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hoodoo12 · 4 years ago

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Associates with Benefits

Secret Santa on our discord server matched me with the fabulous @strange-n-unbluusual, which made me giddy.

NSFW. That’s all I’m gonna say.

Enjoy! `

“You? What’re you doing here?!”

Out of anyone, anywhere in the Nether- or upper world, Beetlejuice never thought he’d lay eyes on him again.

“I’d ask the same of you, but I’m fairly sure I know the answer.”

From his seat on the trunk by the window, the specter scoffed and shook his head, although he didn’t take his eyes off the other man.

“Jesus. You still scamming people? Life coach or crystal whisperer or whatever? Or are you back to trying to get your sex cult up and running again?” Otho--he never took the time to legally change his name, but like he told his clients, “if you believed in something enough, it can become your reality”--matched the scoff and straightened to an imposing height. He always was taller. “The sex cult only worked with your help,” he admitted begrudgingly, “and you know it, Beetlejuice.” A quick flash of pink rippled through the specter’s hair and he shivered. He couldn’t disguise either semi-pleased reaction to his name spoken aloud. More importantly, did he want to?

“So what’s the con this time, big guy?”

Otho rolled his eyes and opened his jacket enough to find a silver cigarette case tucked into the inside pocket. He took his time extracting a cigarette, paused, then offered one to the house’s uninvited guest he’d found in the attic. Beetlejuice took it, lit it with a flame that originated on his fingertip, and gestured Otho closer.

The man agreed without a word, but instead of using flame to light his smoke, Beetlejuice leaned in close enough for the tips to meet. Amber eyes held more the humanly brown, and Otho sucked slightly on the cigarette between his lips to light it. Only once it caught did Beetlejuice move back.

“I was hired to cleanse this house of some distinctive poltergeist activity,” he finally answered. Beetlejuice grinned. True to form, Otho never used the word ‘con.’ The man may be a shyster, but he was full of himself. Beetlejuice could respect that, being a confident hustler himself.

“That wasn’t me.”

Otho lifted an eyebrow. “Oh no?”

“Shit no. Moving chairs around? Knocking on walls? That’s haunting 101. Baby ghost antics, like that pansy white bread couple, what’s their name--”

“You know their names. The Maitlands.”

When he wasn’t overwhelmed by a demon raging beyond reason, Otho never hesitated to call him out. “Right. The Maitlands. How’re they doing? And the rest of the Scooby gang?” He took in a lungful of smoke then dropped his gaze as if he was suddenly very interested in the cigarette, examining it as if trying to read the brand on the paper in the pale moonlight filtering through the attic window.

“I wouldn’t know. Someone strapped me to a Wheel of Death and kicked me into some weird limbo where I had to claw my way back to the upper world. I ended up in Iowa, for christ’s sake!”

Beetlejuice chuckled, but choked it back when he saw the angry expression on the other’s face. “Hey man, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you were going to end up in the midwest! I was angry, and you know that sometimes things get a little out of control when I’m angry.”

Otho gave him a dead-eyed stare in response. Taking a second to center himself, he decided to follow the advice from that one movie and let it go. He wished he could’ve laid claim to that phrase without sounding like he was parrotting a kid’s movie; it was a good one: simple and seemingly easy to follow.

More calmly, he returned to an earlier part of the conversation. “So I have no clue how any of them are getting on. You spent more time with them, why don’t you tell me?” Automatically Beetlejuice’s free hand went to the center of his chest. It was a habit that he found hard to break, running his fingers over the knobby scar he’d gotten as a reminder of the whole bungled situation. It still physically pained him, and could be felt even through a layer of clothing. It still emotionally pained him, that betrayal that he didn’t want to admit he deserved.

“I don’t know either,” he whispered, and yanked his hand away from his chest.

The two of them stood in silence for a moment. Smoke drifted upwards in curlicues, looking bright white in the moonlight.

Otho hadn’t missed the involuntary movements and cleared his throat quietly. “I heard she hurt you.” “Everybody hurts me.” He meant it say it snappy and full of wrath, but it came out weak.

The man’s reply was just as soft, and just was wounded. “I never did.”

Beetlejuice looked up again. Otho held his lit cigarette at his side and was watching him with an unreadable expression. He tried to dredge up some righteous indignation. “You were going to put me in a soul box!”

“The soul box you gave me?” Otho replied drily. “The one that was particle board painted with some fancy iridescent paint you brought over from the Netherworld to look impressive? That soul box?”

He had no reply to that.

“Damn it. Beej--we almost had them! If we’d just stuck to the plan, it would have been free and clear, but--” “But it was my fault, is that what you were going to say?! That once again I screwed the pooch, just like so many other times in my fucking existence?!” “--but the girl threw a wretch in the works,” Otho continued firmly.

Beetlejuice both hated and loved that Otho was rarely rattled by his outbursts.

“She offered something you couldn’t pass up. I get it.” He wanted to stay angry at the man. At least he could feel anger; it was one of the strongest emotions, but it always burnt itself out and left him exhausted and remorseful. Suddenly he just couldn’t hold onto the rage. He dropped his head.

The floorboards creaked and the man’s cologne washed over him. Blenheim Bouquet. The light spicy floral scent always seemed too gossamery for a man, but wasn’t the faint aroma of roses that followed him occasionally out of place as well? The cologne was so synonymous with Otho the specter couldn’t imagine him without it.

With his face still turned down, he watched a hand carefully curl into his striped lapel. “I don’t blame you, Beej,” Otho said quietly. He didn’t need to. He blamed himself. After a beat with no reply, Otho continued, even more quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Beetlejuice admitted in such a whisper his voice would have been lost if they weren’t in a silent attic.

In a fluid movement Otho dropped his cigarette to the wooden floor and brought that hand to the specter’s jaw., He stepped forward to crush the smoldering smoke out and bring himself even closer, and as he lifted Beetlejuice’s face he pressed his open mouth against the ghost’s.

It felt like old times.

Beetlejuice breathed in, taking the warm air from Otho’s lungs, like a thirsty man in a desert. Oh, he’d missed that--

Otho broke the kiss once he’d run out of oxygen. He stayed close though, hand now fisted in his jacket. Beetlejuice wasn’t sure if that was to keep him from disappearing from literally right under his nose, or just because the man had a propensity for wrinkling clothing. As dapper as he liked to present himself, he had a thing for mussed clothing up, like creases were evidence of passion.

The only thing he could think to say was, “It feels different now that you have a beard.”

Jesus he was a dumbass. Luckily, Otho didn’t seem to share his opinion. “I decided to grow it out because of yours. Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. Let me feel it again.”

With that ham-fisted invitation, Otho kissed him again. It grew this time--more of the old give and take, more tongue, more suction--as they fell back into the familiarity of it. When Otho had to stop for air this time, he was panting. Beetlejuice was the one to hold him close, now, to luxuriate in the breath.

With fingers made crass from a flood of arousal, Beetlejuice cupped and dug at the pants and its closure in front of him.

“My clients are downstairs,” Otho hissed, but didn’t make any move to step away or stop him. “Then don’t be loud,” Beetlejuice advised, unhelpfully.

He’d managed to fight open Otho’s belt but the button was going to take two hands. He could just manipulate it free with a thought, but liked the tease of slightly frantic fumbling, and listening to Otho’s breath hitch as he did. He also liked finding that Otho still wore silk underwear. They felt nice, but provided no support against an erection. A wet spot, visible even in the frosty moonlight streaming through the window, marred the front of them. He had an urge to put his mouth there, to make that wet spot bigger, but Otho’s fingers under his jaw turned him up upward again.

The man’s expression was unreadable once more. Beetlejuice didn’t know if he was going to be shoved away to end this or shoved to the dusty attic floor with Otho on top of him. What he got instead, was another kiss, this one harder, more desperate than the ones before it, a pull to an upright position, and a hand at his groin too, with equal floundering of his fly and a almost inaudible curse as Otho had to push the striped jacket back and suspenders off the specter’s shoulders to assist getting him undressed.

In very little time, however, both of them had their pants pushed hurriedly to mid-thigh, and Beetlejuice had been hauled to his feet. He should have known that there was no way Otho was going go to the floor and let dust and grime get on his tailored trousers. So now they were pressed torso to torso, groin to groin, mouth to mouth, and this time Otho only took sips of air when his lungs absolutely demanded it.

Bumping his hips forward, the specter was rewarded with a low groan. His bigger reward was the man’s large hand wrapping simultaneously around both their cocks. The heat and pressure made him gasp.

A further rutting into that hand to determine how much movement he was granted made Otho gasp. “Clients. Downstairs,” he reminded him with a wicked grin. Otho retorted, “Then don’t be loud!” in a strained whisper, and gave them both a pull just to test him. That glorious warmth of his cock against another, of a hand stroking them both off--Beetlejuice moaned, checked himself, and buried his face in the other man’s neck to muffle himself. If he had his wits about him he’d make some comment about how moaning was going to be okay, this house was haunted after all, but the movement of Otho’s hand was shutting down his higher brain function.

Not only was he losing the ability to keep the noises he made quiet, his hips moved of their own accord. The specter rolled his pelvis upward, chasing each stroke. He wasn’t alone in that; Otho pushed into his own hand, creating a beautiful counter friction as well. The man’s free hand held him in the small of his back, under his untucked shirt, searing his cold skin with the warmth of his palm. He missed that rough handling to keep him in position so much. He clung to Otho’s shoulders.

It’d been a long time since they’d been together, but Otho quickly fell into a practiced rhythm that suited them both: long pulls, an occasional twist for variety, a bit of a squeeze to stave off coming too quickly. Speaking of which--

Beetlejuice pried the fingers of one hand off Otho’s jacket and dropped it to the man’s fist. He meant to slow him down, meant to gasp in his ear to wait, give me a second baby, please--but the moment Otho loosened his grip to allow him to lace his tepid fingers between his, he wanted nothing more than to let pleasure take the bit between its teeth and have Otho follow quickly too. He wanted to be coated and smeared with the man’s come, and he wanted it now.

The combination of warm and chill, the doubling of pressure and friction pushed him higher and higher, closer to his end. A slight buckling of Otho’s knees made him hurriedly shift his other hand from his shoulder to his bare hip to help support him, and just as he wanted, Otho came in thick spurts over both their fists. The heat and additional bit of slick it provided was enough to send him over the edge as well.

His cool release mingled with Otho’s, and for several moments they both simply leaned into one another. Beetlejuice would have stood there for an eon, soaking in as much warmth as he could. Otho was the one to gently start to move away.

They both groaned as they carefully relaxed their hands from their cocks. Otho made up for the fact that he was the first to move by capturing the Beetlejuice’s mouth again, swallowing his groans. He also dipped his hand lower to pinch the specter’s ass, earning himself a surprised gasp and a chuckle, and a nip to his lower lip in return.

Hobbled by his trousers, Otho had to dig for his handkerchief awkwardly. When he finally extracted it from a back pocket, he wiped his hand clean before offering it to Beetlejuice. He took it and cleaned himself as well, then stuck the square of cloth into his own pocket instead of handing it back.

There was no sound for a moment but the rustling of clothing and re-fastening of zippers and other closures. Otho was done before Beetlejuice, and stepped against the ghost immediately after he’d resituated his suspenders.

Before he could kiss him again, Beetlejuice said, “I guess I like the beard.” Otho snorted in amusement--so un-guru like!--and kissed him. It was lingering and soft, and felt like they’d never been apart.

It also felt like a good bye.

Beetlejuice steeled himself for another rejection as the man broke away again.

“Beetlejuice--”

He shuddered at his name spoken aloud again. He couldn’t help it. But here it comes--

“--I’m glad to see you again. But--|

Oh fuck. Here it comes--

“--we haven’t seen each other for so long. I just . . .”

Fuck his fucking un-life. He should just slink back into the Netherworld while Otho was searching for words.

“ . . . I just don’t . . . this is hard to say . . . ”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck! Why was is so hard to leave? Why couldn’t he be the one to leave, instead of people leaving him?!

“You want to come with me, when I go?”

The words were spoken in a hushed rush, as if Otho just needed to blurt them out. It took Beetlejuice several embarrassing moments to comprehend them. “Come with you?” “Yes. I’ve been looking for you, you know . . .” He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have thought! Suddenly, the future looked, well, maybe not bright per se, but at least not as dim.

He nodded, as if he had to reply as quickly as possible and didn’t trust words to be fast enough.

Otho smiled. “Good. You have to do something for me first, though.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Anything, baby. You just name it.”

“You have to get rid of whatever is actually haunting this place. You know I’m garbage at all that stuff.” Beetlejuice broke into laughter that probably echoed through the house, scaring the owners, but he didn’t care and knew Otho wouldn’t either. It’d just lend more credence to the man being able to banish spirits, just like the cons they used to pull back in the old days.

fin

#writing #fanfiction #Beetlejuice #musical Beetlejuice

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winfredkipling · 3 years ago

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kingofdirtandnothing · 4 years ago

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@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Twelve

Tommy’s kitchen isn’t large. It wasn’t a selling point when he picked this flat to move into. He’s never spent much time in it, never felt like he was missing out for not having more. There were dozens of shops within walking distance of his flat, places where he could get something to eat without having to dirty the bowls in his cabinet or the flatware in his drawer.

There’s an island in the center of it, wooden butcher block top scored with countless swipes of a knife. A big one, and a sharp one if the indentations were anything to go by. The island itself had been a gift, handed over secondhand from his employer when he remodeled his kitchen. It took up the majority of Tommy’s kitchen, and until today, Tommy had only ever rested against it to drink his coffee in the morning, or his tea at night as he read the papers. He didn’t even use the kitchen table he had, gifted along with the island from Mr. Changretta.

But today, today it’s being put to use for the first time. Old memories making hands useful again, his mother’s ghost like a whisper in his ear. You still remember, don’t you Thomas? He does remember. The right amount of water, at just the right temperature. His mother used to boil it over the fire and let it cool. They didn’t have running water where he grew up.

The trailer had been a step up from the caravans that his grandmother grew up in, easy to pack up and move. But they were still far removed from what the gorgers considered a home.

Tommy knew the truth. A home wasn’t made with running water and electricity. It wasn’t even made with a bed for yourself. A home was made with the people that were inside of it, and the love they put into everything that they did. (Like making bread.)

His flat has running water, and Tommy dashes it against the inside of his wrist the same way his mother used to dash droplets of milk from glass bottles for John when he was a babe. It’s warm enough, maybe too warm. That’s alright. A little burn never ruined anyone.

“The yeast has to bloom. And for it to bloom, we need it to feed.” Tommy isn’t alone in his kitchen. There’s a massive bear of a man standing near him, near enough that Tommy can smell his cologne, and feel a little drunk on it.

Alfie Solomons sold rum and whiskey and other spirits from a warehouse near the dock in Monte Carlo. And Tommy had heard him more than once refer to his stock as bread. ‘We bake the brown bread, we bake the white bread. We bake all kinds here’ and he’d run his fingers across the tops of dusty, aging bottles with a smile in his voice. Inviting you in on the secret.

“And yeast, it likes sweets.” Tommy holds the sugar canister open to Alfie, who’s callused fingers dip in to the glittering mound and sprinkle it across the top of the warm water like raindrops on the ocean. Tommy follows it up with the packet of yeast, and turns his full attention to Alfie.

A watched pot never boiled, and all that. But Alfie was something worth keeping his eyes on, Tommy knew that much for certain.

Alfie has eyes like a wildfire. Tommy has never wanted to be kindling before, but he can feel it now, settling in his chest. The truth was always something that took time to sink in to him. It needed to bloom, just like the yeast. Sometimes, it needed a dash of lust to feed on to finds its way to blooming.

The truth was: The sun rose in the east and set in the west. The sky was blue. The grass was green. Tommy Shelby loved Alfie Solomons.

And there was no great obstacle there. This wasn’t a movie. Station and money didn’t stand between them, though Tommy had a feeling there was a tax bracket or two between a stable keeper and a whiskey maker. The world didn’t put men in jail for loving men anymore. And while there was no legal standing for men to marry men in Monaco, they were far less likely to get killed for it here than they were in places like America. It wasn’t ideal, but then again life never was.

It was better that way. Things that were too good to be true always managed to fall apart. Tommy liked his love with a dash of misery. It made it more satisfying. More real.

Tommy steps into Alfie’s personal space, and he can feel the heat of Alfie’s skin from his rolled up sleeves, his strong forearms tanned by the sun. He’d learned early on that Alfie hunched to make himself look smaller. He’d watched him do it around the old Jewish women and the men he was doing business with.

But now, Alfie wasn’t hunching over. He was standing to his full height, towering and it feels like a secret being handed over to him in the quiet of his kitchen.

“I want you, Mr. Solomons.�� And Tommy is done pretending at anything but. He traces a thumb over the button on Alfie’s shirt, and listens to the rumble of his laughter, deep in the bellows of his chest. “And if there’s one thing in this world you should know about me, it’s that I get what I want.”

He wanted this flat, deep in the middle of the foreigners and their businesses, even if he had to commute nearly an hour to get to work every day. So he got it. He wanted his job, with a rich man’s horses, giving them the proper care that they needed. So he got it. And now he’s got a bear of a man in his kitchen, and Tommy won’t be letting him leave until he’s gotten what he wants.

Alfie Solomon’s heart, wrapped up neat in butcher paper and twine and kept in a safe made of his own ribs.

Tommy might have to start with his body first, but the heart would be coming along in time.

