

XXXIX. TO DECIANUS.

If there be any man fit to be numbered among one's few choice friends, a man such as the honesty of past times and ancient renown would readily acknowledge; if any man thoroughly imbued with the accomplishments of the Athenian and Latin Minervas, and exemplary for true integrity; if there be any man who cherishes what is right, and admires what is honourable, and asks nothing of the gods but what all may hear; if there be any man sustained by the strength of a great mind, may I die, if that man is not Decianus.

XL. TO AN ENVIOUS MAN.

You who make grimaces, and read these verses of mine with an ill grace, you, victim of jealousy, may, if you please, envy everybody; nobody will envy you.

XLI. TO CAECILIUS.

You imagine yourself Caecilius, a man of wit. You are no such thing, believe me. What then? A low buffoon; such a thing as wanders about in the quarters beyond the Tiber, and barters pale-coloured sulphur matches for broken glass; such a one as sells boiled peas and beans to the idle crowd; such as a lord and keeper of snakes; or as a common servant of the salt-meat-sellers; or a hoarse-voiced cook who carries round smoking sausages in steaming shops; or the worst of street poets; or a blackguard slave-dealer from Gades;1 or a chattering old debauchee. Cease at length, therefore, to imagine yourself that which is imagined by you alone, Caecilius, you who could have silenced Gabba, and even Testius Caballus, with your jokes. It is not given to every one to have taste; he who jests with a stupid effrontery is not a Testius, but a Caballus.3

1 See Juvenal xi. 163, and Mayor's note. 3 A play on the word Caballus, which, as an appellative noun, meant a hack-horse.

XLII. ON PORCIA.

When Porcia had heard the fate of her consort Brutus, and her grief was seeking the weapon, which had been carefully removed from her," You know not yet," she cried, "that death cannot be denied: I had supposed that my father had taught you this lesson by his fate. She spoke, and with eager mouth swallowed the blazing coals. "Go now, officious attendants, and refuse me a sword, if you will."

XLIII. ON MANCINUS.

Twice thirty were invited to your table, Mancinus, and nothing was placed before us yesterday but a wild-boar. Nowhere were to be seen grapes preserved from the late vines, or apples vying in flavour with sweet honey-combs; nowhere the pears which hang suspended by flexible twigs, or pomegranates the colour of summer roses: nor did the rustic basket supply its milky cheeses, or the olive emerge from its Picenian jar. Your wild-boar was by itself: and it was even of the smallest size, and such a one as might have been slaughtered by an unarmed dwarf. Besides, none of it was given us; we simply looked on it as spectators. This is the way in which even the arena places a wild-boar before us. May no wild-boar be placed before you after such doings, but may you be placed before the boar in front of which Charidemus was placed.1

1 By Domitian, to be torn in pieces. See Sueton. Life of Domit.

XLIV. TO STELLA.

If it seems to you too much, Stella, that my longer and shorter compositions are occupied with the frisky gambols of the hares and the play of the lions, and that I go over the same subject twice, do you also place a hare twice before me.

XLV. ON HIS BOOK.

That the care which I have bestowed upon what I have published may not come to nothing through the smallness of my volumes, let me rather fill up my verses with Τὸν δ̕ ἀπαμειθόμενος.1

1 Let me rather use frequent repetitions, just as Homer frequently repeats these words.

XLVI. TO HEDYLUS.

[From the Loeb translation]

When you say "I haste; now is the time," then, Hedylus, my ardour at once flags and weakens. Bid me wait: more quickly, stayed, shall I speed on. Hedylus, if you do haste, tell me not to haste!

XLVII. ON DIAULUS.

Diaulus, lately a doctor, is now an undertaker: what he does as an undertaker, he used to do also as a doctor.

XLVIII. ON THE LION AND HARE.

The keepers could not snatch the bulls from those wide jaws, through which the fleeting prey, the hare, goes and returns in safety; and, what is still more strange, he starts from his foe with increased swiftness, and contracts something of the great nobleness of the lion's nature. He is not safer when he courses along the empty arena, nor with equal feeling of security does he hide him in his hutch. If, venturous hare, you seek; to avoid the teeth of the hounds, you have the jaws of the lion to which you may flee for refuge.

XLIX. TO LICINIANUS.

O you, whose name must not be left untold by Celtiberian nations, you the honour of our common country, Spain, you, Licinianus, will behold the lofty Bilbilis, renowned for horses and arms, and Catus1 venerable with his locks of snow, and eased Vadavero with ita broken cliffs, and the sweet grove of delicious Botrodus, which the happy Pomona loves. You will breast the gently-flowing water of the warm Congedus and the calm lakes of the Nymphs, and your body, relaxed by these, you may brace up in the little Salo, which hardens iron. There Voberca 2 herself will supply for your meals animals which may be brought down close at hand. The serene summer heat you will disarm by bathing in the golden Tagus, hidden beneath the shades of trees; your greedy thirst the fresh Dercenna will appease, and Nutha, which in coldness surpasses snow. But when hoar December and the furious solstice shall resound with the hoarse blasts of the north-wind, you will again seek the sunny shores of Tarraco and thine own Laletania. There you will despatch hinds caught in your supple toils, and native boars; and you will tire out the cunning hare with your hardy steed; the stags you will leave to your bailiff. The neighboring wood will come down into your very hearth, surrounded as it will be with a troop of uncombed children. The huntsman will be invited to your table, and many a guest called in from the neighbourhood will come to you. The crescent-adorned boot 3 will be nowhere to be seen, nowhere the toga and garments smelling of purple dye. Far away will be the ill-favoured Liburnian porter 4 and the grumbling client; far away the imperious demands of widows. The pale criminal will not break your deep sleep, but all the morning long you will enjoy your slumber. Let another earn the grand and wild "Bravo!" Do you pity such happy ones, and enjoy without pride true delight, while your friend Sura is crowned with applause. Not unduly does life demand of us our few remaining days, when fame has as much as is sufficient.

1 Catus and Vadavero are names of mountains near Bilbilis. Botrodus is a small town; Congedus and Salo, riven.   2 The name of a town. Dercenna and Nutha are fountains.   3 Worn by senators. 4 See Juvenal, iv. 75.

L. TO AEMILIANUS.

If your cook, Aemilianus, is called Mistyllus, why should not mine be called Taratalla?1

1 A meaningless jest taken from Homer's words (Il. i.465).

LI. TO A HARE.

No neck, save the proudest, serves for the fierce lion. Why do you, vain-glorious hare, flee from these teeth? No doubt you would wish them to stoop from the huge bull to you, and to crush a neck which they cannot see. The glory of an illustrious death must be an object of despair to you. You, a tiny prey, canst not fall before such an enemy!

LII. TO QUINCTIANUS.

To you, Quinctianus, do I commend my books, if indeed I can call books mine, which your poet recites.1 If they complain of a grievous yoke, do you come forward as their advocate, and defend them efficiently; and when he calls himself their master, say that they were mine, but have been given 2 by me to the public. If you will proclaim this three or four times, you will bring shame on the plagiary.

1 A poet that recited verses to Quinctianus; the same, probably, that is mentioned in the next epigram. 2 Manumitted; released from my portfolio.

LIII. TO FIDENTINUS.

One page only in my books belongs to you, Fidentinus, but it bears the sure stamp of its master, and accuses your verses of glaring theft. Just so does a Gallic frock coming in contact with purple city cloaks stain them with grease and filth; just so do Arretine1 pots disgrace vases of crystal; so is a buck crow, straying perchance on the banks of the Cayster, laughed to scorn amid the swans of Leda: and so, when the sacred grove resounds with the music of the tuneful nightingale, the miscreant magpie disturbs her Attic plaints. My books need no one to accuse or judge you: the page which is yours stands up against you and says, "You are a thief"

1 Earthen pots from Arretium, a town of Etruria.

LIV. TO FUSCUS.

If, Fuscus, you have room to receive still more affection, (for you have friends around you on all sides), I ask you one place in your heart, if one still remains vacant, and that you will not refuse because I am a stranger to you: all your old friends were so once. Simply consider whether he who is presented to you a stranger is likely to become an old friend.

LV. TO FRONTO.

If you, Fronto, so distinguished an ornament of military and civil life, desire to learn the wishes of your friend Marcus, he prays for this, to be the tiller of his own farm, nor that a large one, and he loves inglorious repose in as unpretending sphere. Does any one haunt the porticoes of cold variegated Spartan marble, and run to offer, like a fool, his morning greetings, when he might, rich with the spoils of grave and field, unfold before his fire his well-filled nets, and lift the leaping fish with the quivering line, and draw forth the yellow honey from the red1 cask, while a plump housekeeper loads his unevenly-propped table, and his own eggs are cooked by an unbought fire? That the man who loves not me may not love this life, is my wish; and let him drag out life pallid with the cares of the city.

1 Stained with vermilion.

LVI. TO A VINTNER.

Harassed with continual rains, the vineyard drips with wet. You cannot sell us, vintner, even though you wish, neat wine.

LVII. TO FLACCUS.

Do you ask what sort of maid I desire or dislike, Flaccus? I dislike one too easy, and one too coy. The just mean, which lies between the two extremes, is what I approve; I like neither that which tortures, nor that which cloys.

LVIII. DE PUERI PRETIO.

[Untranslated]

LIX. TO FLACCUS.

The sportula1 at Baiae brings me in a hundred farthings; of what use is such a miserable sum in the midst of such sumptuous baths? Give me back the darksome baths of Lupus and Gryllus. When I sup so scantily, Flaccus, why should I bathe so luxuriously?

1 Sportula. A present from the richer class to the poorer; nominally the price of a supper. See Dict. Antiqq. s. v.

LX. ON THE LION AND HARE.

Hare, although you enter the wide jaws of the fierce lion, still he imagines his mouth to be empty. Where is the back on which he shall rush? where the shoulders on which he shall flail? where shall he fix those deep bites which he inflicts on young bulls? why do you in vain weary the lord and monarch of the groves? 'Tis only on the wild prey of his choice that he feeds.

LXI. TO LICINIANUS, ON THE COUNTRIES OF CELEBRATED AUTHORS.

Verona loves the verses of her learned Poet; Mantua is blest in her Maro; the territory of Apona is renowned for its Livy, its Stella, and not less for its Flaccus. The Nile, whose waters are instead of rain, applauds its Apollodorus; the Pelignians vaunt their Ovid. Eloquent Cordova speaks of its two Senecas and its single and preeminent Lucan. Voluptuous Gades delights in her Canius,1 Emerita in my friend Decianus. Our Bilbilis will be proud of you, Licinianus, nor will be altogether silent concerning me.

1 See b. iii. Ep. 20.

LXII. ON LAEVINA.

Laevina, so chaste as to rival even the Sabine women of old, and more austere than even her stern husband, chanced, while entrusting herself sometimes to the waters of the Lucrine lake, sometimes to those of Avernus, and while frequently refreshing herself in the baths of Baiae, to fall into flames of love, and, leaving her husband, fled with a young gallant. She arrived a Penelope, she departed a Helen.

LXIII. TO CELER.

You ask me to recite to you my Epigrams. I cannot oblige you; for you wish not to hear them, Celer, but to recite them.1

1 To plagiarise them from me, and then to recite them as your own.

LXIV. TO FABULLA.

You are pretty,----we know it; and young,----it is true; and rich,----who can deny it? But when you praise yourself extravagantly, Fabulla, you appear neither rich, nor pretty, nor young.

LXV. TO CAECILIANUS.

When I said ficus, you laughed at it as a barbarous word, Caecilianus, and bade me say ficos. I shall call the produce of the fig-tree ficus; yours I shall call ficos.1

1 An untranslatable jest on the double meaning of the word ficus, which, when declined ficus, -i, means piles or someone afflicted with it; and when ficus -lis, a fig-tree.

LXVI. TO A PLAGIARIST.

You are mistaken, insatiable thief of my writings, who think a poet can be made for the mere expense which copying, and a cheap volume cost. The applause of the world is not acquired for six or even ten sesterces. Seek out for this purpose verses treasured up, and unpublished efforts, known only to one person, and which the father himself of the virgin sheet, that has not been worn and scrubbed by bushy chins, keeps sealed up in his desk. A well-known book cannot change its master. But if there is one to be found vet unpolished by the pumice-stone, yet unadorned with bosses and cover, buy it: I have such by me, and no one shall know it. Whoever recites another's compositions, and seeks for fame, must buy, not a book, but the author's silence.

LXVII. TO CHOERILUS.

"You are too free-spoken," is your constant remark to me, Choerilus. He who speaks against you, Choerilus, is indeed a free speaker.1

1 Free from all restraint, for he may say all sorts of things against you without fear of contradiction.

LXVIII. ON RUFUS.

Whatever Rufus does, Naevia is all in all to him. Whether he rejoices, or mourns, or is silent, it is ever Naevia. He eats, he drinks, he asks, he refuses, he gesticulates, Naevia alone is in his thoughts: if there were no Naevia, he would be mute. When he had written a dutiful letter yesterday to his father, he ended it with, "Naevia, light of my eyes, Naevia, my idol, farewell" Naevia read these words, and laughed with downcast looks. Naevia is not yours only: what madness is this, foolish man?

LXIX. TO MAXIMUS.

Tarentos,3 which was wont to exhibit the statue of Pan, begins now, Maximus, to exhibit that of Canius.

3 Tarentos, a place in the Campus Martius, in which was a temple consecrated to Plato, and filled with statues of Pan, the Satyrs, and other deities or remarkable personages. On Canius, a humorous poet of Gades, whose statue, it appears, was put there with Pan's, see above, Ep. 61; B. iii. Ep. 29.

LXX. TO HIS BOOK.

Go, my book, and pay my respects for me: you are ordered to go, dutiful volume, to the splendid halls of Proculus. Do you ask the way? I will tell you. You will go along by the temple of Castor, near that of ancient Vesta, and that goddess's virgin home. Thence you will pass to the majestic Palatine edifice on the sacred hill, where glitters many a statue of the supreme ruler of the empire. And let not the ray-adorned mass of the Colossus detain you, a work which is proud of surpassing that of Rhodes. But turn aside by the way where the temple of the wine-bibbing Bacchus rises, and where the couch of Cybele stands adorned with. pictures of the Corybantes. Immediately on the left is the dwelling with its splendid facade, and the halls of the lofty mansion which you are to approach. Enter it; and fear not its haughty looks or proud gate; no entrance affords more ready access; nor is there any house more inviting for Phoebus and the learned sisters to love. If Proculus shall say, "But why does he not come himself?" you may excuse me thus, "Because he could not have written what is to be read here, whatever be its merit, if he had come to pay his respects in person."

LXXI. TO SLEEP.

Let Laevia be toasted with six cups,. Justine with seven, Lycas with five, Lyde with four, Ida with three. Let the number of letters in the name of each of our mistresses be equalled by the number of cups of Falernian. But, since none of them comes, come you, Sleep, to me.

LXXII. TO FIDENTINUS, A PLAGIARIST.

Do you imagine, Fidentinus, that you are a poet by the aid of my verses, and do you wish to be thought so? Just so does Aegle think she has teeth from having purchased bone or ivory. Just so does Lycoris, who is blacker than the falling mulberry, seem fair in her own eyes, because she is painted. You too, in the same way that you are a poet, will have flowing locks when you are grown bald.

LXXIII. TO CAECILIANUS.

These was no one in the whole city, Caecilianus, who desired to meddle with your wife, even gratis, while permission was given; but now, since you have set a watch upon her, the crowd of gallants is innumerable. You are a clever fellow!

LXXIV. TO PAULA.

He was your gallant, Paula; you could however deny it He is become your husband; can you deny it now, Paula? 1

1 He was said to be your gallant when your first husband was alive. You then denied it. You married him as soon as your husband died. Will you deny it now?

LXXV. ON LINUS.

He who prefers to give Linus the half of what he wishes to borrow, rather than to lend him the whole, prefers to lose only the half.

LXXVI. TO VALERIUS FLACCUS.1

Flaccus, valued object of my solicitude, hope and nursling of the city of Antenor,2 put aside Pierian strains and the lyre of the Sisters; none of those damsels will give you money. What do you expect from Phoebus? The cheat of Minerva contains the cash; she alone is wise, she alone lends to all the gods. What can the ivy of Bacchus give? The dark tree of Pallas bends down its variegated boughs under the load of fruit. Helicon, besides its waters and the garlands and lyres of the goddesses, and the great but empty applause of the multitude, has nothing. What have you to do with Cirrha? What with bare Permessis? The Roman forum is nearer and more lucrative. There is heard the chink of money; but around our desks and barren chairs kisses 3 alone resound.

