#believe it or not I set up this account purely to lurk at first

[wisteriagoesvroom]

is your username related to desperate housewives?

no 😭 but solid guess. erm so the lore of this account is wisteria was a generic name i picked to write… other rpf… not so long ago… but then i stumbled onto f1 fics and was like: wow party on tumblr, that’s where it’s at. and then it became wisteriagoesvroom as a joke to myself. except the joke has gone on 9 months or something now and i’m apparently still laughing 😭😭

it was meant to be a throwaway lurker account not what has effectively become my main 😭😭😭

[morgana-ren]

Come Down to the Black Sea III

Summary: The sea seems to call to you, but it’s not the tumultuous clash of the waves you should fear. Something lurks deep beneath the black waters, something sinister with a piqued interest and ill intent.

Rating: Explicit 

Warnings: Siren!Shigaraki, graphic depictions of violence, heavy sexual innuendo, implied noncon, foul language, sexual tension you can cut with a knife, and just general sexual grossness. Joking daddy kink also, if you count that. 

PART I, PART II

Here you go! The third installment. Your seafaring friend finds your hot button and decides to plant some lovely ideas in your brain. Listening to them probably is not the smartest idea in regards to keeping your heart beating, but it certainly gets your thighs clenching. 

Taglist: @lemonzoey​, @babayaga67​

You know, it's really rough to explain to your superiors at work why you're so distracted when it happens to be because a mythical being is giving you the cold shoulder. 

You’re not entirely certain why it bothers you so much that your last encounter with him ended rather sour. He had made it perfectly plain from the get-go that his intent with you was far from pure. Murderous, in fact. He had almost drowned you on your first meeting and insulted you incessantly during your second. Not exactly a friendly track record. 

Regardless, he’s made a permanent home crawling beneath your human skin, like some itch you can’t scratch away. You can try to justify it however you’d like, but you can’t ignore the truth. In a word full of mundane existence, you’ve found an oddity and as much as you’d like to pretend you aren’t, you’re drawn to it. It’s part of why you returned to the beach despite the clear and present danger. You’d found a living, breathing mermaid. Even more impressive, you’d managed to piss him off.

Mermaid? Is that accurate? He’s so sensitive to being classified wrongly, but still never told you what he was. Considering the circumstances, maybe you should be a little bit more concerned about other things rather than offending him, but it still bothers you. 

Your ignorance isn’t due to lack of trying. You’ve done extensive research in the spare moments you have during the day, but nothing quite matches his description no matter how deeply you delve into the weirder parts of the internet, even going so far as to browse around on conspiracy sites on the darknet. Mermaid? Merman? Siren? Fish-guy? Some distantly related offspring to that Ripley’s Believe it or Not monkey fish? Relentless searching proved fruitless. Plenty of old sun-crazed fishermen claim to have seen merfolk in the waters or sirens on the rocks, but more often than not, it was a walrus or stage 4 sea madness. No one had a legitimate account of meeting with a real, intelligent creature of the deep. Nothing that came remotely close to him, anyway.

Despite being unable to focus at your job, getting home only doubles the anxiety. Restlessly sitting and twitching on the sofa, repeatedly trying and failing to read or watch some vapid TV show. You’re unable to keep your mind from returning to the ocean, to him no matter how hard you try. 

Over the course of time, you become acutely aware that staying home clearly isn't an option, but you're not really sure what to say to him if you see him again. Why do you even care? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring him? You can excuse your obsessive thoughts about him since most people would have the same reaction to seeing something supernatural not once, but twice in front of their very eyes, but a lot of people wouldn’t continuously return to see it especially if it was malevolent. 

You love that preemptively planning what to say to a sentient supernatural sea dweller is a part of your day. That's awesome. Can't look that one up on google. 

You’ll compromise with your compulsiveness instead. Go a little early and watch the sun set down over the horizon instead of watching the moon rise. Most parents won't allow their children near your rock because it’s slippery and dangerous, and frankly, you don't think he'll show up when others can see him. He’s deadly, but a mob of terrified parents and curious beach goers has few rivals. 

Maybe you can get your fill before he appears. It's better to keep away from him anyway. He wants you dead. 

He wants you dead, you remind yourself.

And so you do. Tread the sandy trail down to your favorite little hideyhole and plop down on the hard surface. You kick your feet absentmindedly on the rock beneath you, watching the small particles of sand splay and regather with every motion of your foot. The crash of the waves, still tumultuous and ornery, slap the side of your makeshift perch and splash you with speckles of water every few moments. You don't mind. You needed to shower anyway.

You can't help but feel a bit more lonely than normal, even surrounded by so many more people than you usually are. Flustered moms urge their children in from the shore to wipe them down with towels and flighty young twentysomethings hoot and holler, laughing loudly as they pile into their cars to find their next big spot for the night. The moon rises and the beach empties, leaving you alone again. The ocean settles, and even though it feels better, you feel alone.

You close your eyes, resting your head sideways on your knees with your arms buckled around your legs. You're close to the edge, precariously so. You just want to be close to the water. You should move back.

In. out. in. out. in. out. in. out.

The waves seem to move in line with the beating of your own heart, a tranquil feeling that dulls your restless thoughts and engulfs you in quiet solace. The hum of the ocean resonating deep within you with each breath you take of the briny air.

You're aware enough to recognize that the sound of the sea is luring you into a false sense of comfort. The darkness seeping over the horizon doesn't make it easier, and soon your slowly wandering mind is on the brink of unconsciousness. You're dangerously close to falling asleep, and given the circumstances, that probably isn't the best idea, especially since you're precariously close to the water. 

You can't help it, it's been one hell of a week. You haven’t slept. Haven’t relaxed. Haven’t felt at home in so long...

Listen, there's no guide online to look at that can help you through what to do when a malevolent fish-man hybrid has decided he wants to drown you. You can imagine it would say something along the lines of 'Stop going near the water then, dumbass' but that's like asking a religious person to stay away from church. It's the one place where you feel any semblance of peace, and you'll be damned if you're going to let the moonlight water marauder take that from you. 

Still, it makes things in your life exponentially more difficult when you can't explain to anyone what's on your mind. 

'Yeah, I met a mer...thing, and he's decided that he hates me and he wants to drown me, and that makes me sad. The one supernatural creature I get to meet and he doesn't like me. Bummer.'

They'd probably have you committed. That’s a bit much even for your eccentric proclivities. 

Your body occasionally jerks you awake, probably its way of saying 'You cannot sleep when there are enemies nearby', but it feels like it's been weeks since you've had a decent night's sleep. The endless procession of days marked by existential crisis with the tacked on bonus of being aware of the existence of a nefarious fairy tale creature makes everything feel awfully surreal. It feels as if you've been running on pure adrenaline and are about to crash. Hard.

If you were smart, you'd go home and try to bank on the feeling of sleepiness currently plaguing you, but you just can't bring yourself to move. Even barring the flaxen haired fish dude just chomping at the bit to drag you under, napping this close to the sea is a bad idea in general. Tides change rapidly and all it would take is a few minutes of you being unaware for the waves to snag you and haul you off to a watery grave. They'd probably never find you, just like the others who disappear here at night. 

But that's probably his doing, isn't it?

What does he do with the bodies exactly?

You really wish he wasn't trying to kill you, cause you have an endless list of questions you'd like to ask. What does he eat? Where does he live? Does he sleep at all?

Musing on all the things you'd like to know about him and his life leads you into fantasizing about being a talk show host interviewing him, and one thing leads to another and before you know it, you're conked out cold. You've managed to find an extremely awkward position to slump into, but even the horrid crick in your neck isn't enough to shake you from the dreamless slumber. Your body doesn't even have the energy needed to produce a dream, so instead, you just float through an endless void.

It could have been minutes, or even hours, really. You're not sure. The only thing strong enough to jar you awake is a sudden and intense feeling of dread that blooms in your stomach and gives you a form and sentience again. Your eyes snap open instinctively, and you're greeted with a pair of spiteful red eyes far too close to you for comfort.

"Jumping jesus-!" 

Surprised is a nice word for what you feel, an ugly screech emanating from your throat as you kick out your feet, knocking yourself over and almost falling in the water in the process. You hit your head nice and hard on a particularly jagged portion of the rocks, and by the time your vision undoubles, the danger is just barely settling in. 

Except danger is too busy cackling to be a threat.

You try to grapple with the panic in your chest and get a grasp on reality again after your literal rude awakening, but it's a bit rough when the sadistic jackass who perpetuated it in the first place won't stop laughing. Apparently he's too amused to take the opportunity to seize you, so you take the moment to scoot much further back and out of his reach, resisting the urge to plant your foot right on his stupid face.

Eventually he quiets down, but the grin never leaves his face. Much like everything about him, it's hostile somehow, mocking and disingenuous. 

"Humans really are so stupid."

"Joke is on you, tunabreath. You wasted the perfect opportunity to actually grab me." 

He shakes his head, tutting you. "I couldn’t resist. We like to play with our food too, sometimes. Scared ones taste better."

Is he implying he eats people? Okay, you know what? You don't wanna know. You doubt he'd be honest about it anyway, and would probably say whatever unnerves you the most. He seems a prick like that.

"I thought the entire point was to drown me and get it over with. You’re borderline obsessed with it."

He scoffs, little head fins twitching as he waves you off. "If I’m going to waste my time, don't make it so easy. It's less fun."

Okay cool, this is all a game to him; your life is a game to him. Nice. Fun. Great. 

Something on your face must have given away your ire, because he simpers at you and another raspy laugh bubbles in his chest. 

"It's not my fault you're stupid. You're the idiot sleeping next to the ocean when you know what's waiting for you when you get too close. It’s like you want me to devour you." 

"I thought after your little tantrum last night, you were gone for good. You really can throw a fantastic hissy fit."

That wipes the smile from his face.

“Little brat.” He taps a claw on the rock, narrowing his eyes at you. “Tough talk from someone afraid of getting a little wet.” He drags out the final word with a mocking tone, clicking his tongue against his fangs with the final syllable.

“For the last time, I’m not afraid of getting wet-” It takes it a second to sink in but wow this all sounds so wrong. Your face darkens and a familiar tingle worms itself in your gut. Are you really that lonely? “And don’t say it like that!”

His brows furrow and he studies you with a slightly quizzical expression. “Like what?” 

How do you explain to a dude who presumably has no cock and no human sexual experience about the sexual insinuations of human expressions? Wow. This is not a talk you thought you’d be having. The entire situation is weird, but this really sets the bar. 

“I know you’re probably not familiar with it, but that sounds... weird. It just sounds weird, okay?” 

“I don’t understand.” His lips curl downward in annoyance, arching a pale brow in your direction. 

“Look, when a human and another human... do stuff, things happen to their bodies and-“ a twisted sense of shame curdles your stomach and you go to scratch the back of your head, avoiding his eyes. Your words trail off somewhere mid sentence. If you were looking, you could practically see the gears turning in his head, but a few seconds later, his face pops in realization. 

“I’m fully aware of your human mating habits.”

“Don’t say it like that either! Jesus, you’re so awkward.”

A slow smile spreads over his face and he leans closer to you, tail swishing in a steady rhythm beneath the water. “Why? You’re over the ‘age of consent’, as it’s put, right? A sexually mature human female? Does it make you uncomfortable when I say things like that? Or does it make you something else?” 

He trails his claws in a walking motion towards your out of reach leg, and embarrassment isn’t a strong enough word for the emotion that colors your face as you recoil from his wandering fingers. “Knock it off!”

“Has it been a while since someone touched you, little human?”

“None of your business! You’re such a creep! And what do you know about it anyway? Don’t you fuckin’ lay eggs or something?”

He ignores your pointed jab, licking at his chapped lips as he runs his piercing eyes over you a bit too invasively for your liking. “You wanna know, huh? I can show you.” He reaches towards you again and you wiggle back a few more inches, caught between his words and the friction igniting feelings you’re desperately trying to ignore between your thighs.

“I’m getting mixed signals here. Are you trying to drown me or fuck me?” 

“Who says I can’t do both?” He tilts his head, gaze lingering on your lips before drifting down to your chest without shame. His attention still feels utterly predatory, but for a different form of predator entirely. “Your death doesn’t have to be entirely painful, you know.” 

“S-stop it.” 

He’s giving you whiplash with his intense mood swings, but you can’t deny the less than appropriate places his words drag your mind to. Heat ignites inside you, warmth spreading through your navel as your cheeks burn deeper than they did before. You will it away, trying to shake loose the thoughts from your mind. No fucking way are you even considering this.

“Look, even if our bodies were compatible, which they aren’t, it’s not like you wanting to kill me is a turn on.” 

He gives you another lilting grin, flicking his tongue and hissing in a foreign laugh. “Are you sure? I know that some of your kind are into that sort of thing. Hard. Rough. Dangerous. And judging by your face-“ 

Another bout of blood colors your cheeks so intensely that you can literally feel it. Oh God, make it stop. 

“-You might be.” 

“Shut it, shark bait!” 

“And who’s to say we’re not compatible? I know plenty. Something about the beach is an aphrodisiac to you humans. Not to mention~” Another grin, but this one gives off the undeniable air of ‘I know something you don’t know.’ “You have no idea what I can do.”

You can’t help but look back at him as he says it and you can tell he means every word. The unnatural scarlet glow of his eyes seems far too welcoming, calling to you like some sort of beacon in the darkness. The soft gleam of his silvery hair in the moonlight far too inviting. You want to touch it, wonder what it would feel like entwined between your fingers, what it smells like and how those claws would feel like scratching against the sensitive skin of your ass as he holds you steady against his hips.

You bet those fangs aren’t just for show, and judging by his attitude, he’s probably not afraid to use them. You bet they’d feel all sorts of nice scraping and digging into your flesh, biting you and licking that thick tongue up and over your neck, maybe even a bit lower if you asked him nicely. He’s so lithe, so strong, he’d have no problem fucking you against the rock even with the water resistance. His slick skin rubbing against yours, webbed hands squeezing your waist, kneading your tits, pressing the rounds of your neck until you gave yourself over to him completely and the taste of him is the last thing you ever knew.

Okay, you admit it. You are really curious to see just what it is he can do. You’d probably be the first human in history to find out, the first girl to be fucked to literal death by a siren. Would it really be such a terrible way to die? Being dragged under metaphorically and physically and spending your last moments in pleasure wholly unknown to the moral realm?

He smiles softly, watching you toss it around in your mind as he cradles his head in his palm. He’s beautiful, and you loathe it. You hate that you’re even considering this, even toying with the thought as if it’s really an option. What the hell are you doing? This is complete madness!

“You aren’t serious, are you?” 

He gestures you forward seductively, nibbling gently on his scarred bottom lip, keeping your eyes squarely trained on his mouth. “Come a little closer and find out. I promise I bite. Extra hard if you beg.”

Another clench between your legs. Shake it loose, shake it loose! “Look, even if I believed for a split second you wanted to seduce me, you really think I’m going to literally die for the chance?”

“What else are you going to die for?” 

Oddly deep. Not a thought you wanted to ponder right now. Expertly deflect it with sarcasm and ignore the fact that he has a very good point.

“Of old age, in my bed, surrounded by loved ones and piles of money I didn’t get the chance to spend yet.” 

He scoffs, blowing air through his nose. “Sure.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs, shucking aside your irritation. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” 

“Prick.” 

He giggles, finding your crass human mouth oddly endearing. “Well, the offer stands. I told you I’m not going anywhere until you're under the water with me.” He pauses, considering you for a moment before grinning darkly. “I might just do it anyway, but it’s better if you’re willing. Not that I’ve ever been averse to a little struggle.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to say no when you can’t speak. I could easily bypass this little game of playing hard to get, but I want to see you squirm.” He eyes between your legs and you pray to the Gods that he thinks the dampness residing there is because of the watery environment. “I want to see you beg before the light goes out in those pretty eyes.”

“You’re a fucking perv!”

“I told you I’m going to watch you drown, you really put it past me to not take other forms of satisfaction from you while I’m at it?”

He presents a good point. You resent the fact that you don’t entirely feel repulsed by the thought. You should. You should be mortified and terrified and other words that end in ‘fied’. You should run and never come back. You know you should. 

You lean forward. 

“I’d like to see you try, fish boy.” 

A strangely genuine smile spreads across his lips and his face seems to light up at your words. It's still menacing, but oddly cute; like a child getting ready and excited to play their favorite game. 

"You really think you can win this, huh?" He muses, looking up at you through those pale lashes. "You sure are something, little girl." 

"What do I have to lose? If you win, you kill me, and whatever else, but I won't care, because I'll be dead. If I win, I get to see that arrogant smarminess wiped off your face when you don't get what you want. You'll have wasted all this time for nothing, and I guess that's a small consolation prize alongside my life."

“Time means nothing to me, but if it makes you feel better about the situation.”

From the way he says it, you don't deny it. It dawns on you that you really know nothing about his people. Do they age like you? Do they age at all? 

“How old are you?” 

"Older than you by far, I promise. What a rude question. How old are you?" 

“Old enough. But that doesn’t answer my question. Don’t deflect.”

"No manners, you humans." He ponders it for a minute. "You count the passing of time in revolutions around the sun, right? I'd bet I had been an adult for a very long time while you were still learning to walk on wobbly little legs." 

It's your turn to laugh now, and he doesn't seem amused. "You're an old man! Ew! You're an interspecies cradle robber!"

"I'm not old! We live exponentially longer than you! I'll still be in my prime when you're an elder!" His pallid face is dusted slightly red in frustration, and it's almost funnier than his reaction. 

"Whatever you say, grandpa! Do you have an undersea walker? Drink sea prune juice? Is that why your hair is silver? Cause you're old?"

Self consciously, he strokes the front of his long bangs between his fingers. "No! You're an immature little brat!" 

"Back in my day~" You barely dodge a swipe from one of his claws as he jumps as far forward as he can and swings at you. "Careful gramps, you don't wanna hurt yourself. You’ll break a hip or whatever it is you have."

He sneers at you and you bask in the minor victory.

You sit in silence; him with a scowl tightly pulled across his thin lips, and you with a smug little grin. So it’s not impossible to get under his scales. 

He’s a world class pouter, you’ll give him that. He doesn’t strike you as vain, but this is probably uncharted territory for him; actually talking to a human and subsequently being made fun of for his age. He’s probably not used to being mocked in any sense of the word, seeing as he’s a ‘non existent’ mythical creature. Maybe his kind are prideful, if a little childish. He claims to have existed for ages, but he still has the mannerisms you’d attribute to a male around your age. Maybe a tad immature and explosive himself. You guess some things don’t change with the species. Aggression, domination, and sex. And murder, in his case. 

Some things are universal, it seems. 

He’s making a show of ignoring you now, clicking his claws together in a subconscious attempt to threaten you. They are awfully sharp. You swear looking at them makes the gashes on your arm start to ache all over again. Occasionally the fins on the side of his head twitch in an almost catlike manner, turning toward whatever source of sound can be heard. It’s so strange to you, you can’t help but stare. He looks ethereal, even as impudent as he’s acting. With the backdrop of the ocean and the moon behind him, he looks like a painting that belongs in a gallery. You can’t stop yourself from leering at him.

You’re trying to ignore the fact that he definitely takes notice. 

He's angry at you, displeasure still slightly evident in his face, but a small smile crooks his lips. You've clearly offended him but your leering goes a little way towards soothing the hairs you've rubbed the wrong way. For whatever reason, knowing you find him attractive puffs his feathers- er, scales- with pride. Body language relaxes between the two of you and a few minutes of quiet follows. 

Yet, it's difficult to keep a pleasant silence when the company you keep is far from familiar. This isn't two friends relaxing on a beach; at least unless most friends are malevolent ocean dwelling creatures with an end goal of filling the other's lung with sea water. 

The lack of noise makes you antsy, almost like you're anticipating something but you're unsure of what. It feels false somehow, like you're trying to turn this isn't something it isn't; comfortable. No matter how his casual demeanor tries to lull you into a false sense of security, you have to remain vigilant. One little slip and he'll drag you into a watery grave- among other things if he was serious. 

“So… What do you eat?”

He slow blinks at you a few times before grinning, light glinting off his all-too-sharp fangs. “You mean besides you?”

There’s multiple implications to that, neither one of which you want to ponder for various reasons. Your panties are already uncomfortably damp.

“Yes. Besides us.”

Shrugging, he flicks at a small pebble on the rocks edge and plunks it into the water. "Same thing you would if you were one of us. There's plenty of fish down here, only difference is I can eat them raw." 

Your nose crumples and you stick your tongue out slightly, imagining him taking a bite out of a still-twitching fish. "Ew."

He rolls his eyes, brushing your obvious disgust aside. "If I recall, don't you humans have multiple dishes you eat raw?"

"Well, I mean, yeah, but it's different. We actually prepare it."

"Sounds like a whole lot of fuss over nothing. Your weak stomach just can't handle it and mine can, and you seem to find that to be some sort of bragging point. Also, don't you humans have a tendency to put things in your mouth that don't belong there?" 

“Didn’t I already tell you to shut up about that?” 

"I don't know, I'd say the occasional raw fish is a lot less dirty than a human male c-"

“Oh my god! I am so sorry I fucking asked!”

He cackles loudly and you realize that he's officially found your hot button. Even worse is he knows it. "I mean that's not to say we don't have our own filthy habits, but you guys are inspiring-"

"Dude! Make like a tunafish and can it! I don't want to hear any of this!"

"Oh? Is that so? Because around 10 minutes ago, you were half ready to rip your clothes off and jump in here and let me try you even if it meant your death."

"Momentary lapse in judgement. Don't get too excited, grandpa." 

He frowns again but seems less offended now that the initial moment had passed. "If you insist upon calling me a nickname pertaining to my age, I'd prefer daddy."

All humor drops from your face. How the fuck does he even know about that? 

As if he can read your mind, he responds. "A lot of you humans like to reproduce here. I've seen quite a bit and heard even more. Like I said, you’re absolutely filthy creatures.” 

“Ah. Yeah. That makes sense.”

“My offer stands. Come a little closer and I’ll show you just what I learned.”

“Creep.”

“That makes two of us, now doesn’t it?”

"I'm not the one bringing up sex every 3 seconds."

Hey, do you know how awkward it is to be having this conversation? With him? Right now? Do you know how utterly surreal this is?

“No, but you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn and you know it doesn't matter what you say. Your face is a dead giveaway. He knows it too, crossing his arm and arching a cocky brow at you. 

“And I’m the pervert, huh?”

You wrap your arms around your legs again in a subconscious show of defense. "Yes, you are. This is a natural response to embarrassing topics. Topics you keep coming back to." 

He shrugs again, his head fins twitching a few times. "I don't deny my nature. If I feel lustful, I act on it. Another reason you humans are inferior. You deny what comes naturally in the name of some form of... shame, is it? I have no bonds holding me back, while yours are pointless and dictated by some invisible and shallow form of ‘morality’ and ‘purity." 

He’s… technically right. Still.

"You realize you're saying this to the person you're trying to kill, right?" 

"I'm aware. Consider it a parting gift. You can feel what it's like to be untethered before I end you."

You roll your eyes so deeply that you’re almost certain you’ve detached the retina. “Oh, how very kind of you. So thoughtful.” 

"It’s not entirely altruistic, but it's better than I was originally planning. I was just going to rip you apart the second I pulled you in. Of course, that was before I got a good look at you. It'd be a shame to waste such a pretty thing without getting a taste first.”

It's a twisted compliment, but you appreciate it, at least as much as the circumstances allow. 

“Thanks…  I think?” 

"It's a good thing, I promise. I won't just touch anyone, you know. Most of your kind repulses me. I'm not an easy please." 

"Oh." Another awkward silence. "What makes me so special, anyways?"

His face blanks over, eyes hardening and mouth pursing in a tight line. He opens his lips a few times to speak, but seemingly stops himself. His expression flashes confusion, then rage, then apathy in quick succession. "I don't know. It won't matter for long anyways, soon you'll be dead and I can move on." 

“Not if I win.”

"You won't. I don't lose. Besides, I've already almost gotten you twice. It's only a matter of time before you slip up again, and I'll be there to catch you when you do."

"Put it like that and it almost sounds sweet." A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. 

His face flushes and he looks away from you, expression contorting. “It’s not. Don’t twist my words.” 

“Spoilsport. Go eat a mackerel or something. You’re not yourself when you’re hungry. Or maybe you are. Either way, you’re cranky.”

"It's hard not to be cranky when there's a meal right in front of me and I can't indulge."

"Quit threatening to eat me. I get the point, it's just weird.”

His thick tongue flicks out and runs across those glimmering teeth and he just smiles. "Who said anything about eating?" 

“Give it a rest.”

He swipes a small amount of water at you with his thumb and forefinger. "Deny it all you'd like, you enjoy the attention." 

"Definitely. I love being the first human to be hit on by the world's first mermaid fuckboy."

A hybrid mix of a groan and a growl rumbles from his chest. "I'm not a fucking mermaid!" 

"Oh, sorry!" The sarcasm is palpable, and he scowls at you again. You love the fact he doesn't deny the secondary insult. "I meant merman." 

"Don't insult me. As if your petty, unimaginative fairytales could even come close." 

"You have a tail, you live underwater, and you're half human. Sounds pretty damn close to me." 

The look on his face is as if you just forced him to swallow something extraordinarily disgusting. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. And I'm not half human. You're half us."

Now that takes you off guard. 

“What did you say? What do you mean?”

"It doesn't matter." He pushes himself away from the rocks, his tail slightly flapping above the surface. "Besides, you were right. I am hungry. I should probably find something to eat for tonight, unless you’ve changed your mind." He doesn’t bother waiting for you to retort before skillfully diving down back beneath the waves.

You want to stop him, but he’s gone before you can think of a creative way to say ‘hell no’. The slight dash of silver hair makes out towards the horizon and before long, he's gone. As always, he leaves you feeling more frustrated than anything. 

You want to stay, to enjoy the ocean like you used to before he barged his way into your life, but it all just feels too strange now. He won't return tonight, you know that much. 

Heaving yourself off your asleep butt, you begin your bowlegged walk back to civilization, left with nothing but the ache of a cramp in your hips and a strangely heavy feeling in your gut.

[pinnithin-writes]

The First: Aftermath (Part 2)

A collaborative work between myself and @reneethecyborg on what happened after Lupin III: The First. Part 2 of 4, 1609 words.

It never ceases to amaze Zenigata how quickly things tend to spiral out of control when the Lupin gang is involved. Just a few days ago, he was staking out a Parisian museum in hopes of preventing Lupin from stealing some old diary with vague ties to his grandfather. The stakeout had sort of worked, excepting Lupin’s usual dramatic escape at the last second. Then radio silence for a day or so, until Lupin popped up again in the middle of Mexico for no clear reason. That’s when things really got complicated, as they almost always do with these people.

While arresting Lupin may be the cornerstone of his career, Zenigata’s primary goal has always been to uphold justice and root out corruption wherever it may lurk—even among his own coworkers, from time to time. With that in mind, it’s not terribly surprising that he often finds himself forming a temporary alliance with the Lupin gang when there’s a greater evil to deal with, and there are few greater evils than the one they’ve come up against this time.

All in all, things seem to have worked out alright. The entirety of the Brazil base’s manpower was either taken into custody or gunned down when Interpol (and the Lupin gang) stormed the place, the Eclipse device was kept out of the wrong hands, and Laetitia Bresson can get on with her life as a bright young woman with a promising career in archaeology to look forward to, finally free of the dark cloud hanging over her.

But something still isn’t sitting right with Zenigata.

He would never admit to giving them a head start—it would sound too much like he’s going soft—but it didn’t seem fair to chase the Lupin gang out on a rail before they had a chance to say goodbye to their new friend. From where Zenigata had been watching on Interpol’s own boat, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, the whole affair seemed rather subdued. Lupin didn’t perform any of his usual grand gestures of farewell; Laetitia had hugged him, but he ended it fairly quickly and spent most of their conversation on the speedboat, like he was trying to keep a bit of distance between them.

The pursuit didn’t last long, on account of the fact that they could hardly leave Laetitia stranded there on the pier, but what little he saw before cutting the gang loose left a bad taste in his mouth. Again Lupin lacked his usual grandstanding and bravioso—no cheeky waving, no jumping around hurling childish barbs as the speedboat careened off into the sunset.

As a detective, Zenigata’s job is to make inferences based on whatever scraps of information he can wring out of a situation. In this case, the information he has leads to one conclusion: whatever happened on that plane, it didn’t go anywhere near as smoothly as Lupin insisted it would when he originally pitched his plan to destroy the Eclipse personally. There’s other supporting evidence, too; when the plan was originally hashed out, Lupin claimed he would set the Eclipse to destroy itself and then immediately bail out before it could become a danger to him. But when the time came, nobody saw him at all until long after the plane had begun to consume itself, and even then he didn’t have his parachute.

Something went wrong up there, Zenigata’s sure of it. If he had to guess, he would suppose that Geralt wasn’t as much of a pushover as Lupin seemed convinced he would be. They probably fought—or rather, Geralt fought while Lupin danced around making a fool of himself. Given the nature of Lupin’s scheme, it would stand to reason that Geralt might have come at him with everything he had. People tend to abandon all pretense when their ideology and life’s work goes up in smoke before their eyes. With that in mind, it’s very likely that Lupin took a beating before he could get away. That would explain his behavior after the fact, if he were injured.

Of course, there’s not really anything Zenigata can do about his theory, regardless of whether he turns out to be right. Going back for Laetitia meant he had absolutely no chance of catching the Lupin gang, or even tracking where they might have gone; he’s got a hunch they’re still somewhere in Brazil, but that’s not enough to work with. And there’s still all the logistics and busywork that come after a caper like this—reports to write and fact-check and edit, charges to file against the surviving Nazis, favors to cash in so Laetitia can make her way back to France (and then, shortly, to Boston) without too much hassle.

Zenigata is going to be up to his neck in paperwork for the rest of the month making sure this mess is sorted out properly and without any mistakes, and that’s assuming everything goes smoothly when it comes to filing charges. He’d like to believe his annoyance at being chained to his desk is purely a result of not being able to hunt down the Lupin gang after having no choice but to let them slip away, but he’d be lying to himself. The truth of the matter is that he’s worried, and there’s nothing to be done about it now except grind through the paperwork and wait to see if they resurface any time soon.

