#antique inkwell

[gemville]

Glass, Silver, Carnelian and Opal Inkwell by Tiffany & Co. Circa 1907

Source: HOMES in the SKY via Facebook

[oldfarmhouse]

﹥*:ꔫ:*+ﾟ

https://www.pinterest.com.

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Inkwell by Wedgewood, after 1759, Britain.

[blondebrainpowered]

Pewter inkwell, ca. 1899

Artist: Maurice Maignan

[grayghostofthenorth]

Two Borzoi Inkwells and Borzoi Ashtray

[faggotfungus]

Grand Tour Neoclassical Bronze Figural Inkstand. 19th Century

[13-nastin-13]

Drawings from my failed inktober 2022, part I - "dreamy"

[squidinkarchives]

Art Nouveau Glass and Silver Inkwell

Source: Baldwin, MO Generation's Real Estate & Auctions

[sunshine-theseus]

Apple and Chocolate Muffins | Katie McCabe x Reader

Words: 1.9k Summary: owning a café apparently brings you the girl of your dreams Warnings: fluff

Having your own little book café on a corner of a small street in St Albans, London, brings you things you’d never expect.

I’d first bought the place from an older lady, Ms Nelson, who sold antiques. She’d decided she wanted to spend whatever time she had left travelling. She tried to simply give it to me, but I couldn’t accept and ended up paying her half of what was listed.

She likes to send me post cards whenever she’s about to leave a place. I put the most recent on display on the counter and the rest go in an antique memento box she gifted me before she left.

Ms Nelson also introduced me to my best friend Juniper, one of her old workers who helps run the place now.

“3 years here and you still refuse to tell me what your special recipe is. Whyyy?” Juniper’s favourite item, was my special apple and chocolate muffins. It was an item I refused to take off no matter how many times we changed the menu.

“They wouldn’t be a secret then would they June?”

“But I’m your best friend. And I need these in my life daily.”

“I literally make an extra 3, every night, just for you.”

The ringing of the bell on the door stops her from retaliating, and I approach the counter while June finally makes an order for Mr Byrne, one of our regulars.

“Welcome to the Inkwell Café! What can I get you?” I look at the customer, but my breath gets caught in my throat.

It’s like the Gods just sent down and angel to derail my day. Her eyes were a greyish blue and her skin was sun kissed, freckles scattering her cheeks. And her arms… well fuck me.

“Hello?” I hadn’t even realised I’d stopped paying attention until she waves a hand in front of my face.

“S- sorry could you repeat that?” I let out a nervous chuckle, but she just smiles a magnificent smile.

She starts listing off an order and I momentarily get caught off by her Irish accent, but I manage to take down the 3 different drinks. I’m about to tell her the total when she stops me again.

“Oh! And can I get one of those apple and chocolate muffins? Jonas is going to kill me, but I hear they’re worth it.” I give her a confused look.

“My friend Steph, she comes here once a month as a treat and raves about it at training.” Training?

“Oh! Well, here’s an extra one for her! For free of course. What’s the name for the order?”

“Katie”

“It will be ready soon.” I flash a smile before going to make the coffees.

June comes out of nowhere.

“Why is Katie fucking McCabe in here?” she whispers into my ear.

“Who?”

“Katie McCabe. One of the best Arsenal players ever? Captain for the Republic of Ireland Women’s National Football team? How do you not know her? I talk about Arsenal all the time. They literally train right down the road.” I stare blankly back at her.

“How did she even find us? You don’t casually find this café on your way to work.”

“She said her friend Steph comes here, told her about it.”

“Steph Cately!? I’ve never seen Steph Cately walk through those doors.”

“…Who? And you do tend to not pay attention.” Juniper just groans and I finish making the coffees.