But before that scruffy head can lean in and take what Tommy wants so fucking badly, he turns away again. The yeast was ready. “Bring me the bowl with the flour.” They’d already sifted it with the salt, and put it to the side.

Tommy arms Alfie with a wooden spoon and the bowl, and slowly starts drizzling in the frothy mixture of sugar, water and yeast. “Once you bring it all together, we’ll knead it.” Alfie clutches the big metal mixing bowl to his chest and starts his stirring with false solemnity. “Oy, Tommy. If you wanted to seduce me into your bed, you didn’t have to get baking involved in it.”

“Alfie.” Those dark eyes turn to him, hopeful. “Keep stirring.” Alfie’s laughter is the crackling of kindling on the fire, and Tommy has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling in return.

While Alfie beats dutifully away at the dough, Tommy dusts the top of his butcher block counter with flour, spreading white in snowy plumes across the scored surface. When Tommy dusts his hands together, he’s gratified with the slow fall of white onto the counter.

He takes the shaggy dough from the bowl, letting it try and cling to the sides for a beat before he cuts the strands with the side of his hand, and turns it out onto the floured surface of the counter.

“You knead by using the heel of your hand.” Tommy presses the heel of his hand into the mass of dough, pushing it outwards until the dough itself stretches. “Then you fold, and turn. Knead, fold, turn.” Each word is punctuated by the action itself, and Tommy is gratified to see Alfie’s molten gaze focused entirely on his hands. “It will take five, maybe ten minutes. You’ll know by the feel of the dough.”

He takes Alfie’s hands by the wrist, bringing them down to the table until his palms are pressed into the flour. Alfie mimics Tommy’s own gesture from moments ago, dusting his hands together. He was a quick learner, Mr. Solomons. Tommy steps aside so that Alfie can stand in front of the mound of dough. “Knead. Fold. Turn.”

Alfie echoes knead, fold, turn under his breath, and digs big hands into the dough. Not surprisingly, Alfie pushes too far with the heel of his hand and the dough tears in the middle, leaving a hole that shows the counter beneath.

“There’s a feeling to it.” And Tommy might be utilizing that feeling, and Alfie’s size to get closer to what he wants. He steps in close beside Alfie, their shoulders brushing, and puts his hands on top of Alfie’s. “Not too gentle, or the bread won’t take. Not too hard, or you’ll tear the dough.”

There’s a smile hidden in the wild snarl of Alfie’s beard, and an answering one trying to take hold of the corners of Tommy’s mouth. He won’t let it. He’s too focused on the feel of Alfie’s strong hands beneath his own.

“Knead.” He interlaces the fingers of his left hand with Alfie’s and presses it down into the dough, enough weight behind it to flatten the mound of dough into a long, rectangular disk. “Fold.” Even with their fingers laced, Tommy is able to grab hold of the edge of the dough and fold it back in on itself. “Turn.” And then a quarter turn of the dough.

It’s enough. Alfie doesn’t need telling again. But Tommy doesn’t move away. And when Alfie lifts his arm, it’s only natural that Tommy slip beneath it. With Alfie’s chest pressed to his back and the cage of his arms around him, Tommy finds it hard to remember just how patient you were supposed to be with bread.

“Thomas-” Alfie’s voice is a heated puff of air against his ear, and it makes the hairs at the base of Tommy’s skull stand up on end, just like the ones on his arms. “If you don’t stop kneading this fucking dough and fuck me, I will be forced to take drastic measures.”

Tommy only realizes that his hands are the only ones on the dough when he feels the weight of Alfie’s palms against his hips, leaving floured handprints there. An act of claiming that would remain even after Alfie pulled his hands away.

All that hot, rushing blood inside of him is making its way south at the thought. “The dough isn’t ready.” His voice is rougher than he’d like, but there’s no denying what Alfie is doing to him. And that was the real joy with Alfie. After a lifetime of playing checkers with other lovers, Alfie Solomons was the first to play chess with him.

“I don’t give a fuck about the dough.” It’s cheerful, even as low and gravelly as the words leave Alfie, the tip of his nose brushing against the soft skin behind Tommy’s ear. He’s rewarded with a shiver that Tommy can’t contain, so he continues what he can control. Kneading the dough.

“We’re making brown bread, Alfie.” As far as chastisements went, it was pale at best. But given that Tommy’s entire world has narrowed down to the body molded against his back, he’s going to consider it a victory. “And once the dough is kneaded properly, it will need to rise for an hour.” An invitation. Or was it a promise?

Alfie’s hmm? rumbles through Tommy’s bones. “An hour is it? And what could we possibly do with this uninterrupted stretch of time, I wonder?”

Tommy closes stained glass blue eyes, and finally stops fighting the smile that has been tugging on the muscles of his cheek.

“I’m going to bend you over my kitchen table, and fuck you.”

#ch: tommy #polyfacetious | alfie #v: expats row #queued #carlota's christmas drabbles

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ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

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MET BY MOONLIGHT : (Part 1 of 3) : Flocking Bay

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

MET BY MOONLIGHT

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5740 words

written 2003 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

It was evening in Flocking Bay. My last patient had gone home hours before and I had finished up my day’s lab work, ground the last lens, and eaten a leisurely dinner. The second day of July was a fine one and I planned a quiet stroll by the last light of the sun and to finish by the light of the full moon which would not set until almost morning.

The long shadow of the ridge behind the town had covered my home and place of business, The Blackwall Street Ophthalmology Clinic, an hour before. As I sauntered along Blackwall, which ran across the back of the town, just under the ridge, I admired the lush green foliage fading toward black as the sunlight failed. I like the evening and the dark.

My ramble had taken me up the street nearly a mile. By now, the full moon was providing all of the light. The sun was just a glow of memory beyond the ridge. I passed the old Hilstrom House. It was the oldest house in Flocking Bay. Built in 1647 by the first Hilstrom. He had got the land for the town by shooting an Indian Shaman in the back. Peeling paint revealed hand squared beams and other details that showed its age. Many generations of Hilstroms had been born here, raised here and died here.

Seven years ago, the last of the Hilstroms had vanished. The courts had just declared him dead and now the place was due to go on the auction block for back taxes. I remembered all of the questions that I’d had to answer when it was realized that he had vanished — And I was the last to see him.

I had truthfully told them that I had last seen Mr Hilstrom in front of my clinic. Of course he was still there, – in slightly altered form – for any who knew what to look for. Only one living person that I was aware of did know what to look for. Myself.

I am the last descendant of the Marquost Shaman that the first Hilstrom had murdered by that shot in the back. That black deed and its bloody aftermath had gained the land upon which Flocking Bay had been built. The slaughter that followed that killing was the result of cooperation between white and Indian. The other tribes had not even coveted the Marquost land. They gave it away to the whites after they had used the whites to break the grip of our magic upon them.

The other Indians had sold the Marquost children into slavery with other tribes . . . a mistake. There has, as a result of that bit of greed, been a Marquost Shaman to hound them down the full tale of the years since the massacre in 1647. And the descendants of those Indians still think that the tribulations that they suffered are the result of white-man’s duplicity. . .

Hilstrom House was at the edge of town. Only a little further, just out of town, was the old Wikes place. I planned to turn around there and go back, loop through town, past the library to the waterfront and then back to my clinic. About four miles altogether.

I spent a short time contemplating the perfectly done, absolutely ugly, example of Carpenter Gothic architecture that was the old Wikes place. On my return, I became aware that I was being followed. At first glance, I would have thought that it was a wolf. That couldn’t be. The Maine Wolf has been extinct for over two hundred years.

It had to be a stray dog. Big dog. One of those Husky types, maybe. One good glimpse showed it to be a female. The dog kept its distance and I ceased to worry about it once I realized that it was not being hostile. Curious perhaps. I had no real fear.

Flocking Bay has little crime and few stray animals of any kind. Such crime as there is comes mostly from outsiders. We get along with a town constable and a justice of the peace.

The latter is a woman some thirty or forty years of age whom I met during the investigation of Mr Hilstrom’s disappearance.

I completed my walk and the dog followed me almost to my door. She paused at the round black stones that line my walk and parking lot. Her hackles rose just a bit as she sniffed at the stones, in particular the one that used to be Mr Hilstrom . . .

The beast disappeared into the night more silently than a ghost.

The next morning I looked up animal control in Flocking Bay’s tiny phone book. I dialed the phone and it rang a number of times before it was picked up.

“Laelia Darkmoon, Justice of the Peace,” said the voice from the receiver cheerfully. “What can I do for you, Dr. Fredricks?”

“Hi Laelia. Isn’t caller I.D. wonderful? I must have dialed wrong. I wanted animal control.”

“No, you dialed right. I wear both hats. Lost a critter?”

“No, I don’t even know if I should bother you with this but last night I saw a big stray dog. No collar, looked to be sort of a Husky-Wolf hybrid or something. I was out for a walk and it followed me from the woods out near the old Wikes place.”

She laughed, “I know it. Don’t worry. It’ll never harm a soul. Grey, white blaze, bit of a ruff at the neck, straight tail with long hair?”

“You’ve seen it before?”

“Only a few times. It’s the Flocking Bay werewolf. Not really a werewolf. It seems to be the very last Maine wolf. It wouldn’t matter if it did hurt somebody. It’s protected to the hilt by the Endangered Species Act.”

“Why’d you call it a werewolf?”

“Due to better light, its mostly seen at or near the full moon. It’s there anytime though, don’t worry about that. It’s real enough.”

“Thanks for telling me about the wolf. That was fascinating. I’ve only met you professionally. Coffee and the pastry of your choice at the Stone Oven, noonish, say?”

“You’re on. See you there.”

I got through my morning appointments without any problems. Simple glasses, a set of contacts, all the usual minor difficulties. I told my receptionist that I would be out for two hours at lunch.

Allison grinned at me. “Got a hot lunch date, Doc?”

“You wish,” I retorted with an equal grin. “I’m going to go talk to the Justice of the Peace about a wolf that I saw last night.”

“You saw the wolf?” asked Allison, wide-eyed. Wistfully she added, “I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve only heard other people talk about it.”

“I really saw it. I thought it was a stray dog until Laelia set me straight about it. It came right up onto the front walk of the Clinic.”

“It did?” She pointed, “You mean right out there?”

“Yes. Say, Allison, why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off? My dime. Go take out your little sailboat or something. Enjoy.”

With a “Thanks, Doc!” thrown over her shoulder she was gone before I could change my mind. I locked up and walked down toward the waterfront. The Stone Oven Bake and Coffee Shop was only a block back from the water and had a nice view through a small park to the docks and the sea.

Laelia was waiting for me at a small table out in front. She was a large, spare woman, nearly 5'9" tall, with gray-black hair that had a white streak near the center of her forehead and icily blue eyes. I could not even make a guess at her age. Belying her otherwise formidable appearance was a smile of genuine warmth.

One of my little accomplishments is the reading of heraldry and she had a pin shaped like an escutcheon that could be heraldically interpreted. “Sable, wolf’s head proper erased argent, in the sinister chief an anulet argent,” I read.

She looked startled and then laughed. I liked that. She had a good laugh. “Not many can read that pin. It’s an heirloom. The family crest from the old country.”

“It looks like a wolf under a new moon,” I said and added, “Just coffee and pastry or would you like lunch? They have a fabulous stew served in a fresh baked bread bowl here. I can smell that it’s ready.”

“Lunch sounds and smells fabulous,” Laelia said stretching in an animal-like fashion. “The pin does represent a wolf under a new moon. Our family name was unpronounceably Polish before it became Darkmoon. That was a long time ago, though. 1648, I think.”

“Truly interesting.” I said as I seated myself. “Few know much at all of events that far removed in time. I had people here in Flocking Bay but the last of them was gone in 1647.”

She looked at me curiously and said, “1647? That was the Year of Founding, as they called it in the Annals of the Township. The Year of the Massacre would be more like it, I think.”

Slightly on my guard, I asked, “What do you know of the Marquost massacre? Most people haven’t even heard of it.”

“Did I tell you that local history is one of my hobbies?” she asked. “I have the complete Darkmoon Diaries, the older Hilstrom Diaries, the Annals of the Township – 1647 through 1882, and a long standing friendship with Mrs. Alderman, the Librarian. What she can’t lay hands on, hasn’t even been rumored to exist.”

I laughed. “I, too, have met the formidable Mrs. Alderman. Have you seen her file on the Wikes place? Now there is a mystery for a long winter night!”

I was surprised at the grimness of her response. “I not only have seen it, I entered a legal true copy into the Court Records when I got the order to block further sales of that house. Sixty innocent people have disappeared there!”

She relented and added, “Both the Township and Flocking Bay Realty opposed the order. The Township cited the loss of tax revenue from the estates of the missing persons!

“Flocking Bay Realty tried to cite loss of income by using the historic sales record. I asked if they wished to be named as accomplices in an investigation into the deliberate disappearance and probable death of sixty people. They shut up.”

Next==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

#MET BY MOONLIGHT #Part 1 of 3 #Flocking Bay #Written by De Writer

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dreamingthedoe · 5 years ago

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Beltane: The Special Quarantine Edition

Beltane is the Celtic sabbat of fertility, celebrated from sunset on April 30th to sunset on May 1st, meant to mark the full flush of spring and the rising heat of summer. Beltane has its roots in how ancient Celts worshipped a solar deity named Bel, and celebrated his victory over the darkness of winter. In many pagan, duotheistic religions such as Wicca, Beltane recognizes a God (the Green Man, the Oak King, Jack in the Green), and Goddess (May Queen, May Bride, Flora). Beltane is the final consummation of the God and Goddess, who have been courting since the first stirrings of spring. Their union invokes summer and all its bounty. This sabbat is traditionally centered around fertility, represented by flowers, phallic/yonic imagery, and fire. I personally believe in queering up these traditions and celebrating the powers of creation in less cishet ways - honoring the cycles of the land and seasons, but using less literal interpretations of God/Godess and binary/gendered genitalia, etc. Beltane is also the halfway point to Samhain, a twin sabbat that shares the same thinness of the veil between the world of the tangible and the intangible, physical and spiritual. Magic is powerful at this time, but it also means taking more steps for personal protection while practicing magic, and it’s a good time to ward against unfriendly spirits or energy.

Consider the following correspondences when setting up you altar, making an offering, or doing spellwork! Deities: Bel, Cernunnos, Flora, Brigid, Dagda, Xōchiquetzal, Dionysus, Demeter, Persephone, Amun, Bastet, Isis, Inanna, Astarte, Freyja, Freyr (avoided added ones from cultures that have been and are still actively worshipped to this day to the best of my knowledge, such as Kokopelli, as opposed to “dead” religions that have neo-pagan revivals) Colors: green, white, light pink, blue, and yellow Herbs: Honeysuckle, St John’s Wort, rose, lilac, oak, dandelion, hawthorn, foxglove, clover, violet, mint, thyme, mugwort, almond leaves, rowan, marigold, daisies, and lavender. But we’re quarantined, so you can use herbs/flowers from tea sachets, or even fake flowers! If you have some flowers blooming nearby and really need something, only take a tiny amount so that pollinators can have the rest (or better, take naturally fallen flowers. The good intent for the environment goes a long way with the gods and nature). Incense: Frankincense, jasmine, rose, lavender, patchouli, vanilla. No incense? A scented candle is fine, or essential oil on a warmer! Or make a stovetop potpourri with tea bags or vanilla extract! Food: Grain foods like oats and wheat (bannock/bread, oatcakes, oatmeal), honey, salad greens, strawberries, cherries, rhubarb (COOK THAT SHIT OR IT’LL KILL YOU THOUGH), eggs, cheese, and any aphrodisiacs such as chocolate, pistachios, oysters, asparagus, and hot chiles (and cook with aphrodisiac herbs such as fenugreek and saffron). Even a bowl of cereal works! The gods understand that you’re quarantined, and as always in magic: where there is a will, there is a way. Drink: Honeyed milk (dairy or non-dairy), mead, rosewater, herbal teas like jasmine tea, white wine, alcoholic beverages made with egg Altar symbols: cauldron (often filled with and surrounded by flowers), candles, mirrors, floral wreaths, ribbons

Potent Magic on this Sabbat:

Sex magic – Beltane is the premiere sabbat for celebrating sex – therefore, it’s the perfect time to practice sex magic. This can be done through solo sex or partnered sex (whether involving physical contact with a partner or joining intentions together across distance)! Sex magic can be results-oriented or practiced as a kind of “mysticism”. Sex magic practiced for manifesting a specific result keeps in tradition with Beltane, as the Celts were believed to have used sexual ritual on Beltane as a way to increase crop yields for the year. As it goes with all types of magic, everyone practices sex magic differently. In my practice, I use it as a way to simply increase my personal power, strengthen a magical bond with a partner, or exchange energy with a partner to gift each other our qualities and talents for a period of time (this is strengthened through repeated practice with the same partner). With partnered sex magic, be sure not only to have your usual consent talk, but also a consent talk about the ritual/magical aspect. This is not only because consent must always be informed and your partner may not be comfortable with having sex this way; it also ensures that your intentions are aligned and that energy exchange is balanced (otherwise, the manifestation might not succeed as you’d like, or one partner may be left feeling drained or otherwise unfulfilled). I can attach links to resources or write a little more in-depth about my personal experience if you are comfortable with that!

Fire magic - Using flame of some sort in your rituals is especially powerful right now! This can mean using fire in rituals to manifest a goal, such as burning a scrap of paper that you’ve written your intention on. I tend to stretch this definition to include heat, such as charming my tea as I add hot water to my tea sachet, or making magical stovetop potpourri. In my seiðr magic, I often stare into flames to achieve a trance state. I can write more about using fire for trance and divination as well!