Though midst the noblest poets you have place, Flaccus, the offering of Antenor's race; Renounce the Muses' songs and charming quire, For none of them enrich, though they inspire. Court not Apollo, Pallas has the gold; She 's wise, and does the gods in mortgage hold. What profit is there in an ivy wreath? Its fruits the loaden olive sinks beneath. In Helicon there's nought but springs and bays, The Muses' harps loud sounding empty praise.

1 The author of the Argonautica. 2 The city of Patavium, founded by Antenor 3 As tokens of applause.

LXXVII. ON CHARINUS.

Charinus is perfectly well, and yet he is pale; Charinus drinks sparingly, and yet he is pale; Charinus digests well, and yet he is pale; Charinus suns himself and yet he is pale; Charinus dyes his skin, and yet he is pale; Charinus indulges in [infamous debauchery], and yet he is pale.1

1 That is, he does not blush at his infamy.

LXXVIII. ON FESTUS, WHO STABBED HIMSELF.

When a devouring malady attacked his unoffending throat, and its black poison extended its ravages over his face, Festus, consoling his weeping friends, while his own eyes were dry, determined to seek the Stygian lake. He did not however pollute his pious mouth with secret poison, or aggravate his sad fate by lingering famine, but ended his pure life by a death befitting a Roman, and freed his spirit in a nobler way. This death fame may place above that of the great Cato; for Domitian was Festus' friend.2

2 Cato said that he died to avoid looking on the face of the tyrant Caesar.

LXXIX. TO ATTALUS, A BUSY-BODY.

Attalus, you are ever acting the barrister, or acting the man of business: whether there is or is not a part for you to act, Attalus, you are always acting a part. If lawsuits and business are not to be found, Attalus, you act the mule-driver. Attalus, lest a part should be wanting for you to act, act the part of executioner on yourself..

You act the pleader, and you act the man Of business; acting is your constant plan: So prone to act, the coachman's part is tried; Lest all parts fail you, act the suicide.       L. H. S.

LXXX. TO CANUS.

On the last night of your lift, Canus, a sportula was the object of your wishes. I suppose the cause of your death was, Canus, that there was only one.1

1 He had hoped for several largesses; he died of mortification at receiving only one.

LXXXI. TO SOSIBIANUS.

You know that you are the son of a slave, and you ingenuously confess it, when you call your father, Sosibianus, "master".2

2 The mother of Sosibianus had been guilty of adultery with a slave. When Sosibianus calls his reputed father Dominus, as a title of respect, but which was also a term for a master of slaves, he confessed himself a verna, or born-slave.

LXXXII. ON REGULUS.

See from what mischief this portico, which, overthrown amid clouds of dust, stretches its long ruins over the ground, lies absolved. For Regulus had but just been carried in his litter under its arch, and had got out of the way, when forthwith, borne down by its own weight, it fell; and, being no longer in fear for its master, it came down free from blood-guiltiness, a harmless ruin, without any attendant anxiety. After the fear of so great a cause for complaint is passed, who would deny, Regulus, that you, for whose sake the fall was harmless, are an object of care to the gods?

LXXXIII. ON MANNEIA.

Your lap-dog, Manneia, licks your mouth and lips: I do not wonder at a dog liking to eat ordure.1

1 A sarcasm on the foulness of Manneia's breath.

LXXXIV. ON QUIRINALIS.

Quirinalis, though he wishes to have children, has no intention of taking a wife, and has found out in what way he can accomplish his object. He takes to him his maid-servants, and fills his house and his lands with slave-knights.2 Quirinalis is a true pater-familias.

2 Equitibus vernis. (See Heinrich on Juv. ix. 10.)  Eques verna, the offspring of a knight and a slave.

LXXXV. ON AN AUCTIONEER.

A wag of an auctioneer, offering for sale some cultivated heights, and some beautiful acres of land near the city, says, "If any one imagines that Marius is compelled to sell, he is mistaken; Marius owes nothing: on the contrary, he rather has money to put out at interest." "What is his reason, then, for selling?" "In this place he lost all his slaves, and his cattle, and his profits; hence he does not like the locality." Who would have made any offer, unless he had wished to lose all his property? So the ill-fated land remains with Marius.

LXXXVI. ON NOVIUS.

Novius is my neighbour, and may be reached by the hand from my windows. Who would not envy me, and think me a happy man every hour of the day when I may enjoy the society of one so near to me? But, he is as far removed from me as Terentianus, who is now governor of Syene on the Nile. I am not privileged either to live with him, or even see him, or hear him; nor in the whole city is there any one at once so near and so far from me. I must remove farther off, or he must. If any one wishes not to see Novius, let him become his neighbour or his fellow-lodger.

My neighbour Hunks's house and mine Are built so near they almost join; The windows too project so much, That through the casements we may touch. Nay, I'm so happy, most men think, To live so near a man of chink, That they are apt to envy me, For keeping such good company: But he's far from me, I vow, As London is from good Lord Howe; For when old Hunks I chance to meet, Or one or both must quit the street. Thus he who would not see old Roger, Must be his neighbour----or his lodger.    Swift

LXXXVII. TO FESCENNIA.

That you may not be disagreeably fragrant with your yesterday's wine, you devour, luxurious Fescennia, certain of Cosmus's1 perfumes. Breakfasts of such a nature leave their mark on the teeth, but form no barrier against the emanations which escape from the depths of the stomach. Nay, the fetid smell is but the worse when mixed with perfume, and the double odour of the breath is carried but the farther. Cease then to use frauds but too well known, and disguises well understood; and simply intoxicate yourself!

1 Cosmus: a celebrated perfumer of the day, and frequently mentioned.

LXXXVIII. ON ALCIMUS.

Alcimus, whom, snatched from your lord in your opening years, the Labican earth covers with light turf, receive, not a nodding mass of Parian marble,----an unenduring monument which misapplied toil gives to the dead,----but shapely box-trees and the dark shades of the palm leaf, and dewy flowers of the mead which bloom from being watered with my tears. Receive, dear youth, the memorials of my grief: this tribute will live for you in all time. When Lachesis shall have spun to the end of my last hour, I shall ask no other honours for my ashes.

LXXXIX. TO CINNA.

You always whisper into every one's ear, Cinna; you whisper even what might be said in the hearing of the whole world. You laugh, you complain, you dispute, you weep, you sing, you criticise, you are silent, you are noisy; and all in one's ear. Has this disease so thoroughly taken possession of you, that you often praise Caesar, Cinna, in the ear? 1

1 When his praise ought to be proclaimed aloud everywhere.

XC. ON BASSA.

Inasmuch as I never saw you, Bassa, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and report in no case assigned to you a favoured lover; but every duty about your person was constantly performed by a crowd of your own sex, without the presence of even one man; you seemed to me, I confess it, to be a Lucretia.

XCI. TO LAELIUS.

You do not publish your own verses, Laelius; you criticise mine. Pray cease to criticise mine, or else publish your own.

You blame my verses and conceal your own: Either publish yours, or else let mine alone!                                                   Anon. 1695.

XCII. TO MAMURIANUS.

Cestus with tears in his eyes often complains to me, Hamurianus, of being touched with your finger. You need not use your finger merely; take Cestos all to yourself if nothing else is wanting in your establishment, Mamurianus.2 But if you have neither fire, nor legs for your bare bedstead, nor broken basin of Chione or Antiope;3 if a cloak greasy and worn hangs down your back, and a Gallic jacket covers only half of your loins; and if you feed on the smell alone of the dark kitchen, and drink on your knees dirty water with the dog;

Non culum, neque enim est cuius, qui non cacat olim, Sed fodiam digito qui super est oculum.4 Nec me zelotypum nec dixeris esse malignum: Denique paedica, Mamuriane, satur.

2 Mamurianus is ridiculed for his sordid and licentious life. He had but one eye, as appears from what is said below. Cestus was Martial's servant. 3 Names of courtesans, from whom Martial intimates that Mamurianus would accept broken vessels. 4 A play on the words culus and oculus. A common threat was, "Oculos tibieffodiam," often used in Plautus.

XCIII. ON AQUINUS AND FABRICIUS.

Here reposes Aquinas, reunited to his faithful Fabricius, who rejoices in having preceded him to the Elysian retreats. This double altar bears record that each was honoured with the rank of chief centurion; but that praise is of still greater worth which you read in this shorter inscription: Both were united in the sacred bond of a well-spent life, and, what is rarely known to fame, were friends.

XCIV. TO AEGLE THE FELLATRIX.

[Not translated in the Bohn - adapted from the Loeb]

Badly you sang while you fornicated, Aegle.  Now you sing well; but I won't kiss you.

XCV. TO AELIUS.

In constantly making a clamour, and obstructing the pleaders with your noise, Aelius, you act not without an object; you look for pay to hold your tongue.

That bawlers you out-bawl, the busy crush, No idler you, who bring to sale your hush.                                        Elphinston.

XCVI. TO HIS VERSE, ON A LICENTIOUS CHARACTER.

If it is not disagreeable, and does not annoy you, my verse, say, I pray, a word or two in the ear of our friend Maternus, so that he alone may hear. That admirer of sad-coloured coats, clad in the costume of the banks of the river Baetis, and in grey garments, who deems the wearers of scarlet not men, and calls amethyst-coloured robes the dress of women, however much he may praise natural hues, and be always seen in dark colours, has at the same time morals of an extremely flagrant hue. You will ask whence I suspect him of effeminacy. We go to the same baths; Do you ask me who this is? His name has escaped me.

XCVII. TO NAEVOLUS.

When every one is talking, then and then only, Naevolus, do you open your month; and you think yourself an advocate and a pleader. In such a way every one may be eloquent. But see, everybody is silent; say something now, Naevolus.

XCVIII. TO FLACCUS, ON DIODORUS.

Diodorus goes to law, Flaccus, and has the gout in his feet But he pays his counsel nothing; surely he has the gout also in his hands.

XCIX. TO CALENUS.

But a short time since, Calenus, you had not quite two millions of sesterces; but you were so prodigal and open-handed, and hospitable, that all your friends wished you ten millions. Heaven heard the wish and our prayers; and within, I think, six months, four deaths gave you the desired fortune. But you, as if ten millions had not been left to you, but taken from you, condemned yourself to such abstinence, wretched man, that you prepare even your most sumptuous feasts, which you provide only once in the whole year, at the cost of but a few dirty pieces of black coin; and we, seven of your old companions, stand you in just half a pound of leaden money. What blessing are we to invoke upon you worthy of such merits? We wish you, Calenus, a fortune of a hundred millions. If this falls to your lot, you will die of hunger.

C. ON AFRA.

Afra talks of her papas and her mammas; but she herself may be called the grandmamma of her papas and mammas.

CI. ON THE DEATH OF HIS AMANUENSIS DEMETRIUS.

Demetrius, whose hand was once the faithful confidant of my verses, so useful to his master, and so well known to the Caesars, has yielded up his brief life in its early prime. A fourth harvest had been added to his years, which previously numbered fifteen. That he might not, however, descend to the Stygian shades as a slave, I, when the accursed disease had seized and was withering him, took precaution, and remitted to the sick youth all my right over him as his master; he was worthy of restoration to health through my gift.1 He appreciated, with failing faculties, the kindness which he had received; and on the point of departing, a free man, to the Tartarean waters, saluted me as his patron.

1 I.e. I wish my gift could have restored him to health.

CII. TO LYCORIS.

The painter who drew your Venus, Lycoris, paid court, I suppose, to Minerva.2

2 Represented Venus less beautiful than she is, in order to please Minerva, her rival for the golden apple.

CIII. TO SCAEVOLA.

"If the gods were to give me a fortune of a million sesterces," you used to say, Scaevola, before you were a full knight,1 "oh how would I live! how magnificently, how happily!" The complaisant deities smiled and granted your wish. Since that time your toga has become much more dirty, your cloak worse; your shoe has been sewn up three and four times; of ten olives the greater portion is always put by, and one spread of the table serves for two meals; the thick dregs of pink Vejentan wine are your drink; a plate of lukewarm peas costs you a penny; your mistress a penny likewise. Cheat and liar, let us go before the tribunal of the gods; and either live, Scaevola, as befits you, or restore to the gods your million sesterces.

1 That is, before you had four hundred thousand sesterces; which was the fortune that a man must have before he could be a knight

CIV. ON A SPECTACLE IN THE ARENA.

When we see the leopard bear upon his spotted neck a light and easy yoke, and the furious tigers endure with patience the blows of the whip; the stags champ the golden curbs; the Libyan bears tamed by the bit; a boar, huge as that which Calydon is said to have produced, obey the purple muzzle; the ugly buffaloes drag chariots, and the elephant, when ordered to dance nimbly, pay prompt obedience to his swarthy leader; who would not imagine such things a spectacle given by the gods? These, however, any one disregards as of inferior attraction who sees the condescension of the lions, which the swift-footed timorous hares fatigue in the chase. They let go the little animals, catch them again, and caress them when caught, and the latter are safer in their captors' mouths than elsewhere; since the lions delight in granting them free passage through their open jaws, and in holding their teeth as with fear, for they are ashamed to crush the tender prey, after having just come from slaying bulls; This clemency does not proceed from art; the lions know whom they serve.

CV. TO QUINTUS OVIDIUS.

The wine, Ovidius, which is grown in the Nomentan fields, in proportion as it receives the addition of years, puts off, through age, its character and name; and the jar thus ancient receives whatever name you please.1

1 Being mellowed by age, it maybe called Falernian, Cecuban, or any other name given to the best wines.

CVI. TO RUFUS.

Rufus, you often pour water into your wine, and, if hard pressed by your companion, you drink just a cup now and then of diluted Falernian. Pray, is it that Naevia has promised you a night of bliss; and you prefer by sobriety to enhance your enjoyment? You sigh, you are silent, you groan: she has refused you. You may drink, then, and often, cups of four-fold size, and drown in wine your concern at her cruelty. Why do you spare yourself, Rufus? You have nothing before you but to sleep.

CVII. TO LUCIUS JULIUS.

You often say to me, dearest Lucius Julius, "Write something great: you take your ease too much." Give me then leisure,----but leisure such as that which of old Maecenas gave to his Horace and his Virgil -- and I would endeavour to write something which should live through time, and to snatch my name from the flames of the funeral pyre. Steers are unwilling to carry their yoke into barren fields. A fat soil fatigues, but the very labour bestowed on it is delightful.

CVIII. TO GALLUS.

You possess----and may it be yours and grow larger through a long series of years----a house, beautiful I admit, but on the other side of the Tiber. But my garret looks upon the laurels of Agrippa; and in this quarter I am already grown old. I must move, in order to pay you a morning call, Gallus, and you deserve this consideration, even if your house were still farther off. But it is a small matter to you, Gallus, if I add one to the number of your toga-clad visitors; while it is a great matter to me, if I withhold that one. I myself will frequently pay my respects to you at the tenth hour.1 This morning my book shall wish you "good day" in my stead.

1 The tenth hour from sunrise, corresponding to our four o'clock is the afternoon. SeeB. iv. Ep. 8.

CIX. ON A PET DOG AND THE PAINTER.

Issa is more playful than the sparrow of Catullus. Issa is more pure than the kiss of a dove. Issa is more loving than any maiden. Issa is dearer than Indian gems. The little dog Issa is the pet of Publius. If she complains, you will think she speaks. She feels both the sorrow and the gladness of her master. She lies reclined upon his neck, and sleeps, so that not a respiration is heard from her. And, however pressed, she has never sullied the coverlet with a single spot; but rouses her master with a gentle touch of her foot, and begs to be set down from the bed and relieved. Such modesty resides in this chaste little animal; she knows not the pleasures of love; nor do we find a mate worthy of so tender a damsel. That her last hour may not carry her off wholly, Publius has her limned in a picture, in which you will see an Issa so like, that not even herself is so like herself. In a word, place Issa and the picture side by side, and you will imagine either both real, or both painted.

CX. TO VELOX.

You complain, Velox, that the epigrams which I write are long. You yourself write nothing; your attempts are shorter.1

1 Imperfect; abortive; ending in nothing.

CXI. TO REGULUS, ON SENDING HIM A BOOK AND A PRESENT OF FRANKINCENSE.

Since your reputation for wisdom, and the care which you bestow on your labours, are equal, and since your piety is not inferior to your genius, he who is surprised that a book and incense are presented to you, Regulus, is ignorant how to adapt presents to deserts.

CXII. ON PRISCUS, A USURER.

When I did not know you, I used to address you as my lord and king. Now, since I know you well, you shall be plain Priscus with me.