Just as Zenigata’s considering calling it quits for the night, his desk phone rings. That in itself isn’t terribly unusual, but everybody who’s needed to speak with him about today’s chaos has come to him directly—the building’s internal lines have been tangled up for hours with all the cross-department communication. It must be someone from outside the building, then, and Zenigata has a strong hunch who it might be. “Inspector Zenigata,” he says automatically.

“It’s Jigen.”

That’s what Zenigata was hoping for. “I’m not going to bother asking where you are.” Jigen would never say, and it would be impossible to trace the call before he loses his patience and hangs up. Besides, he’s almost certainly calling from a payphone, and that’s only marginally more useful information than ‘probably somewhere in Brazil’.

“Good. Saves us some time.” He sounds about as terse as usual—his gruff demeanor doesn’t translate well to phone conversations—but there’s something else there. Maybe he’s tired. “Just wanted to let you know we made it to dry land.”

Well, that’s good. Pretty vague reassurance, though. “And you’re all alright?” He can’t be blamed for probing a bit. It’s basically his job.

A brief pause. Not a good sign. “We’re all alive, if that’s what you mean.” Definitely not a good sign. Jigen sighs, or maybe it’s just static on the line. “Look, pops, I’ll level with you. Lupin’s not doing too hot. He’ll live,” he adds hastily, cutting off any possible miscommunication.

So Zenigata’s hunch was right. It’s no victory, all things considered. “How bad is it?”

Another pause, though this one is less loaded. “Not as bad as it could’ve been. He didn’t get shot this time, for once.” Lupin had mentioned his plan to palm Geralt’s bullets before they disembarked. Sounds like he pulled it off. “But that prick really did a number on him. Broke some ribs, fucked up his arm. Nearly crushed his throat, looks like.”

Zenigata finds himself gripping the receiver more tightly as he imagines what might have happened to cause those injuries, anger bubbling into his chest. Lupin may be a criminal, but nothing he’s done would ever warrant such brutality. “And you and Goemon, you two have it under control?” If they needed a proper doctor, Zenigata might find himself too busy to notice any reports that might come in regarding notable patients in the area. He’s got a lot of work to do, after all.

“I think so. It’ll mostly just take rest. Lots of rest.”

“Are you sure you can make that happen? Lupin won’t like it.”

“We’ll chain him down if we have to.” Jigen says it flatly, but there’s a hint of humor under there.

The situation must not be too dire, if he’s able to crack jokes. “Well, thanks for telling me. I really appreciate it, Jigen.” He won’t admit that he’s been fretting since he had to make the call to turn the boat around.

“No problem. It’s what Lupin would want, anyway.” Jigen pauses again; there’s a faint tapping noise, like he’s drumming his fingers on the receiver a little too close to the mouthpiece. “Pops, do yourself a favor. Take a vacation once you’re done cleaning up the Nazi mess. We’re not gonna let Lupin do jack shit for at least a month or two, so you’d be wasting your time waiting up for us.”

Now that he mentions it, a vacation sounds nice. Zenigata does get to travel a lot, but only for work; he hardly has time to take in the sights or buy souvenirs. “A month or two, huh? I’m holding you to that. I want a clean bill of health before you even think about another heist, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jigen sighs more than says. “Anyway, I’m gonna go. I’ll tell Lupin you said hi.”

And just like that, the line goes dead. In terms of the Lupin case, Zenigata still has no leads, but he can’t bring himself to be particularly upset about it. He got the information he was hoping for, and he can’t really ask for more than that. Instead, he returns to his paperwork and makes a mental note to look into attending Laetitia’s archaeology seminar in Boston next month.

Part 1 (by Pin) < --- > Part 2 (by Cosma) < --- > Part 3 (by Pin)

[hlupdate]

On November 18, 2019, a website promoting a mysterious place called Eroda (“No Land Quite Like It”) arrived on the internet. Two days later, the official Twitter account for this fictional frown-shaped island began teasing local seaside attractions. You may have missed it, depending on which corners of the internet you choose to lurk, but not if you were a Harry Styles fan, a group that went into pure overdrive trying to figure out what it all meant.

I, for one, missed it at the time. I was unaware this account was cryptically quote tweeting fans as they tried to piece together what was happening, what it meant, and what it could be connected to (Greek Mythology and Lostwere a couple of theories posed in comments, Twitter threads, and Reddit). Meanwhile, the Columbia Records marketing department had been hard at work for months, devising this specific and highly-detailed campaign around the music video for Styles’ second single, “Adore You” from his second solo album, Fine Line, ever since he shot the video in Scotland in August 2019 (Eroda = Adore backwards — clever!).

But it was all leading up to the morning of Friday, December 6 when the video was released, one week before the full-length album arrived. Up until that point, I had never seen an entire Harry Styles music video, but what happened next was inevitable. Somehow, as a self-proclaimed boy band scholar, I had never paid much attention to One Direction. I kept a distant eye on Styles since they disbanded, intrigued by the decisions he was making in his solo career. But I hadn’t yet realized I’d been in the ring all throughout the fall of 2019, fighting to resist the inevitable fascination that awaited. First came the jab of Rob Sheffield’s Rolling Stoneprofile, followed by the cross of “Lights Up”, a song that cracked my Top 20 most listened to songs of the year despite being released just two months before Spotify so thoughtfully compiled that personalized playlist. Then there was the hook of his SNL hosting stint in November (and bless you Bowen Yang for that Sara Lee sketch), which then leads us to the “Adore You” video, the uppercut and ultimate TKO. I surrendered in what felt like a near instant. I was now a Harry Styles fan. (If we’re following this analogy, I sat up to spit out some blood after seeing that cover of “Juice” before my head quickly hit the mat again with a loud thud).

Maybe it’s not quite remarkable that I took time out of a Friday morning to watch a music video, but that I sat at my desk, in an office, with other people around (back when we did those kinds of things) and proceeded to wipe away a few tiny tears from under my eyes by the end of it, was an experience I had not been through… maybe ever? In a world of lyric videos and TikToks, actual, thoughtful, impactful music videos with a full (and sweet!) story are about as rare as a glowing and growing fish these days.

Ultimately, “Adore You” does everything a music video should do. In nearly eight minutes, this video uses excellent visual effects in a cool and interesting way, tells a compelling and heartfelt story, is anchored by an irresistible leading man and an adorable sidekick, is backed up by the catchiest song you could ever dream of, and culminates with a touching and hopeful ending. It’s a treat for the eyes and the ears and the soul. It’s innovative and the kind of thing that begs you to watch it more than once to catch all the details (and yes, I do tear up every time).

So one would think that an award show with the specific purpose of celebrating this type of creativity would be extra sure to nominate such a charming and effective clip, but alas, “Adore You” was overlooked in the MTV Video Music Awards main categories this year. Of course, some could argue that that fact only adds to the video’s credibility but I’ll do my best to not be that petty as I’m still rooting for it to win in the three technical categories where it picked up nominations: Best Visual Effects by Mathematic, Best Art Direction by Laura Ellis Cricks, and Best Direction by Dave Meyers, who remains one of the most inventive and influential directors of all time and whose videos with artists such as Missy Elliot, Pink, and Kendrick Lamar have been racking up nominations for nearly 20 years now. He also saw four other videos he directed get recognized this year: Normani’s “Motivation” (Best Chorography), Travis Scott’s “Highest in the Room” (Best Hop Hop and Best Visual Effects), Anderson .Paak’s “Lockdown” (Video For Good), and Camila Cabello feat. DaBaby’s “My Oh My” (Best Cinematography).

But I reached out to Meyers to specifically ask about the intricate details of “Adore You” and how it all came to be; how he captured such a vibe with the overcast and dreary weather, mixed so wonderfully with the charming oddities of the people that make up this world of Eroda. In addition to directing the video, he also co-wrote the story with Chris Shafer and said, “It’s the first idea that popped to mind after the first listen to the song, and the first idea I pitched to Harry. It was a story that underscored my understanding of what Harry stood for and felt it was necessary to tell it as a narrative to convey his optimism.”

The extended version of the video starts with a two-and-a-half-minute introduction to the world of Eroda, narrated by Rosalia. This includes the “peculiar” people and their professions on the island, meeting The Boy (Styles) and his glowing smile that most people try to avoid, and the quirky superstitions these people continue to live by. “It all served a purpose,” Meyers said of the details. “The superstitions were a set up for how society generally reacts to different things. They fear change or oddity, even if it’s what’s best for them.”

Meyers, however, did not share in that fear, as much of this video provided for interesting and new opportunities he had yet to experience throughout his decades-long career, which he listed off: ”Compelling narrative, CG character, remote location, Scottish crew (nothing fazed them),” also noting that all of the other characters in the video were locals as well. So perhaps they were less fazed by the atmosphere across the four-day shoot in Scotland, but as Meyers recalled, the “weather was nuts. It rained every 20 minutes, then the sun, then cloud over.”

However, it’s likely that Mother Nature is also a Styles fan, as Meyers recalled, “I seem to remember going up on the hill for Harry’s picnic with the fish and being worried that it was so gloomy. By the time we came to shoot, the sun came out. And then the sun went away as soon as the scene was over. Similarly, we had the worst storm when Harry was contemplating suicide at the start. Pouring rain, drenching him. So I guess in that sense it was fun watching how Scotland provided a backdrop for the emotions we were after.”

And hey, at least they had the weather on their side to add to the mood while shooting the video, as one of their main characters, well, didn’t exist. “It was very odd shooting with no fish,” Meyers admitted. “But was quite rewarding later seeing it dropped in and making empathic sense to the story we were after.”

Of course, the main character they did have on hand is an awfully useful and appealing one at that. Fans became enamored with the moment Styles uses the back of his hand to check the temperature of a coffee pot before dumping the fish inside the water so it could stay alive. I asked Meyers about this particular moment and he said, “The problem we had was apparent when Harry ran in and threw the fish in the pot. We all sorta felt — well, what if it was hot? So I believe Harry improvised that as a solution and we felt it was perfect for the character’s sensitivity and consideration for this poor fish.” And that’s not the only nice thing he does for his fish friend — he also serves him a tiny taco! “The taco was a whimsical way to express friendship between Harry and the fish,” Meyers offered. It looked pretty tasty, too.

The entire video serves as a showcase for what Styles does best and what makes him such a unique artist: his music, his acting, and his charisma, which Meyers knew would offer him a lot to work with. “Harry is a leading man. I felt that from my first meeting and wanted to play with his wonderful range of emotions. So finding a story with a real character arc was part of my focus in building this world.” Meyers described working on “Adore You” as an “all-around memorable shoot: awesome location, lovely Harry, compelling story, great effects, and… it worked.”

It did. And it was a risk: a video this complex and detailed (and one has to assume, costly), attached to a marketing campaign that proved to be even more involved, still came with no guarantee that the fans wouldn’t shrug it off. But as Manos Xanthogeorgis, SVP of Digital Marketing & Media at Columbia Records told Billboard last year, “When you have a video and a piece of art at such a level, it’s an incredible challenge for the rest of the team to build a campaign at that same level of artistry and creativity.” Oh, and that was only step one, as the marketing team engaged in “real-time marketing” with fans online, ensuring they would continue to remain engaged by dropping clues and clips in the lead-up to the video premiere and subsequently the album. “This whole campaign was around mystery and sometimes mystery is more powerful than knowledge,” Xanthogeorgis said. The Twitter handle has remained active throughout 2020, used as a continual marketing tool for Styles’ next videos including the Meyers-directed “Falling” and this summer’s hit, “Watermelon Sugar.”

With that kind of fan engagement, “Adore You” seemed like a no-brainer for the fan-voted categories of the VMAs this year, as they surely would’ve turned out to vote just as feverishly for this video as they did when searching for clues (about a made-up island, at that!). But hey, maybe MTV was just not interested in massive fan engagement this year — after all, it’s not like everything Styles does, including growing freakin’ facial hair, has the internet in a tizzy for weeks. Ultimately, as the impact of music videos (and certainly the ceremony celebrating them) continues to lose relevance, the disregard of this specific project simply feels like a missed opportunity to acknowledge a rare achievement in the art form.

While Meyers was sure to describe his inclusion in the VMA nominations this year as “lovely and flattering” (and he better have a moonperson in his possession this time next week, MTV!) it’s still puzzling why “Adore You” wouldn’t be included in the big categories, considering Styles is squarely within their demo, at the very least. That “Adore You” is also a technical and storytelling masterpiece, as well as a full moment that was used as inspiration both for the experience online and in-person at the Fine Line Spotify listening party last December, that also comes packed with one of the most enthusiastic groups of fans around, well, that should have had the entire network drooling.

Of course, some of this can simply be chalked up to a perfect storm. As far as his singles go, “Lights Up” was a nice appetizer, but “Adore You” remains the delicious entree (you already know what’s for dessert). “Adore You” is a perfect pop record if I’ve ever heard one (and I have) and deserved a special video. A Chris Isaak “Wicked Game” sexy vibe wasn’t going to work here. The song tells the story of such passionate, pure, and heartachingly naive and innocent love that it almost had to be directed toward a non-human being. Instead, Styles chose to inject those same carefree, sweaty, sticky, delicious, whimsical beach vibes into the “Watermelon Sugar” clip, which was the right choice, and not just for the summertime season (MTV has since added the Song of Summer category to the VMAs and included “Watermelon Sugar”).

But it’s “Adore You” that has melodies that bring a smile to the faces of babies, get your toes tapping even when you hear it in the dentist’s chair, and likely has my neighbors rolling their eyes when I sing along to it in the shower. The song is so simple it’s deep, a theme reflected in the video, as is the central reminder to help and care for others, a thoroughly 2020 message.

However, not all is lost. Both “Adore You” and “Watermelon Sugar” continue to rack up major spins at radio with the latter hitting number one on the Billboard charts earlier this month. Grammy voting kicks off at the end of September and Academy members should take note. Not only is Fine Line more than worthy of being acknowledged, but having Styles on hand to potentially collect trophies and perform is in your best interest when it comes to viewers and online chatter. Do not wait to take him seriously. This is the album, this is the time. Prove that you aren’t a bunch of stodgy old white men who think he’s just for teen (and um, thirty-something) girls, but that you understand the music he enjoys, is inspired by, and subsequently makes, is the same rock music you appreciate as well. An artist like Styles can be both of those things at the same time, and really, the best of both worlds. Give the album a listen, and then one more to let it all sink in. If you have not yet succumbed to the force that is Harry Styles fandom, I truly can’t recommend it enough — and please know that it will get you eventually.

[stylesnews]

On November 18, 2019, a website promoting a mysterious place called Eroda (“No Land Quite Like It”) arrived on the internet. Two days later, the official Twitter account for this fictional frown-shaped island began teasing local seaside attractions. You may have missed it, depending on which corners of the internet you choose to lurk, but not if you were a Harry Styles fan, a group that went into pure overdrive trying to figure out what it all meant.

I, for one, missed it at the time. I was unaware this account was cryptically quote tweeting fans as they tried to piece together what was happening, what it meant, and what it could be connected to (Greek Mythology and Lost were a couple of theories posed in comments, Twitter threads, and Reddit). Meanwhile, the Columbia Records marketing department had been hard at work for months, devising this specific and highly-detailed campaign around the music video for Styles’ second single, “Adore You” from his second solo album, Fine Line, ever since he shot the video in Scotland in August 2019 (Eroda = Adore backwards — clever!).

But it was all leading up to the morning of Friday, December 6 when the video was released, one week before the full-length album arrived. Up until that point, I had never seen an entire Harry Styles music video, but what happened next was inevitable. Somehow, as a self-proclaimed boy band scholar, I had never paid much attention to One Direction. I kept a distant eye on Styles since they disbanded, intrigued by the decisions he was making in his solo career. But I hadn’t yet realized I’d been in the ring all throughout the fall of 2019, fighting to resist the inevitable fascination that awaited. First came the jab of Rob Sheffield’s Rolling Stone profile, followed by the cross of “Lights Up”, a song that cracked my Top 20 most listened to songs of the year despite being released just two months before Spotify so thoughtfully compiled that personalized playlist. Then there was the hook of his SNL hosting stint in November (and bless you Bowen Yang for that Sara Lee sketch), which then leads us to the “Adore You” video, the uppercut and ultimate TKO. I surrendered in what felt like a near instant. I was now a Harry Styles fan. (If we’re following this analogy, I sat up to spit out some blood after seeing that cover of “Juice” before my head quickly hit the mat again with a loud thud).

Maybe it’s not quite remarkable that I took time out of a Friday morning to watch a music video, but that I sat at my desk, in an office, with other people around (back when we did those kinds of things) and proceeded to wipe away a few tiny tears from under my eyes by the end of it, was an experience I had not been through… maybe ever? In a world of lyric videos and TikToks, actual, thoughtful, impactful music videos with a full (and sweet!) story are about as rare as a glowing and growing fish these days.

Ultimately, “Adore You” does everything a music video should do. In nearly eight minutes, this video uses excellent visual effects in a cool and interesting way, tells a compelling and heartfelt story, is anchored by an irresistible leading man and an adorable sidekick, is backed up by the catchiest song you could ever dream of, and culminates with a touching and hopeful ending. It’s a treat for the eyes and the ears and the soul. It’s innovative and the kind of thing that begs you to watch it more than once to catch all the details (and yes, I do tear up every time).

So one would think that an award show with the specific purpose of celebrating this type of creativity would be extra sure to nominate such a charming and effective clip, but alas, “Adore You” was overlooked in the MTV Video Music Awards main categories this year. Of course, some could argue that that fact only adds to the video’s credibility but I’ll do my best to not be that petty as I’m still rooting for it to win in the three technical categories where it picked up nominations: Best Visual Effects by Mathematic, Best Art Direction by Laura Ellis Cricks, and Best Direction by Dave Meyers, who remains one of the most inventive and influential directors of all time and whose videos with artists such as Missy Elliot, Pink, and Kendrick Lamar have been racking up nominations for nearly 20 years now. He also saw four other videos he directed get recognized this year: Normani’s “Motivation” (Best Chorography), Travis Scott’s “Highest in the Room” (Best Hop Hop and Best Visual Effects), Anderson .Paak’s “Lockdown” (Video For Good), and Camila Cabello feat. DaBaby’s “My Oh My” (Best Cinematography).

But I reached out to Meyers to specifically ask about the intricate details of “Adore You” and how it all came to be; how he captured such a vibe with the overcast and dreary weather, mixed so wonderfully with the charming oddities of the people that make up this world of Eroda. In addition to directing the video, he also co-wrote the story with Chris Shafer and said, “It’s the first idea that popped to mind after the first listen to the song, and the first idea I pitched to Harry. It was a story that underscored my understanding of what Harry stood for and felt it was necessary to tell it as a narrative to convey his optimism.”

The extended version of the video starts with a two-and-a-half-minute introduction to the world of Eroda, narrated by Rosalia. This includes the “peculiar” people and their professions on the island, meeting The Boy (Styles) and his glowing smile that most people try to avoid, and the quirky superstitions these people continue to live by. “It all served a purpose,” Meyers said of the details. “The superstitions were a set up for how society generally reacts to different things. They fear change or oddity, even if it’s what’s best for them.”

Meyers, however, did not share in that fear, as much of this video provided for interesting and new opportunities he had yet to experience throughout his decades-long career, which he listed off: ”Compelling narrative, CG character, remote location, Scottish crew (nothing fazed them),” also noting that all of the other characters in the video were locals as well. So perhaps they were less fazed by the atmosphere across the four-day shoot in Scotland, but as Meyers recalled, the “weather was nuts. It rained every 20 minutes, then the sun, then cloud over.”

However, it’s likely that Mother Nature is also a Styles fan, as Meyers recalled, “I seem to remember going up on the hill for Harry’s picnic with the fish and being worried that it was so gloomy. By the time we came to shoot, the sun came out. And then the sun went away as soon as the scene was over. Similarly, we had the worst storm when Harry was contemplating suicide at the start. Pouring rain, drenching him. So I guess in that sense it was fun watching how Scotland provided a backdrop for the emotions we were after.”

And hey, at least they had the weather on their side to add to the mood while shooting the video, as one of their main characters, well, didn’t exist. “It was very odd shooting with no fish,” Meyers admitted. “But was quite rewarding later seeing it dropped in and making empathic sense to the story we were after.”

Of course, the main character they did have on hand is an awfully useful and appealing one at that. Fans became enamored with the moment Styles uses the back of his hand to check the temperature of a coffee pot before dumping the fish inside the water so it could stay alive. I asked Meyers about this particular moment and he said, “The problem we had was apparent when Harry ran in and threw the fish in the pot. We all sorta felt — well, what if it was hot? So I believe Harry improvised that as a solution and we felt it was perfect for the character’s sensitivity and consideration for this poor fish.” And that’s not the only nice thing he does for his fish friend — he also serves him a tiny taco! “The taco was a whimsical way to express friendship between Harry and the fish,” Meyers offered. It looked pretty tasty, too.

The entire video serves as a showcase for what Styles does best and what makes him such a unique artist: his music, his acting, and his charisma, which Meyers knew would offer him a lot to work with. “Harry is a leading man. I felt that from my first meeting and wanted to play with his wonderful range of emotions. So finding a story with a real character arc was part of my focus in building this world.” Meyers described working on “Adore You” as an “all-around memorable shoot: awesome location, lovely Harry, compelling story, great effects, and… it worked.”

It did. And it was a risk: a video this complex and detailed (and one has to assume, costly), attached to a marketing campaign that proved to be even more involved, still came with no guarantee that the fans wouldn’t shrug it off. But as Manos Xanthogeorgis, SVP of Digital Marketing & Media at Columbia Records told Billboard last year, “When you have a video and a piece of art at such a level, it’s an incredible challenge for the rest of the team to build a campaign at that same level of artistry and creativity.” Oh, and that was only step one, as the marketing team engaged in “real-time marketing” with fans online, ensuring they would continue to remain engaged by dropping clues and clips in the lead-up to the video premiere and subsequently the album. “This whole campaign was around mystery and sometimes mystery is more powerful than knowledge,” Xanthogeorgis said. The Twitter handle has remained active throughout 2020, used as a continual marketing tool for Styles’ next videos including the Meyers-directed “Falling” and this summer’s hit, “Watermelon Sugar.”

With that kind of fan engagement, “Adore You” seemed like a no-brainer for the fan-voted categories of the VMAs this year, as they surely would’ve turned out to vote just as feverishly for this video as they did when searching for clues (about a made-up island, at that!). But hey, maybe MTV was just not interested in massive fan engagement this year — after all, it’s not like everything Styles does, including growing freakin’ facial hair, has the internet in a tizzy for weeks. Ultimately, as the impact of music videos (and certainly the ceremony celebrating them) continues to lose relevance, the disregard of this specific project simply feels like a missed opportunity to acknowledge a rare achievement in the art form.

While Meyers was sure to describe his inclusion in the VMA nominations this year as “lovely and flattering” (and he better have a moonperson in his possession this time next week, MTV!) it’s still puzzling why “Adore You” wouldn’t be included in the big categories, considering Styles is squarely within their demo, at the very least. That “Adore You” is also a technical and storytelling masterpiece, as well as a full moment that was used as inspiration both for the experience online and in-person at the Fine Line Spotify listening party last December, that also comes packed with one of the most enthusiastic groups of fans around, well, that should have had the entire network drooling.

Of course, some of this can simply be chalked up to a perfect storm. As far as his singles go, “Lights Up” was a nice appetizer, but “Adore You” remains the delicious entree (you already know what’s for dessert). “Adore You” is a perfect pop record if I’ve ever heard one (and I have) and deserved a special video. A Chris Isaak “Wicked Game” sexy vibe wasn’t going to work here. The song tells the story of such passionate, pure, and heartachingly naive and innocent love that it almost had to be directed toward a non-human being. Instead, Styles chose to inject those same carefree, sweaty, sticky, delicious, whimsical beach vibes into the “Watermelon Sugar” clip, which was the right choice, and not just for the summertime season (MTV has since added the Song of Summer category to the VMAs and included “Watermelon Sugar”).

But it’s “Adore You” that has melodies that bring a smile to the faces of babies, get your toes tapping even when you hear it in the dentist’s chair, and likely has my neighbors rolling their eyes when I sing along to it in the shower. The song is so simple it’s deep, a theme reflected in the video, as is the central reminder to help and care for others, a thoroughly 2020 message.

However, not all is lost. Both “Adore You” and “Watermelon Sugar” continue to rack up major spins at radio with the latter hitting number one on the Billboard charts earlier this month. Grammy voting kicks off at the end of September and Academy members should take note. Not only is Fine Line more than worthy of being acknowledged, but having Styles on hand to potentially collect trophies and perform is in your best interest when it comes to viewers and online chatter. Do not wait to take him seriously. This is the album, this is the time. Prove that you aren’t a bunch of stodgy old white men who think he’s just for teen (and um, thirty-something) girls, but that you understand the music he enjoys, is inspired by, and subsequently makes, is the same rock music you appreciate as well. An artist like Styles can be both of those things at the same time, and really, the best of both worlds. Give the album a listen, and then one more to let it all sink in. If you have not yet succumbed to the force that is Harry Styles fandom, I truly can’t recommend it enough — and please know that it will get you eventually. 

[mittensmorgul]

Hey there! Well, one thing that really makes me so irritated and curious is the fact that in the prophecy Sam was the one who would kill Rowena permanently. But like why tf? Who even write the death books? Chuck? Billie herself? Fate? But why Sam? Why did he have to kill her? Like uhhhhh she was immortal, they were getting closer, being friends, i even see her as part of tfw and them BOOM, she finds out Sam is gonna kill her? Like what's the sense? Do you have a theory about it? 👀

Hi hi!

And oh, golly do I have theories. Too many theories, probably. Mostly because we just don’t know who “writes” Billie’s books. Actually the one thing I’m relatively certain of-- it’s not Billie doing the writing.

Of everything we know about how death and Death and fate work, and how those books themselves work, it’s been a fair assumption up to a point that the books are simply generated by a culmination of an individual’s choices throughout their lifetime. But I still have so many questions about those books.

For example, why is it implied that most people only have one book that rewrites itself if a person’s circumstances drastically change, and yet Dean has an entire shelf of books? Is it because of how much Chuck has directly interfered with his life? Or the fact he’s died and been resurrected so many times? If that’s the case, then why didn’t his “previous life” books disappear to be replaced by a new one? He may have died many times, but he’s still just one person. Why so many books?

That’s not what you asked, but I still think it’s important to understand the full picture of information we do know in order to attempt the best guess possible here. So in that spirit, I’m gonna take another slight detour on my way to attempting to answer.

I’ll start by point to this very, very long post I made about Rowena’s entire character arc on the show, posted December 1, 2019, so before we saw her back in 15.08. It’s on AO3, because it’s far too long for tumblr:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641770

I go into a lot of detail on her overall character arc, as well as this very specific storyline. But before I delve into Rowena’s side of this conundrum, I also need to delve into Sam’s...

In a really creepy way, the result of 13.19 was Sam getting to experience a version of “you either have to save him or kill him” that was John’s final declaration to Dean about Sam. Because at the end of 13.19, Rowena took a strange comfort from the entire experience. Knowing that no version of her own death would be at Lucifer’s hand actually helped her deal with her biggest personal fear and horror. It had haunted her, and ruled every choice she’d made up to that point. But here was Sam... kind, understanding Sam who’d given her that page of the spell book to free her power to protect herself... offering her a hand of friendship and help to potentially change her fate? And not just an automatic death sentence? Well, that was something.

Like she told Michael in 14.14:

Rowena: Fate says Sam Winchester's going to off me, which makes dinners a bit awkward, but does give one a certain sense of security.

In a weird way, she trusts Sam. She knows he’s not lurking in the shadows just waiting to kill her, you know? She knows he wouldn’t kill her without a very good reason. And she knows that she’s been doing everything in her power not to deserve killing. To have Sam and Dean Winchester welcome you into the family, and believe you can change your fate is their universe’s equivalent of being blessed. And Rowena has treated it as such.

So... that said, what does it take to actually change one’s fate? What does it take to redeem oneself?

We’ve already seen those books of fate shift over time. I mean, the most blatantly obvious example is from Dean’s books (all of them! well... except for that one Billie gave him) that changed after 14.10. And then we have to assume they all changed AGAIN after 14.14... because Michael was dead and couldn’t use Dean’s vessel to destroy the world anymore.

We also know from another agent associated with death that it’s our human choices that can change our fate, thanks to Lily Sunder in 14.08:

SAM: Fine. Then change it. Let her into Heaven.ANUBIS: I'm an accountant. I don't have that kind of power.SAM: Yeah, right. Like you or-- or God has never made an exception?ANUBIS: That's right. Because God doesn't decide. I don't decide. You do, each of you, your individual choices all tallied up at the precise moment of your death. Keep me here. Try and kill me. It is not going to change Lily Sunder's fate. But it might change yours.

Except... knowing this, knowing her choices had the power to change her fate, gave Lily the power to choose a different fate for herself. Of course she couldn’t know for sure if it would be enough, if her last Good Deed would be enough to tip the scales, but she hoped. And it had changed everything.

LILY: I don't understand. Why am I here?ANUBIS: Hm. Care to try your luck again? [Anubis brings out his abacus again, and measures Lily’s soul. Most of the beads are now white, and rise to the top]ANUBIS: I'm curious. Did you know what doing the spell would cost you? Say hello to your daughter for me.

Doing the spell cost her life, but she had already begun to let go of her very long life. She’d had time to get her revenge and make her peace, and her last act, as her own free choice, had been enough to save her soul. It’s more than she ever could’ve hoped for when she’d set the course of her life more than a hundred years earlier.

And yet, for Rowena, performing the spell that had saved the world from the hell rift caused by Chuck’s temper tantrum hadn’t been enough to redeem her. She’d been just as hopelessly trapped in hell as if she’d never consciously chosen to become better in the first place. Her redemption failed. And I gotta wonder... why?

Rowena’s goal was pure-- save the world with the one spell she knew would work, but that would cost her everything. She didn’t even hesitate. She didn’t stop to wonder if performing this spell and making this sacrifice could redeem her soul. She only cared that Sam would be saved (well... and the world...).

And yet, in working the spell, she literally needed Sam to do the deed, because it wouldn’t have worked without him. She didn’t believe in love enough to sacrifice herself, her love for anything or even the world itself. The only thing she truly believed in enough was the power of the prophecy of her own fate in Billie’s book, which is just nine levels of pain to understand.