Ecstatic dance - Pretty self-explanatory! Ecstatic dance can be used as a form of worship, manifestation, or simply for inducing a trance or “shamanic” state, depending on your personal beliefs and practices. If you are celebrating Beltane with others, one participant can use an instrument such as a drum for the others to dance to. Otherwise, playing music from speakers or headphones is fine as well! The important thing is to either focus on your intention, or clear your head and let the music bring you to a trance state. I can also send links to good resources for practicing ecstatic dance,

Spellwork: - Glamours - Divination (especially with mirrors!) - Protection - Spells to increase libido and creative powers - Manifestation/increase - Blessings for self-love - Blessings for partners and relationships

If you’d like ideas for spells, charms, and enchantments involving these subjects, let me know! I have some good ones in my grimoire.

Activites:

Decorating a Maypole – This tradition involves “maidens” (but literally whomever, fuck the binary fr) dancing and weaving around a pole while holding ribbons that had been fastened to the top, creating a beautifully woven pattern of ribbons down the structure. Don’t have a 20-ft pole to wrap copious amounts of ribbon around? Decorate a small stick with whatever ribbon-like materials you have about, and put it on your altar or centrally in your home!

Washing your face in morning dew – Not really something we can do in Phoenix, unless you are planning on camping somewhere north overnight! A good substitute is using water charged under the moon, or even just water purified with a spell or purifying crystals. I like draw a bath and purify the water, and focus on cleansing my energy while I take the bath.

Making a bonfire – This is especially difficult to achieve in quarantine. Just having a fire in the fireplace or a simple candle burning is enough! Traditionally on this day, all other fires would be put out save the community’s special Beltane bonfire, but turning off all of your other lights is just fine! Many Beltane traditions involve leaping over the bonfire/candle… I don’t really recommend this, because, you know, getting set on fire.

Handfasting and jumping over a broomstick – Probably highly irrelevant for most, but Beltane is traditionally a time of many marriages. Couples become handfasted when the officiant ties their hands together with a cord, usually woven from three ribbons, usually as the couple take their vows or exchange their declarations of love and devotion. Many couples would jump over a broom as well, to signify the leap from one stage of life to the next (this tradition was borne from couples being unable to afford formal ceremonies, and at one time leaping over a broom together could be seen as legally binding a couple in marriage).

Fertilize – If you have a garden or even a small plant, tend to it witch extra care! Fertilizing is recommended for a Beltane activity, but if your plant would suffer from being fertilized right now, don’t do it. Just speak encouraging words to your plant!

Explore your property – If you have the energy, explore around the outside of your home, or even just make some studied observations of your home interior. It’s your “land”, and it’s a good time to walk around and offer blessings and gratitude to your environment. If you’re able to drive somewhere deeper into nature, it’s a good time to go out and revel in the vibrant life being created all around us. As a Norse pagan, I personally make offerings to the landvættir (roughly, nature spirits) of the desert whenever I go out into nature to thank it.

Make special Beltane recipes! – Such as bread (I’m baking an iced lavender loaf myself), salads with berries, honeyed oatcakes, egg custard, an herb-y chicken stew, etc.

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currentfandomkick · 5 years ago

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Bio! dad Strange part 14, Evillustrator Part 2 and Magic Consequences Start

Recap: Girls are trying to get Marinette and Nathaniel together. Kim, Alix and Max now have their cannon miraculous and have some training with Marinette as they know she’s ladybug. Evillustrator is happening now. Chat is talking to Marinette because she (accidentally?) admitted to being meta.

“Why haven’t you…”

“My family is here Chat, if I left I’d be missing and invesigated. They’d connect the dots and they’d pay for harbouring a meta.”

Chat ran a hand through his hair. “I, I didn’t know they do that. I thought it was just send to another country—and most like having metas around.”

Marinette shook her head. “As weapons. As long as i’m unregistered, i’m safe.”

Chat didn't like it. He didst hide it either.

“I’ll be fine… just need to make it eight more years. Legally an adult, then move in with Father.”

“That’s… not okay.”

Marinette gave him a sad smile. “I can’t leave Maman. Or my family and friends here.”

Chat seemed to get that. “I, its not fun.”

Marinette watched her partner, even with her head swimming still. He was curled in on himself, not making eye contact by looking at the floor. Guilt, possible remorse, and was emotionally connected to the idea of leaving people. Someone left him or he left a lot of people. willingness in either case uncertain... maybe both with one causing the other?

Chat kept his eyes low. Marinette made notes that she knows this, not as Ladybug but as a civilian.

“So, I’m going on my date.”

“With an akuma.”

“He’s not violent, he promised not to hurt anyone.”

“Which makes him easier to take down. When’s your date?”

“None of you business.”

“Marinette...”

“Chat, trust me, I think he’ll give up the akuma on his own. I don’t need you to save me, and i trust him.”

Chat hid his wince poorly.

“Just, don’t tell anyone about the...”

“Sun healing?”

“....that.”

“Is that you’re only power or...”

“Its rude to ask.”

“oops?”

“Do you ever talk to people?”

“Father isn’t a fan of it.”

“... don’t tell my parents that. they are serial adopters and i’m not having a superhero at dinner.”

“I, superhero?”

“Powers, and hero. What else would i call you?”

Chat didn’t answer that. He did leave her house though, so she’d take the win there.

She started another groupchat without Chloe or Alix or Sabrina or Lila.

Marinette: So dress or pants for outfit? Boatride.

Juleka: If you go dress, leggings. trust me, i live on one.

Rose: Oh, don’t you have a Zatanna outfit?

Marinette hummed, leaving her house to go to her old hobby room. She kept that one there.

Mylene: did you tell thim thank you?

Marinette: He was nice but it didn’t come up, sorry!

Alya: if he’s rude let me know, i will drag him on the Ladyblog, no questions asked.

Marinette smiled at that on her balcony, getting in her sunshine while she could. The girls in her class were a good distraction from her meta problems. and the lack of Gotham contact. She needed to know if any of her messages got through, but needed an excuse to leave Paris to try again. Father was her best bet, he’d play telephone until someone got it to Tim or the Justice League. But for now, for now she was just excited for her first date.

She slipped into Nonno’s bakery with her key, and waved at him as he worked.

A few minutes later she took a picture of herself in a pair of dark skinny jeans, a faux-corset dress shirt with a black three quarter blazer with elbow length sleeves.

Juleka: fishnet gloves or lace gloves to go with?

Alya: ooo, that’s cute. Hair down, and i vote fishnet

Rose: lace! floral lace would be so pretty~

Mylene: lace if you have it

Marinette grabbed elbow length fingerless black floral lace gloves and sent a picture

Alya: You look great girl!

the text after that were mostly about shoes (they agreed on no flats or heels on the boat. The jury agreed on a cute pair of boots at her house.

Nonno was done when she left her room to grab the chosen shoes with her outfit.

“I told them to stop letting you help out at events.”

“Its a date Nonno.”

Rolland paused, processed, then ordered the mice to hold down the fort before turning to her again

this was going to be interesting...

Rolland sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Marinetta, I am meeting the boy. If he no good, we leave. If he is, I leave you two in public place to make goo-goo eyes, is how it was done in the old days and will go with every boy that tries to take you away from me.”

Marinette rolled her eyes at that. “Nonno, that’s Papa’s job.”

“Peh. Your Papa would coo over the whole thing and forget his job is to put the fear of God into the boy.”

Marinette rubbed the back of her neck. Rolland wasn’t wrong after all… “You can say hi, but he’s akumatized right now—he won’t hurt me, just, he’s not a hundred percent there.”

“I meet boy.”

“Yes.”

“Boy brainwashed and still does what you ask?”

“Yes Nonno.”

“If he’s polite he has my blessing. But remember, one foot out of line…”

“And treat him like an amatauer with bread dough—“

“Break in half and smashed in the center!” Rolland and Marinette said together.

“Good, good. Now, is that what you are wearing to your date?”

“After I get my shoes. and no scaring him off!”

Rolland rolled his eyes, and followed her to her room, helping her out with if she needed any make-up (no, maybe chapstick but nothing else) fixing her hair and listening to her gush about Nathaniel.

“He better be good boy.”

“he’s akumatized but he promised not to hurt anyone after i asked. and no reports of any akuma activity on the app.”

Nonno was the one to escort her to the meeting place. And if she sensed a certain cat and whispered he wanted to datecrash and Nonno went off after him... well. She wants a break from heroing and meta problems, and her date is part of that.

Evillustrator was holding his hand, trembling when they came.

“Na—Evillustrator?”

“Marinette!”

“Ah, you’re the boy that wants to date my Marinetta?” Rolland said, circling the villain.

Evillustrator stood straight, “I, yes, if, if she’ll have me that is.”

Rolland gave the boy a once over. “Hurt her, and amateur breadmakers will seem merciful.”

Evillustrator nodded, looking over to Marinette when Rolland turned around. And blushing. Oh, she was very glad it wasn’t one sided.

“I’m glad you could make it Marinette.”

“Me too, and Nonno, you were just leaving, right?”

“Yes, yes. He knows what happens, and my Marinetta knows what to do if he forgets.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Nonno!”

“Pheh, kids these days, always rushing off. Remember—hands to yourselves!”

“NONNO!” Marinette really hoped the others weren’t watching this.

The man waved her off, leaving the pair to their date. “Call after date, or tell your Papa. He’ll call.”

Marinette shook her head. “Sorry about that.”

“No, its fine. I’m just really happy you’re here.”

Marinette smiled at him, almost missing the way a Certain Chat was hanging around the trees.

“It’s really beautiful.”

“Thank you, but I’m just getting started,” Evillustrator smiled, or smirked. She couldn’t tell. “Ah, you gotta be kidding me!”

“Huh?”

“I can’t draw properly in the dark.”

One weakness located. Good to know if he changes.

“Voila!” and he made a small sun. oh, this was so not going to be good for her treatment schedule.

Marinette watched as he let his world enter the real one, music flowing from his pen as he wrote. “You’re so talented, I just don’t get why you’d ever use it to hurt people.”

“Just Chloe, and not anymore. You stayed true to your promise, so I’ll stay true to mine.”

Did she mention she liked him for two years? No?

And Chat was there, on the rooftops now… and there were others following. Why were her friends incapable of being subtle?

“I know I’m not as good as you with just drawing,” Marientte began.

“I’ve seen your work Marinette, you’re a wonderful artist.”

“Is it okay if I draw something for you too?”

“Of course!”

She watched him quickly make a sketchpad and pens. Not what she was going for but she’d work with it. He knew she preferred traditional… why did he have to get akumatized for them to go on a date? Why couldn’t she just get the words out before?

There were thumps on the boat then. Why was Chat like this—they’d gone over stealth that week, or was that with the other three? Either way, she would so call Aunt Selina for help with stubborn cats and boys when she got out of Paris. ON top of the Leauge or some kind of general hero aid, but still. Principle.

A staff separated them. Chat’s.

Marinette jumped back because she trusted her partner but yikes!

“Marinette, you’re working with him!” Oh, her partner did not like civilian her. Good thing secret identities were harder for strangers to crack.

“Nathaniel,” Marinette let her voice shake.

“Stay away from her!”

Suddenly there was a shield over her. Was it bad a part of her really, really liked the idea of him working with her and Chat? And not just the crushing part? Probably. But a girl can daydream. Plus, his powers are very useful.

“Don’t worry pinkie, I got’cha!” Monkey King said as he flung her over his shoulder and jumped onto the bridge.

“MARINETTE!” Evillustrator cried out, trying to get to her

“Who are you!” Chat shot back, blocking Evillustrator.

“Friends of Ladybug, Kitty,” Bunnix yelled as she jumped onto the boat.

Evillustrator managed to get up to the bridge, letting the others argue over who was saving Marinette and seeming to forget about the akuma in the process. He quietly followed the monkey user, waiting until he put Marinette down.

“You’ll be safe here Marinette!” Kim said, running back to the others. “I’ll be back when the akuma is caught. Might wanna work on your luck.” She hated him right then and there. A lot.

“I, don’t hurt him. He’s not a bad person, or even violent.”

Kim’s face changed then. “He targeted Chloe!”

“And he stopped when I asked, and he only targeted her because she was being horrible!”

“How is looking out for you--you know what, we’ll talk later about your poor life choices, and taste in boyfriends!” he yelled as he ran off.

“I--we’re not---not yet but---urgh!”

Evillustrator made himself known then. “Marinette, you’re okay?”

Marinette almost jumped. Almost. “I, I think so,” she rubbed her arms. It was getting cold out.

“I, sorry for how our date ended back there.”

“It was a pretty bad date crashing,” Marinette murmured, not seeing how Evilustrators face went a bit red at her comment. “But it wasn’t your fault. Do you mind if we just, draw somewhere fro a bit?”

She needed him alone for this to work.

He grinned back at her. “Art room?”

“Art room.”

“Hold on, I’ll fly us there.”

She did as asked, looping her arms around his neck and maybe, just maybe, there’s more than a little part of her that liked being able to lean on someone else in situations like this. Where she wasn’t in charge or making every decision for everyone.

He jetted them to the school, and she was certain he tripped an alarm on the way.

She moved to her ‘blurp’ sketchpad, tweaking a few designs inspired by some of Rose’s ‘special’ plants. She waited until Evillustrator put his pen down. she nabbed the jar from Rose’s current project, lid and all, stomped on his pen and jarred the akuma.

“Marinette?” Nathaniel was there. God she missed seeing him. “Wh, what happened?”

“I, you were akumatized. Chat and three new heroes got me away from you but you found me again. You didn’t hurt me or anything, it was more or a date-crashing is all...”

“Oh my god I am so sorry Marinette.”

Marinette’s mind spiraled into the worst case. He regrets this. he regrets talking to me. Oh god, he hates me for taking advantage of his trust as an akuma. I crushed my crush crushing on me. he hates me now. “I, its fine, you probably didn’t even want to, I, sorry, I should have said no.”

“Wait, we were on a date?” It was obvious, she was dressed up, and they were alone and okay, they broke into the school but there’s worse crimes and its pseudo-public property as they both help pay for it to run and she’s rambling again. Face the music Marinette.

“Yes.”

“And you, you wanted to be there?”

“Wi, with you Nathaniel, not uh, not Evillustrator.” God he must hate her. was it cheating to go on a date with someone’s akumatized self? What were the walls here—too many doors and she didn’t see anything resembling rules around this.

“This is horrible timing, but make-up date Saturday?”

“I,” Marinette was tongue-tied. Tikki hit her into awareness from her purse. Shit, she forgot Tikki was there.

“Are you sure?”

“If you are.” She was VERY sure she wanted to go on a real date with Nathaniel. Without her partner and friends stalking them. And Nonno’s circling.

“Then, uh, yes. Yes, I, I’d love y-to. I’d love to!”

If anyone besides the poor butterfly could see them, they would see two very blushy and embarrassed middle schoolers having a hard time making eye contact while grinning like idiots.

“We, uh, we should let Chat know we have the akuma,” Marinette mumbled, glancing at it. She was only 60% certain it wouldn’t phase through like a kwami.

“Right! I’ll post it on the ladyblog.”

“i’ll text the akuma alert.”

“Is Ladybug okay—wait did I kill ladybug!” Nathaniel was panicking. About killing her alter ego. Oh god she was in deep because that was adorable and no! bad brain! Comfort him—don’t fawn over when panicking!

“NO! She, she’s fine! She wasn’t at the battle.”

“OH THANK GOD!”

The pair waited for an angry Chat Noir, ready to lecture them both, only to see blushy Marinette holding Nathaniel’s hand with a jarred akuma in front of them.

“You got his object.” He was stunned by this. well, she did tell him she could.

“Holy—I told you she could do it!” Monkey King was grinning.

“Just because she can, doesn’t mean she should Monkey King,” Max snapped, glaring at him like it was all Kim’s fault Marinette went missing for a few hours… granted he contributed to that.

“So, civvies can kick akuma butt now, good to know, good to know,” Bunnix added, grinning a little too wide. She knew something.

“I, uh, sorry for any harm I did when I was, well, akumatized.”

Monkey King opened his mouth,ready to tell him off.

Only Chat beat him to it, kind of. “Yeah, I heard from Chloe about what happened. Outing a crush, and saying you can’t be together over a private drawing, in public... that’s pretty understandable. Honestly, I’m just glad you didn’t go Stoneheart’s route.” Chat looked between the two at their joined hands. he twitched--why? “Oh—oh! Definitely took the direct route. Good for you two!” strained voice too, what was bothering him about this?

Monkey King then saw the pair holding hands. And blushing and—what did that cretin do to his little sister!

Pegasus looked over and sighed. He knew this would happen. Markov predicted it.

Bunnix was grinning like a loon.

“I’ll take the akuma until my Lady can purify it. My teammates will go home for now and work on teamwork for next time, right?”

“I only have to answer to the Gaurdian.”

“Eh.”

“We have class tomorrow,” Pegasus pointed out.

Marinette nodded along, quick to leave with Nathaniel, her parents fussing over her first REAL date that Saturday---the girls all agreed to assemble to help with outfit and makeup and coaching, and cooed over the end result. except Chloe who was insistent that Marinette could do much better.

She managed to escape only to see an annoyed Chat not far from her balcony. One escape later and she met him on the rooftops.

“Doing better M’lady?”