CXIII. TO THE READER.

If, reader, you wish to employ some good hours badly, and are an enemy to your own leisure, you will obtain whatever sportive verses I produced in my youth and boyhood, and all my trifles, which even I myself have forgotten, from Quintus Pollius Valerianus, who has resolved not to let my light effusions perish.

CXIV. TO FAUSTINUS.

These gardens adjoining your domain, Faustinus, and these small fields and moist meadows, Telesphorus Faenius owns. Here he has deposited the ashes of his daughter, and has consecrated the name, which you read, of Antulla;----though his own name should rather have been read there. It had been more just that the father should have gone to the Stygian shades; but, since this was not permitted, may he live to honour his daughter's remains.

CXV. TO PROCILLUS.

A certain damsel, envious Procillus, is desperately in love with me,----a nymph more white than the spotless swan, than silver, than snow, than lily, than privet: already you will be thinking of hanging yourself, But I long for one darker than night, than the ant, than pitch, than the jack-daw, than the cricket. If I know you well, Procillus, you will spare your life.

CXVI. ON THE TOMB OF ANTULLA.

This grove, and these fair acres of cultivated land, Faenius has consecrated to the eternal honour of the dead. In this tomb is deposited Antulla, too soon snatched from her family: in this tomb each of her parents will be united to her. If any one desires this piece of ground, I warn him not to hope for it; it is for ever devoted to its owners.

CXVII. TO LUPERCUS.

Whenever you meet me, Lupercus, you constantly say, "Shall I send my servant, for you to give him your little book of Epigrams, which I will read and return to you directly?" There is no reason, Lupercus, to trouble your servant. It is a lone journey, if he wishes to come to the Pirus;1 and I live up three pairs of stairs, and those high ones. What you want you may procure nearer at hand. You frequently go down to the Argiletum: opposite Caesar's forum is a shop, with pillars on each side covered over with titles of books, so that you may quickly run over the names of all the poets. Procure me there; you will no sooner ask Atrectus,----such is the name of the owner of the shop,----than he will give you, from the first or second shelf a Martial, well smoothed with pumice-stone, and adorned with purple, for five denarii "You are not worth so much," do you say? You are right, Lupercus.

1 The pear-tree. The name of some spot near which Martial lived.

CXVIII. TO CAEDICIANUS.

For him who is not satisfied with reading a hundred epigrams, no amount of trouble is sufficient, Caedicianus.

This text was transcribed by Roger Pearse, Ipswich, UK, 2008. This file and all material on this page is in the public domain - copy freely.

Greek text is rendered using unicode.

Early Church Fathers - Additional Texts

[howdoyousayghibli]

A Soapy Sub-Plot Diminishes the Otherwise Brilliant From Up on Poppy Hill

In his excellent series, Movies with Mikey, Mikey Neumann asks a question about Jurassic Park II: Can one stupid scene ruin a great movie? When that little girl defeats a previously terrifying velociraptor with “gymnastics,” it undermines their power to scare the audience and spotlights a character the audience already doesn’t like. But does that erase any and all good qualities the rest of the movie has?

This question is terribly relevant to From Up on Poppy Hill, a 2011 film directed by Gorō Miyazaki. The son of Hayao Miyazaki, Gorō also directed the disappointing Tales from Earthsea. In Poppy Hill, he appears to have learned some lessons from his previous experience; the movie is enjoyable, moving, and packed with some of Studio Ghibli’s best dialogue yet. 

This brings us back to Mikey’s question: Can the inclusion of a subplot that is in poor taste, hackneyed, and unnecessary ruin an otherwise fantastic film? Let’s just say this review’s going to have a hefty Spoiler Zone.

There’s plenty to talk about before we get there, though. Set in1963, Poppy Hill tells the story of two teenagers, Umi and Shun. Umi is uber-responsible, essentially running a boarding house for her Grandmother while also studiously attending school and keeping an eye on her younger sister. She doesn’t have much choice in the matter; her father died while serving  in WWII, and her mother is studying in America.

Shun has a more normal home life, but is deeply involved in “the Latin Quarter,” a massive, old, and dilapidated building that houses innumerable school clubs (all of which are apparently boys-only). The major plot thread of the movie concerns attempts by, you know, Big Business or whoever to demolish the Latin Quarter and build a shiny new facility in its place. The facility would still be for the students, so it’s not a matter of losing their place; it’s a matter of losing the historical building itself.

While Umi’s extreme competence and selflessness endear her to the viewer, the Latin Quarter steals the show whenever the characters visit. I always think it’s bogus and pretentious when people speak of a city or location as “another character, really,” but they’d probably say it about the quirky clubhouse. I’d still disagree, though. The Latin Quarter is such a fun locale because of the many well-written actual characters inside it. The lavish details of the building itself don’t hurt, of course, but it’s really the clubs themselves that bring it to life.

A big part of that comes from some of the best, let’s call it, “background dialogue” of any movie I’ve seen. Neither Umi nor Shun are particularly funny, but the large cast of unnamed Latin Quarter club members are consistently hilarious throughout the movie. At the risk of doing the original screenwriters a discredit, I’m tempted to lay some of this success at the feet of Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall, who oversaw the production of the U.S. dub. Both also worked on the dubs for Ponyo and Arrietty, were also excellently localized. Whoever deserves the credit, the movie is much richer for it.

Now, I’ve said that Umi and Shun aren’t especially funny, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t compelling. Just like the club members who populate the Latin Quarter, the protagonists are endearing because they both feel like they have lives outside of this movie. In different ways, Umi and Shun are both competent and passionate people, avoiding the “waiting for the plot to start” feeling that comes from less fully realized characters. Umi in particular has a moving emotional arc, made all the more powerful by how much of her growth, while inspired by those around her, seemed to come from decisions she made on her own. 

Clearly, there’s a lot to love about From Up on Poppy Hill. The fly in the ointment shows up as Umi and Shun grow closer. It’s only natural that the movie would introduce some form of conflict into the story of their relationship, but the chosen form of that conflict leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s something of a twist and happens a good bit into the movie, so I’ll only discuss it directly in the Spoiler Zone, but the long and short of it is that it was a poor choice, it doesn’t give our protagonists anything interesting to do, and it took me about 10 seconds to think of an alternative that would involve minimal differences to the rest of the story.

You may recall that Gorō’s previous directorial effort, Tales From Earthsea, showed some promise but was ultimately weighed down by its failures. You may wonder if Poppy Hill is in a similar situation; fortunately, although the Bad Subplot does detract from the movie, the ratio of good to bad here is wildly better than in Earthsea. This time around, the strengths outweigh the blunders, and I recommend it to any Ghibli fans — I just wish the recommendation didn’t have to come with an asterisk. 

Up Next:

It’s The Wind Rises! It’s currently Hayao Miyazaki’s most recent film (no release date for How Do You Live? yet) and I’m very excited for it. 

Stray Notes:

Maybe my favorite of the many great background lines in the clubhouse: “How can we make archaeology cool again?” “We can’t.”

woooaaaah floor potato storage

Ghibli knows how to cut away from a joke (and not dwell on it)

Wow they’re really hitting the old vs new thing hard

Artist girl is an enormous mood

Lil Umi and her flags OH NO

Urinal conversation huh

“It’s like a cheap melodrama” YEAH KINDA MY MAN

Ah yes, rice goop 

Giant Philosophy Man is great

Chairman guy has a great voice

That explosion was magnificently animated

Spoiler Zone

So, Umi and Shun are growing closer and like 5 seconds from making out when they discover that Umi’s late father is also Shun’s birth father, who gave him to Shun’s adoptive parents when he was still just a baby. They’re actually brother and sister! Who doesn’t love a good incest subplot?

Besides being soapy and gross, it just doesn’t make for a good story. It’s an automatic shutdown; you can’t even root for them to “overcome” this obstacle and still end up together, because … incest. While you could say there’s something to watching them learn to interact with each other non-romantically, it just kind of torpedoes their part of the movie for a bit. 

I say for a bit, because of course this subplot is resolved the only way it possibly could be: Oops, they actually aren’t brother and sister! Herein lies the other part of the problem — the resolution has nothing to do with the efforts of Umi and Shun. Like I said, it doesn’t really work to have them trying to “solve” this problem, so they’re simply informed at the end of Act 3 that Umi’s dad took baby Shun from another dude, who died, and gave him to Shun’s birth parents. 

Action is artificially injected into this story by having the not-so-star-crossed pair race across town so they can meet a sailor who knew their parents before his ship leaves. While I understand that they’d want to meet this man, they both seemingly know all the important bits — i.e., that they aren’t related — before they talk to him, which makes the sense of urgency feel very forced. I say “seemingly” because for reasons unknown, we only see Umi learn this crucial information. We never see Shun learn it, and we never see the two of them talk about it. Presumably, what should’ve been a climactic moment happened off-screen.

All the narrative problems aside, it’s also just gross whenever the scripts ties itself into knots to make incest a concern. It was bad in Speaker for the Dead, it was bad in the trailer for that stupid theme park show, it’s bad in every other comedy anime, and it’s bad here. 

I can only assume that this was their way of having the relationship reflect the theme of the past affecting the present? But they could’ve just as easily introduced conflict through a revelation that Umi’s dad was somehow responsible for the death of Shun’s dad: it makes the past a barrier between them, puts them in a place to work at not letting the past actions of others affect their future, AND at no point does anyone have to say, “wait, don’t worry, it’s actually not incest!” Wins all around!

[skvaderarts]

Hello and Welcome to Apocrypha!

Chapter One: Contemplation

The Masterlist will be listed when I publish chapter 2 on Wednesday because there is nothing to list yet lol! It’s on my AO3  and my FF.N though.

Chapter One: Contemplation

Notes: Hello everyone! Notes are at the end today! It's great to have you back for book two! Let me know what you think and thanks for coming back!

"Love seeketh only self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

-William Blake

Chapter One:

One week later…

Rays of golden light traced a path between the leaves and branches of a great oak tree and showered comforting warmth down upon the pavement below as large puffy white clouds attempted to interrupt them. After a long and arduous week of storms and overcast skies, the warm embrace of the sun was akin to a well stoked fire in the middle of a cold blizzard: comfortable and reaffirming. For it to be the middle of August, it was uncharacteristically cool today, although that could be attributed to the fact that Fortuna was an island and as such it benefited from a constant coastal breeze. That was fortunate considering the manner in which at least half of the island's occupant's still dressed. It seemed that despite their recent reservations about the Order and their illicit activities, some of them still couldn't shake the habit and it was a constant point of conflict within the community. But regardless, the weather was positively idyllic.

It was almost enough to lule someone right off to sleep. Thankfully, V had not given into temptation just yet, as doing so while he was supposed to be watching the children at a public park would be dreadfully irresponsible. He was many things, but he liked to think that "negligent" wasn't one of them. That wasn't to say that the thought hadn't crossed his midday weary mind, however. He had been awake since the crack of dawn, awoken by accident by the sound of Nero and Nico preparing to leave for an impromptu trip to what remained of Redgrave City. The local military had made the decision to quarden off the area and allow several different groups ranging from scientists to government agencies to come study it. But they were still in the beginning phases of building a containment zone around the city. Considering the fact that it was near several other population centers, the prospect of keeping the general public out was basically impossible. This was a project that was going to be months, if not years, in the making, and there would be a reckoning at the end of it. Somehow he could just feel it.

V tilted his head slightly as he forced himself to sit up right and stop slouching over so far on the park bench, his hair practically blinding him. He had to at least pretend that he wasn't on the verge of passing over the border into dreamland. He had volunteered to take the children to the park so that Kyrie could have some much needed "me time" since every other adult had left for the day. She hadn't asked, but he could tell she needed it. Nero generally helped keep them busy when he was home, but that wasn't going to be the case today. They didn't exactly have a school to be at with everything in the city under repairs, so occupying the time of three young boys who seemed to be practically overflowing with energy was difficult to say the least. Kyle, Carlo, and Julio were a stark contrast to him at the moment. It had been just over a week since he had returned to the mortal realm, and although he felt much less weak than he once had and his injuries had long since healed (at an uncharacteristically accelerated pace, at that), he still found himself limited by a staggering lack of energy. It was as if no matter how much he slept, he never stopped being drowsy. Or was that an unintended consequence of his constant napping? Perhaps his newfound accelerated healing abilities had sapped him of his remaining strength? It was relatively hard to say, and he wasn't going to expend valuable mental energy dwelling on it. He had to make it home, after all.

Home…

What a strange concept.

For most of his life he'd be transient to no fault of his own, constantly moving from place to place, so the idea of having a permanent dwelling was almost totally foreign. He wasn't entirely sure he even wanted that. It wasn't something he'd put much thought into, to be honest. For the most part, he just took things one day at a time, especially right now. There was no undue pressure to do anything besides exist here and he liked that, but the absence of a set goal made him admittedly anxious for no particular reason. V exhaled slowly and shook his head at himself. He was one of those people who was incapable of relaxing, wasn't he? The young summoner took a moment to stretch, contemplating the possibility of standing up. Should he go back to the house? There wasn't anything pressing to do there except ruin Kyrie's otherwise serene quiet time with the abrupt and all to familiar sound of excited children. He could spare a few more minutes for her sake before he went back and did the same thing he was doing now but in a different spot: a whole lot of nothing. It was strange how finding out he was part demon killed the excitement of almost everything else around him. Things weren't going to get too much more impressive outside of that. V smirked, starting to understand why seemingly everyone else in his family had a predilection for combat, one that he was easing himself into in his own way. While he was no stranger to a battle himself, he was most certainly much pickier than the rest of his kindred. But, then again, he had good reason to be, all things considered.

As if possessed by a need to spread his wings to keep himself awake, Griffon suddenly materialized and fluttered around the space between him and the sparse playground equipment, unintentionally highlighting the stark contrast between himself and the brightly colored children's attractions. Although a mostly nature oriented space, there were still swings, slides, and climbing equipment to occupy the time of younger visitors. A recent edition as the city attempted to add more outside influences in a bid to reinvent itself, even if only a little. V shot his avian companion a slightly irked look as he flew over to him and perched on the back of the wrought iron park bench he currently occupied, his arms spread out along the back of it leaving only a small space for the demonic bird to claim for himself.

"Pipe down, hot stuff. We're in a park! No one can even see us down here!" Griffon said, flapping both his wings and his beak. He already knew that V was going to object.

V schoffed. Now that they were in a populated city that wasn't composed of demons and the husks of what used to be it's unlucky residents, he was more careful about when and where he allowed his familiars to roam free. Even if Griffon didn't speak, he wasn't the most inconspicuous bird in existence and Shadow was a dead giveaway more likely to send people feeling for their lives than anything else even if they didn't realize she was a demon. While he had no choice but to acknowledge that they were sentient beings with their own wants and desires, they all had to admit that much like discretion was the better part of valor, not drawing the attention of literally everyone on the island was the better part of not causing issues for everyone they lived with. He was privy to the fact that Nero had only recently gained the trust and cooperation of the locals after a lifetime of being ostracized. V himself turned curious and cautious heads alike when he ventured outside of the confines of their cozy home. While no one had said anything to him (at all, really), he was sure that allowing people to see that he possessed demonic helpers in a city that had been terrorized by demons for generations wasn't the greatest way to gain the trust of the locals. That being said, he couldn't say that he was particularly intimidated by the people who lived here, either. They seemed more afraid of him than anything else, and that wasn't too much better if he was being honest. He didn't really enjoy being feared unless it was by his enemies. V possessed enough unsure feelings about himself as it was. He didn't need total strangers to add to it.

"Still though," V said as he threw a cautionary but unconcerned glance in either direction," my previous point still stands. We're not in Redgrave City anymore. I'm asking you to try and be discrete. Nothing more."

"Sure thing, Dorthy. I'll keep it in mind." Griffon said sarcastically as he preened himself.

V closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. At the end of the day, he knew that Griffon wasn't going to be uncooperative. But, at the same time, he understood where his companions were coming from. While they had more or less free roam of the house, there was significantly more room out here for his airally inclined pet to really stretch out and get comfortable. It was a difficult temptation to refuse. And they could almost instantaneously convert back into tattoos. Was he being too stern about this? If there was no one around to see it, what harm could it do? Did they all just need a good flight?

He opened his eyes again, content to put the matter aside for now. There was no harm in it and no rush to come to a decision, but there was definite harm in indecision and stress. Why was coming to a park so stressful to him? Why did he have to overthink everything? Or was he even overthinking in the first place. Ah, there he went again, overthinking things. He needed a distraction…

The white haired man spared a glance at the children. They were as they had been moments ago, playing happily and running amok, causing a ruckus. In a way, he envied them. He'd never really been interested in the concept of physical activity as a child, his attention firmly rooted in literature even then. And he'd never really had the energy… or any friends to play with to speak of…

This was a terrible distraction. Revisiting his childhood was never a healthy idea.