“Katie!” as I give her the drinks, her hand brushes against my own. Tingles run up my arm, but I bid her adieu with a small smile and wave.

~~~~~

Katie begins coming in every Tuesday and Friday, and we slowly get to know each other while Juniper freaks out in the corner. Or sometimes Katie liked to just sit and read in a corner for whatever time she had before she left for training. Either way it was nice.

She loved telling me about her younger sister Lauryn who was on her way to joining Katie on their senior national team, and her crazy encounters on the pitch during games. I tell her about how and why I decided to open a book café and retell the stories Ms Nelson sends me. I also desperately try to repress all my feelings for the Irish angel that blessed my shop every week.

I also find out who Steph is. A very nice Australian woman, who does in fact come in once a month for the Apple and Chocolate muffin. I get to know her a bit too, but she usually grabs her muffin and something for her fiancée and leaves.

The first time Katie misses a Tuesday is 4 months after her first visit. I’m disappointed but don’t think much of it until she doesn’t show up on Friday, or either day the week following. That’s when I decide to visit their training ground, obviously dragging June along to do any talking, to see if I can figure out what happened.

I don’t think about how weird it is until Juniper pulls me out of the car in front of their training centre at 9am on Friday after hurriedly closing the café. And a promise for a free coffee to everyone we had to kick out.

“June this was stupid, this is something you do, not me. Why didn’t you talk me out of it.”

“I’m about to meet the whole Arsenal team just because your huge crush failed to come for her regular coffee a few times.”

“But like it is weird she just stopped coming so abruptly, right? Like we were getting along.”

“I mean sure, but you didn’t freak out like this when Mickie stopped coming. And it took us another six months to find out she’d moved to fucking Glasgow.”

“We should leave shouldn’t we.”

I turn around to head back to the car right as we’re about to enter the reception but come face to face with a slightly shorter brunette. One I’ve seen the face of in some recent team photo Katie had shown me, but was otherwise completely unfamiliar.

“Are you trying to get in? The door can be a little tricky sometimes.” How many Australians did they have here?

“Oh no-“

“Yes! We’re friends of Katie; Y/n and Juniper, and we haven’t seen her in a few weeks. We were hoping to catch her.”

“Oh! I think she’s shown us a picture of you actually! She talks about you both quite a bit. I’m Kyra by the way.”

“I know.”

“Nice to meet you.” I talk over Juniper and hold out a hand for Kyra to shake.

“Well, I’m not quite sure why she hasn’t come to see you, but I can bring you back to the locker room, you’ll just need to fill some forms out probably.” She’s already leading us to the front desk before I can deny her offer.

 Not 5 minutes later Kyra is happily dragging us to the locker room, and I can see Juniper skipping next to me, clearly excited.

“Dude you’ve gotta calm down.” I whisper to her.

“More like you need to stop being so uptight. Kyra Cooney-Cross is literally leading us to the whole Arsenal women’s team.”

“McCaaaabe! Someone’s here to see yoouuu.” Kyra calls out as soon as she opens the door.

“It’s not my bloody mum again is it? I swear she decides to come surprise me far too often.”

I peak out from behind Kyra and give a small wave.

“Hiii” I say meekly as Juniper jumps into talking to her favourite players.

“What are you doing here?” Katie gives me a quick hug.

“Well, you kinda stopped showing up and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Oh, y- yeah. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I just, I started getting feelings for you and freaked out and thought that cutting you off would help.”

“Y- you like me?”

“Yeah. Like a lot. I obviously totally understand you don’t like me back.” She lets out a sigh and looks at her boots.

“Shh shoosh shut up.” I place my fingers under her chin and tilt her head up.

It was hard to escape the doom of falling in love with Katie McCabe. Her eyes were the perfect shade of blue, her lips the softest of pinks, her freckles like the stars. She had the kindest of hearts and the most beautiful laugh. A creation made by Aphrodite herself.

“I really like you too.” And her lips are softer than you could imagine as she presses her’s hard against my own.

We’re broken apart by an array of whistles and shouts from Juniper and Katie’s teammates and I hide my flushed face in her neck.

“I can’t believe we finally get to meet the girl Katie hasn’t shut up about for like 4 months.” Alessia Russo, one player I am familiar with, comments from across the room.

“You talk about me?” I poke her in the side.

“Y/n you can’t talk you literally don’t shut up about Katie. ‘Oh my god she’s sooo funny and pretty.’”

“Bro what the fuck? That was a secret you were meant to take to your grave.” Juniper simply shrugs.

“As much as I want to stay and tease you about how much you talk about me, and kiss you, we do unfortunately have training.” Katie pouts as she hugs me.

“Oh! Before I forget. I brought you an apple and chocolate muffin.” I pull the baked good from my bag and hand it to her.

“Fuuuck yees! You are literally the best person ever. I need to know your recipe so bad.”

“Mmmm maybe I could teach you how to make them. Tonight, at the café?”

“I’VE BEEN ASKING FOR THAT RECIPE FOR 3 FUCKING YEARS AND YOU’RE GOING TO JUST HAND IT OVER TO HER?” Juniper’s outburst makes the room erupt in giggles.

“How about for your birthday?” She nods solemnly and begins to say goodbye to the other girls as they begin to head out to the pitch for training.

I turn back to Katie.

“I’ll see you tonight…” She leans up and kisses me one more time.

“Girlfriend.” She leaves before I can reply, and I’m left to giggle as Juniper drives us back to the café, to reluctantly reopen for the rest of the day.

~~~~~

The clock shows 6:13 and I begin to think Katie flaked, but right as I’m packing up the ingredients, the bell rings and in rushes a flushed, panting, Katie McCabe.

“I’m so… sorry! Caitlin could only… drop me… a few blocks away… so I had to… run.” She pants out.

“It’s ok.” I peck her on the cheek and take her coat, then offer her some water which she sculls down.

