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larvasmoon · 1 month ago

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Starry Nights (2)- Queen of bones

Summary : Maven is an outcast, a clumsy Christmas elf, who lives high up in the North Pole's fir forest. She dwells in the shadow, shunned by all of her peers. Yet, when the Christmas preparations turn into a disaster, she has no choice but to partner up with her sworn enemy to save the factory: Santa's secretary, Astarion Ancunín. Pariting: Astarion/Original female character Rating: Explicit Content: Christmas AU, dark christmas tale, angst and fluff and smut, moody elf stuck in an endless party, Astarion as Santa's insufferable secretary, enemies to lovers

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The night is ending, and Maven spent the entirety of it at the factory. It’s snowing outside, the snowflakes swirl and dance in the pink streaked sky, glittery and fluffy like the fairy floss they sometimes sell at the Christmas market. Her mother used to buy her one from time to time when she was little — a big cloud of rosy sugar that dissolved into a sticky mess when she bit into it, evanescent and cloying like the rest of the North Pole.

She’s hunched over an enchanted music box, a gift for a little girl called Nimiel. Her arms are awfully sore, but she’s stubborn and she won’t stop until she’s done casting her spells. It’s so early that the workshop is still shrouded in darkness, and the tendrils of green light pouring from Maven's fingers illuminate the entire room like some sort of magical lantern. The fire is burning in the hearth, colorful fairy lights twinkle in the obscurity, a few sconces are lit in the hallway, but none of those things shine brighter than Maven herself. She sings a lullaby to the comb and to the cylinder of the red lacquered box, willing it to remember it by heart so that the little girl can fall asleep while listening to it.

It’s taking her a lot longer than it usually would though; she would already be done if she wasn’t so distracted and so nervous.

It’s completely irrational, Maven knows she’s safe between the walls of the factory — as safe as she can be in a place owned by a man like Klaus, at least. It’s just that… That bad feeling simply won’t go away. She’s convinced that something horrible is about to happen, every fiber of her body screams at her to run and flee.

Her hands are clammy, and her heart hammers in her chest. She jumps when a log cracks in the fireplace, and she gasps when a pile of snow falls from the roof with a thump.

You’re anxious, she tells herself as she hums a soft tune, a lot of strange things happened yesterday, you have every reason to be a bit on the edge. Just take a deep breath and focus on your work!

But it’s no use, her mind keeps drifting away from the task at hand. It conjures images of Astarion — impossibly beautiful in the chaos of the grand hall, unnervingly sensual when he laid down on one of the workshop’s armchair. It plagues her with dark visions of the creature she encountered in the forest, of its tall horns and mad glare.

And Maven’s hand trembles as she molds and sculpts a little ballerina out of the halo of her palm, pinching the seams of her large and elegant tutu between her thumb and index.

“It tickles,” the danseuse grumbles, already spinning on herself, held by no string and no golden pole, “Let go of me miss, I need to dance, it hurts if I don’t!”

She hops out of her hand and lands above the green velvet that lines the inside of the box, outstretched in a graceful arabesque. Maven contemplates her work for a little while, fascinated by the movements of the ballet dancer, by the beauty of her arched back and pointed feet. The gift is so well crafted, the music so delightfully whimsical, that she slowly falls asleep. She’s already dreaming of a long walk on the snowy paths of the forest when a noise startles her.

Someone or something is walking about the room; a few hushed whispers echo in the silence from time to time. Before she knows it, Maven is already up on her feet again, a candle in one of her hands and a small knife in the other.

“Who’s there?”

A little sneer, and a stool clatters on the other side of the atelier.

“You don’t scare me,” she lies, gripping the blade, “Show yourself!”

Everything is still once again, and there’s a few minutes of horrible silence. Maven anxiously waits for the moment the intruder will decide to pounce on her, for the moment she’ll have to make use of this deadly weapon.

But none of that transpires, instead something even more terrifying happens.

The clock above the door stops ticking. Outside the window, the valley suddenly looks like a painting. The snowflakes have stopped falling from the sky, eerily suspended in the cold air. In the fireplace, the flames have also stopped their undulating dance, frozen in time. And in the trees, the Christmas lights have stopped flickering, stuck in a new and foreign arrangement of bright colors.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Maven sees a small horned silhouette stepping out of its hide. She gasps and turns with a hiss, both of her hands clamped around the handle of her knife.

The creature’s face is obscured, cast in the shadow by the bright light of the fire burning behind it, but she already knows it’s an imp — the kind that lives on the other side of the hill, right behind her house. The Christmas elves call that place the Black Woods; for beyond them sits the wide and dangerous realm of Klaus’ oldest enemy: Lord Krampus, the malevolent.

The old man has always strictly forbidden his elves to venture past the limits of the enchanted forest for that reason, but Maven broke that law more than once in the past.

Santa’s blessings do not reach that part of the North Pole, and all sorts of creatures hide amongst the thick fir trees. She has seen them with her own eyes countless times; boggarts, satyres, brownies, banshees and trolls lurk in that dark undergrowth. Maven used to play with the hobgoblins and the pucks down in the dim lit groves when she was young, trading a few candy canes for a handful of rare gemstones. She wasn’t afraid of them then, and she still isn’t.

No, what still terrifies her is the memory of the day she was found out by one of the guards near the limits of the enchanted forest, hand in hand with a little brownie. The scar on her cheek is an ugly and painful reminder of it.

“Mistress,” the imp says, ever so softly, “Lay down your blade, I won’t do you any harm.”

“Why are you here then?” she rasps, frantically looking outside the window to see if one Santa’s sentinels is near. “And how did you manage to get inside of the factory? They’ll kill you if they find you, you know… Actually, they might kill us both.”

The imp slowly steps closer, raising his hands in surrender.

“Mistress Maven,” he breathes, and something about the way he says her name is awfully familiar, “It’s me. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten—”

Two golden eyes, not unlike her own, rise to look at her. Maven stares down into them, and all of a sudden she’s ten again, racing down the path of the dark forest to outfast one of her little playmates.

“ Mistress Maven! It’s not fair, your legs are much longer than mine and you said we can’t use magic!”

“I’ll beat you one day, spells or not! I swear it on the pointy horns of my lord and master Krampus!”

Amongst all the friends she had in the Black Woods, one was especially dear to her. A little devil that she loved like a brother, and that in turn, loved her like a sister. It’s the closest thing to a family she’s ever had after the death of her mother, but after the incident, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to the rocky banks of the river…To their river.

And when she lost that love, she pretended that she was doing it for his own good. She convinced herself that her presence would only put him in danger, that he’d be better off without her — Maven, the curse, the child who only brings misfortune to those who dare to care about her.

“Your eyes are beautiful, Mistress, don’t let the others tell you otherwise! They are bright and wide like those of a wolf, the true king of the cold forests of the north.”

“Rufus?”

Sometimes, an entire world lives in a name.

She says ‘Rufus’ and parts of her that she has long kept locked away break free of their chains. The hopeful Maven, the rebellious Maven, the Maven who still knows how to laugh: they all come rushing back like a child running into the arms of her mother.

Maybe everything isn’t lost, afterall? Maybe life is still worth fighting for, if Rufus is part of it again?

“It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.” He bows low, little tail flicking in the air. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

Maven’s only answer is a choked and strangled sigh, as she falls to her knees and takes him in her arms. At first, Rufus doesn’t move at all, tense and rigid in her embrace. Right when she’s about to step away though, the imp holds her back, gripping the fabric of her jacket and sobbing in her hair.

“I missed you so terribly, I’m sorry I never came back to the forest.”

“There is no need to apologize,” he sniffs, hoarse and broken,“I know why you stopped coming down the hill, and I know who is to blame for all the time we’ve lost.”

Maven’s eyes drift toward the fire and its unmoving ambers; flashes and images fill the cracks of her fractured mind.

The face of the little brownie as she died.

Dark terrified eyes.

Blood staining the white snow.

The skin of her cheek burning and sizzling against the cold steel of a blade.

“Actually that’s why I’m here, mistress Maven,” Rufus continues, still all curled up in her lap like a big cat, “I did not come alone, there is someone else here who would like to talk to you.”

She has no time to ask any question before a tall shadow emerges from the corridor, gigantic pointy horns cutting into the wood of the ceiling’s joists as it bursts into the workshop. Maven trembles and lowers her eyes, both in reverence and in fear. All she sees are the creature’s large goat hooves stepping closer and closer, hitting the floor so hard that it shakes beneath her.

“Who are you?” she dares to ask, hopelessly clinging to Rufus for reassurance.

The voice that answers is surprisingly smooth and gentle. “You already know who I am, sweet child.”

“Lord Krampus—”

He chuckles, warmer than she’s ever heard Klaus laugh. “Oh there is no need for such formalities, please call me Krampus.”

She slowly tilts her head up, finally daring to look at him properly. It’s the same tall horns, the same rough and bumpy skin, the same piercing crimson eyes, as the monster she saw a few hours ago.

There is something inherently different about him this time, however.

A gentleness that seems entirely misplaced on his gruesome features; a softness she failed to see that morning.

“Have you come here to punish me?”

He scrunches his nose and furrows his brows, clearly displeased by her choice of words.

“I’m a teacher of lessons, not a master of punishments — punishment seems to be Santa’s speciality, not mine, as far as I can tell,” he huffs, his burning gaze lingering on her scar, “I come to children to guide them on the right path, not to hurt them.”

“But Santa kept talking about the evil kingdom—”

“True evil knows how to charm the world, how to appeal to the masses, my dear,” he says, and as he speaks, black smoke curls drapes around his frame and sparks of light dance around his face, his appearance slowly morphing into that of a beautiful elf. “True evil rarely has a set of rather sharp teeth and coarse black fur… No, true evil hides behind pretty lights, joyful carols, bright red uniforms and wide smiles.”