This is why her taking the throne of Hell is just... literally the Worst Possible Outcome if it was indeed her final fate on the show. And for the details on why, because I’ve already typed 13k words on the subject and typing them again here feels kinda frustratingly pointless, I’m gonna point back to the very long post on AO3 again. :’D

Does Chuck have any power over what those books say? We just don’t know.

Had Rowena rewritten her own fate before performing that spell, and despite her belief in her actions in 15.03, had her own fate already been rewritten? We just don’t know.

Had Rowena actually earned her redemption, and like so many others who didn’t deserve it, did Chuck banish her soul to Hell as a punishment for flouting his plans? Did he just need her out of the way because like Billie, she meddles? Or gives the Winchesters too big an advantage in solving their problems? Again, we just don’t know.

But I’m still convinced that we haven’t seen the end of her story yet, and so I’m not really gonna speculate beyond this...

[hinabes]

A letter from the Food Fantasy writing team.

Source: xixi1226 on Lofter (They’re merely a relay, and so am I)

Touches on the writing of Food Fantasy as a whole and Black Forest Cake. Keep an open mind and be kind.

Only the parts specifically labeled as “TL note” is input by me (pretty sure there’s only one)

To all Master Attendants.

First of all, we may disappoint you, as we in the writing team are only responsible for the story, so we can't send out any in-game rewards. This is just the ramblings of some writing ladies.

Let's start with the past. Food Fantasy is almost 2 years old, and the writing team has been around for a long time as well.

From the bottom of our hearts, we know very well that our stories are mediocre, and very few members of the community actually read them.

At first, there were very few fan creations on Lofter, mostly inspired by the game arts. The first big burst in fanwork came from the haunted amusement park event.

When we saw the large amount (in our eyes) of fanworks, we were delighted.

That's right, we're lurking, watching from the shadows every day. Every! Day!

Though, due to work reasons and we've all got loose lips, we're not allowed to use our own accounts to like and comment on stuff.

Nonetheless, we're very thankful to everyone who comes to Lofter and uploads to the Food Fantasy tag!

To put it simply, a fanwork community like Lofter is built from all sorts of varying opinions, and that of course includes the dissatisfaction that some players have towards some characters.

As an author, our characters are like our children and seeing them hated, we can't deny that we're not saddened.

But of course, there must be a reason for a character to be hated.

A story, good or bad, must have an antagonist.

Whether people like or hate them, there's a reason for them to exist.

We created antagonists, besides out of necessity for the storyline, in hopes to show you a clearer Tierra, with all kinds of people with different points of view.

To be labeled an antagonist, these characters must have done some things unacceptable to the general public. They have their own stories to tell, and we would hate to claim any of them as completely innocent. The problem lies in something we hoped to doー���show that bad people have pasts tooーーwe didn't do well enough.

This is our problem.

Be it because of a disliked ship or a character that's too grim.

We will use this experience and work even harder to write better characters and stories.

Once again, we thank everyone for putting your efforts into the tag, making your voices heard.

You've shown us, at the very least, that our efforts put into this or that character have been seen and that you're willing to voice out for them.

We take the time to read every single one of your posts. Perhaps putting it like that might make us seem egoistic.

Nevertheless, from the writing team, thank you!

We have seen lots and lots of the world of Tierra, it's not a pure world of only saints and innocents, it has a wide variety of characters.

The good, the bad, but no matter what, whatever anyone does is rooted in their own beliefs.

Such is the way in real life as well. Because of you, we have the motivation to push onwards.

At the same time, we wish that whatever negativity you have, you vent by enjoying the game, leaving the joy and happiness you have for reality. And that the game is able to release whatever pent up negativity you have from reality.

Thank you for voicing out your suggestions to us, and thank you for your love for the characters of Tierra!

From the bottoms of our hearts, we hope that the tag can thrive through the hard work of all of us, with more and more fan creations for everyone to look at. Because of your support, we have the courage to push onwards.

Thank you, everyone.

Formalities and heartfelt words done with, let's talk about things you're probably more interested in.

First off, we have seen everyone's dissatisfaction with Black Forest Cake.

Is she based off a certain unacceptable organization? Actually, no!

("You're wrong, I'm not!" Black Forest Cake yells)

The black forest cake is a famous German dessert that prides itself on its strict craftsmanship, maintaining its fame over its long history.

In Germany, if a patissier didn't make black forest cakes by the set recipe, such as swapping out ingredients and making it with vanilla sponge cake and strawberries instead and still selling it as "black forest cake", their shop would be swiftly shut down and the chef might even have to serve a term in prison, as the black forest cake is legally protected by the EU. (TL note: google "black forest cake protected status")

Compared to other desserts, the craftsmanship regulations for the black forest cake may be considered overly harsh. We've only seen Germans portrayed as strict on the internet as well. Combining these, we made Black Forest Cake a stickler for the rules.

Taking a step back, another factor is that when we were writing, we saw a lot of news reports about overbearing and manipulative parents, along with the stress and breakdowns of friends.

=-=.......

Um… At first, Black Forest Cake was modeled after a child who grew up with overbearing parents, who in turn enforced too many unreasonable rules on her own children, which resulted in their pent-up stress bursting out on her. The parent in this situation would never back off and would think it's the child at fault.

We're so sorry… Everyone, you think too highly of us… We know far less about military history than some of you do, and we're nowhere near as good at making connections… To bring up bad feelings, we're really… sorry…

Regarding the design of her clothing, this is the image we brought up as a suggestion: A punkish dress with military vibes.

(Gets on knees and apologizes)

We're so sorry, it's completely our fault that we didn't take into more consideration everyone's ability to make connections! But it's true, we really didn't! We really didn't!!!

QAQ We love this world! We're not an evil, anti-human organization!!

Black Forest Cake out of the way, let's talk about more stuff you might be interested in, the stuff many of you approach support about.

Q: Do Food Souls have genders? A: Food Souls' bodies are modeled after humans'. They're whatever gender they believe themselves to be, Hotdog's gender is hotdog.

Q: Can Food Souls [CENSORED]? A: ………..Modeled after…humans… um…….. when two Food Souls love each other very much… ummmm if we say more our boss is gonna beat us, you get the idea, don't come asking anymore!!!! Please!!!! QAQ

Q: Is there true love between Food Souls? A: Depends. The bigger your heart is, the more space you have in there. As they say, the stage extends as far as the heart goes.

Q: Are XXX and XXX shipped? What's the relationship between XXX and XXX!! A: … We said stop asking!!! We're gonna killed by our toxic male boss!!!! Please, please, please just read the story and make more fanworks. We definitely will see them.

Q: How much do you check Lofter? A: I know nobody asked this question, but. Your creations on Lofter may just become the inspiration for our next story, each of us checks Lofter as often as 4 or 5 times a day at most. Thanks, pl0x, next question.

Q: Anything to say? A: Thank you, everyone! We love you! (づ￣ 3￣)づ

Lastly, we hope that we can all take on the world with an open mind, express ourselves better, bring joy to everyone else, and with a strong positivity we can better ourselves as people.

Thank you to each and every one of you who read this far! We will continue working hard and do our best to deliver you heartfelt stories, both sad ones that have you bawling your eyes out and sweet ones that give you toothaches. Loving you always, the writing team.

ーーThoughts after half a month of overtime 21 August 2019

[jlf23tumble]

i was tagged by @calmrry to give you a tour of my home blog, and I’m sorry this house is such a mess, but welcome, friends! It’s like this in spite (because?) of my wildly divergent aesthetic tastes--I literally can’t commit to just one thing, so I tend to be a bit lazy in the setting up, which translates into doing something impulsive yet neutral-ish in the moment, then letting it ride. It’ll take me yearsss to update headers, names, backgrounds, colors, avatars, etc. (and don’t get me started on themes--that’s one I actually MIGHT fix soon, if only so to somehow sort tags like #recap, #fic rec, #the squad, etc.). Anyway, yeah!

Header: Old gold shoes that I crave purely for the aesthetics

Icon: Drunk-ass Harry Styles in a Hawaiian shirt w/ “happy birthday” glasses

Description: Fairly dry recap meant to cover a LOT in very little because I hate when description text wraps

I'm into One D and kitsch and various other random things 

This is meant to warn people who follow me for kitsch but not the D, and vice versa, lmao. The wildest thing is that when I first set it up, I had something in there about larry, but I changed it to be more about the D in general when all kinds of gross shit spiked a while back--and someone noticed/sent me an ask? I never notice descriptions! So controversial! (For the “record” [which in itself makes me el oh el because there are people in the One D fandom, in the year of our lorde 2020, who genuinely give that much of a shit about what other people think in or out of the One D fandom that they will take the time to BJ Novak such things with extreme care], I’m with Alex: “culturally, I’m a larrie, but functionally, I don’t care”).

Content: One D and kitsch and various other random things! I’ve trimmed my One D dash back because not much is going on in general at the moment, plus I’m allergic to hand-wringing, so I tend to reblog things that appeal to my visual magpie eye and other interests; I also post about fic (One D fandom and elsewhere), I write recaps about random things when so inclined, and I generally love answering asks/doing these kinds of narse activities. 

Background colour: honkin’ stonkin’ “MY EYES HURT” red

Text colour: i can barely see it yet "MY EYES HURT” contrast blue

Url meaning: At my first real job after college, I was assigned jlf23 as my ID because, believe it or not, there were 22 jlf’s before me! I’ve reused it a lot for social meeds, which is probably not the wisest move (after I started getting all kinds of shitty hate anons related to two wealthy white men I’ve never met, I ended up deleting my old jlf23 twitter account, among others, oh, me).

Blog title meaning: pure Boy George punnery related to above-mentioned laziness! I used to lurk on tumblr about five years ago, so when I took the plunge to create a blog, I didn’t put much thought into it, I was, like, hmmm, tumblr, hmmm, that makes me think of laundromats and Boy George’s “I’ll tumble for ya,” let’s just use that. Thinking about it now, maybe my header should be a laundromat, which actually matches a lot of my other aesthetics as well, hmmm. It’s also why I have the stupidest ao3 name in history because I blanked and just used something the Swedish Chef on the Muppet Show says as a nonsense word PLUS a random nonsense musical instrument from ancient times. I’ve really exposed myself here tonight, huh? The pisces mood on a lot of levels!

i'll tag... @alienfuckeronmain, @newleafover, @statementsue, @got2ghost, @setsailtomorrow, @vibey-lesbian, @kerasines, and literally anyone who wants to do it (I know I tend to tag the same folks, ver ver lazy that way, the callouts all over this post, I’ll see myself out)

[theparanormalperiodical]

11 Weird Events that Happened on Halloween

It’s that time of year again:

Your local Tesco’s has officially begun stocking christmas-related food items, cheap cat ears have completed their invasion of every female-directed fashion shop, and thanks to global warming the temperature has barely dropped since mid-summer.

That’s right - it’s nearly Halloween!

And we all know what Halloween means: striking moments of political change!

Oh, wait, is that one just me?

Yep, thanks to British politics, the most wonderful day of the year could potentially be tarnished by Brexit.

But it got me thinking: what other major events have happened on Halloween?

And has anything spook-tastic ever coincided with All Hallow’s Eve?

Clearly the 31st of October has an aura of frightful goings-on.

In basic terms, Halloween is believed to be the only day of the year when spirits can cross over from the afterlife and wander with the living once more.

So, could these events be a coincidence, or sparked by the spirits crossing back over into this world?

Today’s edition of the Paranormal Periodical is going to be all about every event - from the political to the paranormal - that has happened on the 31st October.

Let’s get spooky!

We start with the political side of things.

And let me tell you, there’s like, a lot of things.

So, no, Brexit will not stand alone as a political memory on the best day of the year.

In fact, it honestly seems like a large chunk of American history just decided to, like, happen, on this one day of the year.

But we start with something less spooky, more sad.

It’s the Wreck of the Monmouth.

Take yourself back to 1837. 

It’s - yes, you guessed it, you understand the basic premise of this post - Halloween night. It’s also the moment from which the forced deportation of Creek Native Americans from their homeland begins, shortly following a war in 1836. 

This deportation used a number of boats, including the one that titles this tale: The Monmouth.

The story goes that it crashed into another steamship, and that the sheer force of the collision sent it to the depths of the Mississippi river. 

It is estimated that 400 Native Americans drowned in this collision. It has even been regarded as the worst American Steamboat accident to date.

But there seems to be more discussion surrounding this tale than simply its occurrence on All Hallows’ Eve:

It ignited a wider discussion of the portrayal of Native Americans among the population and in the press. As it was in a remote area and ceased to include white people, it was simply ignored by the press.

As I said before, American politics does seem to dabble on doing things in late October, but it really specifies a niche for itself by having yet another disaster with a ship.

Only this was to have much more global consequences. 

The USS Reuben James - created to protect supply shipments during WW2 - was sunk during conflict on Halloween.

It lost two thirds of its crew, and even earnt the honour of being the first ship sunk during the conflict.

Indeed, this occurred only a month before Pearl Harbour, cementing itself as part of one of the most iconic moments in modern American history.

Happy Halloween?

But before we get tangled up in American history, how about we move to the next crazy event that coincided with the spookiest day of the year?

Well, I’m afraid that’s going to involve getting knotted up in another country’s political history to do so… 

It was 1922 when Mussolini - the first European dictator to start the mid-20th century political trend - marched on Rome. 

Having created a coalition government, he decided to consolidate his power by (you guessed it) this infamous march on Rome. 

Bolstered by a sea of Blackshirts, his fascist supporters, his control symbolically began.

Keep your horror films, and hold onto your ghost stories: this scares the living shit out of me.

Our final event takes us back only 4 years before this march, and back across the borders to American history.

However, this does shed a more positive light on the darker moments already detailed.

It was October 1918 when the affectionately named ‘Death Spike’ of the Spanish Influenza hit the USA.

And with a death toll topping 50 million around the globe, it certainly seems to stick to the darker themes so far discussed in this episode.

(Look, I’m sorry history happened, I can’t control fascists or stop people dying.)

In October, 200,000 Americans from the Influenza died. This accounted for nearly a third of the total death toll in America for the Influenza.

The positive side to this story? It was Halloween that actually ended this month.

Yep, Halloween ended the Death Spike.

Well, phew, that’s over.

Can we finally get onto some cool, spooky yet awesome stories now?

What about some stories with less death and hatred and pure evil?

Maybe a handful of quirky coincidences to liven up the depressing stories already listed?

Nope, the next ones are just as awful.

Now we turn to the spooky shit that coincided with Halloween.

We start with possibly the most ironic death… ever.

Harry Houdini is the most famous magician - okay, fine, you can keep Merlin, whatever - that’s ever existed.

Yet it’s not actually his life that features on this list - it’s his death.

It was October 1926 when Houdini gave a lecture to McGill University students about fraudulent spiritualism.

Hahaha well this is awkward hahaha.

Basically, he invited some students to his dressing room at one of the theatres in Montreal. For some reason, one of these students decided to score several hard blows at his stomach.

One abdominal infection later, and he was dead. 

And so the death train continues.

Our next stop is still as deathy, but a smidgen more spooky. And a splash more serial killer.

In 1981, a couple was murdered. 

They were beaten, shot, and the house was left ransacked. The police even claimed it had the looks of an execution.

Initially it was believed to be related to drugs, but the tone of the case quickly shifted when it was discovered the murder was predicted by an prisoner.

Serial killer David Berkowitz gave an eerily accurate description of the murders mere weeks before it occurred.

Clearly, this would make him a give-away suspect in this case, but as he was in prison during the murder, this removed him from the list.

We now turn to a similarly ghastly murder.

In 1977, a baby girl went missing. She was snatched from her own cradle.

And the first terrifying detail of this case starts with her abduction - which okay, fine, that definitely counts as creepy enough but somehow it gets worse: as the doors and windows were found to be locked, it is believed the abductor was hiding in the closet.

Oh, and it only gets worse and weirder - her body was found in a fridge.

I suppose you could assume that the murderer, I don't know, panicked and hid the body in a pretty ordinary un-suspicious object. 

But this is when things get interesting. Prior to this, two young girls were also abducted and lured into a fridge, confirming that a fridge is somehow a prominent prop for a serial killer who may still be lurking among us.

One of these girls died during the abduction, and it was the surviving child that claimed it was the babysitter who attempted to abduct them. 

The babysitter was found to be innocent, especially considering the surviving child was so young.

We now move from deaths to a disappearance:

Even now, no less than 18 years later, information regarding Hyon Jong Song is scarce.

Following a Halloween party in 2001, Song made it home at 4am, still decked out in a traditional Halloween bunny costume, after a lift from a friend.

The last evidence we have of her is her belongings which were dropped off in her house - she had even managed to remove her eyelashes!

But this was to be the final trace of this grad student.

Our penultimate tragedy takes us to Indiana, and brings us swinging into the sixties.

During the Indiana State Fair, an ice skating exhibition was on display for hundreds of visitors. 

But it was during the finale that disaster struck.

Unknown to the managers of the event, propane gas was leaking from a tank in a room nearby. You don’t need a chemistry degree to tell you this wouldn’t end well.

The fire utilised in the finale’s effects set it alight, causing an explosion that killed 74 and injured over 400. 

We now turn to an occurrence that seems uncomfortably common for Halloween.

I take that back - I suppose it suits the time of year well...

In fact, I’d like to call this section: 

when Halloween decorations were not Halloween decorations but were actually dead bodies. 

Brace positions, everyone. 

The most famous case only take us back 5 years.

In 2014, a man dragged a fake corpse out of his apartment on Halloween in front of a crowd of unsuspecting onlookers, and kicked the head across the street in a jest.

Only it wasn't a jest.

And it wasn't a fake corpse.

It was his decapitated mother. He had killed her shortly before this.

A similarly tragic event - which doesn’t sound dissimilar to any old urban legend is the death of William Anthony Odem.

The 15 year old was hoping to embellish the theme of his haunted house by staging a Gallows scene in the basement.

Unfortunately, he hung himself in the process.

In fact, hangings in particular - accidental, or not - often have ended up as decorations.

Suicide victims has often gone unnoticed during All Hallow’s Eve, disguised as the ghosts and ghoulish figures hanging on trees across streets and suburbs.

And so we arrive at our conclusion.

Depressed and scarred for life.

So much for a horror film binge and thought out costumes - these real events should scare you enough for Halloween! 

[marginalgloss]

the republic of heaven

Back in 2000 when The Amber Spyglass came out I feel like there was not so much news in the world. At the turn of the millennium we seemed to be entering a more optimistic time. Tony Blair was elected in 1997 at the head of a liberal Labour government, and while it may be true that Blair would never be so popular again as he was in the opening years of his premiership, the Tories seemed hopelessly outdated by comparison. They were still the nasty party of old, while the country was ambitious, outward-looking, internationalist. Explicit racism and homophobia were no longer tolerated. We were Europhiles, but we weren’t part of Europe. There seemed to be a lot of money about.

At home there were occasional horrors — the murder of Jill Dando, the homophobic pub bombings in London, Harold Shipman — but they were somehow isolated, disparate, inexplicable. They were exceptional. There was the war in Kosovo, which set a template for liberal interventionism in years to come. The economy was trucking along; unemployment was low; for the first time there was a national minimum wage. I skim the headlines today and it seems like such a comfortable time by comparison. Perhaps I am remembering it wrong. But when the years to come would bring a spiral of endless war, recession, and one of the most significant declines in relative generational living standards, I’m not sure there is any need for rose-coloured glasses.  

Into this comes The Amber Spyglass, which is basically quite an optimistic anti-authoritarian novel. It was also the book which, for a handful of reasons, really brought Philip Pullman to the world’s attention. It was this which ensured that his name still lurks around the list of authors most frequently ‘banned’ in America, and which in the years after its publication would attract scores of avid cheerleaders and detractors. Inevitably most of those had no interest with engaging with the substance of the book itself. Instead, it became a sort of battleground: on one side, those convinced that religion was under attack from an educated elite; on the other, those who were committed to reducing the role of religion in public life, discourse, education, and so on. It is worth revisiting this typically excitable interview and profile by Christopher Hitchens for an example of how these novels were talked about. 

To call the novel ‘optimistic’ might seem surprising, because much of it is shrouded in scenes of gloom and suffering. But when I think of the tone of the novel as a whole, it is pastoral. When the world isn’t tearing itself apart the language seems more lyrical than in either of the two preceding books. Some of that is to do with the perspective, which now has at least three (and sometimes more) main characters to follow. This means that a sense of distance, of floating high above the many worlds of the story, becomes necessary. But it’s also that the reader has a sense that this book is going to be about the promised war against the heavens outlined in The Subtle Knife, and it’s likely the reader will also understand that this is a war that must be won. 

It feels like a world of binary opposites. Even characters who seemed villainous in the previous novels are here redeemed (at least in part) so they can be mustered against the ultimate figure of the ‘Authority’. A certain amount of good versus evil is likely in any book for children, but here things are now cast explicitly in terms of these two sides squaring up against each other. And taking sides is a matter of decision, not of belonging. This is a book where angelic figures can decide to fight alongside men, and where demonic harpies can be convinced not to consume the souls of the dead because they want to hear their stories instead. It’s plausible in terms of oldest storytelling traditions, where it is possible to talk one’s way out of anything — where the role of storyteller gives a person the ultimate kind of authority.   

Is the capital-A ‘Authority’ in these novels intended to be absolutely synonymous with God? I’m not sure. The book is explicitly anti-religion in the sense of being anti-church, but the forces of the Authority (and the being himself) do not seem to represent any kind of absolute power in the universe. The Authority is not omnipotent nor omnipresent, nor is he very much of a creator or a father-figure any more — he is a despot, but he is also somehow irrelevant. Like a shrivelled relic, he is vastly reduced when we finally meet him. The worst aspects of his regime seem like the calcified remnants of decisions long since made and now barely remembered, like the afterlife that has become a giant prison camp. In fact it’s the abolition of the afterlife, not the death of its creator, that’s the only really significant consequence of the fall of the Authority. 

So if God isn’t in the Authority, then where is he? In spite of the tendency for atheists to want to claim the author for one of their own, it seems like the heart of these novels is not in pure humanistic rationalism, but in a broader sort of pantheism. The idea of ‘Dust’ is the closest thing to a true divine presence here. It could be characterised as something akin to a spirit which moves through all things. It is ‘conscious’, and though it’s hard to determine what this means in practice, we know that it is not indifferent to humanity. It’s not like a host of little thinking homunculi (although Mary did have a whole conversation with it on a computer back in The Subtle Knife). But it wants to persist. It would seem to be the force that drives the Alethiometer. It has intentions.  

The counter-argument to this would say that Dust isn’t divine at all — it exists at the bleeding edge of science, and has nothing to do with faith. It’s a material thing. It’s not a spirit. But I don’t know that this is especially convincing. The books often try to equate Dust with quantum mechanics, but this doesn’t entirely seem to add up — these are particles which are somehow small enough to slip through gaps between universes, but big enough to see with the naked eye. Everything about Dust seems too convenient from an authorial perspective. It’s as though someone took everything indefinable and unique about evolved human (and non-human) consciousness and made it into a quantifiable thing and then said: there, without this thing we are no longer what we are. It’s an easy solution to the hard problem.

It the article linked above, Hitchens described the Alethiometer and Will’s knife as ‘tools of inquiry and struggle, not magic wands’. This is only half-right. Clearly they aren’t tools like a microscope or an X-ray machine. Both items are bonded to their owners through an innate sensitivity that has little to do with rational enquiry or rigorous method. The Alethiometer is even compared to the I Ching at various points. It seems wrong to mistake ‘inquiry’ here for the scientific method; it has much more in common with ‘negative capability’, a term which is actually quoted in The Amber Spyglass — the ability to pursue truth and beauty via one’s innate sensibility, to ‘see feelingly’ through a fascination with a sort of natural mystery, and not to depend exclusively on reason and knowledge.  

This leaves the reader in an odd sort of no man’s land between the armies who supposedly either adopted or despised this novel. A hypothetical arch-rationalist might find it difficult to accept all of what they find here without rolling their eyes at some of it. Negative capability does not sit comfortably alongside the scientific method as a tool, but nor does it have much to do with priests and popery. And yet it is a sort of inspiration, and in that respect I think it comes closer to a religious experience than it does a rational one.  

The problem with this is that it is not possible to get any sense from this novel of what it means to be religious, or to believe in a higher power, or to be ‘spiritual’ (choose your own euphemism). There is Mary Malone, but while I like Mary’s story here, her account of her early life in cloisters and later conversion/defection is unsatisfying. We have no sense of doubt, of anguish, of guilt — it is an all-too-straightforward seeing of the light. Will is arguably more complicated, more conflicted, but for the most part he never seems to have to make any difficult compromises. If he ever loses out on anything by abandoning his mother to travel through a whole set of alternate universes, we aren’t told about it. 

What if Will made the wrong call? What if he weren’t so trustworthy? He is, in a way, the lynchpin of the whole story. For all Lyra’s good intentions and inner strength, if it weren’t for Will, Asriel would have failed and nothing would have changed. So Will must be made to work. Yet it often seems as though he doesn’t want anything for himself, except perhaps to be with Lyra. It’s interesting to wonder what might have happened if Will weren’t quite so faithful (for want of a better word). 

But it’s inconceivable in the world of these books that anyone could possess negative capability and then use it for anything other than a pursuit of — well what exactly is being pursued, anyway? What is Asriel’s goal, above and beyond the overthrow of the Authority? There is vague mention of something called ‘the Republic of Heaven’ — a heaven on Earth, as it were — but today that phrase can only make me recall the idea of ‘Outer Heaven’ in the Metal Gear Solid games. It’s difficult to discern any latent irony lying in wait for the reader in this case. Will whatever replaces the Authority be just as bad, eventually? Perhaps, but again, the vibe of optimism in this novel is so strong it feels odd to impose doubt on it from elsewhere.   

The paradox of The Amber Spyglass is that while the explicit ‘moral’ of the novel is set against organised religion, it cannot help but describe the world in terms originally set by religion. (A very basic reading might declare the novel invalid for this reason, for much the same reason as a socialist might be declared hypocritical for buying a smartphone.) It isn’t just that there are angels, or that the story of Adam of Eve is central to the thing. It is the journey through the world of the dead and back. It’s the arc of redemption and overthrow. 

At times it feels like this book is re-fighting a battle that was begun hundreds of years ago in the English reformation. In the pursuit of humanistic knowledge, a godlike figure is re-cast in the guise of an Authority who can be overthrown, and cast out of our land, and even killed. And all for the sake of nothing especially certain, nothing at all new in political or ideological terms, except a sense that we would be more free — that we would be better off without. Is it better to eject the columns of the dead into a kind of oblivion than to consider any improvement to their position? I don’t know. Perhaps things seemed simpler twenty years ago. 

[mythicallore]

Bizzare Encounters with Imps

Throughout European legend and folklore can be found the pervasive presence of the tiny, evil little creatures commonly referred to as imps. The word comes from the Old English noun impa, meaning basically the young shoot of a tree or plant, and they are particularly prevalent in Germanic myths and legends. Although the creatures have countless descriptions and appear in numerous forms, there are some basic similarities. They are almost always portrayed as diminutive, small in stature, with ugly, rough features, and they are known as being mischievous, prankish, incorrigible, and uncontrollable. Many of the traditions depict them as rather evil and malicious, and indeed over the centuries they became more and more associated with the Devil and depicted as being demons and familiars of witches, warlocks, and even servants of Satan himself. While this must all sound like pure fantastic folklore very much in the vein of fairies, gnomes, and goblins, just as with those others there have been many purported sightings of what seem to be real imps, or at least something very much like these legends describes. These surprising reports involve some sort of gnome-like creatures with a decidedly demonic feel to them, and a malevolent air of menace surrounding them, and they come in from a variety of far-flung areas.

One such account comes to us from the site TrueGhostTales, from a witness named Joshua, who says that he had been just 12 years old at the time of his strange experience. It all started shortly after they had moved into a new home in Benicia, California, and although he had felt a bad energy emanating from the home from the very beginning, things would get truly bizarre when his mother one day heard a loud banging noise from the bathroom, even though no one else had been home at the time, and when she had gone to investigate she had found that everything from the counter and medicine cabinet had been thrown into a pile in the middle of the floor. This unexplained incident was followed shortly after by his terrified sister reporting that she had seen small glowing red eyes peering out from their darkened closet at night. The witness says that although he had not seen the red eyes himself, his sister had been so upset about it that he had believed her, and he would then in the coming days see for himself that indeed there was something very odd lurking in the home, which would become a regular visitor. He says of his first encounters with the thing:

My sister and I were ready to go to bed, my sister said she saw two red eyes inside the closet. I didn’t see them, but from how scared she was I believed her. We shared a room, and we had bunk-beds. My mom comforted her until she fell asleep. I slept short after. I awoke later that night from a small continuous noise coming from the foot of my bed (I had the top bunk). When I looked at my feet, I could see this dark, black figured shape jumping up and down at the foot of my bed. Every time that it jumped up, it would leer at me with these little red eyes. The eyes seemed to sink into his face until the red would just disappear. I couldn’t see much detail to his facial features, but I did realize that he was wearing a brim hat, like Charlie Chaplin. I started to scream, and within a couple of seconds my mom came in the room. But before she was able to turn the light on, I saw the little man (about three feet tall) hurry and run to the corner of the room and disappear into the darkness just before my mom turned on the light. This was not the first of many experiences we had.  A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night. I still had that experience fresh on my mind, so I very carefully peaked my head over the railing of my top bunk, and looked around the room. When I saw the little man! This time he was just being very still and quiet, and he was just standing at the foot of my sisters bed, watching her (Our bunks were in the shape of an L, so I could see the lower half of my sisters bed). He then noticed me and looked at me. I yelled, and again, just one second before my mom got into the room, he would again run to the corner of the room, and disappear into the shadow. Every time he would run to the corner, he would stop for half a second facing the wall, and disappear.