We spend hours baking and messing around. Mostly kissing.

~~~~~

Another 6 months pass before Katie and I decide to move in together in a small apartment down the street from the café.

She now helps me bake my apple and chocolate muffins once a week, insisting she has to always be in a simple cropped singlet after I had made a comment about how good her arms looked when she mixes the batter.

There was something so domestic about baking together that made it hard not to just scream to the world how much I loved the woman. Instead, I stick to wrapping my arms around her waist and whispering it in her ear, periodically kissing her while she cuts the apples or mixes whatever needs mixing.

I can’t wait to tell Ms Nelson her apple and chocolate muffins brought me the most beautiful girl in the world. She and her wife have been begging for a new post card.

[swift-dove]

Antiquing with Hermes!

The top photo is an inkwell with Hermes himself as the centerpiece! It was pretty expensive so while I was deciding if I should buy it (spoiler alert: I did!) I ended up finding those two wall plaques in the second photo & took that as a sign to go ahead with the purchase!

The inkwell was a pretty penny so I couldn’t afford much more than that, but I am so excited to get it set up on his altar! <3

[choccy-zefirka]

...It is imperative that my most esteemed house gain the upper hand in this ongoing duel...

...My honored ancestors have made it abundantly clear in all their messages, written in blood on my mansion's walls, that they will not return to eternal rest until their rivals are taught their place...

...The Watch, therefore, must ensure that the noble undead lords and ladies of my lineage are armed with the appropriate blades and enchantments, as befits their station, not just the remnants of what they were buried with...

...I thus expect you to swap the decaying armor they currently carry for the finest work of your blacksmiths, with decor to match the glories of my family's past and the purity of our blood...

...Remember whose coffers bear the load of the Grand Necropolis...

...We have always been giving to the Watch most generously. Perhaps it is high time you showed proper appreciation for your betters...

...Should my forebears win the duel, I shall double my donations to the Watch, and provide you with special compensation of your choosing...

...The reward for bringing the upstart from our so-called rival "house" to heel will be much to your satisfaction, I assure you...

Professor Dieter Nessler, foremost expert on the provenance of enchanted antiques and one of the Mourn Watch's liaisons to the noble houses of Nevarra, taps at his mahogany desk with bejeweled fingers, his gaze traveling back and forth between the two scrolls he has recently received. They are laid out before him, unfurled, one pressed down by his impeccably polished obsidian inkwell, the other by the massive ink blotter with a procession of dancing skeletons carved into its side. Letters from the highborn: different in penmanship, identical in meaning.

Which house to support, which house to support... Perhaps if that much-promised reward were paid up front — then he could write something non-committal and vaguely affirmative to both noble scions, and then act depending on the situation...

His thoughts — which have already started carrying him away in a gently rolling gilded carriage, laden with multiple chests of coins and gemstones — are interrupted, most rudely, by a loud knock on his study's door. Nessler scowls like he'd just taken a sip of lemon juice — several sips even, each more unbearably sour as the knocking persists.

Before he deigns to answer, he carefully tucks the letters away into a desk drawer — just in case his unbidden visitor turns out to be someone like Volkarin.

The man may be a renowned corpse whisperer, and thus useful to stand next to, in a nonchalant, handshake-ready pose that might lead the right people to assume that they are friends... But when it comes to actual negotiations with the highborn, he is a nuisance at best and an active saboteur at worst. Of course, what would Volkarin, with his talk of always doing what's best for the living and the undead, know of proper conduct in noble company? Once a butcher's son, always a butcher's son.

"Come in," Nessler says at last.

The door nigh flies off its hinges, revealing someone much shorter, curvier, and more... pink than Volkarin.

Ah.

Nessler's grimace gradually stretches out into a sugary sweet smile, befitting this sugary sweet thing.

It's her.

His apprentice, the official paperwork calls her. But one glance at her makes it abundantly clear: that word is not meant for her.

Apprentices come to the Mourn Watch to be taught... And what could the senior necromancers possibly teach this rosy-cheeked dwarf — with her head of cascading curls, like candied rose petals; her pouty, gloss-covered lips; her ridiculously frilly dresses that she supposedly sews herself? She is no Watcher; she is an adorable round-eyed doll, lashes going bat-bat, little feetsies going stomp-stomp, soft mouth moving, trying to shape long, complex sentences that belong on the lips of people with actual brains inside their skulls.

"I apologize for bothering you at this late hour, Professor, but... With all the respect in my heart, this cannot continue! The so-called War of the Banners is spilling too far out of the nobles' crypts! Just today, I had to patch up a classmate who caught a stray javelin from around the corner; they were lucky I was not the only person around to help, because I obviously cannot cast magic, and without a well-timed healing spell, they might have lost an arm! And the peaceful undead are suffering too; the upper hallways will be turning into refugee camps for skeletons at this rate! What we need — again, with all my respect — is a small questing party to delve into the main mausoleums and take down the heads of houses! Maybe they can be pacified with words, but if not... We might have no other choice, serah. I think — "

She thinks. How precious.

Maybe she has gotten into her cute little head that this is how she will earn herself a promotion. Well, obviously that stratagem of hers is doomed to fail. But the doll need not fret: there are other, more time-tested ways of advancing through the ranks... Especially for one in possession of such soft, ample bosoms, barely contained by her ribbons and lace.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, Nessler spins a fine, glittering thread of magic and pulls a second chair out of a far corner closer to his desk. Much, much closer. Opposite his own seat, in fact. Within arm's reach.