Long dark green curls fall on the back of his black cloak, and for a brief moment, Maven feels uncomfortable. It’s almost like staring into a mirror…. In this shape, Krampus looks like her — or rather, she looks like this Krampus, the one that has glowing amber eyes and pine green hair.

“I can look beautiful when I want to. I just feel more comfortable when all the world sees when it looks at me, is a monster,” he smiles, sharp and rakish, “It's one of the many differences between Klaus and me. I’m a beast, I’ll always be. I don’t care about power or prestige—"

“Why have you come then?” she finds herself asking, feeling like there’s more behind his words, an answer she longs to hear.

“Have you ever wondered why you have always felt compelled to tread down the path that leads to the Black Woods, or why all the Christmas elves are so wary of you?” he asks, kneeling down on the floor in front of her and the little imp.

He smells like crushed pine needles and the damp soil of the woods, like home, and Maven fights this feeling, tries to bury it deep in her heart.

Of course, I have, she sneers, eyes pricking with tears, I’ve spent my entire life thinking about those things, desperately looking for ways to fix what is wrong with me.

Krampus gently takes her face in his hands, and the things he says next feel like a dagger to the heart. “You’re the flesh of my flesh, and the blood of my blood, Maven.”

“Wait wait wait —Are you implying that —” she gasps, pushing him away and stumbling back into one of her coworkers’ workbench, “No, it’s not possible— I’m not — You’re not —”

“Filthy monster! Krampus Kin!” The children laugh and scream at her in her memory. She’ll never forget the countless days spent running home after school, trying to flee the crowd of little elves who liked to make fun of her clothes or throw little stones at her.

Why me? What have I done to deserve all of this? She still ponders, after all those years, always persuaded that the fault is hers, entirely hers…

Krampus and her bear an unsettling ressemblance — the kind that makes her question the things her mother said and the things that she omitted to say. Did she have secrets of her own? A crime so unforgivable that she took her secret to the grave? Maven doubts and questions, teetering on the edge of madness, clinging to the hope that her mother didn’t lie to her. Wouldn’t a creature as powerful as Krampus be able to assume whatever shape or form he desires? What if he created this one especially from her, an appearance specifically tailored to gain her trust and feed her all sorts of lies?

“I took a risk by coming here, and my little trick only works once,” Krampus sighs, turning around to look at the hour hand of the clock, still and unmoving, “As soon as time takes back its course, the magical wards placed around the factory will alert the guards of my presence.”

“Why?” she asks, speaking so low that she’s almost whispering, “Why would you go to such lengths?”

“Klaus knows that one of his elves is a child of mine. His secretary has been tasked to find the half-blood elf for years. The number on your wrist is a seal, a way for Klaus to keep the Christmas’ elves under his influence, to prevent them from having thoughts of their own. It never worked on you for… obvious reasons. It’s only a question of time before he finds out!”

Maven’s eyes widen; she stopped listening as soon as he talked about Santa’s secretary, about Astarion.

“I came back for you, to take you back to the woods, where you’ll be safe.”

Astarion. The entire time, all those days he came to see her down into the factory… He was only trying to collect proof, wasn’t he? He was only doing his job, and obeying Santa's orders.

See, I told you so, a jaded voice chuckles in her head, nobody cares about you, you’re just a pawn in his game, nothing more.

“I don’t believe you, stop lying to me,” she snaps, running a trembling hand through her hair,“If you are truly who you claim to be, where were you all this time? When all the elves of the North Pole mocked and abused me? Spit it out! What is it that you want for me? There must be something, a reason why you’re here!”

There’s always a reason; nobody truly wants to be with Maven. She is one unlovable creature…Rufus was right, she is like the big lone wolf that sometimes roams the Black Woods, with big sad eyes and a sharp jaw still covered in the blood of his last catch.

“This place has done a fine job of teaching you that love has to be earned, that only the good ones are worthy of affection, but this is unconditional, Maven. I’ve always watched ove —”

“Stop it— “ she cuts him off, sobbing and snarling like a wounded beast, “Stop saying that!”

How pitiful… She spent her whole life yearning for a love like this, but the day the universe finally hands it to her, she doesn’t know how to welcome it, how to believe it, or how to accept that she’s deserving of it.

“Mistress Maven,” Rufus says, grabbing her hand and desperately tugging on it, “Please, come with us.”

She looks at her friend, and a new terrible thought crosses her mind. He came here in the middle of the night, with Krampus himself— does Rufus serve him in the same way Astarion serves Santa?

“Rufus,” she breathes, new tears rolling down her scarred face, “Were you truly my friend, or were you only doing what was asked of you?”

The imp turns white as a sheet, the pout of his lips a silent confession of his guilt.

“I — I— At first, master asked me to protect you — But then I truly —” he stutters, pressing his face against the red fabric of breeches, “I promise, Mistress Maven.”

“I should have known…” she mutters, and Krampus says something again, words lost in the chaos of her mind.

At first, she doesn’t notice the growing pain in her skull, too upset to feel anything else but her heart breaking in two. She’s crying and the next second… She’s struck down by the pain, twisting and screaming on the floor, pulling her hair like a madwoman. Her body is changing, she can feel another pulse than her own beneath her skin, and magic coils tight around each of her limbs.

One final explosion of blinding pain, and she hears something growing out of her head, breaking and twisting her bones like clay in the deft hands of a sculptor.

“Help her, Rufus,” Krampus says in the distance while she heaves and retches on the floor, “There’s no time left, we must leave.”

A puddle of blood is spreading beneath her head, soft and red like the suit Astarion was wearing the night before. She reaches for her forehead, trying to see if there is anything left of her skull, but her fingers hit something hard and pointy. A bump or… A horn?

No, those are not horns, they are… antlers…soft little antlers picking from under her thick dark curls.

Rufus bends down, groaning as he tries to push her up on her feet, again and again.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams, the green halo of her magic enveloping her once more, “I won’t go with you! You’re no better than all the others.”

A flash of lightning in the warm atmosphere and Maven is alone in the workshop again, bloody and confused.

Above the door, the clock is ticking again, and some kind of alarm rings in the distance.

“Seize her!” The guards scream at each other as they march towards her, “Master Klaus is already on his way.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When Astarion arrives at the factory, Maven is tied up in a corner of the Christmas elves’ atelier, flanked by two bulky guards. She always looks a bit terrifying, but today she is a true vision of horror — covered in blood, cold golden eyes shimmering in the early hours of the morning, and… antlers? She didn’t have those before, did she?

There’s something different about her, and Astarion quickly realises that the ‘emergency’ that Gale was talking about in his missive isn’t just a small fire in one of the warehouses or any kind of silly plumbing problem. No, this disaster could actually ruin his carefully thought-out plan, goddamnit!

He has known about Maven’s evil lineage for quite some time now. When Klaus asked him to find the half-blood vermine all those months ago, he immediately thought of her. She was the perfect scapegoat and the obvious choice, but it was almost too good to be true… So Astarion kept looking through the endless crowd of Christmas elves, charming them into coming home with him, looking for signs of a family tie between them and the dark lord of the Black Woods.

His intention was never to hand the child over to Klaus though, he always thought he could find an ally in Krampus’ offspring. He would lure the fool with promises of power, paint a pretty picture of them sitting in Santa’s place in the big office of the factory — or convince them with a few caresses and languid kisses if the rest didn’t work.

But at the end of it, he’d be the only one to ascend, the only one to become the new master of this factory.

A new Santa for a new Christmas!

“Lord Krampus was here,” Gale whispers as he steps beside him in his ugly purple suit, “And Aelfric now has a set of horns…I think Santa has finally found the child he has been so afraid of for all those years.”

Astarion frowns, eyes drifting back towards Maven and the enchanted manacles around her wrists. “Indeed, he has. One less thing I’ll have to deal with, I suppose.”

Her head slowly turns towards him, her furious gaze quickly finding him in the crowd of elves gathered near the entrance of the atelier. Instead of the despair he is used to seeing in her amber eyes, Astarion only finds a quiet sort of fury. Anger suits her better, she looks quite beautiful like this — taller, coiffed with an intricate crown of bones, glorious and bloody like a queen riding into battle.

Well, not quite… That queen lost the battle before it even began, she’s a prisoner of war and who knows what Santa will do with her.

Astarion already knows the answer to that question though, he knows Klaus better than anyone in the factory. The old man is cruel and paranoid… Maven is a threat to his power, in more ways than one. He’ll either imprison her somewhere — or worst 'put an end to her sufferings,’ like the little reindeers who are born with a birth defect in the stables.

A chill of fear runs down his back. He needs her alive, she’s his only hope of overthrowing Klaus… If she dies, all is lost — they are all lost.

Behind him, the Christmas elves tremble in fear and in disgust, pointing fingers at Maven.

“Gods above, look at those antlers, I always knew she was a monster!”

“She has the eyes of a hungry beast, what a dreadful thing…”

“I can’t even look at her anymore, she terrifies me.”

The girl doesn’t lower her head, she stares down at them, unblinking and regal. If looks could kill, all the elves around him would have already drawn their last breath.

The commotion dies down when Klaus finally enters the factory, all clad in a thick white fur. His long silver hair is tied into a braid and his round cheeks are red. His two sled dogs, Azrhina and Wirinaris, growl at Astarion when he crosses the corridor and steps through the threshold of the workshop.

“My poor poor child,” he coos, affecting an air of worry, “What has Lord Krampus done to you?”

Maven smiles, sharp and menacing, and that is also new . Astarion can’t remember if he has already seen her laugh before.

“Oh please, spare me the pitch. Let’s not pretend that we don’t know what is going on here. Let’s skip to the part where you tell me what kind of fate I will suffer.”

A whisper of indignation rises through the crowd of obedient Christmas elves.