Joshua claims that he saw this strange little demonic man over the next few nights as well, finally working up the courage to tell his mother what was happening. Rather than laugh it all off as the ramblings of a child’s imagination, she seemed to think that something was genuinely terrifying them, although she never let on that she had seen it herself. It would not be until years later that she would tell of her own experience with the entity, of which the witness says:

So what she did next, she did not tell us, until years later when we were grown up. If she told us at that time, it would have made us even more frightened because we would have known that it was not our imaginations. She told us that she stayed up one night with all the lights off. She was sitting in a chair in her bedroom, looking down the hallway to the entry way to our bedroom. What she saw next startled her. She said that after about a half hour after she turned the lights out she saw a little man who came into the hallway from the bathroom. He started to walk into our room when he must have sensed something. My mom said he stopped, and slowly turned around and looked at her with those sunken in little red eyes. She said he then turned back around and went into our room. She hurried up, and ran into our room and turned on light on. But he had vanished.  We lived in that house for about another year. We continued to have strange things happen. It didn’t let up until my mom and dad decided to move. Personally, I believe to this day, that the little man had to of been some sort of demon, not a human spirit. One thing that I never liked about it, was the fact that countless times, I would look around in the middle of the night, and every time he would be still, just watching us, either from the foot of my sisters bed, or he would be standing in the corners watching us. I never liked that, because you just never knew how long he could have been watching you as you slept.

A similar report comes from a witness on Your Ghost Stories, who had her own encounter in England with a very aggressive and genuinely evil little imp of some sort. She says that whatever it was had been quite bold, appearing in the middle of the day to harass her and her boyfriend, before becoming a constant presence that haunted and menaced them at all hours. The witness says of the ordeal :

I had a black shapeless entity peek at me from behind the TV one morning last May. It was black, and had tiny pinprick white eyes, extremely bright but the smile was ‘ear to ear’ and red… It rushed at me too, seemed to like chasing me at first, my boyfriend was in the house at the time, and this was during the day, while bright sunlight was streaming in through the window. I was terrified and actually climbed up my boyfriend (poor guy) to stop it touching my feet, which it seemed to find funny…  When it was moving across the floor it would either be a solid black shape, half human height, or a spinning ‘moth’? Which would continually spiral towards the floor. I have no idea what it was, we tried burning sage around the house, it seemed to back off quite a lot but after that a smaller black thing (no face) would sometimes peer at my boyfriend when he was asleep, and wait on the stairs.  Tried the sage, I also screamed at it to f*** off during the day while two people were there, (looked crazy ha-ha). It was actually very active during the morning/afternoon. After shouting at it for a very long time it did leave through the bathroom wall (temporarily). I actually got so desperate I smashed an ornament in its direction to try and frighten it. To be (mostly) rid of him, I had to keep standing up to it; it took a very long time, visualisations of white light enclosing the house, pushing it out… Was very hard mentally to move it at all, seemed very ‘heavy’. We think it moved to the next house, we are in a terrace and the attic has missing bricks in the wall to the adjoining house, I’m worried, but also extremely fascinated by it and wonder if it might return.

No word on if it ever did return or not, and it is a truly frightening and harrowing account, to say the least. From the same area of the world is a report of some sort of demonic imp at Crawfordsburn Country Park, in Ireland. The witness says she was out walking her dog, Missy, by the waterfall on an otherwise tranquil and calm evening. As they walked along the dog became very agitated for some unknown reason, and the witness explains:

Missy ran ahead and i walked quickly to catch up. I noticed she had stopped and had started growling so i started walking even quicker. As i got level with her i noticed what can only be explained as a gnome standing about 10 feet away from Missy. It was about 3 feet tall and at first i thought it was a child in fancy dress but then i noticed its teeth were pointed and a horrible brown colour and It had a bulbous nose and large, deep-set eyes. I got Missy on the lead and watched in amazement as the gnome began to laugh, this wasn’t a regular laugh but a deep cackle. I was terrified and frozen to the spot and watched as the gnome walked into some bushes by the waterfall and disappeared. I quickly ran off back to the car.

What was this thing? Was it some evil spirit or fairy? A demon? Something else? In some accounts it seems like these creatures are indeed very literal demons from Hell, true imps in every sense. One commenter on Exemplore explains of being haunted by tiny creatures that he believes are actual Biblical demons that can be fought off with the power of God. The witness says:

I see faces in figures in clouds, trees, bushes, on the grass and pretty much everywhere else I look. Until the Lord saved my life, these things had overtaken every aspect of my life, I had taken thousands of photos and videos of them, they would appear in my yard and trees as little gnomes, animal-like figures, full on demons, and all kinds of things that are freakier than anything I have ever seen in a horror movie. I’ve had dark clouds moving around my house and some insane visions that would take too long to type on here. My wife and son would see some of them, but not anywhere near the ballpark of what I see. No, I do not have schizophrenia or any other mental diseases. We tried every new age thing to rid our property of these beings, but it only got worse. One day I stayed home alone and prayed for hours trying to figure out why I was seeing these things. The Lord finally let me know in my soul that this was a product of all the sin I had allowed into my life and He was allowing me to see this in order to call me to Him. I was truly humbled and repented of my sins and I told Christ that I would rather die than to continue in a lifestyle that allowed this into my home and around my family. God saved me that day. I coughed out what I can only describe as evil energy out of my body 6-7 times. I was exhausted and felt truly forgiven and free for the first time in my life. The things is God still allows me to see things, they are just no longer in control of my life. I have learned many things from this, what feels like a curse, but I believe is a gift from God. I am now walking in the truth of God. No one could ever convince me that a battle of good vs. evil is not going on around us all the time. Most people just cannot see it.

Other unsettling reports seem to describe these things as a dark force that seems bent on luring children away to their dooms, and indeed in some folklore imps were known to do just this. One witness on Reddit weaves a rather unsettling tale of some sort of gnome that seems as if it was perhaps trying to trick his sister into wandering off with it. The witness says:

As a young child, my sister was visited by a spirit that appeared as a gnome-type creature (small, grey beard and pointed hat). He always appeared at dusk and tried to get her to follow him into the woods. My sister barely remembers the episodes, but I remember her telling me about them and even remember once keeping her from following him into the woods. My mom remembers once when we were swimming in a neighbor’s pool and she came to bring us home for dinner- after being home for about 5 minutes, my mom realized my sister was gone. Instinctively, she ran back to the swimming pool and found her in the pool, alone (she was 3 and could barely swim). We think this also has something to do with that entity, as she could not have walked that far in that amount of time by herself. Has anyone ever heard of an entity that tries to lure children away? At that time, we lived In an area of Western MA known for paranormal activity and there was a well known case of demonic possession nearby.

So, are these real reports of encounters with the demonic imps of folklore, or are they something else entirely? There is little to differentiate them from the numerous other accounts of sightings of gnomes, fairies, and other seemingly fairy tale creatures, but here we have something that seems especially evil and malicious in nature. What are these entities and what do they want? Are they real spirits, demons, interdimensional phenomena, or simply tall tales? No matter what the answer is, these are truly odd reports that mesh in with the long running myths and legends or demonic imps and gnomes, and serve as something to ponder at the very least.

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Caroline!

You have been accepted for the role of ALICE LONGBOTTOM! It was so much fun to read about your Alice! I loved the way you explored the parts of Alice that are conflicted within the Order and her role within her family, as well as the survival and biases sections. I am so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Caroline

AGE: 21

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: Roleplay’s a hobby, and often times the commitments that take precedence do just that — they take their precedence, and it’s something I’m rather unyielding on. I am able to come on and post fairly regularly, at least two days out of the week on busier weeks, and if the need for a hiatus/semi-hiatus arises I am fairly good in getting everything squared away with the admin. My activity high points are at nights, on weekends and Wednesdays, and I’m typically always lurking on mobile for plotting purposes at the very, very minimum!

ANYTHING ELSE: I'm about to talk your head off, for which I apologize! I’m a rambler through and through; never been able to stop it and I don’t think I ever will. Also, I’m submitting another application (because I really could not decide on just one character, thank you for that), so if you notice any similarities within the OOC exploration section of the application, that’s why! I ask that you please consider Alice as my first choice character. Thank you so much!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Alice Camille Longbottom (née Fortescue); Alice, a German-originating name, means “noble.” It is derived from the Greek word alethéia, which means “truth." Camille is derived from the Latin camilla, and its related meaning pertains to an unblemished character or pureness in order to serve at the altar.

AGE: Thirty-three; Alice was born on May 6, making her a Taurus. Taurus women are described as powerful forces to be reckoned with and the same could be said for Alice. Determined, uncompromising, and somewhat of a dark horse, Alice works hard and plays hard (when she bothers to play at all) and every action is infused with great intent and purpose. Her level of thoroughness and fixity will sometimes get her in trouble — once the blinders are firmly strapped into place, there is typically no doubling back.

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Alice identifies as cis-female and uses she/her pronouns. Her sexual orientation is heterosexual.

BLOOD STATUS: Pure-blood; while Alice’s family does not hail from the "Sacred 28”, both of her parents are of magical descent and come laden with rather typical pure-blood ideals, even if they are watered down.

HOUSE ALUMNI: Slytherin; green and silver scarf knotted tight around her neck, Slytherin was more of a stepping stone than a home. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, even some Ravenclaws and Slytherins alike, they all had the notion that House equated family, but for Alice, it was merely the place that she best fit and the place that helped foster growth towards being the best possible Alice she could be. Rather introverted, Alice didn’t necessarily feel as though she belonged within the folds of her House’s fabric, and she certainly never took a needle and thread to sew herself into it. The stereotypes in Slytherin that others embraced were ones she actively turned away from. She liked not being tied down exclusively to her House and having friends elsewhere, liked having some degree of detachment that others didn’t seem to have when it came to falling for the idea that your House was your home. Slytherin was where she slept, Slytherin’s colors were hers, Slytherin encouraged her to follow ambition and was a garden where she could grow success, but her House pride derived from much different motives than that of her fellow alumni.  

ANY CHANGES: N/A

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Listen, I gotta start by saying that I absolutely Alice. The reason I was drawn to her bio in the first place is that first and foremost, Alice is a strong character. She is a strong woman, yes, but she is a strong character, period. She is unsure and sometimes unsteady but she is a force to be reckoned with. She does not compromise herself for anyone. She knows who she is at heart, even if she doesn’t know who she is as a player in this world. She has a strong mind and a strong heart and a strong sense of independence — she doesn't need anyone else.  

As mentioned above, Alice is a bit of a dark horse, somewhat unconventional for a woman who has a pretty stiff ideal system. To some, that would translate as aloof, self-isolating, detached from emotion and unapproachable, but I find that the opposite. Alice doesn’t just encompass everyone at first meeting (if she did, she would have been a Hufflepuff) because she has recognized a pattern that people’s first impressions versus their real personalities has too wide a discrepancy for her to be comfortable with. Alice instinctively keeps up a set of walls because she is selective in who she trusts, but once over that hurdle, Alice is the person you’d want in your corner, the person you’d want by your side staring down death. She is the kind to deplete from her own cup to give more to others and she will not complain — she will not draw attention to it, either. She does it on her own volition, because she believes it’s the right thing to do, and she will ask for nothing in return. She doesn’t mind being alone (quiet moments with her cat snuggling in her lap are some of the best). She does not wait for sunlight to poke through a cloud on chance and find her; she works herself to the bone in order to create a hole in the dark sky. There aren’t very many people that she trusts enough to let see all the facets (work Alice, Order Alice, person Alice, etc.) but those who do can note the way light finds her and makes her shine in a subtly brilliant way, the same way low lights bring out sparkle. Her liveliness is rather subtle, only seen by those she wants to let see. She loves fiercely and when it comes to those she loves or those she feels needs protection, she doesn’t hesitate to stand in the way. She is ambitious not for the sake of ambition, but with a purpose and an end goal. She’s a visionary, striving for a world that is inclusive and fair. She’s smart and sophisticated, knowing exactly how to present herself and keep all her edges smooth with a polished exterior. She’s cool under pressure, level head on her shoulders that she lets rule her. It’s what makes her so good in duels; she knows how to stack priorities over reactions, how to get inside the head of her opponents and stay one step ahead. Her exterior is hard but it is only to protect the emotion that lies beneath. She feels every single chink and chip and blow and feels it completely, vibrations running through her. She knows that vulnerability is what powers endurance, but she doesn’t let others see what keeps the electricity on. It’s the private moments where she lets herself fall apart, and then she gracefully stitches herself back up to keep moving through another day.

She is her biggest critic and her worst enemy is the voice inside of her brain. She worries excessively, worries that she isn’t doing enough, that she isn’t enough. She sometimes feels like she’s torn between two different worlds and that there is no true place of belonging for her, that she’s merely drifting and playing a game of charades that will only result in her losing. She is perfectionistic and she likes for things to be done correctly. She likes structure, likes having a set of rules and doesn’t like to deviate from them (they exist for a reason, after all) and it puts her in compromising situations when she is around people who are deviating or asking her to do so. It’s this hesitance and inner debate before her decision that is a fatal flaw — it’s war. It’s nothing but hard decisions, and yes, they’re the type to get people killed. Alice will fight but she’s also the type to ask why. She wants to know that there’s an existing means to an end, that it’s not all for nothing, perhaps too much so at times. There’s also a purposeful ignorance about her, especially when it comes to the Ministry. She puts her entire backbone into her job and the institution that allows her the chance to do what she is passionate about, but that institution is as good as compromised and she’d still prefer to jump through all its hoops. She’d rather walk through every step and be thorough than take the short cut, because she believes it eliminates mistakes, but she doesn’t see that sometimes, not making the split decision and cutting out the excess is a mistake in and of itself. Her family is another weakness — they raised her, they are what she knows, but she also knows that some of the things they think aren’t what she’s learned are right. Brother against brother is not uncommon in war and that’s the kind of thing to make Alice hesitate. Slytherins will use any means to achieve their ends, after all, but if it means turning her back on her own family? She’s not sure she could. Her temper isn’t the best either (that goddamn Augusta is what really does it for her) and when someone finds her buttons and keeps pushing, she isn’t the type to take it lying down. She doesn’t forthright express what’s wrong but she does wear some of her emotions on her face, unable to control the split second reactions of disgust or irritation or otherwise. It’s hard for her when she believes she is in the right and no one else can see her point of view (or refuses to), and it’s something that makes her shut down on the spot — or resort to more drastic measures.

Wands, too, I think, speak volumes about their wizard’s personality. Wood: Rowan. Rowan wands are comfortable in the hands of those who are clear-headed and pure-hearted, which I think suits Alice quite nicely. Though the roads to hell are paved with them, she always has intentions for and of the best at the forefront of all she does and her mind is quite good at remaining one tracked and steady when placed under duress. According to Ollivander, rowan wands will perform equal to, if not better and out-perform other wands specifically in duels. Rowan wands do well with defensive magic, a particular strength Alice has per her own reputation as one half of an extraordinarily gifted (and perhaps lethal) dueling team to come through the Auror department. Core: Phoenix tail feather. Phoenix tail feathers can often be found in the cores of wands owned by witches and wizards who are considered noble, wise, willing, strong-willed, bright, loyal, and self-sacrificing, all of which are traits that align closely with Alice’s personality. While this core is not common among Slytherins due to its reputation to impede Dark spells, which further solidifies Alice’s personality veering from the stereotypes of Slytherin house. The qualities she holds near aligned with Slytherin but she knows there is a right way to obtain success and pursue ambitions. Flexibility: Hard. Owners of hard wands tend to view things in absolutes (black or white), which is a beyond fair summation of Alice. These are people who others may find intimidating or difficult to approach. Wands of this flexibility are great for complex and advanced levels of magic, which I envision Alice having wholeheartedly embraced. Learning was a piece in the equation to becoming the best she could possibly be and I see her brain being like that of a sponge, absorbing all it could and constantly wanting to take things to the next step, eager to move on to a higher level since the ceiling for her didn’t (and does not) exist.

And, because I really love personality tests… MBTI Type: ISTJ - The Logistician (x) Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral - The Judge Enneagram: Type 1 - The Reformer (x) Element: Earth

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

The Fortescue family was, in terms of how pure-blood society operated, under the radar. No one looked to a Fortescue as an example (or a non-example); they were often after-thoughts. It was very much, oh! A Fortescue! They weren’t shunned out, they weren’t outcasts, but they certainly weren’t sitting in the thick of things. Dexter Fortescue was not the first Headmaster of Hogwarts to come to mind, after all, but not being first didn’t mean you were last. Alice and her brother (and potentially other siblings - I am very flexible to this and would truthfully love to see some other Fortescues running around in this group) were raised by Fennell and Adrianne to follow after their desires and dreams with a single exception: do not bring shame to the family. Do not push the Fortescue name into the light for all of the wrong reasons. There was never an explicit correlation to shame and bloodline, with the Fortescues always rather indifferent towards Muggleborns — they did not have qualms or prejudice towards Muggleborns being a part of the Wizarding World (if magic chose you, it chose you) but still being embedded in pure-blood society to some degree, marrying outside of pure-bloods would have caused under-the-radar tension within the family. Everything in the Fortescue family was done in subtleties. If there was disapproval, it was not outright shown, but alluded to in the choice of words or lack of action taken. Tempers, if they existed, were always below the surface. Alice could never truly recall a time when she saw her parents fight or get into arguments or display anger in a dazzling firework display. Fortescues knew how to keep up an appearance, how to be poised, and all grievances were usually dealt with behind doors or ignored to the point where they merely suffocated themselves on their own silence.

Alice didn’t have a bad childhood; she was much more reserved than most children. She would ride brooms and play a crude position of Chaser in Quidditch matches with cousins who actually let her join in the games (usually due to an uneven number of players) but she would also find just as much fun in reading through the books her father kept in his study, a miniature library of sorts. She was not the first person noticed sitting around the dinner table, but in her family, there was never anything wrong with being a chameleon and blending in. Her mother raised her with the understanding that the loudest person in the room wasn’t always the right one. Success didn’t depend on being flashy. Hard work and the drive and a pinch of patience would do the trick. Expecting things was a horrible way to look at the world: it wouldn’t just offer its hand and give away everything without some sort of price, whether it was immediate payment or came about later. Alice looked up to her mother perhaps more so than her father, finding a strength in the way her mother carried herself, fashioning her own confidence in the image of her mother’s. Confidence didn’t mean cockiness. Confidence was believing in oneself and their abilities, and it could be quiet. Strength could be quiet and show itself in a myriad of ways. Of course, her childhood days and beliefs have since shifted since her days at Hogwarts and in the Ministry. She hasn’t lost touch with following ambitions down their paths, not needing to be a firestorm to be a firebrand, but in adulthood she has grown away from their shadows and stepped into the light of thinking for herself, letting her own experiences shape her. Her family likes order and balance, which explains their position in the war. Her parents and grandparents see value in a pure bloodline and because they have never had to understand the struggle of Muggleborns, do not see the genuine harm Voldemort and his followers and their ideals bring to the Wizarding world. She has cousins far down the branches of the family tree who she knows side with Voldemort in more than just opinion, but in battle, too. It genuinely bothers Alice to hear her family talk like this, a veil being swept away of sorts. Alice, in her heart, knows what is right. The world is changing, why shouldn’t views? Tradition is valued and respected but sometimes tradition is a sword that runs right through people, good people. As she’s gotten older and lived a life beyond her parent’s four walls, a life that has brought her up to the face of just as much strife as success, she finds it harder and harder to operate under the radar. There are times when she doesn’t want to sit back in the lounge chair like her father and press a thin smile over her mouth, she wants to start an argument so that things will move themselves along. Despite their disheartening talk, Alice loves them still and there is the horrifying thought that the war will force her to either stand with her family or against when all is said and done. She has lost the golden view of her childhood and dismantled any heroification of her parents, but breaking away from them is a level of instability she cannot bear to think about. She doesn’t see the hypocrisy in that action, either.

OCCUPATION:

There were lots of different occupations Alice could have (and wanted) to delve into. Healer, working somewhere within the Ministry with law and regulation; Alice is very much driven and motivated by making things right. Florean had ambitions leading him towards entrepreneurship, a path that didn’t seem too terrible for Alice (though she didn’t know what her business would have looked like, and she wasn’t nearly as charming as her brother to draw in customers). In the end, Auror prevailed, and Alice hasn’t looked back. She was tough enough to handle the pressure (that or she knew how to absorb the shocks well while remaining on her feet), smart enough to think on her feet, and hunting down and imprisoning those who abuse magic, use magic for wrongdoing, it gives her a sense of purpose. It fulfills her. Alice is not the type who can consciously waste her life away when she knows there are things she can do to improve the world that she lives in, and being an Auror means she gets the most immediate course of action in improving the world — even if it is taking down one Dark wizard at a time.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER

The Order was, in the beginning, an extension activity. The Ministry had its boundaries like any structure of government would, and Alice could justify expanding beyond them. She saw the benefit in going the extra mile even if it was frowned upon on paper and in the laws. She, after all, had up close experience with Dark wizards, how they thought and the damage they could do, the threats they posed and how imperative it was to snuff out their sparks. She joined the Order on the precipice that it was the right thing: killing innocent people for things out of their control didn’t seem fair. She joined the Order because there was more she could do and the Order eliminated the need to dance around the red tape the Ministry would have set out. Alice wanted to fight, so she’d dedicate herself to the fight. It was new and exciting when the Order was first formed and even if some decisions from up high were questionable, it was a step on the path to making things right.

She’s somewhat of a veteran in the Order at this point. She’s survived long enough to have experienced highs and lows (and the current sinking low they are in as the scales tip out of their favor) that she’s got a jaded viewpoint of the Order. Violence used to be combated with skill, knowledge, strategy, the sheer goodness in their hearts or whatever noble shit she used to justify, and now it seems like the Order is sinking to the same levels as the Death Eaters when it comes to fighting fire with fire. The stakes raise consistently, especially being on the losing side, and more and more is asked of members of the Order who, like Alice, have tenure. Even members who are fresh in the fold are being asked to submit blind faith without context and Alice has lost all sense of novelty in that ideal, abandoned the assumption that it would result in victory. She is black and white in an organization that has always been grey and there are too many shades now for her to feel like she’s got any sense of alignment. Every decision and action sits uneasy with her. What were once infractions in the laws that she could justify turning a blind eye to (even if it did sprout lots and lots of questions) are now full on blowing past any sense of legality and it bothers her. There are too many shifty allegiances in the Order now — there’s Dorcas and her gang, taking matters into their own hands, there are those more committed to helping Muggleborns escape and go into hiding than eliminating the threat that causes them to go into hiding in the first place, there are those who no longer know where their loyalties lie, and then there are just those that she doesn’t trust, point blank. It’s hard for Alice to commit any kind allegiance to an organization that is hardly organized. She feels as though there’s no accountability, no real plan on how they’re going to win this war, and that will be what ultimately sinks the ship. Though she is a part of the inner circle, she doesn’t view it as any kind of grand privilege or incentive that she might have when she herself was bright eyed and ready to fight Death Eaters, eager to work hard and work her way up the ranks so she could feel her purpose being actualized and brought to fruition. I think Alice has her reasons for staying in the Order (people like Caradoc, trying to make her marriage with Frank stay afloat, the whole “we’re trying to take down the bad guys” thread still there somewhere in the tapestry) but it’s not because she agrees with what they’re doing anymore. It is a sinking ship. She is very much chained to it and the more they lose, the more conscious she grows of how heavy the chains are.

SURVIVAL:

“How have they not died?” I just love this question. You can figure Alice Longbottom hasn’t died because one, she’s not the type to follow anyone blindly and thinks for herself (she’ll be the first to question something if it sparks a question inside her) and two, there’s still a fair slew of Death Eaters running around. You could bet that if she’s going, she’s taking as many as she can with her with a bloodstained smile. Her death is something she refuses to let occur in vain. Like her life, it’d have purpose.

On a much more serious, in-depth sort of note, part of the reason Alice has stayed alive as long as she has comes with the privilege of her pure-blood. Her family aren’t blood traitors, not so far on the outskirts that they don’t have good graces to get them by. She takes advantage of it more than she realizes. She tries not to rely on her own bloodline or the one she married into to save her skin, but it has certainly dragged her out by the skin of her teeth from hairy situations before. Her position in the Ministry has also somewhat kept her stable. The Order is as good as illegal these days, and while the Ministry is corrupt, keeping her position as an Auror keeps a blanket of cover over her not-so-legal pastimes. She shut down the possibility of being a part of the Order to people with their prying eyes and questions and she has never outwardly given them reason to double back and pry further. Hunting Dark wizards puts a target on her back, obviously, but her skill and the formidable duo she and Frank can be has kept her alive. Her survival is strategic. She is aware that no one is safe, that even with all bases covered there are still blind spots. She doesn’t have an invincibility complex. She knows and has made peace with the fact she could die at any point, long since been a truth she’s accepted (practically necessity in being an Auror). It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t pull out the stops, have her reasons and hoping they will see her through. She stays at the Ministry not just in the hopes there is something left to save, but because of the protection it provides. She stays in the Order because there is value to her position in the inner circle, protection against those who think she is playing for the other team and intel that has kept her one step ahead in her work. She can divide her loyalty and the time has yet to come where she is forced to pick only one to commit to.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Alice is not a people person, not really. She’s an ISTJ; their circles are small and the way they make friends is utterly methodical. Alice picks and chooses who she puts time, energy, and loyalty into, and she doesn’t do so lightly — once it’s given, very rarely will she retract it. That said, it’s a time of war, and Alice is rapidly losing her stability, which means loyalty isn’t necessarily spouting out of her in spades. Relationships at this point in time have to be of substance, conversations need a purpose and an end goal or result contrived from them.

I think her relationship with Frank is possibly the most important relationship in her life at the moment, especially considering that it’s crumbling. Frank was the yin to her yang. She thought him a perfect complement to her; it was why they were so lethal in duels. He understood her, she (thought she) understood him, and Alice truly felt herself better just by Frank’s presence. Frank validated Alice in a lot of ways; he validated every feeling that didn’t quite align with what was in place for her, whether it was her exploring a freedom that many people around her didn’t or keeping to herself. She felt like she didn’t have to tick boxes or live up to certain expectations around him. Because of that, in a way, she would protect him with a dying breath, walk into fire with him and never look back. Now, of course, he feels off-kilter to her, and it is utterly nerve-grating. With everything going on she doesn’t necessarily have time to deal with working out the puzzle of what’s wrong with Frank and how do I make it right? and if it weren’t because of how much she loves him (or how long she’s loved him, per se, he’s remained a constant in a time when nothing is guaranteed and there’s somewhat of a reliance on Frank being the anchor in the storm) she’d shift her focus elsewhere. There’s never a good time for her to pick his brain and sift through the issues, which means it continues to get put off. There is a part of Alice that is afraid they’re no longer on the same page and she doesn’t know what she’ll do without him, so she simply doesn’t ask so she doesn’t have to hear the answer she doesn’t want to hear.

After Frank, I’d say that the next incredibly significant relationships Alice has are those with the inner circle. The inner circle is not the Ministry. There is no real structure, no hierarchy of responsibility. The inner circle is a group of people who are supposed to be trying to keep order within the Order all while win a losing-war, and where she may have been gung-ho in the beginning, she’s now internally straddling the fence. The only person she really trusts in the inner circle anymore (and is subsequently the tether keeping her intact with the organization as a whole) is Caradoc. Mary is a finger on the trigger and Alice knows that explosion is inevitable with her, she’s either going to lead Mary down a path that keeps her in a range of safety or wind up as collateral damage. James is just as much of a risk in her eyes. To her, all of the younger members of the Order have the right idea but they certainly don’t go about it in the right way. They’re all ready to kick up the gravel but they don’t see method to their madness, they see no benefit in taking a moment to process before they lurch into action, and to Alice, that’ll be the thing that gets everyone killed. Quite frankly, she doesn’t know how much more blood she can stand to have staining her hands.

Obviously, this is by no means the full extent of ‘relationships’ for Alice - I’m merely just writing what I personally picked up from the connections listed in her bio. As a member of the “inner circle” Alice has a position that puts her into contact with nearly every member of the Order in some way and I’d love to expand and explore other connections where she discovers and aligns to people who are in the same boat as her when it comes to the tone this war has taken and how to go about it (every girl needs a drinking buddy to bitch to) and bumps heads with those who differ or have their issues with her/how the inner circle operates.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: 

I rank chemistry higher than anything, truthfully. The way I look at things is that at the present moment, Alice is married to her work and her alignment on the right-wrong spectrum much more than she really is with Frank, whether she can swallow her pride long enough to choke that out or not. There’s a lot of waist-high angst that Frank and Alice have to explore and work their way through that I’m fully ready to fling myself into, but when it comes to any kind of definitive thing or endgame, I’m leaving myself open for any and all possibilities that come through. The rift between them could close, the rift between them could deepen and drive Alice into isolation (or into the arms of someone else) — it’s something I personally want to save for discussing and developing over time with Frank’s writer. I never join groups or apply for certain characters on the sole precipice for a guaranteed ship, I’m drawn to characters based on the vision and what avenues I can take with them, how I’ll be able to write them into the fold. With Alice, romance is certainly an undeniable element to her character but I don’t think it’s a very prominent shade in her palette considering everything else she’s got going on. I always leave windows open! I’m just more interested in diving in, exploring her, and seeing what colors and shades I can pull out of her when writing against other incredibly talented people.  

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE? 

To put it rather plainly, Alice doesn’t have much room (if any) to complain when it comes to how she has it. Her family may not be what the Wizarding World would hail next to royalty, but aside from being a woman, she’s got just about every box ticked when it comes to possession of privilege. Pure-blood? Check. Caucasian? Check. Heterosexual? Check. Alice doesn’t expect the world to hand her things on a silver platter but she’s used to drinking out of a silver cup. I like to think that she’s intelligent enough to recognize her privilege and an existence of bias but very rarely does she check it at the door. Alice’s morality and sense of wrong and right is one that I think, given the direction of this group, will be something wildly fun to explore! She’s always consumed with doing “the right thing”, her world is very much black and white, but Alice’s interpretation of “the right thing” may not be what underprivileged people in the magical community consider to be right. When she is called out on behaviors or exhibiting her bias, I want to see to what extent she will recognize her wrongdoing and legitimately grow from it. She knows discriminating against Muggleborns is wrong, but her actions don’t always reflect that (usually an unintentional thing, but nonetheless still indicative). In a way it goes hand-in-hand with her association with her family (they aren’t radicalized like the Death Eaters and they wouldn’t say that Voldemort is right, but the principle of the thing is enough to align them) — Alice may educate herself and think differently, but will she choose to put it into practice instead of just turning a blind eye and grinding down her teeth to keep quiet? She’s the kind who likes to make things right, but is she too selective in what she makes right? What holds her back from speaking up against her family, what will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back (if it comes at all)? It’s something I definitely want to explore as time goes on, and I really would love to perhaps put Alice in a situation where other characters really push her in a corner and make her analyze what she’s doing about her privilege. Acknowledgment is an important step, but action (especially out of the mouth of someone who is impassioned when it comes to aligning things back to a rightful state) is just as important, and not just when it is convenient. That latter component is something Alice does need work on but I think with time, she could find herself steadily improving upon. Let her fuck up be it in a subtle manner or of epic proportion, let her be educated and let her have the opportunity to (maybe) grow from it! After all, if we as human beings are stagnate and refuse growth, are we living at all?