“A little... Lucky charm!” a jar. “Miraculous Ladybug!” she blanked again. she hated that. when she came to she swayed a bit.

Chat caught her. “M’lady?”

her head was swimming. “I think we need to change our battle plan... using Tikki makes me sick.”

Chat paled at that. “I’ll get the message out tonight, just, hold on, okay?

Chat did get the message out. The Justice League did recieve the transmission, but the video file was corrupted. it was the fifth corrupted file they’d received from France.

Hal was getting tired of seeing them, grumbling about it being a prank and it wasn’t funny that someone was pranking the League and taking away from valuable resources and people who need them.

Chat met with the Guardian and told him what was happening to Ladybug.

The Gaurdian rubbed his temples. “We need to use her less often. Perhaps have Pegasus and her work from a remote location until we need her to purify the akuma and undo the damage... I believe it is time you begin to work with another miraculous--I chose you as a weak cat so that Paris could not be destroyed with a misplaced Cataclysm. It seems we need more than what i thought... This is the snake miraculous. He has the power to let you change an outcome. i do not know how many minutes you will have with your second chance.”

Chat took the offered box and let the second Kwami, Sass, speak.

“Greetings. I am Sass.”

“Adrien, also Chat Noir.”

“Are we combining or switching?”

Fu looked thoughtful for a moment. “For now, switching. We will work on fusing another day. I believe there’s someone you already trust to share the Black Cat with.”

Adrien sighed, knowning exactly who he meant.

END!

so i’m putting this one to a quick vote as to who Adiren shares Plagg with.

Chloe or Felix?

Chloe is fun for theme and working on her (self) destructive tendencies from cannon as general ml writer salt. She would be Duchess (i just like that for her and the general Cat!chloe fanworks) and would have some trouble controlling her Cataclysm, and only be called in for more dangerous akuma as Duchess. she would not know Adrien is Chat. She is still a ladybug fangirl, and yes, she is also Queen Bee when she isn’t able to be Duchess for ReasonsTM (as all miraculous are swapped like candy in my AU because of fights needing different powers, strategies, and for some people (Marinette) are safer with different miraculous, while others are just good one)

Felix would run around as Chat Noir as a body double, work on mending his and Adiren’s relationship and issues, be aware Adrien is Chat, and calls Gabriel out at home when he’s being a paranoid dad. For the Marinette side, they are gremlin freinds, co-founders of the Adrein protection squad, and sometimes discuss reverse-theiving techniques. potential as one of her love interests or vice versa, but eh? also Adiren blowing off steam by being Felix fro a day while Felix does recon on Adrien’s freinds as Adrein to make sure his cousin isn’t falling for fake friends.

Yes, I am doing mass character overhauls in terms of character arcs, but my fic, screw cannon.

Please comment to vote, since i am hardcore 50/50 here, and need help on this one.

i will eventually post this on the a03, its the only mlb fic under crazyjc

@mosseaters @chaosace @daminett4life @emeraldpuffguide @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @mystery-5-5 @weird-pale-blonde-person @dast218

#maribat #maribat au #my au #bio!dad au #bio!dad strange #bio! dad au #marinette strange dupain cheng #marinette strange dupain cheng part 14 #please help me on this one #i cant pick which one i like better #finally finished this evillustrator arc #enjoy the insantity uneditted

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advocaado · 6 years ago

Text

Day 29: The Moment You Knew

@thirtydaysofzutara @zutaramonth

This is the final part of the Western AU (Days 7 and 15), as promised. I wrote all of this in one day. Now I am dead.

Find the whole collection on fanfiction.net User: Advocaat

April

It had been nearly a month now since construction on the new railroad had begun and West Bluhaven was more bustling than ever with out-of-towners coming in droves to help lay the tracks. Katara’s small town had never felt more lively and she could smell change in the wind. This expansion would turn the town into a major stopover for those seeking to push further west and that, in turn, would direct the flow of wealth their way. Whether she liked it or not, her quiet town wasn’t going to be quiet for much longer.

At the center of this change was, of course, Ember Steel. The mill was busier than ever as each week it delivered a new shipment of tracks to the workers out west. Just about every able-bodied young man Katara knew had gone to work either in the mill or running transports of materials and provisions to the track layers. It seemed nearly everyone had a stake in the project and that meant Ember Steel was hot news both locally and nationally. Katara couldn’t pick up a paper without seeing articles about the railroad project. Most such articles waxed lyrical about the effort and Ember Steel’s role in it, calling it the next big step in America’s expansion, but a few took a more critical stance, referencing the company’s shady business practices and poor reputation in the towns it had exploited to financial ruin.

Katara, true to her ongoing opinion of Ember Steel, was quick to side with the nay-sayers. A company didn’t just change overnight, and as much good as Zuko had done for their town since moving in, she couldn’t help but still be skeptical that this prosperity would last. With the increase in commerce that would come of completing the railroad, Zuko would be in the best position possible to start sucking up their newfound wealth. The more she saw what lay ahead, the more she suspected that this had been Zuko’s plan all along. In waiting to exploit them, he’d both improved his company’s reputation, building trust with both West Bluhaven and Tofteville, and he’d greatly elevated the amount of wealth he was set to gain once he began hiking prices. This rail deal had killed two birds with one stone.

Katara scowled as she crumpled up the latest copy of the national press. That Zuko was a slyer weasel than she’d given him credit for. Well, unluckily for him, she’d spotted his plot a mile away and there was no way she was going to allow him to get his way so easily. Her town would not become a stomping ground for Ember Steel. Not on her life.

The sound of crunching paper caused her father to raise an eyebrow at her from across the breakfast table. “Is something wrong?” he questioned in that patient tone of his. Doubtless he knew precisely why she’d wadded the news into a ball.

Katara set the ball on the table beside her plate and averted her gaze from his. “Nothing at all,” she answered airily. “I was just thinking about our town’s impending demise at the hands of Ember Steel.”

Hakoda exhaled a tired-sounding sigh and set his fork onto his empty plate with a soft clink. “Katara, we’ve talked about this a hundred times. Mr. Redford and I have a deal. He is legally barred from raising prices beyond a mutually agreed upon market margin. The documents detailing the agreement are safely locked away in my office, and so long as those documents exist, Mr. Redford can’t do as he pleases.”

Katara redirected her gaze to her plate, her frown remaining. She just didn’t think it was that simple. Crooks would be crooks and deals could be got around. There was a reason people called the west lawless. If Zuko was determined to get what he wanted, he would, deal or no deal.

“By the way,” her father spoke again, his tone brightening. “I meant to tell you, your brother will be back in town next month. He’s hinted that he may be bringing a lady friend along as well.”

At once, the scowl melted from Katara’s face. It was replaced by a look of surprise paired with excitement. “Sokka got a girlfriend? Really?”

“That’s what I inferred from his letter. I’ll admit I’m curious to see what sort of girl she is. Sokka is a fine young man but he always was terrible at wooing. I imagine any girl who would fall for him must have a saintly level of tolerance, eh?” He cracked a grin to punctuate this statement.

Katara brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “No kidding. Maybe she’s turned on by bad jokes?”

“That or she’s deaf.”

The two shared a good laugh, their conversation from a moment earlier all but forgotten.

May

The first day of May was always a special day for Katara. May meant the spring rains were receding and the chill of winter was a thing of the past. Not to mention the spring blossoms were out in full force. All around town, buildings were decorated with spring colors and pots of flowers were placed along the streets and in front of shops to hail in the loveliest month of the year.

That morning, Katara celebrated by donning a new peony-colored dress she’d spent the better part of winter stitching. Instead of her usual blue clip, she fastened her hair with a pale pink ribbon and decorated it with freshly cut roses to match. Every girl wanted to look her best on May Day.

She was just finishing her breakfast when she was surprised by a knock at the door. Curious who would be calling so early, she scooted out her chair and walked out of the kitchen to greet her visitor. She grabbed the knob and pulled the door open, a cordial “good morning” on her lips, but the greeting died when she looked outside and found no one. The porch was empty.

No, not empty. Looking down, she found a large woven basket nearly overflowing with a myriad of colorful flowers. Seeing a note sticking out from the side, she reached down and plucked it out. Happy May Day was written in a scrawl that looked oddly familiar.

Someone had gifted her a May basket.

Katara’s face heated at being the receiver of such a gift. May baskets were often left by smitten young men on girls’ porches as a sign of their affection. Did this mean there was a boy in town who fancied her? The note wasn’t signed, so she had no way of knowing the gifter’s identity. Pleased nonetheless, she scooped up the basket and brought it inside. It would make a lovely decoration for their table.

Later that morning, after her household chores had been completed, Katara set out to do some shopping in town. The weather was beautiful and people of all sorts were out and about, strolling through the main street and admiring the May Day decorations. Today, Katara fully intended to splurge and purchase a cake for her family to share.

She pushed the door open to the baker’s shop and the smell of fresh bread and sweets filled her nose. She smiled and inhaled, savoring the delectable scents. Sweets were a rare treat, even for the daughter of the sheriff. As she perused the finely crafted cakes in the case by the till, she heard the bell on the door behind her give a little jingle. A moment later, a presence appeared at her side and Katara glanced up at the newcomer curiously.

“Good morning, Katara,” Zuko greeted brightly, his yellow eyes twinkling in the midmorning light.

Katara blinked at the sight of him. He looked very different this morning than usual. His plain work trousers had been traded out for a pair of dark gray slacks and his cotton shirt had been replaced with a crisp dress shirt fastened smartly at the collar with a black long-armed bowtie, all encased by a custom-tailored, finely embroidered vest. His shaggy hair was still shaggy but had clearly had a brush run through it. All in all, he looked very much more like the heir to the Ember Steel empire than he did on a typical day.

Katara tried not to stare. It was all kinds of odd seeing Zuko dressed like a dapper society man. Although she was well aware that he was a man of status, it was easy to think of him as just another guy when he paraded about in sooty factory trousers.

Zuko smiled and reached out to delicately touch the flowers in her hair. “You look lovely today. Pink is a stunning color on you.”

Katara blushed and took a step backward to put some distance between them. Maybe it was the way he was dressed, but she was feeling particularly flustered by his closeness.

“What are you doing here, Zuko?” she questioned to cover her lack of composure. “Shouldn’t you be at the mill?”

Zuko nodded and she watched him rummage around in his vest for a moment before producing an envelope. “I was on my way to the post office when I saw you walk in here. I figured I ought to stop in and say hi, given it’s May Day.”

Katara nodded dumbly. For some reason, words were coming harder to her today than usual. Zuko’s smile was radiant and it was muddling her emotions. “Um, yeah,” she finally said. “It is. May Day.”

Zuko’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he turned to the case of cakes. He appeared to examine them for a moment and then said, “The selection here is pretty good. Is there a cake in particular you were eyeing?”

Katara turned back to the case as well and her gaze settled on a buttercream frosted spice cake. She set her fingertip on the glass. “I was just thinking that one looks pretty good.”

Zuko followed her finger and nodded. “Good choice.” Without warning, he raised his hand, signaling the baker, and said, “I’d like this one, please.”

“Wait, Zuko—”

Katara’s protest was ignored as the baker pulled the cake in question and proceeded to box it up. She could only watch helplessly as Zuko exchanged money with the baker’s wife at the till. When the woman looked past Zuko and gave Katara a wink, she blushed and dropped her gaze to the counter. No doubt the whole town would hear of this before the day was out.

On the counter, her eyes were drawn to Zuko’s letter. He’d set it down when he went to fish out his wallet and her gaze wandered to the address, painstakingly written in Zuko’s tidy script. Her eyes widened. She recognized that handwriting.

Before she could blink, a box was being deposited in her hands and Zuko’s dazzling smile was once again directed at her. “Here, Katara. Happy May Day.”

Katara took the box and tentatively her eyes rose to meet his. His golden eyes were far too handsome to belong to someone so devilish. Despite herself, she gave him a teeny smile. “Thanks, Zuko. Happy May Day.”

oOo

It was around midmonth when Sokka returned as promised. His arrival was met with many hugs and a whole roasted turkey courtesy of Katara and Kanna. The two had slaved away all day preparing all of Sokka’s favorites. This would be his first trip home in nearly a year and a half and they knew how much he’d be missing the comfort of a home-cooked meal.

Sokka wasted no time in introducing his much anticipated girlfriend. She was a pretty and surprisingly bold girl named Suki who worked in the accounting office down the street from where he was doing is apprenticeship. The whole family took to her quickly, delighted by her confidence and intelligence. Kanna in particular was very pleased that Sokka had found a girl with an actual education instead of a vapid rancher’s daughter. Katara too took to Suki quickly, happy to finally have another girl around to talk to.

Of course, the good mood quickly fled when the topic of conversation inevitably shifted to current events. Sokka, like Katara, very clearly disapproved of their father’s decision to allow Ember Steel to take over their mill.

“I can’t believe you let those crooks get a foothold in our town!” he mirrored Katara’s own protests, laying his palm flat on the table. “You must’ve seen the news about them, Dad. They’re criminals, plain and simple, and now they have control of West Bluhaven.”

Hakoda shook his head. “Calm yourself, Sokka. They don’t have control of anything. I negotiated very carefully with them before allowing the purchase.”

Sokka didn’t look convinced. “And you think they’re going to honor those negotiations?” He shook his head violently. “I’ve seen how they operate. They’re dirty and underhanded and they will go to any lengths to get their way.” He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward, his eyebrows furrowing seriously. “There are even rumors that Ozai offed his own dad to take control of the company. These guys aren’t just bad news; they’re dangerous.”

Both of Katara’s eyebrows shot up at Sokka’s declaration. As much as she disliked Ember Steel, that seemed like a bit much. Hiking up prices, sure. But patricide? That just sounded like the rumor mill at work. “Ozai can’t really be that bad, can he?” she vocalized these thoughts. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I totally agree with you that they’re evil, but that seems a little extreme.”

Sokka surprised her by shaking his head. “You wouldn’t think so, but I can believe it. That whole family has a reputation for being sociopaths. They lie as easily as they breathe and they don’t care who they hurt as long as there’s something to gain from it. Frankly, they’re terrifying.”

Katara pursed her lips, staying her protests. Oddly, she found herself wanting to defend Zuko’s family. As much as she distrusted him, to call Zuko a sociopath didn’t sit right with her.

She thought of his radiant smile on May Day—the way the sunlight had lit up his eyes and the sincerity in his expression when he’d told her she looked nice in pink. He wasn’t acting, was he? Nobody could fake a smile like that. Moreover, a sociopath wouldn’t leave an unsigned May basket at her door.

Still, she held her tongue. Was she really going to believe Zuko over Sokka?

No. Perish the thought. Clearly she was spending too much time with Zuko.

June

June marked the official start of Summer. It also meant that if the track construction remained on schedule Katara would only have to deal with Zuko for three more months. This was a fact she reminded him of often.

“I have to hand it to you. If nothing else, you’re efficient.”

Katara was wandering through the mill, performing her routine inspection of the place to make sure Zuko was behaving. Zuko, as usual, walked in step beside her. He wore a contented little smile and didn’t rise to her baiting.

“To think you would complete a three-year project in just a single year. Perhaps you’re exploiting labor somewhere I can’t see?”

This time, Zuko answered. “As a matter of fact, I have a whole army of hamsters running in little wheels in the basement. It’s how I generate heat for the furnaces. I go downstairs and whip them when you’re not looking.”

Katara turned an unimpressed glower on him. In reality, she was trying her hardest not to laugh. Zuko apparently could tell because he cracked a smile and his eyes crinkled in the way that they always did when he found something she did amusing.

Katara managed to hold the look just long enough to say, “You fantastic bastard.” Then her composure crumbled and she began giggling.

Zuko joined her and the two of them earned odd looks from a group of workers tending to one of the forges.

When they completed their tour, the two escaped to the yard for some fresh air. The mill was always stifling in the summer. Over the winter, Zuko had crafted some benches from iron and installed several freestanding trellises which Katara had planted a little garden within in the spring. Now it was a merry little corner of color and the two of them often sat together and sipped lemonade when the weather was nice. Today was one such day and a full pitcher of lemonade already sat waiting for them, courtesy of Jee.

Katara flopped onto her usual seat and fanned herself with a hand. “It’s only June and already it’s this hot,” she moaned as Zuko joined her and began pouring the lemonade into cups. Zuko proffered up one of the cups to her which she took gratefully. Jee was the best lemonade maker she knew—an odd thing for a man who’d spent his life on a ship to be good at, but then she supposed the lemons helped to protect against scurvy during long sea voyages. “I’ll tell you what, when you leave, Jee can stay. He’s benign and he provides a crucial service.”

Zuko smiled and set the pitcher aside. “I’ll tell him you said that. He’s waited his whole life to be told he’s benign.”

Katara sniggered and took a sip from her cup. It was an awfully nice day. She was, in all honesty, going to miss this when summer ended. Perhaps whoever bought the mill next would still allow her to come around and lounge in her garden. Beside her, Zuko exhaled a little sigh and turned his face to the sky. He closed his eyes and a soft smile tugged at his mouth as he basked in the warm sunlight. She took a moment to covertly study his face. He didn’t look like a dangerous sociopath. Nor did he look like a crook, for that matter. He appeared just the same as any other young man.

It had been nine months—nearly ten—since he’d first taken over the steelworks and he’d yet to do anything crooked. Katara was loathe to admit it, but it really didn’t seem like he had any intention of doing anything dastardly.

Perhaps she’d been wrong about him?