"Come, come, Beata. Sit. Take a breath."

She obeys, as all good dolls should; but the moment she is in the chair, she begins to chatter again, about all the things that are so far beyond both her station and her intelligence.

"Thank you for agreeing to listen to me, serah! Having such a prominent professor in my corner truly means a lot; now if we could also get a hold of Master Volkarin... I have no way of contacting him, as I only ever got to sit in the back row at a couple of his lectures, but you do mention so often what excellent friends you are..."

"Beata, Beata, Beata..." Nessler murmurs, leaning forward ever so slightly. The little doll tenses up, clearly confused. Ah, the silly thing. So adorably unaware of the effect her curves have on tired mortal men trapped in their study all day.

"You are a promising Watcher, but a little headstrong. Still in need of a lot of... guidance..."

He breathes out the last word in a trailing whisper, just as his hand closes the distance between them and rests on her knee. Then, gently moves up her full, delightfully jiggly thigh...

There's a sharp ripping noise: his doll has leapt to her feet, ignoring the fact that one of his rings has snagged against her silky stockings.

"What... What are you doing?!" she shrieks, all color pooling away from her face and collaring her throat instead. "I came to talk to you about serious matters; there are lives at stake — and you... and you...!!"

Now her imitation of an intelligent being is no longer convincing. Or endearing.

"Such serious matters are the concern of real Watchers!" Nessler barks, ramming his fist into the edge of his desk in frustration. "Yours is not to meddle; yours is to wear your pink dresses and look pretty!"

"I am a real Watcher too!" she protests, twisting the hem of her skirt in her dimpled hands, her eyes growing redder by the second. "I read the arcane lore, I passed the exams, I took extracurriculars on the symbolism of shroud embroidery and repairing skulls with gold! I even trained in sword and shield combat, because I have no magic to defend the Necropolis! Will you truly never take me seriously — because of what I look like?!"

"What you look like is what you are, little doll," Nessler says.

The thought of those delectable breasts moving further and further out of his grasp stirs a scraping, seething anger deep within his gut, so he neglects to watch his tongue as carefully as he perhaps should have... And the secret nickname slips out.

"Very well," the doll says, fighting back a small, teary hiccup. "Then I will go to my quarters and take out my makeup brushes and apply the cutest skull war paint a doll has ever worn, and deal with the undead myself. Have a good night, serah."

She slams the door so hard that one of Nessler's most prized paintings — a portrait of himself surrounded by the most noteworthy members of the Watch, yes, Volkarin included (though Hezenkoss has been thoughtfully blocked out in bold black paint strokes, now that she has become an... undesirable) — thunders cacophonously onto the floor, its frame smashing to pieces. If the doll survives this foolhardy quest of hers, the cost of repairs will be deducted from her stipend. And only then will Nessler see to it that she is expelled, and sent back to whatever Pink Hat Atelier for the Brainless that she crawled out from.

***

Emmrich has heard much about Beata Ingellvar. The woman who fearlessly went into the ever-shifting maze of the aristocracy's burial grounds, and struck down the two feuding undead nobles before they could amass even more forces for their never-ending vanity war. Their living descendants nearly collapsed to the ground in a conniption fit in front of the entire Watch — but the crypts went quiet. Meaning no more trembling, harried civilians staggering about in search of a healer, clutching a swollen forehead or limping on a red-soaked leg that got grazed by a wildly swinging blade. No more poor, frightened darling wisps fleeing the sounds of clashing steel with the softest "meep-meep" of desperation. No more innocent dead pushed out of their own coffins by skeletal mercenaries on the march under the banner of some lord or other.

They should all be deeply, wholeheartedly grateful to the young Watcher for intervening when she did. Yet not all accounts Emmrich received from his colleagues have been as glowing as his own mental image of Ingellvar — victorious warrior with a would-be tyrant's skull under her boot, sword aloft, hair billowing.

Many have called her air-headed, unserious, childishly scattered and scandalously debauched at the same time. Dieter Nessler, the pompous Arschgeige (not a word for Manfred's innocent metaphorical ears, that), has gone so far as to claim she barged into his study prior to her expedition into the nobles' crypts and attempted to seduce him, slamming herself down on his desk and putting his hand on her knee before he kicked her out and she shuffled off into the night, wailing and sobbing over being unwanted.

That last part is particularly hard to believe. Especially now — after Emmrich has joined Ingellvar on her new mission (such a great honor and monumental responsibility!). After he has seen what she is like, both amid the carnage of the battlefield and back in the safety of the Lighthouse.

She may quite literally wear her passion for the color pink on her sleeve, but is that truly such a condemnation of her intelligence?

That simply makes no logical sense.

Not when her eyes — a lovely shade of deep blue, almost lavender; but that is neither here nor there — are so quick to scan the wretched crags of blighted wilderness, and her mind is even quicker to calculate the angle at which she needs to toss her shield, so it can slice apart a blister of infection and make the sticky red tendrils retract.

Not when she falls so easily in stride with Neve on the trail of a cultist through bustling, ever-rainy Minrathous streets, and lights up with a bright smile, dimples indenting in her cheeks (also neither here nor there), when she points out a clue that the detective can use. Which is often a sliver of torn-off fabric on some splintered crate or metal fence. She does know her fabrics...