Klaus laughs, loud and obnoxious, and Astarion can hear the anger in his cackle. He has learnt to recognize it over the year, for Santa never yells or gets mad — even when he punishes, he laughs.

“You have always been such a rebellious little elf, Maven. It is sad that it has come down to this though, I still had high hopes for you.”

She stirs a little, nervously swaying on her feet, and Astarion’s heart is in his throat.

Santa turns around, speaking to his Christmas elves in a joyous and festive tone. “We all know there is no cure for Krampus’ corruption, don’t we? Every creature that has been touched by him will die in atrocious suffering!”

Lies, Astarion seethes, clenching his fists by his sides, your propaganda grows tiresome, master Klaus.

Yet, behind him, all the others scream ‘yes’ in unison, spell-bound and blind to his petty tactics.

“I have no choice but to put you out of your misery, my child,” he says, smiling sweetly at Maven like he is not sentencing her to death, but rather offering her a warm cup of tea.

The guards grab her by the shoulders and force her to kneel on the wooden floor, already soiled with her blood. No elf has ever been killed before, and in spite of their repulsion for Maven, some of the factory’s employees gasp in horror and turn their backs on the scene.

“Lae’zel Of K’liir,” Klaus calls out, and the officer steps in front him, hand on the richly adorned hilt of her sword, “You will be the one to ease her pain.”

Maven doesn’t cry or beg, she sits still, staring up at her executioner with unwavering rage.

“You have a brave heart Aelfric, you stare death in the eyes without fear or regrets,” she says to the elf, unsheathing her blade, “I will give you a death worthy of a warrior.”

The gyth raises the sword in the air, and Astarion notices the way her hands tremble slightly. Is she hesitating? Doubting her master’s orders?

“No!” someone shouts in the assembly, and soon Shadowheart is standing beside him, the threat of magic shimmering at the tips of her fingers, “You’ll have to kill me first. I won’t let Maven be put down like a dog.”

“Me neither! I won’t sit silently while you kill one of my friends,” Karlach fumes, brandishing one of her heavy hammers, “I’ll fight an entire army if I have to.”

Halsin steps out of the crowd, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, a long knife in his hand.

“Let her go,” he growls at Klaus, more furious and menacing, as protective of Maven as he is of his reindeers, “I won’t say it twice.”

Santa laughs again, a little twinkling sound in which fear and fury collide.

“Oh please, calm down,” he chuckles, gently petting his vicious dogs by the fire, “Why does it matter —”

He doesn’t have to finish before Maven breaks free of her chains with a flick of her thin wrists, bending the iron like it’s made of glass. Her glowing hand shoots up, and she murmurs something that Astarion is too far to hear properly. Santa stands up, ready to bark an order, but a flash of light hits him so violently that for a moment Astarion thinks that the impact has turned him into dust. His joy is short lived though; Klaus was simply propelled against the farthest wall of the room, crashing into one of the glittery Christmas trees like a rag doll.

The cloud of light spreads its wings like a bird high up in the sky, nestling Halsin, Shadowheart, and Karlach in its warmth. The very foundations of the factory shake, every of the windows of the workshop shatters, and just like that, they’re all gone.

A trail of magnificent green rushes out into the snow, and Santa’s dogs race after it.

But it’s no use, they’re no fit for Maven’s magic.

Not strong enough to catch the Queen of bones.

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Happy holidays everyone <3

#bg3 #astarion fanfic #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x female oc #astarion ancunin #astarion fic #astarion fanfiction #dark christmas tale #spooky christmas #christmas #christmas au #christmas fic

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burlveneer-music · 11 months ago

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Green-House - A Host for All Kinds of Life - studiously avoiding the "New Age" label, they nonetheless represent the best qualities of that much-maligned genre

In an era of rampant, man-made climate chaos, “solastalgia” (the longing and distress experienced by individuals as a response to environmental change/degradation) has emerged as a useful, semi-viral concept — a catch-all term for the pervasive sense that the world as we know it is far from well, and only growing less so. But, for many of us, a problem, a trap, an ineffable hollowness, exists at the very crux of this concept/premise: how can we mourn (or even sense the loss of) that which we have never known? Especially for lifelong urbanites estranged from nature, who nevertheless grasp the severity and complexity of the problem—how might they remember? How might they mourn? Perhaps indirectly—that is to say, in an exploratory and non-dogmatic fashion—Green-House, a project birthed by Olive Ardizoni and now officially a duo project featuring long-time collaborator and confidant, Michael Flanagan, seeks to address this gap in understanding. Six Songs for Invisible Gardens, the debut Green-House EP whose 2020 release coincided with the depths of Covid-19 “lockdown,” responded to the rampant heartsickness of human and plant life, especially in non-rural areas. The packaging of the cassette release famously included wildflower seeds for the listener to scatter. This gesture (at once simple and daring, especially when one considers the logistical element) exists as testament to the sincerity and seriousness of Ardizoni’s convictions. Music for Living Spaces, the first full-length Green-House LP, followed in 2021— a refinement of the formula that enshrined Six Songs as a cult, eco-ambient hit. Out October 13, 2023 on Leaving Records, they have returned with the LP A Host For All Kinds of Life, a third entry in a series of releases whose titles have incidentally all revolved around the “for” construction: an unofficial canon of offerings, or maybe rather instructions as to how the music contained therein might, could, and should operate in/on the listener’s life and “living space(s).” Decidedly the most expansive Green-House release — one need only consider the LP’s title and the kaleidoscopic, fractal cover art designed by Flanagan—A Host For All Kinds of Life troubles the very notion of “ambient music,” a category with whom Green-House has always existed in some degree of tension. What if a song’s seeming softness constitutes its biting edge? What if easeful, contemplative pleasure can radically alter our mindset? Our very role as worldly subjects? Drawing on the works of Lynn Margulis and our burgeoning understanding of the evolutionary role of biological mutualism (associations between species in which both species benefit), A Host For All Kinds of Life is a deeply entrenched and politically grounded song suite. And there are indeed discrete songs here, with defined structure, momentum, and sway; see the gilded, sixties-evoking melodic arabesque of the record’s ninth and penultimate track, “Everything is Okay” (which incidentally ends with the release’s only human voice—a tender message left for Ardizoni by their mother). In conversation, Ardizoni speaks often of the centrality of joy—that Green-House’s very existence can be traced to a conscious decision they made to not only choose joy as an act of rebellion, but to find that joy in whatever plant life they could access in their immediate environment. In this sense, all of Green-House’s releases (and A Host for All Kinds of Life especially) embody a radicality that may elude the casual or first-time listener. To choose, model, and express joy in an ailing world requires courage, a courage that must be jealously guarded and constantly replenished. A Host For all Kinds of Life encourages the listener to slow down, take stock, tune in to the more-than-human world around them, and gather their courage and joy in light of the uncertainty to come. All songs written and produced by Olive Ardizoni and Michael Flanagan Bio by Emmett Shoemaker

#Bandcamp #Green-House #ambient #plant music #electronic #new age #leaving records #2023 #los angeles

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therambleandrumble · 7 months ago

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Apocalypse

How I would love one day to see all people, young and old, sad or happy, men and women, married or not, serious or superficial, leave their homes and their work places, relinquish their duties and responsibilities, gather in the streets and refuse to do anything anymore. At that moment, let slaves to senseless work, who have been toiling for future generations under the dire delusion that they contribute to the good of humanity, avenge themselves on the mediocrity of a sterile and insignificant life, on the tremendous waste that never permitted spiritual transfiguration.

At that moment, when all faith and resignation are lost, let the trappings of ordinary life burst once and for all. Let those who suffer silently, not even uttering a sigh of complaint, yell with all their might, making a strange, menacing, dissonant clamor that would shake the earth. Let the waters flow faster and the mountains sway threateningly, the trees show their roots like an eternal and hideous reproach, the birds croak like ravens, and the animals scatter in fright and fall from exhaustion. Let ideals be declared void; beliefs, trifles; art, a lie; and philosophy, a joke. Let everything be climax and anticlimax. Let lumps of earth leap into the air and crumble in the wind; let plants make strange arabesques, frightful and distorted shapes, in the sky. Let wildfires spread rapidly and a terrifying noise drown out everything so that even the smallest animal would know that the end is near.

Let all form become formless, and chaos swallow the structure of the world in a gigantic maelstrom. Let there be tremendous commotion and noise, terror, and explosion, and then let there be eternal silence and total forgetfulness. And in those final moments, let all that humanity has felt until now, hope, regret, love, despair, and hatred, explode with such force that nothing is left behind. Would not such moments be the triumph of nothingness and the final apotheosis of nonbeing?

— E.M. Cioran, from On the Heights of Despair

#writing #literature #quotation #litblr #author #Romanian #poetryblr #quote #apocalypse #emil cioran

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rockhyrax · 8 months ago

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Spectacle Radio ep.117 :: 06.06.24 :: ****A Bloody Moon in the Great English Outdoors

This time with guests Anne Sofie Nørskov and Sam Bornstein talking about the soundtrack to their new film Erase the Record and sharing some of their favorites in the mix with the usual chaos of the Spectacle slate.

