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pen-and-a-microphone · 5 years ago

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Six The Musical Dance Masterpost!

This will be updated (in the reblogs) whenever I find new resources

An important update that will also be in the reblogs! The actors are not allowed to teach AYWD or IDNYL. No matter which workshops you book, the official line is that these are not allowed to be taught.

In some cases, people teach different choreo to those songs, and that’s allowed. Due to this, I can’t be finding a way to notate that choreography and then post it. I’m pretty sure that’d get me in trouble, so I’m not gonna push it. I will keep providing tips for learning them, but I won’t go against the official instructions that the actors have been given.

Note I forgot to add but that applies to everything - squats. Do them frequently. There's a lot of squatting in the show, and boy you need good thigh muscles.

Ex-wives

The first and second verses are basically made entirely of posing. If you know the beats (which are very obvious and accented), the moves are easy. Each queen does something different on these beats, so you might want to pick one, or make up something of your own. These poses are the same in many live performances.

For the chorus(es), the moves are generally simple hip movements/steps. Easily followed from any bootleg copy you may have access to. The dance breaks/instrumentals are harder, and I have not yet found a proper tutorial for them.

Chorus and dance break performance, which could be followed. However it does end part way through, so I’d recommend just using this for the chorus/break section - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFpqZjy54Ns

Visible choreography for the backing parts of the introductions verse (where the queens introduce themselves in a line/two lines) Deliberately pans out so that the chorus choreography is not visible, and the final chorus is from Six, not Ex-wives (this is a common thing in live performances of this) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJbaU4j0JCo

The final chorus mirrors the first, but so far I have not found a tutorial or live performance of this.

General advice - Learn the post-chorus dance break from the best source you have, since it’s the hardest part (if possible, and when I find one, I will put a tutorial for this section). The rest is very simple to follow from any performance, but make sure you’re watching the correct steps. Ex-wives is often performed live as a mashup with Six, so the choreo is different - there are quite a few live performances that I haven’t included links to, and this is for a reason.

No Way

The intro is made solely of one movement repeated on a (helpfully emphasised) beat. Easy to see and follow from your bootleg.

There is not currently a tutorial or live that shows all of No Way (to my knowledge). It does have some full choreo (rather than just hip movements or basic steps) during the verses, that might be hard to follow from a bootleg

No Way dance class (NOTE: these moves are not in the correct order as far as I know, however this is a useful intro for how to do the steps. I used this to learn the movements, then used videos of live performances to put them together in the right order) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-lzMd3oDAY0&t=4s

No Way second chorus and dance break, full tutorial - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehdKQoZN_cU&t=2908s

General advice - The dance break is really fast, and really difficult, but it’s not impossible if you take time to learn it - you can always put your YouTube at 0.75x speed (or even 0.5x, which I did while learning). Again, don’t follow the wrong choreo and get confused. Vicki’s tutorial is helpful for showing points you can “hit” if the full thing is too fast or difficult. It’s very Beyonce and pretty sassy, so have confidence. Lots of hip movement, and salsa moves.

Don’t Lose Ur Head

Intro is simple to follow from any bootleg.

Lots of acting in this one. Boleyn interacts with the backing singers in a very different way to Aragon. Luckily, this means less complicated choreography in the verses, because a lot of the movement is either “shock”, “running to another point on the stage” or “leaning in to hear the tea”. Basically choose your own facial expressions and movements, and later poses.

Perfect live performance. Easy to follow for the verses, especially the second (which I haven’t found in this clarity anywhere else, lots of performances cut away) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hY77XqKoNr4

DLUH choruses 1 and 2, tutorial - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uEhNp-nVDU

Dramatic wedding moment? Again just acting with some blocking

The third verse has hardly any choreo, which can be seen in the west end live performance. The build up to the final chorus (ie the back and forths of “what was I/she meant to do”) is just improv jamming, so make it up as you go along.

The final chorus looks very “improvised having fun”, but there is still choreography. It is much looser than the other choruses, which means you can have more fun with it than the very precise movements of the earlier choruses.

General advice - The first few bars of the choruses uses a really difficult step, one which looks easy. Spend ages on this, until it’s second nature, or you’ll struggle to do the choreography for the rest of the chorus. This song is very acting heavy, and aside from the first and second choruses, the choreo isn’t super precise. The neck movements are sharp, and there is a risk of giving yourself whiplash if you jump right in - remember to stretch your neck too, it has muscles and you can pull them (I’ve been there, trust me).

Heart of Stone

Time for a break! Heart of Stone does not, as far as I know, have any choreography. Probably good to give the queens a break from all that high intensity.

Haus of Holbein

There aren’t any live videos or tutorials (yet/as far as I know)

Fairly basic steps in the verses, which could be followed from a bootleg. Lots of box stepping and posing.

Choruses are just improv, they do whatever they want, provided they’re acting like they’re in a rave. I have no idea if these were ever properly choreographed, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the script just said “go insane”. There are some parts where they pause, but this can be followed from your bootleg.

The intro and outro are just walking diagonally, staggered one by one.

General advice - Have fun. Have all the fun. Go completely mad with your improv. The more dramatic you go, the better it fits with the song. Unlike DLUH, the chaos is not the choreographed kind.

Get Down

First verse is lots of tiny movements, which are easy to learn from live videos. Clicks, head movements, etc - precise, but simple.

A useful section for learning the first verse/chorus - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ik6zKj08A28

Performance with full choreo - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4UlRCPLu9FM

Another performance with full choreo - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=io-cQWqAfX4

The end of this class has part of the chorus of Get Down, which is helpful for both learning the moves, and learning the general style of dance - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlWQBREK5Fw&t=10s

General advice - Full sass. Take your Beyonce sass levels from No Way and times them by 10. This is, in my opinion, the hardest dance in the show, so I struggle to give good advice about it. It’s hard, but there are plenty of videos showing the full thing - I’ve managed to learn it by slowing these videos down (0.75x speed on YouTube). There’s lots of isolation of specific body parts. However, cover all your mistakes with more sass - my personal trick is just acting like I’m doing it perfectly, because the sheer self confidence of this number is enough to carry you through.

All You Wanna Do

Full disclosure: I do not yet know this one. However, I have a dance class on Saturday with Aimie Atkinson, which should help me learn it. The following is therefore much more vague, and will be updated once I know more.

From what I’ve seen, the steps in this are quite repetitive. I think the choruses use the same choreo, or at least very similar. Very high energy, but much like the rest of the show, movements are on the beats (accented, clear beats, thank you ladies in waiting).

I Don’t Need Your Love

Again, I do not know this one well, but I will be updating when I do.

The majority of this of is like Heart of Stone - there’s no choreography, and the queens get a rest.

There’s a section of improv between the sitting down and the choreographed section, which is just the queens jamming.

The actual steps don’t start until “Remember that I was a writer”, and they’re very simple, not too precise, and could be followed from a bootleg.

Obviously in the actual show there is a break before the “remix” section, without dancing. The “remix” section has choreography, but again it is pretty simple.

The final chorus is the only one with full dancing, but there aren’t any versions I could find on YouTube, or any tutorials. However, I could follow it from my bootleg, and I think I’ll be able to learn it from just that.

Six

This quite nicely mirrors the previous numbers. For example, there isn’t any backing dancing for Seymour or Parr’s sections. Aragon’s section uses moves you will have already learnt in No Way. Cleves uses new moves but keeps her sass and the same sort of dance style. Boleyn and Howard do have new moves, which I think is a reflection on character development - the choreo is more fun and happy, similar to the starts of their numbers, but obviously not the endings.

Live performance that shows all the correct choreography - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqc3zJ1nva0

The chorus is super easy, and most of you probably already know it. These women have been doing what basically amounts to a high intensity workout for a solid 75 minutes, so the choreo was never going to be super hard/taxing.

Six main chorus, tutorial - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gjf1jrSFwsw&t=2s

The “we’re six” dance break is a little harder, but should be easy to follow from your bootleg.

#man this took ages #six the musical #dance #masterpost #choreography #six the musical dance #six the musical choreography #six

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thephantomofthe-internet · 5 years ago

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Read Into Me-Chapter 1: Wuthering Heights

Steve Harrington x Shy! Reader

CONTINUE READING THE SERIES HERE

Word Count: 2,849

Date Posted: 04/27/2020

Warnings: Swearing

Author’s Note: We starting something newww friends! If you liked or commented on my post about this series, you’re on the tag list! If you want off lemme know, it’s seriously no big deal. I’ve been working on this one for awhile, so if you liked it, please flash me a reblog or a reply! Criticism is always appreciated!

Tag List: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @aclockworkballerina @maddie1504 @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary @banjino-the-hole @buckysarge @wildcvltre @stanleyyelnatsiii @t0rment0 @10blurredsmoke10 @unusuallchildd @n3wtscaseofniffler5 @alwaysstressedout @peterparxour @linksispink1995 @asharpknife @alex--awesome--22 @baebee35 @marvelismylifffe @lilmissperfectlyimperfect

Flowers poked up between the sidewalk cracks, little white and yellow daisies blooming skyward, their heads turning to bask in the sun. Spring was bursting all over Hawkins, making the town reborn in pastels and Easter bonnets. Babies crawled around in the parks in white outfits, their mothers not worried about grass stains and cooing over their precious bundles of joy.

You crushed the daisies under your boots on your walk to school. You made a point to. They were begging to be crushed, stamped out by your heavy black soles. You didn’t like spring, you hated babies in their grass stained diapers and drool covered cheeks. You couldn’t place why you hated the season, it wasn’t as if you hated the cold or the rain which plagued March and early April, you adored the sound of rain on the Plexiglas roof of your family’s sunroom, thunder in the distance and swirling grey clouds swarming the sky. Then again, that wasn’t what spring wanted to be. Spring wanted to be beautiful bursts of colour and birds singing from their nests, babies crying into life and everything turning green.

Your hatred might have sprung from all that green, your mother had insisted on you taking up an artistic skill, supposedly because it made young women more worldly and affable, and sat you in art classes where you painted bouquets of flowers and bowls of fruit for hours every week. You didn’t hate art; it had become a release for you, a place to vent your emotions and makes something from your mind’s spinning thoughts. You’d filled sketchbooks and canvases with images of aliens and stars and snails. You liked to doodle snails and hourglasses on the margins of your homework. But your favourite thing was to draw your classmates. You were a quiet person, a sensitive soul according to your grandmother, and so often time’s people would ignore you flat out or discount your presence. This didn’t bother you so much, it gave you the chance to look at them without anyone asking any questions, to sketch out their image in charcoal and graphite, covering your hands in black and grey smudges. Your hands were constantly stained black, up the side of your hand to the tip of your pinkie, which meant that your jeans and shirts and sweater cuffs were smudged and stained.

You were sat on the football field’s bleachers one cool April morning, your best friend Samantha Cameron sat next to you, thin headset around the back of her head. She was unable to pull the headset around her black spiked hair, purposefully ghastly pale with black lips. You could hear the muffled sound of Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees playing at top volume as her head bounced to the beat, her black high tops kicking at the seat below you. You had your sketchpad out, trying to capture the stiff movement of her hair with the graphite piece clutched in your hand.