She shook her head. No, surely not. Companies don’t just change, she reminded herself. There must be something he was hiding from her. Some terrible secret he kept under lock and key. Well, in three months it won’t be my problem anymore, she reasoned. With this thought in mind, she too leaned back and enjoyed the sun on her skin.

July

Two more months. When had she begun counting down the time she and Zuko had left together?

Just two months. Then he would be out of her hair for good. She would force him to slither on back to wherever it was he’d come from and she’d never have to think about him again. No more check-ins. No more fear of economic collapse. No more Ember Steel.

A few months ago, that thought would’ve made her happy. Now, she wasn’t so sure of her feelings. She still didn’t trust Zuko, of course, but the thought of him leaving caused a feeling of almost loneliness to writhe like a worm inside her. She’d been a second shadow to Zuko for nearly a year now and she supposed she’d gotten used to having him around. She found herself thinking about how her life would change once she chased him out, and instead of relief, she found only emptiness. What was she going to do with her afternoons? Who was she going to complain about at the dinner table? Who was going to have snowball fights with her come winter? Who was going to spontaneously carry her groceries and buy her cakes? Who was going to leave May flowers at her door?

Could it be that she actually…maybe liked Zuko? Just a little?

Katara shook her head vigorously and quickened her pace through town. No. Such thoughts were abominable. Unthinkable. She couldn’t like Zuko. The sky would have to turn green and the sea orange before she would ever seriously entertain such a notion.

As her feet carried her past Ember Steel’s town office, she was stopped, just like in March, by voices coming from inside. This time, however, she could hear them loud and clear. Zuko and his visitor sounded like they were standing just on the other side of the door.

“Zuko, be reasonable!” The voice belonged to a woman but it was different than the voice of the woman she’d seen exiting his office back in March. This voice was lower and lacked the poignant edge of the voice of the woman from before. “Think about what you’re throwing away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away. The way I see it, I stand only to gain from this move.”

“Gain?” the woman sounded incredulous. “Zuko, if you go through with this, you’ll lose your friends, all respect—”

“I don’t need their respect.” Zuko’s voice was firm. Hard.

Katara’s heart thudded in her chest as she listened to this conversation that she was certain she was not meant to overhear.

“And what? You think they’ll let you just walk away after a betrayal like that? Even for a Redford, there are limits to how brazenly a person can act before they have to face repercussions for their actions.”

Katara couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Her feet were stuck in place as her heart hammered against her ribcage. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She didn’t want to believe it.

“It’s already been done, Mai. At 11 AM tomorrow, I’m seizing full control of Ember Steel. All production and sales decisions will henceforth be up to me.”

She’d heard enough. She’d heard more than enough. She wished she could unhear it. Anger coupled with confusion burned in Katara’s throat like bile as she pushed her legs into motion. She needed to warn her dad.

As she ran for home, tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. She scrubbed her eyes, refusing to let them fall. She wasn’t sad. Not in the slightest. She was just angry. Angry for ever thinking she could trust Zuko Redford.

She repeated this thought like a mantra over and over in her head the whole way home. Surely if she just kept saying it, it would become true.

oOo

“Your father?” Kanna questioned, her gray eyebrows rising high on her wrinkled forehead. “He rode for Tofteville this morning, remember? He’ll be back tomorrow morning for his meeting with that Redford boy. Whatever matter you need to discuss with him will have to wait until after that.”

Katara shook her head in disbelief. She’d completely forgotten about her father’s trip. Normally, she didn’t think twice when her father said he was going to be away. He’d been riding out to meet with Mayor Beifong in Tofteville frequently since construction on the railroad began. It was far easier for him to make the trip out there than it was for the aging mayor to come to West Bluhaven. Today, however, she cursed his leaving. There was no way to get a warning to him on the road. She was going to have to wait until he returned tomorrow and hope she got to him before Zuko did.

She cursed aloud as she ran to her room and threw herself onto her bed. It just figured that her dad would be away the day Zuko finally decided to show his true colors.

Sleep came slowly to Katara that night. Anger was making her chest hurt. She’d really begun to think that maybe Zuko wasn’t so bad. He’d been nothing but kind and considerate toward her and the people of West Bluhaven since he’d arrived last August and now…she’d just learned that was all a lie. He didn’t care about any of them. The favors he’d done for her; all the times he’d made her laugh—it had all been fake.

The Redfords lie as easily as they breathe, Sokka had said. He’d been right.

oOo

The next morning, Katara woke early. She was determined to wait at her father’s office until he showed up. That way she could be sure she met him first.

She donned her old blue dress, willfully ignoring the peony pink one hanging just beside it, and fastened her hair with its normal blue clip. She brushed her teeth and fed the chickens and when her morning preparations were done, she grabbed an apple from the kitchen and departed for the sheriff’s office.

The only officer present when she arrived was Deputy Hanook, who was fast asleep at his desk. Katara didn’t bother waking him. She seated herself in her father’s cushioned chair and set her eyes on the clock, watching it tick away the minutes. She was praying that her father would come straight to the office and not stop at home first. She didn’t know what she was going to do if Zuko showed up before he did. She wasn’t prepared to deal with him just yet.

Luckily, her father was a punctual man, and a quarter to eleven she heard the clip-clop of horse hooves outside the office. She heard her father’s voice as he gave orders to another one of his deputies and a moment later he was walking through the door, his brown face and blue eyes the same as they’d been the morning previous. Katara wasted no time in rising from her seat and rushing toward him.

“Dad, we’ve got a huge problem,” she told him urgently, grasping the front of his vest.

“Katara? What are you doing here?” he questioned, confused. “What problem?”

Oh, thank whatever god may be listening that he was here. She still had time to warn him. “It’s Zuko. He’s coming!”

Hakoda raised a brow. “Yes? We do have a meeting scheduled in—” he glanced up at the clock “—twelve minutes. I certainly hope he’s coming.”

Katara shook her head. “No. You don’t understand. He’s going to seize control of the mill. He’s going to betray West Bluhaven!”

This time, her words appeared to actually make it through to him. Hakoda’s eyebrows furrowed and he grasped her shoulders. “Katara, what do you mean? Explain to me what’s going on.”

Katara nodded. “I heard him talking about it. He said that at 11 AM today he was going to take full control of Ember Steel.”

The corners of Hakoda’s mouth turned down in confusion. He looked like he was trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Katara, that’s—”

Before he could finish whatever it was he’d planned to say, a sudden commotion outside stopped him in his tracks. The father-daughter duo turned to the door. That sounded almost like…

A loud crack split the air, followed by yelling and the startled whinnying of horses. Not a second later, another crack was heard and somewhere down the road a woman screamed.

Katara looked at her father in fright. There was only one thing that made a sound like that.

Hakoda’s expression sobered and he turned around to reach for the door but the piece of wood flew open, slamming into the wall with a loud bang, and then strange men Katara didn’t recognize were filing into the office, pistols drawn.

Thinking fast, Hakoda made a grab for his own pistol, but the intruders were faster. The one in the front grabbed her father around the neck and raised his gun to his head while his buddies appeared to search the room with their eyes.

“He’s not here, boss,” a younger looking man with a black scarf covering his mouth and nose called back to a brown-haired man with bushy sideburns walking leisurely at the back.

The man the black-scarfed goon had called boss stopped just inside the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s quite alright,” he spoke calmly. His manner of speech was oddly articulate for the leader of a group of outlaws. “That’s what we get for arriving early. It just means we’ll have to start without him.” He nodded to the goon holding her father and the outlaw grabbed Hakoda’s hair, forcing his head up to look at the boss. “Now, then. I believe you have some paperwork our employer’s very interested in getting his hands on.” He glanced past Hakoda to the wall where a large steel safe was mounted. “It’s in there, I imagine. It would save us a lot of trouble if you’d be generous enough to tell me the code.”

Hakoda glared defiantly back at the man. He was proud even with a gun held to his temple. “I refuse.”

The large man sighed. “I thought you might.” He glanced in Katara’s direction then and made a signal with his hand. Before Katara could figure out who he was signaling to, a meaty hand was grabbing her hair and hauling her onto her toes. Katara yelped in surprise and pain as she was manhandled toward the door. The boss turned back to her father. “That’s your daughter, I presume. The family resemblance is striking. I’ll tell you what, while you rethink your answer, my boys will take her outside for a little game. The game’s called five shots. The rules are very simple. One of my boys will shoot four shots, one at a time, while you think, and if you don’t give me the answer I’m looking for, the fifth shot will go through her pretty forehead.”

Katara’s face paled as she was marched out the door and onto the street. She managed to toss her father one final terrified look over her shoulder before she was being blinded by bright sunlight.

Out on the street, two more thugs waited with a group of horses. A safe distance away, onlookers watched in fear as she was dragged out of the office by her hair and down the short wooden steps to the road. Not ten feet away, one of her father’s men lay unmoving in a pool of his own blood. Katara screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to witness the lifeless body of a man she’d known since she was small.

She wasn’t allowed the luxury for long. No sooner had they cleared the steps, she was being tossed gracelessly onto the street. She heard a cry of her name and opened her eyes to see Bato in the crowd. His eyes were filled with panic and he had a meat cleaver in one hand, probably the closest thing to a weapon he could grab on short notice. Unfortunately, such a weapon would do little against a band of pistol-wielding outlaws.

“Alright, girly. You heard the boss,” the man who had tossed her spoke, turning her attention back to him. He’d pulled out his own pistol and as she watched in fear, he leveled it right at her face. “Shot number one. Best hope my aim’s not become lame. Been a while since I last had to shoot a person with any kind of finesse.”

Katara thought he might wait a tick—drag out the shot to maximize her fear—but no sooner were the words out of his mouth then he squeezed the trigger, aiming a shot right by her left hand. Katara screamed as the bullet impacted with the ground, causing dry earth to splatter over her side.

“Well, shucks. That wasn’t half bad, if I do say so m’self. Let’s see if we can get the next one a few centimeters closer.”

Katara shook her head. “Please!” she begged, unable to find any other words through the panic in her brain and the blood rushing in her ears. “Please…!”

“No can do, little missy. It’s not every day I get to shoot at a girl pretty as you. Really gets the old blood going, y’know what I mean?”

This statement was punctuated by another shot, this one landing just by the toe of her boot. Katara screamed again and this time a sob tore out of her throat. She was going to die. She was going to die in the street like an animal for the pleasure of this terrible man.

“Oops. M’hand got a little happy there. Forgot to announce the shot. That was number two, by the way. I wonder if dear old dad has coughed up the code yet? I’d check, but I’d hate fer ya to try n’ make a break for it when my back was turned.”

Katara just continued to sob in terror as the outlaw rotated the nose of his gun, seemingly deciding where to shoot next.

“Alright. Number three’s halfway to home so we gotta make it a good one. Any suggestions?”

Katara squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her legs to her chest. She wanted out of here. She wanted to be anywhere else but here. Another shot split the air, and Katara nearly screamed again, but then her brain registered a difference from the shots before. This wasn’t the sharp crack of pistol-fire. This one was far deeper—a familiar sound she’d heard enough times to recognize anywhere.

Pop-BOOM.

She barely had time to be confused. The next thing she knew, the trigger-happy outlaw was screaming, his gun-arm having erupted in a shower of red.

A gasp rose through the crowd of onlookers and men and women scattered left and right, running for their lives. Katara looked around wildly but she couldn’t see where the shot had come from. Nor, apparently, could the other two outlaws. They whirled around, pointing their guns every which way as they attempted to root out their assailant.

Pop-BOOM.

One after the other, the remaining two outlaws fell just like their comrade. Their pistols clattered to the ground from now-useless arms and they swore loudly as they were wracked with the excruciating pain of having their limbs nearly blown straight off by a Winchester rifle.

With the three men down for the count, the band’s mystery assailant finally deigned to show himself. Katara was the only person to be unsurprised when the tall, dark figure of Zuko dropped down from the roof of her father’s office, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Katara’s eyes traveled up to his face and she saw an expression there that she’d never seen him wear before. He was looking down at the men he’d dropped with a face colder than the Alaskan tundra.

“Zuko…?” Katara spoke his name hesitantly. Now that her life was no longer in immediate danger, the feeling first and foremost in her mind was confusion. What was going on? Why had Zuko shot those men? Weren’t they here on his orders?

Zuko turned to look at her and his expression immediately softened. His eyebrows furrowed into a worried frown and he rushed to her side. “Katara!” he called as he crouched down in front of her. “Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” He patted her down with his hands, looking for wounds.

Katara batted his hands away and shook her head. “Zuko, I don’t understand. Those were your own men. Why did you shoot them?”

Zuko’s eyebrows pushed together in clear confusion. “My own men? What in the world are you talking ab—”

“Well, well, well. I was wondering when you would finally decide to show up.”

Both Katara and Zuko looked at the door to the sheriff’s office where the voice of the outlaws’ boss had sounded from. The man was leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes trained on Zuko. “All of this would have been for nothing without the man of the hour.”

Zuko very clearly recognized the man, because he leapt to his feet and tightened his grip on his rifle. “Zhao?” he questioned, sounding confused. “What are you doing here? What’s the meaning of this?”

The boss—Zhao—uncrossed his arms and stepped slowly out onto the street. One of his hands traveled to a holster on his belt where Katara could see the butt of an expensive-looking revolver peeking out of his jacket. “You should know exactly what this is about,” he answered, the haughty smirk never once leaving his face. “Did you really think Mr. Redford would let you run off with a whole subset of his company? You were given the reins of Ember Steel because he expected you to run it responsibly in accordance with the family legacy. Instead, you took the whole horse and tried to run away with it. You can only imagine Mr. Redford’s disappointment.”

Zuko took a step forward, putting himself squarely between Katara and this Zhao who apparently worked for his father. “The company was given to me to do what I pleased with. I was within my legal rights to break off from Empire. He shouldn’t have any complaints.”

Zhao sighed and shook his head. “My, Zuko. Your time away from home has made you recalcitrant. You were expected to run the business, not take it over. In transferring ownership to yourself, you’ve left Mr. Redford in a sticky position. A position there’s really only one way out of.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “He means to have me killed.”

Katara sucked in a breath. Zuko’s father what?

Zhao’s smirk widened. “A little slow on the uptake, but I knew you’d get there eventually.” With his free hand he reached into the lining of his jacket and produced a file folder which he waved in front of himself tauntingly. “And with this annoying little agreement of yours out of the picture, Mr. Redford will be all set to milk this quaint town for every penny that passes through it once I’ve delivered your head to him in a bag.”

Climbing shakily to her legs, Katara shuffled forward to stand at Zuko’s flank. “Like hell he will,” she challenged brazenly. “West Bluhaven won’t be trampled on by anyone.”

Zuko nodded, shooting her a smile over his shoulder. Looking back at Zhao, he said, “That’s right. And besides,” he raised his rifle and trained it on Zhao’s chest. “I think you’ll find I’m not that easy to kill.”

Zhao’s smirk didn't falter. “Perhaps not,” he agreed, much to Katara’s confusion. He cocked his head slightly and casually slid his gaze over to Katara. “But she is.”

Before Katara could so much as blink, Zhao was already in motion. Like lightning, he grasped his gun from its holster and fired a single shot.

What followed seemed to happen in slow motion. Katara’s eyes opened wide in shock. Her gaze fixed on the smoking barrel of the gun as her brain checked all the signals from her body, trying to find the spot where the bullet had entered her. It took at least three seconds for her to realize that her nerves weren’t sending any distress signals to her brain. She hadn’t been shot.

By that time, Zuko’s rifle was already clattering onto the street. Katara could only watch in horror as his dark hair sunk slowly down her field of vision and he crumpled to the ground. It was another two second before she registered what had happened.

Zuko had thrown himself in front of her. He’d taken the bullet meant for her.

Still very much in shock, her eyes travelled down to look at the young man lying in a heap at her feet. There was a hole in his shirt right over his stomach, and as she watched, red blossomed from the area like a rose unfurling to greet the summer.

In front of her, Zhao laughed. “Oh, predictable Zuko. A bleeding heart right to the end.”

Katara could barely hear him. She sank to her knees and placed her hands on Zuko’s chest. His eyes were open and he was looking at her with a shell-shocked expression. He was breathing, but his breaths were coming in quick, short gasps.

“We all tried to tell you that kindness of yours would be your downfall. You were simply never cut out to be a Redford.”

Slowly, Katara raised her face to look at Zhao. Zuko was dying and this abhorrent man was taunting him. Zuko had traded his life for hers, and Zhao was mocking him for it. She couldn’t understand.

She couldn’t understand this man at all.

Zhao shook his head and holstered his revolver. With one final disdainful sniff at the boy he’d shot, he turned away and began walking back to his horse. Behind him, his men followed suit.

Blood roared in Katara’s ears.

She couldn’t understand.

She couldn’t understand… but she did know one thing. Zhao needed to pay. Zuko had traded his life for hers. Now she would take Zhao’s life as payment for his.

Her eyes still open wide, Katara reached over Zuko and grabbed the fallen rifle. In one deft motion, she pulled herself to her feet and raised the rifle the way she’d seen Zuko hold it a million times.

Katara was no markswoman, but Zhao was only a few feet away and at such a range even she was hard pressed to miss. Zhao was just placing his foot on his horse’s stirrup in preparation mount when she lined the nose of the rifle with his back and, pausing only a moment to make sure her aim was true, squeezed the trigger.

Pop-BOOM.

Dead silence followed as Zhao’s grip on his horse’s saddle failed and his body slid to the ground with a thunk. Every person in the vicinity, friend and foe alike, stared at her, their mouths opened in shock. Even Bato watched her with an expression that could only be called utter awe.