And certainly not when, not even one hour after their proper introduction, she knelt beside the unfortunate man the Venatori had dragged in as a slave — as fodder for their blood magic rituals — and extended her hand, comparing the bumps and indentations on her skin to his. "You were a tailor, weren't you!" she beamed. "How fortunate! I am certain the Mourn Watch will find you work as a free man! There is always a demand for prettying up the dead!"

And oh, whenever they return from their long travels, sore bodies beckoned by the softness of the couches the spirits have helpfully provided — the conversations she has with the others! Again and again, as he hurries past, on his way to his books and to his lessons with Manfred, Emmrich indulges in lingering halfway up the stairs, listening in.

He often finds Ingellvar — Rook, to her new comrades — helping Bellara restore the brittle vestments the Veil Jumpers found in a casket within yet another floating ruin. And also bombarding the dear girl with technical terms about the types of weaving and stitching used by her ancestors; which Bellara does not seem to quite follow, but takes in with rapid, enthusiastic nods.

Or unsheathing an impressive arsenal of makeup brushes to paint intricately rendered, almost three-dimensional dragons on Taash's bare forearms and midriff in the bright shades of vitaar — while wearing a mask and gloves to protect herself from the toxic body paint, and gushing in a muffled voice about color grading and about how the final design will look like it’s flapping its wings with every flex of Taash's muscles.

 Or using very similar brushes, each softer and more delicate than the next, to explain to Harding how to unearth ancient inscriptions without eroding the stone with cleansing potions. "I remember going a little way back into the passage where they found me as a baby, to see if it does connect to the Deep Roads; and I actually found some writing there... It was certainly not Tevene or Nevarran, and absolutely not Trade — so it might very well be old dwarven! I can take you there some time if you want; maybe your new powers can help read it."

She is so bright, so quick-witted, brimming over with knowledge in fields Emmrich only has a cursory familiarity with. Oh, there is so much he could have learned from her!... If only she let him.

She has never been outright hostile to him… not like Taash. She has taken him out into the field, certainly, especially into places abounding with unquiet spirits, and thanked him for his contribution after each fight. But outside the necessary interactions dictated by their shared cause, she has never sought him out, never visited him on her daily Lighthouse rounds, never invited him to talk about his day, like she has the others.

Perhaps it is the difference in their age that makes her assume they have little in common. Perhaps she knows what the other senior Watchers think of her, and is wary of her attempts at friendship being met with the same disdain. That is only fair, but still... He cannot help a certain twinge of pettiness. Bitter, juvenile — indeed, spiteful. Spite himself even... eloquently said to him once, when he walked behind Rook by Lucanis' side, "He does not! Let me! Talk to Rook! And Rook. Rook does not let you! Talk to her! All by herself!"

Aptly put.

And the feeling certainly does not sting any less when he ponders how she is the only other Mourn Watcher on their little team. The only other person who might have commiserated during his occasional bouts of homesickness; who might have laughed at an inside joke about Vorgoth's mist form; who —

Ah. But it is not fair to her, is it? She endures enough old man hand-wringing with the Dread Wolf visiting regular visions upon her.

But still.

But still.

Emmrich is in the middle of mulling all of this over for what might well be the thousandth time, laying wide awake in his bed, well-hidden behind a bookcase, when on the other side of his secret rest nook, down comes a thunderous avalanche of... books? Followed by a familiar inquisitive hiss.

He is out of bed in an instant — well, two instants, as the pose he has frozen up in is hardly… conducive against back stiffness. Hastily smoothing back his hair with his hand and throwing a dressing gown over his shoulders, he rushes out to assess the aftermath of Manfred's mischief. Only to find that his assistant — who is waving enthusiastically, quite proud of... whatever it is he did — is not the only one staring at him over the chaotic mound of covers and spines and rustling pages. Rook is also here, petrified in mid-step, with her arms wrapped around the stack of books that she has already started putting back.

"Oh, Emmrich!" she clears her throat. "It's all right, you can go back to sleep. I apologize for being here at this late hour — I needed to borrow a book on rare varieties of blighted monsters, to see if it has something I can translate from Nevarran for Davrin... About the Gloom Howler... And Manfred, he, well — he noticed me, and decided he needed to help. I will put everything back. And will be quieter next time."

Emmrich inhales sharply, feeling something tired and frustrated and altogether unkind bubble to the surface.

"Oh, if only there was a way to avoid all these sneaky theatrics," he snaps. "By, perhaps, having a conversation with me?"

Rook flinches, and Emmrich instantly regrets his tone.

"I... That was uncalled for. I am sorry, Rook, I am still half-asleep and let my petulance get the better of me. Would you perhaps allow me to help clean up? And Manfred — please remember not to tug at books so forcibly when trying to dislodge them."

The skeleton nods and hisses eagerly, clapping his gloved hands together.

As the two Watchers set to work — Rook stocking the lower shelves and Emmrich whisking the rest of the books up in a soft turquoise cloud of magic — her delicate, thread-trimmed eyebrows knit into a frown.

"You seemed quite upset because I never visit your part of the Lighthouse… Not when you are there, at least."

With a singular swooshing, conductor-like gesture, he guides yet another floating book to its place — and handwaves her observation away.

"An irrational feeling to have. The first sign of my mind beginning to slip, I fear."

She does not join in his self-deprecating chuckle.

"Please. Let me finish making sense of this.”

There is a hint of urgency in her voice — an echo of a past hurt. It is important for her to be listened to, uninterrupted; to be taken seriously.

So Emmrich nods, slowing down his silent book concerto — focusing slowly on her.