Samantha turned to look at you with a smile “You get it right yet?” she asked. She could see the annoyance in your face as you rubbed at the drawing, trying to smudge the stray hairs trying to escape the harsh gelling she’d done that morning. Just like your drawing, you suspecting that she’d been unable to get it to do exactly as she wanted.

“It’s getting there, it’s not moving right yet…” you muttered, pulling your lip into your teeth, chewing hard on the skin.

“You have like, four of me as is, I think you’ll survive if it isn’t perfect.” Samantha chuckled, pulling her headset down around her neck, twisting her long strand of pearls around her index finger.

“And I like this one best, your hair is moving so interestingly today…” you swiped at the page, pulling the eraser gum out of the coils and rubbing out the mistake you’d made, adding more shake to the tips of the centre point.

“Besides,” you chuckled “I’m not gonna have the time to get any good sketches of you with post-its in your hair this year.” Usually, you and Samantha would try to take one class together a year, but she had to switch her English class to first semester so she could snag a gym credit to train for potential college reps. She wanted to be a Wellesley girl and get a scholarship for soccer and she needed to be a top performance to get one.

You sighed, turning away from her. “I still hate that Mr. Lawrence insists on group work…” you muttered. You understood her decision, but you felt a bit nervous about being on your own. You’d gone to school with the same kids for your whole life, but being on your own with no one to depend on socially for a whole semester scared you.

Samantha wrapped an arm around your shoulders “You’ll be fine, you know that he usually assigns partners anyway.” She said, rubbing your bare skin gently.

“I know I just really don’t want to get stuck with some nitwit.” You replied. On cue, the bell blared from the outdoor speakers and you closed up your notebook, sliding your graphite and eraser gum into the coils and shoving it into your backpack, stringing it around your shoulders.

Mr. Lawrence’s hair had gone white long before he’d begun to show to process of aging on his face. His only wrinkles were from tension on his forehead and around his mouth. His white hair was a sort of burst of smoke around his head, always puffed up around his head and never fully settled into a style. You smiled when you walked into his classroom, taking a seat in the far back corner. You’d already gotten a sketch of his puffy cloud hair, so you left your notebook closed. The rest of the class trickled in, clumped in their little groups and chattering loudly, taking up the seats around you. Nobody paid much attention to you, which didn’t bother you as much as it used to. It still left a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach. You wished that you had your headset, so you could block out the sound from your peers.

You hoped that the seat next to you would stay empty, that people would avoid you and let you sit quietly. It hadn’t before the break, but the room had been set up in little table groups of four. Now, the room was set up in three rows, two desks pushed next to each other all the way down. Mr. Lawrence had already had to yell twice for people to not move the desks, a sign of little cliques forming. Vicki Clarke had tried to pull the desk next to you over to turn the end of the middle row into a fire hazard, causing Mr. Lawrence to yell out for a third time. Vicki rolled her eyes, but released the desk, taking the desk next to the free one, leaving a clear space between her and you. You didn’t mind; Vicki always smelt like artificial apples, from the cheap body spray she slathered herself in at her locker and the scent gave you a headache.

Tina Martins practically ran to Vicki as the bell rang out, immediately calling to Vicki “Move that desk over!”

Mr. Lawrence rolled his eyes “Miss Martins we are not moving any desks in this room. Take a seat.” He announced. Tina’s shoulders sunk, but she obeyed without an argument, taking the seat to Vicki’s right. Then, the reason for all the commotion walked in, late slip in hand.

Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington was still something to talk about, even after being horrifically dumped by Nancy Wheeler, he was still a hot object around the school, especially for girls burned by the newest small town hottie Billy Hargrove. Vicki and Tina were two primed recent burn victims, Tina having tried and tragically failed to get Billy’s attention at her own house party and Vicki being the first ‘hump and dump’ victim of the notorious man whore. Steve’s sad boy behaviour had attracted the attention of many bleeding hearts throughout the school, letting themselves get their hearts drained by his succubus heartache. And here he was, puffed up like a robin, his bright red member’s only jacket mimicking the red breast on the bird, his hair perfectly coiffed and glinting in the florescent lights. Heartbreak had done his ego good, teaching him that girls were a dime a dozen if you were hot and sad. The concept of preying on vulnerable girls made you sick to your stomach.

Steve handed his late slip off to Mr. Lawrence and he stamped it with the date punch he kept on his desk. “Welcome Mr. Harrington, please take a seat so we can begin.” He said, his rectangular glasses sliding off his nose as he spoke.

Suddenly, the energy in the room changed. It was then that you realized the class was mostly girls and every single girl in the room was staring at Steve. It was obvious to you in an instant: they wanted Steve to sit next to them and they were all out of luck, sat next to friends or other girls desperate for the same attention. The bargaining began, girls whispering to the person next to them to move, sliding cool erasers or lipsticks over onto the other desk, peace offerings they hoped someone would take. Mr. Lawrence’s classroom had fallen to jailhouse rules and you sat wondering when the first person would pull their shank. No one moved as Steve made his way to the back of the class. Then, another thing became clear-you were the only person with a free desk next to them. Vicki waved shyly to Steve as he took the seat and you tried to disappear. The whole room’s eyes were now on you and unlike Steve you absolutely hated it. You wanted to disappear. Now, you were enemy number one to every girl in the room.

“Alright, let’s begin then, yes?” Mr. Lawrence clapped once and commenced the lesson “Welcome to your last two months of English! I’m passing around the breakdown for your final assignment and copies of our last reading for the course, Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.” The class groaned. You’d been hoping for a lighter, more modern read, something at least from that century. But you knew that Mr. Lawrence loved a classic and had to follow the suggested readings for your grade dictating by the state. You took your tattered copy and wordlessly handed the pile off to Steve, who didn’t notice that it had landed on his desk until Vicki pointed it out with a giggle.

“Now, everyone turn to their desk mate. He or she will be your editor and writing partner for the final essay of the year!” your heart dropped. You were stuck with Steve. And he was an idiot. Every stupid thing you’d heard uttered from a classmate’s mouth had always been from his. He once asked who the US was fighting in World War two. He spent one class arguing with a teacher that Beth didn’t die in Little Women, not believing it even when the teacher sourced the exact page when Alcott revealed it. He once failed a health assignment because he mixed up the names for the parts of the male and female. Literally mixed them up, your seventh grade health teacher had provided them for the worksheets and told the class to cut the out and glue them on and he mixed up all the words into a pile. He was an idiot!

Tina’s hand shot up fast and Mr. Lawrence called on her. “Mr. Lawrence, can we be a threesome with Steve?” She asked loudly, smirking over at you. Vicki giggled at the word ‘threesome’, hands clutched over her mouth.

“But then what will Y/N do? She won’t have a partner.” Mr. Lawrence flashed you a small smile and you just about threw up. This was all too much for you, too much attention, too many people looking at you.

You raised your hand timidly “I’ll be fine if that’s what they want to do. I don’t mind working on my own…” you said, your eyes locked on the course breakdown.

“See, Y/N can handle herself.” Tina said. If you knew Tina to be anything other than mean and condescending, you would’ve taken that as a compliment.

“I want every student to have work edited and reviewed by a classmate before I look at it. I’m sorry, but I’m not making exceptions to the rule. If your desk mate wants to switch with Steve, then that’s another thing entirely, but you cannot be a group of three.” Mr. Lawrence laid down the law on that and moved on with the lesson. While Tina and Vicki attempt to convince one another to switch seats and let the other have Steve, neither would budge and Steve seemed utterly uninterested in their spat. To be fair, he didn’t seem interested in the lesson either. He had taken to drawing on the surface of his desk, scratching his initials into the wood.

“Now, for your first assignment back, I’d like you to write me a piece on your spring break. Nothing fancy, just one page typed. We’ll write the first draft today and exchange it with our partners to be edited and rewritten for Friday.” He announced “When you’re done, read chapters one through three of Wuthering Heights.”

With that, the semester had begun again and everyone went to work. Voices took over the room, people chattering around you. You felt a pair of eyes on you, but you flipped open your binder to a clean sheet of paper and began writing out your simple description of your break. You knew that Mr. Lawrence didn’t actually care about what you had done or had to say, only that you’d done the work and had proof of editing for it. This was a practise for the main event. Still, you could make a page out of art classes and driving to Carmel with Samantha to see some random band in the basement of a dive bar. You could even make it interesting for him. But, something still made your stomach churn. You didn’t want Harrington looking at your writing. You didn’t consider yourself the next Hemingway, but you could write an essay. What worried you wasn’t being told that you were wrong. It was letting him into your mind at all. You didn’t know Steve and he didn’t know you, what if he didn’t understand you? He wouldn’t understand you.

You looked up from your work to see Steve looking blankly at you. You met his eye, raising your brow at him. He looked away fast. You didn’t know what it was about, your hands came up to your face, wiping at your cheeks and mouth. Maybe there was something on your face. Maybe your hair looked silly. Maybe he was making fun of you. That had to be it. He was making fun of you. Vicki and Tina were always bugging you and Samantha, maybe he was joining in. It wasn’t your fault that Mr. Lawrence had forced you two to be partners. You pulled your body away from his, curling into yourself.

When the bell rang, you pulled your work into your bag, making a break for the door. You had your free period next and were desperate to finish your drawing of Samantha. You didn’t need to have her in front of you to catch the right details; you’d drawn her a million times.

You had barely made it into the hallway when Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you back with a cocky grin “Whoa, slow your roll there kiddo,” he chuckled. Your skin prickled under his hand and you wanted nothing more than to disappear. You stopped dead in your tracks, pulling away from his hand carefully.

“So, how’re we doing this?” he asked, his attention moving from you to the yelp of Tommy Hanson. You didn’t need to look to know that Carol Perkins was beating him with her bag again. That was a weekly occurrence.

“Write your stuff and hand it off to me in class. I’ll edit anything up till forty-eight hours before it’s due. I’ll give you my stuff when you give me yours.” You said quickly, crossing your arms tightly over your chest.

“Sounds cool,” Another cry from Tommy, this one more directed at Steve, drew his attention fully “Alright, I’m coming Hanson! See ya around.” He directed the farewell to you, bounding off towards the source of the sound. Even when his presence was gone, you still felt his fingertips on your arm.

Samantha threw her arm around your shoulders, rebooting your systems again. “Hey, what was that about?” she asked, leading you away from Mr. Lawrence’s classroom and towards the gym, her next destination.

“That was because you fucked me over.” You sighed. It was going to be a long month.

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a-little-slice-of-fandom · 5 years ago

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wait what happened in january (i just joined the fandom and am behind)

Hey love! Where do I start with the shitshow that was Six during January 2020?

Basically, the sequence of events goes as follows:

Vicki Manser leaves the West End production of Six on the 15th of December. As Sophie Issacs is not due to start until the 21st of January 2020, this leaves the west end production without a principle Howard for over a month. A LOT of the problems that six experienced in January can be traced back to this.*

Two days before (13th of December) Maiya Quansah Breed returned to Six. She went Salford to cover for the tour cast, who had no one to cover Parr.