Goma & Little Temple - Notti’s Dream #1 (Funky Forest) Killer’s Moon Sam Bornstein - Breakdown (Erase the Record) Alan Birkenshaw & Jane Lester - My Dream (Killer’s Moon) Funky Forest Theme Nill & O Adotado - Shirley Chisholm (Raw Session) American Hunter Josy Nowack - Break You Down (The Future Is Woman) Takashi Inagaki - Wall Anhell69 Brenda Hutchinson, Clive Smith, & Slava Tsukerman - Liquid Sky 14 The Uncle Henny Penny Show (The Adventure of Faustus Bidgood) Giovanni Fusco - L’Avventura Theme … Sam Bornstein - Erase the Record Theme Magnet - Lullaby (The Wicker Man) Eduard Artemyev - Solaris XI Warm Blood The Way It Is - In a Strange Place Yo La Tengo - Sea Urchins (The Sound of Science) Matt Farley - My Goldfish Dead (Local Legends) Burst City The Circle Jerks - Coup d’Etat (Repo Man) Bully Boys Band - Putney Swope Window to Paris Brenda Hutchinson, Clive Smith, & Slava Tsukerman - Liquid Sky 18 Zbigniew Preisner - Dekalog IV Part 2 Sam Bornstein - Letter to Zoey (Erase the Record) Eduard Artemyev - Solaris VI … Anne Linnet - Time Out (Time Out) Goma & Little Temple - Notti’s Dream #2 (Funky Forest) Robert Joy - End Titles from Faustus Bidgood Mark Reeder (B-Movie: Lust and Sound in West Berlin) The Plastics - Copy (Downtown 81) Raymond Scott - Portofino (The Century of the Self) Gottfried Hüngsberg - World on a Wire Edgar Froese - Snake Bath (Kamikaze ’89) Saeko Suzuki - Life King (No Life King) Los Van Van - Tokyo Decadence Grey Gerstin - Demo 5_2-_24 The Grid (The Adventure of Faustus Bidgood) Isao Tomita - Arabesque (Jack Horkheimer / Star Hustler) Joanna Bruzdowicz - Theme from Vagabond Jacques Dutronc - Et Moi, Et Moi, Et Moi (City of Ghosts) Yo La Tengo - Sea Urchins (The Sound of Science) The Red Krayola - In My Baby’s Ruth (Raw Session)

#spectacle #spectacle radio #newtown radio #mixtape #film score #soundtrack

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di-daynamic · 2 years ago

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@fluffbruary Day 23

Peter Parker was Morgan Stark’s absolute favourite person.

Everyone knew that. Peter himself couldn’t deny it, no mater how much it flustered him.

Rhodey laughed and pouted at being replaced as the fun uncle. Happy rolled his eyes. May smiled at him and told him Mo had good taste. Ned went to pieces in excitement. Mrs. Potts always got this sad smile on her face which meant she was remembering Mr. Stark, so Peter had never dared to go past just complaining about it.

There wasn’t much to complain about. Morgan was amazing. She was only five, but she held herself with the grace of a much older lady, talked like a professor, and could bring about the mischief and chaos of someone his age.

Peter adored her. He remembered being younger and begging his parents and later Ben and May for a younger sibling. Mo was everything he’d imagined, and so much more.

He’d just. . . He’d never thought he’d know Mr. Stark’s child, well, without the man being there himself to be the annoying fairy godmother figure he was.

Mrs. Potts had told him that she didn’t intend on superheroes being too big a part of her daughter’s life, and Peter had offered to go. She’d shaken her head and said that Peter was more than Spider-Man, that Mr. Stark had loved Peter Parker as much as, if not more than Spider-Man, and she wanted those who knew him best – him, Rhodey and Happy – as much around Mo as possible.

Peter had ducked his head and blushed, and he’d sworn he would be the best big brother possible.

That meant being indulgent with sweets and other treats, but only with her mom’s permission and within limits. It meant answering every question she had and occupying her huge brain so she didn’t feel bored at school. It meant telling her all about her dad. It meant walking on the ceiling, her precious cargo in his hands. It meant Peter would burn the world down for her.

He was spending the weekend at the lake house again, and Mrs. Potts had told him it was okay to take Morgan to the garage workshop until dinner when he’d asked.

Everything in there fascinated Morgan to no end, and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the objects themselves, or the fact that her dad had once used them.

“Peter, Petey!” Morgan called, holding something up. Peter turned from the schematic diagram curiously. “What’s this? It doesn’t look like anything useful. Is it junk? Can I use it for my scrap metal project?”

“Hmm,” Peter hummed playfully as he made his way to her. “Lesson one of the mysterious lab, Miss Morgan Hope Stark.”

Morgan giggled. “What is it?”

Peter swung her into his arms. “Nothing is as it seems!”

He pressed the sides of it, revealing it to be a capsule. At his touch, it opened to show the camera inside. “Your dad based it on the Snitch, from Harry Potter,” he explained. “It reacts only to … my touch now,” he finished sadly.

Morgan gasped in awe. “It’s cool,” she said. “Definitely not scrap. Is there anything on the camera?”

Peter flicked through the photos on storage. “Hmm. . . Let’s see. We didn’t exactly use it much before. . .” He trailed off, but the word Thanos echoed in their thoughts. “Oh, would you look at that.”

The camera projected a hologram on the wall – of Peter, in his ballet performance for Christmas that Mr. Stark had come to see. The Peter onscreen performed a near perfect arabesque – he was still proud of that one – before moving to a pirouette and chasse.

Morgan clapped her hands together delightedly. “Peter! I didn’t know you danced!”

“Well, it’s only casual,” Peter said quickly. “I’m not a serious dancer – honestly, I wasn’t too good before the spider bite. I was asthmatic and tripped over everything—”

Morgan ignored his rambling, the way she did everything she considered beneath her notice. “But you can dance! You can teach me ballet!”

“I didn’t even know you were interested,” Peter said in astonishment.

“I wasn’t,” Morgan said impatiently, the underlying Keep up, big brother very clear. “But if you do ballet, it can’t be all that bad. And mom wants me to ‘increase my repertoire and get out of my comfort zone’.” She sounded extremely put out at that. “This is perfect! And then you and I can spend more time together! FRI, play ballet music!”

“Woah, Momo,” Peter grabbed her and set her on the table. She folded her arms sulkily. “Not so fast. What have we said about whims?”

“That I need to think through them before acting on them,” Morgan muttered petulantly. “I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

God, she sounded like her dad. Peter felt a wave of crushing grief pass through him, and he steadied himself, taking a breath.

“Petey?” She sounded uncertain, suddenly.

“When you’re all grown up like me,” Peter said in a tone of haughty superiority. “You’ll see exactly why it’s necessary. Till then, Madam, you have to follow it.”

“You talk like you’re as old as Uncle Thor,” Morgan rolled her eyes, but acquiesced. “Okay. Why can’t we do ballet now?”

Peter ruffled her hair gently. “That’s my girl. And first, we need to talk to your mom to see if she really will be as eager as you say. Then we need to get you the stuff you need – pointe shoes, for one. And we certainly won’t be dancing here.”

Morgan nodded. “There is a lot of breakable stuff in here,” she allowed. “And we don’t want to destroy any of Dad’s things.”

“Nah,” Peter agreed quietly. “We don’t.”

“Can we go talk to Mom now? It’s time for dinner anyway,” she pointed at the clock.

“Sure,” Peter said, beginning to pack up. “First pick up your crayons, and put all the things you took out back in the box.”

“Okay,” she said, and they worked hurriedly, Morgan as organized and methodical as her mother. “Done, Petey?”

“Yep,” he held his hand out to her, and swallowed the lump in his throat as he felt her smaller one curl into it. Mr. Stark isn’t here. I am. She’s my little sister. Mine to protect.

Mrs. Potts greeted them, looking haggard, but smiling. “Hi, sweethearts. Do you mind if we just have a snack for dinner tonight? There’s enough for you, Peter, and tomorrow’s breakfast will be big, I promise, but I needed to handle a call with the board. I can make something now if you need though.”

Peter shrugged, concerned. Mrs. Potts reminded him of May in the first few months after Ben. She was taking on far too much, and he didn’t know how to help.

May says it’s enough to just be there, he reminded himself.

“I’m fine with it, Mom,” Morgan said.

“I am too,” Peter said. “Mrs. Potts, if it’s just a snack, why don’t we take a blanket out beside the lake and have a picnic?”

“Ooh, sounds fun!” Morgan said. “Please, mom? Please?”

Mrs. Potts looked hesitant, but smiled then. “Sure, why not. Give me a moment. Peter, can you pack the food? Morgan, get one of the picnic blankets out, please.”

They went to do as she said, Peter considering what he could do to help her. He hadn’t known Mrs. Potts too well before the Blip, but Mr. Stark had loved her, and that had been enough for him. “You can leave the phone here,” he insisted.

She pursed her lips. “Peter—”

“Seriously, Mrs. Potts,” he continued. “They can survive for your half-an-hour dinner break. Mo!” He called to his sister, who was running forward. “Wait up!”

Mrs. Potts looked at him with a half-rueful half-tender expression. “You may be right,” she gave in. “At any rate, Morgan looks ready to combust with impatience.”

Morgan had picked a Spider-Man blanket, which she looked very proud of as she spread it on the grass. “It’s you, Petey!” She said happily. “How do you like it?”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, remembering buying his own merchandise for the first time and swinging to Stark Tower to show it to Mr. Stark. “It’s amazing, Mo.” He said quietly. Mrs. Potts gave him a look of quiet empathy, and they commiserated in their grief.

“Mom, you remember when you said I needed to develop new skills?” Morgan asked, as she finished her second sandwich.

Mrs. Potts was having a cookie. “Yes, dear,” she said. “Have you changed your mind about learning French from FRIDAY?”

“No,” Morgan denied, and Peter made a note to get the whole story from her later. “But Peter knows how to dance, and he said he would teach me!”

“Ballet,” Peter added hastily, in case Mrs. Potts thought of the ‘dances’ most teenagers did. “I’ve been learning since I was a kid, for almost eight years now. I’m not qualified to teach, but I could show the basics for about a year, until you’re ready to join a proper class, or you get bored of it.”

Morgan scowled. “I won’t get bored of it!”

“If you say so,” Mrs. Potts looked at them contemplatively. “Yes, I remember Tony telling me about your Christmas performance. The Nutcracker, wasn’t it?”