Her stance relaxes; she exhales in relief.

“Thank you. As — as I was saying: I am just realizing that I have been avoiding you far too much. That was… poor leadership on my part; I should not have made you feel excluded... Especially among, uh, non-Nevarrans who do not appreciate your skull collection. I really should have known better; I know what it is like to feel like you don't belong..."

Her tone shifts again, and she dips her head, eyes hidden in shadow. Emmrich's stomach twists a little. Whatever did the Arschgeige put her through as his apprentice?

"It really is quite all right, Rook. You and your friends are young, always rushing off far ahead. I am perfectly content where I am. Sometimes one merely has odd thoughts when it is five in the morning."

She clutches the latest book she's picked off the floor closer to her chest.

"I believe it's three in the morning. And Emmrich — "

There is something more than her usual distant politeness in the way she says his name. Something soft and tremulous and vulnerable, like the heartbeat of a captured bird. Lilac eyes meet his, and she holds his gaze the longest she ever has.

"I am sorry for… shunning you so unfairly. The truth is, my rational mind knows you did not do anything wrong to deserve this; you have been nothing but kind to all of us! But..."

She pushes down a shuddering breath.

"Whenever I look at you, I keep thinking about... my former mentor, Professor Nessler. He liked boasting about your supposedly rare and beautiful friendship, and — "

"Hah!"

Emmrich did not intend for the loud, wry laugh to escape his lips so abruptly — yet it does, while before his mind's eye, a jeering little boy dances. A future Mortalitasi of noble blood, dressed to the nines, his squeaky boots not losing their sheen even as he gleefully kicks the filthy butcher's son lower and lower into the ground... Until a conjured icicle hits him on the side of the head, sending him thunk! right beside his target.

Hey, he was mean to you! Can I kill him? Pretty pretty please?

Johanna no!

Johanna yes?

"Rare and beautiful friendship? With a man who did not give me the time of day since we were twelve, and up until the point when I earned my first accolades?"

Rook snorts. A soft flush seems to have crept over her cheeks — at about the same time Emmrich burst out laughing. That is, quite naturally, neither here nor there.

"That does sound like Professor Nessler. And more the fool me, for thinking you would sincerely associate with him!"

Emmrich shakes his head, and she smiles, finally letting go of her book and setting it down on its proper shelf.

"I know, I know — no diminishing my own intelligence. Other people do that aplenty."

"They are the foolish ones, Rook. But... If I may — "

Emmrich has taken his rings off for the night, but he instinctively rubs the band’s imprint on his index finger while gathering up his thoughts.

"What did Dieter do to you, that the sheer notion of me being his friend unsettled you so profoundly?"

She casts her gaze away, jaw tightening.

"I cannot... I am not ready to talk about this right now."

"Of course!"

Her eyes slowly travel back to his, light blooming back in their depths.

"But you know what I am ready for? Tomorrow, after we report back to Myrna and Vorgoth about that new haunting... Would you like to visit the Memorial Gardens with me?"

"Oh Rook, I would love to!"

For a split second, Emmrich's heart beats faster. Neither here nor there.

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Inkwell, 1920s-40s.

[nonasuch]

Trick or Treat!

Happy Halloween! Have an antique bird-head inkwell.

[glitter-and-be-gay]

My issue with brand new faux-distressed furniture is the fundamental disconnect between the aesthetics of it and the actual value of an antique as an object that has existed for a long time.

Setting aside the higher quality of the materials and craftsmanship you usually find in older furniture, what makes it beautiful is not the literal look of distress that comes from use, but the fact that it comes from use. The wood has existed in a place, exposed to sunlight in some spots and not in others. Perhaps there are darker marks where, for years, an inkwell used to rest, preserving the wood underneath from being bleached by the sun. A couple of scratches and dents left after carelessly setting down a metal tool, maybe in anger. A few ink blotches close to where the edge of the paper would usually sit. The gentle indent in the wood where someone's arm would rest when they were writing. The corners of the desk are rounded from the repeated brushing of bodies coming in and out of the room, the oils from people's hands giving the wood a patina. And that's something you simply can't fake with some wood stain and sand paper. I guess I don't understand why you'd want to outsource the living of your life by buying a new piece of furniture and making it look old. If it's new, use it until it isn't. Infuse it with your own life.

[daphnefisherofficial]

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Avatar Fem!Reader

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CHAPTER ONE - SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

TWO MONTHS LATER…

The grandeur of your ancestral house in Guildford enveloped you as you strolled through its opulent corridors. Intricately carved wooden paneling adorned the walls, while rich crimson carpets absorbed the echo of your footsteps. The air is filled with the faint scent of polished wood and aged leather, exuding dignified timelessness.

Ascending the grand staircase, you run your hand along the mahogany handrail, feeling the smoothness of centuries of use. Reaching the landing on the second floor, a series of oil paintings greeted your vision. Painted by the likes of Van Gogh, Monet, Gauguin and Millet, each frame you passed through expressively telling stories of their lives’ hardships expressed through masterful strokes that evoked love, pain and unwavering resolve.

You finally reached a pair of imposing double doors, elaborately carved with intricate designs and gilded accents. Pushing them open, you step into your refuge within this grand manor. You took in the soft early afternoon light streaming through the lace curtains, the interior awash in soft, muted colors that evoke a sense of calm and serenity. The master bedroom itself bore an air of regal charm, with the walls adorned with exquisite silk wallpaper featuring delicate floral patterns. A four-poster bed draped in satin was situated at the very center, the bed linens made of the finest Egyptian cotton and the plump pillows neatly arranged in the head rest. 