Vicki Manser is called back to six for an emergency show...exactly six days after she left. She becomes the actress with the quickest turnaround from principle member to emergency cover.

Fast forward to January 2020. Collette is on holiday for the west end cast. This leaves them with no swing. Lexi has hurt her leg. This leaves the west end with no principle Cleves. On top of all this bullshit, the west end cast still have no principle Howard.

Meanwhile, on the tour cast, I think Jodie Steele hurt her voice? I’m not entirely sure what happened up there, but either way they were left with an actress down.

So basically...both the West end cast and the tour cast are falling apart.

Then, in the most convoluted solution ever, Six decides to send Alicia (from the bliss cast) to the tour queens to act as a cover for Howard while the West end cast essentially kidnap Jen (the blue alt from the U.K. tour cast) and have her perform in London for a month.

This leaves Jen as the first (and so far only) alternate to complete swingo with a completely different cast from when she started. And in all honesty? That’s just impressive.

At some point during all of this, Maiya also briefly returns to the west end for an emergency performance, along with Vicki being up on standby in the dressing room.

* I obviously don’t blame Vicki for this. If we look at the chain of events in October (Vicki announcing she was leaving, then Aimie announcing she was actually leaving and Vicki saying she would become principle Howard)I think that Vicki actually didn’t expect to stay on originally, but did when she realised there would be no principle Howard. On top of that, there’s the multiple returns in a laughably short space of time. Vicki is so dedicated to six and clearly loves it so much. It absolutely was not her fault that she had to move on nor is the show falling apart her fault. It was the bad management that thought the show could function without a principle for over a month at the same time that they let their swing go on holiday.

#six the musical #six #sixthemusical #anon #ask #anonymous ask #anon ask #anonymous #ask answered #enya discusses: six #six: bad management #six: west end cast #six: uk tour cast #six: cruise casts

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coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe · 4 years ago

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January 3rd or One's Beginning is another's end (Daughters of Darkness)

This passage contains potentially: Explicit Language, Depictions of Violence (including mentions of blood), Smoking, Slang and maybe some bad translations.

Summary: An introduction to the world of the Daughters of Darkness, through the eyes of series protagonist Kirby 'Gluttony' Lucifarian. The first day and night, from her perspective, of them working for the WWF.

Kirby's POV:

Tuesday. The first day of being 'on the job', Tuesday the third of January 1984. Damien got us into the WWF. … Damien, managed to get us into the quickest rising wrestling promotion, popularity wise. To be honest with you, Damien's given us free reign to get to know people, for now. I don't know anyone here. I've heard of people here, such as the most famous giant in the world, and … Hogan.

I'm not here because I earned it, I'm here because I'm a necessity for the team. That's how I view it. That's how I've always viewed it. Vickie needed someone to make fun of and, well, I'm the easiest choice. Then, in the midst of a darker path of thought becoming clearer in my mind...

WHAM

Both me and the figure I waltzed into thudded to the floor, "Oh, my good lord. I'm so sorry are you o..."

I looked at the figure before me, taking in how much trouble I had created in the last three seconds.

Taller than myself.

Head covered by a wild afro.

Around double my weight.

André.

André the giant.

Flat on his arse … because of me.

Oh … Shit.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle…"

I could tell he was searching for a name but didn't know it. Too frightened to even speak I glanced away. I noticed his shadow move.

"Mademoiselle?"

His footsteps came closer, he sounded … worried, as if he didn't want me to get fired for this.

"Mademoiselle?"

He picked me up, not off the ground, but so I could stand. I whispered out a small 'thank you', or rather 'merci'. His hands still on my shoulders, he smiled sweetly and nodded, as if to beckon forth more words from me.

"I'm Kirby, or rather, Gluttony. I'm new around here."

André grinned, putting his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer before stopping upon seeing how much taller than every other woman in the company I am.

"Are you, uh …" he searched for the words

"A giant, yes, technically a giantess."

I feel I should summarise the next hour or so, but, André took me on a tour of the backstage area and we talked, about everything. Within an hour I had gained a new friend, a genuine friend, someone who didn't care about my height or looks. I know the only reason he didn't care is because he knows what it's like to be stared at just because you aren't 'normal'.

By the time André's tour had ended it was time for Vickie and Damien's interview with Mean Gene, which I was to attend. I said a goodbye to André and rushed off to perform my usual role.

The Enforcer, or rather, the intimidation device, that's my role in this group, to scare people, that's all I do. Before joining the group I was part of another group back in England, The Celtic Warriors, I was part of a championship winning tag team. Now what am I, a damned intimidation device, a human scare tactic.

The Interview:

Gene's first question for us, actually, Damien and Vickie (whilst I stood behind them and looked 'menacing'), was 'How are you doing so far?'

Damien began, "You know something, Gene, my girls have yet to have a match, but we are doing absolutely fine. In shape, ready to rock, ready to roll. Gene, every one of the Daughters of Darkness are doing fine."

Vickie followed suit, "Just look at us," She gestured to me and then herself, "Don't we look marvellous, Gene."

Gene smirked, "You could say that again, miss?"

"Pride, though you can call me Vickie."

Damien glared at the smaller man, almost as if he was daring him to try and flirt with her.

Gene readjusted and focused in on the prospect of new women in the WWF and the possibility of more matches. "Uh hum, yes, now how soon do you girls think you'll be seeing a match on the cards?"

"Soon, Gene, Soon." Vickie stated, ending the interview by walking off.

The first night after 'work' was surprisingly normal, Damien and Vickie went off in their rental car, taking Holly and Eli with them whilst the rest of us stood around backstage for a while.

Billie brought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse, lighting one up and walking over to me, sitting down on a box placed near by and blowing the smoke away from me she spoke up.

"What's up with you, Tall-ass."

"Thinking."

"Dangerous pastime hermana."

"I know, hermana"

"You collect phrases, don' cha?"

"They may come in handy, Billie, one day."

"You going to the gym tomorrow?"

"Of course. Gotta train. Gotta … gotta settle in somehow, right?"

"Right, mi hermana, I'll see you around, alright?"

"See ya, Billie."

She waved back at me as she walked away.

Billie was the only person who knew that I 'collected' those little phrases that seem like nothing until spoken. Language isn't my strongest aspect, more often than not I'm silent and I try to avoid other peo-

"Hey! watch where you're walking man!" I yelped out, shocked back into the present moment. Instantly regret flooded my mind as I realised who had barged past me to get out of the building.

Big John Studd.

One of the most disrespectful 'giants' in the world of wrestling. famous for being the one man who pisses André off more than anyone else, including the Iron Sheik.

He sneered back a quick, "Who gives a fuck." and continued to stroll away.

That … that fuckwit. Who does he think he is. I felt a gentle hand place itself on my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Eli or P.G, I was face to, well, chin with André.

"Forget about him," He started, with that same sweet, friendly smile from earlier, "Damien said you may need a ride back to the hotel. I don't recommend you walk back now, too dark out for a young lady such as yourself."

The way his R sounds turned into faint W's and he missed off or faintly implied H's was calming. Almost in the same way that hearing a parents voice would calm a child after a nightmare.

"Oh, uh, it's okay André, I was going to get a taxi."

He nodded in response, somehow both downhearted and curious, as if he knew that I was either lying to him or if I did get a taxi, the immense pain my back would be in the following day. André sauntered off, leaving me, once again by myself.

I don't mind being alone, in fact most of my life I have been alone, always the outcast, it was only when I got into wrestling that it started to change.

I picked up my bag and started walking, buttoning up my shirt up to the top of my chest, my near-neon orange shirt covering down to my mid-forearm, hiding any noticeable tattoos, except the one on my wrist, when I turned eighteen, I got a small, runic 'R' on my right wrist, in remembrance of my uncle Rory, the tallest of my dad's brothers.

It took about an hour to get to the hotel, an hour of walking through a city I'm not familiar with, when I eventually got to the hotel I went straight to my room and locked myself in. All alone, I could practice or train if I wanted, so I did.

I took off my black shirt, shoes and belt and I stood in the middle of the hotel room and practiced punching, then I switched to doing my warmups and working out, push-ups, planks, squats. By the time I finished it must've been around midnight, maybe one or two am. I got some sleep, waking up at six, getting changed into some fresh workout gear and headed straight to the gym.

You meet all sorts of characters at a gym, or so I've been told. Back in England I would go to my parents house and use our home-made gym to work out. Not an option that I have anymore, however, the moment I got into the gym, I felt like I was in a whole new world, as if I was just getting into the business all over again. I scanned for any faces that I knew, Mr Fuji, Tonga Kid, Sgt Slaughter, Don Muraco, Lou Albano, Iron Sheik, Freddie Blassie, Tito Santana, Jimmy Snuka, Bob Backlund, Gene and Pat, David Schultz, and … who is that?

I walked over to David and this mystery guy, nodding at David and heading to the heavy bag next to them.

"Mornin' Gluttony, André's been talkin' about ya."

"Oh really, Mr Schultz?" I tried to keep my breath noises to a minimum as I continued to hit the bag.

The mystery guy snickered, quickly shutting up after Schultz glared at him.

"C'mon girl, you know you can call me David. An' yeah," He stopped punching and instead leaned on the heavy bag in front of him, forcing the other guy to hold it still "Giant's been talking about him havin' a new friend and how much he likes ya."

"He's a good man, it's good to have friends in new places. Who's your pal, David?"

He smiled and slung his arm around the shorter man, "This here, this is Roddy Piper. He's like you."

I tilted my head slightly to try and make him explain further.

"You are Scottish, right?"

"I'm a quarter Scottish. Anyway, Piper, Do you speak Gaelic?"

"Uh, no, I can play the bagpipes however." his eyes lit up slightly, a sort of mad fire behind a haze of brown or maybe dark blue.

"Well, I'll see you around I guess, I've gotta warm up for later though."

I tried to block the two men out and focus on my own workout but Piper seemed to stick around a lot longer than David. He was still there when my workout ended.

"What do you want?"

"You're a quarter Scottish, you're also a giant. How do you fight? Show me." He seemed to get more energetic the more he talked.

"Right now?"

He nodded, "Right now, c'mon."

He led me to a ring that some other wrestlers were using to brush up their skills.

From the looks of the ring, it was actually used for boxing.

Roddy entered the ring the same way as most six-foot-two guys did, through the top and middle ropes. I tested the ropes, and seeing that they had just enough slack, used them to jump over the top rope.

"I've never seen a girl do that before."

"Mistake number one, I'm a woman, not a girl. Mistake number two, you expected a giant to be normal."

He scoffed out a laugh and got ready to lock up.

We locked up and Piper hit me with a knee to the stomach.

I got him back with an Irish whip into the corner, accidentally winding him by being too stiff.

"You're gonna pay for that, lass." He snarled out, already getting pissed off.

I sized him up, trying to see how high I would have to get myself in order to dropkick him to the mat.

Piper tried to hit me with a running high knee strike but I countered with a dropkick, taking us both down to the mat and slamming my face into the mat.

The mat was a lot harder than I was used to, it felt like I had rammed my head straight into a cinderblock, I started breathing heavier than before.