Peter blinked, still startled at every evidence that Mr. Stark had really, truly cared about him. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, it was.”

Morgan furrowed her eyebrows, clearly committing that to memory, as she did everything about her father.

“What would you need?” She asked.

“Well, the second sitting room is large enough to pass for a studio,” Peter began. “And FRI’s there to play music. We’ll need some equipment to stretch, and ballet shoes for Morgan – and a tutu and leggings – but that’s about it.”

Mrs. Potts nodded, graciously as though she were a queen, as she did everything, Peter thought. “Very well. We can do that. You’ll take the lessons whenever you come up?”

“I think,” Peter responded. “Once school starts up it’ll be harder, so maybe some video calls then, but, it might be too much.”

“We’ll see,” Mrs. Potts agreed. Then: “I’m proud of you for taking initiative, Morgan,” she added. Morgan beamed. “Even if it was only to spend time with Peter.”

“I want to learn ballet too,” Morgan protested. “It’s not just that!”

“Really?” Her mom teased. “Eat more, Peter. Your metabolism will barely be satisfied with that much.”

Peter sighed, taking another snack. “Yes, Mrs. Potts.”

“Yes, I am!” Morgan’s voice rose in a tantrum. “I’m going to be the best ballet dancer in the whole, wide world!”

“Wow,” Peter said in overexaggerated awe. “I’m sure you will. You can do anything you put your mind to. I can’t wait to see it.”

The rest though, was honest. Morgan Stark was already amazing, and even though he hated that her father wouldn’t be there, Peter couldn’t wait to see her grow up to be a star and live her life.

(In the years to come Morgan Stark would gain a degree in Mathematics and Astrophysics, and take SI into a new era. And every time she danced, crowds would rise to give her a standing ovation. Morgan would give the credit to her childhood teacher, whose name and face, unfortunately, neither she nor her mother could remember. Somehow, for some reason, she associated them with Spider-Man.)

#fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2023 #marvel cinematic universe #spider man #peter parker #mcu peter parker #morgan stark #pepper potts #siblings

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dreams-of-mutiny · 2 years ago

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How I would love one day to see all people, young and old, sad or happy, men and women, married or not, serious or superficial leave their homes and their work places, relinquish their duties and responsibilities, gather in the streets and refuse to do anything anymore. At that moment, let slaves to senseless work, who have been toiling for future generations under the dire delusion that they contribute to the good of humanity, avenge themselves on the mediocrity of a sterile and insignificant life, on the tremendous waste that never permitted spiritual transfiguration. At that moment, when all faith and resignation are lost, let the trappings of ordinary life burst once and for all. Let those who suffer silently, not even uttering a sigh of complaint, yell with all their might, making a strange, menacing, dissonant clamor that would shake the earth. Let the waters flow faster and the mountains sway threateningly, the trees show their roots like an eternal and hideous reproach, the birds croak like ravens, and the animals scatter in fright and fall from exhaustion. Let ideals be declared void; beliefs, trifles; art, a lie; and philosophy, a joke. Let everything be climax and anticlimax. Let lumps of earth leap into the air and crumble in the wind; let plants make strange arabesques, frightful and distorted shapes, in the sky. Let wildfires spread rapidly and a terrifying noise drown out everything so that even the smallest animal would know that the end is near. Let all form become formless, and chaos swallow the structure of the world in a gigantic maelstrom. Let there be tremendous commotion and noise, terror, and explosion, and then let there eternal silence and total forgetfulness. And in those final moments, let all that humanity has felt until now, hope, regret, love, despair, and hatred, explode with such force that nothing is left behind. Would not such moments be the triumph of nothingness and the final apotheosis of nonbeing?

—E.M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair

#emil cioran #on the heights of despair #quotes

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fruitjedi · 17 days ago

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Most recent :Timely- MICO

Favorite vvv

General music: Best Excuse -Saint chaos

Classical : Arabesque by Samuel R. Hazo

Song of my choosing: God Games- Jorge Rivera Herrans

I can’t think of anyone to tag my brain cells aren’t being good brain cells . Anyone interested plz join.

MUSIC LOVERS ASSEMBLE!!

i feel like starting a tag chain so i hope this works out :)

reblog this with 3 songs:

the song your listening to right now (or last one you listened to)

your current favourite song

a song of your choice

______________________________________________________________

mine:

its now or never - elvis presley/love in the dark - adele

trastevere - måneskin

nevermore - queen

______________________________________________________________

tagggzzzz: (np ofc) @heartstopper-lover123 @s0lit4ir3 @ali-da-demon @vicwritesfic @skeelly @charliethinks @tori-my-love @chronic-skeptic @toulouseradiosilence @stewpid-soup @nine-frogs-in-a-trenchcoat @pessimistic-gh0st @theshyqueergirl @crowleybrekkers @a-bowl-of-soop @frogfairy444 @robinheaney12 @fairyghostgirlgaming @thatsawesomedontyouthink @venusplanetoflove2 @thelovelyvie @abookishshade @spir4nts-lun4r @i-have-no-idea-111 @kit-the-queer @a-wondering-thought @scatteredraysofhope @coco6420 @softlyunbreakable @givennnnnn @far-beyond-saving @darling-im-wonderstruck @heartstoppernerdsstuff @nonbinary-idiot-obviously @rebelrobinrules1984 @daydream-of-a-wallflower @leonine-elizer @angel-devil-star and anyone else who wants to join!!

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sandimexicola · 4 months ago

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Arabian princess

**colorful, vibrant, whimsical illustration of an Arabian princess in the style of Gond art, with colorful patterns, pink, orange and purple with teal highlights. The illustration is highly detailed, with a fantasy background featuring Arabic architecture and an arabesque tent. There are also colorful floral designs with smooth lines and a magical glow. --chaos 37 --weird 37 --p k4sbz7n --s 750** - Image #4 <@460773395773128706>

#Midjourney #Arabian #princess #AI #AI art #AI art generation #AI artwork #AI generated #AI image #computer art #computer generated

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beyondtheplenty · 1 year ago

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//02 Madness and the Tango

Distraction and curiosity are the two ultimate sins, outward signs of that impatience which has always prevented man from rediscovering the gate of Paradise. (0)

The simpleton man, the sheep, no longer satisfied by the everlasting noise, reaches unknown land behind the edge of the world. What new emotions does it make it possible to feel? (1) The story of the past swims between two shores, comes to a halt between two temporalities, leaves behind two philosophies. (2) Is there some secret understanding between them? (3)

One of the most beautiful things that our era is teaching us is to approach with light and simplicity the very complex things previously believed to be the result of chance, of noise, of chaos, in the ancient sense of the word. (4)

Thus my story will have a flavor of the present. (5)

Madness measures the distance that exists between foresight and providence, between calculation and finality. (6) Over the horizon, the great Land of Ceres stands on its site. A Palace of Faces constructed of Shadows of what once was, and of what once was could be. Here, free, is the dance. (7)

There, stands a statue of gold. Seen from outside, the statue looked like the funeral stone of a beautiful young man. (8) I know it, I see it, I feel it, I am illuminated by it, burning. The wine dark sea and divine life. The adjective, placed to one side, at a distance from the names and notions of philosophy is enough for me as a parable. Yes, the divine is there; I touch it; these things are improbable miracles; I never stopped loving the world and seeing that it is beautiful. (9) A profound truth about nature, about life and humanity shines forth here. (10) The most interesting person in the world, all the greater for intervening everywhere. (11) Desire.

Madness here was not about truth or the world, but rather about man and the truth about himself that he can perceive. (12) Between them, it outlines a meticulous meshing. (13) A thing more than merely black and white, noise and silence.It takes shape, volume, and Form. An elementary stitch or thread of real human relations—never straight but made of multiple arabesques, twists, curls, or helixes in the bedroom or the living room, or in the squares—this quincun cial chain resembles a staff where the notes would occupy pretty much the same place, enabling one to hear a familiar form in a regular rhythm, gallop, tango, bebop, minuet; the monotonous murmuring emanates from the line. (14) Everything begins with the dance. (15)

Madness of pain, excess of suffering, dance (16) They dance in a circle, waving spears and toys. (17) They dance and sing in choirs. (18) Let us return to the stagemaker, the magic bird or bird of the opera (19), the sheep and the man. These two hardly needed to speak to each other. (20) These two states require two thoughts; these thoughts demand in their turn to be thought together. (21) Two states are to be defined. (22) His deeds are those of an adventurer who responds to a sense of challenge, to whimsy, to curiosity, and to pleasure. (22.5) We evoke these two shadows, we do not call to them. (23) The big sealed jars were opened, the new wine flowed. (24) A bird with the same constellation as a brain. (25)A bird supports its fleecy wingspan in the felted air. (26)

A sting pricked them to their very souls, and thus were events unleashed. (27)

It is a world that is self-sufficient, highly tensioned, even convulsive, wrapped up in itself, with no curiosity about any other manner of existence. (28) The first is scattered, and the second one turns. (29) Two souls converge, entwining in an embrace that defies distance. The beautiful soul is not content with the state of nature; it affectionately dreams of human relationships. (30) The integrating force is born here; we don’t know very well how. Synthesis is born there, the synthesis of the multiple. (29) Every step, every pivot, and every swivel of one's feet becomes an orchestration in response to the leader's unspoken cues. Another must indeed desire to be assured in one’s own desire, floating. (31) What is this unity, mobile and floating? (29) Sensitivity is heightened, attuned to the subtleties of their bodily expressions. The impressive thing here is the fidelity to the physical model. The impressive thing. The beautiful soul is not content with the state of nature; it affectionately dreams of human relationships. (32) I would be that our physics models hardening, cooled liquids, crystallization, cell formations, spiral formations might be inferred as well by what we know of social processes. (29)