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 

I’ll be honest, I’m very selective when it comes to Harry Potter groups. I like having some kind of structure within them but also having the liberation to run with my muses, but above all else, I look for the groups who go the extra mile. Whether that’s with plot, originality, or just the sheer dedication admins and members alike pour into their group, I like to think I have an eye for finding the diamonds in the basket. To me, this group is it. I’m a sucker for an AU on anything. The creative freedom, the doors it opens, it entices me and it gives me as a writer to take a chance that I probably wouldn’t otherwise. I also really like groups that walk the balance between external and internal strife, while also allowing their writers the chance to flesh out characters in a different light than canon did. That can be hard for groups to find and walk, but I think you’ve done such a magnificent job in doing such that it’s crazy to not at least try my hand at a muse or two. For Alice in particular, I was drawn to her bio because of the completely different light you’ve angled on her and the garden of opportunity sown. As writers, we sometimes ask things of the characters we breathe our life into and what I love most about Alice is she’s the one who always steps up to the plate, an equal participant in the process. She makes you question your own motives with her character and why you write her in the way you do, she doesn’t conform to one style or one story line, and she demands all of your attention and affection with the glaring reminder you will not tame her or conform her to the basis of another muse or a past portrayal. It is imperative to her character and the development she has the possibility of undergoing — she relies on you as much as you rely on her. At the same time, she is almost an entirely separate being and writes herself (this application for her did anyways) and Alice is an incredible opportunity to deviate from myself, the canon of Harry Potter — or at the very least, the preconceived notions of fandom as to what canon in the Marauders era entails — and just write. I’m looking forward to writing a character far different from anything I could have envisioned for her (as a Slytherin myself, I’m pumped to be writing a fellow Slytherin!) or that I would have predicted taking on and I like a challenge. I’m looking forward to getting to walk in your Potterverse, I’m looking forward to how the future isn’t set and what incredible things can come from it. And of course, I love the things that can be born from war-based settings, whether it’s a plot drop or character tension, and to be on the inside of it as well as watch it unfold is an exciting prospect!

PLOT DROP IDEAS: 

Look, I love angst. So much. As if you couldn’t tell. One group-wide plot I think that could be a lot of fun, especially since this is a smaller bunch, is to see what would happen if outside forces wedged their way into the group in an attempt to divide and essentially conquer the Order? I’m not sure where Peter’s storyline will take him, of course, but I think it’d be fun to play out something where there’s a strong cause for suspicion after a mission that one of them has betrayed the group and is working as a double agent, and of course, everyone thinks it’s someone different and results in everyone pointing the blame at everyone and just, a lot of angst, testing these friendships and bonds, seeing who’s ready to sell out who and so forth. This would obviously create a big vulnerability within the group since they don’t trust one another, throw in perhaps the Death Eaters or other Dark forces attacking them out of nowhere…I think it has some potential, it’s just a little idea right now that definitely needs some fleshing out, obviously, but it’s an idea that could be really fun. Another small little plot idea I have is someone in the Order going missing (could be a NPC close to one of the players, or could actually be one of our players) and it’s revealed they’ve been captured, they’ll be exchanged harm-free if our little group hands back over something of importance to the Death Eaters. There’s a time limit involved as well, and if the group doesn’t comply, this person is killed. Of course, segue into conflict, angst, and all the good emotions. Ultimately though, I like waiting and seeing the dynamic of the game and all the other players to really develop group plot ideas? As far as Alice-specific, I am currently planning to play her devoid of child, but dependent upon future discussion with other players (and of course seeing where the course of things take her), I think it’d be fun to see Alice fall pregnant and watch her struggle with that whole Pandora’s box? Would she tell Frank or keep him on the outside? Would it bring her joy or terror? Would she keep the baby or would she choose another route considering the bleak state of things? Just an idea.

ANYTHING ELSE? N/A

[mage-cat]

A Fire to Beat Back the Dark, Chapter 3

Hey, I actually finished a multi-chapter fic! Admittedly by setting my sights low. Read on as I wrap up my plot threads enough that I can move on to other projects and wait for Season 3 of She-Ra to drop next month.

Link to the AO3 version through here.

Chapter 1 here ; Chapter 2 here.

This chapter below the cut ~1650 words

The first thing Catra was conscious of the next morning was Bow's voice. “It seems like a shame to wake them up.” Adora had made a very convincing argument that waking up to Shadow Weaver the night before made her nervous about sleeping alone.

“I know.” That was Glimmer. “This is cuter than I was expecting. I swear, when I first came in, I heard Catra purring.” As long as it was a favor to Adora, Catra would never have to admit how good it felt to be curled up next to her again.

Bow again. “Do you think she wakes up as jumpy as Adora?” That was new. If anything Adora had always been the heavier sleeper of the two of them. Though of course every cadet was trained to wake up quickly when necessary, and the Horde frequently claimed it was necessary even if it normally meant they were hurrying in order to wait for the proper officer to show up. Catra just liked feigning sleep as a form of information gathering.

“If she does, do you think her claws would do more damage than that knife wound Adora gave me her first week here?”

“They look so comfortable. I wonder if they used to do this a lot. When Adora said she wasn't used to sleeping alone, I just thought she meant alone in the room.”

Alright, that was enough. Catra stretched herself out until her face was even with Adora's. “Hey, Adora. Bow and Glimmer are going to keep speculating about us until you wake up.” She saw Adora's eyes slide open and noted that there was, in fact, a slight flinch as she adjusted to wakefulness that didn't used to be there. “Did you really shank Glimmer your first week here?”

“It really wasn't much more than a scratch,” Glimmer said, her face flushing.

Adora let out a sleepy grunt. “Turns out I don't sleep well alone. Don't knock to reflex too hard. It's part of what let us catch Shadow Weaver.”

She let the matter drop and sat up. “So, any plans I should know about today?”

The afternoon meeting the day before had quickly turned into a debriefing, slightly too polite for Catra to call it an interrogation. However briefly she had held any power in the Horde, even if she had been haphazardly piecing together the bits of the Force Captain orientation she had missed, she still had delivered more information about the Horde's inner workings than the Rebellion had had since before the first alliance had fallen apart. It had been embarrassing for Catra to see Queen Angella's expression harden as she had to admit that she had only just barely started to get a handle on the system of requisition orders and material sources that Shadow Weaver had been maintaining before her fall from Hordak's good graces, but everyone seemed more or less satisfied in the end. Now it was a matter of balancing preparation time for an attack on the Fright Zone against the time it would take for the information to become obsolete.

As soon as the sun had gone down and shortly after the other Princesses had headed back to their homelands to see to local matters, both Catra and Adora had been hit with just how little sleep they had gotten the night before. Best as Catra could now tell from the quality of the light, they had crashed early enough in the evening that the time they were now waking wasn't terribly late.

“Light Hope is expecting me for training today,” said Adora.

“We don't have anything really solid planned,” Glimmer said. “Just seeing to routine duties.”

“I'll follow you into the Whispering Woods for a bit, Adora, then activate my tracker in my badge. Scorpia's probably gotten worried by now. Unless she has explicit orders to be doing something else, she'll be looking for me. Best to give her something to find.”

“I'm staying with you until that's done. She may have the rest of the squad with her, and even if you're right about being able to win Scorpia over, I doubt Lonnie's opinion of you has changed that much.”

---

Adora and Catra sat among the roots of large tree near the Fright Zone edge of the Whispering Woods. Bow and Glimmer lurked somewhere nearby as back-up in case Scorpia did, in fact, have the whole of Adora's old squad with her.

Catra fingered in badge she was wearing. “This is what stopped me from following you the day you left, you know. Shadow Weaver didn't believe me when I said I didn't know where you had gone, and when I wasn't able to bring you back, she hauled me in front of Hordak. I thought something terrible was going to happen to me. Then he gave me your promotion and told Shadow Weaver off for ignoring my potential. I got my first taste of being out of your shadow. It was hard to think of giving that up.”

“It's kind of amazing how much evil we can ignore when we're told how good we are at it.” Adora thought for a beat. “I really never did see you as my sidekick.”

“Doesn't matter. Everyone else did, our squad, our trainers. Shadow Weaver was invested in it. The entire time I was Force Captain, she was very clear that the second you came back, I was going to be demoted in favor of you. It didn't matter what I did or what you did.”

“She's gone now. It's hard to really believe, but she's gone. Nothing but bad dreams.” Adora smirked. “Besides, I think it's safe to say that a walking torch doesn't have to worry about being in anyone's shadow.”

Catra felt a warm glow in her chest. “I guess you're right.”

Scoripia's voice began to reach them though the woods, calling for Catra. Adora hid behind the tree as Catra started to call out in response.

Once Scorpia was in view, she rushed up and drew Catra into a hug. “Catra! You're safe! I thought maybe you had gotten hurt or captured or something, but I should have known you could handle anything that happened.”

Catra squirmed her way out of the tight embrace, but she was smiling. “Sorry about that. I would have given you more warning before I left, but it wasn't safe for me to talk in the Fright Zone.” She glanced around to make sure Scorpia really was alone, her expression sobering. “Those old family legends, do they say what element the Black Garnet controlled?”

Scorpia looked puzzled at the shift in topic. “No, that's been forgotten.”

Catra held a handful of flames up for her to see. “What if I told you it was fire?”

“Oh wow,” Scorpia said softly. “I always knew you were something special, Wildcat.”

“I can't pretend to keep being Hordak's loyal soldier. I'm not that good a liar.” Catra doused the flames then removed the Force Captain's badge from her chest and held it up between two of her fingers. A red glow spread around the rim before the circuitry began to overheat and spark. Once it let out a small plume of smoke, she placed it in Scorpia's claw.

“Hordak can consider that my resignation. Tell him that if he wants Shadow Weaver on Beast Island so badly, he will have to take it up with the sorcerers on Mystacor. I won't be turning myself in to take her place. But don't tell him about me being tied to the Black Garnet. It may give him ideas.”

“Where will you go?”

“The Rebellion is willing to have me.” Adora, Bow, and Glimmer all appeared out from behind the trees. “And they're willing to listen to me when I vouch for you.”

Scorpia lowered her voice. “I told you I don't really get along with other Princesses.”

“Because of stuff your family did before you were born. That's messed up, but they admit that it's messed up, and they promise to give you a fair chance.” She put a hand on Scorpia's arm. “You're pure sunshine. You'll win them over faster than I will. I hope you won't leave me to be the only Princess at Bright Moon with a tail.”

Adora stepped closer. “The last Sh-Ra messed up a lot of things on Etheria. I'm trying to fix them. Our last clue pointed us to the Crimson Waste. What happened there may be what drove your ancestors out. I need to go there, and the land's rightful Princess could be helpful. We have to live with the mistakes of the people who came before us, but we don't have to keep repeating them.”

“What do you say?” Catra said. “Up for redeeming your family name?”

Scorpia bit her lip, making Catra wonder if there wasn't something that she hadn't known to take into account. She hoped it was just discomfort at being put on the spot.

“You don't have to answer now, but you'll be welcome when you come. Don't tell Entrapta about me and the Black Garnet either. She's too likely to slip something to Hordak if she thinks it's scientifically relevant. You could tell her that the Rebellion misses her though. Perfuma seems especially upset about how things went down. I don't want to break up the Best Pals Team any more than you do, but the Horde only exists to serve Hordak. If we want something for ourselves, we have to leave.”

“I understand.” Scorpia smiled softly. “I'll see you again soon, Wildcat. Stay safe until then.”

The rebels watched her as she retreated through the trees and back toward the Fright Zone.

“She has a thing for you. Like, a romantic thing,” said Bow.

“That's why she'll come to Bright Moon. She may even be able to talk Entrapta into coming with her. Either way, Hordak doesn't understand what he's up against now.”

[leviosarpg]

Congratulations, LARA! You have been accepted for the role of KASSIUS OLLIVANDER! Lara, I think it’s fair to say that your app left me a little speechless, to say the least. “But his vision of himself is so skewed, so different from what everyone else sees, that silver will always look dull, even in the sunlight.” That, Lara, that was when I knew Kassius was yours. You nailed his entire character in a single, beautiful line. Not to mention, the quality of your writing was absolutely incredible; I found your para sample to be especially stunning! So much about Kassius’s character is tied to legacy, but I have to admit what absolutely enchanted me about your app was the way you conveyed Kassius’s understanding of legacy, as in it’s ability to be weaponized. Lara, I think it’s safe to say your app was was pure magic!

Your faceclaim change to: Matthew Bell has been accepted. Don’t forget to send in your account to the main and complete the items listed on the CHECKLIST!

THE PLAYER

name/age/pronouns/timezone: Lara / 24 / she/her / EST

THE CHARACTER

desired role: Kassius Magnus Ollivander KASSIUS: of Latin origin, meaning “hollow”. A meaning which he defies, but one he cannot admit to himself that he feels. MAGNUS: of Latin origin, meaning “the greatest”. A meaning which he strives to feel, but that he cannot admit is perilously beyond reach. OLLIVANDER: of Mediterranean origin; the near mythic name of a long line of wand makers, the likes of which have never been matched in the field. A reverent name, and one that has been situated amongst the Sacred 28 families since the group’s inception – though they are notably one of the few open-minded lineages amongst them.

CHARACTER DISCUSSION – AKA, I WAS DRUNK WRITING THIS AND GOT EXCITED

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

I was surprised at my attraction to Kassius at first, until it made perfect sense. I am most often drawn to the ambitious, the volatile, the dangerous; my tastes fall with the tortured ‘bad boy’ who cannot be tamed. My usual type is the villain – not the tortured intellectual. But the more I write, and the more I think on him, the more I realize that Kassius is entirely within the realm of my ‘type’, though he is entirely more complicated than just a mere archetype, as is he more good than any base tortured soul that I might call a muse. I will explain this in an examination of his personality – which will surely devolve into a stream of consciousness rambling about my love for this character, as it is far and wide. I would talk about my attraction to the character as a whole, but I would be better served analyzing him, for I was drawn to the sheer complexity of his character above all else. And GOD all he wants is to make the legacy proud; he doesn’t want to live up to the Ollivander name for fame and glory, but because inadequacy will eat him alive. He is more silver than gold, and he cannot quite come to terms with the fact that it is just as valuable, just as lustrous and coveted as gold is. He should have been a golden boy; his parents certainly thought him to be, all wild imagination and intelligence to match, all charm and ambition to command every room – but his vision of himself is so skewed, so different from what everyone else sees, that silver will always look dull, even in the sunlight. Inadequacy is a demon, a shadow that lurks in places that should shine – and the illusion of it (for he is not inadequate, though he might think he is) will eat him alive. The part in his bio that really stuck with me, and really serves as the axis of this analysis – and of his character in general, is as follows: “Kindness has become your last sanctuary, for you have become the eternal flame that demands more and more, that seeks to outlast time itself. Contentment is a virtue you will never know, for your self-inflicted agonies are rich with flowers and demons who ensure your thorns remain sharp.” He can be kind to others, to the world, to those who cannot find it in the world to be kind to themselves, and yet he, Kassius, is never kind to himself. He strives to be a beacon of kindness, of hope, of a legacy that has long-upheld the wizarding community in its stalwart truth – but he cannot be kind to himself. The disquietude he feels for his own self, while revering what he could be, what he should be, all while expending all vestiges of kindness and hard work upon the thankless world – this is what makes him so fascinating.

PERSONALITY TRAITS: + SCHOLARLY: You have to wonder how he managed to choose to shirk his parents and go straight for the jugular that is his family history, his family legacy. And it is just that – there is no stoic past for him to study, but a living, breathing body of life-history which still runs like an archaic myth, and an undeniable truth, through the veins of the wizarding world. There is no Hogwarts without Ollivander; and so it is his duty to learn everything, to know everything, to learn the histories of his contemporaries back and forth for it is the Ollivander legacy not to be a number amidst the masses, but to be almost godlike in how utterly untouchable the name is. He buries himself in books, spell tomes, historical records, preserved letters; the legacy sits heavy upon his shoulders like weights on a scale, and it is all he can do to keep them from tipping in one direction or another. + HOPEFUL: If there is one thing that can be said for hope, in the hands of Kassius Ollivander, it is that hope is kind. Hope, longing, and dreams walk hand-in-hand, and Kassius allows the line to blur even in the most crucial of moments when, perhaps, logic should prevail. He is a highly logical man, and yet the nebulous wonder of hope can muddle his logic and turn it to color in but a moment. Hope is dangerous, but wonderful; call it forgiveness with teeth and a firm bite. Hope is a demon; he bestows it upon the world while it eats away at his soul to the tune of malcontent. Don’t be fooled; Kassius is not hopeful for himself, but for what he might push himself to do for the world. Might. He hopes. +/- AMBITIOUS: This is a perilous line to walk upon. His ambition would make him fit well in the Slytherin crowd, but his ambition is not at the expense of others, but of himself. He is too hard on himself, ever reaching too high, stretching too thin. But he can do more, he insists; he can do better. He believes that he is nothing if he is not striving for something, that he is useless, a meaningless thorn in a bramble bush if he does not run himself dry in pursuit of the family legacy that he is saddled with. The problem with wanting is that it makes us weak – or it makes us hard. He is becoming more thorn than petal, though he tries so very hard to do all things with kindness, to help and protect those who cannot do so themselves, with his legacy as a weapon. - PERFECTIONISTIC: Perfection or nothing at all. This will be his fatal flaw, because he will work himself into the ground and still believe that the hole he’s dug isn’t deep enough. He does his best not to impose this impossible standard on anyone else, instead taking the brunt of his own miserable self-displeasure. It consumes him, this endless reach for perfectionism, and it takes an enormous toll upon his personal relationships. There are very few people, few things, few causes that can pull him from within himself and into the world around him. The aching for his legacy, to step into the shoes of Ollivanders past, started as just that – an ache. A wish. To be creative, to be something more than himself, something a part of something bigger. But the ache has grown, and it sits as a heavy weight between his shoulders, bending arched back downward so that he may never stop working. - ISOLATING: Reaching for meaning, for purpose, for validation, rather than reaching for connection; there is something so icy and lonely about Kassius’s struggle, and he often allows himself to become consumed by it, which often leads to him setting himself away from those who might be close to him. No matter how much he craves camaraderie, companionship, warmth, the self-imposed competition he has with himself makes it hard, most often, to emerge from the impossible chrysalis of his own creation. It’s a vicious and complicated cycle: he finds connection and community,  and is validated by those he connects with; inevitably he is reminded of what he has failed to do, to become, and he retreats in on himself to work; he sees others living freely and happily, either without the chains of expectation or within, and hates that he cannot be this free; he remembers, then, that he cannot be happy until he is right, until he reaches the level of legacy that befits him. Not enough. He isolates and works, always long-suffering and self-martyring, when he falls into the deep hole of inadequacy. He does his very best to connect, and there are few things that keep him engaged, and enthusiastic, and warm in his efforts and ambitions, but when he isolates, turning inward on himself, he can be cold.

It is also worth discussing his MOTIVATIONS, as they are as varied and changeable as anything. Though his intentions are largely good, there is no doubt in my mind that he could easily be swayed by the selfish nature of his ambition. Now, this selfishness may not always be malicious – motivations spurred on by ambition need not always be at the expense of others, but they most often are at the expense of the self. He wants the best for his friends, for The Liberation, for all those they seek to protect – but how can he be of any use to them, of any good to anyone, if he’s not enough for his own legacy? For himself?

Extracurriculars: Ravenclaw Quidditch, The Liberation, Astronomy Club, Charms Club, Dueling Club, The Slug Club. – Ever the overachiever, he has bitten off more than he can reasonably chew. But Kassius is never the sort of person to admit that he has taken on too much, because he - an Ollivander - is not meant to be capable of burning out, or of being squashed beneath the weight of too much work. Not to mention he genuinely enjoys everything that he’s involved in, and is honestly passionate about everything on this list that he has set his mind to. It also helps that Freya is around in some of these places – that always helps.

PARA SAMPLE:

The hollows beneath his eyes are cavernous, and yet he finds himself here, keen, bright, standing stalwart amongst those he called his allies, and those he called his friends. There is truly nothing more important than this; it is in moments of clarity like this one that he realizes it, time and time again, that his own obsessions fall like scales from his eyes to reveal the truth – legacy is meaningless, when those without die for the sake of it.

Legacy is why they are here; some use it as weapons, where his is a thorn in his own side. Weaponized legacy, a name sharpened into a knifepoint, is a bastardization of everything a legacy is meant to stand for, but this is not why he is here. He sets his own name aside and becomes one of the masses, a wall separating the innocent from the malicious. Here, amidst the Liberation, he is not Kassius Ollivander. He is just Kassius. And for once, that is more than enough.

In fact, it is more than enough, for as he stands at the head of the near-empty classroom, wand aloft, mirroring those who have snuck from their beds to meet tonight, Kassius finds all ghosts, whispering diatribes of inadequacy and doubt in his ear, to be absent. As they all stand in a line, wands pointed at hovering targets above their heads, he – for once – thinks not of the name Ollivander, but of the name Justice. Those around him care little what his name is; nor do the men, women, and children who the Liberation seek to defend against those who put more stock in blood than in mettle. For once, he is stronger in simply being Kassius, for the youngest of them all look to him as if he is not as tired as he truly feels. And so he holds his head higher; they are all that matters.

He thinks, for a moment, of Riddle’s gospel; his family had been expected to bow, for they sat amongst the Sacred 28. Perhaps this, this defiance, this decision to stand against tyranny and injustice, to protect those who cannot protect themselves – this is legacy. His gaze breaks for a moment from the target overhead, mind leaving the spell upon his lips and finding those who stood about the room with him, those brave souls barricaded in a classroom in which they could be discovered at any moment. He finds them, and all at once the ache in his spine from arching over paper, the tremble in his fingers from holding a quill far too long, the throb of tired eyes awake at work too long – all quiet, covered with the warm rain of camaraderie.

Yes, he thinks, turning his gaze upward once more, This is what legacy is for.

“Are you ready?” he calls, wand humming in his grip. He hears a murmur of agreement at all sides of him, and his lips twitch upward.

At your ready, Kassius! Someone calls out, and the assent rises. He turns his head to meet Perseus’s gaze, his dearest ally in this trying time; there is trust between them that allows both fear and exhilaration to exist in this space in equal measure. This moment is his masterwork, what he has spent so long belaboring in isolation. This mighty something born of his legacy’s proclivity for wandwork; this is a revolution. Somewhere in the distance, he imagines Tom Riddlesquirming. An Ollivander, someone pure, finding their own weapon in their name. Just Kassius – legacy abounds. They all cast at once, and the room is alight with blue, with spark, with light that blinds. At the boom it creates, he finds himself laughing, turning his gaze once more from the flying target, which now spins and bounces from the wall, to the room. The laughter echoes along the walls, moving through all of them like a wave, as he finds Perseus, Freya, the others, all family in arms.

He feels it swell within his chest before it breaks out across his face in a wide smile, lighting up the hollow corners of his tired face, warming the tense knot that seems to always occupy the pit of his stomach. Light and bits of dust still float down from the ceiling, from the charmed targets, which dart and spin across the ceiling at the behest of their sheer combined power.

Perseus offers him a nod; perhaps it is obvious that, as is so rare, Kassius has emerged from his withering disquietude, and has bloomed before their eyes, as is the power of their combined resistance and camaraderie. “This –” he gestures upward with perpetually ink-stained finger, lips pulled wide in a near-manic grin, an utterly giddy expression that is mirrored around the room, “is what we are capable of when we are together. Strength! Live together – die alone.” He offers Freya a glowing glance, and his stomach flips. “This is our legacy.”

OTHERS & EXTRA (OPTIONAL)

Could I possibly change his FC to Matthew Bell? Thank you!! :)

ALSO! I will link an inspo blog HERE that will be full of inspo, creations, headcanons, and the like :) thank you for reading this application!

[doshmanziari]

Crown of the Ivory King is the Dark Souls Series’ Low-point

Ever since the release of Dark Souls 2′s final installment, the Crown of the Ivory King, it’s been attended by a very vocally supportive playerbase. I’ve found it baffling and, despite lurking forums and attempting to coax out explications about why the heck people think it’s so great, I’ve hardly come any closer to understanding the reception. It’s fine, I think, to shrug and say you just have a thing for snowy levels. When that’s made into more than a hyper-subjective admittance, and becomes statements which denigrate Dark Souls 2′s main material (see: comments everywhere that the DLC is supposedly a significant step up from the “B-team”’s work (note that this supposed “B-team” is an imaginary group gamers have conveniently heaped their scorn upon when they’ve found Souls-stuff to be lacking)) . . . then I get kind of annoyed.

With the Boletarian Palace, Demon’s Souls set the standard for me where fortressed layouts in the series are concerned. At the risk of seeming to treat the Boletarian Palace as a case of insuperable level design, I’m going to quote a few bits here from prior essays concerning it, and hope that it instead demonstrates that its better qualities come from reproducible design decisions:

An uncommon attention was paid to the worlds’ furnishings. One noticed, making their way through [the Boletarian Palace], that rickety palisades were erected on the grand introductory staircase, here and there a discarded carriage with maybe a horse corpse; in small, pocket-like refectories were rows of beds, and tables bearing cups, candelabras, and bowled edibles; outside of these cells were carts harboring casks of wine and buckets; or that on a long wall-walk was a somber parade of trebuchets, and adjacent to this was an attic for carts loaded with to-be-launched boulders. There was a sense that everything was in its right place, and to weave through these environments was to experience a world that innately lent itself to textured terms of engagement. Running up a series of staircases peppered by barrels full of explosive powder, and haunted by torch-wielding madmen, meant grappling with an incendiary challenge, yet the challenge was holistically ingrained in the objecthood of that world. In that way, spatial dealings, navigational or combative, acquired a flavor of believability.

Additionally, Demon’s Souls ran counter to an extant strain of design in action-adventure games that draws a distinguishing line between “combative spaces” and “non-combative spaces.” The least gratifying cases of this strain induce a monotonous awareness of compartmentalization, of there being a manner of space for fights — most often resembling an arena accommodating the spectacle of performance (God of War and its progeny come to mind) — and a manner of space for sites between fights. What made Demon’s Souls a categorical outlier was that conflict could happen anywhere; and that, when conflict did happen, the architecture supplemented it.

. . . the Boletarian Palace’s magic was that its architecture discretely realized and blended the inherent themes of defense, housing, and storage. It both came across as a convincing place (again, “convincing” or “realistic” does not mean that the subject has a 1:1 ratio with reality) and engaged the player with design permutations that took hold of the surroundings, like groups of crossbow-firing soldiers blocking the way on a bridge, or darkly spear-throwing creatures in a dim room meant for storing carriages.

Rather than a stony maze with apposite ornaments thrown in, the Boletarian Palace felt like a castle first and foremost, with encounter design that naturally tapped into its abundance of nooks, sharp angles, and verticalities.

If we’re looking at Eleum Loyce -- which can be more or less separated into a fortified area, a residential zone, and a subterranean network -- I think the pervasive problem is that practically none of it has any suggestive power. Suggestive power is a consequence of the level design per se and the clothing it wears. So when nearly all there is to see is the most spartan of stonework (and not even skillfully texture-mapped stonework) and white mounds, engaging level design is vital. Most of the interiors have been reduced to bare, non-functional cubes, and exteriors largely are bluntly laid out paths where you pick off a line of enemies one by one, sometimes including peripheral retainers. It all has the flavor of a beta zone for developmental testing, and it feels terribly wrong that perhaps the sole memorable detail is a frozen fountain early on.

Since this doesn’t really lend itself to interesting encounter design -- there is no ambiguity or mystery to the space, no way to treat it as anything other than a sequence of immediately explicable containers -- and the majority of enemies are super-sturdy soldiers coming in a few flavors, many combative interactions play out as the melee-oriented player leading an alerted bunch of foes to a chokepoint and picking them off with strong attacks. For as much as I could criticize the aesthetic fumbles of the prior two DLC installments, their layouts had definite dynamics: Shulva’s staggered array of towers (some manipulatable), and Brume Tower’s tiered floors skirting circular shafts.

They also featured neat miniature gimmicks that could be engaged to lessen the danger of a given area: destroying sarcophagi in the Dragon Sanctum to make the ghostly sanctum knights assume a corporeal, and practically pregnable, form, and collapsing Ashen Idols speckling the Tower to halt the healing and reappearance of adjacent enemies. It’s hard to really say what Loyce’s comparable gimmicks are. There are, for a while, snowy winds blasting around the fort’s exteriors, but these winds only have a remarkable effect on your range of sight in the optional (and much-hated) Frozen Outskirts (this is, in fact, one of the Outskirts’ few virtues). There are also coats of ice making certain chests inaccessible, but once they’re shattered upon talking to a Lore-Dispensing Character it simply is a matter of backtracking and opening them up in a classically obsessive-compulsive manner (more interesting would’ve been the option to melt the ice by using pyromanic spells).

What little conspicuous level design exists in Eleum Loyce does stand out on its own terms. When you come upon the abandoned residential zone, you must navigate several columned arcades, being careful about the obscured, spine-backed ice rats and, a level above, a spell-casting witchtree spirit or two. Between this triangulation of elements you’ll find yourself using the arcades for cover while also trying to not let their dense arrangement hinder your movements or attacks. It’s basic stuff, and brief, and it’s good (it gets even better when you’re invaded by a black phantom NPC) -- it works on a level beyond shoveling baddies into crates and along straight paths. You’re conscious of an architecture. Disappointing, then, to find that the knotty little complex of residences is really a paltry couple of empty boxes with a useable staircase in one. So much for expanding on that aspect of the city.

