#and then several years later that same blue lady takes over his people and mucks up the progress he made in building a better future

[nekoprankster218]

you know, even tho canonically Thel and pre-rampancy!Cortana knew each other for like only a few hours, I still think a face-to-face interaction between them during the Created era would’ve been neat; esp since even tho they didn’t know each other for too long, Thel was there as Chief grieved and searched for her and likely she became aware at some point what good allies they are with each other, so that still might’ve influenced smth of their interactions as they debated whose galactic socio-political ambitions was the best way forward

[a-night-at-the-0pera]

SNEAK PEEK: Virtues Uncounted Part 4

Hey guys! I’ve been writing like a fiend these past few days, and I do believe this is my most favorite chapter so far! In Part 4, we have the first ball of the summer, hosted by the Earl and Countess of Moorhampton, which is both eagerly anticipated and dreaded by Y/N. Here is just a little snippet of the chapter, which is going to be truly behemoth. Let me know what you think! 

VU Part 1, VU Part 2, VU Part 3

~~~~~

The sun is at its most golden at this time in the summer, the light as bright and brassy as a field of wheat. It bathes the countryside in a wash of warmth, making everything it touches just a little more magical. As the carriage rolls down the road, you can just make out the tip of the lake behind the manor house at Moorhead Park, its surface sparkling brilliantly. The house in front is equally lustrous, the windows glinting like signal mirrors in the golden light as the horses turn left into the long drive. There are already at least a dozen carriages lingering along the road, their drivers, having already carried out their duty of dropping off their employers, idly chatting and watching as new guests arrive. 

As your driver pulls the horses to a halt, the carriage door is opened and the steps pulled out by two sets of gloved hands. You bend your head, careful to make sure that your feather exits the carriage with you, and reach out for assistance. One of the nearby grooms instantly offers his services, bringing a familiar head of sandy-brown hair into your view. 

“Good evenin’, Miss Woolmere. Welcome to Moorhead Park.”

You smile brightly at the Irish groom, recognizing him instantly, “Hello, Mr. Leech. Thank you.”

Allen grins up at you, holding your hand tightly as you gather your skirts in order to see the steps under your feet. You descend delicately, attempting to not lose a shoe in the process. Once you are safely on the gravel of the drive, Mr. Leech turns to offer his hand to your mother, who takes it while looking between the groom and yourself. She nods her thanks to him, coming up beside you with a sidelong glance as your father exits the carriage.

“You are familiar with one of the grooms?” she mumbles, sounding both curious and accusatory as the three of you head towards the front door of the manor. 

“Mr. Leech helped me find Mr. Lee the other day, when I visited him at the stables,” you reply flatly, straightening the lace on your sleeve. 

“You visited Mr. Lee?”

“Yes. I thought you wanted the two of us to spend more time together.”

Your mother widens her eyes at you, clearly miffed, “I most certainly do, but at the stables? How vulgar, (Y/N).”

“If I am to marry this man, as you so clearly desire,” you bite back, “should I not attempt to engage in his interests? Gwilym likes horses, and I was trying to see why he likes them so much.”

“Mr. Lee,” your mother corrects lowly, tapping her fan impatiently on your arm. 

“Yes, Mr. Lee,” you hiss back, acutely aware that you are now likely within earshot of the other guests as you enter the large front hall of Moorhead Park.

“Good evening, Baron and Baroness,” Reeves says, bowing deeply to them, “and Miss Woolmere. The Earl and Countess extend their warmest welcome to you all. Ladies, here are your dance cards for the evening.”

The butler extends two elegantly designed cards to your family on a silver platter, the cards each topped with a pink ribbon. You take your card, tying it securely onto your fan before hastily reading over the dances, to see if any of your favorites are on it. Surprisingly, several of the spots where you are to put the name of the gentleman with whom you will dance are filled in already. 