And the same for time: beatitude runs from generation to generation, so that the devout inhabits the unfurled omnitude of space and history. Accompanied by joy, experience opens this space—which goes from there to elsewhere and can go from Earth to God—for the construction or dilation of the soul, by opening up or piercing a passage, a threshold, a door, a port through which to reach one of these exposed places. (33) The interplay of pauses and progressions, moments of tension, akin to suspended breaths in the fabric of time, followed by the release—a rhythmic exhalation—akin to a sigh of respite. Experience traverses these places and is exposed. Between nothing and everything, it launches a space and a time, like a free and floating branch. (33) The music, with its haunting melodies and rhythmic cadences, stirs the depths of the soul. The multiple is primitive. It is everywhere differentiated, floating, fluctuating, chaotic. (34) I prefer to call these two states, unitary and multiple. (35) Ecstasy expresses an end to this voyage, the establishment, temporarily stable, or, rather, a distancing from the equilibrium around this exposed point, in its neighboring regions, a differential of time. Programmed, the bestial instinct closes in on itself, positioned. (33)

But in a sense of the word which, with time, has been lost: the aesthetic of a mesh of powers concentrated in a figure, a body, a voice. (36)

#text

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rosietrace · 2 years ago

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Melodic Misconceptions 🎹

Track 23: Filler reporting for duty! Ew the new managers are here 🤢

Synopsis: Victoria Shard was a former member of the popular idol group [ Poisoner ] from NRC corporations. After discourse with her group leader, Victoria decided it was best for her to leave and pursue her solo career in a record label run by her parents.

It had been half a year since her separation from her old group, and Victoria had never been more successful. But now she has a new problem. She must return to NRC corporations in order to mentor the seven idol groups.

Ellis Clawthorne is a member of [ (Co)-connect ] the most recent group under NRC'S belt. With no experience as an idol, Ellis must persevere in order to succeed and pursue her dreams.

Will both girls be able to adapt to their current situations?

✐ ✎_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_✐ ✎

Author's note: Behold, the track has finally arrived 🧍🏻‍♀️

Writer's block decided to knock on my doorstep, so I was struggling to write this track because I didn't know where it was gonna go TvT that's why there's still no social media segments yet

There will probably be social media segments in track 24 tho, so there's that

Hope you guys enjoy this track ^^|| even if it probably won't be as good as the other ones

Another note: Please Reblog ^^ No seriously, I mean it

──ㅇ─────↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺───ㅇ────

Victoria resisted the urge to smile at the group she was currently watching.

She wasn't able to believe it at first, but now she feels proud to know that [ (Co)-connect ] were incredibly fast learners. Not to mention incredibly patient with her mentoring.

In a way, it made her feel more at ease as their personal mentor.

Their harmonies worked so well that it didn't surprise Victoria that Crowley paired the seven of them to be in an idol group together. No matter the chaos, they would always be able to deliver.

And holy hell, do they deliver.

Noticing the subtle yet near-invisible smile on Victoria's face, Mayuu hummed satisfyingly and smiled as well. Although hers was more visible compared to the woman next to her.

"They all improved greatly…"

"It's all thanks to you, you know."

Victoria scoffed, drinking from her cold water bottle."I wouldn't say that…" she muttered, not looking in Mayuu's direction.

The latter chuckled."Well, I would. And I just did. Besides, it's okay to take credit for the success of others." Mayuu commented, "Just as long as you take the necessary amount of credit."

Victoria nodded lazily and continued looking at the rest of the group, her cheek leaning against her knee.

Nothing seemed much different.

Carol's voice remained mature and calming. Yuuta continued to be endearingly provocative.

Juvia's dancing was less fast-paced and showed more emphasis on how to express her body without smiling too much. Miren appeared focused on his guitar, strumming its strings with a look of amusement in his eyes.

Chizuko appeared contemptuous as if she had something on her mind as she strummed the strings of her bass.

And Ellis danced along the remaining space in the dance studio. As graceful as a ballerina, with her pirouettes and arabesques perfectly executed.

Victoria noticed Mayuu pursed her lips and raised a brow."Is something on your mind?" She asked.

The receiver of her question only chuckled."I guess…. We've done several interviews before you arrived, but…. The group members in particular aren't fully prepared for interviews…" Mayuu admitted.

Silencing herself for a couple of moments, Victoria pondered over what Mayuu told her. And after a couple moments of silence, she looked back at her.

"I think I can help with that."

──ㅇ─────↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺───ㅇ────

Circe didn't like this. Not at all.

He and the rest of [ Poisoner ] stood outside of the main corporate building of NRC corporations. Waiting for their new manager.

Who replaced Vil's father.

Without anyone noticing, Circe sent Vil a not-so-subtle scowl. A way to silently scold him for making such a foolish decision.

Vil's changed. Circe knew that. And people can change after several years.

But he didn't like Vil's change. Especially since only a couple of years before this, he found deep admiration for him.

And it's been replaced with unresolvable hatred. And it only increased the longer he had to stand with the rest of the group.

Epel stole a glance at Circe and felt regret. He always felt it ever since Victoria left. And that regret only increased once Jiyoon left the group.

He and Circe knew the group was a shell of its former self. And that Rook and Vil were giving their fans false hope.

When Epel tried to reach his hand out to Circe, in an attempt at trying to comfort him and calm him down, he half anticipated Circe to slap his hand away.

And he did. And he didn't even bother to steal a glance at him.

"Are they coming yet?" Circe put little effort into sounding the least bit bothered by what they're currently doing. Vil narrowed his eyes at him in response.

"Patience, Circe." Vil calmly suggested. Without him noticing, Circe rolled his eyes and only got frustratingly bored as time continued to pass.

Until the limousine entered. Two limousines.

Rook tilted his head, looking rather confused."Eh?"

The first limousine stopped in front of them, but to their surprise, it wasn't Koral.

It was Aguri.

Vil crossed his arms and lifted his head a little. Circe resisted the sudden urge to snort at Vil's attempt at assertiveness toward his friend.

Though, he couldn't help but think Aguri looked a little unusual. Sure, he looked nice with his casual navy blue sweater, but… Why did he look like he was going on a date?

Was what Circe thought as Aguri walked past the four of them.

Vil hummed."Not bothering to say hello?" He spoke. Aguri sighed but didn't waver. He didn't even bother to look at Vil. Like it was a sign that their relationship was deteriorating.

"I don't need to. I'm not here for you."

"I'm your friend, Aguri."

"Not the point. And that isn't my real name."

"And would you prefer me to refer to you as Y/-"

They were cut off by the sound of the second limousine's door opening. Revealing a girl in a bubblegum pink dress with reddish brown hair.

Aguri knew it was Koral, and didn't seem to stiffen until her manager exited the vehicle.

When the manager sent Aguri a smirk and a flirtatious wave, that was when he sprinted into the building.

Circe felt tempted to run after Aguri but decided against it after Vil sent him a knowing look. One that told him not to run after Aguri.

While also essentially telling him, "You can't leave as the girls did."

──ㅇ─────↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺───ㅇ────

"No questions are basically questions that can simply be answered just by saying no."

Mayuu nodded in agreement, pushing up her glasses as the rest of the group sat on the couch and listened to their lecture.

Yuuta was content. He already knew what to say in interviews since he's had the most. Mostly because of the numerous rumors surrounding him, but also because of his general popularity.

Ellis, on the other hand, had no idea what to do during interviews. While the other members mostly knew what to say, Ellis mostly kept herself shy. Almost completely silent.

As optimistic as she was, she couldn't help but feel she was a bother due to her inexperience and decided to keep quiet during most interviews unless she was asked a question.

Suddenly, she felt Juvia poking her forearm and gave her a questioning brow. Juvia sighed softly and pointed at Victoria, who sent Ellis a pleasing smile.

"Ellis? Are you all right?"

Feeling her face go warm in embarrassment, she nodded rapidly at her mentor.

"Y-Yeah! S-So, do you need something?"

"Yes, actually." Mayuu answered for Victoria, slowly approaching Ellis."We're gonna be teaching all of you how to pull the strings during interviews."

The words Mayuu said not only confused Ellis but also the rest of the group.

Except for Yuuta of course.

"Pull the strings?...." Juvia murmured, tilting her head off to the side, feeling rather bewildered by Mayuu's words.

And out of nowhere, Yuuta rested his head on Miren's shoulder, and let out a low chuckle.

"Oh, Juvia….." Yuuta trailed his sentence as he sent Miren a knowing look.

".... She means we're gonna learn how to manipulate the audience and the interviewer."

Yuuta's words alone were enough for Victoria's smile to transition into a cynical smirk.

──ㅇ─────↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺───ㅇ────

Tagging:

@starry-night-rose @windbornearchon @nem0-nee @authoruio @fumikomiyasaki @sakuramidnight15 @geminiiviolets @twsted-princess @knights-escort @oseathepebble

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sillylittleheadspace · 9 months ago

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@ihavedonenothingright My referencing was absolute chaos, I was staring at this gif for Sheik.

This photo by Cindy Singleton for Sheik (full disclosure, I didn't buy the art print but it was a perfect reference photo).

And so many photos of the arabesque position while I struggled to get Zelda's shoulder (I originally intended to have her full dress but I could not make the pauldron look good). I'm really glad to hear it looks good! T^T Thank you!!!

The piano covers I was listening to ran away with me and I was tearing through ballet references like a person possessed. The context to explain the outfits is pretty specific to a story that will almost certainly never see the light of day--just know that Zelda quickly stripped off the outer layers for improved mobility and Sheik has updated clothes in post-OoT years. Obligatory: Sheik appearing in anything created by me is a separate character from Zelda. This was a one off for me based on story and music inspiration but I feel it's appropriate to point people at @jullbnt for much more plentiful and polished LoZ ballet art.