I rolled over and put my arms up, making an 'X' with my forearms. Piper stopped and walked over.

"You alright?"

I shook my head.

He knelt down and pulled me up into a sitting position.

I hesitated, knowing I had to take my mask off to see what was wrong but truly not wanting to. Piper managed to unbuckle the straps of my mask and winced as he saw what was underneath. My mind went slightly mad not knowing if he was wincing at the injury I had caused myself or the fact that, compared to the rest of the D.O.D, I'm truly the worst looking, beauty-wise, that is.

Hitting my mouth so hard on the canvas of the mat below us, I had managed to hit my mask in a way that the bottom edge, which curved under my chin, cut into my flesh and made me bleed.

I put my hand up to the cut and Piper quickly held my arm by the wrist and shook his head, "Don't you dare."

By the time I received medical aid, which consisted of cleaning the cut and putting a band-aid on it, Piper had given me back my mask and asked if he could work out with me sometime. Knowing that he was currently on a different show, I said sure and we had split ways.

END OF ONE'S BEGINNING IS ANOTHER'S END / JANUARY 3RD

#Lucifarians #wrestling fic

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aion-rsa · 3 years ago

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Old Review: M. Night Shyamalan’s Makes Another Happening

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Filmmaker M. Night Shyamalan has left his unmistakable stamp on some of our culture’s most primal fears: ghosts, beings from another world, and even unnamed monsters in the woods. Yet in his latest effort, the cryptically titled Old, the storyteller attempts to wrap his arms around the greatest terror of all: time itself.

Like the ticking clock inside Peter Pan’s crocodile, time has stalked every creature on this planet to their inevitable doom. It can often be ignored or compartmentalized, but it finds you in the end. Which is why, on paper, Old should be terrifying. By adapting a graphic novel called Sandcastle by Pierre-Oscar Lévy and Frederick Peeters, Shyamalan is attempting to prevent us from looking away. This is a film where once you step foot on a mythical beach, you will live a lifetime in a day. Who has time to distract themselves from the ravages of decay when it’ll be here by dinner?

And yet, that is not the movie Shyamalan made. Despite being a film supposedly preoccupied with the future that awaits us all, Old feels like a relic of its director’s past. For here is another half-baked and clumsily constructed series of clichés strung together by sequences which vary wildly from quality to kitsch, and from horrifying to hilarious. His characters might be rapidly aging, but the filmmaker’s undeniable talent feels as if it’s regressed back to its awkward and gangly The Happening days.

Also like that Mark Wahlberg misfire, Old is a story that mistakenly believes it’s obligated to overthink and explain its fairy tale logic. Which is a shame since the actual setup of the film is simple enough: Two sets of families, plus two other childless couples, are offered a once in a lifetime opportunity by their isolated island resort. They will be driven to the far side of the island where there’s a secluded beach surrounded by a cove with special minerals. Alone on white sandy shores and in the bluest waters, they can get to know each other and sample the good life.

There are more characters than are worth listing, but suffice to say the important ones are Guy, an actuary accountant played by Gael García Bernal, and his museum curator wife Prisca (Vicky Krieps). Despite being of separate international origins, they’ve raised the all-American nuclear family with daughter Maddox and son Trent (Alexa Swinton and Nolan River… at first), and are determined to give their children a happy childhood, even as their marriage appears to have long rested at the water’s edge. However, once they reach this magical beach populated by many other underdeveloped characters, it becomes an open question how happy a life can be had when their children rapidly age into teenagers and then young adults in the span of a morning… and that rich doctor down the way (Rufus Sewell) begins showing signs of late stage Alzheimer’s after only a few more hours.

Old is a genuinely creepy premise, which in the right hands could unnerve as the ultimate body horror. What instills more existential dread than seeing your youth turn to wrinkles, and golden halcyon days go gray inside of 90 minutes? But inexplicably that is not the movie Shyamalan chose to make. To be sure, there is some basic use of humans’ natural transmutations, but it’s mostly through the perspective of parents watching their children age like bananas. And credit should be given to the hair and makeup folks, as well as the younger actors, who convincingly pull off the continuity of Maddox and Trent’s accelerated lifespans.

But for each effective moment, such as when teenaged Maddox and Trent approach their parents confused and horrified at why their voices are different, there are five more of Guy, Prisca, and an ensemble of wildly inconsistent adult performances standing around trying to justify their film’s lunacy with laughable pseudo-science. Rather than delve into the ripe existential phobias that are growing around its cast like coconuts, Old is content with mostly coasting on being a Fantasy Island episode that adapts And Then There Were None—complete with a surprise killer running around. The movie thus plays less like an artist grappling with mortality than it does one slumming in B-movie trashiness.

And if The Happening should’ve taught Shyamalan and his audience anything, it’s that intentional trash has never been his forte. As with the revelation of why folks were killing themselves in The Happening, Old spends far too much time setting up a rationalization and an inevitable third act twist, which plays a bit like if at the end of The Birds, Alfred Hitchcock revealed the title creatures had been trained by a mad scientist down the shoreline. It’s unnecessary and, like so much else of the film, focused on the wrong questions. But then even the ideas that Old does concern itself with are haphazardly explored and articulated.

After proving he still has a gift for quirky and clever dialogue with films like Split, the perfunctory and ham-fisted nature of nearly every adult character interaction is baffling here. From on-the-nose lectures wherein parents tell their children in the first scene they’re too young for this and not old enough for that, to the robotic way in which Guy and Prisca unconvincingly talk about their marriage, the banality of the screenplay is as ceaseless as the sea. Framing and blocking for the camera is similarly roughshod throughout the movie. Sequences meant to evoke genuine horror—including a surprise pregnancy teased in the trailer—become outright giggle-inducing in their final execution. It’s in fact hard to think of any theatrical screening this summer with more laughs drifting through an auditorium.

By the time of its hokey and melodramatic finale, Old has collapsed on every level as a horror movie, but may have cemented its status as a cult midnight movie classic.

I take no joy in writing this. As someone who’s seen virtues in most Shyamalan movies, even damnable ones, it was a real pleasure to witness the “Shyamalanaissance” emerge in the wake of The Visit and Split. I even enjoy the autobiographical subtext the filmmaker inserted into Glass. But if those movies were a validation of his cinematic powers, then Old is the puddle waiting for him in the parking lot.

Old opens in theaters on Friday, July 23.

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qm-vox · 4 years ago

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So You Want To Play A Darkling

(Sketch of Vickie Reeds, the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, provided by Sylverthorne. Character by me; catch her in New Avalon.)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental & So You Want To Play An Ogre

“You don’t want to know.”

It’s a simple statement. We hear it, or its famous variants - “don’t even ask about,” and “how badly do you want to know?” and “don’t even get me started,” and more - all the time, and we brush them off. Of course we want to know! We asked, didn’t we? Why would we ask if we don’t want to know? And most of the time it’s something small, or our conversation partner was exaggerating for effect, and we learn just fine.

And other times what you hear, in a low and painful voice, spoken without eye contact and without pride or glory, is something you really did not want to know. Something you should not have asked. And now it is in you, rattling about in your mind, ready to stalk your dreams and worry away at your hope and joy.

Darklings are those Lost who know the things you should not, and their peers ask careful questions indeed around the children of Darkness. There are times in every Freehold’s life when push comes to shove and someone should have the hollow lore which bleeds, breaks, and scrapes. Someone has to know.

How badly do you want to?

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost, as well as Winter Masques and Swords at Dawn. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for depictions of torture, maiming, abuse, cannibalism, forced transformation, suicidal thoughts & ideation, stalking, and murder.

A Nightmare With No Waking - Darkling Overview

Darkling is the second Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost; it joins Ogre in being one of the two Seemings most defined by violence, and Fairest in being a Seeming that is both highly socially adept and whose mere identity distorts their social relationships both to their fellow Lost and to mortals. Darkling is a striking and highly popular Seeming, represented strongly both in the community and in published NPCs, with many excellent examples to draw from and strong bones in with folklore and urban legend.

Like their cousins the Ogres, Darklings have a relationship to violence that may not be voluntary on their part. But where Ogres learn to fight, to roar, to hit back and intimidate until they are left in peace, Darklings learn the subtle shades of fear. Darklings hide, lie, cheat, and sneak. Keenly aware of the consequences of violence, Darklings adapt to murderous abuse by outwitting and outlasting it. When they are finally driven to strike against an enemy hunting them, a Darkling does not fight: they survive. If that means becoming a murderer, a cur, a monster, so be it: their enemies can hate them from the grave.

Up From The Gutter - Homecoming As A Darkling

Darklings are among those Lost who remember Arcadia with the least clarity and certainty (even as Wyrd rises), rivaling Fairest for ‘memories’ which may just be heady blends of fear and adaptation warped into a form they can live with. For many, their Durance is a blur of instincts and ‘rules’, behaviors adapted either to survive a lethal environment or the lethal attentions of a master which went out of its way to hate them. But for all that specific events are obscured in darkness, transmuted to sensory impressions fogged with rage and terror to rival the most frenzied nightmares of Beasts, most Darklings understand that they lost something important in the Fairest of Lands. All Lost carry scars of their survival, of course; it is far from unheard of for an Ogre to emerge missing an arm, or a Wizened to claw her way out without the eyes in her head. It is not the act of scarring in itself that creates a Darkling.

The loss that makes a Darkling is one that is replaced with Nothing. Not one which is not replaced; eyes gouged from their living skulls, warmth robbed from their veins, shards of soul-stuff cleaved from the whole to be nibbled on like candied glass by things whose voices are torn paper and guttering candles. The Nothing which replaces this loss, and which turns a mortal into a Darkling rather than any other Seeming, is an active absence, a hollowness, a yawning gulf inside of them which resists being filled and creates space around itself. It is here that Darkness dwells, and it is the Nothing that makes the Darkling wretched and wrong.

The exact loss and its methods vary. In the Castle of Diamonds, so high in the sky that sunlight cannot reach, the shivering slaves of its Lady rip out their human compassion so they can emulate her hunger and escape a pathetic, frozen death; when they escape into lands that know light and warmth, the hunger remains. The master of the Labyrinth, the Warden of Rats, steals mortals to persecute his verminous prisoners and plucks their fingers out one by one when they fail to meet their quotas; when they find the hidden cracks in the walls and go screaming into the Hedge, they can still turn their spectral prosthesis into blades, just as Master taught them. A Tunnelgrub mining for crystal blood in the corpse of a great giant hears the bones whispering to her; when she takes pity on their dreams of the open sky and trades her memories of it to them, they throw her into the Hedge with a new-found case of agoraphobia. Whatever the case, the Nothing - the Darkness - becomes part of the Darkling’s Wyrd, bound forever into their essence.

A Darkling’s Durance may have been wild or industrious; they may have served as librarians, murderers, spies, guards, or even cleaning staff, or they may have performed an initial escape early on only to transform when they got lost in the Arcadian wilderness. What they all have in common is danger. For almost every second of their captivity, the Darkling was under threat; from a Master which hated them and would harm them if it noticed the Darkling, from fellow slaves desperate for food or warmth or life’s blood, from haunted forests and ancient curses, from things seeking to swallow the Darkling’s shadow. Darklings learned to live in constant fear, to hide, lie, and cheat, and, if violence was inevitable, to be the first to resort to it.