Why did every thought process in his infinitely expanding mind lead down some unwanted or unfortunate path? What he wouldn't give to be able to space out and think nothing at all like a normal person. Was that some facet of his demonic blood; that he should always be on high alert even when at rest? Perhaps he just needed a hobby or some sort of task to complete so that his mind didn't have time to dwell on these types of things. While running from his problems had never been advisable (or worked very well) he needed to set them aside for another time and focus on something more engaging. Or maybe he needed professional help. Who knew?

V uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, propping his elbows up on his knees and resting his face in the palms of his hands. There honestly wasn't much to do on this island, but if he left town and went to the mainland that was a different story. He hadn't done that in the entire time he'd been living with Nero, and he'd never visited the town that the other half of his immediate family lived in. Capulet, was it? Wasn't that next to Enamel, the city that Magnolia dwelled in? And then there was that matter as well. He hadn't visited her yet like she'd asked of him before she'd departed after she'd left the hospital a week earlier. Perhaps he could visit her and browse the local vacancies while he was at it? After all, even though there was no urgent need to leave, looking never hurt. It was something to do at the very least. That had to count for something. And following up with Vergil about the cult was still on the table even if he wasn't entirely sure what to do about that situation just yet. Or if it was preferable. But it had never been about that in the first place. At some point he would have to talk to his father...

Yes, he would start with Magnolia. That seemed to be a favorable course of action given the circumstances. Griffon shook his head, repressing the urge to laugh at how indecisive V was being. While he didn't have a play for play book on what he was thinking since V wasn't talking to him specifically, it didn't take a mental giant to figure out that he was going back and forth over something. And he wasn't getting anywhere from what he could tell.

"I think we should head back now," V said as he stood up. He stretched as much as his eager to protest body would allow him to and gestured towards the children. They pouted as expected, but didn't protest. Throwing a fit wasn't going to earn them a return trip and they knew it. That wasn't a hypothesis they needed to test out. Griffon did a second lap around the playground while V waited for the children to join him before flying back over to dematerialize and rejoin with his master. The group then turned their attention to the path that led out of the park. Home wasn't more than three blocks from here, a fact that V was grateful for considering his continued lack of a cane and his current energy reserves. They would be there in no time at all and it was just past noon. They all had the whole day ahead of them.

-~-

Welcome back everyone! Just a few quick points! As always, I am happy to hear your comments and feedback! I decided to not stress myself out with an arbitrary work count minimum so the chapters will be a bit more organic this time around. That doesn't necessarily mean they will be longer or shorter, just that they will be however long they need to be to tell the story correctly. That being said, chapter two is longer than this one, so that's fun! I also want to give a special thank you to everyone who filled out the questionnaire for me at the end of the last book! At this time, it's closed, but it made a huge impact on how I arranged things in this book. The way this is going, I may very well just keep writing for this AU for the foreseeable future as we all seem to enjoy it. I even went out and purchased a new laptop just for this (I'm not rich, it's just a nice chromebook since I use Google Doc and my table is having a hard time) Wednesday and Friday between Noon and six pm CDT is still the publishing time. And thank you all very much for reading chapter one! See you back here on the 22nd of July! I hope my spelling was better this time around!

[listing-to-port]

Happy birthday to this, again (part two)

Listing to port is THREE today so, as is traditional, here is a list of the posts from that past year, in two parts, of which this is the second. Once again facilitated by the R interface to the tumblr api. Previously on listing to port: year one part one; year one part two; year two part one; year two part two; year three part one.

On human mechanisms: Wakings; Nine things we have not done yet; On rewards; Ten things that the young folk are doing these days; Mothers; Eight activation energy problems; Ten rules of thumb; Some commonly-abbreviated names; Six other senses; Eight gender reveals; Fears; Eleven love letters; Personality traits; Nine eligible bachelors; Ten dubious schoolmates; Sleeplands; Ten sudden enthusiasms; Nine sense-memories transfigured for the modern spirit; Things I have sometimes mistaken for knowing what I’m talking about; Ten people who were at the buffet but left before the inevitable disaster; Nine feelings, repurposed; Ten more love languages; Nine replies from the diary; Nine blood oaths; Notions; Surprising intersections of personal obsessions; Eight prisons; Nine pointless battles; Hasty decisions; Eight reasons why the nursery is closed.

On myths and magic and stories: Seven reasons the giants have left this Earth and dwell in peace amongst the stars; Nine characters who have not yet found their trope; Six Shakespeare adaptations; Nine more muses; Eight rejected adventures; The presidential libraries of the old gods; Ten wizards at the door; The safer of the fairy fruits; Nine river spirits; Nine unseen alphabets; On that night; Nine reasons dragons hoard; Seven acts of sympathetic magic; Eight tiny dragons; Modern demons; Small myths; Seven sons; Seven castaways; Ten dryads; Seven vampires; Ten great reveals; Nine magic systems; Seven tales of nautical peril; Eight bookwyrms; What kind of monster does this? A case-by-case analysis; Eight fairy tails; Seven early ghost stories; Nine calls to kingship; Eight happy endings for birds; Waves; Eight inconvenient weres; Nine hybrid beasts; Omens from the flight of birds; Seven escalations in peril; Nine merthings; Eight unicorns; Eight fairy facts.

On puzzles, conundrums and games: Nine failed riddles; Nine Winter Olympic sports; The culprit; a list; Eight reasons why the chicken crossed the road; Eight ways to solve crime; Seven long balls; Eight solutions to various problems; Nine reasons why that baby never wore the shoes; Mazes; Ten answers; Investigators; Ten keys to uninteresting mysteries.

On technology and things arising from technology: Nine internet debating positions; Eight mystical programming languages; Six ways out of the bot factory; Crimes of the virtual world; Nine privacy policies; Seven sonic weapons; Seven safety announcements; Eight signs that you are in a simulation; Nine secret lairs; Ten renewable energy sources; Seven future bugs; Eight mystical files; Seven things that will be gamified; Nine stories of the death of websites; Bugs.

On the natural world: Thirty pieces of silver; Seven things heard through grapevines; Nine promises pulled from the bark of a tree; Nine dawns; Deserts; Storms; Nine ways to get lost in the wilderness; Seven Springs; Seven moods of the sea; Falling water; Things in the heart of the rose; Types of bird; Things that have been melting; Seven British birds; Seven woods; Eight heavy plants crossing; Shorelines; Places the rain may carry you to; Seven archipelagoes; Clouds; Nine ways to the sea; Metals; Ten types of sunlight; Ten ways that birds find their way home; Trees; Autumns; Seven peaceful meadows; Nine ways that bees disrespect the laws of physics; Seven forests to get lost in; Nine habitats; Reasons why two or more trees may be standing together; Some other things that were beneath the volcano; Tree honorifics; Nine visits from Winters; Fields; Nine mountain passes; Nine unusual Winter weathers; Nine secrets of the uttermost depths.

On things (general): Advanced skills for modern generalists; Seven things that are small and drifting; Eight things that were what they were; Things that rock; Unknown things; Things it is bad to step on in the dark; Things in the margins; Ten things that go bump in the night; Nine dead things rising; Ten spirits of unremarkable things; Eight things that have been replaced with things that are approximately the same size; Things in the air; Things that have been swallowed by the sea.

On time and space: Space missions; Quotidian futures; Six incorrect theories proposed by aliens; Seven geometries of time; Fortunes; Seven true promises of eternity; Seven not-quite-dystopias; Timelines; Seven books that have yet to be written; Nine landscapes of the old world; What she says and what she means, women are from Venus edition; Seven solar systems; Seven things happening to the stars; Twelve great new jobs available to humanity after the arrival of the alpha centurans; Eight rovers; Twelve convenient apocalypses; Seven very specific dystopias; Ten ghosts of Winter nights to come; Futures; Nine tremendously welcoming planets that you should visit; Nine things to check should you find an empty world; Eight tales of the death of stars; Eight first steps on Mars; Products available seventy million years from now in the case that humans fill the marketing niche for the dominant species of the time that tyrannosaurus rex now fills for humans; Ten myths of the far future.

On transportation and infrastructure: Seven dread infrastructures; Ten roads less travelled; Places that the aeroplane went; Descents; Journeys; Seven views from an unfamiliar train; Seven mean streets; Int. the airport, night: scenes; Eight roads to ruin; Ten trains and the places they go; Waymarks; Nine cartographers; Six live cables; Eight marketplaces, and what may be bought there; Ten signal fires; Eight reviews of the facilities; Buildings in the distant mountains; Maps; Ten ways to stop people crossing the edge of the map; Twelve lovely villages out on the old moor that are absolutely worth a visit; Seven pumpkin modes of transportation; Nine submariners; Fifteen faces that have launched things; Hinterlands; Twelve train stations; Seven roadside attractions.

Poems and suchlike: Let us have less Winter; Six complete poems; A villanelle; On queues.

Short stories and suchlike: Miranda come at last to dust; The interlibrary loan; On light’s many lovers and your mayfly lives; The originals; Ten things the city takes; Sunday chain #30; Sunday chain #31.

[midnightcindy]

The Break of Day: Chapter 9

Trigger warnings- this chapter is slightly NSFW and definitely full of violence. Read at your own risk. 

How do we feel about this fic so far? It’s coming along slow but I want to do it justice for my beautiful muse. 

Louis was groggy when he awoke. He was exhausted- but then he remembered why he was so tired, and a lazy smile appeared. The way Grace moved under him, assuming control of her own pleasure- it was more erotic than Louis had been prepared for. He had never imagined a woman’s touch to enrapture him so completely, but when he thought about her kisses, her touches, her soft body, her whimpers falling against his pillow, he knew he had found the one who would fill the void inside of him. That revelation shocked him; could he truly have found his mate?

He opened his eyes, rolling over to finally tell Grace his thoughts. Her side of the cushion was empty.

Awakening fully, Louis searched his dwelling for her energy, but again, nothing. He stood fully, reaching for his trousers to cover himself before physically trying to find her. When he was satisfied that he was indeed alone, he scoffed, irritated. Was it not just like a woman to beg for his affections, only to leave when he relinquished himself to her? Louis crossed his arms, shaking his head, annoyed.

Then, he realized what was particularly odd about her absence. Louis breathed in steadily, and all coherent thought stopped. There was another scent here, other than his own, and other than Grace’s.

Someone else was in his staying. Someone else was here with Grace and him. And when Louis scented the air again, he knew exactly whom.

But he didn’t have to think on it long, as a carefully folded piece of paper, resting on his table, caught his eyes. He snatched it up, tearing it open, and read the contents quickly.

You want her?

We will be in the north side of the city, where industry died. Look for my men- they will bring you to us.

Come and get her.

Louis’ eyes flared with a fire he never knew could glow so bright. He clenched his fists, crumpling the note in his hand and imagining it could turn to dust.  

Wordlessly, he dressed, and ascended into the night in a cold rage. Louis could already smell blood; and if Grace were harmed, he would have more than his fill of it.  

____

Deep into the northern end of the city, where the once industrial neighborhood fell to ruin long ago, leaving behind husks of factories rampant with the slime of society, and apartment shacks filled with those less than fortunate to have to stay. Louis could hear mixes of night life, keeping to the shadows to avoid unwanted attention of nightly wanderers seeking patrons for their various products: sex, weapons, or drugs.

Louis tried scenting the air for any sign of Grace, but it was too convoluted, and the individual trails were muddled in the night. He huffed in aggravation. What kind of games was this man playing at, leaving such a cryptic note in such a bold place?

“Hey,” a voice called out.

Louis turned to face the approaching pair of men, his eyes glowing already. He caught the stink of death on them, and instantly knew they were freshly turned. Perhaps only a few months of rot on them. He hissed angrily, his stance lowering, ready to attack.

The two trembled only slightly, but held their ground. “We were told to take you to our master. He wants to talk to you.”

“And I him,” Louis said curtly, his voice dangerously low.

“Follow us,” the other said, and they turned swiftly toward the dark end of the alley.

Louis straightened himself, craning his neck until he heard a small crack. It was time to face this bastard after all.

____

Far beyond the livable sections of the borough, into the rotten edges of the city, lay a crumbling building. It seemed as if it were a church at one time, but the layers of graffiti and filth at turned it into a sick satire of itself. The three vampires ascended the decrepit concrete steps, Louis’ pair of escorts stepping forward to grab the rotting, wooden doors and push them open.

Louis entered into a space that reeked of death as much as it did dust. The stone pillars that held the walls and framed the shattered, stained glass windows were full of cracks. Nests for birds or rats crowned each column, spider webs draping like tulle against the once delicately painted ceiling. The pews that no doubt once stood in orderly rows were comically piled against either side of the sanctuary like a child’s blocks. The tacky checkered floors echoed with footsteps as Louis continued down the jagged aisle, approaching the small congregation and the strange man that sat above them. Five newborns, including the ones who escorted Louis inside, took their places on either side of a contraption only fit for a madman. Wooden steps formed from crates and bookshelves led up to some kind of stage, perhaps what was once a sturdy, antique table. Atop was a rather intricate wooden throne, dusty red velvet and chafing golden paint alluding to a once ecclesiastical role. Sitting upon this throne was the man whom Louis was sure he had scented in his bedroom earlier that evening, the one who had taken something dear to him from within his arms. Robert grinned wildly as soon as Louis was in front of him, and Louis only sneered; because at Robert’s feet, was Grace.

Her clothes were torn to shreds. The once pretty blouse and jeans she had slowly, cautiously removed from her body were only strips of what had once been. Obvious claw and fang marks marred her skin, the skin which Louis had so delicately caressed so as to find her triggering areas and protect them. Louis could see the blood trickling from her neck, her shoulders, her stomach, her wrists, and her thighs soaking into the silk of her blouse, her panties. But what troubled Louis the most, was the look in her eyes. Grace seemed hollow, her eyes staring off into space, completely unfazed by his presence. It was as if she was completely bewitched; no longer in control of her own body or mind.

Louis paused at the foot of Robert’s satirical throne. He didn’t need to speak, because Robert was already standing to greet him.

“Duke Louis Howard,” he said, arms sweeping. “What an honor to entertain you in my palace.”

Louis hummed. “Quite a palace, you have.”

“Well,” Robert chuckled, hands slapping his sides as they fell. “It’s not quite what I hoped for, but it’s only temporary. I am a man with a vision, you know.” Louis did not reply, merely glared at him coolly, eyes flitting back and forth to Grace.

Robert didn’t wait for Louis to speak, anyway. “See, I have a grand vision, my friend: to no longer live like this,” he said, punctuating his words with a harsh sweep of his left arm, “but to live like you once did!”

Louis only narrowed his eyes.  

“I just couldn't put my finger on it, though; the reason you were able to control the humans so many years ago. Back in the day, when you had grand palaces and submissive peasants to run your kingdoms. Then it hit me!” Robert said, standing taller, “Fear! I needed the humans to fear us again, and in order for them to cower before us, they needed to know what we are capable of.” Robert snickered, sucking on his teeth. “I’ve already started some demonstrations- not sure if you’ve seen our handiwork, but I heard it made the front-page papers!” His voice rose, proudly, and earned a few hollers and claps from the men surrounding him. “Now sure, I know what you’re thinking,” Robert said, raising his hands, “How could someone who lives like this, possibly pull off a coup of a whole city?” He chuckled to himself, beginning a thoughtful pace. “I first started with making some friends- you know, turning some lucky folks into vamps- to get a little following. It’s so easy to give people power when they crave it. And vampire venom is like instant gratification.”

“A poison, you mean,” Louis finally shot, “and a curse.”

“Woah,” Robert said, sarcastically. “I figured you’d be a little cynical, but damn. You’ve been living in a cave too long, my friend. Don’t you remember what it was like to be a king, a god among men?”  

Louis scoffed, folding his arms. “You know nothing of the past, you child.”

Robert lifted a brow, smirking as he sat back in his rickety throne. “But you do,” he snickered. His hand reached over, running his fingers gently through Grace’s hair. Her pupils dilated, and she almost purred as she clung to his thigh. Robert continued petting her, his eyes playful as he leaned toward Louis. “Imagine, you would no longer have to hide in the sewers like filth. You could have any home as your own. All the riches you wanted, the blood,” he pressed his lips to the top of Grace’s head, “the women…”

Louis twitched as Grace tilted her head upward, and let Robert consume her mouth in a carnal kiss. When he pulled away, Louis could see the fresh blood dripping from her lips.