Another similarly brief moment happens later on inside a dim, high-ceilinged hall separated by three floors built of wooden planks. The first of these floors is the most interesting. On it, you’ll juggle seeking shelter from two spell-casters by emerging onto nearby balconies, and taking care of a soldier on each balcony itself before you’re ganged up on by pursuers from the hall; and once you’re back in the hall to take of whoever remains, you’ll have to mind the several holes which break up the wooden flooring and lead to deadly drops. As with many cases of fine level design in the series, it demonstrates how an engaging sense of pressure can be exerted on players by aligning simple, but not overly simple, architecture with complementary enemy positions.

Eleum Loyce has been commended for having several loop-around shortcuts that lead you back to prior locations. These commendations haven’t taken into account why this series-trope has excelled when it has excelled, though. To be sure, Eleum Loyce’s shortcuts function as any shortcut should: they expedite the process of repeat attempts at navigation and impart a sense of incremental progress. But beyond this there’s not really any epiphanic or retrospective spark to the loop-arounds. Eleum Loyce’s overall layout is so diffuse and architecturally generalized -- if you compare the two screenshots below you’ll see how visually similar the city’s explorable portions are to its unexplorable portions -- that you’re never learning about its organizational character or seeing charismatic structures reappear. You’re just opening a door or taking an elevator. And, you know, that’s fine. But it doesn’t warrant special praise.

And then there’s the unpleasant friction of the Frozen Outskirt’s conceptual strength versus its actual strength. As each DLC installment has had mechanical gimmicks (some, uh, ostensible), each has also had an optional gauntlet catering to multiplayer efforts. These have been pretty uniformly terrible -- I called Shulva’s an “utterly reduced ‘path with enemies’” -- and are solely concerned with throwing as much densely packed shit at the player(s) in the tightest possible, and least imaginatively suggestive, spaces. As I wrote in the same essay, “There is no design goal here except, ‘Swamp the player who should have assistance to divide the streams of projectiles and the soldiers' advances.’” A slight exception, the Frozen Outskirts offer the novel idea of dislocating players by having the snowdrifts oscillate between visibility and near-invisibility by way of periodic snowstorms. If this were left on its own, if the challenge were one of pure navigation -- having to find one’s bearings and using several ruinous sites as guideposts, and fighting or running away from a few hostile adventurers -- I really think the Frozen Outskirts would be great. All of this potential is squandered by tossing what essentially amount to mini-bosses at players, with no options for even the tiniest bit of cover among the stretches separating the ruins (recalling Elana’s chief design failure), and so the overall experience is demoted to that of a frustrating slog.

I think what makes Eleum Loyce the series’ low-point for me is its formal vapidness + its very positive reception. I feel bored and alienated. It’s hard to not think that people have been poisoned to believe that what is most remarkable about these games is the element of challenge. Eleum Loyce is, to me, a snubbing of everything I’ve enjoyed about exploring these games’ places. All curious details have been scrubbed out and what remains is a base obstacle course of cartoonishly themed enemies -- ice-coated soldiers, some with crystals bursting from their backs -- with the ultimate signifier of Prepare to Die challenge at the end: a bunch of knights in a huge arena protecting an even bigger knight, who epically emerges from Barad-dûr’s peak to a tritone and can make his sword be the biggest sword.

Anyway. That’s what I think. What do you think?

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, STASS! You’ve been accepted for the role of OBERON. Admin Rosey: G o d. God help me this application has taken my breath away and left my very bones bare. Oberon has always been a favorite of mine, quite different from a lot of other biographies I have written. His very force is nature, unbridled and uninhibited. Stass, with this application you have captured all of that and more. You have given us everything we could have ever asked for and then some. With Oberon you played our heartstrings, plucked away at them and made us fall in love with him in a very real way. His voice makes us catch our breath, his mannerisms has us trembling out of equal parts fear and respect. We cannot wait to have Oberon ruling his dark underground in Verona! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Stass.

Age | 21.

Preferred Pronouns | She/her.

Activity Level | 7/10. I’m currently on summer holidays, so I’m free most days and evenings. I’m starting university again in October, so will probably only be able to come on in the evenings or early mornings, but my weekends are usually completely free as I’m generally quite good at managing my time and workload.

Timezone | GMT.

Current/Past RP Accounts | x (Orpheus), x (Sirius Black in a Marauders RP), x (a criminal mastermind in the RP Thick as Thieves), x (James Bond in an MI6 RP).  There are others, but these are the important ones.

In Character

Character | O B E R O N .

O R P H E U S . Some struggle to believe that this is truly the name he was born with, assume that he must have changed it from something altogether more pedestrian as soon as he was old enough, think that it’s all part of some great act. Although the last of those assumptions is patently, clearly, undeniably true, the first two are not. When Orpheus Ahulani was born his parents looked into their eldest son’s forest-coloured eyes and knew what image they wanted the heir to their kingdom to be moulded into. He will be the Pied Piper, they agreed, the siren call that will lead the errant souls of Verona towards oblivion, the boatman who will entice them down to the gates of Hell and ferry them across the Styx towards their certain doom. Most children would crumble under the weight of such expectation, fold like a tower of cards and retreat into the recesses where the shadows of their invented legacy could not touch them, but Orpheus was not most children, and so where he might have been expected to capitulate, he flourished. He was performing confidence tricks before he could walk, drawing in oblivious passers-by with his winning smile and the glimmer of mystery in his eyes and stripping them of anything they had that he could take. His parents, his grandparents, they all claimed that the criminal path was one they had taken to stay afloat in the mire and the chaos of petty civilian life, that it was necessary to maintain the lifestyle they had become accustomed to, but to Orpheus crime quickly became less about obligation and more about pure enjoyment, about the thrill of enticing people to their certain doom. He had not adopted the darkness, like his forefathers; no, he was born in it, shaped by it, and the Black Prince came to wear that darkness like a mantle. He was not blessed with fortunes and titles and palaces like the rulers of the Capulet and Montague clans, but he had the same power they did, the same ability, the same influence, and when he ascended to the throne that he was born to sit on, aided by Cosimo, his dark star expanded a thousandfold. He had been powerful before, but now when Orpheus reaches out a hand, the shadow it casts darkens Verona’s every street, and when he opens his mouth to utter even a mere syllable, the whole of the city’s underbelly flock to his side, answering their master’s call. Just as the Orpheus of myth was able to charm even the rocks and the trees with the sweet melodies of his lyre, so the Orpheus of Verona is able to make the city dance to his tune if he so desires. There is not a soul he cannot touch, no fool he cannot deceive, and when he calls, fear not, for they will come. They will all come.

A H U L A N I . They were islanders once upon a time, his relatives, before his grandparents picked up their empire of swindling and trickery and brought it eastwards. The sun-kissed paradise they left in their wake was too serene for them, the spray of the sea and the caresses of the wind against the beachside palms were just too celestial to be sullied by crime, no matter how gracefully it was committed. They came to Italy seeking a refuge that was altogether more low, already dirtied by the indelible stain of wrongdoing, where the criminal life they sought to lead would blend into a colourful tapestry that had already been woven. It was there, on the dusty streets of Verona, that his father met his mother and her family of misfits, and as the two lineages merged a new dynasty commenced in the Underworld. Orpheus has lost most of his physical connection to his Hawaiian roots, has only seen the white-gold sands of Honolulu in photographs and paintings, but nonetheless there is a part of him that will always be tethered to the sun, the salt spray and the wind, and the sea that rolls in his veins gives him that easy, breezy confidence, a lightness of being and of touch that seems almost deceptively out of place for a man of such formidable stature. He has all the charm of someone who has been blessed by the island life from the moment he was born, the kind of easy smile that seems to have sprung from people’s fantasies of what it means to be Hawaiian. Little do they know, of course, those fools who look upon him and are entranced, that behind the sunny brilliance lurks a filth that runs bone-deep, a black scourge that could not be erased by even the brightest star. This grime comes from the Irish in him, the visceral, corporeal criminality his mother’s heritage brought to the Ahulani crime clan, the part of him that isn’t afraid to spill blood and break bone, that revels in crunches and grunts and cries of pain. Joseph Ahulani and Katherine O’Leary were formidable criminals on their own terms, but when they came together their vastly differing styles of con created the perfect mixture in Orpheus, merged to forge the master ruler of Verona’s seedy underbelly. Verona’s instigator is as alluring as they come when he needs to be, flashing pearly white teeth and twinkling eyes, using his Hawaiian radiance to promise the world. But beneath the dazzle and the beauty lies something altogether darker, more nefarious, befitting of the dark corners and muddy ditches in which he chooses to perform some of his darkest acts.

What drew you to this character? | Where can I start with this? I missed Orpheus so much, too much. I love playing characters with a dark side, and the idea of someone who was not only aware of the blackness of his heart, but who revelled in it with so much glee, was captivating and immensely intriguing. Rarely, if never, have I seen a character as multi-faceted, as darkly multi-faceted, as Orpheus. I love that his soul shines with gloom, like that colour scientists discovered that was ‘blacker than black’, a sponge to soak up all light that glances off it. I love the fire in him, the fire around him, that it spurts from his fingertips and his heels and flares up in his eyes when he laughs, when he lies and when he roars. I love how you’ve made Orpheus so completely, almost painfully self-aware, so completely in touch with the filth that coats Verona’s streets that he not only plunges his hands into it, but dives in and bathes in the muck. I like that he has a clear sense not of right and wrong, but justice and injustice, and that his governing maxim is very much ‘an eye for an eye’, that he’s fearless and heartless but somehow has become a beacon to the downtrodden and the low, and that he has built an empire of sorts without the inherited wealth and the pomp and circumstance of Verona’s two warring families. Essentially, I’m utterly, hopelessly in love with this minstrel of destruction, and I’d like to congratulate you once again on dreaming up this instigator. It sounds overblown, I know, but I really do love him with all my heart and soul.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

YOU CAN BE THE KING; The Capulets and Montagues might rule the streets and seek to fill them with the blood of their enemies, but Orpheus knows that the real power lies not in how many guns you have or how many bullets you spend, but how many bodies you have on your side, how many empty vessels you can whip up and fill with the pulsing beat of your agenda. His kingdom was handed to him by Cosimo on a silver tray, and, just like Hades took to his Underworld with perfect ease, Orpheus has found that he’s exactly where he belongs. I’d like to explore how Orpheus rules his kingdom, how he goes about raising his own empire with the backing of the Capulets. He’s always turned his nose up at an excess of money, but I’d like to see how he uses the protection and financial backing Cosimo threw his way, how he sets about positioning his dominion in the wake of the coming war, how he protects what is his from the long arm of Verona’s moneyed classes, and how he uses Measure by Measure to spread little rumours of evil here and there, how he uses his fighting pit to breed fear and respect in equal measure. He is on the Capulet side for now, because that is the side that currently brings him the most opportunity, but everything could change at the drop of a hat, should the tide of war swing a different way…

BUT WATCH THE QUEEN CONQUER; I want to explore Orpheus’ relationship with Theodora, to develop the toxic, intoxicating back-and-forth between them. They were never exclusive, neither of them belonged to the other, because they’re not bound by such earthly pettiness, and so Orpheus has, over the time they’ve been together, roamed as freely as he pleases, bedding anyone that took his fancy, as though it was his mission to cover the whole of the gender spectrum with his conquests. Orpheus knows that Theodora is sometimes jealous of his wandering eyes and hands and limbs, that they resent him bitterly, that they would gladly douse him in gasoline and strike a match, and I’d love to explore how he plays on this side of them, how he tries to goad them into lashing out, how they both stick knives in each other’s backs and then help each other bandage the wounds, knowing that no matter how much they hurt one another there will always be something cosmic and irrevocable that binds them together.

LET ME WHISPER IN YOUR EAR; His relationship to Halcyon. I want to see how Orpheus walks the tightrope between informant and deceiver, how he manages to sustain the balance between feeding her the information the Capulets need, enough to keep the war interesting, and obscuring those facts which should never come to light. I believe that Orpheus wants a war, has wanted one for some time, because there is nothing that burns as fiercely within him as his hatred for the wealthy, and although he would actively intercede in the battle against them, obliterating them like he did that family of idiots who dared to rob him of his loved ones, the opportunity to see the elite tear themselves apart is just too good to be missed. I think he will take to his role as informant eagerly, recognising the opportunity it brings to light the touch-paper and give the conflict the spark he feels it needs, although I imagine that if Halcyon tries to exercise control too fiercely Orpheus won’t hesitate to remind her just which side of the war he’s currently pretending to be on, and the damage he can cause if he chose to switch his allegiances.

THE PIED PIPER; Although he never intended it to be this way, Orpheus has inadvertently found himself wearing the cap of Robin Hood, scourge of the elite and folk hero of the poor. He’s not a kind soul, by any means, but over the years he has found himself becoming strangely proud of this unofficial title, even though he’d never admit this to anyone, even on pain of death. Something changed in him after seeing his brother struck down so carelessly by those who had more money than sense, and Orpheus decided after he’d wrought his terrible revenge that the best way of conquering the upper class was raising the lower classes to fantastic heights, to elevate them in any way he could, so that they could topple the wealthy of Verona from above and from below, rising from the underworld like magma and raining down like hellfire from their plane of moral superiority. Building on this, I’d like to develop how Orpheus relates to and interacts with those members of the Capulet mob who are not from the same privileged background as its leader, and although he’d never do this overtly I envision him attempting to convert some of them to his side of the ‘cause’, enticing them with the odd throwaway comment or lingering glance, reminding them where they came from and where they could go once freed from the yoke imposed on them by Cosimo’s money.

WATCH YOUR BACKS; Superficially, he’s a soldier, and his role within the hierarchy of the Capulet family is supposed to consist of him following orders blindly, obediently, to put his life on the line for the family he’s supposedly loyal to. But Orpheus has never been one for following orders, no; this Piper dances only to his own tune. He was already a king when Cosimo gilded his throne and gave him official protection, and I’d like to explore how these two sides war within him - the thrill of rule mixed with the expected subjugation and loyalty. I can’t imagine Orpheus actively following a single order, save for when Halcyon requests information from him, and would like to see what happens when he confronts and is confronted with the well-oiled, powerful machine of the Capulet army, such a dramatic contrast to the wildness and the chaos that Orpheus so proudly rules over. The Capulets may once have been friends to the working class, but they have become blinded by wealth and greed, and I want to develop how Orpheus interacts with the elite that he so hates, and how he attempts to undermine them from within.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Am I allowed to say undecided? Is that terrible? Part of me wants to say absolutely not, because I think there would be something beautiful in watching Orpheus rise from beneath the ground, clawing his way out of the dirt with his army trailing behind him like the hordes of the undead, to watch him turn around and not just bite the hand that feeds, but tear off the whole arm and throw it to the wolves for them to feast on. I’m a sucker for the traitor/saboteur plot, and I think watching Cosimo be destroyed by a monster of his own making would be entertaining as hell. But then again, even titans can fall, so maybe, if the circumstances were right (or wrong, as the case may be), Orpheus might not survive this war. I’m leaning towards no, at the moment, but my opinion may change depending on how things play out…

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

What is your favourite place in Verona?

He took a deep drag from the cigar pressed between his lips (stolen, of course, Orpheus Ahulani would never do something as ordinary as spend his own money on luxuries), enjoying the way the glowing end of the Cuban briefly illuminated his eyes in the half-light. Ash sprinkled onto the sticky surface of the table, clinging to the rings and mottled stains left by the drinks of countless previous patrons, and he allowed his hand to drop to the wooden tabletop, tracing idle patterns in the grime with practised fingers. Orpheus may have started rubbing shoulders with the elite, but this was his natural habitat, and like a king sat amongst his subjects he filled the space to the brim, so that the essence of the underworld’s prince seemed to seep out of every flat surface, to lurk in every dark corner. He leaned forward, removing the cigar from between full lips to blow a perfect ring of smoke, trapping his interlocutor completely in that tractor beam of a gaze, predator hypnotising prey.

Had the question been a test? He didn’t know, but as with almost every conversation he ever had, he would turn the answer into one, would make sure to pitch his words just right. His song would hit all the optimum notes, and the imbecile who thought that they could divine the inner workings of his mind would suddenly find themselves dancing to Orpheus’ tune and not their own, would see themselves laid bare in a matter of minutes. No matter whom he spoke to, he was both snake-charmer and snake, dictating everything he touched with a few choice tunes from his pipe, but ready to turn around and unleash the venom in his fangs if it was necessary, to wreak a long, slow and painful death on anyone who came too close. It would have been easy to miss Orpheus’ half-smile in the muted light of the underground bar, to lose the serpentine grin amidst the bustle and the murmur of customers on their way to being blind drunk well before midday. “My favourite place in Verona?” And there it was again, that smile, imbued with all the opulence of a thousand precious stones, so entrancing that no one ever saw the sting in the scorpion’s tail, the blood that lurked behind such charming eyes. “So many to choose from…”

A contemplative puff of smokey air, then, as his features shifted into a thoughtful expression, as though truly exerting himself to come up with an answer. “The library, for instance, or perhaps the charming florist’s by the corner of the Castelvecchio.” A pause, a knowing half-smirk. “But if you’re forcing me to choose…” Again, that tone, that fine line between jest and threat, deliberately pitched to make it clear that no one was forcing him to do a damn thing, that this question was being answered solely and completely because he had decided to deign it with a response. “It would have to be my dear Measure by Measure.”

Even at the mere mention of his precious establishment, of the den of violence and broken bones he treasured so dearly, his whole complexion changed, set ablaze by a fire stoked at the thought of the endless litany of brawls that he had presided over in his own personal hell-pit. “If you don’t know it, save whatever dignity you have left and don’t ask. Not all those who live… above ground can stomach knowing what goes on in the darkest corners of their precious Verona.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Why do you want to know?” An eyebrow was raised at the inquiry, and the expression that twisted his features was half something that looked like surprise (although anyone who knew Orpheus even in passing knew that surprise wasn’t an emotion he would ever deem worthy of feeling), half lazy amusement, a mirth to match the haziness of Verona’s late summer afternoons: sticky-hot like whisky, the kind of burn that felt pleasant on your skin and tongue. “Are you trying to keep tabs on me?” The amusement was still there, unfurling across his broad features like a ship’s sails in the wind, but there was a darker emotion behind it that was plain for all to see, an implicit threat that would not go unnoticed. Do not play with fire, it said, do not come too close, or I will burn you. Orpheus was a private person, his life was very much his own, and although he knew that many of the people he was supposed to be working for salivated at the opportunity of finding out exactly how he operated, he’d become adept at keeping his cards very close to his chest. It was the kind of threat that didn’t need articulating, one that seemed so out of place amidst the charm and the mysterious geniality that seemed to roll off him in waves that you could almost miss it if you blinked at the wrong time; an ember still glowing red in a mountain of black coal that had long since cooled.

Orpheus kept this tempestuousness, this fiery quality, firmly under wraps for the most part, because he knew the value of preserving a poker face, of biding his time and letting the sleeping giant lie, of waiting for the right moment to unleash the fires of chaos that he’d been slowly stoking since he was old enough to realise that life wasn’t fair. But there was a time and a place for anger, and this was not it, so he let his mask slide just far enough to reveal a glimpse of the danger that lay within, a reminder not to overstep the boundaries he had so clearly set, before returning to his customary insouciance.

“My typical day is just the same as any law abiding citizen of Verona.” (How enjoyable such blatant lying was, especially when he knew that he could get away with it every time.) “I eat, I drink, I make merry, I go about my business just like any regular guy.”

(Hah. As if Orpheus could be or had ever been regular.)

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Momentarily, his hand stilled where it had been tracing patterns in the sticky sheen that coated the table, that curious mixture of alcohol, sweat and ash so often found in seedy bars, and his eyebrows pulled together in something resembling a frown. To anyone who didn’t know him, truly know him (to most everyone, then, since Orpheus Ahulani had made it his life’s mission to make himself an enigma to everyone but himself), it looked like an expression of derision, as though the great shadow-king was baffled by the mere notion of having ever made a mistake, as though the idea of him being fallible, somehow, was beyond human conception. But appearances are so often deceiving, to even the sharpest of minds.

Your biggest mistake.

(November 29th, 2003. A fight in a quiet piazza. The murder of a brother, and the other brother’s failure to react in time.)

It haunted him still, that day, when he let it. In the dark, still, stifling night air that blew over the city in the summertime, left alone with only memories for company, Orpheus would let the strongbox he’d pushed into the furthest corners of his mind unlock itself and spew out its poisonous secrets, would let himself be overwhelmed, for the briefest of instances, by the memory of his failure, of his complacency, and of the loss that had followed. It was a fitting punishment, he supposed, for all the wrong and the harm that he had done, and would yet do. Even the devil was punished for the kingdom he earned, had to sacrifice his angel’s wings for the fiery reward that awaited him beneath the earth. It had been his one great weakness, and he had been punished for it. He opened the armour-plates that encased his heart like a vice just wide enough to allow one soul to slip through, and it was through that crack that fate plunged its dagger, through that crack that fate reached in and dragged the love he had for his brother, still warm and beating, out through his chest, only to throw it in his face and laugh, mocking him for ever having thought that the only person Orpheus Ahulani had ever loved could have walked through the hellfire that surrounded him unscathed.

But no matter. The past was done. Gone. Erased.

(Fool me once…)

“My biggest mistake was letting you sit at this table.“

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“Honestly?”

Of course not; it wasn’t possible, wasn’t even fathomable. Truth and honest words were few and far between in a city so steeped in backstabbing and deceit, a city whose heart thrummed so resoundingly with lies and secrets and cruel words whispered from behind gilded lips, and the tide of truth reached its lowest ebb in this corner of Verona, in the heart and eyes of its very own prince of shadows. And it was part of the act, of course, carefully considered - he lied so wantonly and with such joy that if he were ever to tell the truth it would be disbelieved in an instant, cast aside to the realm of uncertainty and doubt. It was a game he enjoyed playing, when the mood struck him, dropping little pearls of veracity into his web of lies, waiting to see if any unsuspecting prey would pull on the thread he’d proffered. But they never did, of course, his mask was far too firmly attached to his face to ever let anything real slip, and so instead he let the word hang in the air, heavy and thick with the connotation of so many truths that went untold, of so many truths that were lost in the miasma that was Verona beneath the sheen of falsehoods that painted the city silver in the moonlight.

Honestly.

As if.

“All these questions of yours are proving to be quite the task. Why don’t you move along before I get bored?“ A beat, a silence that echoes with the cymbal crash of thunder.

“You don’t want me to get bored.“

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“War?” Orpheus shook his head and laughed, the sound not sweet and sugary but dark and brittle, crackling in the still air like the snap of burnt caramel, any mirth undercut by an aftertaste of bitterness. “This isn’t a war yet, just a playground fight between two spoiled brats.”

The remark sounded facile, just another one of his many quips, a tongue-twisting barb designed to vex and shock and entangle, but there was truth to it, as far as he saw. Orpheus had spent the past few months watching, listening, waiting, sizing up the magnitude of the problem as the Capulets and the Montagues gestured and postured at one another, like angry teenagers who shake their fists at each other across the classroom, too afraid of teacher for physical confrontation.

Things had been tepid, so far, at least in Orpheus’ estimation of what a feud should look like (and he knew, of course, knew better than most what vindictiveness and vengeance tasted like). He had watched tensions bubble and brew and never quite spill over, as both patriarchs observed the situation and hand and decided that all-out battle wasn’t worth the loss of life it would inevitably carry with it.

(Cowards, they were, too afraid of their own shadows to relish in the chaos they could create, too timid and precious to realise that ‘there will be blood’ was not just a pretty phrase but a motto every man, woman and child should follow.)

For the most part, both sides had favoured inaction, whispered words in darkened alleyways, secret meetings and hushed threats. Until very recently, Orpheus had feared that this ‘war’ that everyone kept crowing about would turn out to be woefully boring, that the mutually assured destruction he yearned for from the wealthy elite would never come to pass. But slowly, things were changing. Changing for the better.

“But then someone went and killed poor Alvise Vernon.” A shrug, and he leaned back in a chair that was too small for his frame, but somehow, perversely, seemed made for him. “Now the Montagues are out for blood, and they won’t stop until they find the evil individual who put their dear departed underboss in the ground.” It was funny, almost, how incensed the privileged got when the mire of the real world threatened to stain their ivory towers, when they were all so eager to turn a blind eye when someone actually deserving of their pity was felled, when someone from the lower classes was mercilessly hacked down. How easy they found it not to care when the victim was not one of them and theirs. But such things were not worth wasting angry thoughts on. They would all know pain, soon enough. “Now, who knows what’ll happen?” Orpheus smiled, then, flashing all his teeth, the expression utterly devoid of warmth. It was a crocodile’s grin, one that said there will be blood, and I’ll be there to watch it spill.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m excited.”

In-Character Para Sample:

. PARA SAMPLE ONE .

[[TW: BLOOD, MURDER, VIOLENCE, FIRE]]

[one] - O R I G I N ;;

He wailed when he came into the world.

Howled and howled until his lungs should have given out, until his throat should have been scraped raw and hoarse from the effort of so much crying. He drowned out the other infants in the ward, filled the ears of all the parents and nurses with the ringing sound of a baby’s squeals. He cried until it drove the paediatrician a little insane, until the man snapped and ordered the dark-haired terror moved away from the other children and into his mother’s room, and then, suddenly, there was silence. Suddenly, the babe that had spent the past two nights caterwauling so loudly that it almost cracked the hospital windows lay serene, peaceful, content. Suddenly, the nurses, stepping closer in perplexed relief, realised just how angelic this little cherub was, how beautiful his forest-coloured eyes were. Suddenly, Katherine’s hospital bed was constantly surrounded by a teeming crowd of well-wishers, passers-by with wide eyes and enraptured faces who cooed at the little boy clutched in her arms, who complimented her and her husband on having made something so perfect. They were not intelligent enough to understand him, these fools entranced by pretty eyes and an oddly magnetic aura, but as they looked into that tiny face, his parents comprehended the truth of their son’s existence, knew exactly what to name him to best capture this infallible gift that the gods had blessed him with. He would captivate the world over, they knew, could lead all the citizens of Earth to a watery grave if he only asked them nicely, and so they gave him a name befitting of such power, named him after the greatest, most captivating soul the mythological world had ever produced. Katherine and Joseph knew precisely who their son was, and what he could one day grow to become.

He wailed when he came into the world, but it was not wailing borne out of hunger, or fear, or absence, like most infant crying is. When he was born, Orpheus Ahulani cried because even then he knew that he didn’t want to be surrounded by other children, that the place he would receive the most adoration was in the arms of his dear parents. Even then, he knew precisely what he wanted.

This is the story of how a monster is born.

(Or rather, how a monster birthed itself.)

[two] - F O R T I F I C A T I O N ;;

He wasn’t given anything as a child.

It wasn’t for lack of love, because his parents reminded him constantly that they were impressed with the man he was becoming, and even if this wasn’t always made explicit Orpheus learned early on how to read the signs. No, he wasn’t given anything because such an upbringing formed an essential part of his tuition, because his parents wanted to form him into their master thief, their ideal conman, as early as they could, because they believed firmly in legacy and knew that their first son would be the one who carried that torch forward.

As soon as Orpheus was old enough to comprehend what stealing was, his father sat him down in a sunlit room and told him that this was his life, now, that he had to learn that if he wanted something, he had only to reach out and take it, and that the only thing to remember in this new life he was entering was don’t get caught. If he wanted a toy, his father pointed him in the direction of a rich little boy or girl who wouldn’t miss it. If he fancied a new item of clothing, his mother ushered him into a clothes shop without any money or a credit card on hand and made it clear that they wouldn’t leave until he’d lifted exactly what it was he desired. It was in no way a conventional childhood, but it was the perfect one for the kind of little boy Orpheus was, and the kind of man he hoped to be, because ever since he was young enough to really think for himself Orpheus knew that this was the life he wanted, knew that even if his ancestors had not been thieves he would have sought out a life of illicit activity for himself.

Orpheus was five years old and already he didn’t believe in excess, believed in taking exactly what you wanted so that you had enough to get by, that surrounding yourself with trinkets and empty vanities would not make you feel as alive as the rush of taking something that should never have been yours. He stole the toys or books he wanted, and when he was finished with them they were gifted to those he saw as being in need, those who made his otherwise static heart throb with a beat of compassion, and once the charitable deed was done that compassion evaporated, replaced with a burning desire to seek out the rush of theft again. His parents, his grandparents, stole and conned for that rush alone, but as he grew Orpheus felt a new sensation coursing through his blood when he stole, a sense of indomitable power, of control. He learned that he could dictate the emotions of others by doing something as simple as slipping his little hands into their bags or pockets, could make even the most arrogant man crumple and weep for what he had lost. Orpheus was six years old when he realised that, whilst his relatives saw themselves as something akin to demons when they stole, that some distant part of them regretted that they had not been granted the wherewithal to be more honest, when he stole he felt like GOD. He was only a little boy, and already he saw himself as a divinity, possessed that unique, self-affirming grace that obliged people to love him so much and blinded them to the truth of the power in his heart.

He was nine years old when his brother was brought home to him, when his parents pulled open the door to his room and presented the bundle of limbs and baby hair to him with beatific smiles and luminous eyes, and Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief because Joseph and Katherine finally had the child they needed to fill the hole that had been present in their hearts. He looked at his infant brother and knew that they would both be perfect sons, in their own way. Hermes was the son to love and be loved by, who would fill their home with laughter and warmth and shower their parents with gratitude and appreciation for their efforts in building a family. Orpheus had never been that son to them, it was made clear from the moment of his birth that he was not the child who would inspire happiness, no. Orpheus was the son to be proud of, the son who would pick up the Ahulani mantle and fortify the legacy his parents endeavoured to build, and such a momentous destiny could not be hindered by something as banal as love. Katherine and Joseph looked at the two boys sat by each other one day and knew in their hearts that Hermes was the son who would inspire love, but Orpheus, Orpheus was the son who would move MOUNTAINS.

This cavernous expanse of difference between the two brothers was made abundantly clear at every turn. “What do you want for your birthday, my boy?” Katherine asked her sons in July and November.