These two truths form the first and greatest obstacles to a Darkling’s escape: first they must convince themselves that the mortal world, which is now strange and frightening to them, is still safer than their captivity, and second they must convince themselves that they deserve to go back. Darklings struggle with self-image problems that would stagger most of their friends if the children of night ever expressed them; many, staring at their inhuman shadows or at the collections of diseased, blunted knives that are now their fingers, think of themselves as monsters to be put down rather than victims who deserve compassion and healing. For those who cannot overcome this self-doubt, the darkness of Arcadia waits to swallow them whole. But if they can focus through the pain, the doubt, the horror, Darklings are well-suited to finding the hidden paths into the Hedge, past guards and demons and terror, and slipping oh-so-quietly back into the Iron Lands where they were once born.

Darklings are often drawn home by memories now alien to their new environment; warmth, love, laughter, and light factor heavily into a Darkling’s recollections of the Iron Lands. Despite their otherwise obsessive interest in their physical, environmental safety, it’s people the Darkling comes home to protect - to kill for, if necessary. Of course, all too many collapse to the soil of Earth and, once they find their breath, conclude that the people they love are better off without such a monster in their life. It is during the resulting patterns of stalking and distant observation that the local Freehold generally finds the youngblood Darkling and attempts to coax them into meeting their peers.

Mountebanks and Murderers - Darkling Kiths

Though the listed weakness of Darklings as a Seeming is both fairly obvious and straightforward - they suffer a penalty to all attempts to work magic during the day, which worsens in direct sunlight - this is not the curse which stalks their life and wends its way through their relationships with all of their peers. No; Darklings are unique amongst Seemings in that their magical strength is their magical weakness. Darklings have an incredible talent for stealth, deception, robbery, murder, stalking, and disguise; a Darkling twisting the truth is as skilled as a Fairest. These tools, refined in Arcadia, are among the first the Darkling reaches for when confronted with stress or with trouble, and they are all too keenly aware that these things are, not to put too fine a point on it, wrong. At the end of every day the Darkling has to look at herself in the mirror and see a person who thinks to lie before she thinks to tell the truth, who knows where the old injuries that weaken her friends and would let her kill them are, who forgets sometimes why we knock on front doors or pay for goods and services.

It’s exhausting. It isn’t just the self-recrimination, though that rough beast stalks almost every Darkling under Earth’s starry skies. It’s that humans and post-humans are naturally predisposed to enjoy things we’re good at, and what Darklings are good at are con jobs, cheating, betraying trust, and bloody murder.

It doesn’t help that Freeholds tend to know it too. Though all Lost have trust problems, it’s Darklings who get the worst reputation for wriggling their way out of Pledges or for being liars and thieves. Their peers can often tread lightly around them, further increasing feelings of frustrating alienation from their own communities. Sometimes, but not all the time, strong community leaders make efforts to bridge this gap and create cultures of acceptance, but in the absence of such mighty compassion Darklings can often feel as if they’ve been forced into a second, smaller community which has unspoken rules it must obey. Given how strongly that situation can remind them of their Durance, there are many Darklings the world over who are more than a little prickly, more than a little standoffish, whose hair-trigger tempers are concealed beneath a silent facade that acts like a spider’s trapdoor. The bursts of violence that can result only worsen the problem.

How do Darklings cope with being liars and killers? Poorly, in the main. Some lean in, drifting towards Summer and Autumn where a reputation for violence can service them well. Such Darklings learn to tell the truth tactically, almost as a method of deception in itself; they become scouts, Hedge Rangers, spies, and sorcerers. While this reduces the day-to-day stress of simply Being A Darkling, it does tend to arrest the Darkling’s recovery. Though there are very good reasons for them to learn and practice the skills they gained in their Durance, building an identity around these ultimately maladaptive coping mechanisms means not confronting the problems that created them in the first place.

Other Darklings, often those who wind up in Spring or Winter, go the opposite route: they go out of their way to prove they’re trustworthy, lovable, and no threat at all. They throw themselves into social events and social roles and go out of their way to make themselves available; some go so far as to start taking strictly diurnal schedules so others can contact them more easily and as a show of great trust and strength. Such efforts often work! People come to trust and approach these Darklings, and they flourish in the social roles they seek out, but beneath the sunny smiles and bright words is often a Lost riding the edge of a fucking killing spree. The cost of this approach is quite often a constant feeling of doubt and threat, of unsafety, and rather than attaining healing such Darklings succeed in making themselves unhappy on purpose.

All too often, regardless of the initial approach they attempt to take, a given Darkling can only really start to heal when driven to do so by an outside source. Having a friend close enough to call them out on their shit and actually get listened to is an important milestone in a Darkling’s journey, especially when their fellows can all-too-easily mistake stability for recovery when the two are not the same.

Darkling Kiths embody fears; they are the things waiting in the dark, the secrets you try to avoid, the anxieties behind your flickering smiles. Though some relationship exists between a Darkling’s Kith and their fae labors, the dangers into which the Darkling was placed and the adaptations they made to survive those dangers are equally important - if not more so. All other things being equal, Darklings are somewhat more likely to manifests Kiths and therefore Miens which reflect more ‘modern’ stories than other Seemings are; Bloody Mary, the Candyman, and Jason Vorhees are as germane to their nature as red caps, Baba Yaga, and goblins are, maybe even more so, for the fears of the modern era yet live.

Thoughts on individual Darkling Kiths follow:

Antiquarian - Antiquarians are spoken of in Winter Masques as embodying the fear of old age, and they can fit this mold fine enough as witches, unsettling librarians, or the dead-eyed tender of a dive bar you realize you should not be in, but given their powerful ability to know things (embodied in 9-again on Academics and Investigation and in the power to spend Glamour to know answers to questions even when they don’t) that’s hardly the full breadth of this Kith’s potential. Antiquarians can easily be the smiling police detective who has entered your life for reasons you do not understand, the sinister school psychiatrist using her authority to make your life hell, or even the intimidating priest you know will some day ask you to do something...ungodly. This is strong and thematic Kith, easily worth considering for any concept that revolves around knowledge or investigation; pair it with Cleareyes via Dual Kith for a nearly psychic level of perception.

Gravewight - Does your chronicle revolve around ghosts? Then close the book and go play Geist, which actually works for them. For all intents and purposes neither this Kith nor Contracts of Shade and Spirit actually exist.

Leechfinger - Do you like vampires, breath-stealing cats, kumiho, and other life-eaters? Then keep looking because Leechfinger sorta fucking sucks. Which is a shame, honestly; Leechfinger may well be Darkling at its most pure, representing the fundamental way in which lies and theft take shards from the lives of others which they will never get back. But its Blessing is incredibly lackluster, and while ordinarily it would be valuable for short-cutting nWoD’s long recovery times from violent confrontation...goblin fruit exist. Give this one a pass.

Mirrorskin - Embodying the fear of losing one’s identity - as well as the fear of strangers, of false faces that hide malicious intent - Mirrorskin is the single strongest Kith in its niche and so centralizing that in many ways it’s a better investment for disguise and shapeshifting than Contracts of Mirror, which are, you know, for disguise and shapeshifting. Mirrorskin is worth considering for any concept that wants to invest in infiltration, regardless of your Seeming, and easily worth even the three dots needed to snag it with an out-of-house Dual Kith.

Tunnelgrub - Burglars, snakes, goblins, and sewer mutants, Tunnelgrubs embody the fear of intrusion, robbery, and the suspicion that your safe home is anything but. Mechanically, they’re, well, they’re functional. Their Blessing lets them slip in and through spaces that would normally require powerful Contracts (Separation 3 or Elements 5, depending), and that’s definitely not nothing, but one does need to ask oneself how often you’re going to slither down someone’s chimney.

Lurkglider - Lurkgliders embody gargoyles and predators such as harpies or the Mothman, but they also have bones in with fear of, and fascination with, cat burglars, rooftop men, and so-called ‘superspies’. Their Blessing is, like Tunnelgrub, unmatched in its niche but still incredibly niche for all of that. If your group is already full of Windwings and Steepscramblers, consider Lurkglider so you can jump naked off of skyscrapers like an absolute madman; otherwise, maybe give this one a pass.

Moonborn - I want the head of whatever jackass greenlit this. Skipping over the ableist horse shit that is this Kith, which we should not but skipping over it, Moonborn is a volatile and risky Kith whose usefulness depends entirely on how your group runs Derangements, which in themselves never should have been written the way they got written in the first place. White out this section of your copy of Winter Masques and put this far from your mind.

Nightsinger - Nightsinger is another one that is Okay. Thematically it’s a bit confusing; it does not directly relate to many kinds of legendry or fear, and the ones it does relate to taste more like Wizened than Darkling. Mechanically, Nightsinger has powerful social support tools which help your group’s face land their social rolls, and if that idea is appealing to you then I’m happy to suggest Nightsinger, but given Lost’s lack of mechanical tools to follow up on the musical theming and the fact that Playmate exists I can’t wholly endorse this Kith.

Palewraith - Palewraiths are a sort of stealth replacement for Gravewight; they embody the fear of fading away, of becoming a helpless ghost, of being a secondary character in your own life. Their Blessing is...bad, and worse, it’s boring. Give it a pass.

Razorhand - Razorhands are killers, thugs, organleggers, and ghouls; they embody the fear of slashers, of violence in the dark, of having yourself carved up by something which sees you only as a resource to be exploited. Their Blessing is incompetently worded; the most common reading lets them spend 1 Glamour to turn their unarmed attacks into a 1L weapon and gives them (Knives) as a Weaponry specialty, and on those terms Razorhand is one of the premier close-combat Kiths. If Leechfinger being shit let you down, consider Razorhand as one of the most quintessentially Darkling Kiths.

Whisperwisp - Darkling Does Fairest. Whisperwisps are spies, turncoats, and double agents. Their Blessing resolves to 8-again on rolls to lie in conversation, and that’s before the thing where they can murmur in your ear from across the room. If you’re considering a social-focused Darkling concept,Whisperwisp is your first and probably only stop.

A Cause Worth Killing For - Darklings in the Courts

Though Darklings don’t necessarily immediately fit into obvious roles in a Freehold the way that Ogres and Wizened so often do, chances are that their new community is going to eventually ask them to break shit, kill people, and steal things. Thankfully even the most urban Freehold doesn’t necessarily need people killed all that often, so during the ‘off season’ a classically retained Darkling is likely to slot into mid-tier social roles in their Court; they flourish as assistants, administrators, Arrayers of Distant Thunder, Armigers, and the like. For those who finally get a handle on their shit, even more illustrious roles might follow - a Darkling with a level head makes an ideal Searce, Twilit Page, or Thane, for instance. Ironically, this makes Darklings among the more visible Seemings in the power structures of a Court, rivaling Fairest and Beasts for de jure and de facto power.