Robert’s tongue swirled about, and he moaned. “God, she tastes so good, so fresh.” He chuckled, and wiped his mouth with his hand. “I’m sure you knew that though.”

Louis hissed, his fists clenching. He ignored Robert’s taunts. “What is it about any of those things that makes you believe I would succumb to worldly pleasures? I have done my time, boy- spent centuries in castles, in glittering palaces surrounded by treasures from every inch of the known world. I have slain villages only to sate my hunger.” Louis walked forward, daring to meet Robert on his pedestal. “I have fucked my way through the west and back to the east, and none of it pleased me. I am offended that you believe I could be so easily tempted, like one of your fledglings. You are all so weak.”

“Then show us how to be strong!” Robert pleaded, still holding onto Grace. “Teach us how to act like royals! We can restore our kind to their former thrones, the place we were meant to be! We should rule these humans like the food they are, not the other way around!”

“You are a child,” Louis repeated, his lip twisting in disgust, “a brat who believes his curse makes him worthy of the world. You are unfit to even govern this coven, let alone a nation. I will never help you, boy.”

Robert stared at Louis, their eyes at the same level, glaring with a hazy reddish glow. Then, Robert laughed, catching Louis off guard. “You’re right.” Robert yanked on Grace’s shoulders, so that she stood dazedly in his hold. “I knew you wouldn’t be easily persuaded, but I figured I’d give it a shot. Anyway, this is reallywhat I’m bartering with.”

Louis watched carefully as Robert leaned down to Grace’s ear. He tucked back a strand of brassy hair, and brushed his lips over the shell, breathing a string of words that even Louis couldn’t hear. Grace’s eyes focused, snapping clear, and she began to shake.

“Louis,” she said, her voice thin and confused. “Why are you here? G-get out of here!”

“Grace,” Louis reached forward almost instinctively, just as she fell toward him.

She screamed as Robert yanked her back into his hold, his hand tightly wrapped around her neck. “There she is, welcome back sweetheart!”

Grace squealed, shaking her head. “Lou-ouis, don't liste-en.”

“Here is the real deal, Louis,” Robert said evenly. “If you join my cause, you’ll not only be helping your kind, but your girl.”

Louis sneered, watching Grace writhe. He stepped forward, ready to lunge, but Robert shifted his hold.

His hands resting on each side of her face, he said, “You move, I snap her neck.”

Louis froze. He hissed angrily, fangs growing and eyes burning red. Robert finally had the upper hand, and they both knew it.

“That’s right, good boy,” he said, watching Louis slink back.

Louis released a carnal hiss from his throat, barely controlling his anger. “And if I say no? What then, boy?”

“Well,” Robert said, not letting go of Grace’s head, “let’s look at our options. One, you say yes. We live like kings, you get the harlot as your own and I never touch her again. Two, you say no, and I snap her neck right here in front of you before I let my children tear you apart.”

“Those are the only options, then,” Louis spat. “What a hard decision for me.”

“Actually,” Robert said, loosening his hold on Grace, his hands slipping over her shoulders, “there is one more option.”

Grace tensed under his ministrations, and shook her head. “I won’t…”

“Now come on, baby,” Robert said, kissing her cheek. “Won’t you sing for Louis?”

Grace shook her head, angry tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t…”

Robert’s grip tightened. “Do it just like you did this evening, babe. Besides, I’m sure that’s how you got him in the sack to begin with. You reeked of him when you came back to me.”

“What are you talking about,” Louis seethed.

Robert laughed, looking genuinely shocked. “Wait, you didn’t know?” Then, he bent over, clutching his gut with one hand and yanking on Grace’s hair with the other. “Oh yeah! Grace here is what we call a siren,” he chuckled, slapping her hip. “She can make anybody fall for her. Why do you think it was so easy for her to sleep around with all those people? The ones she fucked so she could hide from me, you included? She can make anybody want her with just a touch.”

“No!” Grace struggled in Robert’s hold. “I didn’t do that to you, Louis! Please, believe me…”

“It’s also how I was able to get into that cave you call a living space earlier tonight,” Robert said, amused as how easily his plan fell into place. “Her little trick also works great for keeping people quiet and still- did you sleep extra heavy tonight, Louis?”

“Stop!” Grace cried. “I didn’t want to! He was going to kill you!”

Louis stepped back, his eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

“Yes!” She said, her heart breaking at the word. She crumpled to her knees, Robert finally letting her go. “Yes, it’s true that I have that power… but please, Louis, I did not use it on you, not those times before.”

Louis stared at the girl falling before him, begging and pleading with every tear, but he felt his heart grow heavy and cold in his chest. It all made sense: why her scent was so specifically perfect to his interests, why he was drawn to her without knowing why. That first night she stayed with him, when he felt the heat rush over him in a wave of uncontrolled lust, and the unfamiliar glow in her eyes as she touched his hand. “You tricked me.”

“I would never,” Grace buried herself in her hands, sobbing. “Please, Louis. I couldn’t do that to you. I even tried once, but I couldn’t… I wanted more from you, I…”

Robert giggled from his makeshift throne. “Aw, sweetheart. Did you actually think he could love a used-up slut like you?” He laughed, and the others around him joined in.

Louis watched Grace’s face as it fell, her hair masking her shame. But from behind her veil, Louis could see trickles of blood fall down her arm. He leaned down to her, and brushed the hair away from her shoulder. There it was, the newest gash marring the rumpled skin on her neck. Louis could see her future in that moment, the entirety of her body open and bleeding, like a drinking fountain for the lowest of Robert’s minions. He tilted her chin up to him, her dark eyes unfocused and hurting. And on her lips, the tiniest tremble as she mumbled, “I never… I didn’t… not you…”

Louis’ fist clenched. He thought back to all the times he wanted her when she didn’t know it. When he first hunted her, entranced by her scent. When she trembled against him in hiding from the monster that clutched her now. When she leaned toward him at the bar, that first time she confessed it all to him. When he trapped her against a wall after he had caught her stalking him. When she let him see her scars. When she woke up the first time in his bed. When she looked up at him with those big, doe eyes, and refused to touch him first. When she asked him to kiss her, begging him to want her as much as she had wanted him. There was never a time in any of those moments where she was in control, where she put him under a spell of her own doing. Those were moments where she silently slipped into his brain, haunting his dreams until he was consumed by her, bit by bit. She may have been a siren, but Louis was never hypnotized into taking her. She asked. For all his heartbreak and pain, for once, Louis trusted another’s words. “I believe you,” he breathed.

Her shivering stopped. Grace glanced up, seeing his eyes clearly from under her tears. “Louis?”

“No matter what happens,” he whispered, reaching up to thumb away her tears, “know that I forgive you for what you’re about to do. I hope you’ll forgive me, too.”

“Wh-what?” Grace shook her head.

“Sing,” he whispered quickly, before tossing her backward with a snarl. “Lying slut,” he mocked. “I knew I did not truly want you, it was all a trick!”

Grace seemed hurt for a moment, then in her confusion, she met his eyes, and understood. Her voice shook, but she played along. “I’m sorry, Louis. I just needed you for protection.”

Louis scoffed. “Well if you think you can hypnotize me again, then you are gravely mistaken.” He turned to leave, before he was stopped.

“Don’t let him move, boys,” Robert said, descending the stairs. “Grab him.”

Louis hissed as the five of Robert’s scum grabbed him from all sides, and pinned him on his knees. He tried his best to make it look like he was fighting their clutch, before letting them hold him down.

Robert smoothly slid up to Grace as she stood. “Now, Grace. Won’t you sing for Louis? I think it would calm him down.”

Grace nodded, and slinked forward to where Louis thrashed. She lowered herself to her knees to be at eye level with his. In a moment of hesitation, Louis met her eyes, and winked. Trying to hold back her smirk, Grace reached out and touched his cheek tenderly.

A rush of heat flooded Louis’ core just as Grace’s eyes blossomed into a golden light. His lips fell apart into a parched gasp, his mind foggy with an unprecedented lust. He stared at Grace, wanting to devour her entirely. He pictured her, splayed on her back, her shreds of clothing on the hard concrete as he sank his fangs into every part of her, all while fucking her tight body into oblivion. His hands flew away from the hold of his captors, and he grabbed her body, kissing her fiercely with everyone standing around them. In the distance, he could hear Robert laughing, content that his plan had worked. It was then that the heat subsided, and his hazy mind cleared. Still, Grace pulled him tight, and Louis continued the kiss to appear still under her spell.

“Come on, Louis,” Robert teased, sitting back on his throne. “Go ahead and fuck her. We’d all love to watch. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The laughter that roiled around him made Louis pause. As he pulled back from Grace’s lips, his eyes flared into a bright, murderous red. “Go fuck yourself,” he said clearly, pulling Grace into his arms to stare directly into Robert’s eyes.

All laughter died away as Louis stood and punched through the nearest fledgling’s ribcage. With a gurgling scream, he turned to ash around Louis’ fist. The other four were on him and Grace in an instant, but Louis made quick work of them. He took two younglings by their heads, smashing them into one another to watch them disintegrate onto the floor. The other two went for Grace, who was still kneeling on the ground. Louis grabbed one by his arm, swinging him upwards until he came crashing to the ground on his head. Louis heard crackle of his neck before he became dust. The last vampire hissed at Louis as he held Grace by the throat. But her hand rested gently on his, and as her eyes began to glow, his face fell lax and his eyes lulled about in a rush of ecstasy. In the moment of distraction, Louis pushed him away from Grace and let him topple to the floor, just before Louis crushed his heart with his foot. As the last fledgling disintegrated in ash, Louis wasted no time in grabbing Grace and yanking her away to run to the main doors.

Of course, no escape could have been so easy. Robert was in front of them both in a flash. Louis was quick to push Grace behind him. “Touch her and I rip your head from your shoulders,” Louis seethed.

“Clever. I underestimated both of you.” Robert chuckled, blocking the archway. “You’re clearly much stronger than you let on, ancient. We could really use someone like you in our court.”

“I have no intention of entertaining your petty dreams, boy,” Louis mocked. “Now. Move.”

“Fine, but Grace isn’t going anywhere,” he said, arms folding.

“Wrong again,” Louis said, backing away to pull Grace closer to his back.

“Grace,” Robert said, peering over Louis’ shoulder. “Come back to me.”

Grace shivered against Louis. “N-no… I don’t want to, Louis…”

“Grace,” Robert repeated, his tone more commanding, surging with energy. “Come here. Now.”

“Do not listen to him, Grace,” Louis implored. “You are stronger now, remember that.”

“Come home, sweetheart,” Robert said, his voice syrupy, hypnotic energy pulsing toward them, and Grace relaxed.

Louis grabbed ahold of her arm as she began to step away from him. He turned Grace toward him, and his heart sank as he watched the haze fall over her irises again. She was back under her master’s control. “No, Grace,” Louis implored, cupping her cheeks. “Do not go back to this monster.”

Robert shrugged. “Sorry, Louis. The lady is making her choice. You’ll never be what I am to her. I’ll always be her master. There’s nothing you can do.” Robert reached out his hand, almost politely, and beckoned for Grace to take it.

Grace’s hand lifted, just the smallest fraction, and Louis’ heart burst. He leaned in, lips brushing her cheek, and breathed, “But I love you, Grace.”

Gasping, Grace recoiled her hand, and fell back into Louis’ arms. She stared at him, eyes bright and shimmering, the faintest smile on her lips. “You do?”

Louis opened his mouth with a smile, but Robert’s roar made him push Grace away. “You bitch!” Robert cried angrily, his claws reeling back to strike at her.

Louis grabbed him by the throat, stopping his attack. “Grace, run! Get outside!”

“Louis! It’s almost sunrise-”

“GO!” Louis cried, tossing Robert back against the wall, sending bits of cinderblock to the hard concrete.

Grace ran as fast as she could, and when she was outside of the church, Louis crackled his neck. “Now, to get rid of you, boy.”

Robert sputtered a laugh, standing as he spat a wad of blood onto the ground. “You throw a good punch, but I doubt you can beat me and my army.”

Louis snickered, circling the other man as Robert began to pace. “Your army of newborns is hardly strong enough to defeat an ancient like me. I destroyed five of them without a breath, before your very eyes. I could go through a hundred similarly. And then all I have to face is you.”

“That’s true,” Robert said, backing away. “You could beat me pretty easily like this, hand to hand. Thankfully for me,” Robert smirked, “I am very prepared.”

The walls began to tremble, and for the first time, Louis was unsure of his odds as he felt the ghostly energy fill the space. Out of shadowy cracks and holes hid by pillars, creatures which Louis had never seen crawled along the woodwork. They looked humanoid, but their flesh was rotten and green. The stench that filled the room along with their whoops and howls made Louis’ skin crawl. He staggered back, eyes wide with fear. “What in God’s name…”

“More like the devil, actually,” Robert sneered, walking backward. “These are my children, Louis. Once dead- now mine to control.”

“You,” Louis stumbled as they began to drop from the ceiling, wielding weapons in their hands, from knives, to clubs, to wooden stakes. “You reanimated corpses?”

“Pretty clever, if I do say so myself,” Robert chuckled over the roar of the undead. “Takes a bit of work, and a lot of trying, but with the right freshly-dead corpse and the perfect amount of venom, they make the perfect slaves. Not so great if you want company, but for getting rid of pests like you,” Robert said, sitting back on his throne, “well, they do the trick.”

Louis knew his odds were definitely not in his favor by now. He had no idea how to defeat such creatures. He turned to run, but was met with a pair of corpses that made him want to vomit. Two young boys, their hands joined, shuffled toward him, stakes in each of their free hands. They gurgled and choked, their necks partially missing. The sight was enough to make him sick, but his fear kept him focused. Louis tried to shove past them, but another pair of hands grabbed him around the shoulders and pushed him to the ground. A woman- or what was once a woman- tried to pin him down, but he was easily able to shove her backward. The things were weak, at least, but their numbers alone were overwhelming. They crowded over top of him like a horde of ants, clawing at his limbs and face. Louis wildly punched at the crowd, but as he sent one flying back, two more took his place.

Then, he felt the stabbing. Louis cried out in pain as he took a pocket knife out of his thigh. The blood dripped for a moment, but his wound easily healed. But as he removed one weapon, another object stabbed his neck. Then another, in his chest. In a fit of rage, Louis tried shoving through the mass, not caring that he was stepping on bodies to get to the door. He continued taking hits, his face scratched, his legs wounded, and his chest still bleeding. Whatever had hit him there, it was dangerously close to his heart. He had to escape. Finally, shoving past the final corpse, he burst through the door. The bodies started to follow after him, but now that he could run freely, Louis bolted down the steps.

“Louis!” Grace cried out for him from her hiding place behind the stairwell. “What happened?”

“Just run!” Louis grabbed her hand, and together they bolted from the hellhole of Robert’s coven.

Grace peered over her shoulders to see the crowd following them. “Wh-who are they?”

“Just. Run.” Louis punctuated again. This time, Grace didn’t argue. They sprinted as fast as they could, Grace propping Louis up with her shoulder. Only when it was clear that the corpses were no longer after them, did they rest in an alley. Louis slumped against the ground, hissing as he clutched his still bleeding chest.

The sky started to lighten, the first sign of dawn. “L-Louis,” Grace said, genuine fear in her voice. “The sunrise! We aren’t going to make it to your place in time!”

Louis looked around them, noting the street name. He chuckled bitterly. They weren’t close to his place, but they weren’t far from another address he was recently made aware of. “I know somewhere near here where we can hide for the day. Some… old friends.”

[cyrelia-j]

[fic] Boxed Eden (original part)

So I was inspired by @guljerry and egged on by @borg-apologist to post this.

In 2006 I made my first nano attempt and got to 38k words before it became such a mess I quit. So this is the beginning of the first chapter to that original sci fi story and has a fuckton of biblical shit

It's both post apocalyptic and pre apocalyptic in that there's already been a "collapse" but humanity survives. There are those tribes in the oceans with their coveted technologies and the land dwellers above. When Set's lover the inhumanly strong telepath Alexander destroys Genesis and tells him to meet at the rendezvous Set has no choice but to obey, before he destroys them all.