“To go to the zoo!” a three year old Hermes giggled, stretching out chubby little arms towards his mother’s neck, knowing that even though he was too old for her to carry him around in her arms she’d lift him into the air anyway, laughing in the way that only a child of the sunlight can as he pressed his face into her auburn curls.

“A better mark,” mused a twelve year old Orpheus, gaze sharp as a laser and expression almost defiant, focussed, seeking bigger and better challenges wherever he could get them. His last task had been to rob some elderly lady; hardly a challenge. He was twelve and fired up and knew exactly what he should be doing with his life. His mother looked distant but proud and he was rewarded suitably for his enterprise, and when he walked away from the jewellery store on his birthday, pockets full and alarm blazing uselessly behind him, Orpheus knew that he had finally been gifted the freedom to go about his business unhindered, that the time had finally come for the phoenix to rise from ash and cover the world in fire.

He tried his best to teach his brother the life of a con artist, to instil in Hermes the same fervour that hurtled through his veins at the speed of a freight train, but knew from the very beginning of his tutelage that his little brother was ruled more by his heart than by his head, that he was too passionate, too flighty, to ever truly excel. He did his best to celebrate the difference between them, to look at his brother as the light that was lacking in his life, the lone rays of sunshine that he would allow to glance across his face. For the most part, he did, but a callous part of Orpheus looked at his brother and saw only a problem, a weak point, the tremor that could cause the entire house of cards to come tumbling down. He looked, and he listened, and he evaluated, and like any good problem solver he came to an uncompromising solution.

He was sixteen now, freshly tattooed and even more independent than he had once been (if such a thing were possible), and knew that his family could all let him down, with their emotions and their happiness and the familial bliss they seemed content to wallow in. There was potential to build a kingdom from their enterprise, to raise up palaces of iron and stone out of the dirt and to make themselves indomitable, but the Ahulanis had grown stagnant and lazy. For them, the things they had stolen until now had been enough, but Orpheus was never one to settle for sufficiency. He recognised that his family were resources, that if put to good use they could help him in his quest for immortality, and so like any chess grand master confronted with a board of uncooperative pieces Orpheus set about manoeuvring his nearest and dearest into position. He became prince and general to them all at once, an emperor to lead his troops into battle, to make ten men and women feel like ten thousand. If his relatives were shocked they did not know how to express it, and instead merely allowed this boy-king to manipulate them, knowing in their heart of hearts that he had already surpassed them both physically (he towered over everyone he met, and the breadth of his shoulders inspired both awe and apprehension) and metaphorically, intangibly, that his ambition and his drive were unparalleled and would likely never be seen again in any of their lifetimes.

”Why do you steal things?” Hermes asked him one day, nine years old and completely devoted to his older brother, ready to obey his every command without fail, overexcitable and unflinchingly loyal, firmly convinced that Orpheus was the most magnificent person in the entire universe.

Orpheus was eighteen now, officially a man (although he hadn’t been a boy for some time now) and didn’t care much about his younger brother’s devotion, saw it only as a useful weapon to be wielded, the perfect way of exercising control.

“Because it’s what I was born to do.”

[three] - P E R D I T I O N ;;

He should have known that it couldn’t last, that no kingdom could be erected from nothingness without a few complications, without the inevitable pitfalls and setbacks, but Orpheus saw his success and revelled in it, and in his revelry he allowed his eyes to fall blind to the dangers that lurked at the fringes of his accomplishments. But all fortresses have their weak spots, and weak spots are only discovered through the most bitter of tragedies, so that the castle can be redesigned, made ten times stronger.

He was out drinking when it happened, celebrating the latest in a long line of successful cons (everyone had told him that the Mary Jane couldn’t be pulled off by only one person, but as ever he’d proved his detractors bitterly wrong, and the look on that pompous dickhead’s face as he’d realised that he’d frittered away his ill-gotten life savings had been priceless), was enjoying his customary mix of expensive whisky and cheap cigarettes when his world shifted slightly on its axis, when its orbit fell out of sync for the briefest of moments.

His brother was seventeen and stupid like Orpheus had never been, and the latest in a long line of petty fights he’d gotten himself into (over a girl, no less) had taken a darker turn than usual. No one bothered to call the paramedics (rich people were too paralysed by centuries of inherited inaction, and too closely bound by a desire to protect their own), but even if they had there was nothing that anyone could have done.

Hermes Ahulani died ignominiously in the middle of one of Verona’s piazzas, hands, face and neck cut to pieces by shards of glass from the bottle he’d been attacked with, choking slowly, grotesquely to death in a pool of his own blood while his family looked on in horror, eviscerated by the sensation of their own utter helplessness.It had all happened in a matter of mere seconds, too fast for anyone to process it, too fast for Orpheus, normally so perceptive, so quick to react, to leap out of his seat and intervene as he had done countless times before. They had all ignored the conflict brewing between the two youths, had passed it off as nothing more than adolescent males trying to burn off some excess testosterone. None of them had anticipated the rich brat’s cowardice, had foreseen him using that damned bottle of wine too expensive for its own good to cut Hermes down. One moment he was standing tall, buoyed up by surging adrenaline and the cockiness of teenage boys, and the next he was on the ground, crushed underfoot like the flower he had been, so much vitality spent in no more than five minutes. Orpheus had tried to stop the bleeding, had fallen to his knees on the cobblestones and clasped his hands around his brother’s throat, a futile effort to plug the seemingly endless leaks, and watched in what he dimly recognised as horror as his brother’s life-force leaked out between his fingers, staining his hands and the pavement below a tragic crimson.

As they watched the rich boy run away, face contorted into an expression of disgustingly entitled horror, no doubt seeking the protection of his parents and their wealth, Orpheus felt the walls of his heart close up completely, so that no feeling could ever again be let through. He shouldn’t have cried, for rulers never wept at the demise of their subjects, merely strode out amongst the common people and found new followers to take the place of the fallen, but the eldest and now only Ahulani brother allowed himself to shed a single tear that day. He hadn’t loved his brother in the conventional way, in the way that families are supposed to adore one another, but he had felt something akin to his own brand of love.

Hermes had never been much of a thief, had always been impulsive, loud-mouthed, capricious, all qualities that Orpheus manifestly disliked and had eradicated from his own personality. He laughed too much and stopped far too little, never waited to check what was around the corner, told his deepest secrets to just about any stranger with a kind enough face, and couldn’t hold his drink. They were polar opposites, these brothers, and Orpheus should have disdained his younger brother utterly, should have shown him nothing but contempt - after all, that was how he treated others whom he deemed unworthy. But the bonds of family are a strange thing, and whilst Orpheus cared little for his parents and grandparents, seeing them only as tools to help him build the world he craved, Hermes had always represented the people for whom he was trying to build this better world. Orpheus had never exhibited much kindness or goodness but he recognised its abundance in his younger brother, and despite himself he felt the need to see that goodness preserved, felt an obligation to create a realm in which his brother could lead the life that he deserved. Of all the people that he knew, and of all the people he would ever meet, Hermes was the only one Orpheus Ahulani had loved, and he didn’t deserve to have met his end before he’d even become a man, at the hands of a coward who had nothing to show for his life but money.

Before that fateful fay he’d been happy to let the elite lead their own gilded lives, as long as they didn’t get in his way, but as he watched his brother die Orpheus realised that the wealthy didn’t deserve to be ignored. They deserved to be BURNED, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see it happen.

But the path to vengeance is never smooth, and for the first (and only) time in his life Orpheus was careless enough to let his rage cloud his better judgement.

It played out like a scene from an Oscar-winning film about the callousness of the wealthy, and the Ahulanis were all too crippled by their mourning to look up and see it coming. First the coroner ruled young Hermes’ death as accidental, having the gall to call the brat’s selfish action self-defence. Then witnesses began to fall curiously silent, saying that they hadn’t seen a thing, that all they had seen was the young poor boy picking a needless fight, that perhaps he deserved what he got, each of them singing to the rich family’s tune. The police were similarly uncooperative, muttering about the prevalence of crime in poorer neighbourhoods, the victim’s prior pattern of behaviour, the fact that he was known for being violent. One by one, each piece of the puzzle slid into place, until Hermes’ case was encircled by an impenetrable wall of bodies itching to exonerate Raffaello Brazzi at the behest of his parents. Outrage spread through the Ahulani ranks like wildfire, fuelled by a desire to see their son’s memory preserved, and when an emissary from Giuseppe Brazzi came knocking, offering the family their weight in gold if they were willing to chalk their son’s death up to a tragic accident, if they would just let bygones be bygones, Joseph Ahulani told the man exactly where he could shove his bribe. Orpheus had wanted to raze the Brazzi family to the ground from the beginning, to make sure that none of them ever drew breath again, but his mother, still on a perverse quest to reform her once criminal life, begged him to let them do things the right way, to try and build a legal case, and against his better judgement Orpheus ceded to her demands.

They must have banked on them all being home that day, must not have foreseen the possibility of Orpheus going out every day to search for new evidence. The fire was already out of control by the time he returned home, and he watched amber flames as tall as trees surge through the old building, a deathly cavalry tearing everything to pieces, a ravenous monster leaving no life in its wake. Had Hermes still been alive, had his brother been in the burning structure, Orpheus might have thrown caution to the wind and run inside to save him, but now he stood rooted to his spot, watching mutely as firefighters attempted to combat the unconquerable blaze, watching and watching and feeling nothing in his heart but anger.

Orpheus Ahulani was twenty-six years old and in the space of three weeks had lost all the family he’d ever known, and knew as he watched his childhood home, his ancestry, go up in flames, that he had been right all along, that his mother’s utopian desire for justice was untenable in a world such as this one, where the wealthy elite did nothing but take, smashing up people and things in their way without a second thought.

He wasn’t a religious man but in that moment he thanked whatever deity it was that had kept him alive, that had given him this purpose, and knew that no matter how far they ran or how well they tried to hide, the Brazzi family had signed away their lives the minute his brother had drawn his final breath. The wealthy were not afraid of anything except damaging their reputations, but Orpheus knew that his destiny was to make them experience real fear.

Orpheus was twenty-six years old, and he was coming for them.

[four] - R E T R I B U T I O N ;;

They didn’t run. It wasn’t a surprise, in the end, given that they thought their secret had been burnt to a crisp with the Ahulani home. A more patient man would have plotted his line of attack, would have ensured that there was no way for them to harm him, but Orpheus knew that he was indomitable, that the fact that he was the last Ahulani left alive made him untouchable by human hands. Ever one for boldness and grand gestures, he strode through the front doors of the Brazzi mansion with a machine gun slung over his shoulder and seated himself at the head of their dining table, and let the members of the family he hated most in the world crawl to his side, quivering like frightened sewer rats. He made no verbal or physical threats, didn’t utter a single word, in fact, merely sat there with his assault rifle lying on the table for all to see and cleaned his nails with a pocket knife.

The implication was clear.

Giuseppe Brazzi hid behind his wife’s skirts and shook with fear, and after what felt like a century of petrified silence his voice, cracked and weedy, echoed across the empty room.

“We’ll give you money,” he stammered, “more money that you could ever dream of.”

(He was wrong, because Orpheus had never been a dreamer but he could dream up quite a lot.)

“How much do you want?”

The silence as they awaited his reply was deafening, the response even more so.

“All of it.”

“All of it? You must be joking. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

Orpheus didn’t even deign to look at the old man, merely laid his knife on the table. His terms were simple.

“You took everything from me, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.” Expression as blank and unfeeling as slate, he picked up the gun, caressing the trigger with a macabre kind of reverence. “All I have to do is squeeze.” Finally, he made eye contact with the Brazzi patriarch, and the fire burning in his green eyes made the man visibly wilt. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

They should never have underestimated him. He was Orpheus, the last Ahulani, he walked in shadow and in flame, the prince who would one day rule the criminal underworld which had shaped him. He was the Devil’s advocate, his messenger, his brother, the same blood pulsed in his veins as had once flowed through the body of the first fallen angel. Marianna Brazzi hurled a litany of curses at him as he stripped her husband of his entire fortune, damned him a thousand times to the fiery pits of hell, and as Orpheus walked away from that house with all the money in the world he smiled Satan’s smile because he knew that her words had no power over him, that if there was damnation to come he would welcome it with open arms and an open heart. The Brazzis hoped fervently that it would be enough, that their riches would be enough to pacify the beast, to fill the void and guarantee his distance from them (his silence had been guaranteed long ago, the minute they chose to set his family ablaze). They should never have underestimated him.

It was not enough, Orpheus knew that from the moment they offered him the money. It would never be enough. He was not the kind man that so many of Verona’s poor made him out to be, he was not their saviour, their symbol, their martyr. The only pyre he would ever throw himself on was his own, and only when he was ready to leave the world that he had barely had the chance to make his mark on yet. It would never be enough. There was only one punishment that befit this crime, only one way to repay the bastards that had taken everything from him. He was good at stripping people of everything they held dear, of everything they loved, and this would be his magnum opus, his greatest theft. The Brazzi family had played with fire, and it was FIRE that would let them know the magnitude of their mistake.

Orpheus wouldn’t just fiddle whilst Rome burnt. He would conduct a whole fucking orchestra.

He came with darkness as his cloak, ensuring that the whole family was in one place before he acted, making sure that he didn’t make the same mistake they had. Once again, he strode in through the front door, but this time he had no gun on him, only a box of matches and a knife and the Devil’s hellfire in his heart. There were nine of them in the house - parents and seven children, and they all paid the price, because the question of their innocence had been rendered utterly void when they did everything they could to sweep his brother’s life under the carpet.

He made them bleed that night, stained the walls and the floors and the priceless antiques with vermillion and crimson and every other shade of red imaginable. He was an artist, like Jackson Pollock splashing the surface of the world, with the Brazzi home as his canvas and their blood as his paint. He took his sweet time with each family member, carving his rage and his revenge into their bodies, making sure that they were all awake to see the look in his eyes as he killed them, so that his face was the last thing they saw on this earth. Almost poetic, in a way; the most lyrical Orpheus had ever been in his life.

Raffaello was the last to die, a fate he had sealed for himself the minute he chose to raise his hand and end Hermes’ life. Orpheus let him crawl from his bedroom into the corridor, watched him leave a trail of blood behind him as he tried to drag his body away, and felt nothing more for the teenager than he would feel for a slug that had crawled into his path. The last thing Raffaello ever saw was the slow approach of Orpheus’ black boots and the twisted expression of cruelty on his blood-flecked face. Lying there, surrounded by his own blood and the blood of his relatives, Raffaello Brazzi, murderer and coward, started to cry, and amidst his sobs he looked up at Orpheus and begged.

“Please, please, please, God, have mercy!”

“Mercy?” All Orpheus could do was laugh, the sound bitter and piercing in the mansion’s cavernous halls, lips contorting into an expression of pure disgust. “My brother might have shown you mercy. No, the only thing I can give you, the only thing you deserve, is my name. I am ORPHEUS AHULANI,” he proclaimed, raising the knife one last time. “Never forget it.”

[five] - E N D U R A N C E ;;

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, one fire for another. Orpheus torched their mansion to the ground, obliterating their family from the face of the Earth and making sure that no one by the name of Brazzi would ever darken the streets of his city again. He walked away from the burning wreckage with his head held high, proud frame silhouetted against a background of embers and flame, knowing that he would never face judgement for the crime he had committed (although he didn’t see it as such - to him, his actions were entirely justified, completely necessary, for there had been filth in his life and it had been successfully purged). Anyone who knew anything about Hermes Ahulani’s murder and the subsequent cover-up believed that he was dead, thought his whole family had been erased in order to let a killer go free simply because of his wealth. Orpheus knew that he was untouchable, and that finally the stage had been cleared for his life’s greatest work to begin.

He began slowly but confidently, disseminating news of his survival throughout the streets on which he had grown up. The paupers of Verona had been mourning their fallen prince, had feared the demise of their Robin Hood at the hands of the wealthy he stole from, and they were overjoyed to hear that their hero had been preserved, claimed that it was his virtue that had rescued him from the deadly inferno that had stolen his beloved family from them. Orpheus could have laughed at the irony of being presumed to be virtuous, but he let the rumour spread, let the streets ripple with rejoicing and relief, knowing that this jubilation would raise up a horde of soldiers for him. He whispered in all the right ears, smiled at all the right people, and used the outrage that had spread through the community upon the death of his family to galvanise the loyalty of every woman, man and child he laid his eyes on. The fortune he’d acquired wasn’t spent on himself, instead he began to dip into the pot of the vast wealth he’d suddenly accumulated to further magnify the people’s adoration, making sure that his charity was never too overt, that nothing more was ever said about his power than the odd whispered phrase. Even the fight club he established went unnoticed by all but the most hardened of Verona’s citizens, its most masochistic residents, coasting through the city’s underworld under the unassuming name of Measure by Measure, but to those who moved in the right circles the violence Orpheus’ snake-pit harboured was legendary. It was better this way, to be king from the shadows. It made him stronger.

He was only twenty-six and already more powerful than most men could become in five lifetimes, let alone one, and the whispers about him grew louder and louder, sparks that eventually ignited a forest fire of speculation, of mystery. Fires demand to be seen, to be heard, and one by one the influential figures in Verona began to take notice. Many approached him with offers of treaties and alliances, hoping that by taming Hades they could make his Underworld dance to their tune, but Orpheus knew the value of the kingdom he was poised to rule and the music that he wanted it to play, and so he turned each of them away, these men and women who claimed to be powerful, seeing through their charades of lies and always wanting something more.

It was a rainy day in October when Cosimo Capulet requested a meeting, and as he strode into the Cathedral, hair damp from the deluge outside, Orpheus knew that the right offer had finally come knocking on his door.

It was the first time he’d been into church to do anything other than steal, although equally illicit deeds were about to be performed under the Lord’s watchful gaze, bargains between the dark and the even darker, a treaty between two black kings who had each removed the white knights who threatened to stand in their way. Cosimo was shorter than Orpheus had expected, and with something of a wry smile he imagined that his brother would have informed the Capulet boss of that fact before he’d even sat down.

“Mister Ahulani, good of you to come.”

Orpheus acknowledged the pleasantry with a brief cant of the head, but didn’t bother to respond.

“Let’s make one thing very clear: if you’re here to offer me some hollow alliance, a way to take what I’ve built and sweep me to one side as soon as you get the chance, I’m walking out of here. The streets are no place for a man from your background, and you will never be able to control them like I can, no matter how much money or how many guns you have. We both know that you need me a lot more than I need you, Mr. Capulet, so go ahead, make your offer. I know you’re a smart man.”

Cosimo had to smile at that, knowing that his instinct about this young man had been correct. “My offer is simple, Orpheus, if I may call you that…” he trailed off, then, pausing to savour his triumph. “A good name you’ve got there. I like it.” Suddenly, he remembered himself, still smiling. “Yes, my offer is very simple: I want to give you the keys to a kingdom. Your kingdom. You can rule the underworld of Verona,” he intoned, sounding every inch the emperor he was, “you can rule it — with my hand to guide you.”

Outside, he could see the city lights sparkling through the stained glass. The rain had all but stopped, and Orpheus felt like he was flying.

“So what do you say?”

They’d both known the answer to the question the minute they’d laid eyes on one another, but Orpheus felt triumphant enough to say it anyway.

“Yes.”

[six] - C O M P L E T I O N ;;

And so Cosimo Capulet opened the gates that Orpheus had been longing to see open for as long as he could remember. With the might of the Capulet name behind him, he acceded to the throne that he was always born to sit on, knowing that Cosimo was intelligent enough to keep his distance, that he would never interfere. But even the king of kings could not know the extent of the ambition that lurked in Orpheus’ heart, a volcano of energy and zeal that was lying safely dormant, waiting for the perfect opportunity to erupt. For all the bullets in the world, he had weapons that were just as powerful - passion, emotion, the kind of burning fanaticism that only those who have nothing can muster. He accepted backing from the Capulets, played their game when they wanted him to, all the while conducting his own ruthless chess match in the shadows their eyes could not reach.

One day, he knew, he would build up the force to throw off the shackles of Verona’s elite, and so he bided his time, content to play the long game until such a time as it felt right to act.

But can a king ever really rule without someone by his side, without an ally of sorts, another half? Orpheus had had many lovers and companions throughout the course of his life, but none had captured his fancy for more than a fleeting instant, none of them could ever be considered worthy, and then he met Theodora Moreau in a hotel bar one night and the final piece of the puzzle seemed to have fallen into place.

It was not love that drew them together across a crowded room - love was for children, and idiots - but necessity, a flame that danced and sparked and seemed to hypnotise them both. He had heard them spoken of throughout the underworld and indeed above ground, had been privy to many whispers of the street kid who had risen beyond the stars, and the rumours had piqued his interest. He was in a corner booth at the bar in the Hotel Emelia, enjoying the low lighting and the whispered secrets that floated over to his ears from neighbouring tables, when he felt eyes on him and saw that they was standing directly in front of him. “You want to have sex with me,” they informed him curtly, lips pursed and head tilted contemplatively to one side, and Orpheus had to allow himself a laugh at their brashness. They were even more perceptive than he’d imagined. He had been watching them for most of the evening, out of the corner of his eye, allowing his gaze to drift with pleasure over their perfect form and that face, those eyes that were far more intelligent than he suspected many gave them credit for, finding himself drawn like moth to flame.

“Yes,” he answered, responding to openness with openness, quite enjoying this game to which they both seemed to know all the rules, “but a name would be nice, first. We are civilised people, after all.”

They looked him up and down with a hint of disdain (and damn, he was sold already), clearly thinking ‘well I, at least, am civilised, whether you are or not remains to be seen’, but seemed to deem him worthy of more than just an anonymous fuck in the hotel bathroom and sat down at his table instead. “Theodora Moreau.” They didn’t offer him their hand but he took it anyway, enjoying the way they shivered slightly as he brushed a kiss against their knuckles.

“Orpheus Ahulani.”

“It’s a pleasure,” they responded, withdrawing their hand back to their side, and for the life of him Orpheus couldn’t figure out why they were doing him the courtesy of such trivial pleasantries, but was mightily, mightily glad that they were.

“No,” he responded, taking a sip of his red wine and grinning, cat-like, in the half-light. “The pleasure is all mine.”

. PARA SAMPLE TWO .

[[TW: VIOLENCE, BLOOD, MINOR GORE]]

He doesn’t fight often.

It’s not for lack of wanting (oh, how the desire sings in his blood, how his veins thrum with it, that urge that pulses just beneath the surface of his skin, always threatening to tip, tip, tip over into actual violence, a beast that waits impatiently within its cage and scratches at the bars to find release), but rather simple practicality – in any conflict to be settled upon the edge of a fist, he will walk away the victor every time, he knows, and Orpheus enjoys the thrill of winning but there’s a limit to how many predictable victories he can stomach before they come to bore him.

So for the most part he keeps his fists down, lets his stature and the glint of savagery in his eyes halt even the most foolhardy of opponents in their tracks.He doesn’t fight often, but when he does, there’s something almost Biblical about it, something perversely, crudely elegant.

This is no different.

Measure by Measure isn’t the usual place he chooses to hold his court, but there’s a certain urgent matter that demands to be dealt with by means other than simple, verbal intimidation, and the dramatist in Orpheus can’t think of a more fitting place.

There’s a fool stood snivelling before him, with bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and Orpheus looks up at him from the armchair he’s sat in with just the faintest hint of cruel amusement. A spy, from a neighbouring city, sent to size up Orpheus’ kingdom and see if there’s room for a hostile takeover, no doubt sent to see if, in his association with Cosimo Capulet, the King beneath Verona’s streets has grown at all soft.

He hasn’t.

(His doubters will come to rue the day they ever had such thoughts.)

“You made a mistake, coming here,” Orpheus says, and although his voice isn’t raised it somehow booms in the small space between them. “You might just live to regret it.”

Once the warning has hung in the air for long enough he stands from his throne, rolls his shoulders and smiles almost cordially, then curls his hand into a fist and lets it fly at the man’s face. Predictably, his opponent crumples to the ground from the sheer force of the blow, and Orpheus chuckles darkly at the sight.

“Is that it?” he queries, looking at the other man down his nose, amusement lacing every syllable of the challenge. “I thought they made you tougher in Padua.”

They’re exactly the right words to say, he knows, because the man scrambles instantly to his feet, jaw set and shoulders squared, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles begin to widen, and Orpheus can feel the familiar sense of ecstasy begin to pool at the tips of his fingers as he takes in the full sight of the opponent opposite him, sees the other man’s wounded pride and blind fury fuel him, and lets it fill him to the brim with purpose.

This man is big (six foot two, perhaps more), but as always Orpheus is bigger, broader, and when the first fist comes swinging his way he takes half a step back and catches the hand in his own broad palm, trapping it in a cage of fingers, and panic flares up in the other man’s eyes because he knows, because he can sense full well what punishment is coming his way. There’s a wild, wicked grin that slashes across Orpheus’ face, carving up his visage into fragments of splintered cruelty, and with a frenzied look in his eyes he begins to apply pressure slowly, squeezing, squeezing until he hears the click-pop-crunch of bones shattering into a myriad of tiny shards, until he feels the hand trapped in his own disintegrate beneath his iron grip, and the howls of pain that accompany the vicelike movement of his hand sound like a victory fanfare.

His eyes are set ablaze in gleeful satisfaction, burning with all the intensity of a forest fire, and Orpheus releases the mewling man’s hand with a hum of joy, reaching out instead to grab him by the collar of his shirt. “You asked for this,” is the reminder that drops from his lips before he whips his head back and brings it crashing forward, and the fleshy crunching sound he hears is indication enough that he’s hit his mark. The blow leaves him feeling dazed as well, but somehow that only makes the experience more pleasurable, and as he leans back to admire the damage done Orpheus feels a familiar euphoria coursing through his veins. One hand drops to his side, then, a feigned show of reprieve, and he waits until a hint of relief begins to cloud the other man’s gaze before snapping his fist up again, ensuring that it connects squarely with the centre of his victim’s face.

After the third, fourth, fifth punch he stops counting, and it’s only when the blood begins to trickle in scarlet rivulets down the back of his hand that the king decides he’s had his fill, only then that he deigns to release his prisoner and sends him dropping to the ground below as though he were nothing more than feather-light.

(The only sound still audible in the gloom of the basement is the muted rise and fall of the Devil’s breathing.)

There’s something beautiful about this, he thinks, looking down at his handiwork from above, something picturesque about the mottled flecks of blood, the blue-black bruises that trace the outline of fractured bones and crumpled cartilage, and as he kneels down in the dust beside his victim Orpheus thinks he understands how the Old Masters felt when they stood back and knew that they’d produced a masterpiece.

“Tell your friends what happened here today,” he intones, lips forming around the words in a way that’s almost tender, as though he were addressing a protege or an accomplice rather than the broken bag of bones that lies spreadeagled before him, and lifts up a hand to pat the man ever so gently on a cheekbone he knows is shattered. “Tell them that the underworld of Verona is not for sale, tell them from me that next time any of you come back here,” his voice is low, now, hissing, eyes so dark they’re almost obsidian, “I will end you. All of you. You think the Capulets, the Montagues, they’re the ones to be afraid of in this city?” A laugh, then, that rasps like a knife being unsheathed, “Tell your pathetic little friends they’re WRONG.”

. PARA SAMPLE THREE .

[[TW: VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF DEATH, BLOOD]]

– THE PAST IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY; THEY DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY THERE

One day there will be an argument in a quiet town square.

There will be two men present, two brothers. They will be completely different. They will be the best of friends.

One of them will be involved in the argument. The other will drink beer nearby, not watching because he will think that it is safe. He will have made the same assumption before, and on most days he will have been right. This time, he will be wrong. This will cost him dearly.

One of them will fall to the ground, and the well of red in his throat will gurgle every time he takes a breath. The other will be on his knees beside him, palms wrapped around the deluge. His hands are big, but they will seem too small.

Eventually, the well will dry.

The other one, the one who is not drained of crimson, the one who is a great thief with a cold heart and a fondness for shadow, will go into chrysalis, will burn. Out of his husk will rise a beast with a gaping maw and claws that will always slice at the jugular. Out of the flame will walk a demon whose greatest talent is tearing out hearts and stamping on them till they burst. As he rises to his feet in the piazza, reborn, he will smear his bloodied hands across his face and know what it means to taste failure.He will not taste it again.

But this is not that story, not yet. This is the story of everything that comes before, and some things that come after.

*  *  *

Two little boys play on a dirty street. The big one leads, the little one follows. Everything the first does is mirrored in perfect miniature. This is idolatry at is most pure.

“Can there be a good guy, this time?” The little voice tinkles like a jingle bell. “There are never any good guys.”

In the distance, thunder rumbles. The bigger voice has dropped already to the crash of cymbals. Green eyes are kinder now than when strangers see them. Fat drops of rain begin to fall. A big hand cups a small wet cheek. Two sets of feet are bare, beginning to turn sticky grey with dust.

“You can be the good guy, if you like.” Somewhere, a lightning flash. It seems to cast the world in black and white. “But you won’t win.”

*  *  *

A child is left alone with a baby. He is trusted to keep watch.In the next room, the bed creaks, and his mother mumbles his father’s name. Other children might be confused by the strange sounds, but he has heard them enough times to understand. That is what adults do when they are happy. Or angry, or sad, or lonely.

(Sometimes, he will learn later, when they feel nothing at all.)

He looks at the bundle of blankets next to him. The Thing in there is pink and wrinkled and its little mouth is curled into a perfect circle. The boy is happy, because he knows that this perfection will keep his parents satisfied, will give them the loving son that he never wanted to be.

“What is this?” he asks when they bring the infant in to show him, dark eyebrows pulled down into a knot. He knows the answer, he is a clever boy, but some part of him still does not quite understand.

“His name is Hermes,” his mother gushes, eyes awash with a hollow innocence. “Your little brother.”

The boy blinks. His mouth charts the line of the horizon. “And what is he for?”

When the creaking gets too loud he stands up to close the door, and rolls his eyes because he is always the one who has to close it. He stands over the little bundle, holds his pointer finger out.

Five little fingers, fat and pink like worms, reach out and trap it in a rosy vice. Suddenly, the boy feels something warm spread inside him, to the left of his body where he knows his heart is. Suddenly, he understands.

He will keep the baby safe. And in return, the baby will make his heart warm. No one else has managed to do that yet.