How a Darkling reacts to eventually being asked to perform underhanded deeds for her new society will become a defining moment in her journey towards healing. Some have an easier time than others. A Razorhand approached by Summer and asked to serve as a scout has the chance to bring military pride to an otherwise shameful skill set and make peace with the terrible things she’s learned to do to survive, while a young Lurkglider who attracts the attention of one of Winter’s Archers gets to see the real, tangible lives saved by the information he brings home and the enemies he tracks through the terrible Hedge. In contrast, an Antiquarian asked to find blueprints for a Spring heist or disable a security system ahead of Autumn’s assassins faces a much more difficult choice - one they have to live with every day of their life thereafter. Playing the ‘you aren’t paid to ask questions’ game with Darklings rarely ends well; the children of night are more inclined to respect the secrecy of even the most vile enterprise if you’ll just play straight with them, while lies can taint noble intentions forever in their eyes. It is difficult for their leaders to gain the trust of Darkling vassals, and oh so very easy to lose it.

Darklings are among those Lost who yearn to embrace high ideals in their Courts, though both their inclinations and their anxieties lead them to see quite a bit of a Court’s realpolitik either way. More than anything, they want honesty out of a Court they choose to embrace; if you walk your talk, a Darkling is a lot more willing to see how those cynical political needs stem from, and feed back into, the high ideals that are on the recruitment poster. Tell a would-be Darkling knight that Summer needs ammo to defend the weak, and ammo costs money, and they’ll agree - but if those bullets start getting aimed at the ones you’re supposed to protect, you don’t get to act surprised when the Darkling shoots you in the back in turn. Of course, there can be those Darklings who live down to their worst selves, but their peers often invest quite a bit of energy in hauling them out of such pits - or burying them in it. The children of night don’t have a lot of trust to go around, and errant brothers who piss on the Freehold’s goodwill don’t get tolerated for long.

Spring - Though Darklings are good at Spring’s social games, they do not often join the Emerald Court. Openly admitting to their Desires, putting their wants and needs out where others can see them, is terrifying for most Darklings. Spring’s chaotic culture also makes it difficult to predict and adapt to, and for a Darkling this combination of factors is often as appealing as having a rabid weasel stapled to the inside of their thighs. Those who do take the comparatively extreme step of joining Spring are often looking to make equally extreme changes in their lives; they may be driven by self-loathing, trying to reject the guilt they feel over a particularly violent Durance, or hoping to hide from enemies (real or imagined) behind the flash and thunder of Spring in its full flower. The Emerald Court can often be good for Darklings who do join it, though such worthies face one of the hardest tests Spring can ask of them: to accept and love themselves as they are, and not as they ‘should’ be.

Summer - It’s easy for those outside of the ranks of the raging to assume that Summer is disinterested in Darklings and that Darklings in turn are not interested in Summer, but the Iron Spear is a fairly popular destination for them. Some join up early, realizing that the feral murder they learned in Arcadia won’t fly against trained opponents, and gain discipline and brotherhood for their troubles. Others are sought out for their skills as scouts or sorcerers, and because the cautious perspective of Darklings provides invaluable additions to Summer’s battle plans. Summer can be a very stable community from which a Darkling can grow, provided they keep the trust of their brothers in arms, and the promise of being able to bring good out of the evil done to them is an appealing one.

Autumn - Ask a given non-Darkling about what Court all the Darklings end up in and chances are they’ll say Autumn. It’s an answer born, appropriately enough, of fear; Darklings can be intimidating, dreaded, mistrusted, and so of course they ‘naturally’ end up amongst the Leaden Mirror, no? The reality is rarely so cut-and-dried. Many Darklings yearn to be more than what their Keeper made them, and signing on with Autumn feels a lot like resigning themselves to evil. Those who do join are often those who believe magic is a way they can bring wonder back into the world to ‘make up’ for the horror they commit, or those whose personal terrors are so extreme that they turn to Autumn for any relief from their misery. For those Darklings that do join with Autumn, that Court is well-positioned to help them. They take well to Autumn’s essentially two-faced nature, especially with a patient mentor who can explain why it exists and that it is not, in itself, a form of deception - and, of course, when it comes to stalking, terrifying, and haunting, few are a Darkling’s equal.

Winter - The actual most popular Court for Darklings, who emerge from Arcadia already speaking the languages of caution, humility, stealth, and silence. Winter often invests quite a bit of resources in courting youngblood Darklings and persuading them of the promise of Winter; Darklings, in turn, often feel deep guilt and sorrow over what they’ve become, and the power to build a new life with no questions asked can be an incredibly attractive offer. From this initial mutual attraction can blossom wildly successful careers as Winter Courtiers. Darklings understand the ideology of stealth and the importance of information control without having to be taught it; Winter understands that being honest with its Darklings will motivate them just as much as the promise of payment and favors. The ‘trouble’, such as it is, is that at times the Coldest Court can succeed its way right out of owning a valuable operator; as their Darklings stabilize and learn to trust and love others in their guarded way, sometimes they pack up and leave. It’s never anything personal. It’s just that in becoming the sort of person with whom others feel safe sharing their Sorrows, these Darklings realize that maybe they don’t have to feel guilt over their victimization, and like frost in a sunbeam the ties that bind them to Winter melt. Those who reach this point and choose to stay are those Darklings who see value and beauty in the promise of Winter; such Courtiers quite often ramp up how active they are in their local community, becoming invested in the lives of the Flowing Pages and even members of other Courts whose lives might be bettered by the cleansing power of Sorrow and a quiet hand to hold through the dark times.

The Children Of Noose And Razor - Darkling And Changeling’s Themes

As mentioned in So You Want To Play An Ogre, Darklings are one of the two Seemings that reflect victimization by the prison-industrial complex. Where Ogres learned the language of overt violence, Darklings got by on their wits and cunning, killing in secret and smuggling goods or drugs to make money on the side. Mastering a corrupt system corrupts the Darklings in turn, and when they escape, they take that corruption with them.

More broadly, however, Darklings represent those whose violent abuse has rendered them an imperfect victim; someone who, despite being as scared of you as you are of them, is infinitely more dangerous than you are. Darklings are primed to represent the consequences of growing up amidst gang violence, being raised into a mob family, or being pressured as a young professional into criminal enterprises. The recent med school graduate who learns that her great job offer is a front for organlegging might be a Darkling if she gets out alive; so, too, might a child whose father presses a .32 into his hands and bids him to make his first kill ‘for the family’. Anywhere that violent abuse encourages its victims to hide their thoughts and feelings, and to become complicit in order to feel safe, you will find Darklings.

Such unfortunates are rarely ‘perfect’ victims, and their coping mechanisms may not be healthy or acceptable to conventional society. It is the second cruelty; having first been victimized, the people whose trauma Darklings represent are then made to feel dirty, unworthy, or even monstrous for what their pain has turned them into. One drinks to be able to sleep through her nightmares; another fucks his way through bed after bed, never quite developing meaningful relationships because he fears closeness as much as he craves it. Many have hair-trigger tempers or put up emotional walls to keep friends and family away; more than a few hurt people to feel powerful. Some of the most tragic cases involve attempted suicide. All are, too often, abandoned by the very people who should be making extra strides to help them.

Thematically, Darkling has an unusual relationship to gender - in particular, femininity- that is worth talking about. Society expects traumatized women to be delicate, virtuous things, to play the part of the perfect victim and to perform femininity in order to deserve help. This is rarely the case, and when it inevitably turns out that a woman victimized by violence is not an angel garbed in human flesh this is used as an excuse to belittle her, doubt her, or even persecute her. Survivors who, like many Darklings, turn to knives and shotguns to feel safe again find their pain used against them by a society that demands they continue to perform for it. In this sense, the trauma Darkling women experience can radically change their relationship to gender expression or even gender identity, potentially alienating them from their former communities and leaving them with the daunting task of attempting to trust and connect with new ones. That so many end up becoming angry loners is rarely because they want to be.

Though a Darkling is inclined to keep their desires and preferences secret, resist the temptation to literally make them love nothing. Just as an Ogre is not wholly defined by violence and an Elemental is not wholly defined by magic, a Darkling wholly defined by her trauma is a badly-written Darkling. What does your Darkling do to relax? What sorts of secret collections do they keep in their home and why do they love those things? What is their idea of a ‘good’ life? Do they live that life? Why or why not? Darklings get beaten down harder and deeper into the gutter than almost any other Lost, but that does not make the gutter their home; indeed, often it only deepens their lust for sunlight and song.

My Roommate, Mister Twelve-Gauge - Coping As A Darkling

Much like Ogres and Wizened, Darklings have a great concern with their physical, environmental safety. Where Wizened crave a controlled space in which to enact daily rituals that help ground them, though, Darklings need options; varied routes to get to and from favorite haunts, multiple entrances to their homes, even multiple homes if they can find a way to swing it (or at least a secure bolt-hole to run to). In the numerous cases where a Darkling can’t live in an isolated cabin with clear sightlines in every direction, they tend to favor spaces which are either temporary or can be made temporary; apartments, hotels, and squats are all commonly chosen by Darklings specifically so that they can be abandoned with a minimum of long-term attachments. As the Darkling begins to heal and considers group home ideas such as moving in with her Motley or with a girlfriend, she’s likely to continue to rent a second space on the side as income permits so that she can have solitude on demand.

A Darkling’s home reveals a lot about herself in a way she’s unlikely to in conversation. If she collects things, they’ll be on display here. If she’s into something - a specific band, videogames, history - then paraphernalia related to that thing will be all over the place. Few valuables as such are likely to be present (Darklings have a habit of stashing those in safes, deposit boxes, or even dead drops) as such, but for a Darkling whose passions run in the right direction objects of value like high-quality cooking utensils, powerful electronics, or collectors’ items might be present. The resulting clutter might seem to work against the Darkling obsession with physical safety, but it generally conceals the other feature of Darkling homes: traps. Unwelcome guests may find that tripwires connect to noisemakers which wake the Darkling from her slumber, or that an unwisely-opened door was tied to a loaded shotgun. Darklings might scatter caltrops in their hallways, rig fatal pit traps that drop people to hard basement floors, and conceal weapons throughout their home. They know it’s insane, but most do it anyway: the extra ritual needed to avoid their own traps is worth the feeling of raw security they provide. While an Ogre trusts in clear sightlines to put any intruder into their own two hands, Darklings put their faith in the secrets of their homes that they know and their enemies do not.

A given Darkling likely denies knowing about or caring for any of her neighbors. Certainly she knows her neighborhood very well, especially all routes into and out of it (the recent rise in the popularity of parkour has been a godsend for Darklings the world over), and if you can catch her off her guard the Darkling may well speak glowingly of the architecture, her favorite stores or hangouts, the local parks. Those who mistake the Darkling’s guarded heart for apathy are in for a rude awakening when they fuck with those under her protection. Darklings do not practice performative violence and they tend to be bad at giving second chances; the first warning that you’ve managed to anger one is generally when they’re feeding your hand into a garbage disposal or the DEA breaks down your front door looking for 20 kilos of cocaine you don’t remember owning but which is, would you look at that, definitely in your house. Older, calmer Darklings learn to issue threats or warnings, but even then you only really get one.