As if spurred by her initiative, the crowd suddenly burst into motion, the men and women Katara had grown up with falling on the remaining outlaws with fists flying and nails scratching. Katara barely saw them. She dropped the rifle and ran back to Zuko’s side.

Zuko’s eyes were still open but they were hazy. He was losing blood fast and she could tell that he was on the verge of passing out. Thinking quickly, she tore off her dress, leaving her only in her underclothes, and pressed the fabric to his midsection. She needed to stop the bleeding. She needed to save Zuko’s life. She had to.

“K-Katara,” he croaked her name, his eyes trained on her as if she was the only thing tethering him to consciousness.

“Don’t speak!” she chastised him hotly. Her throat and eyes hurt. She felt like all her emotions were liable to come erupting out of her, tearing her to bitty pieces. “Just don’t. You need to focus on living right now.”

Zuko’s gaze didn’t stray from her face. She watched tears appear on his cheeks and was confused until she realized they belonged to her.

“You’re goingto live,” she insisted, willing the universe to make her words truth. “I’ll tell you what. If you promise to live, I’ll let you keep the mill. You can move Ember Steel’s headquarters to West Bluhaven for all I care. Just please...” She wiped her eyes, trying to stop from drowning Zuko in her own tears. “Please don’t die.”

Katara started in surprise when one of Zuko’s hands moved and brushed her leg. “I was…” he croaked out again, flagrantly disobeying her orders, “…always…hoping you…would say that.”

As if that one sentence sapped all his energy, Zuko’s eyes fell shut and his hand went limp, falling back to the ground with a dull thud. At once, Katara’s panic centers kicked into gear. “Zuko?” she called, giving him a shake. “Zuko!”

She was nearly scared out of her skin when a hand appeared on her shoulder. “Let him be, Katara. I’ve already sent for the doctor.”

Katara looked up to find her father hunched over her. He looked a little manhandled but no worse for wear. At the sight of him, healthy and whole, she turned on her knees and buried her face in his chest. He accommodated her by lowering one knee to the ground and in response she wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed him tightly.

Hakoda squeezed her back and raised a hand to pet her hair the way he used to when she was a child. “Now, don’t cry, Katara. Yugoda will get him patched up and he’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

Katara took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded against her father’s front. She prayed to every god she could name that her father was right.

If Zuko died…

She couldn’t think it. Zuko couldn’t die. Not after what he’d done for her. She’d never be able to forgive herself.

“I was wrong about him, Dad,” she told her father’s chest. “I was wrong the whole time.”

Hakoda made a sound of understanding in his throat. “You be sure to tell him that when he wakes up. I’m sure he’ll be very happy hear it.”

oOo

The following few days were hectic and rife with anxiety for Katara. All the outlaws who hadn’t managed to escape had been rounded up and thrown in jail. They were, of course, thoroughly questioned about the reason for their attack. However, it soon became apparent that Zhao’s goons didn’t know enough about the details of the job they were asked to do to craft a strong case against Ozai and Empire. This meant Hakoda’s hands were effectively tied. Without a confession from Zhao, they had no solid proof of Ozai’s involvement; just witness testimonies. This was a very difficult reality to accept because everyone who knew the truth wanted justice for Zuko.

Coupled with that was the matter of Katara’s own actions on that fateful day. Even if the law was willing to ignore what she’d done, Katara would never forget that she’d purposefully and calculatedly murdered a man. Zhao had been evil and had deserved death for what he’d done, but that didn’t stop the memory of putting a bullet in his back from haunting her at night when she settled down to sleep. Never had Katara ever imagined she’d carry the weight of a man’s life on her shoulders, and now that she crossed that line, she felt unclean—tainted. You couldn’t unkill a person.

Still, she knew that if she were to be sent back to that moment, she’d do it again. The thought of Zhao riding away after what he and his men had done caused the fury she’d felt that day to reignite inside her.

Of course, the matter that weighed most heavily on her was Zuko. It had been three days, and while she’d been assured many times by Yugoda that he was very much alive and on the road to recovery, she hadn’t been allowed into the clinic to see him at all. She checked back at least three times a day, but she was very firmly turned away each time. This put her anxiety on pins and needles. Sure, the doctor saidhe was recovering, but was he really? If he was really getting better then why wasn’t she allowed in to see him?

On the fourth day, however, that Katara was finally granted visitation rights. The moment Yugoda gave her the go-ahead, Katara raced past her to the small alcove where the clinic’s inpatient beds were situated.

She found him just as she’d been told he would be. He was dressed in a patient’s frock and his complexion was perhaps a little more pale than she was comfortable with, but he was sitting up and awake and when he saw her a bright smile spread across his face. “Katara!”

Katara wasted no time. She rushed to his bedside and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him close. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she cried into his shoulder. She didn’t care that embracing him like this, particularly in a public place, was wildly inappropriate. Nothing could have stopped her from doing it. She was just so relieved to see him alive. She’d thought she was going to lose him.

If Zuko minded being hugged, he didn’t let it on. Rather, he laughed and said, “What’s this? I thought you were itching to get rid of me.”

Katara abruptly pulled back and gave him a disapproving look. “I thought you were going to die and that’s the first thing you say to me?” Her left eyebrow twitched and her voice turned petulant as she said, “If you’re dissatisfied with my concern for your wellbeing then you are welcomed to leave.”

Zuko’s eyes crinkled and his smile turned fond. “Now, there’s the Katara I know.”

Heat rose to Katara’s cheeks and she turned her face to hide the evidence of how flustered his words made her. She played with her skirt with her fingers for a moment before she finally peeked back up at him. He was still smiling, his golden eyes aglow from the open window behind her.

Seeing him like this—his boyish face illuminated by cheerful sunlight and his mouth pulled into a sincere smile—she wondered how she’d ever thought he was evil.

Which reminded her. She had something to say to him.

“Um, Zuko,” she started, her tone turning serious. “I think I—no. I owe you an apology.”

At once, Zuko’s smile faltered and his eyebrows came together in confusion. “For what?”

Again, Katara’s cheeks turned pink. Oh, this was just so hard to say. “You know for what. For how I’ve treated you this past year.” Her hands found the front of her dress again and she twisted it in her fingers. “I acted like a proper witch, following you around and accusing you. You never did anything to deserve that kind of hostility. I was being close-minded and stubborn and…and I’m sorry. You’re actually a really good person, but I was too wrapped up in my presumptions about you to see that.”

The whole time she was speaking, Zuko had said nothing. He merely watched her without expression. When she finished, he nodded slowly. She could see his brain working behind his eyes as he considered what she’d said. At last, he said, “Thank you. I’m happy that your opinion of me has changed. But you know…” He tilted his head and his eyes were oddly serious as he continued, “It’s precisely that stubbornness of yours that I like best about you. The life I came from didn’t have people who would talk back to me. I appreciate that you’ve always been open with me about your feelings. I far prefer your honesty over masks of politeness.”

This gave Katara pause. Zuko actually liked her bullheadedness? He couldn’t really mean that. Giving him an unsure look, she asked, “Really?”

He nodded. His lips pulled up into a smile again and he said, “You have no idea how refreshing it’s been to be put in my place. The moment you told me to pack my things and “find somewhere else to ruin” I knew I was going to love this town.”

Katara’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. “Surely, you’re joking.”

Zuko chuckled and shook his head. “I assure you I’m not.” His eyes crinkled again in that way that told her he was being one-hundred percent genuine. “I really do love living here. And I promise I won’t do anything nefarious with the mill. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay here.”

Katara released her skirt, allowing the hem to fall back to the floor. Slowly, she shook her head in utter bafflement. She simply couldn’t wrap her mind around this bizarre young man. He was the son of the most wealthy and powerful man in America, and he wanted to stay here in her humble little West Bluhaven because he enjoyed being verbally abused by her.

Well, she wasn’t going to question his reasoning. The man had taken a bullet for her. As far as she was concerned, he could stay as long as he wanted. Pulling her mouth into a tiny, teasing smile, she said, “I believe the agreement was that you would be allowed to stay so long as you managed not to die. You’ve obviously upheld your end of the agreement, so I suppose I’ve no right to deny you.”

Zuko’s smile widened and his eyes danced with happiness. “Thank you, Katara.”

Katara returned his smile and shook her head. More seriously, she said, “There’s no need to thank me. You earned your right to be here a long time ago. However…” Her eyebrows slanted low over her eyes and she held a finger up in front of his face. “I do still very much intend to continue my daily inspections. Somebody needs to make sure you’re not working those hamsters of yours too hard.”

Zuko’s eyes crinkled again and he let out a chuckle. “Of course. I’ll be delighted to have you.”

Katara’s smile returned. Throwing propriety to the dogs, she leaned forward and wrapped him up in another hug. She was just so happy to have him back. Seeing him alive and recovering, all her other problems suddenly didn’t feel so great. So what if Ozai couldn’t answer for his crimes just yet? So what if the memory of killing Zhao still haunted her dreams? She and Zuko would face these things together. By far, the scariest thing she’d faced from that day was the prospect of losing him. Compared to that, those other two matters were as significant as raindrops in a lake.

“Um, Katara.”

Katara grunted. “What?”

“Your father’s right behind you.”

At once, Katara ripped away from Zuko and whirled around. Sure enough, Hakoda stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised high on his forehead.

Katara’s face lit up like a candle. “D-Dad!” she squeaked. “What are you doing h—I mean, this isn’t what it looks like!”

Hakoda pushed off the doorframe to enter the room fully and his arms uncrossed to move to his hips. Nobody was more surprised than Katara when one corner of his mouth lifted upward in a small, knowing smirk. “I did say I was happy that you were warming to Mr. Redford,” spoke in a slow drawl. “But maybe slow it down just a tad.”

oO0Oo

Okay, so that last bit was sort of an omake. Hakoda needed to be there. It was only fitting.

I know I skipped a ton of prompts. I really wanted to write for all of them, but I just didn’t have time. I barely managed to scratch this one out. Still, it’s better than 2012. I at least managed to do most of the prompts. (And there’s still tomorrow’s, too.) So…success? Kind of?

Anyhoo, I hope you enjoyed this rushed finale to the Western AU. This last part didn’t end up matching with the prompt as well as I’d hoped, but that’s just how these things are sometimes. Stories don’t always go the way you intend them to. I’m just glad I was able to wrap it up in a timely fashion. I didn’t want to make everyone wait for this. I’ve already got enough of a reputation for leaving stories unfinished.

Oh, and for those of you who were wondering: No. Deputy Hanook never woke up. He’s still at his desk sleeping.

#Zutara #Zutara Month 2018 #zk month 2018 #30 days of Zutara #Western AU #It's finally done!#be warned it's very very long

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prettylittlelyres · 6 years ago

Text

Inside the Writing Process

Part 6: Writing in a Colour Scheme

This Inside the Writing Process post is all about how I’m writing my setting descriptions in She Has No Name, doing my best to bring across a certain colour in the reader’s mind.

Aesthetics are important to the visual enjoyment of a written piece, and infusing a section with colour is a good way to achieve that. For me, this isn’t particularly to do with symbolism, but I do like to assign certain characters to certain colours, so it has a lot to do with association.

We meet again later on, in the kitchen our flat shares. It would be a bright, airy sort of space, a well-lit common area for breakfasts in the sunshine, morning light streaming in through the window, a huge great pane of glass that opens the wall, floor to ceiling, for several feet. A table with four chairs sits in from of it and I can imagine the long shadows their legs would cast over the terracotta-tiled floor… if this weren’t the South-West.

As I push open the kitchen door I realise that, in spite of the gigantic window, the only real light in the room comes from the recessed lights in the ceiling, and from the lamp on the extractor fan. I feel like I could get used to it, though, to the plantpot-coloured light hanging in the room, vermillion like the skin of a pomegranate.

Rosie is standing at the hob, leaning on a lipstick-red walking stick as she cooks, but she turns around and grins as I come in. “Hey, Celeste,” she says, “I’m making some soup for supper. Do you want some? It’s tomato and lentil, with red onion.” She taps her wooden spatula against the rim of the pan, rests it on a plate on the work-surface, and digs a spoon out of her cutlery drawer. Then she offers me a mouthful, and, oh, wow, the soup smells so amazing that I couldn’t resist walking closer and sipping it off the spoon if I wanted to. And why would I want to?

I step close, and Rosie’s delicate hand cups my chin softly as she feeds me the still-steaming soup.

The bright fire of chopped onion and black pepper spreads across my tongue, and I blink as Rosie’s fingers slip away from my skin.

“Good?” she says, holding the spoon handle between her fingers like a cigarette.

“Good,” I say, grinning, “And, yes, please. Shall I go and fetch some bread? There’s a supermarket not too far away—”

Rosie twitches violently and grips her stick harder as she sways on the spot. “Could you get my wheelchair from my room quickly, please?”

“Um… Uh… Yeah, yeah. Are you OKK?” I hold her shoulders gently and try to get a look at her face, but her head’s bowed, her neck bent, and all I can tell is that she’s gone from pink to white in the last few moments. But I can feel her pulse leaping even under my hands, even in her shoulders, her arms.

“Stood up for too long,” she mumbles, and I barely catch it. But I know she’ll know more of what’s going on that I do, so I don’t ask any more questions. Gently, I let her go, and then run to her room, knocking the door open and grabbing her wheelchair from where it’s parked under the desk, like a swivel chair. I push it clumsily down the corridor back to the kitchen.

Rosie’s lying on the floor when I get in, stick beside her, limbs lax, but her eyes are open, just about, and she looks up with half a smile as I cross the room with her chair. “Thanks,” she says, lips barely moving.

“Are you OK?” I say, crouching beside her and taking hold of her hands, “Has this happened before?”

Very slowly, with my help, Rosie manages to sit up, and then to clamber from the floor into her wheelchair. “I lose count of how many times. It’s OK. I just spent too long…” She grips the arm-rests of her chair and squeezes her eyes shut, breathing deeply through her nose for a few moments. “…Too long on my feet… and had a little spell. It’s called POTS.” She fumbles for the dials on the hob controls and turns off the halogen under the soup-pan.

Rosie’s colour is, of course, red (which is also why she’s called Rosie, rather than her full name, which is actually Rosemary). Celeste’s colour is blue, and Suzette’s colour is yellow (but we haven’t met Suzette just yet).

That’s why her wheelchair’s frame is red, why she uses red walking sticks, and why this whole scene (which centers on her despite being told from Celeste’s point of view) is full of references to the colour red.

I like writing colour schemes into my descriptions, so, in my writing journal, I have a double-page spread with lists of things which are those colours, as well as the names of different shades, so that I can incorporate them into the scene I’m working on.

I started these lists looking at the colour thesauruses on WritersHelpingWriters, and then started adding my own entries to them, including some emotions the colours bring to mind.

blue: ocean - sky - robin egg - denim - cornflowers - ink - sapphires - curaçao - storm clouds - cold - forget-me-not - lavender - Delft tiles - willow-pattern - ice topaz - hyacinth - bella luna blue tea - dawn - tartan - soft - calm - water - night

yellow: butter - sunflower - lemons - gallia melon - citrine - fallen leaves - mustard - sunbeams - rapeseed fields - honey - oil - amber - mahonia - daffodil - buttercup - gold - marigold - mango - goldfinch - cornfield - peaches - cableknit sweater - legal pads - canary - warm white fairy lights - moringa

green: pears - grass - pine trees - beize - pistachio ice cream - moss - mould - algae - courgette - lichen - aloe - river-water - ficus - peas - lentils - sage - shrubbery - holly - ivy - apples - lime - mint - mojito - matcha - herb garden - oak leaves - flower shoots - heather - rainforest - hedgerows - tea

red: pomegranate - wine - scarlet - roses - Maltese cross - blood - ruby - blood orange - apples - gerania - lipstick - red velvet cake - rosehip syrup - strawberries - raspberries - gingham - red&black notebooks - Rosie’s coat - Rosie’s wheelchair - sunset - bricks - terracotta - plantpots - cinnamon - nutmeg- ladybirds

At some point I’ll make lists of other colours, to have on hand when I want to incorporate them into other scenes, but for now I’m happy with these lists, and to keep adding to them where I can think of new entries. Once I have them set down, it’s just a case of slipping them into scenes where I want to create the sense of a particular colour, and it’s really quite a fun part of writing, because I suddenly have a way to explain that everything that goes on has a kind of aura about it.

I have lists of words for particular atmospheres as well, but I’ll get to that in another post!

#writeblr #blog #rosie geelen #celeste newman #she has no name #writing #excerpt #excerpts #handwriting #characters with eds #postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome #deaf characters #sapphic character #bi characters #lesbian characters #sapphic author #hoh author #inside the writing process #writing process

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iwillbeinmynest · 7 years ago

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The Ravens - Loki x Reader(f)

Authors Notes: I’m so pumped for this. I really hope you guys like it!! This is all going to be written from Loki’s POV I think but If that changes I’ll let you know.

Notes/Warnings: boredom, being annoyed, light drinking (I’m writing this as though the reader is of legal age to drink. I do not condone underage drinking, y’all. If you’re underage…pretend I wrote grape juice.) flirting.

Word Count: 1.2K +

This was, by far, the stupidest thing he’d ever not agreed to do. Too bad Thor was the face of the band; anything he agreed to, the rest of them had to endure. Although, Loki seemed to be the only not enjoying this, at the moment. Another contest, another group of adoring fans who wouldn’t shut up and another night of watching all the girls practically draping themselves across Thor, Volstagg and Fandral.