Warnings: the biggest one is crap writing since it's 12 years old but also SERIOUS religious shit (blame my Catholic upbringing >>) and some language as well as homophobia

Alright, here goes nothing:

The sun rose, more red than it once had been, yet at the same time cooler.  The gray atmosphere swirled around the planet allowing a faint pink glimmer to break through in areas. It might have been any time of the day for those without the means to judge. Set looked at his watch covertly as he walked through the center of the town. A few murmured whispers met his ears but he ignored them as he looked for a certain building. He gave a small snort of derision from behind the cloth around his face. He'd always detested these barren primitive outposts full of nothing but horse shit and superstition. At least the larger port city had cars. Professor Galton had always held his ear when describing the lower dregs of society and their inability to comprehend the technology they envied. Galton had never been to any of the great land port cities such as Denver. Set glanced around at the dirty faces. They'd have exterminated the lot of them if they been worth the effort to waste the resources. He carefully kept away not wanting to come within the infection radius. The rampant pestilences; the old throwbacks to the Collapse had all been but eradicated amongst tribes like Set's. Those in the possession of the old technology and books. But amongst these cattle one could never be too careful. The men selected for such trading errands had to be carefully vaccinated upon departure and arrival: and Set hadn't the good fortune to get his shots before the whole thing was blown to hell.

Alex... The name haunted him. It stuck to his tongue when he tried to pronounce it. The young man who promised him heaven and brought him hell with impassioned words and a mouth no less bold. He shuddered as he approached the building. A frown crossed his face behind the cloth. The secretive garb and long cloak marked him as one of the elite; the insignia crest on his chest the sign of Genesis. However, no ungifted pig would realize that he bore the mark of a tribe supposedly eradicated. He could however, tell that people were speculating as to the nature of his physical form. That used to irk him far more when he first began. Genesis was all pure homo superior. No genetics alterations during the old technology golden age as far back as any could trace his or her ancestry. No filthy half animal mongrel would ever make it into Heaven. He'd kill for a clean bed, and dazzling crystals of light instead of some rat trap with death dancing at the ends of waxen cylinders. Still his money was better than any other's. He could buy the whole filthy town in exchange for the small orb on the back of his neck to control his migraines.

With a quick glance to make sure no one was following him, and a slight audio scan, he entered the old building. The door was wood and for a few moments he paused to caress the grainy surface. It wasn't often one encountered such a relic. Even the architects in the land dweller's port cities had enough of the old knowledge to use easy sliding titatnium entryways. He sighed. This had to be one of the most primitive places that he'd ever been to. But at least he could ensure that no one from Apocalypse or Misfits would have his location yet. Fallburg... Landworth.... whatever the hell this backwater dump was called wasn't even a blip on the radar. The door creaked slightly, normal for a wooden door, as he opened it. He found the sound entirely unpleasant. The noise outside of Genesis was the worst. The hodgepodge of primitive sounds, structural imperfections, native beasts. It was like a cacophony of animals. He twisted the disc on his earlobe to dampen the non communicative sound. The low rumble of wind, insects, animals and all the other miscellaneous claptrap ceased. He breathed a sigh of relief as he entered; his boots making no sound on the floor to his own ears.

He'd never been one of those unfortunate to be assigned to missions in the populated inner towns. Scavenging old ruins brought a certain nostalgic peace and sense of awe for all the things even they had yet to rediscover. There was a quiet solitude and a clean sterility even amongst the wreckage. As he stepped inside and the powerful smell of smoke assailed him he almost gagged. Set faltered and had to catch himself on the wall. The texture of the wall was rough and unpleasant and he almost cringed. He'd battled, he'd bled, and he'd been scavenging through ruins but his senses reeled with the smells and the gritty textures. The wall almost felt alive beneath his skin and he felt his palm pulse against the solid surface. His eyes scanned the room and didn't have to look far. Right in front of his stood a middle aged man with some sort of primitive goggles on his face. He hadn't been required to attend any special briefing on land dweller technology. He grimaced and at least said a prayer of thank the man seemed to be fully human. Set took a deep breath and steadied himself as he approached "What is this substance on your walls?" He took satisfaction as the man swallowed nervously. This was a person who knew exactly what an incorrect answer would bring about. Set smiled behind the cloth and walked forward with much more confidence.

"Well?" 

"P-paint sir. I assure you it's a very very old technology. It s-simply provides a coloring to the wall." Set nodded and mentally kicked himself for overreacting the way he did. There's nothing of interest here idiot. These people are one step above urinating in the street like primitive dogs. His lip curled as he resurveyed the room. Dull white coloring coated the walls along with some unremarkable pictures. There was wood beneath his feet and he wondered for a moment how these cities survived more than weeks in such storm ridden areas. He wondered briefly as he noted the different shades and manner of wood products if these monkeys didn't simply carve out trees to take residence in. No that wasn't entirely correct, he recalled. The outsides of the buildings clearly indicated some sort of stone masonry. He gave a curt nod looking at the man again. "Yes... definitely nothing of interest here.  I'm looking for someone." No need to further engage conversation for pointless land dweller trivia. Set twitched slightly. He wasn't entirely thrilled to be forced to meet with the man awaiting him but he had no choice. Null was the final survivor of Genesis even if he was no longer considered one of them. "There is a man," Set continued, "That is 192 cm. Approximately 72.7 kg, green eyes shade 112. black hair shade 2, Caucasian skin shade-"

"God of Storms." The soft voice interrupted him. Set turned and felt relief to see a familiar face no matter how unwelcome it would normally be. "Yes. God of ... ah... Null." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Given a choice of death or exile Null had been the only member of the Genesis tribe since its conception to choose exile. No name no identity and no connections and life amongst the land dweller was a far worse fate than death. "I want to live." With those four words Null had forsaken any hope of redemption and chosen some unbelieving land dweller hell. Set understood the protocol that had been established, however neither he nor anyone else had needed to recall such formalities when addressing an exiled one. What the hell does it matter they're all dead anyway. His stomach felt cold and his heart rate increased a bit. Bringing the reality to the forefront at times caused him a feeling of racing anxiety and he took a breath to quell it. Null simply smiled at him; licked his lips, and turned to the man behind the desk who looked increasingly alarmed. "It's okay Ben... He's with me." The elder man nodded before busying himself with some menial task, Set assumed.  "Come." Null turned and Set took a moment to study the young man from behind as he followed him past the desk and up a narrow wooden stairway. It took some getting used to to maneuver at first but hardly challenging. Once again he longed for something more civilized. To distract himself he noted for future reference that Null, formerly God of Sacrifice, had acquired caucasian skin 58. Then ten shade shift was hardly unexpected however Set along with others of their unit had speculated to far more radical changes.

Land dwelling humans were hardly noted for their physical beauty as far as Set was concerned. Though as Set examined the smooth appearance of Null's skin and the length of his hair it occurred to him that it was possible that physically disfiguring diseases might be on the decrease after so long.  Null's musculature was nearly identical and though he smelled stronger it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Set frowned not liking the direction in which his thoughts seemed to be going. "Ahh good old aberration number five." Null turned and performed his own retinal examination. His eyes glittered with the combination of optic sensors and pigment. "Don't look so stunned Seto I could always smell it on you." he smiled "But of course this is business." He took out a small golden object from his pants and inserted the long end into a hole in the door. Set watched curiously as he turned it and opened the door. As they entered he turned his sound dampener off... just in case.

Set entered after his former teammate and grimaced when he saw still more wood. Wasn't the damn stuff an endangered resource? A large rug was carelessly tossed in the center of the room, a light blue square likely woven with primitive instruments. There was a wooden bed with white sheets that seemed big enough for two which didn't please him. The room, like the rest of the place was still lit with those damn fire sticks mounted to the walls that were splashed with more of that 'paint'. "I suppose I don't need to call you Null... at least... that is..." He really didn't want to say it. Null was perfectly aware of the situation in any case. The young man smiled again; just a small upturn of his lips.  Red 213. Set swallowed. Aberration 5 was normally treated for those willing with an easy injection. The genetic mods had long been lost. Of course they couldn't make him stop finding men attractive any more than they could the color blue, but at least sexual arousal was physically impossible. Set much preferred it that way. It was far less.... complicated.  "Just think of good old baseball, lover." Alex seemed almost beside him whispering in his ear. Set shivered and only then realized that he'd closed his eyes to savor the old memory. 

He heard Null laughing and his eyes snapped open and glared. "I trust you won't take advantage of my obvious... problem," he spat out through gritted teeth. He'd always had the impression working with him in the past that Null had always been laughing at some secret joke at his expense.  "Null is fine." He answered Set's earlier statement with amusement. "I find that around here there are far too many 'Jonathan's and far too few 'Null's."  Set walked to the bed and sat down. From what he remembered of the accommodations at comparable places this cloth bag stuffed with some fiver or another passed for "soft". "You never seemed the type to want to stand out." Conversation seemed a way to take his mind off the whirlwind of new and unpleasant experiences the last 2 days had brought him. Null chose to pull a wooden chair from under a desk in the room and sit across from him. "There's a lot you don't know about me Set." He shrugged. "We were teammates, not really friends. But I know you don't particularly enjoy small talk so let's just get to what you want."

Set took a deep breath and shut his eyes to steady himself. Of course Null had to  know what happened. But he had know way of knowing how.... why... Only Set knew that dangerous knowledge. "Alexander... that is.... God of Death..." His voice trembled and his eyes grew somewhat wide. His heart pounded again and he could feel the rush of blood allowing him to hear his own throbbing pulse. He didn't think he could force the words out after all. "I... I need to meet God of Death." He met Null's eyes reluctantly. "In Heaven."

Null sucked in a breath and almost choked. He sat very still and Set wasn't sure if the shock had stalled any of his biological functions. They both sat in silence, Set growing more uncomfortable. He knew there would be lots of unpleasant questions to follow. He almost wanted to laugh. No matter what Null asked him he had no idea how to direct the questions to the answer that would shock him to the very core. Why should he. Why should anyone? "Set?" Oh, he was laughing after all. "Set!" Two hands on his shoulders shook him hard. Trained soldiers didn't laugh hysterically for no reason. Null looked at him worried and it occurred to Set as he calmed himself down how it must look. Genesis was annihilated. One of a handful of survivors was asking for help from someone who didn't technically exist and the rendezvous point was suddenly called into play a hundred years early. And yet...if only it was that small. "Set." The young man looked at him and then looked around nervously. He sounded almost afraid. Null, Jonathan Keller, God of Sacrifice, Unit S Squad leader who had died twenty seven times and been resurrected from blood and ashes, was afraid. 

There was no other choice. Null had to know what he was getting into and right about now Set was wishing that he'd been exiled to be a fucking useless land dweller than the savior of the goddamn planet. "Alexander found It." It, being the only thing keeping the planet from dying out completely. It being the sole reason that Earth remained the only habitable planet in the solar system still orbiting the Sun whereas the smaller colonies of the outer moons had already been able to relocate to a G2V that wasn't nearly as old. It being the one thing that every tribe on the planet had absolutely swore never to seek and never to tamper with because the slightest disturbance could prematurely end life before Exodus. And Alexander wanted to blow the fucking thing up. 

Null didn't say anything while all these thoughts were once again racing through Set's mind; not for the first and certainly not for the last time since his erstwhile lover had cheerfully told him. He rubbed his temples absently feeling a phantom ache that his regulator wasn't even aware of. Set was hardly surprised by Null's next question. "Tell me Set, what does Alex plan to do with It?" Set had to control his breathing a few times. He felt that giddy madness creeping up again. "The great God of Death version? or the short version?" In spite of the gravity of the information hanging between them Null smiled. "Surprise me."

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for September 1 of 2021 with Proverbs 1 and Psalm 1, accompanied by Psalm 74 for the 74th day of Astronomical Summer (simultaneously the first day of meteorological Autumn) and Psalm 94 for day 244 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 1]

I, Solomon, David’s son and Israel’s king, pass on to you these proverbs—a treasury of wisdom—

So that you would recognize wisdom and value discipline;

that you would understand insightful teaching

And receive wise guidance to live a disciplined life;

that you would seek justice and have the ability to choose what is right and fair.

These proverbs teach the naive how to become clever;

they instruct the young in how to grow in knowledge and live with discretion.

The wise will pay attention to these words and will grow in learning,

and the discerning will receive divine guidance,

And they will be able to interpret the meaning of a proverb and a puzzle,

the twists and turns in the words of the wise and their riddles.

Let us begin. The worship of the Eternal One, the one True God, is the first step toward knowledge.

Fools, however, do not fear God and cannot stand wisdom or guidance.

So, my son, pay attention to your father’s guidance,

and do not ignore what your mother taught you—

Wear their wisdom as a badge of honor and maturity,

as fine jewelry around your neck.

My son, should your less honorable peers pressure you to do what is wrong,

you should be strong enough not to go along.

If they should say,

Evildoers: Come on! Everyone, hide and let’s wait to see whom we can beat to a pulp.

We’re going to jump some unsuspecting chumps for no reason at all.

We’ll have our way with them, and when we’re through, there will be nothing left,

as if their bodies were swallowed whole by the grave’s dark pit.

We’ll take whatever we want—all their wealth and their fancy clothes—

and when we’re through, we’ll have piles of their treasure for our own.

You have to join us; forget about God.

We’re going to rake in the goods, and we’ll share all we take!

My son, do not join them;

keep well away from their violent, destructive paths.

For they run right away, every time, to do wrong,

and they are thirsty for blood.

You see, it makes no sense to bait the net and set the trap

while the bird is watching,

But these hiding in the shadows and waiting to spill innocent blood

are really just hastening their own destruction!

By giving in to their sinful desires,

they set themselves up to be ambushed.

This is what happens to everyone who tries to profit by violence;

violence will eventually rob them of their very lives.

There’s another voice in town.

It belongs to Lady Wisdom, who calls out in the street.

She cries out in the town square,

At the city gates, in the noisy city streets,

you can hear her speaking over the racket.

Lady Wisdom: You simple, naive people, how long will you love your feeble ways?

You simpletons, how long will you enjoy making fun of what you don’t understand?

You fools, how long will you hate learning what truly matters?

Turn to me and receive my gentle correction;

Watch and I will pour out my spirit on you;

I will share with you my wise words in order to redirect your lives.

You hear, but you have refused to answer my call.

My hands reached out, but no one noticed.

All my advice, all my correction, all have been neglected—

you wanted nothing of them.

So I will be the laughter you hear when misfortune comes, and it will come.

I will be the mocking sound when panic grips you—

When panic comes like a stormy blast,

when misfortune sweeps in like a whirlwind,

when sorrow and anguish weigh you down.

This is when they will call on me, but I will not respond;

they will be frantic to find me, but they won’t be able.

Because they despised knowledge of my ways,

and they also refused to respect and honor the Eternal,

Because they rejected my advice

and turned down my correction,

They will surely get what’s coming to them:

they’ll be forced to eat the fruit of their wicked ways;

they’ll gorge themselves on the consequences of their choices.

You see, it’s turning away from me that brings death to the simple,

and it’s self-satisfaction that destroys the fools.

But those who listen to me now will live under divine protection;

they can rest knowing they are out of harm’s way.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

[Book 1]

The Genesis Psalms

Psalms of man and creation

The Tree of Life

[Psalm 1]

God’s blessings follow you and await you at every turn:

when you don’t follow the advice of those who delight in wicked schemes,

When you avoid sin’s highway,

when judgment and sarcasm beckon you, but you refuse.

For you, the Eternal’s Word is your happiness.

It is your focus—from dusk to dawn.

You are like a tree,

planted by flowing, cool streams of water that never run dry.

Your fruit ripens in its time;

your leaves never fade or curl in the summer sun.

No matter what you do, you prosper.

For those who focus on sin, the story is different.

They are like the fallen husk of wheat, tossed by an open wind, left deserted and alone.

In the end, the wicked will fall in judgment;

the guilty will be separated from the innocent.

Their road suddenly will end in death,

yet the journey of the righteous has been charted by the Eternal.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 1 (The Voice)

[Psalm 74]

We Need You Now

Asaph’s poem of instruction

Are you really going to leave us, God?

Would you turn your back on us, rejecting your people?

We are yours, your very own.

Will your anger smolder against us forever?

Don’t forget that we are your beloved ones.

Wrap us back into your heart again, for you chose us.

You brought us out of our slavery and bondage

and made us your favored ones, your Zion-people,

your home on earth.

Turn your steps toward this devastation.

Come running to bring your restoring grace to these ruins,

to what the enemy has done to devastate your Holy Place.

They have come into the very midst of your dwelling place,

roaring like beasts, setting up their banners to flaunt their conquest.

Now everything is in shambles! They’ve totally destroyed it.

Like a forest chopped down to the ground,

there’s nothing left.

All of the beauty of the craftsmanship

of the inner place has been ruined,

smashed, broken, and shattered.