Darklings have a big obvious problem - to wit, Being Darklings - that defines the arc of their recovery, but being able to understand their bullshit and being able to solve it are two very different things to ask of them. Confronting that their coping mechanisms are, to an extent, maladaptive can be the patient work of years; trying to decide how much is healthy to hold onto and how much needs to be excised can take even longer. Darklings often seek out the company of Wizened and Ogres, with whom they share commonalities that don’t have to be spoken aloud to be understood; conversely, Darkling rivalries with Fairest can be the stuff of legends, as can the side bets on when they’re going to just fuck already everyone else can see you’re in love you idiots. Though they rarely gain the acclaim of their peers and society, Darklings make for steadfast friends who really will help you bury a body, and for many that quiet acceptance and unconditional love is the pinnacle of years of struggle to feel deserving of that love.

Example Darkling - Detective Pomander (”Melpomene”), Winter Antiquarian

Everyone in the run-down East Side knows about the Detective. No one’s exactly sure what her name is. She turns up after sketchy shit goes down, in her long coat with that smile on her face, and she asks questions. No. No, not asks questions. She makes statements; she says things about you that she shouldn’t know. She brings up connections to people you yourself might have forgotten about. She’s fucking creepy, is what she is, and by the time she’s done explaining the situation you’re telling her everything just so she’ll go away. The worst parts are when someone disappears. You think they moved away? That a gang got ‘em, or the mob they owed that drug money to? The Detective doesn’t. The Detective wants to know everything you’ve ever known about them.

Melissa Pomander - known to the Lost as Melpomene - isn’t a cop, but everyone thinks she is. Even people who know that “Detective” Pomander isn’t with the police forget sometimes; she radiates an aura of lawful authority that puts people ill at their ease and suggests in subtle ways that failure to please her will introduce you to worlds of suffering beyond your comprehension. It was this knack that first drew the attention of the Lord of the Inhospitable Chamber; it was his training that made Melpomene his replacement when he gave his life relaying vital information back to the Freehold. Detective Pomander knows people have good reason to be scared of her, but she works tirelessly on their behalf nonetheless. A bright young thing from Spring with a thing for cop roleplaying in bed says she saw the size of Melissa’s pay packets once. Detective Pomander rakes in enough cash to live in a plush mansion staffed with sexy maids. So why’s she live in a studio apartment and only get drunk enough to fuck on the nights of the new moon?

Next up: Fairest

#Changeling: The Lost #seemings #darkling #abuse #trauma #murder #violence

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andrea-lyn · 5 years ago

Note

If there's still room on your birthday prompts list, I would love a continuation of your fake investigation marriage, or something more with Michael, Alex, and Hope from the unexpected pregnancy fic?

There is ALWAYS room, and thank you for giving me an excuse to write more about the little seahorse.

“Mr. Guerin, we need you to come down to the school. There’s been an incident.”

That’s the voicemail on Alex’s phone. He has to excuse himself from the lecture that he’s teaching at the community college to go to Roswell Elementary, dreading whatever trouble that Hope’s managed to find herself in. She’s typically such a good child, but every once in a while, her genius intellect gets her in trouble for asking the wrong questions or trying to learn something new ahead of the class.

His precious six-year-old seahorse genius.

“Michael,” Alex says when he gets Michael’s voicemail again. “When you get this, meet me at the school,” he says, parking his car. He disconnects his phone from the Bluetooth so he can hurry inside, hoping that whatever happened isn’t serious.

(And he’s really hoping that Hope isn’t using her alien powers in public, because he’s not ready for the mindwipes that Isobel will have to perform if that’s the case)

“The principal left a message and she said there’s been an…”

Alex trails off.

He hangs up his phone, now understanding completely why it is that Michael’s not picking up. The principal stands, giving a relieved sigh when she sees him. “Mr. Guerin, thank you for coming,” she says, and beckons him into the office. On the bench outside it sits his darling husband and his precious daughter, both hanging their heads like the guilty parties that they are.

“Really?” he hisses at Michael. He turns to give Hope a more reassuring smile, bending in front of her without squatting so his knees won’t ache. “Hey sweetheart, do you want to tell me what happened before we go in there?”

Hope glances up at Michael, pushing back her dark curls from her face. “Should I?”

“He’s gonna find out, Daddy’s good at that,” Michael says wryly.

Hope still looks uncertain and a touch wary. It’s like they have their own little Fight Club, and given that Michael has a cut on his lip, Alex is starting to worry that maybe he’s not that far off from the truth. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, baby,” Alex assures, tucking a stray curly hair behind her ear.

He’ll find out anyway. That’s why they’re here, aren’t they?

“He got in a big fight with Annie’s Mom.”

Alex gives Michael a confused look, but Michael shrugs, wearing his ‘it’s not my fault’ expression (which historically means that he’s at fault somehow). The one relief here is that he’s pretty sure that Hope isn’t the one in the fight, which means there’s a chance for his daughter yet. “What kind of fight?”

“Mr. Guerin,” the principal beckons. “Inside, please. And bring your husband.”

Alex nods, leaning down to press a kiss to Hope’s head. “Be good and stay here, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” she agrees, kicking her legs out.

Michael looks resigned and Alex gives him a nudge into the room, trying not to get angry with him in front of the principal, but he’s fairly sure that the sharp look he’s giving him is plenty explanatory as to how upset Alex is about this situation. He settles in one of the parents’ chairs beside Michael, but as the seconds go by, he’s beginning to get a sneaking suspicion that something’s off, here.

“What did my husband do?” Alex asks calmly, noticing that there isn’t anyone else in the room. He has a bad feeling that he’s not going to like the explanation, and not because he thinks Michael did something wrong.

“Michael was picking up Hope today when he got in an altercation with another mother.”

Michael’s sitting perfectly calm as she speaks, hands in his lap. Alex recognizes it for what it is – he’s trying to keep his anger subdued and that means he can’t say anything because he risks a complete blow-up if he does.

“Did Michael instigate it?”

The principal pauses. “No, but unfortunately the complaint came from Mrs. Sloane.”

Victoria Sloane, who went to school with them. She’s young enough, and her precious little Annie is one of Hope’s best friends, which is why they tolerate her, even though Victoria had been one of the girls who’d been so quick back in the day to join in on teasing Alex for being gay, and Michael for being homeless.

Alex refrains from spitting out profanities, but he already knows Hope is getting a gold star tonight and Michael is getting something else.

“And what did Victoria have to complain about?”

“Hope calls Michael ‘Mommy’.”

“And?” Michael finally pipes up, snapping, like his patience has finally had enough. “What, is my kid not allowed to call me what she wants?”

The principal hesitates, but that’s enough for Alex.

“Why is it wrong that our daughter calls Michael that?” he asks, his voice icy. Instantly, he knows that no one in the Guerin household is in trouble. The only person that Alex is truly upset with right now is pretty little popular Vicky. “It’s our personal business and people have nicknames all the time. Hope has decided that she wants to call Michael ‘Mommy’ and that I’m Daddy.” Alex tips his head to the side. “Isn’t that even closer to the heteronormative bullshit you people like to sling at us?”

“Alex,” Michael murmurs, not a warning to stop, but a reminder.

“Sorry,” Alex says, insincerely, “I’ll deal with this with Victoria,” he guarantees. “Are we in trouble?”

“Ms. Sloane was the one who smacked Mr. Guerin in the face with her handbag, but…”

Alex lets out a derisive laugh. “We’re sitting in your office because my daughter loves her mother, and my husband got assaulted.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Let’s go, Michael.”

“Mr. Guerin, I…”

Alex is already on his feet. “We’re not suing,” he says, because he knows this is probably the real concern. “We just want to put this behind us.” It’s a complete lie, but he wants to get out of there before he gets a split lip from defending his family from this bullshit. The principal nods, meekly, and lets them go.

He makes a mental note to start looking into other schools so they don’t have to deal with this anymore.

Outside, Alex holds Michael by the arm and tenderly slides his thumb over Michael’s split lip. “What happened?” he asks quietly, looking at Hope as she bounces off towards Michael’s truck. They can’t dawdle long, but he wants to take a moment to make sure Michael’s genuinely fine.

“Picky Vicky being a bitch,” Michael says with a shrug. “She heard Hope calling me Mommy, got all persnickety about it, made a few disparaging comments to her clique. I asked her what the fuck her problem was and she whirled on me, caught me in the lip with the bag. I was mid-rant and bleeding down my chin when they pulled us apart and called you.”

“But you’re fine?”

“My dashing husband came to our rescue and defended us,” Michael says, flipping his keys around his finger. “I’m more than fine. Hope’s fine, she doesn’t even know anything’s really wrong,” he promises. “We’re all fine.”

Alex will be too, as soon as he does some research.

The next morning, Alex insists on dropping off Hope at school, kissing Michael’s shoulder and insisting he stay in bed.

“Are you sure?” Michael asks warily. “Isn’t this letting her win?”

Alex shakes his head very calmly. “Stay in bed, dear.” It’s the tone that brooks no argument, because he already knows what’s going to happen. Michael gives him a sleepy smile as he waves him off, definitely aware of what’s going to happen. Alex takes the truck and parks to send Hope off at the drop-off, joining the crowd of parents seeing their kids off for another day of school.

“Hi Annie!” Hope says breathlessly. “Bye Daddy!”

“Bye sweetheart,” Alex says, waving as she runs off.

He’s so relieved to see his baby girl so happy and ready to run off and enjoy herself, as if nothing from yesterday has made her think twice about her friendship with Annie. It’s sweet and hopeful and trusting, and Alex wants to fight to make sure she never loses that love of the world and that belief in people.

“Victoria,” Alex says calmly, once Annie and Hope have sprinted off. Alex watches as his daughter’s honey curls fall out of the braid he’d put them in, but he smiles for the way she squeals with delight as they hit her cheeks when she runs.

They’re out of earshot.

It’s perfect.

“Alex,” Victoria responds, but she doesn’t sound half as confident as she should. She crosses her arms over her chest, her crappy fake purse on display (Gucci, his ass, it’s one of the worst knockoffs he’s seen). “How are…”

“Let’s not,” he cuts her off. “Michael will be back to drop Hope off as of tomorrow,” he says. “And if I find out that you complained about my daughter calling Michael ‘Mommy’, then I might suddenly have a thing or two to say at your book club, and the PTA meetings. Do you think they’d be interested in hearing about your exploits in Cozumel?” He’d done his digging online, finding the illicit pictures that she’d clearly wanted to stay hidden. “Or maybe your husband would be interested to know about Andrew.”

Victoria blanches, opening her mouth. “That’s…that’s my personal business.”

Alex smiles calmly, smelling the blood in the water and ready for the pounce. “You’re right. It is,” he agrees. “Just like it’s our family’s personal business what our daughter likes to call Michael. You don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, and I won’t have to either. Do we understand each other?”

Victoria says nothing, but she nods mutely.

“Good. I’m glad we came to an agreement.” He twirls the keys around his finger, holding them in his palm. “I’m sure we’ll see one another around,” he adds, so much forced cheer in his voice that he knows how threatening it sounds. From the way she gapes at him, she knows it too.

Alex returns home with a smug sense of victory and donuts.