Another publicity stunt was the real reason for such an unpleasant evening. Radio stations across the country had held contests to send a fan from their area to the Odinson’s house for an evening of “food, wine and a good time”. Repulsive.

“That’s right, Folks. If you call in right now you could win an all expense paid trip out to the Odinson Manor. Home of the baddest, most raging rock band, The Ravens. You’ll get to meet the whole band and dine with them at their very own dinner table. And, ladies, need I remind you that they’re all single?”

So, here Loki sat at the end of the table, lounging in his elaborately-molded, dark wood chair. He frowned out at the twenty faces that had traveled from all over the country for their chance to win the heart of one of The Ravens. The lights from the candelabras on the table cast eerie shadows across his face, dancing around the dark hair the fell over one of his piercing green eyes.

This overly Gothic decor was too dramatic for his taste, but it helped maintained the image the band was going for. They were a rock band after all. The more dark wood and oxblood red, the better. But the place Loki would rather be was upstairs, in his wing of the castle. His studio was there; quiet and warm. Perfect for getting lost in a melody.

“What’s it like to play bass?” A girl asked. She sat two seats down from him to his left and he was thankful she was so far away.

“I wouldn’t know. I play guitar. Thor plays bass.”

“So, Loki,” A girl with purple streaks in her hair and way too much eyeliner turned his way. “How do you like being a part of such a successful group?”

Loki sat up in his chair and turned his attention to the food in front of him. He cut at one of the grilled quail on his plate and bit the meat off from his knife. “Pays the bills, I suppose.”

The girl with the purple streaks giggled like a moron and it caused Loki physical pain to refrain from rolling his eyes at her. What a waste. Her intentions were clear; just another groupie looking for a rock star’s bed. Loki let out a low exhale and cut at his food again. Better to have a mouthful that to actually engage in a conversation.

“Not that you actually take care of the bills yourself.” A voice, smooth and even, like the pouring of a one hundred year old wine, stopped Loki mid bite.

He could tell where the voice came from but a large floral center piece - made up of black roses, of all things - hid her face from him. Loki put down his utensils and pushed the plant out of the way. Unintentionally, but to Loki’s enjoyment, moving the plant blocked his view of the girl with the purple streaks in her hair.

The face he was looking for however, finally came into view.

She was regal. She sat up straight in her chair, the dark wood a stark contrast to the shade of her cheeks, flushed from the red wine she sipped on. She gave him a side glance and the faintest of smiles. Her eyes were brighter than the sun and Loki could have sworn his heart actually stopped.

He couldn’t stop the sly smile that spread across his face as he decided on how to reply. “I don’t need to take care of them, I have people for that, but those people wouldn’t have the means to take care of the bills, if not for my music.”

She grinned. Norns, how he was fascinated by that grin.

“Your music? I thought Thor wrote most of the songs.” She asked and took a careful bite from her fork.

Loki scoffed. “No. He writes the heavier pieces, sure. But I write the important songs.”

“The ballads that get less attention? Who would have guessed that the rock songs were more popular among the rock fans?” She lifted her wine glass with delicate, deep red, lacquered fingers and never broke her gaze as she sipped from the gold-rimmed cup.

“There seems to be a correlation.” He admitted, the corners of his lips trying to pull up. This one is different. She’s smart.

“Shame, really. The important ones are my personal favorites.”

“Oh?” Loki leaned to one side of his chair and rested his chin between his pale knuckles. “Tell me, then? Which song of mine is your favorite?”

A burst of laughter from the other end of the table startled her and her head whipped around to the sound. As her hair brushed over her shoulder, her semi-exposed back revealed a tattoo. Loki couldn’t read it from this distance but it was definitely a quote. He’d have to find out what it said later.

When she settled back against her chair she smiled at him and answered, “Frost Giant.” She blinked her beautiful eyes. “That one is my favorite.”

“Really?” Loki questioned, amused. “That’s an old one. From our first album, I think. Norns, seems like ages ago.”

“Mhm. I’ve been a fan for a while.”

“You hardly give off the crazed fan vibe.” He eyed her carefully and sipped his wine.

“I didn’t say anything about crazed.”

“You’re here, aren’t you? Haven’t you heard? Only the most dedicated fans will win this opportunity.” Loki gestured out across the table as he quoted one version of the contest advertisements.

She chuckled. What a sound.

“A friend of mine- actually, several friends of mine- called in and won the contest for me. I’m not much for contests. I have a terrible habit of loosing. The Fates have it out for me, I think.”

“The Fates?” Loki’s eyes lit up. “You believe in The Fates?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Loki nodded and sipped again on his wine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, but mostly ladies,” A voice boomed from the other end of the table and flirted with the guests. “May I have your attention, please? My name is Heimdall and I will be your much more formal host.” Thor threw a bread roll at him, which he quickly caught and took a bite from.

Loki rolled his eyes as a few girls near Thor and Fandral burst into a laugh that revealed the ever familiar sound of ulterior motives.

Heimdall went on, “I hope you have enjoyed dinner and before we get to dessert and the real drinks, I’d like you to accompany me - along with The Ravens, of course - for a tour of their elaborate manor.”

The table buzzed with low chatter as the guests stood from their seats and grew more and more excited about getting a personal tour by the band.

Loki turned to her and- wait. “I’m afraid I haven’t asked your name.” He said to the beauty on his right.

“Y/N.” She smiled. “I haven’t asked you your name either.” She looked at him with mock curiosity and it drew out an actual laugh from Loki.

He stood from his chair and offered her his hand, which she took as she rose from her seat. Loki brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed her hand softly. “My name is Loki. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Y/N.”

The girl with the purple streaks in her hair rolled her eyes and pouted but neither Loki or Y/N noticed.

The Ravens Tags:

@eyeofdionysus @lauxeyson

Forever Tags:

@heismyhunter @sgtbxckybxrnes @pickledmoon @whimsicalrebirth @marvel-lucy @thisisthelilith @james-bionic-barnes @thedreamingowl @poemwriter98@kimistry27 @annie-lujan @buckyandsebsinbin @lilasiannerd @gypsy-storm-15 @cassiopeiassky @earinafae @the-stuttering-kiwi @obsessedwithatwell @shortiiqt16 @shifutheshihtzu @elaacreditava @nikkitia7 @theonewithallthemilkshakes @gallifreyansass @storytellingwanderer @palaiasaurus64 @iamwarrenspeace @engineeringgirlcve @magnolia-wanders @carameldaemoncakes @canumoveyourseatup-no @melconnor2007 @movingonto-betterthings @spideytrxsh @fantasticmiraclehologram @kapolisradomthoughts @iamwarrenspeace @melconnor2007 @yesiamdeliciouslycaffeinated @mcu-avengerrs @archy3001 @mmauricee

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jennymanrique · 4 years ago

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Hunger in the pandemic: 14 million children in the U.S. do not eat the foods they need

Photo: Bloomberg

The number is five times higher than before the coronavirus crisis. And at the recent Democratic and Republican conventions nobody spoke of the hunger ravaging 54 million people in this country, a number that comes close to the levels of the Great Depression.

When Jovanna Lopez realized that the food that immigrants, Blacks and Native Americans received, after waiting in long lines, at the food banks in San Antonio, Texas, was expired or rotten, she tasked herself with working so that these communities could get access to fresh fruits and vegetables. Even more so when organic markets were brimming with producers who only focused on the well-off customers, with astronomic prices, and who refused food coupons.

That’s how, in 2015, this food promoter co-founded People’s Nite Market, a nocturnal market, where nutritious foods replaced the ruined avocados and salads that were being distributed in the food donations. “The situation was difficult before COVID-19,” said Lopez during a press conference organized by Ethnic Media Services. “But when the pandemic started all this poverty and hunger rose and the people with disabilities, or without access to transportation to go anywhere, or even those with immunological problems, all had to stop eating.”

One 85-year-old resident was just eating bread for weeks because no one could visit her due to social distancing, until Lopez’s organization took her a box of rice and beans. Since the beginning of June, thanks to a hard-won grant of $600,000 from the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), the People’s Nite Market has been able to feed 150,000 families in the area, including undocumented immigrants, with the weekly delivery of 5,000 boxes of products like fruit, vegetables, eggs and rice.

According to Lopez, the San Antonio Housing Authority decided to cancel the food delivery as soon as COVID started and people were trying to help each other, especially those with immunological problems or those under 60, since aid to young people was scarce. “I spoke with a lot of activists and we had the residents start their own community network to access all the resources they might need.”

As an urban farmer, Lopez works with the Garcia Street Urban Farm, a four-acre farm in the western part of San Antonio. It allows people to grow their own food. But this model, though successful, requires an initial investment of $20,000 that many people don’t have. “We’re fighting to get the development department to change its use of public space policies and the government to support community organizations so that families may be farmers,” Lopez pointed out.

54 million hungry people

The situation in San Antonio is the microcosm of a panorama that pales nationally. According to the Census Office weekly surveys (analyzed by the Hamilton Center on Budget and Policy Priorities), in the first two weeks of August, around 14 million children were not receiving the food they need. This amount is equal to the minors living in one-sixth of American homes and is five times higher than before the pandemic.

And according to the economic model by Feeding America, a non-profit organization that has a national network of more than 200 food banks, 54 million people, including 18 million children, will experience food insecurity in 2020. During the Great Depression of 1929 the number was 60 million.

“Since the middle of March we have seen an increase in scarcity of food across the country,” said Ami L. McReynolds, Chief Equity and Programs Officer at Feeding America, an organization that was already helping 37 million people before COVID at 60,000 distribution centers in all the United States.

“The cost of living keeps going up and people are being left without food because their income covers the basic needs of housing, food and transportation. But food costs are flexible. They are the first to get cut when there are problems with resources in the home,” McReynolds added.

Native American, Black and immigrant communities suffer 2.5 times more hunger that white people, and are more affected by unemployment, which is already close to 11%. These households can cover a maximum of $400 in emergencies, have less access to transportation in order to go to the food distribution points, and due to discriminatory practices, they are not homeowners so they live in neighborhoods with less infrastructure and access. Not to mention that they have been the most affected by COVID-19.

“There has been a 60% increase in our services during the pandemic. Many individuals that now come here to our food centers used to be volunteers or donors of the food banks. They are some of our most recent customers,” McReynolds sustained.

Their organization has mutated to new distribution models, like grocery and canned food home deliveries, in order to minimize contact with people, especially senior citizens, of which it is estimated that there are 5.5 million going hungry. There are also technological applications, through which people can order food on line from nearby supermarkets in order to reduce lines at satellite distribution sites. And many banks that work specifically with Latino communities have created alliances with grass root organizations to understand cultural preferences as far as food and to reduce the trust barriers as far as access.

“We know that fear prevents access to food. It’s a concern. We want communities to feel comfortable and safe coming to these centers.”

McReynolds says that even though they have the support of a network of almost 2 million volunteers and even the National Guard, which helps to maintain the health protocols dictated by the Center for Disease Control (CDC), they are still looking for allies.

Federal Aid

Feeding America, for example, provides only one-ninth of what federal programs like SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, more commonly known as food stamps) and WIC (Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children) provide. But in the new relief packages to deal with the coronavirus pandemic, resources for these programs run the risk of being cut or approved with insufficient funds.

“Republicans as well as Democrats want to pass certain aid, but the problem is that they want it to be one third of what was approved by the House of Representatives,” said Reverend David Beckmann, president of the Bread for the World institute. “Cutting programs like SNAP in schools, even when they’re closed, will be devastating for many people.”

Beckmann also reminded that this federal aid is not available for undocumented people. Even for resident immigrants, the change by the current administration to the public charge law, makes them hesitant to request aid due to fear of affecting their future immigration legalization process. That’s why other measures are urgent, like immigration and labor reform in order to end hunger, because “it is not enough to just give people food, rather people must be allowed to earn that food.”

The expert said, however, that the absence of the topic at the Democratic and Republican conventions reflects the impact of consultants, who have asked politicians to not use the word ‘poverty’ in the richest country in the world. “Joe Biden’s program would give us a better option to create a healthier economy and reduce poverty,” said Beckmann about the Democratic candidate’s platform. “We can end hunger in eight years if we wanted to,” he concluded.

Originally published here

Want to read this piece in Spanish? Click here

#English #covid_19 #pandemic #hunger #Donald Trump #democratic convention #republican convention #undocumented people #food #food banks #immigrants #african american #indigenous people #urban farm

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bigyack-com · 5 years ago

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Harvey Weinstein Is Gone, but Hollywood Is Still a Man’s World

LOS ANGELES — In Hollywood, director jobs are no longer automatically filled by white men. Television writers’ room have made diversity and inclusion top priorities. Human resources departments at major media corporations are more responsive when complaints are filed. Intimacy coordinators, who introduce physical consent considerations into the artistic process, are now normal on productions featuring sexual content.It has been nearly two and a half years since the sexual misconduct allegations against Harvey Weinstein burst into public view, and much is different in Hollywood.But the entertainment industry has been doing things a certain way for decades, and not every aspect of it has been quick to change. Even as Mr. Weinstein was found guilty on Monday of two felony sex crimes, Hollywood largely remains a man’s world.Take the Oscars, moviedom’s ultimate show of power and prestige. For the ninth time in 10 years, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences did not nominate a woman for best director in 2020. Only one of the 20 acting nominations went to a person of color. And with the exception of “Parasite” and “Little Women,” the majority of the films honored by the Academy — “The Irishman,” “Ford v Ferrari,” “Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood” and “Joker” — were portraits of white men directed by prominent white auteurs.“I hear people saying a lot of things they hadn’t said before: that inclusion matters, that they understand the need for representation, that they believe in diverse people and perspectives being centered,” the writer and director Ava DuVernay said. “But saying it and doing it aren’t parallel tracks.”One group of high-powered women in town maintains a running list of the white men who keep rising up the executive ladder while the women stay at least one step below. Jennifer Salke, for instance, became the head of Amazon Studios in 2018 after her predecessor, Roy Price, was accused of sexual harassment. But the former Sony executive Mike Hopkins was brought in last month to oversee Amazon’s video entertainment business. Ms. Salke reports to him and he reports to Jeff Bezos, the Amazon founder.It is unlikely that accused harassers like Brett Ratner, James Toback, Charlie Rose and Matt Lauer will return to the public eye anytime soon. (Those men, and Mr. Weinstein, have denied any allegations of nonconsensual sex.)But many in town remain frustrated by those who were accused of improprieties — or who worked closely with those who were — and have been allowed to return to work. Case in point: John Lasseter, who was removed from his position as the creative chief of Pixar after acknowledging misbehavior in 2018, landed a top job at Skydance Animation last year. The former Weinstein Company partners David Glasser and Bob Weinstein, Harvey’s brother, have each formed new production companies. Mr. Glasser raised some $300 million in financing from partners such as Ron Burkle, and has become a fixture on the festival circuit.“No matter how much things are shifting in the right direction, when you get to the top of these media companies, you will usually find a white dude,” said Nina Jacobson, a veteran producer and the former president of Disney’s Buena Vista Motion Pictures Group. “The power behind the power is still white and male, and in terms of truly passing the torch in corporate life, the torch has not yet been passed.”On the whole, Hollywood has become a more inclusive place. It has been helped by the rise of streaming services, which have a seemingly insatiable need for more content that appeals to new and diverse audiences. Women and people of color have been finding their voices through organizations like Time’s Up and ReFrame, which have transformed the issues of gender and racial equality from tired buzzwords into vital, concrete paths to addressing the imbalanced power structures that some blame for allowing abusers like Mr. Weinstein to flourish.“I think that the very small group of people that are waiting for things to even out and go back to the status quo need to realize that’s never going to happen,” said Nina Shaw, an entertainment lawyer and a co-founder of Time’s Up. “But we also need to figure out a way forward.”Last summer, as the showrunner Melissa Rosenberg began developing a pilot for HBO Max based on the prequel to the 1998 film “Practical Magic,” she noticed stark changes in corporate attitudes.“There were very specific intentions from the studio and the network to have diverse voices in the room,” said Ms. Rosenberg, who created the Netflix show “Jessica Jones” and was an executive producer for “Dexter.” She added that she had been told, “You will not have a room without people of color and diversity of gender and sexual orientation.”“That was a big change,” Ms. Rosenberg said. “When I was coming up it would be sufficient to have one woman in the room — to represent the female voice — and she was often the lowest-paid writer, too.”Today’s issue in television is one of supply. Rarely are episodic series staffed with an all-male director slate, unless the show’s creator opts to direct each episode. More frequently, women are landing directing gigs.With so many shows being produced, there aren’t enough women to fill the demand. “The problem now is a pipeline problem,” Ms. Shaw said.Mark Gill, who was president of Miramax Los Angeles when Harvey Weinstein ran the company, was the only man to speak out in the New York Times article in 2017 that first chronicled Mr. Weinstein’s abuse. He said then that the company “was a mess” but that Mr. Weinstein’s treatment of women “was the biggest mess of all,” a quote that drew the ire of his male colleagues when it was published.“I got a ton of blowback,” Mr. Gill said in a recent interview. “It was sort of a violation of the code. Several people actually said to me, ‘You’ve just blown your career.’”Mr. Gill has since started a production company with $400 million in financing and a staff that is divided equally between genders. “Of course, it turned out to be the exact opposite,” he said of the warnings he received. “It turned out to be a recruiting advantage.”Hollywood has marked its intention to adapt with the formation of support organizations. These include Time’s Up, the celebrity-fueled group that in addition to condemning sexual harassment has formed a legal-defense fund to help connect women of various industries to lawyers, and ReFrame, an organization run by Women in Film and the Sundance Institute with the goal of achieving gender parity in the entertainment industry. Women in Film also started an independent help line for anyone who has been harassed or abused to call to be connected with pro bono lawyers or therapists.“Women have less trepidation about helping each other, networking with each other, being vulnerable with each other,” said the producer Amy Baer, the board president of Women in Film. “I think this is a direct result of #MeToo and women realizing that there’s strength in numbers and in having each other’s backs, much the way the boys’ network has worked for decades.”The SAG-AFTRA actors’ union has turned the job of intimacy coordinator, a profession that began on theater stages, into a cottage industry inside Hollywood. And it has developed a set of guidelines and protocols for how the coordinators are integrated into sets.“It’s been an interesting process,” said the actress Gabrielle Carteris, who is president of the union. She worked closely with actors, directors, writers and the coordinators over the past two years to determine the protocol that was released in January.“When you think about the Harvey period from a few years ago, people felt like they had no control,” Ms. Carteris said. “There was no structure. Now people are saying: ‘I can do this work. This is amazing.’ I think this moment is a step towards cultural change.”Still, systemic transformation is slow. According to a 2019 study from the University of Southern California’s Annenberg Inclusion Initiative, only 17 percent of executive positions in major media companies were held by women, with only four of the women coming from underrepresented groups. Producing stats are equally dismal, with just 18 percent of producers on films between 2016 and 2018 being women. (Only 11 percent of all producers came from underrepresented racial or ethnic groups.) While “Captain Marvel,” “Harley Quinn,” “Wonder Woman” and other female-centered blockbusters have come to the screen with female directors at the helm, most theatrical blockbusters based on well-worn intellectual property — the bread and butter of today’s movie business — still belong to the men.“Inside, deep inside, I’m not seeing wheels turn beyond surface statements,” Ms. DuVernay said. “I think Time’s Up is effective and still pushing hard. But without a real threat or adverse impact, systems don’t change overnight. As I’m experiencing it now, I’d say it’s at 4 on a scale of 1 to 10. Which is significant, seeing it was at a negative 20 before.” Read the full article

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moayoub1 · 5 years ago

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What's it Like to Travel in Oman?