They’ve burned it all to the ground.

They’ve violated your sanctuary,

the very dwelling place of your glory and your name.

They boasted, “Let’s completely crush them!

Let’s wipe out every trace of this God.

Let’s burn up every sacred place where they worship this God.”

We don’t see any miraculous signs anymore.

There’s no longer a prophet among us

who can tell us how long this devastation will continue.

God, how much longer will you let this go on

and allow these barbarians to blaspheme your name?

Will you stand back and watch them get away with this forever?

Why don’t you do something?

You have the power to break in,

so why would you hide your great power from us?

Don’t hold back! Unleash your might and give them a final blow.

You have always been, and always will be, my King.

You are the mighty conqueror, working wonders all over the world.

It was you who split the sea in two by your glorious strength.

You smashed the power of Tannin, the sea monster.

You crushed the might of Leviathan, the great dragon,

then you took the crumbs and fed them to the sharks.

With your glory you opened up springs and fountains,

then you spoke, and the ever-flowing springs of Jordan

dried up so we could cross over.

You own the day and the night.

Sunlight and starlight call you Creator.

The four corners of the earth were formed by your hands,

and every changing season owes its beauty to you.

O Yahweh, don’t ever forget how these arrogant enemies,

like fools, have mocked your name.

Lord, aren’t we your beloved dove that praises you?

Protect us from these wild beasts who want to harm us.

Don’t leave us as lambs among wolves!

You can’t abandon us after all we’ve been through!

Remember your promises to us,

for darkness covers the land,

giving the violent ones a hiding place.

Don’t let these insults continue.

Can’t you see that we are your downtrodden

and oppressed people?

Make the poor and needy into a choir of praise to you!

Don’t ignore these ignorant words, this continual mocking.

Rise up, God; it’s time to defend yourself from all this.

Never forget what your adversaries are saying.

For their rage and uproar rise continually against you.

It’s time to stand up to them!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 74 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 94]

O Eternal God of vengeance,

O God who sets things right, shine upon us.

Rise, O Judge who presides over the earth,

and pronounce Your sentence upon the proud.

Give them what they deserve!

How long, O Eternal One, how long

will the guilty revel in their prosperity?

Arrogance pours from their mouths;

all these troublemakers brag of their exploits.

They have broken Your people to pieces, O Eternal One,

and brought ruin to Your future generations.

They slay a widow, kill a newcomer,

and murder an orphan.

Then they say, “The Eternal can’t see what we’re up to;

the God of Jacob’s people pays no attention to us.”

Think, brainless people;

stupid people, when will you get it?

Does the God who set the ear in its place not hear?

Does the God who made the eye not see?

Does the God who teaches the nations

and guides humanity to knowledge,

not exercise just correction?

The Eternal knows the highest thoughts of the wise,

and they are worthless.

How fortunate are those You discipline, O Eternal One,

those You train by Your divine law;

You relieve them in times of distress,

until a grave is dug for evildoers.

The Eternal will not abandon His people;

He will not turn away from those He redeemed

Because justice is coming for those who do what is right

and all the good-hearted will pursue it.

Who will back me up when evildoers come against me?

Who is willing to take my side against the wicked?

If the Eternal had not come to my rescue,

my soul would have descended to the land where death silences every voice.

When I said, “My foot is slipping!”

Your unfailing love, O Eternal One, held me up.

When anxiety overtakes me and worries are many,

Your comfort lightens my soul.

Can wicked tyrants be Your allies?

Will You align with rulers who create havoc with unjust decrees?

They have joined forces against the life of the just-living, the right-seeking,

and have sentenced the innocent to death.

But the Eternal has been my citadel;

my God, a sure safe haven.

He will fold their wickedness back upon them,

and because they are malicious, He will silence them.

The Eternal, our True God, will scatter them.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 94 (The Voice)

[lookatthisdork]

Setting the stage, filling the supporting roles

Happy New Year! I’m starting off 2018 with yet another attempt at writing because while I thoroughly enjoy me a good reblog and comic panel shitpost, I do dabble in fanfic. Once again, this is intended for the Bruce and Clark are brothers AU.

Martha had originally toyed with the idea of forging the documents necessary for a convincing second pregnancy (prenatal checkups, sonograms, birth certificate, etc), but she'd known from the get-go that that wasn't a practical avenue to explore. While Dr. Wayne spent the bulk of his days toiling away in the OR of Gotham General, far from the view of even the most driven of paparazzi, Dr. Kane split her time between Wayne Industries' R&D labs and its board room; she had meetings with staff, meetings with shareholders, meetings with city contractors, and of course, meetings with the press. Then there the socialite events, the charity dinners, the planned photo-ops. Unless she specifically arranged for privacy, there were always at least three camera lenses and a microphone pointed her way.

Granted, she usually didn't mind being in the public eye - not nearly as much as Thomas minded, the poor man. But all the attention did make pretending to have hidden a second pregnancy for a full nine months...challenging at best.

There had also been the option of faking a surrogacy - she certainly had the money, means, and potential motivation to hire and provide for a surrogate - but Thomas had put his foot down. He was willing to indulge in the subterfuge necessary to safeguard a very-young child from less scrupulous authorities, but her husband was a law-abiding citizen at heart. Making up a fictional woman's entire life history - social security number, work history, medical records, proof of residency, credit reports and all - was well and truly out of his comfort zone.

Martha could respect that. She definitely could have made it work, but she had backed down all the same.

In the end, they'd decided to "find" Clark. It hadn't been terribly hard to stage - Thomas had signed himself up for a conference on emerging stem cell research in Philadelphia, and Martha used the opportunity to make a proper "vacation" out of it, renting a cottage at the Delaware Water Gap for herself and Bruce to stay at while Thomas was away.

Once there, Martha had muddied up a cheap baby-carrier, dressed Clark in a chain-store onesie and diaper, and "stumbled" upon him on a walk through the woods. One 911 call later, the cottage was hosting multiple local police, FBI, and social workers with no one being any the wiser.

Finding an abandoned infant within the confines of a national park had turned into a media circus, of course. They'd had to hire extra security for both the manor and Wayne Industries in the short-term, lest they be completely overrun. Still, it was the easily-controllable media circus of an innocent mother-of-one and her toddler finding a child in need. Eventually everything died down when no leads were found. Predictably, no one came forward to claim Clark, and no one batted an eye when the Waynes applied for emergency custody.

Now, it was simply a matter of time until the "emergency" part of the deal passed and they could draw up more permanent custody papers. Martha figured three, maybe four months would have to pass until she could start vigorously pursuing that. Until then, there were plenty of other things to attend to. Setting up a second nursery, buying (yet more) baby clothes, sorting through Bruce's hand-me-downs, setting up trust funds, updating hers and Thomas's wills.

And the press. No one expected much news out of a four-month old (or the alien equivalent). Still, sculpting public opinion early was was just common sense. Thomas's family may enjoy Gotham's good will to a greater extent than her family did, but people could always be counted on to be fickle. Power - the ability to change things, for better or worse - fell to those with money and those with influence.

Between the two of them, Martha and Thomas had plenty of money and plenty of influence. And if Martha had anything to say about it, Bruce and Clark would be better off than the two of them.

(Especially Clark. She didn't like to dwell on the consequences of someone who couldn't be bribed or blackmailed discovering Clark's history. Better to make that potential pool of people as small as possible.)

Given that a three-year old and a newly-acquired baby would have to be involved in her PR event, Martha had gone with a family photoshoot. Firstly, it would demonstrate to anyone watching - authorities included - that she was wholly committed to involving Clark in Wayne events, same as Bruce. Secondly, it would give celebrity gossip rags something (ultimately insubstantial) to chew on, hopefully dissuading people form trying to sneak photos of the kids without permission. Thirdly, and most importantly, Martha wanted baby pictures and a photoshoot gave her an excuse to dress Thomas and the babies in matching outfits.

(Just because the photos would serve a practical purpose, didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the end result.)

"Marty, exactly how many costume changes are we planning?" Thomas asks, looking at the portable clothes racks next to the shoot as if they were about to bite him.

"Oh, about five or so," she says as she plucks the last of Bruce's next outfit from one of the racks. "Less, if Clark kicks up a fuss." From another rack, she grabs Clark's suit and lays it over her husband's arm.

Thomas, demonstrating just how much he loves dressing up, openly grimaces. Still, he heads over to the side-room where Alfred is giving Clark his bottle without comment.

Martha shakes her head a bit before turning to Bruce. The next series of photos is set to look like they're on a yacht; Bruce and Clark get matching blue-and-yellow sailor suits, Thomas gets the classic navy blue blazer with white pants, and Martha is already dressed in a white sundress with yellow embroidery at the hem.

It's easy enough to hold Bruce still long enough to finish tying his ascot; even when he's bored, her little boy is a fairly low-energy toddler. Prone to wandering away if left alone for any length of time, sure - he'd given a one-time babysitter a near-heart attack after he'd walked away and fallen asleep in an infrequently-used linen closet. But generally speaking, as long as you were paying attention, Bruce was perfectly content to stay put.

"Mommy," Bruce says, bouncing ever so slightly in his patent leather shoes. "I wanna hold Clark this time."

"He's a bit big for you, sweetheart," she says back. She straightens his shirt one last time, then leads him over to the seating set up in front of a drop of Gotham harbor.

The photographer, Jeanine (a consummate professional and regular hire for Wayne functions), takes the opportunity to discreetly adjust the lighting. Bruce spares her a glance before looking back. "I can hold him," he says. "Daddy said I could."

Martha hums a bit, tucking some errant hair behind his ear. "When did Daddy say this?"

"At dinner."

"That was yesterday, Bruce. Not today."

The expression on Bruce's face is a small copy of his father's scowl; it's hard not to find it cute. "But I wanna hold him today!" he exclaims.

"Indoor voice, Bruce." She's careful to keep her voice even, patient, but firm. It's the same tone she used on her brothers when she has to talk them down from an ill-fated decision. "You can hold him when the photographer leaves - if you behave - but not before."

She has to swallow a sigh at the way Bruce's pout deepens. Its easier to talk down her now-grown brothers than it is her small son, unsurprisingly, and Bruce has been more prone to tantrums ever since they'd brought Clark home. Alfred and Leslie assure her that it's all part of the acclimatization process - that Bruce will mellow out as the novelty of having a new baby in the house wears off. Martha certainly hopes they're right.

The two of them have a bit of a stare-off while Bruce decides whether or not he's going to start shouting. Fortunately, Thomas takes that moment to walk back in, Clark held up and away from his chest. "He spit up on his vest," he says by way of explanation. And yes, Clark has, in fact, dribbled drool and old milk all down his front - though he doesn't look any worse for wear, gurgling contentedly in his father's arms.

Bruce next to her lets out a loud "Ewwwww!", twisting so that her arm and some of her bulk is between him and the baby - clearly, his previous ire has been forgotten in lieu of avoiding getting any puke on him. Thomas, meanwhile, isn't quite smiling, but he does sound a touch too gleeful about this discovery. After all, they can't take pictures of Clark in a ruined vest, and one of the key points of this venture was to get pictures of the four of them. Ergo, baby puke means less time that Thomas has to spend in front of the camera.

"That's okay, Mr. Wayne," Jeanine pipes up from where's she's finished checking the last of the extra floodlights. "I brought two sets of everything for the boys, just in case."

"Oh...good. Thank you." Martha has to bite back giggles at her husband's expression as he goes to get Vest #2. Poor man, he thought he'd dodged a bullet there.

Turning back to her still-hiding son, Martha grins. "So Bruce, do you still want to hold your brother?"

"No!" he shrieks, curling further behind her. Ah, the fickleness of youth - and here he'd been not even a minute earlier, getting ready to throw a fit over Clark.

"It's only a little spit-up," Martha teases.

"Nooooo! Gross! Don't wanna!"

"Well then, I guess we'll just have to let Daddy hold Clark." She pulls Bruce into her lap, resting her chin on the top of his head. He struggles a moment to stay behind her before surrendering to her hold with a quiet huff. "Thomas," she calls across the room. "Quit stalling. You're not going to get out of this any faster."

"I wasn't stalling," he says as he comes back over and sits to her right. Clark, once in range, makes a grab for Bruce's sleeve, which Bruce dodges. ("Eww, Clark, no!") "I was just straightening out his vest. His new vest. Because Jeanine has two of everything."

"Of course, dear." She just smiles at the adult version of Bruce's pout. "Remember, smile for the camera. We still have four more shoots to go."

You should all be aware of the fact that in an earlier draft of this, Martha did fake the hired-a-surrogate-for-Clark thing. Ultimately, I decided that was unnecessarily convoluted, but Martha definitely could have pulled it off. Bruce has to get his sense of Drama from somewhere.

[mairi-mia1]

FARAMIR

Faramir was the second son of Denethor II and the younger brother of Boromir. He was the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien and Captain of the White Tower upon his brother's death.

Faramir was born in the year TA 2983 to Denethor II and Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil of Dol Amroth. The following year, his grandfather Ecthelion II died and his father, Denethor, succeeded him as the Ruling Steward of Gondor.

When Faramir was five years old, Finduilas died. Her death caused Denethor to become detached from his family. The relationship between Faramir and Boromir, who was five years elder of the brothers, grew much closer and greater in love. Despite the obvious way that Denethor favored Boromir over Faramir, there was no jealousy or rivalry between them. Boromir protected and helped him, and Faramir looked up to his older brother. Although the siblings were very similar in appearance with their dark hair and grey eyes, it was not so in personality. Boromir was defined to be the more daring one, as well as the more fearless and strong warrior. Faramir’s boldness was incorrectly judged less due to his gentle nature and love of lore and music.

It was this interest that formed a friendship between Faramir and Gandalf the Grey. The youngest son of Denethor learned of what he could from Gandalf’s wisdom and mentoring. Denethor did not approve of Faramir as the "Wizard's pupil", for he neither trusted nor liked the Istar.

Faramir's leadership, skill-in-arms, and swift but hardy judgment proved to be handy on the battlefield. During the War of the Ring, he was the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, who often skirmished with the allies of Sauron in that province. Faramir valiantly defended Gondor from the Enemy, but did not enjoy fighting for war’s sake.

In June of 3018, Sauron's forces attacked Osgiliath, under the command of the Witch-king, whose presence caused the soldiers to draw back across the Anduin. When the last bridge was destroyed, in which Boromir’s and Faramir's companies remained, the two brothers, along with two others, swam to shore and managed to hold all of the west shores of the Anduin.

The night before the assault, Faramir had a prophetic dream of a voice speaking the following riddle:

‟Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand”

—Faramir's dream

It came to Faramir twice more and once to his brother, and the brothers told of their dream to Denethor, who only told them that Imladris was an Elvish name for Rivendell, home of Elrond. Although Faramir had wanted to go for Gondor’s sake and was originally chosen by the Council of Elders in Gondor, Boromir, with the urging of his father, stepped forward and claimed the right to the errand, deeming it to be dangerous and doubtful. The Gondorian traveled nearly four months to Rivendell, losing his horse in the process near Tharbad, and arrived just before the Council of Elrond.

On February 29, 3019 at midnight, Faramir, who was on guard duty on the western shore in Osgiliath, waded down to a boat floating down the Anduin River. To his grief, it contained the dead body of his brother, which was pierced with many wounds. In it lay his sword, broken, but there was no sign of the Great Horn, which he and his father had heard being blown far across the distance in the North three days prior.

(I’m not sure if it’s stated in the books if this was a vision or not, let me know guys if you know the answer!)

During a battle with Southrons, Faramir, who took over his brother's position as the Captain of the White Tower, encountered the Hobbits Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, recognizing them to be the Halflings his dream spoke of. After the skirmish, Faramir took the pair to Henneth Annûn and questioned them further.

Through intelligent questioning and intuition, Faramir determined that Frodo was carrying some great evil weapon of the Dark Lord of the Enemy. At this point, he showed the crucial difference between him and his proud brother:

“But fear no more! I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory. No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo.”

This is obviously a lot more different than how he was in the movies.

Sam accidentally revealed Boromir's desire for the Enemy’s Ring, Isildur's Bane. Despite the hobbits’ fears, Faramir remained true to his vow that he would not take it even if it lay on the highway, for he was wise enough to realize that such a weapon could not be used for good. With this knowledge, he also realized the peril his brother had faced.

On the very same night, Gollum was spotted fishing in the Forbidden Pool next to Henneth Annûn -- an act punishable by death. Faramir listened to Frodo’s pleas to spare Gollum’s life though, and after interrogating the creature he decided that Frodo and Sam would be free in the Lands of Gondor and Gollum under Frodo's protection. Giving them provisions, he sent them on their way to continue their quest. At their parting, Faramir warned Frodo of Gollum's treacherous nature and that the path Gollum had proposed (Cirith Ungol) had an evil reputation of old.