Seating yourself at the foot of your bed, your eyes caught a familiar oil canvas painting facing your direction - a self portrait of you dressed in a filipiniana gown while holding a soft-feathered fan on your right hand. Brief images of the very day you were painted flashed through your mind, remembering your shy, palpable smile as you took a graceful, elegant pose towards the handsome yet unrecognizable painter as his right hand carefully glided his paintbrush across the canvas.

You’ve been having these recurring dreams again as of late. But you cannot figure out for the life of you who the mysterious subject of your night recollections is.

Mildly shaking your head, you made your way towards your antique writing desk situated near a large bay window, overlooking the well-manicured gardens outside. The scent of freshly picked flowers finally distracted you from your musings, mingling with the aroma of polished wood. Carefully arranged, your flower vase was strategically placed beside an assortment of your night study essentials -  an inkwell, quill pen, notepad, a hardbound copy of Atlas of Ancient Egpyt, and a work laptop with multiple tabs open. 

Against one wall, a towering bookshelf houses an impressive collection of leather-bound tomes, each one a testament to your intellectual pursuits. You returned the hardbound copy of Atlas of Ancient Egpyt to its previous resting place, vowing to return to it after your overseas assignment. That book was an essential to you since you work full time as a museum curator for the British Museum. Back then, that career path wasn’t meant for your gender in the olden age. But as the world changes with time and equality between sexes have been more embraced, you found yourself living your life long passion of promoting cultural heritage and ancestral discovery.

Typing away at your laptop, you’ve mostly dealt with a lot of email exchanges involving procurement and acquisition of artifacts, record keeping and liaising with Egyptologists for the upcoming Ennead exhibition you’re organizing. You have already let most of your recent business contacts know that you’re on overseas leave, advising everyone to liaise with your secretary, Aleah Santos, in your absence.

A gentle knock on your door pulls you out of your reverie, your eyes now diverted towards the bedroom entrance. A middle-aged British man stands in the doorway with an air of quiet dignity, his appearance a testament to his impeccable service and professionalism. His face exudes an air of experience and reserve, befitting his role as the trusted steward of the household. He wears a perfectly tailored, immaculately pressed charcoal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie, and his salt-and-pepper hair was meticulously combed and styled to maintain a polished appearance.

His striking deep, intelligent blue eyes observed you quietly, framed by well-defined eyebrows that conveyed a sense of attentiveness. He was holding in one hand a tray with a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea and a blueberry scone, and a neatly pressed and folded set of smart, business casual clothes in the other. The fabrics were chosen with care and tailored to perfection, a testament to the older man’s meticulous attention to detail.

“Bill, how lovely to see you this afternoon”, you smiled appreciatively before standing, slowly reaching for your wardrobe in his arms. “Thank you for bringing these”

"It's my pleasure, Lady Carter", Bill answered politely, his refined British accent adding to his aura of sophistication. William Jones, who you affectionately nicknamed “Bill”, is the latest addition in the long line of the Jones household who have served the Carter family for a very long time. As the new head of the family estate, the depth of his loyalty to you runs deep and unquestioned.

"I've taken the liberty of preparing your necessities for the trip”, Bill said with a warm smile as he followed you inside, placing the tray of refreshments on your desk. “You'll find your travel documents and essentials ready in your briefcase, and I’ve packed you a suitcase for the three-day trip”

“What would I ever do without you?” you chuckled playfully, grateful for his unwavering efficiency.

“Years of service have taught me well”, Bill chuckled softly. “Now, if I may, I’d like to go over your schedule for the week.”

“Go ahead, I’m all ears”, you nodded, finally taking your first sip of the afternoon tea prepared. It was nothing short of exquisite, the fragrant steam wafting up to greet your senses. “Impeccable brew as always, by the way”

"I’m glad you like the concoction, Milady”, Bill nodded before clearing his throat, proceeding to recite the details of your upcoming trip. “Your flight to Chicago is later this evening at 7PM, and I will be driving you to the airport three hours prior”

You nodded, mentally ticking off the items on your mental checklist, as he continued to consult his notes and brief you.

“Upon your arrival to the United States, a valet service will pick you up and take you to your hotel. I made reservations at the one within walking distance of the family court where your next interpreting assignment will be running for three days”

“That’s good to hear”, you nodded, taking a small bite of the scone. “Have my secretary check on the tour guide headcount at the British Museum and handle the recruitment interviews while I’m gone” 

“Understood”, Bill said curtly, finishing up writing on his notes. He gave a small bow before leaving the room. With his departure, you set to work on packing your travel essentials for your upcoming assignment. 

The routine of operating as a freelance interpreter was familiar, accepting potential clients needing your services regardless of location. You cater mostly to the Filipino community, as it helped you fulfill your duties as Mayari’s avatar - to oversee, guide and protect her travelers of the night. Of all the careers you dabbled in your long life on this earth, being an interpreter and a museum curator were one of the very few roles you’ve had that you took immense pride in. Both navigated the complexities of language and history, bridging the gap between cultures and individuals.