It seems a fair exchange, and the boy is satisfied. He does not move his finger until he has counted to ten thousand. Even then it does not seem like long enough.

He does not tell anyone about this silent bargain, and when they come to take the baby to his nursery the boy glares at them until they back away. His parents do not understand why, but they let him move the cradle into his own bedroom. Their son is nine years old but there is not much they can do to resist. His will is iron, a hardness openly defiant of the fact he has not yet lost all his milk teeth. The boy does not explain himself.

His parents are not important enough to know such things.

*  *  *

Mother and Father are fighting again. Throats hoarse from screaming, curses no longer muffled for the sake of the children. Hot, angry tears stain cold, angry faces.

“Why are they arguing?” the younger one asks, eyes big like saucers, round with not understanding.

The older one watches, stony-faced. In the doorway of the kitchen, lit only from above, he is carved from granite.“Because love is not real.”

*  *  *

The little boy runs everywhere after his brother, wings on his sandals. He does not stop even when he falls and skins his knee. He does cry, little face overcast and squeezed with pain, but he gets up and keeps running. It is a resilience that his protector has taught him.

“‘Feus, ‘Feus.” He could talk a stranger’s ear off, but the three syllables of his brother’s name are still out of his reach. “Wait for me.”

But he does not wait. Today, he is impatient.

“I thought you were big enough to keep up.”

Behind him, a sob. He stops. The pastries they have stolen warm his hands through the paper bag. They do not go hungry, though. They steal because they can.

(He will give half of them to the beggar-man with the black cat who sits in the market, and the money they did not spend will be dropped into the hands of the blind woman who is bad at telling fortunes. Charity is not something he enjoys, but neither is suffering. And loyalty comes cheaply in places of such poverty.)

He sighs. In the cafe, a waitress spills a jug of milk.“You promised to tell me. What was it like?”

Someone tries to clean up the spill. The wind steals away their napkins, carries them into the street. Two pigeons are disturbed, and they stop fighting to take wing, leaving messy, torn out feathers in a little pile.

He sighs again. He had sex for the first time yesterday.

His brother still plays with toy soldiers. He is too young to know what desire feels like. ‘Feus chooses the words he knows his brother wants to hear.

“I was good at it.”

*  *  *

The baby goes everywhere with a sentinel, an escort with dark, wild hair and gritted teeth. Wherever the infant squalls, watchful green eyes are not far away. The infant’s parents love their new arrival because he is innocent, and they cherish him. But his true guardian knows already that their dotage is not good enough. Already, he has drawn up battle plans.

Already, he is marshalling his family around him, pronouncing orders to make sure that he gets what he wants and that they are useful, always.

They listen, because he has the look of unfettered temptation about him, because when those eyes are turned on to their brightest they cannot say no. He is not much more than a decade old, but already he could entice them all to their doom. He knows this.

To mark the passing of ten years, his eyes acquire a fire. It is not the flaming matchstick-end there was before, but rather a pair of coals set into a cunning face. A face that already looks a little wicked in the right lighting. The first time he gives a command and it is obeyed, a boy-king is born.

Soon he is not a boy at all.

*  *  *

(Compare two things; one fruit left out in the sun to rot, and another wrapped lovingly in cellophane, hidden in the fridge to save its ripeness. Which one is good, which one bad? Who is at fault? Do you know the answer?)

The boys are older now. One of them plays in dirty streets, still. The other watches, pockets heavy with other people’s possessions. He wears the title of man, now. (He has worn it for much longer than he should.) He should be disappointed.

Today was the first time he felt someone’s bones break beneath his fists. He can still remember the sight, the sound, clear like the reflection on the surface of a pond. He wants to describe it all to the boy playing football in the dust, because he knows that he will be proud no matter what.

He pulls the cuff of his sleeve down to hide the blood on his wrist.

The younger one sees his brother. Happiness paints his face golden. “Join me?” he asks.

The football rolls towards him slowly. Green eyes are cold when they examine it. He wants to stab it with the knife at his back.

(Compare those two things. The distinction seems simple. But the thing that no one ever tells you is that the rotten fruit rolled away from the plastic wrapping of its own volition. Do you know the answer now?

Yes. The answer is clearer than before. Now you know the bad created itself.

Does that scare you?)

He kicks it back instead.He should be disappointed, but somehow all he feels is the warmth of that gold face.

This is the only soul to whom he will never be cruel.

*  *  *

The gravestone is too small.It needs to be, so that no one will know the magnitude of his outrage. He needs to seem indomitable.

With steady hands, he reaches into his chest and tears out his own heart. It is small and black and shrivelled and is not beating and the earth is cool under his fingers as he lays it beside the casket.

The gravestone is small, and that is right. Now no-one knows that one-and-a-half hearts have made this their final resting place.

He wishes the gravestone could be bigger. His grief, impossibly large for a moment, has dulled to a quiet pinprick at the back of his skull. He has suppressed it well, but it is a wound that he will carry always.

Only one other person will ever know this.

The rest of his family are buried somewhere else. He does not stop to remember where. He remembers the priest crying when he told him that he did not care.

*  *  *

One night he drinks too much. The air around him dissolves into mirage, and he is greeted by the sight of a familiar face, older than when he last saw it.

“You’re here,” he says, tongue thick and heavy with not just alcohol.

There is a small smile on the other’s face. A sad smile.

“I’m dead, brother. Can’t you see?”

“Oh.” He tastes ash in his mouth, all of a sudden, the ash of a burned-down house, and when he looks at his hands through quaking lashes there is blood on them again.

Can’t you see?

Next time he drinks too much he kills three people, and it doesn’t matter if they deserved it or not because at least now the blood on his hands does not belong to a ghost.

*  *  *

Two little boys play on a dirty street. They could not be more opposite, and yet they are the best of friends.

The curtain rises on their little game. As always, they are head and heart. One thinks and the other feels. It is a simple division of resources. Both are content.

They do not play cops and robbers, or cowboys and indians. The older one has a mind like a puzzle box, it will not allow for anything less than intricacy.

“Today you will be emperor of Rome. I will be your advisor, and I will teach you how to sack Carthage.”

“Why don’t you want to be the emperor? You are bigger than me.”

The younger one is fair, always. It is a consequence of the light that bleeds from his heart. Because of this light, he can never understand what the older one schemes about at night-time. The older one is glad of this. He remembers the fat, pink fingers and round little circle mouth and knows that this innocence must never be allowed to fade.

Because an emperor has no real power, is what he wants to say. Because influence is spread by acquiring loyalty, not by tyranny. An advisor with his ear open to secrets can rule the kingdom much better than a despot could ever hope to.

“Because you hold a sword better than me.”

The younger one smiles. It swallows his whole face. He has three big gaps where teeth should be.

The curtain falls.

Extras:

FACTFILE: [TW: VIOLENCE, SCARS, ALCOHOL, SMOKING] sexuality: pansexual. Romance has always been easy for him, for even if it weren’t for his impressive muscle mass and the sculpted shape of his face, he has enough charm to seduce even the most stoical of people. Women, men, and everything in between, flock to him in their droves, all eager to experience for themselves exactly what Verona’s Underworld king tastes like. Orpheus is gleeful in the way that he receives his lovers, welcoming each and every one with the cunning smile of a predator and the promise of sin written plainly in his eyes and across his mouth. He’s never disrespectful, although it might be expected from someone whose liaisons never last longer than a few days, instead always attentive, obliging, but always firmly in control, always in possession of all his faculties, and there’s something so entrancing about the way in which he goes about his romantic life that leaves all of his conquests unable to hate him even when they part ways, for it is clear to them from the start that this is a man whom they will never be able to tie down, that he belongs to no one but himself, and that any entanglement they have with him is fleeting at best. The rules of the game are always laid bare for all to read, and even though most people should run for the hills when faced with the proposition Orpheus puts to them, for some inexplicable, paradoxical reason it only makes the objects of his… interest want him all the more. The closest anyone’s ever come to tying him down is Theodora, of course, and even they cannot keep hold of him for longer than a few successive days, for each time the wind changes he is gone, blown away by the breeze like dust in a storm. He doesn’t love Theodora, and knows that they don’t love him back, and anyone who looks at the two of them closely would be forgiven for mistaking their relation for hatred, or at least contempt, but it’s as close as Orpheus could ever come to what the world might see as a traditional romance. He doesn’t love them but he needs them to breathe, needs them to keep his world spinning on its usual axis, and when people point out to him that that looks a lot like love, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes and says no it isn’t, that’s life, that’s something as fundamental as existence. date of birth: 19 November 1977, zodiac Scorpio. place of birth:Verona, Italy. nationality: Italian. ethnicity: Half Native Hawaiian, half a mixture of German, Irish and Native American. parents: Joseph Ahulani, father [deceased]; Katherine Ahulani (nee O’Leary), mother [deceased]. siblings: Hermes Ahulani, brother [deceased]. languages: English, Italian, some French and Spanish. height: 6′ 5″. weight: 230 lbs. hair colour: Dark brown/black. eye colour: Green. distinguishing features: The first thing you notice is his stature, all 6′5″ of him. This is a hulk of a man, more mountain than actual person, with broad shoulders and big arms and enough pectoral muscle for two men. You’d be forgiven for assuming that he was not of this earth, sculpted from some alien material and sent to Earth to show humanity just what it’s missing, and for the half-step back you take when you’re confronted with him, the air of apprehension that suddenly overtakes event he bravest and most foolhardy of souls. This is not a man to anger, not a man to insult. Then, once you’ve taken that step back, once your eyes are able to fully comprehend the titan before you, then the beauty of his features becomes apparent, the chiselled definition of his facial bones and the smooth, flowing lines of the rest of his body, so that he seems almost carved from marble, a Classical sculpture of Heracles, perhaps, or Ares, god of war, a model of virility and masculine strength. But he is not all brawn and brute force, and in fact there’s something oddly graceful about the way he moves, a grace that should not be possible for a man his size, a fluidity that speaks to years learning how to part people from their life’s possessions, years spent running and dancing through the streets of the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’ll ever need. Then there’s the hair, of course, the lion’s mane, black and brown, untameable, wavy locks stretching this way and that, somehow both impossibly tangled and immaculately sleek at the same time. This is a natural disaster of a man, some might say, hurricane and earthquake all wrapped up in one, with a frenzied wildness in his khaki eyes that cannot be contained by conventional human boundaries, and the kind of look on his face that lets you know that if he chose to conquer the world singlehandedly, he’d damn well do it, and there would be perilously few who could stand in his way. distinguishing modifications: It’s hard not to notice the tattoo when you first meet him, the thick, curling bracelet that snakes across his left forearm, a looping cuff of tribal patterns that entwine with each other, a maze of thick, black lines seemingly without a start of end point, a labyrinth of ink. When asked about it, about what it all means, Orpheus simply shrugs and turns his head away, unwilling to give up the secrets of his body to just anyone, knowing that his taciturn silence likely adds to the enigmatic, inscrutable persona he’s managed to cultivate for himself, the kind of reputation that means people will think twice about underestimating him, that will leave them always yearning for an explanation that they will never quite receive. The answer, the meaning, lies far in his past, beyond Italy’s dusty, chalky shores, in that gold-tinged time of his ancestors’ pasts when the world was still full of bright horizons, when they were bathed in love and light and sand, in that wholesome idyll the Ahulani line inhabited in a land far away from this one. The designs are tribal, Hawaiian, his father’s favourite pattern, steeped in tradition and legend. The twisting lines were Joseph’s only connection to the island he and his parents left behind, and, ever one to be intrigued by beautiful things (and seeking in his heart to see that beauty either raised to the heavens or crushed under the heel of his boot), Orpheus found himself captivated by the looping tendrils his father would sometimes draw, as though conjuring smoke out of thin air, the image staying in his mind long after the paper had been crumpled and set ablaze, Joseph’s attempt to purge the yearning he felt for his homeland. “Remember your heritage,” Orpheus’ father used to whisper to him sometimes, when the light of day had faded and the hallucinatory effect of moonlight afforded the man the opportunity to be sentimental, “remember your past.” Orpheus had never been one for sentiment, even as a boy, and would turn his head away from Joseph and his dreaming, but there was something elemental about the images his father conjured up that pressed on his imagination. As soon as he was old enough for his first ink (fourteen isn’t the usual age for a tattoo, but Orpheus wanted one and wasn’t in the habit of not getting what he wanted), the design he was to get seemed plainly obvious to him, a pointed and knowing departure from the skulls and guns that his peers spoke of in hushed and excited tones, eager to prove their virility by displaying an overt connection to violence. But Orpheus was not an insecure man, and so he avoided the trappings of boyhood machismo, instead emphatically selecting something traditional, rooted in the earth and the sun and the sky, something to ground him but also to raise him beyond the grind of everyday life and everyday people, no matter how much of a symbol he was to them. He looks at the markings not as a symbol of longing, of homesickness for a home he has never known, but instead a reminder of the reason that he’s here, of the reason his father’s family left the shores of Hawaii behind and took their illicit trade to Europe, the task that sits upon his shoulders as reigning king to expand the empire his grandparents and parents began to carve out of the stone of Verona’s houses and streets. It’s an embodiment of the fact that he is striving for something, that there is a goal in sight, that once the filth that encrusts the top of the society he lives in is washed away those relegated to the bottom of the pyramid will be able to rise up, that he is a conqueror in his own right, and that no matter how much the rich and powerful might wish it, he cannot be stopped. birthmarks: His skin, sun-browned and far smoother than you’d expect from someone who had spent his life on the streets, is almost unblemished, a rich, even shade somewhere between golden and olive, evidence of years spent out in the open in Mediterranean climes. He has one birthmark, on the back of his left knee, a small, oval blotch two shades darker than the skin surrounding it. It’s unremarkable to look at, and unnoticeable unless you’re really looking, but it’s one of the few discolourations on the canvas of Orpheus’ skin. scars: His frame is marked by scars, as you might expect, because he’s not invincible and he’s damn well not a saint, and he would never hesitate before throwing himself headfirst into the path of an oncoming fight if it could serve his own cause. But even with this in mind, his skin is relatively free of visible, arresting marks, as though in this sphere of his life too the Fates have smiled upon him, and absolved his flesh of all but a few scars. Most of the wounds he’s sustained over the course of his life have healed, most of the injuries that have befallen him have proved not to be serious, or at least, not as serious as the damage he has done to whoever dared to harm him in the first place. The few notable exceptions to this generally scar-free existence are all markings that he’s as proud of as he is his tattoo, for these are the stitches that make up the canvas of Orpheus Ahulani, brushstrokes that contribute to the formidable masterpiece he has become. There’s the long, jagged line that runs across his ribcage, about halfway down his left side, a remnant of a brawl he once got himself into in a small alleyway behind a bar, emboldened by alcohol and nicotine fumes and angry that the world didn’t seem to fall into line with his grand plan for future. He took a knife to the ribs that day but dealt out more than his fair share of punches, and it was only after he’d been pulled off his rival, knife still hanging from the hole it had made in his side, that Orpheus had realised that he was wounded. His opponent, who was older and should have known better than to antagonise an unruly eighteen year-old, was left with a smashed kneecap and two broken arms, and Orpheus got away lightly, stitched up by his mother in a matter of hours and reprimanded only for the fact that he’d failed to take the man’s wallet off him. It’s the only time, other than when he avenged his family, that Orpheus has ever truly exercised the violence that he’s obviously capable of, and he wears the scar like a badge, knowing that, should anyone choose to cross him, they’ll rue the day the thought ever crossed their minds. Most of his other scars were obtained through thieving and conning: scraped knuckles grazed on a wall whilst running away from a mark, small knife cuts to his forearms from people who try to fight back when he takes their possessions from them (if they ever notice, that is, and the percentage of people who do is so infinitesimal that Orpheus isn’t in the least concerned when it does happen), a few burns obtained through his unquenchable desire to play with fire, and a long scar that cuts through his eyebrow, obtained from cut glass, but whether the mark was made by an angry mark or a furious lover, he can’t quite recall. Perhaps Theodora left it there. It seems like the kind of thing they’re capable of doing when they’re angry with him (which is most of the time). myers-briggs: ESFP. moral alignment: Chaotic Evil. temperament: Choleric. deadly sin: Wrath. heavenly virtue: Diligence. habits: Smoking and drinking have become habits to him, at this point, drinking an integral part of his daily life since he was old enough to understand what alcohol was and the effects it could have, and smoking a childhood vice that never quite seems to leave him, even though he has the willpower to give up quite easily if he so desired. He’s often clouded by smoke, shrouded in mystery both physically and metaphorically, and usually can be seen with a hand-rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear or into the breast pocket of a shirt, always there in case his fingers feel the itch. When he can get his hands on them (never legally), he’s also partial to cigars, fat, Cuban ones that he can wedge between his teeth and puff on when the five year-old in him rears his head and he wants to remind everyone around him of exactly who he is, that he’s a big man with big power, and that they’d all best revere him, for not to do so would be a grave sin. phobias: Nothing scares him, not really. He’s seen too much, been through too much, to ever afford himself the luxury of fear, and in any case fear was stamped out of him as a young boy by his mother’s family, uncompromising folks who believed that terror made you weak and would eventually leave you dead. There’s nothing left for him to fear, anyway - his family have already been taken from him, and being as untethered as he is makes him untouchable, means that he can sit atop his throne and lock the castle gates, knowing that no one will ever breach them, that nothing is capable of scaring him: not death, not life, not the prospect of failure, because in his mind every situation he could ever find himself in is simply waiting to be turned into a success, into an opportunity.

AESTHETIC: upturned cups of wine; bare feet on cobblestones; eating fruit so that the juice runs down your chin; melting ice; wild flowers; the smell of burnt sugar and soil; the seductive quality of a whisper; singing hymns under your breath whilst you blaspheme; little braids tucked away inside your hair; unbuttoned shirts and bare chests; sweat-slicked skin; running down alleyways; the slow burn of whisky; dark corners; the smell of woodsmoke and leather; raised voices; rumpled sheets; broken glass; hair pulled back into a ponytail; no crying; spearmint chewing gum; worn, heavy boots; classic rock; lying eyes and lying smiles; charcoal and broken pencil leads; flick-knives; cigarette ash; beef steaks; cracking joints and clenched fists; screaming into the wind until your lungs are hoarse; sarcastic quips and raised eyebrows; bloody knuckles and split lips; sunlight and moonlight; cigar smoke; orchestral music; throwing open double doors; molten gold; secrets in the dark.

HEADCANONS:

1) Although he never seems to put much effort into his appearance, giving off the impression of being one of those people who just wake up beautiful and put together, in a perfectly disheveled kind of way, the aesthetic of careless casualness Orpheus exudes was in fact carefully thought through at one point or other in his life. Even as a much younger man that he now is, Orpheus knew exactly what kind of image he wanted to project to the outside world, how he wanted people to see him, knew the precise pitch at which the gasps he elicited from passers-by should ring in his ears. He most often wears white, black, or grey, and never, ever wears bright colours. The only injections of shades that aren’t monochrome into his wardrobe are dark, rich, sensuous colours like burgundy, deep emerald and copper, hues that blend easily into the darkness that he enjoys to cloak himself in. He knows precisely what looks good in him, wears his clothes as part of his armour, uses them to reinforce his status as king. He’s a fan of some more daring things, too; pinstripes and suspenders and hats that should look ridiculous on him but somehow fit seamlessly into the picture, suit trousers with combat boots, scarves and waistcoats and always, always odd socks. He owns some leather items, a rare luxury he afforded himself and paid for out of his own pocket, but generally his rule is never to spend more than thirty euros on a piece of clothing, and, if there’s something expensive that his heart truly desires, to steal it from an unsuspecting rich brat who can afford to have his pockets lightened. He may be broadly self-serving and callous, but Orpheus believes that it’d be wrong of him to adopt the mantle of king of the paupers and then to swan around in finery more befitting of an actual ruler than a prince of thieves, and so he tries to keep his possessions fairly modest, although this isn’t an active effort or something he’d admit out loud. One thing he is partial too is jewellery, and more often than not his fingers are stacked with rings of various shapes, sizes and materials, trinkets pulled from the fingers of the victims of his cons, his neck similarly draped with countless necklaces, his wrists bound with golden chains and leather ropes alike.

2) He stole a book, once. He was four years old, young enough to know that thieving and conning was to be his life’s work, but not quite old enough to figure out what it was that he wanted to steal, what was worth picking pockets and running scams for, and what was best left alone. He was four years old and he saw the businessman’s briefcase, and the opportunity was too exciting for the young boy to ignore. How disappointed he was, at first, to open the leather satchel and find little more than papers and documents, nothing more than a business proposal. But then something else slid out of the bag, a small, unassuming rectangle of paper, worn at the corners and scratched across the spine. Lord of the Flies, the cover read, and despite himself Orpheus opened it to have a look. He read, and read, and was surprised to find that he liked it. He dumped the briefcase in a nearby alley and made his way home, reading all the while, and when his family asked him where he had found the dog-eared volume Orpheus simply shrugged and told them he’d found it on the street. This event didn’t start an obsession, far from it, for he was too occupied by the desire for self-advancement and self-preservation throbbing in his head to ever devote himself completely to something as time-consuming as reading, but nonetheless it unlocked in Orpheus a desire to discover more. If he ever came across a book whilst working his favourite back streets, he would take it, provided that it was a classic and that it looked interesting (anything he stole that didn’t grip his fancy was donated to the local orphanage), and slowly but surely he built up a small library for himself, stashing books anywhere he could, and although now he’s all but forgotten the practice, if his eyes ever land on a volume that he feels his makeshift library is lacking, he’ll often go out of his way to pick it up. He likes to lift the odd book from the library, too, always replacing what he takes with trash literature, usually pulp, often pornographic, and makes sure he’s around when either the librarian or some unsuspecting budding reader comes across his substitution. His favourite novel? Why, Crime and Punishment, of course, if only because the title is so apt, and he finds it amusing to be seen reading it out in the open, especially when there is law enforcement present to witness it.

3) Orpheus can play the guitar, and isn’t half-bad at carrying a tune. As with most of the skills he’s picked up in his life, this happened entirely by accident (although to look at him you’d believe that it was all carefully engineered, like Orpheus has meant for his life to turn out exactly as it has). He stole a guitar, because his father told him it was expensive, and that it would be good practise to steal something so large, but once he had the instrument in his hands there didn’t seem to be much that it was useful for, unless he wanted to club someone on the head with it (a tempting solution to the problem). For a few weeks it sat in his corner of the room he and his brother shared, until finally Orpheus decided there was nothing left to do but try and play it, since the fence his father had contacted hadn’t come through for them and wouldn’t sell it. So he found a homeless man living in the corner of the piazza in front of the Cathedral, looked him squarely in the eye and said teach me to play, and that was that. He doesn’t play often - he isn’t a minstrel, or some sort of cheap travelling entertainer - but nonetheless it’s a skill that he keeps in his back pocket in case he should ever need it, and he enjoys the fact that he can make music as well as listen to it. Nowadays, he’ll most often play when he’s drunk, stretched out across whatever chair he’s using as his makeshift throne on that particular day, tucked away in the corner of his favourite bar, when daylight has faded and everyone’s just about tired enough not to care.

4) He has riches in his possession beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings, but he isn’t rich, and never has been. Plenty of the things he’s stolen are expensive, invaluable, priceless even, and he’s fenced or ransomed so many of them that he has a considerable amount of material wealth, most of it cash bills stuffed into vases and hollowed-out books (there’s something oddly cinematic about hiding wads of money that Orpheus enjoys), but he doesn’t ever spend enough of it for anyone who doesn’t know him to cotton onto the fact of exactly how much money he has. Despite the prolific criminality that runs in his bloodline, Orpheus is of humble stock, and to suddenly turn around after years spent living more or less on a level with Verona’s paupers and start spending the money he’s amassed frivolously, carelessly, emulating those rich families whom he hates so much, would feel deeply wrong to him. He doesn’t have much of a moral code, and what little morality he did have was utterly shot to pieces on the night his brother died, but this is a conviction that he holds and tries to adhere firmly to. He also likes to hand money out, to anyone who may need it, although these acts of charity are driven as much by the compassion he has for the poor and downtrodden (about the only people he’s capable of experiencing any sympathy for) as by his desire to keep them on his side, to sweeten the bonds between him and his disciples so that when the time comes, they will be amenable to the plans he has in store for them all, will be utterly servile, willing to fall on their swords for him a thousand times over. They’re not bribes, as such, more friendly reminders of exactly what he can do for his people, that he could be spending his ill-gotten gains on cars and expensive watches but instead chooses to safeguard his domain against the threat of Capulet or Montague influence.

5) Sometimes, in the darkened confines of the night, when he’s decided to go without a lover and sleep alone, when the only sounds he can hear are the slow rise and fall of his own breath and the distant wailing of owls, Orpheus allows himself to contemplate the facts of his existence, and his lineage. He is the final one of his kind, the last Ahulani, the last one to ever carry that fiery mixture of genes that was forged when his mother and his father came together forty years ago. It shouldn’t bother him, in fact being the last of his dynasty should help him feel even grander, increase the sense of momentous expectation and duty that he imposes upon his own shoulders, but for some reason, in these dark, quiet places, when the only thing keeping him company is the steady pulse of thoughts in his own head, it does. That’s part of the reason why he strives so hard to make the kingdom gifted to him something worthy of remembering, why he’s willing to fight tooth and nail to make his legacy a reality, to ensure that his name is inscribed in the stars as well as on stone monuments, that the four syllables of his surname are not lost to the wind and rain like so many other lineages. It’s partly why he wishes his brother was still alive - he doesn’t allow himself to miss Hermes, because to allow such emotion to intrude into the otherwise impermeable facade of his consciousness would only slow him down, and that is unacceptable - because of his value in furthering their bloodline. Hermes was exactly the kind of person Orpheus is not: warm, kind, unashamedly gleeful, and full of love, the kind of man who drew women to him not because of his beauty but because of his heart, who inspired deep romantic love in the few girlfriends he did have. Had he lived, he would have no doubt produced an impossibly, almost disgustingly large brood of children, who would have carried the Ahulani name and their fearlessness forward, would have made a new line of thieves. Orpheus knows that he can never be the person his brother could have been, and he isn’t suddenly about to start seeking ways to have a child of his own simply because of something as everyday as loss, but one of his few regrets about the loss of his family is that he will take their name to his grave with him.

EXTRA WRITING: I wrote a poem about Orpheus, once, because I’m a loser and he’s my tiny evil son:

– THE SEVEN AGES OF ORPHEUS AHULANI; told through bloodshed and darkness and a little too much pain.

i. there’s blood on your hands, infant. it’s your mother’s blood, her life and the life she gave to you. she brought you into this world, tried to bring you out of darkness and into light… except it didn’t really work, did it? because the light hardly affected you, little child, with your whirlpool eyes and that soul that was already far too dark. she could never have imagined, your mother, that her lamb’s blood would have raised a wolf. ii. there’s blood on your hands, boy. it’s your own blood, from where you’ve fallen and scraped your knee. get up, your father tells you, and his voice isn’t kind or gentle but you understand, know that big boys don’t cry. you’re only seven but you know already. you stopped crying a while ago. iii. there’s blood on your hands, young man. it’s your brother’s blood, you watch it pour between your fingers like river water stained an awful crimson, and amidst the rage that burns hot and white you can taste retribution on your tongue. (it tastes bitter-sweet, like you’d imagined, honey and vinegar.) it’s a waste, this, a life thrown away, because he was a happy boy. you don’t believe in happiness, not for a long time, but he did, and that’s important, somehow. maybe you didn’t love him properly, not like the story-books say you should, but you’ll avenge him. iv. there’s blood on your hands, phoenix. it’s a stranger’s blood, blood you’ve spilt, blood that runs down, down, down your arms and hands down past your feet down onto the too-expensive carpet you’re treading scarlet footprints into. you said you would avenge him, them, all of them, and here you are, and it isn’t really clear in the half-light which is sharper: your knife or the grin on your face. they thought fire would kill you. they were wrong, and when you rose from the flames you had been made anew. fire becomes you, now, it’s a weapon, not an enemy, and burning a mansion to the ground becomes so simple, the easiest thing in the world. you should feel some guilt, by rights, but your heart isn’t like other hearts, it’s cold and cruel and all things burn, in the end, so why waste a moment’s thought on the things you’ve razed to the ground. all things burn, in the end. (except you, perhaps; you have become the thing that burns others.) v. there’s blood on your hands, king. it’s your own blood again, but you haven’t fallen over this time. this time you’re fighting, and there’s a battered form in the dust in front of you, and you’ve proven a point to anyone who doubted you. so what if they got a lucky hit, scratched your face with the shards of a bottle? the blood you’re wiping away from your forehead is like armour, chainmail. your followers have always respected you, but now they’re afraid of you, too. you look at the cut over your eye in the mirror afterwards, and there’s blood on your lips when you smile. did that powerful man know what he was getting himself into, when he signed a pact with the devil’s right hand? no- not right hand- the devil himself. (it’s a nickname others have given you when they whisper about you in the dark and it seems fitting.) perhaps not, you think. king cap looked to buy a fighting dog, paid for a hellhound. vi. there’s blood on your hands, lover. it’s their blood, this time, the blood of someone who, despite your marble-steel exterior, means a lot to you. you’re bandaging their wounds - they don’t need you to - because, despite yourself, you have to make sure that they’re safe. you have to have them near you, always, you may go your separate ways often enough but there will always be a red thread tying your fingers together. (a passing traveller told you that myth, once. you don’t believe in fate but it seemed apt, somehow.) you find yourself looking for their face in crowded rooms, waiting, for the moment that they’ll sidle up to you and you’ll hear their voice, whispering in your ear, the slow lapping of waves on the sea shore. it’s not love, not at all, (that would be childish) but something altogether more prosaic. need, perhaps. vii. there will be blood on your hands, old man. it will be the world’s blood, when you’ve pulled its innards out and scraped all you can get from deep within, when you hold its bloodied heart beating in your hands. your parents taught you ambition but they never could have imagined the fire of hunger they lit in your soul. the best is not enough. you want it all, want the world, your world, to cower at your feet, want all those who wrote you off as nothing more than vermin to know that they were right. you are vermin, and you wear the slur with pride. more fool them, you’ll think, when the carcass of the world lies bloody at your feet. they forgot that vermin have the power to destroy.

MOODBOARDS:

1, 2, 3 & 4.