Michael’s interested in the first, even though it’s not long before he pounces on the donuts. “Did she cry?” Michael asks.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Alex replies, playing the innocent bystander who has no idea what Michael could be talking about.

Michael smirks as he licks sugar off one of the powdered donuts from his fingers, not taking his eyes off Alex as he finishes it in three disgusting bites, before leaning in to give Alex a powdery kiss. “That’s the vengeful sassy bitch I fell in love with,” he whispers, and leaves a powdered lip-mark on Alex’s cheek before he gets up to start his day.

Tomorrow, Michael will drop off Hope and Victoria won’t say a word. She won’t even dream of it, and that’s just how Alex likes it. He has to protect his family, after all, even if it’s as small a thing as Hope wanting to call Michael Mommy, because that’s what she wants.

It’s theirs, and he’ll fight to preserve every moment of it, no matter the cost.

#malex #mpreg #michael/alex #hope the seahorse #domestic fluff #roswell new mexico #bday prompts #pronetohyperbole

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bad-at-names-and-faces · 5 years ago

Text

A Visitor

Chapter 11

[Nøkken by Theodor Kittelsen]

"Inga," Frederick called out from the corridor, catching up to his sister just before she walked outside, "I didn't see you when I was studying today."

"Oh…" she shrugged as she opened the door, "I got a lot done yesterday and Monday, so the tutors told me to take today off."

He followed her out the door."So did you?" he asked, blinking at the sudden sunlight, “take a day off?”

"You didn't see me," she remarked, looking over her shoulder, "Does that answer your question?"

"Right, I guess so," he nodded, walking ahead a bit before turning around. "Speaking of Monday… Did you hear anything else about that meeting they were having?"

"I never heard anything about that," Inga admitted, "but I imagine if anything… important… was decided, they'll tell us. I was actually helping Mama with correspondence today, and I tried to bring it up, but she didn't think there was anything worth telling me..."

"You do that a lot, don't you? Writing letters for her?"

"I'm sure she'd let you help if you asked. It's not usually that difficult. You always write if someone is born or dies or gets married, and be sure to write in the correct language…"

"That's mostly French or German, I'd imagine. Maybe some English?"

"Count Esterhazy still writes exclusively in Latin."

"You can keep that one," Frederick laughed.

Frederick and Inga sat down on a bench at the edge of the garden. They could hear Anton and Peder somewhere nearby.

"Should they be doing that?" Inga asked, listening to their laughing and shouting.

"I can't see them, and I have no idea what it is, but they probably shouldn't be," Frederick admitted.They heard Nanny scolding them, and Sofia repeating whatever Nanny said, for good measure. The twins soon came around the corner, looking dejected.

"Where's that friend of yours?" Peder asked.

"You mean Lars?" Frederick replied, "I haven't seen him today."

"Too bad," Anton said as he kicked at the dirt. "I like him, even if he does have silly hair."

"What's silly about his hair?" Inga asked. "It's not that different from yours, you know."

"Oh, I didn't mean the color, just the mustache. I don't have one of those, at least."

"And you won't for a long time," his sister told him.

"Won't what?" Lars inquired, approaching them from the direction of the courtyard.

"Oh, nothing important, just something silly they were talking about," Inga said quickly.

Frederick laughed loudly. Inga shot a glare at him, raising her eyebrows.

"Um, well, obviously I missed some inside joke, but that's fine," Lars shrugged.

"Oh, no, we were actually just talking about you," Peder informed him.

"Really?" Lars blanched. "Nothing bad, I hope?"

"No, nothing bad," assured Peder, "except Anton doesn't like your mu… oof!" Anton had elbowed his brother sharply.

"I think neither of you gets to talk for the next hour," scolded Frederick, trying not to laugh more.

"I have a brother, you know," laughed Lars, "so I think I can handle whatever it was."

"That doesn't mean they should be talking about people we barely know," Inga interrupted, looking at her brothers. Frederick, at least, was trying to behave. The twins were both standing on the other bench, discussing the merits of climbing over the wall.

Having nowhere to sit, Lars leaned against the nearby tree. Nanny had started an English singing game in another corner of the garden with Sofia and Marie.

"Is your nanny English?" Lars asked.

"No," answered Inga, "she just likes that song. I don't know why. It's a pretty melody, but the lyrics are actually rather morbid when you know what they mean… at least, that's what Vicky told me when they were visiting here."

"Oh, you mean the one from England?" Lars half asked.

"Yes, it was a while ago, but I kept in touch with her for a few years. Less so since she got married."

"I didn't mind that visit," Frederick added, "but I wish that their father hadn't been so obvious about his matchmaking interests. My German might not be as good as it should be, but I could tell what he was talking about, though I guess at least Louise is about my age."

"Mr. Meyer… the ambassador, I mean…” Lars clarified. “He was posted in Belgium for several years, where he got to know the king. If you think the father of your English friends was blatant, his uncle is far worse. I think Mr. Meyer has been hoping to perform the same sorts of services for you and… well..." he trailed off, knowing that was a sensitive subject.

"It's sad about their father, though," interrupted Inga. "I wrote to Vicky when I heard about it. She sent something back, but I'm not really sure if she wrote it herself. Not that I can blame her."

"Oh, yes," gasped Lars, "that was quite shocking. I mean, my father is dead, but I never knew him, so it doesn't bother me in the same way. I imagine it would be far worse--"

"Can we not talk about this?" Frederick asked, trying to sound bored instead of distressed after having done some quick mental calculations about their own father's age.

Lars stood by the bench awkwardly, and Inga sat for a while looking at Sofia and Marie dancing around in the distance, with little Karl pretending to keep up. Peder and Anton started climbing the nearest tree a dozen feet away. Frederick walked over to the tree and tested which branches he could reach while standing on the ground.

"Can I ask you something, Lars?" Inga inquired earnestly.

"I suppose?"

"Did your mother ever consider marrying again?"

"Um… I never thought about that. She was always so focused on the two of us, and the only other person she ever talked about was our father. Even if she had thought about it, we weren't from around there, you know."

"Well, that shouldn't make a difference," Inga sighed, "and people move to Corona from elsewhere all the time, I heard you say that yourself."

"I guess she just kind of kept to herself. Even when we had people visiting, she just wasn't very social."

"Sorry," Inga apologized, "I didn't mean to pry or anything."

"Don't worry about it," he assured her, "to change the subject, I actually came over here just now because I got a letter from my brother this morning, and they'll be arriving this week, and I thought you'd all like to meet him."

"Just your brother?" Inga asked pointedly.

"Well, all of them, including Elizabeth. I got the idea from my brother's letter that they hadn't told her about the change of itinerary, otherwise she'd have written to me first, I'm sure."

"Where were they originally going?" Frederick asked, sitting in the middle of the roots of the tree across from them. Neither Inga nor Lars had noticed him listening to their conversation.

"Various places. The Southern Isles is the big one they're skipping. That's a little worrisome, since things had been quite amicable for a while…" Lars stopped himself, "and that's probably something you should forget I said."

Inga laughed. "I don't think you'll need to worry.”

Frederick frowned at her.

"Who's Elizabeth?" Peder asked, hopping down from his tree branch.

"His fiancee," Inga answered quickly.

Lars looked over at her, but she was suddenly engrossed in looking over at the younger children at the far end of the garden.

"Yes," Lars replied, "I haven't seen her in over a month now."

"Did you get any letters from your mother?" Inga asked.

"Not since I last wrote a few days ago, but of course there's been no time for that to reach her yet, even if there were a steamship available."

"Why can't she get the letter sooner?" Peder demanded.

"Hush, Peder," Inga scolded him.

"But why not?" he whined.

"Perhaps getting a regular steamship from here would be useful," Lars replied.

"That's not what I… oof, Inga! Stop that!" Peder protested as his sister kicked him in the shin.

"Why don't we go on a ride?" Anton suggested. The others readily agreed. Inga went over to tell Nanny where they were going, and caught up to the others as they slowly walked to the stables. Frederick proudly mentioned that he had brought money with him, so they could have lunch in town on their way back. They tacked their horses, and set off from the castle.

As they left town, heading up the hill, Inga looked out over the fjord and thought she saw something at the horizon on the water.

"Stop!" she shouted, pulling up even with Frederick. "Fred, look!"

"Oh, I was starting to wonder when she would get here!" Frederick laughed, "let's go back!"

Anton and Peder quickly followed him down the hill, and Inga started to follow, then rode back to Lars when she realized that he hadn't moved.

"What is it?" Lars asked as she approached.

"What is it?" Inga repeated sternly, "We've all turned around and you're just staying there. You don't have to come with us, but I don't want to be rude and leave you here…"

"No, I mean…" Lars began, but Inga was riding away back down the hill quickly to try to catch up with her brothers.

Inga caught up with her brothers just as they were entering the castle gates. A stable boy had run out just before she arrived, so they left their horses with him and ran through the castle and down through the side door to the fjord.

The twins were first out to the shore. Inga had caught up with Frederick and he let her go outside first. The sun was almost blinding on the water.

“Aunt Elsa!” the boys shouted, running out into the water as Elsa dismounted the Water Nokk and it dissolved into the fjord with a bow. Inga stood back and smiled. Her aunt always took time with her, so there was no need to push in on her brothers. There was a lot of noise about how long it had been, and how much they had grown, and debate with Frederick as to whether he was taller than his father yet, and the boy insisting he was still only as tall as his sister.

After the noisy greetings died down a little, the group walked up the steps and back to the courtyard. Inga let them all through the door, and walked along behind them. She noticed Lars up ahead giving his horse to the stable boy, looking around seeming somewhat confused. Elsa noticed him, too, and stopped.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Oh,” Inga ran up to her aunt’s side, “this is Lars, he’s from Corona. He’s the private secretary to the new ambassador.”

“We’re keeping him entertained until his work starts,” Frederick added.

“Corona…” Elsa mumbled under her breath, still staring at him.

Lars blinked, realizing who he was looking at, and bowed silently, too stunned to remember the protocol he had learned.

“Oh,” Elsa smiled nervously. “Please, you don’t need to do that. What's your name again?”

He stood up quickly enough to feel a bit dizzy, and repeated his well-rehearsed line, “Lars Nilsen, private secretary to the ambassador from Corona.”

“Nilsen…” Elsa said slowly, “and you’re from Corona?”

“Yes, but my parents were originally from Arendelle,” he replied.

“They left before he was born,” Frederick added, desiring to be helpful, “and his father died before he was born, and he’s been asking around seeing if anyone around here remembers them.”

“Fred, I don’t think she needs to know all that,” Inga cut in. Her brother glared at her for using the nickname.

“Your mother was Margit Nilsen?” Elsa asked, ignoring her niece’s interruption.

“Yes,” Lars’ jaw dropped in surprise, “I wouldn’t have expected… she only ever says good things about you, but I had no idea you would remember her.”

“I…” Elsa paused when she caught Inga staring at her. “I hope she’s doing well.” Elsa quickly turned her attention to the nanny bringing over the younger children from the garden.

"What was that?" Inga whispered to Frederick, who simply shrugged and followed his aunt.

#kristanna #chapter 11 #aunt elsa

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