The next morning after your arrival in the United States, the Chicago sun greeted you as you stepped out of your hotel room and into the bustling city streets. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from a nearby café, tempting you, but duty called.

You found yourself before the imposing building of the Chicago Family Court in Cook County. It was a massive edifice of imposing architecture, and its walls seemed to resonate with the stories of countless families and their struggles. On your way to the court registry, you navigated the maze of hallways with purposeful steps. The walls were painted in muted tones, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air. Lawyers in tailored suits, stern-faced judges, and anxious family members all found their places. The court clerk finally checked you in after having you sign the log book, advising you of your assigned courtroom for your scheduled appointment.

You walked into the assigned courtroom, the polished wood of the benches and the imposing judge's bench before you. The judge’s gaze met yours as you approached the witness stand, acknowledging your presence as he had you sworn in. He instructed you to raise your right hand as you recited your oath, a solemn promise to faithfully and impartially interpret the proceedings for those who needed it. 

“Thank you, Interpreter”, the judge nodded, your duty now officially recognized. “Please introduce yourself to the courtroom for the record”

“Yes, Your Honor”, you greeted in a clear, unwavering voice. “Good morning. My name is Mira Batala-Carter, and I will be serving as the Tagalog/Filipino interpreter for the witness in the stand”

The court proceedings began, and your voice filled the room as you translated the witness's testimony. You moved seamlessly between languages, ensuring that justice prevailed, one word at a time. The judge and attorneys watched you closely, appreciating your precision and dedication.

After the session concluded, you extended a hand to the witness, a kind-hearted woman who had been through a trying experience. She thanked you for your services, her eyes conveying a profound gratitude that words could not fully capture. As she left your presence, you muttered a silent prayer to your patron goddess, fulfilling your role as her avatar as you invoked a simple protection spell.

“Patnubayan mo ang guhit ng kanyang kapalaran, aking diwatang Mayari”

Guide the lines of her fate, my goddess Mayari.

As the proceedings unfolded over the next three days, you found yourself immersed in the world of legal battles, translating the words and emotions of those caught in the intricate web of the justice system. It was a demanding role, one that required not just linguistic proficiency, but also an acute understanding of human nature and the ability to convey the nuances of speech. Legal jargon and emotional testimonies flowed through you, and you remained resolute in your duty as an interpreter.

You arrived early on the last day of your interpreting assignment, finally giving in to your caffeine cravings as you clutch a cup of steaming coffee to ward off the chilly Chicago morning. You took a seat in the hallway, waiting outside the assigned courtroom. As you sipped your cappuccino and glanced around, your eyes landed on a man slouched on one of the benches, clearly taking a nap. 

His face stirred a memory, one that danced tantalizingly out of reach. Yet you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. He had a rugged handsomeness, an aura of enigmatic mystery that drew you in. 

The man's companion, a woman of Arabic-Egyptian descent with a cascade of curly, dark hair, approached him, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. She leaned down, her concern etched on her face as she gently nudged him awake. She whispered something to him, and he stirred, blinking his eyes open.

Your heart clenched as you witnessed the tenderness in their interaction. The way their eyes met with shared history and unspoken understanding prompted a deluge of memories to flood your mind, unbidden and unexpected.

Like ghosts from the past, you heard sounds of laughter and shared secrets echoing inside your head. Your lips trembled as they seemingly remembered the tenderness of breathless kisses stolen beneath the moonlit sky. The details eluded you, but the emotions were vivid—joy, love, and a sense of belonging. 

But as swiftly as those memories resurfaced, they slipped away like sand through your fingers, leaving you with an ache of longing and confusion.

Who was this man, and why did his presence stir such deep-seated emotions within you?

Before you could delve further into your thoughts, a call from Bill interrupted your reverie. You reached for your phone, the jarring ringtone pulling you back to reality.

"Lady Carter," Bill's voice came through the receiver, crisp and professional. "I have an important update from Miss Santos. We are still missing one more tour guide from the total headcount you require for the upcoming exhibition"

“Copy that”, you nodded. “Please have her finalize the applicants I’ll need to interview on Saturday”

As you hung up the phone, a court clerk emerged to announce that the morning proceedings will now begin. Finishing the rest of your coffee, you threw the empty cup at the nearby bin before entering the courtroom once more to complete the final leg of your interpreting assignment. 

Unbeknownst to you, Mayari, the patron goddess of the moon, quietly observed from a distance as her ethereal, astral form shimmered from afar. Her eyes, filled with a sorrow you had never seen before, remained fixed on you as she recalled the most grievous of her sins—removing your image of Darius Carter and your memories of the events that had bound you to Khonshu's avatar, Moon Knight. She had acted with what she believed was your best interest at heart, but now, as she watched the remnants of your forgotten past resurface, doubt crept into her heart.

Mayari was determined to see her decision through to the end, to protect you from the darkness that lurked in the shadows. Yet, as she gazed upon the unfolding drama, the lines between right and wrong blurred, and the weight of her choices pressed upon her.

“Mr and Mrs Spector, please come to the front”

END OF CHAPTER ONE.

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[despazito]

When I was little and the power went out my parents would get out this antique looking kerosene lamp so I would get my inkwell and quill pen to draw and I remember specifically pretending I was Benjamin Franklin