#i used to want to do ballet as a kid but we couldn't afford it #tried in college: ballet for beginners #it wasn't for beginners and i wound up being shamed out of the first class

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eretzyisrael · 4 years ago

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Unlike a traditional museum, The Fetter Nanoscience and Art Museum at Bar-Ilan University enables visitors to wander across different buildings to access the eight displays that make up New Languages, making the experience itself beyond memorable. Below is an overview of the eight different exhibits. Arabesque by Mahmood Kaiss and Prof. Adi Salomon From afar, artist Mahmood Kaiss and Professor Adi Salomon’s spectacle looks like a gate or even an arch of some sort, that could easily pass as a sculpture exhibit in itself, based on its remarkable beauty and innovation. Designed to introduce viewers to the nano-metric and comprised of wood, these arches use carbon nanotubes. The molecules can also change based on the severity of the sunlight, which helps to connect the architectural feel of the structure and its relationship to nanotechnology. This exhibit allows audiences of any age to understand the clear connection between art and science, making it both accessible and engaging.

Flooding by Prof. Shlomo Margel and Eili Levy

Following a single drop of water, may sound insignificant to the average museum-goer. However, when artist Eili Levy found herself in a period of anxiety, she wanted to depict these innermost feelings creatively. Referred to as hydrophobia in science, the drop is meant to represent the rollercoaster that is our lives while simultaneously highlighting how water responds to stress and variable conditions. Yet, this journey would not be possible without the team of researchers who were able to ensure that the drop was not absorbed through the journey due to its hydrophobic coating. Spectators are easily able to identify with the drop, making the exhibit one of the more poignant moments in the exhibition.

Salt Animals by Caroline Maxwell and Dr. Gili Taguri-Cohen, Upon first glance, Caroline Maxwell’s painting may look like your average animal painting on sandpaper. Yet, the painting itself led to some unexpected scientific discoveries following its completion. Having finished it a few years ago, some recent discoloring and changes were revealed which prompted researchers to begin studying how both salt and crystals influenced these color variations. Using salt from both the Dead Sea and Salt Lake City, audiences can easily see the crystallization of the painting. This exhibit may not be the most fascinating visually, yet the history behind its journey shows how science can reveal itself even in the most unexpected and unintentional of ways. Here and There by Prof. Dror Fixler and Ela Goldman Artist Ella Goldman felt disconnected from her past home in Poland and current life in Israel. Using motors, wood, controllers, fluorescent dyes, and light sources, she created a sequence of molecules. This visual experience is attempting to mimic the diagnosis of cancer and the precision and accuracy of diagnoses. Yet, Goldman also explains how it is a reflection on our pasts and future, both in our lives and in advancements in medical technology. In the lab, Prof. Dror Fixler conducted studies on identifying diseases based on wavelengths on molecules, and how the nanoparticles respond. This idea, called fluorescence, proves the remarkable connection between artistic expression and scientific discovery.

Copper Rain by Elad Shniderman and Dr. Shay Tirosh For artist Elad Shniderman and Dr. Shay Tirosh’s exhibit Copper Rain, participants are asked to peer into a tinted and stained window. Meant as an analogy for the impossibility of identical experiences, the exhibit also has music playing throughout the experience, only furthering this clever metaphor. Using crystallization of copper in a cell, this exhibit signifies the overproduction in our world. At times, the music, sounds and tints in the panel can feel overbearing which only mirrors how the state of our world can feel. One of the more reflective exhibits in the museum, Copper Rain allows us to look inward while exploring both art and science. Sync Variations by Elad Shniderman and Prof. Moti Fridman Easily the most memorable exhibit of the museum, projections of 16 violinists came on-screen in a panoramic setting while audiences were seated in a sheltered panoramic tent. The exhibit was meant to signify how differences in synchronizations can either confirm or challenge chaos theory and how we choose to accept or ignore the information that we are presented with daily. Yet, its implications for 2021 extended beyond chaos theory and into the realm of fake news. How do we tune out unnecessary noise? How do we undo what we thought was true? Elad Shniderman and Prof. Moti Fridman were able to craft a truly captivating experience using the power of music to provide insight into chaos theory. Stretching the Limits by Vardi Bobrow and Prof. Orit Shefi. Through the innovative use of an ample supply of rubber bands, Varid Bobrow and Orit Shefi sought to explore the neuroplasticity of neurons. The result is a remarkable examination of the brain. When we learn new things our brain grows and expands, similar to how a rubber band might expand. Yet, with periods of idleness, the brain remains stagnant. The elastics in this piece beautifully capture the phenomenon of neuroplasticity of the brain. Great for audiences of all ages, the exhibit shows how something as simple as elastic can teach us fascinating theories on how our brains work. Unbounded Parallel Universe by Emmanuele Della Torre and Israel Hadany What seems like a rotating and scrolling slew of texts in a variety of languages, is actually an optical illusion of stagnant text. Meant to show the beginning of the universe as well as sacred texts, the optical illusion allows spectators to attempt to interpret differing understandings of the universe. Each text will never intersect with the others, mirroring how in real life, often our perspectives fail to align with others. Created by Emanuele Della Tore and artist Israel Hadany, the texts range from Maxwell’s formulas to Kabbalistic texts, to theories from Stephen Hawking, making it likely that each viewer can find identification with one of the texts being presented.

#Israel #Art #Nano-technology #Bar Ilan University #culture

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ayzrules-art · 3 years ago

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shadow & starfire, for @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘stars & shadows’! also inspired by a challenge i saw to describe your characters without using color, though i maaaay have deviated from that a lil ahah. ~875 words, w/ @artless-whimsy

[IVORY QUEEN, THORNED ROSE.]

i. Porcelain and shadow, silk and steel. The queen of the underworld is a morning glory twirled in iridescent taffeta, her lips bloodied with blossoming roses and her gown shot through with star-shine and moonglow, the skirts frothing with flouncing satin ruffles. There is a revolver sewn into the petticoats.

ii. Ivory queen, thorned rose. Her eyes glimmer with calculated warmth, and her twinkling laugh weaves illusions of lilting summer birdsong and blooming forget-me-nots. Her face is flushed with life–or maybe that’s just rogue. You’re not sure.

iii. The queen of the underworld is silent as shadow, balanced on a sliver of stone hanging over the yawning abyss. She’s the eerie calm before a raging storm, whispering spider-silk and murmuring clouds spiraling through silvered skies, soft as hyacinths and hushed like deadly nightshade. Her power is faint wisps of smoke swirling around you and settling into your pores, crushed over your jugular before you even realize that it’s there.

iv. In the burning plains, the sunlight cuts straight to the bone, piercing and blinding and bright, and the arid heat bleeds the land to dust, coils itself into your throat and chokes out all the moisture. The onset of dusk is hope, and roiling thunderstorms are promises of rain and reprieve: the darkness is life, and chaos is salvation. The queen of the underworld is that moment before the heavens shatter in two; the ashen penumbra of smoldering twilight.

v. For all that her heart is ribbed with hard steel and ricocheting moonlight, there is still a gentleness to her, soft like morning dew. She tells you that you have nothing to fear from her, and you believe her.

[NIGHT KING, DIVINE DESTROYER.]

i. Velvet and midnight, starfall and steel. The king of the underworld has hair that shines moon-pale, like stars winking out from the abyss; his eyes glitter like princess-cut diamonds and jagged shards of ice. All the life in them has been transformed into something gleaming and hard through scorching heat, blasting pressure, searing frost. Still–he is a distant sun, charming everything that comes into his orbit.

ii. Night king, divine destroyer. The demon king has fine features and a smile that shimmers like spun silver; a laugh like the delicate, dazzling luminosity of gemstones spilling across the night sky, roiling clouds drifting away to reveal their brilliance. He is a silken cold that creeps into the edges of your senses and sinks itself into the crevices of your soul until you don’t remember a life without it; whispered suggestions and flickering glances, compelling without the victim ever realizing they are being compelled–numbing everything that makes them alive.

iii. The king of the underworld is tall and slender, with all the dainty grace of a ballerina, poised on the knife’s edge of rigid control and quicksilver fluidity. His gloved fingertips that flutter and flit like butterflies, and he wields his power like a dancer floating into a soaring grand jeté, with steps that are light as air and muscles and tendons pulled taut, hard as iron. There is a heartrendingly-thin boundary between stone-willed restraint and the flowing elegance of release, and the king of the underworld holds an arabesque en pointe between them.

iv. He is the rain that glides downward with gravity during a desert thunderstorm, following the forces of the universe and misting away into the hissing air before it ever has the chance to splatter clumsily across the ground.

v. He tells you that there is nothing to be afraid of. You want to believe him.

[ANGEL OF FURY, KNIGHT OF JUSTICE.] i. Fire and fury, ichor and starfall. The fallen angel burns like scorching flame; the ashen skies are swirled with bruised thunderclouds, and she shines like a comet streaking across the horizon, setting the stratosphere alight with blinding brilliance. Her hair is suffused with radiant divinity, and her heart blooms with liquid amber into the darkness of night.

ii. Angel of fury, knight of justice. She is the storm that tears the world in half, the raging tempest that follows silken, shadow-spun calm, shattering the heavens in two: sun-charred lightning cast down to earth, incandescent with charged atmosphere. Blazing electricity crackles and dances at her fingertips, and she is more alive than anything you have ever seen.

iii. She is angel-glass, the pearlescent stone skidded over the hills like ricocheting moonlight in the half-dark of smoldering twilight. She’s burning divinity fused with earth and quartz: holy fire singed across dust-seared desolation, the glory-gleam of paradise and the harsh, bone-dry heat of the desert coming together in a burst of angel-kissed inferno. She’s fierce winds and piercing sand and blessed flame melded all into one, crowned with a halo of sun-scorched starlight.

iv. Her power is fury and it is life. She wields jagged shards of roaring lightning and molten starfire, and she is the rain that glides downward with gravity during a desert thunderstorm; she is all the forces of the universe that drive it to the parched ground, stubbornly defying the hissing heat that threatens to smother every last bit of moisture into mist.

v. Her eyes are glittering and alive, and you are afraid. You run, and she doesn’t try to stop you.