A certain Mr. Gwilym Lee has claimed three of the dances on your card already. Sneaky. He has claimed the first dance of the night, a quadrille, as well as two partner dances later on. You gulp, realizing that one of the dances he has requested is the one waltz of the evening. The waltz is a new dance from the continent, only introduced to polite society dances a few years ago. You remember your father reading aloud diatribes in the newspaper against the scandalous dance, which requires partners to embrace. In fact, even Lord Byron wrote about how provocative the new dance was. It is certainly a bold statement for Gwilym to claim that dance, but there is no one else in the room you would rather spend such an intimate dance with. At least it is with your friend.

You finally glance up as you are passing underneath the magnificent crystal chandeliers in the ballroom, the diamantine cuts of the gemstones scattering shards of light across the floors and walls, which are clad in gold gilt paneling and mirrors. A band is setting up in the corner of the expansive room, the flutist and violinist arguing quietly about where to place their music stands. The scent of pigeon pie and the sound of clinking dishware pulls your attention to the next room over, where the large dining table has been piled high with delicacies. Pastel pink petit fours, impressively molded jellies, and candied fruits catch your eyes as you walk along the table, deciding what to tuck into first. At balls such as this, dinner is not a grand seated affair, but rather a nibbled one, with the guests standing around and talking before, during, and after the dancing. You notice a little hand-written notice on the centerpiece, saying that ice cream shall be served at the midpoint of the dance schedule, and you lick your lips in anticipation. 

“Miss Woolmere!”

You turn to see Joseph making his way around the table towards you, a glass of Madeira wine in one hand and a plate laden with treats in the other. He is dressed in an unremarkable navy blue suit, which fits him impeccably, but is nonetheless a rather bland choice for such an elegant ball. Your confusion and distaste must read on your face, as the eager smile falls from his lips, quickly replaced with a fierce scowl.

“What? You do not approve of my outfit?”

Your eyes go wide and you shake your head, trying to think of something tasteful to say, “It is not that I do not approve, Mr. Mazzello. It is a....fascinating choice. Quite plain for a ball thrown by an earl. For a ball that you are hosting, in a way, as a resident of Moorhead Park.”

His scowl deepens as he takes a long swig of the reddish-brown liquid in his glass, “I am going to kill that blasted cousin of mine, I swear.”

“What does Mr. Lee have to do with this?”

“That fat-witted devil has been telling me all week to tone down my manner of dress, that many people find my bright neckties and patterned vests to be entirely too ostentatious for the English country,” he grumbles, “and so I decided, since I would be meeting many new acquaintances tonight, to wear this plainer suit, in hopes of not scandalizing anyone.” 

“Surely you know, Mr. Mazzello, that scandalous glances seem to follow you here.”

He nods darkly, taking another sip of Madeira, “and the haughty fop has the audacity to show up in that.”

“In what?”

You turn to follow Joseph’s gaze, eyes instantly locking onto the sight in front of you. Mr. Gwilym Lee is dressed in an impossibly elegant white suit, heavily embroidered with what must be yards of silver thread, looking much like a fairytale prince. The jacket is covered in silver leaves and animals and it is buttoned up to his neck, the sides opening just enough to reveal the red silk lining. This same crimson shade is on the epaulets on the suit’s shoulders, which are capped in silver ribbing. You have never seen a suit like it at any ball, and never in a million years would you imagine your friend Gwilym, who willingly spends each day ankle-deep in horse muck,  to be the man to wear such a creation. It is utterly breathtaking. 

“He must have been planning forever,” Joseph pouts, “that embroidery alone must have taken months. It really isn’t fair.”

“Perhaps, next time, you should come prepared for a ball,” you tease, “after all, you are supposed to be here to learn society etiquette.”

Joseph just glares at you, setting down his glass in order to take a large, angry bite of pigeon pie. With his mouth still full, he glances at you, finally taking in your appearance.

“By the way, you look magnificent tonight, Miss Woolmere,” he mumbles, a few crumbs falling from his lips.

“Thank you, Mr. Mazzello,” you reply, wrinkling your nose slightly at him, “generally, when gentlemen compliment me, however, they do not spew pigeon at me.”

Joseph swallows harshly, attempting to clear away his mouthful of food, but before he can reply, there is a gentle tap on your shoulder.