Faramir and his company retreated to Cair Andros, an island in the River Anduin that guarded the northern approaches to Minas Tirith. After noting that the sky was now covered in complete darkness, Faramir sent his company south to reinforce the garrison at Osgiliath while he and three others of his men rode to Minas Tirith directly. Along the way, they were pursued by the Nazgûl, riding fell beasts. The men, except Faramir, were unhorsed and it was the Captain, a master of both beasts and men, who was still horsed and rode back to aid the fallen. If Gandalf had not intervened, they would have surely perished.

Arriving at Minas Tirith, Faramir reported to Denethor and Gandalf of his encounter with Frodo and Sam. Denethor became angry that Faramir had not brought the ring to Gondor, wishing that he and his brother’s places were reversed, since Denethor believed that Boromir would bring the Enemy’s weapon to him.

Denethor sent his remaining son to hold Western Osgiliath against the hosts of the Enemy that outnumbered their own greatly. Although Faramir disagreed with his father’s strategy, he agreed to go.

The Witch-king overwhelmed the men of Gondor and won Osgiliath. Faramir drew back to the Causeway Forts, in which many of the men were wounded or killed. Faramir decided to stay with the rearguard in order to make sure that the retreat over Pelennor Fields would not turn into a disaster.

Faramir was gravely wounded by a poisonous arrow during the retreat. Fortunately, Gandalf and Faramir's uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, rode to the aid of Faramir and the troops with hosts of cavalry. Imrahil bore Faramir back to Denethor, telling him that his son had done great deeds.

Regretting that he had thanklessly sent his son off in needless peril without his blessing, Denethor, after looking in the Palantir, believing that the Ring was captured and the end was near, ordered his servants to build a funeral pyre for him and his son, who was believed to be poisoned by the Witch-king’s dart. Despite the protests of the Hobbit, Pippin Took (serving the steward in payment of Boromir's death) that Faramir was still alive, Denethor continued with this madness and released him from his service.

Horrified, Pippin went to alert Gandalf and Beregond, one of the Tower Guards. Beregond, who loved his captain enough to abandon his post and risk his life protecting him, stopped the servants from lighting the pyre. Pippin returned with Gandalf, who intervened by taking Faramir off the pyre as Faramir moaned out to his father in his dreams. Denethor took out a knife, trying to take Faramir back, but Beregond placed himself in front of Faramir. Seeing that he could not win, Denethor lit the pyre and laid himself down upon it, burning himself alive.

Then, Faramir was laid in the Houses of Healing until Aragorn came and revived Faramir with athelas. It was not a poisoned dart of the Witch-king that wounded him in a state near death as it was with Snowmane, but the arrow of a Haradrim, along with Faramir’s weariness and grief concerning his constantly strained relationship with his father and the Black Breath of the Nazgul, who, under Sauron's orders, hunted Faramir ever since he had left Ithilien. When he awoke, Faramir immediately recognized Aragorn as his rightful King, therefore realizing that no proof was needed after all.

Before Aragorn left to lead the soldiers to the Black gate, he commanded the Warden of the Houses of Healing to have Faramir and Éowyn to remain resting for at least ten days. After Éowyn demanded that the Warden take her to the Steward of the City to have her released so she could ride out in battle, Faramir, whose heart was moved with pity and pierced by her beauty, told Éowyn that he too, had to heed the advice of the Warden. He fulfilled her request to have her room look east to Mordor and asked her to talk with him at times.

Faramir and Éowyn walked together in the gardens nearly every day, and he learned from Merry Brandybuck of Éowyn's despair of feeling trapped, waiting on the waning of Théoden, and of Aragorn's rejection of her love.

On March 25, Faramir gave Éowyn a dark blue mantle sewn with silver stars that had once belonged to his mother, as they stood at the wall that looked towards Mordor. There, they saw a threatening darkness towering over and seeing this, Faramir told her of his dream of the Downfall of Númenor that the darkness threatening to overtake Middle-earth reminded him of the great wave that swallowed the land of Númenor. Somehow, to Faramir and the people of the city, a hope and joy welled in their hearts and he kissed Éowyn’s brow.

Éowyn, however, still felt languished and unfulfilled. Several days after he gave her the mantle, Faramir told her that he understood that she desired to be lifted in greatness and out of the cage she had felt trapped in, and when Aragorn only gave her understanding and pity, instead of love (which she later realized was a shadow of love), she had wanted to die valiantly and gloriously in battle. He told her that though he had first pitied her, he now loved her. There, Éowyn’s grief was fully healed, and no longer did she desire glory or greatness and realized that she had come to love Faramir in return.

Faramir briefly served as the Ruling Steward of Gondor, and began preparing the city for the King's arrival. On the day of the King’s official coronation on May 1st, Faramir surrendered his office, which was represented by the white rod of the Steward, kneeling as he did so. Aragorn however, gave the rod back, announcing that as long as his line would last, Faramir and his descendants would be Stewards of Gondor. After Faramir had asked the people of Gondor if they accepted Aragorn as their King (which they did), Faramir took the crown out and Aragorn was crowned King Elessar.

King Elessar appointed Faramir as the Prince of Ithilien, and Beregond to be the Captain of his guard, the White Company. As Prince of Ithilien, he and the Prince of Dol Amroth, Gondor's two highest-ranking nobles, became King Elessar's chief commanders. His duties also included acting as resident march-warden of Gondor's main eastward outpost, rehabilitating the lost territories, as well as clearing it of outlaws and orcs and cleansing Minas Morgul of evil remnants. Faramir also fulfilled the traditional role as Steward, acting as the King’s chief counselor as well as ruling Gondor in the King's absence.

After marrying Éowyn, the two settled in Emyn Arnen, where they had at least one son (named Elboron). Elboron would succeed Faramir as Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, and Lord of Emyn Arnen, after Faramir's death in FO 82. Faramir lived to be 120 years old, due to the large percentage of pure Dúnedain ancestry he possessed as a member of the nobility of Gondor. One of his descendants was Barahir, who may have been the son of Elboron.

Other names and Titles -

Captain of the Rangers of lthilien

Captain of the White Tower

Steward to the King of Gondor

Lord of Emyn Arnen

Prince of Ithilien

[summers-place-auctions]

A Celebration of the Unique Stone Carving Tradition of Zimbabwe

A major auction of the country's leading sculptors

Sculptor Biggie Chikodzi working on a sculpture and sculptures by Innocent Nyashenga (Supportive Family, est. £6,000 - £8,000) and Victor Matafi (Confidence, est. £8,000-10,000) Summers Place Auctions is holding its first sealed bid auction of sculpture from Zimbabwe, going online on the 17th June with the deadline for the sealed bids on 28th June 2020, withprices ranging from £200 to £40,000. It is the first auction of its kind in the UK exclusively focusing on this African country’s artistic output. A percentage of the sale will go towards a school project in the heart of sculptor communities in MaShonaland.

Whilst most of the traditional African tribal artefacts were crafted in less durable materials such as wood, Zimbabwean sculptors are unique in having access to various local stone mines over the centuries. In fact the country’s name means ‘Houses of Stone’ in the Karanga dialect of Shona and the bird on its flag was inspired by the stone-carved birds found at the heritage site Great Zimbabwe, a ruined city which was constructed in the 11th century until it wasabandoned in the 15th century.

This tradition of sculpture was re-established when the director of the National Gallery in Zimbabwe, Sorbonne-educated Frank McEwen and local farmer and miner Tom Blomfield started the Tengenenge Sculpture Community in the 1950s. Since then various villages have established themselves as centres for sculpting and it is now a tradition that is being passed on from father to son or daughter. Now in the fourth generation, it is fascinating to see how some of the first generation sculptors like Edward Chiwawa, even at the age of 85, are still sculpting and in his case his son Vengai continues the tradition.

Edward Chiwawa (Rising Sun Head, est. £2,000-4,000), Sylvester Mubayi (Free Dancing Style, est. £2,000 - £4,000) and Locardia Ndandarika (Parrots Etemal, est. £3,000 - £4000)

To honour the movement and to preserve the integrity of techniques crafted over generations the Shona artists continue to work using traditional tools and methodology. It also enables thesculptors to form a closer relationship with the stone they are carving, each of which have different properties. In a raw state many of the stones are very nondescript in appearance, rather like uncut diamonds but in the hands of a skilled carver the inner beauty in a myriad of different colours and natural striations is revealed. Sometimes the sculptor will leave some of the original surface of the stone providing extra textural contrasts.

Summers Place Auctions is now celebrating this phenomenon and the unique diversity of the sophisticated and powerful Zimbabwean sculpture with this online auction which includes works by three generations of sculptors including some of the most famous first generation sculptors as well as some of the most talented third generation ones and the best of the second generation artists.

As one of Zimbabwe’s most famous sculptors Edronce Rukodze, a descendant of King Monomotapa, put it “Here in Zimbabwe we are creating a work of art in stone, a sculpture, which represents our spirit, our tribe.”

Zimbabwean sculpture, often known as Shona Sculpture, is very popular in South Africa, the States and Canada, but still relatively undervalued and appreciated in the UK and Europe. As sculptors started to travel more widely, their sculptures show more influences especially in the work of Modern British sculptors like Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore.

Edward Chiwawa Highlights in this auction include: 1st Generation: Edward Chiwawa, one of the oldest of his generation still sculpting was born in 1935 and learned sculpting from his cousin Henry Munyaradzi. From 1971 to 1973, Edward Chiwawa lived in the artist colony of Tengenenge, after that he moved to Harare. He often uses strongly abstracted, round human faces as his motive. There is a captivating magic that shines from those faces and their expression of ernst fascinates the observer and " Rising Sun Head" is a fine example of it. It is made of Springstone and 45cm high, it carries an estimate of£2,000-4,000.

Locardia Ndandarika, one of the most famous women sculptors of the first generation and often called one of the mothers of stone sculpture, learned to make clay models of animals as a young girl. She became interested in carving stone through her late husband Joseph Ndandarika, a prominent first generation sculptor of the movement seen as a local renaissance. He was, however, not supportive of women sculpting so Locardia started to sculpt secretly, burying her work in a maize field - Parrots Eternal, made of Opal stone, is 105 cm high and carries an estimate of £3,000-4,000.

Nicholas Mukomberanwa is considered to be one of Zimbabwe's most talented sculptors. Born in 1940, he got his initial art training at the Serima Mission school, and met Frank McEwen in 1962, who encouraged him to allow the natural, latent talents within the artist to emerge, with little formal guidance and ‘training’. This one element alone seems, in retrospect, the most important in the refinement of Nicholas’ ideas and ambitions. "Listening to my Lover", made of Serpentine is 25 cm wide and estimated at £10,000-12,000.

Sylvester Mubayi was born in 1942 and joined the Sculptors Community at Tengenenge in 1967, later he was a founder member of the Vukutu Workshop School established by Frank McEwen who in 1987 said of him “Certainly when I knew him he was by far the greatest sculptor there. I have tremendous admiration for him – some of his work is as great as anything in the world.” His work "Mary, Joseph, Angels and Wiseman" made of Springstone and is 210 cm high. With an estimate of £30,000-40,000 it is the most expensive lot in the auction. Nicholas Mukomberanwa (Listening to my Lover, est. at £10,000-12,000, Sylvester Mubayi (Mary, Joseph, Angels & Wiseman, est. £30,000 - £40,000), Jonathan Mhondorohuma (Reading a story, est. £2,000 - £3,000)

2nd Generation: Jonathan Mhondorohuma was born in 1974 and was persuaded by his good friend SquareChikwanda to try his hand at stone carving at Tenegenenge sculpture village in 1989. After six months he moved to Harare where he met and worked under the tutelage of the late Joseph Ndandarika at the Kentucky Hotel. It was a formative period for the young Jonothan who was taught a great deal by the masterful Ndandarika. His influence can still be seen in Jonathan’s work in such aspects as composition, composure of expression and fluidity of line. "Reading a story" made of Springstone is 32cm high and estimated at £2,000 - £3,000.

Other important artists of this generation included in the auction are Emmanuel Changunda "Homage to Barbara" (made of Opal stone, 2m high, est. £10,000-12,000), Patrick Sephani "Mother & Daughter" (made of Opal stone, 330 cm high, est. £12,000-18,000), Tinei Mashaya "Family Harmony" (made of Springstone, 265 cm high, est. £12,000-18,000) and Benedict Mazuvamana "Birds of a Feather" (made of Springstone, 183 cm high, est. £6,000-8,000).

Vengai Chiwawa, son of famous first generation sculptor Edward, "Raw Beauty" is made of Springstone, 42 cm high and expected to fetch £2,000-4,000. A small work by Biggie Chikodzi "Dancing Together" (made of Opal stone, 70 cm high, est. £1,500-2,500) and a work by another female artist, Tracy Chatsama "Proud Parent" (made of Opal stone, 26.5cm, est.£600-800).

Vengai Chiwawa (Raw Beauty, £2,000-4,000), Tracy Chatsama (Proud Parent, £600-800) and Benedict Mazuvamana (Birds of a Feather, £6,000-8,000)

3rd Generation: Victor Matafi was inspired by his brothers Washington Matafi and Elvis Mamvura and developed his own style. He started sculpting at a tender age and believes it is an inborn thing since many of his family are artists. He started to do his own work in 2005 in Chitungwiza Arts Centre. " Play to your Strength" is made of Springstone, it is 224 cm high and estimated at£4,000-6,000.

Clever Monera, who worked with one of the best second generation sculptors and is working in his style, and is as such very sought after, "Swing me Mama", made of Springstone, 52cm high, est. £1,200-1,800. Prosper Katanda (born in 1982) "Bubbling Waves" (Springstone, 130 cm high, est. £4,000-6,000) and Tonderai Sowa (born in 1978) "Feeling that Movement" (Springstone, 19 cm high, est. £600-800). Sowa sees Zimbabwe stone sculptors as storytellers who celebrate and explore their culture as well as universal themes through their work.The young artist whose work has great emotional depth also says " stone sculpting is a way of writing down the history of Africa in a manner that can be easily appreciated by future generations here in Zimbabwe and around the world’’.

Prosper Katanda (Bubbling Waves, est. £4,000-6,000), Clever Monera (Swing me Mama, est. £1,200-1,800) and Tonderai Sowa (Feeling that Movement, est. £600-800)

The Shona developed sophisticated social customs and beliefs, all following one simple rule:‘Live together and the culture will thrive’ and the Shone stone sculpture is an “expression of human connections that transcend geography and time”. It explains why these sculptures are so appealing to different cultures around the world and why the sculptors are keen to support the education of those less fortunate in their community.

Notes to editor: The Shona and their ancestors have lived in Southeastern Africa for more than 1000 years. In that time they experienced struggle and triumph over armed invaders, natural predators, diseases, drought, famine and political oppression.

From Spirits in Stone by Anthony & Laura Ponter: The sculptors say that “...the spirits of their ancestors come to them in their dreams to reveal the images that dwell within the rock. After quarrying the raw stone with pickaxe and pry bar, the carvers use handmade tools to release the spirits trapped within the multicoloured serpentine. Once released, the spirits soar with dynamic and mythical themes that strike deep within the well-spring of our shared consciousness. Collectors say their pieces call out to them, revealing what is perhaps a primordial link between distant lands and different cultures.” The sculpture movement has evolved over generations originating in MaShonaland and has built such a reputation of expertise that it has attracted artists seeking to hone this unique sculpting technique.

Maori Primary School - a school project started in MaShonaland in 2012 to build a school in an area where children would have to walk 11km to get to the next school and as a result, many children didn't attend school. The school currently has an enrollment of 350 children. Most of these are from an orphaned background due to the HIV pandemic, which has left children in the care of their grandparents.

The new school has resulted in most local children being educated and being fed at school. It has made a huge difference to the area, but due to Covid-19, where social distancing is a requirement, it has become of utmost importance to raise funds to build another classroom block, to cut the numbers down per class.

For more press information, images & interview requests, please contact Silke Lohmann: silke@exclamationpr.co.uk or 07932 618754 For further information on the auction, please visit www.summersplaceauctions.com or call 01403 331331. Summers Place Auctions are the world's leading auctioneers of Garden Statuary and Natural History. The sales are held in the award winning 5,000 sq ft gallery nestling within 6 acres of walled gardens and the arboretum of the Victorian mansion, Summers Place, outside Billingshurst in West Sussex.