#run devil run #my writing #flash fiction friday #shanmai #mai #wrc #edit

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brooklynislandgirl · 9 months ago

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She leans in slightly, eyes focused on the movements of his mouth beyond the smile. Beyond the warmth. Ah, that makes more sense, the ordering of the letters. Sandhurst. She nods sincerely. "Is not for everyone, an' I could compare some awkward moments of sand-rash from bein' drag across da beach, board still attach to my ankle but some kine tells me dat's not wha' you're alluding to." She thinks he'd be just as arresting in a rash-guard and board shorts as he looks in that tuxedo. "But if ya ever game to find out, I'd be gentle wit' you an' not make ya surf da Pipeline before ya ready." She winks over her shoulder before proceeding to continue to climb. His question makes her stop once more, and this time she tilts her head. He can't see the twist of her lips or the furrow of her brow as she contemplates them. Beth did like that pair, however expensive and impractical as they have been. Spending the night in them would surely encourage the ache in her left leg from the scar, the tendons and ligaments shortened by surgery, the muscle that remained atrophied beyond what her body could regenerate and regrow. All of that is on the Admiral for not thinking enough about the situation to help her all those years ago. Not something she really wants to get into in the moment and this could all be an elaborate ruse. Make her drop down and either put them back on making her ascension the second time around slower and dangerous, or just delay her as she figures out how to attach them to her gown. This is why more designer dresses need to have cleverly concealed pockets or…she should have chosen a far larger purse. In her defense, she didn't think she'd end the party by trying to steal away a tall and handsome stranger. If she had, she would have been far more prepared. The quiver of the chain-link tells her that he's getting into the spirit. Beth can't help but smile. "My plan is…leave 'em dere. Inject small kine chaos into da night. Make dem wonder where dey came from. Make dem question who was here an' woefully under dressed. Especially wi' two glasses but only one pair of shoes." Diabolical, at least for her. She uses the steadiness he provides to scale the last bit to the type, then swings a leg over the top. For a breath taking half second, framed by the firework coloured lighting, she could be a music-box ballerina. Forever suspended in a modified arabesque. When shadow of night falls again, she finds a foothold on the other side. "Or mebbe, I'll send a ransom note. Trade you in exchange for the shoes." She laughs. "Of course I t'ink your wor'd a lot more."

For a moment he looks at her in confusion, then, finally, a smile cracks his lips again. Genuine, as if there hasn’t been any awkwardness due to the SAS remark just moments ago. “No.” Gareth chuckles, shaking his head at how cute that misunderstanding is. How cute she is. “It’s…it’s Sandhurst. Though…I must admit, I do have bad experience with sand.” Terrible one. And the t-shirt he received as a joke afterwards is still in his closet. Actually, he is often wearing it at home, mostly as a sleep shirt.

His gaze follows Beth, and he raises his own glass to his lips to empty it in one go before placing it carefully on the grass, on the side, where he is sure no one will accidentally trip over it. Then freezes as she hikes up her skirt. However, Gareth quickly manages to force his gaze away, watching her climb up so effortlessly. She has most definitely done this before. He, however, is hesitating. Normally this isn’t an obstacle to him. On the contrary. Climbing walls, without help, has been part of his daily training. It used to be his job. But that is the keyword: used to be.

Now…things look different. He hasn’t actually done this in a long time. His job is to sit behind a desk now, and he hardly ever gets the chance to climb walls when he goes to work. His gaze drops to his knee. Months of torture. Months of hospital. Surgeries. Recovery, rehab, healing. A slight tremble is still visible when he puts his weight fully on his leg, which is why he avoids that motion as good as possible.

He swallows once more before he reaches out, fingers curling into the wire. For a second he glances at the abandoned shoes lying in the grass, frowning. They don't look cheap; and she just wants to leave them here? "What about your shoes?"

#dontcxckitup #Lives a Life of Danger|Gareth Mallory #Beware of a Pretty Face|Gareth and Beth #London Calling|007 au

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ayzrules · 4 years ago

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describe your character(s) without mentioning color

full text is also under the cut on my sideblog { here } , because my main blog’s font is not the most legible!

The king and queen of the underworld look nothing like the nightmarish images of winged monsters with knobby joints and twisted talons that the angels fed into the minds of the mortals, all those centuries ago. Niklas is tall and slender, extending his arm for his wife with the dainty grace of a ballerina, each movement–down to the flutters of his gloved fingertips–poised on the knife’s edge of rigid control and quicksilver fluidity.

His hair shines moon-pale, like winter stars winking out from the abyss. His eyes are glittering princess-cut diamonds and jagged shards of ice, all the life in them transformed into something gleaming and hard through scorching heat and blasting pressure and searing frost. He’s a distant sun, charming everything that comes into his orbit: a smile spreads across his fine features, and it shimmers like spun silk. He laughs, and it’s the delicate, dazzling luminosity of gemstones spilling across the night sky as roiling clouds drift away to reveal their brilliance. And once you are there, once Niklas has you right where he wants you–then he’s softly falling snow, a numbing cold that creeps into the edges of your senses and sinks itself into the crevices of your soul until you don’t remember a life without it.

Niklas’ magic is the magic of whispered suggestions and flickering glances, of compelling without the victim ever realizing they are being compelled; it’s the rain that glides downward with gravity during a desert thunderstorm, following the forces of the universe and misting away into the hissing air before it ever has the chance to splatter clumsily across the ground. His power balances over the heartrendingly-thin boundary between stone-willed restraint and the flowing elegance of release, and Niklas holds an arabesque en pointe between them. He wields his magic like a dancer floating into a soaring grand jeté: his steps are light as air and his muscles and tendons are clenched tight, hard as iron.

That, Alejandro thinks, is what makes him so terrifying. He’s as resplendent as ever as he steps away from the carriage, dressed in a frock coat of velvet and midnight, but Alejandro has seen what mortal ballerinas do to themselves to find the point between tight-tension-musclespulledtaut and spin-launch-let go. It’s bruised shins, torn muscles, bloodied feet, fractured bones. It’s bending a human body and then crushing downward despite the screams ripping through their tendons and the shaking in their lungs, the pain tearing them in two. And eventually, once one has repeated this enough times, for enough years, the brute force of it all blooms into those graceful leaps and endless whip-precise pirouettes that their wealthy patrons love so dearly, looking downward from their cushioned balconies. Niklas has put himself through this and more, to have what he does today.

His wife, though, is more a force of nature than a mere ballerina–but one would not be able to tell just from looking at her. Alejandro watches from his post as Mai takes Niklas’ arm, smiles and thanks the coachman. The queen of the underworld is a dainty doll, her fine manners and demure bearing belying the thorns underneath. Her petaled lips are bloodied with blossoming roses, and her gown is shot through with star-shine and moonglow, the skirts frothing with flouncing satin ruffles. Alejandro knows: there is a revolver sewn into the petticoats.

Mai’s complexion is pale as porcelain, her hair dark as night; under the warm glow of chatter and light radiating out from the manor, it gleams like the pearly veins of angel-glass skidded over the land and seared into the sand, burning divinity fused with the harsh, unforgiving desert. Like her husband, there is a fluid grace and pleasant charm to her movements: she’s a morning glory twirled in iridescent taffeta, greeting their host and exchanging all the polite pleasantries that the mortals expect from her. Mai’s eyes glimmer with calculated warmth and her twinkling laugh casts the illusion of lilting summer birdsong and blooming bluebells, giving all the appearance of a beating heart.

Alejandro, though, has known Mai for long enough to see right past it. Mai’s magic is silent as shadow, balanced on a sliver of stone hanging over yawning nothingness. It’s the eerie calm before a raging storm, whispering spider-silk and murmuring clouds spiraling through silvered skies, soft as hyacinths and hushed like deadly nightshade. It’s faint wisps of smoke swirling around you and settling into your pores, crushed over your jugular before you even realize that it’s there.

The mortals fear demons and the chaos and darkness they represent, but Alejandro knows that the darkness is life and chaos is salvation. In the Borderlands–the so-called ‘burning plains’–sunlight cuts straight to the bone, piercing and blinding and bright, and the arid heat bleeds the land to dust, coils itself into your throat and chokes out all the moisture. There, the onset of dusk is hope, and roiling thunderstorms are promises of rain and reprieve. Mai is that moment before the heavens shatter in two, the ashen penumbra of smoldering twilight.

And, Alejandro thinks, for all that Mai’s un-beating heart is ribbed with hard steel and ricocheting moonlight, there is still a gentleness to her.

His mind wanders to the grounded angel, the one that Mai saved from her husband’s men. It’s ironic, he thinks, that the two most powerful demons in existence both feel so quiet, while the angel is boiling fury and scorching flame; burning, burning, burning. Her eyes are glittering and wild, her hair suffused with radiant divinity, a bright, untamed torch of molten starfire. She’s the storm that comes after Mai’s silken, shadow-spun calm: she’s crashing thunder and sun-charred lightning and white-hot incandescence rending the world in two. The king and queen of the underworld dance across glittering glass, spinning their deadly pirouettes of court politics and bloody vengeance through the centuries, but the angel might just be the one who tears them apart, bringing their entire kingdom down with her.

She’s waiting at some indeterminate point outside of the manor–no doubt exactly where Mai had asked her to be–and Alejandro has a job to do. He shakes himself out of his thoughts and steps in line with Mai and her husband when they reach him, beaming at them both as all three of them make their way inside.

#shanmai #mai #wrc #run devil run #my art #writeblr

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