~~~~~

So? What are you all thinking? I’d love to chat about what you’re excited or worried for in this upcoming chapter! What are your predictions? Are you Team Joseph or Team Gwilym?

[myboyblue182-blog]

Allow Me to Introduce Myself:

In typical “bad blogging” style, I will open this up letting everyone know that I have never done this before. Not only have I not done this before, the number of blogs that I have actually committed to reading throughout life is minimal. By minimal I mean that I may have read one…. Post… about dog food, four years ago, that I found somewhere on the Internet… that may or may not technically fit into the “blog” category. I would know better if I knew the actual definition of “blog” – (which I will be looking up before posting this anywhere online) In my mind a blog is a series of short, hopefully entertaining write-ups on a topic, following the author through some type of experience. Anyway, I like to write, and its something I’ve always wanted to take a stab at – so here we go.

 Lets start off with a little bit of an introduction!

 I’m not sure if you’ll pick this up in my little obsessive literary rants, but I over analyze EVERYTHING. Little things are often quite big deal to me, so you can only image what goes on upstairs when there are big things going on. I like to think I’m a relatively all right person, with compassion and positive energy.  I like to do kind little things on the day-to-day… really easy little things like– Smile at strangers, hold doors, round up to the next dollar for charity or pick up some nonthreatening, easily accessible piece of trash in the park… you know, that kind of thing. I believe in peaceful existence, do no evil, be genuinely kind to others, don’t destroy the planet, and do as much good as you possibly can. Simple life.

 As I’m sure you know, Hurricane Harvey hit Texas August 25, 2017 causing some of the worst damage in our country’s history to Houston and the surrounding area. BIG THING = immediate over analyzing.  I was compelled to put my name on a volunteer website, hoping to find some organization that would pick me up and whisk me away from the increasingly isolating job of running a farm in Delaware County Pennsylvania.

‘Texas… I’ll drive to Texas with my boyfriend, my truck and a pink horse trailer and we will go save ALL THE HORSES!’ The thought breezed through my mind so easily it literally made me laugh out loud at how silly it sounded. ‘Ok, well, I’ll at least put my name on the list,’ figuring the chances of actually pulling off a trip like this realistically were pretty slim. I impulsively signed up with Volunteer Houston that night, then mentioned it to Jon who was equally skeptical yet enthused about the idea. ‘Wait, could this actually work?’ As soon as a little glimmer of optimism slipped in my head, a list of problems immediately arose, and the wildly liberating idea of going on a whimsical fantasy rescue mission slowly began to become unglued.

 1)   My wonderfully amazing “boyfriend” isn’t really my “boyfriend,” I don’t know if its for lack of emotional availability, fear of commitment or what, but we just cant seem to make things official. For the past year and a half he’s been my prince-charming type of a man who lives down the road. He showed up at my farm one day looking for a stunt rider for a film (which I don’t do but very early agreed) and we’ve been best friends evolved to lovers ever since. It’s been the best love story of my life so I’m running with it! ANYWAY – That could be a whole other blog so we’ll leave this one here for now. But taking a fantasy dream trip with a man whose not really yours could always hold the potential of uprooting some uncomfortable situations. Especially with me involved in the mix.

2)   I rarely get off the farm. The owner of the farm where I live and manage is a 86 year old, off-the-boat British woman who lived in England through WWII. Her idea of a vacation is staying at a dinner party until 9PM, and believes that I, as an unmarried, no-kidded 28 year old should have those same standards. I’m lucky if I leave the state once a year and get extremely home sick whenever I do get away. I have a lot to miss too - my dog Blue and his annoying little sister Layla, my big dog of a horse Koda, the other 13 horses on the farm, chickens, goats, donkeys… and yes, even my 86 year old keeper and best friend Jill. There’s a lot to miss when you live with a ton of animals, there’s also a lot to worry about too. Jill always would say “Why go on vacation when you have all of this? This is vacation.” She would of course then follow that up with some insulting comment about how only un-educated, dull minds need vacations for entertainment because they’re too stupid to entertain themselves at home.

3)   Money & time. These two unfortunately go hand-in hand. Its very difficult traveling with out cash. Mind you, I’m not broke- but making money in the horse world is not easy, and there is definitely a learning curve making equine bodywork and training into a profitable business. A curve that I am very slowly riding out at the moment. Driving to Texas takes what, 3 days minimum with a truck and trailer. The clock is ticking because lord knows I can probably only get coverage for the farm for about a week, and even that’s pushing it.

4)   What the heck am I actually going to do there? On the news you’d see a ton of ranchers with their horses and livestock stranded out in flooded pastures, then some cowboys would show up with their horse on the back of an air boat,  they’d wrangle the rouge horses, load them up, and haul them to higher ground. Sounded pretty amazing, but in reality – no way would I be able to do that. No horse, no boat, and it’s been pretty much impossible to navigate around the Houston area the first week or so after the storm. I’d pretty much be somewhere around the Houston area with a little dinky F150 and a two horse little pink Barbie trailer. “Thanks for the help princess but we’re good.”

 Forget it. We let the idea sit and went on with life as usual.

 About a week and a half after the storm, there began talk of another bad hurricane moving into Florida, Irma – a rapidly developing category 5 hurricane was announced headed straight for the Florida coast. My mind immediately went to the volunteers who would be pulled from Houston over to Florida for the next major hurricane relief aid. Sure enough, I was checking my e-mail that night, and had a response from a lady named Rose, who was in charge of an organization called Friends of North Rosenberg, welcoming us to come and volunteer mucking and stripping drywall from flooded out homes outside of Houston. ‘Hmmm… is this an actual woman talking to me, and where the fuck is North Rosenberg?”

 It had been very difficult in the beginning for Houston to organize the influx of volunteers who rushed into the city. They had trouble in the pairing the needed with the needy, so smaller relief organizations like this one popped up to help all of the “forgotten people” team up. This woman was very kind in her e-mails, so I decided to call and speak with her directly.

 After a brief chat about the duties and our physical capabilities, the conversation to an abrupt turn - “You just let me know what days you can make it and I’ll put you on the list, we meet at 8:30 am at 503 3rd street, Rosenberg TX. See you then!”

 Impulsively I answer, “Sounds good Rose, see you soon!”

 WHAT did I just say?

 Later on in the barn before a riding lesson, I was chatting with one of the boarders, Dawn, who also happens to be a good friend of mine, about how I had committed to showing up somewhere in Texas with some spontaneous small organization, doing some work in severely damaged, untouched flooded homes that I may… or most likely may not be qualified to do.

 “What?” She asked. “When are you going? How are you going to get there? Are you going alone?”

 Uhhh… I don’t know. I had no clue. Hearing me attempt to explain the situation made it sound even more impossible.

 “I have friends in Texas, they’re in Fulshear, I’m sure you could stay with them!”

 After our lesson I went in and Googled “Fulshear Texas,” figuring with my luck it would be on the other side of the state from the woman I spoke with from the volunteer organization. Nope. Dawn’s friends, Michelle and Ryan were… I kid you not… 15 minutes from the headquarters of Friends of North Rosenberg. I got the information, spoke with Michelle, called my Jon, picked a date and booked a flight. DONE.  NO driving, just fly right in and get to it.

 It was impulsive, improbable, but it was booked. The stars aligned, I saw the opportunity and I went for it.  I just had 5 days to organize a farm full of people and figure out a few minor details (which, in retrospect were actually larger details) That’s it. Jon and I will land at Houston international Tuesday September 12, 2017 and figure out what we’ll be doing to help save Houston.

  This should make for a good story.