I wanted Oman to be exotic. To not desire anywhere else we’d been before (a challenge after eight years on the road). Maybe almost slap-you-in-the-face India different, but pleasantly bewildering Japan different.

When we received Muscat airport it did feel unfamiliar initially. The locals wear ankle-length gowns—white dishdasha with turbans for men and black abaya for ladies. the toilet featured squat toilets and was a busy mess of girls chattering in Arabic.

Then we walked into the arrival hall and were greeted with a Costa coffee and WH Smiths, two British chains that we rarely see outside the united kingdom.

Oman may be a modern, wealthy country. it's going to have only gained its wealth with oil money within the 1970s and been closed to tourists until the 1980s, but in Muscat, you'll now find Pizza Hut and Starbucks and supermarkets stocked all our favorite British chocolates, alongside the shiny mosques, bustling souqs, and straightforward Indian cafes.

I was a touch disappointed by this initially. Muscat felt very easy and not the exotic destination I’d hoped for. Simon, on the opposite hand, took comfort within the familiar and happily gorged on bags of Minstrels and Toffee Crisp Bites, treats we hadn’t had for a year.

Despite its modernization, Oman isn’t all chain restaurants and shopping malls, and that we found that the further faraway from the towns we traveled, when Starbucks was replaced by basic coffee shops and goats grazed by the side of the road, the more we enjoyed it.

I find Oman harder to explain than other places we’ve visited, perhaps because we struggled to urge under its skin on a brief trip, perhaps because it's fewer obvious attractions than more popular destinations. I even have no snappy answer to the question of what Oman was like, but here are our impressions after a 10-day road trip around the north of the country.

Where is Oman? The Sultanate of Oman isn’t a well-known tourist destination so you would possibly be wondering where exactly it's. Oman is found on the Arabian Peninsula and shares borders with the United Arab Emirates to the northwest, Saudi Arabia to the west, and Yemen to the southwest.

It’s Easy and Safe We found Oman a simple country to travel in, but you are doing need a car as conveyance is restricted. many of us speak English; the roads are generally quiet, tarmacked, and in good condition; and crime rates are very low. We felt safe and never worried about theft or scams or experienced any hassle. Oman is one of the foremost stable countries to travel within the Middle East.

Muscat isn't Dubai

Despite the large highways and shopping malls, Muscat may be a low key capital with none of the glitz or skyscrapers of neighboring Dubai. the town is extremely opened up between the jagged mountains and therefore the sea. the flamboyant houses, upmarket restaurants, and long stretch of beach of the diplomatic area Qurum feel very different from a budget Indian restaurants, busy shopping streets, and medieval forts along the corniche of Mutrah. There aren’t many major attractions but the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque does live up to its name and is one among the simplest places to go to in Oman.

People Oman may be a Muslim country so you’ll see many mosques hear the decision to prayer five times each day (expect to be woken at dawn), and won’t find alcohol in most restaurants and shops. 46% of the 4.5 million population are expatriates, primarily from the Indian Subcontinent.

We found the people friendly but fairly reserved, especially the ladies who didn’t usually acknowledge us, while men in villages and on hikes would say hello. I'm wondering if this can are different if I were traveling alone.

Oman is an absolute monarchy. Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said has been ruling the country since 1970—the third-longest current reigning monarch within the world. He rose to power after overthrowing his father and proceeded to finish Oman’s isolation and make huge changes to modernize and develop the country by building schools, hospitals, ports, and a road and telecommunications network.

Landscape and Towns Oman is 82% desert and that we experienced it in many forms from the rolling dunes of Wahiba Sands to the rocky barren mountains around Nizwa and therefore the sandy beaches of Sur. Goats, camels, and donkeys are often seen wandering by the side of the road in additional rural areas.

Most of the towns are fairly modern and not particularly attractive. There are many aged mud hut villages you'll visit, but most are abandoned and are in ruins. Misfat Al Abriyeen is one of the few that are still inhabited.

I loved the matter-of-fact shop signs in Oman proclaiming their purpose like “sell foodstuffs”.

If you're a lover of forts, you’ll love Oman as every town has one among these sandcastle-like buildings, many many years old.

One of our favorite things about Oman was the oases that hack the bleakness of the desert with patches of vibrant green date palms.

Some of the oases are found in wadis—dry ravines which sometimes contain glorious swimming holes of emerald water like at the stunning Wadi Bani Khalid.

Food Oman doesn’t have a robust food culture and traditional Omani food mostly consists of meat and rice. Despite this, it’s easy to be vegetarian as most restaurants serve either Indian food, where there's always dahl and vegetable curries or Arabic/Turkish food with hummus, salads, flatbread and other mezze on offer.

We were proud of the straightforward meals we ate, but it isn’t a foodie destination, and there aren’t many stand-out restaurants. the foremost commonplace to eat maybe a basic cafe serving fast-food dishes with aspirational menus—they usually didn’t have everything on the menu but we're happy to suggest vegetarian options for us.

Surprisingly Oman does have fantastic supermarkets. We loved Lulu Hypermarket and once we had an apartment in Nizwa we self-catered from the prepared food section with dahl, curries, salads, hummus, bread then far more. it had been better and cheaper than most restaurants.

One culinary enjoyment of Oman is dating, which is grown there. they're cheap and delicious and served with traditional Omani coffee in tiny cups.

It’s Quite Expensive Oman has made the conscious decision to focus on the upper-end travel market instead of backpackers. We found accommodation particularly expensive, especially considering everywhere we stayed in was functional instead of special. the foremost interesting place we stayed was the straightforward but atmospheric Desert Retreat Camp in the Wahiba Sands.

Some gorgeous new hotels are opening up as tourism increases, just like the Alila Jabal Akhdar, but you've got to pay many pounds an evening for any style.

We spent £134 ($173/€145) each day for 2 people with 51% of our budget on accommodation. We found food inexpensive outside hotels and it cost us but £14 each day (not including the meals that were included in two of our hotels), petrol is a smaller amount than 40p a liter, and our favorite activities—hikes and wadis—were free.

The cheapest thanks to traveling Oman would be to wild camp free of charge because it is legal in most of the country.

It’s Not Busy But Tourism is Growing It’s easy to urge off the beaten track in Oman. We visited in peak season and traveled the foremost common tourist route, but there have been still only a couple of foreign tourists at the main sights—usually, older Europeans (British, French, German, Italians) traveling as a few with a guide/driver or in small tour groups. There was just one other guest at our desert camp and that we had two of the foremost popular hikes within the country to ourselves by starting at 8 am. If you stray just a touch from the favored attractions you’ll be the sole foreigner around.

Tourism in Oman is growing, though, so now's the time to go to.

What to Wear in Oman Locals dress modestly and visitors must do too—there’s no got to cover your hair (except women when visiting mosques), but both men and ladies should cover their shoulders and knees, and in additional conservative areas I preferred to hide my arms and legs too. I usually wore linen trousers or jeans and a loose sleeve shirt.

The weather in Oman in December was perfect—about 25ºC and sunny during the day, with cooler nights. you're doing need warm clothes if you are rising the mountains—the nights on Jebel Shams were on the brink of freezing.

Do We Recommend Visiting Oman? Yes, we recommend visiting Oman. If it’s your first visit to the center East, I might probably recommend Jordan instead because it has more major sights and better food. But if you're looking to urge off the beaten track during a safe country Oman may be a great choice. If you're a lover of desert, forts, wild camping, and adventurous 4WD trails, Oman would be perfect.

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anthonybialy · 8 years ago

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Art on the Floor

Art means so much to us that we won't buy it on our own. Mean people who pay for what they like note it's pointless if we don't choose what works we treasure. The same government which thinks we want solar panels and street cars might not have the best taste in paintings or tunes. Being forced to pay for it is the surest way to ensure value.

Purchases should be voluntary for as long as taste is personal. Buy your own art. Yes, it's very cruel to be billed for what you like and consume. Nevertheless, a worthwhile society is one that patronizes as a decision. It doesn't need to be out of compulsion. I like your production so much that I think taxpayers should have to lower costs for attendees. Most opera patrons have to choose between seats for Carmen and bread for toast dinner, so please don't make Upper West Side residents go hungry.

It may be a shock to those who think an outlet being treated rudely during a White House press briefing is a free speech infringement. But the First Amendment recognizes your right to express as you wish, not have your canvas provided gratis. In fact, the opposite is true. A legal agency deciding who gets funding and, more importantly, who doesn't is as close to a Bill of Rights violation as the Army being sent to blow up Twitter's servers because of my incendiary right-wing snark. Every federal grant is an endorsement. Now that's punk rock. Artists who don't receive them are denied benefits over taste while the government chooses winners and losers in the expression business.

The same ones who think art dies without bureaucratic distribution never consider the possibility that people could be charged it. Like everything else in these modern times, life will fall apart unless the government is choosing what we like and spending our money accordingly. Never mind its Charlie Brown-pitching track record in making decisions: those poor in more ways than one have already suffered from atrocious mandatory insurance. But at least they have it along with the art chosen for them.

It's not like the rich will step up and fund the humanities just because they always have. Take the Koch Theater, whose seats are naturally made from orphan blood. There's nothing better than walking through Lincoln Center and knowing liberals are horrified by the libertarian businessman's massive contribution. What really frightens the art snots is the precedent of using their own funds to both enjoy what they wish and help the less fortunate do the same. In the spirit of bipartisanship, Koch's namesake faces David Geffen Hall, a venue funded by a kind liberal who should learn from his own generous example and advocate for cutting out the federal middleman.

It's normal for those who feel they've earned nothing to be terrified of free market consequences. But that shouldn't prompt an unwillingness to admit there's another way beside billing taxpayers. The alternative where humans somehow determine what they want at an agreeable price would actually be more efficient, not to mention the ensuing improved economy after the damn government is confiscating less. We should prefer to choose what gets our bucks without the NEA's decisions. Think of it during periods of opposition rule: do culture aficionados really want the Trump administration deciding what's aesthetic?

While unconstitutional, at least an agency spending what was ours is impractical. If a program would survive with a federal funding cut, it doesn't deserve the money. If it would die, it doesn't deserve the money. Well, that was easy.

It's not a matter of wanting it to show things I like. PBS could show hockey fights alternating with South Park, and I still wouldn't want taxpayers subsidizing my favorites. The broadcaster's oft-woeful lineup just make the case more urgent. The offerings are frequently dull, biased, or condescending, and that's often a single show.

Of course, there are occasionally interesting hours among the pompous sludge you fund as punishment for earning sufficient income. As a household whose more creative member presses piano keys in the proper order to make pleasant melodies, the fabulous Dahlhalla and I often tune into Great Performances, and not just to see if we know anyone. But Nebraskans shouldn't support the viewing habits of Manhattan snobs like us.

Art is the best example of subjectivity imaginable. And some demand the ruling apparatus designed to be objective keeps funding it. Like everything else government forces us to do that's not its job, coerced assistance should be unnecessary. If these things are so great, why do they need a law to get funding? From health care to Charlie Rose, there's no need for an order if the product's any good. Sesame Street was not deserted after gentrification. Protest cuts loudly to distract from the overwhelming reluctance to pay Judy Woodruff out of pocket.

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ashbournerp · 3 years ago

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EVENT 01- The 100th Year Mark

History is written by the victors - and make no mistake, the Kingdom of Ashbourne has won time and time again. From the ashes of The Great War, rose a unified kingdom that stood for prosperity, innovation, and discovery. On this weekend, we commemorate a momentous milestone - the 100th anniversary of Ashbourne’s inception. Residents from all across the Kingdom of Ashbourne are invited to partake in the historical celebration hosted by Their Royal Highnesses in The Heartland.

All threads must take place during the days of Friday, June 4th to Monday, June 7th, however, you may also have any flashback threads if you desire and react to any part of the event in whichever order you so choose. All characters must partake in the events; however, how and why they do so is up to your discretion! Please tag any event threads with ashrpevent1. We cannot wait to see it all come to life!

Event Breakdown Detailed Below...

Friday, June 4th, 1501

Daytime

As Ashbourne’s residents begin to funnel into the Heartland, they are encouraged to explore the day’s festivals hosted along the main city street. In the spirit of unity and celebrating Ashbourne’s unique Dukedoms - each land has benevolently contributed their own exhibition and/or events for the festival. Today, the exhibitions are as follows:

What better way to recharge after a day of travel than by sipping on refined wines and snacking on succulent fruits, cheeses, and breads from the Fairwinds? Hosted by the Jack of All Trades (ARTURO) , the wine and cheese tasting is sure to satisfy! For those looking to pay tribute to the fallen of The Great War, the Fairwind’s most accomplished Florist (LOLA) will be selling floral arrangements (and, perhaps, a concoction or two for those looking for an edge)

Art is food for the soul, and no one is as accomplished in the arts as Sandspell’s talented residents. Songbirds will be taking the stage, as choreographers lead the attendees in local and Ashbourne-specific dances. Not too far off, is a most curious looking Secret Keeper (AMARA) keeping a close eye on who accompanies whom. A list of which she will undoubtedly take back to her Duchy.

What type of guest arrives without a hostess present? For the forgetful - fear not. Stone Garden’s most illustrious jewelers will occupy stands, featuring only the most refined stones for sale. Keep a close eye on your valuables; however, as trades happen fast and theft even faster - with an army of petty thieves under the watchful eye of the Lord of Thieves (ROWAN).

Nighttime

As high priority guests of the crown, the reigning Dukes/Duchesses/Duchy’s are provided lavish accommodations within the Ashworth Palace. Those of high standing have been provided a room at a luxury inn, just a five minute walk outside of palace gates. All other event attendees are free to select their accommodations, from various inns to residing with a friend in the Heartland - at their own dime, of course.

A quiet evening is had by all, save for the reigning leadership of the Dukedoms. A rare opportunity to come together and discuss trade and allegiances - many take to the Ashworth’s private parlor for a nightcap and a discussion.

A notably tense conversation between Fairwinds’ Duke (JAVIER) and Stone Garden’s Duchess (LOUISA) regarding their soon-to-expire trade agreement. Old skeletons are dragged out of the closet, and the future of their trade agreement remains to be seen.

The newly-crowned Ravenpeak Duke (NICOLO) sticks to a corner of the room, quietly observing his fellow comrades when Sandspell’s Duchess (YASMIN) convinces him to partake in a drinking game that turns contentious.

The Lost Coasts’ Duchy attempts to leave the gathering early, but the Sacred Wood Duchy stops them in their tracks with a lecture in leadership and responsibility. After a heated exchange, the Lost Coasts’ Duchy pushes the Sacred Wood’s Duchy aside - an insult that will not be forgotten.

Saturday, June 5th, 1501

Daytime

The festivities continue on the main city streets first thing in the morning. A number of intriguing exhibitions, benevolently provided by the Dukedoms, are available to all:

Nothing like a little physical activity to start the day. In an effort to showcase Ravenpeak’s stellar army, a number of soldiers will lead the citizens in athletic endeavors and weapons competitions. These include; sword fighting, jousting, and hand-to-hand combat. To encourage competition, a hefty gold prize is awarded to the victor. The Mercenary (KIERAN) proves victorious, eliminating several challengers and winning the bounty for the Stone Garden.

Everything enchanted grows in the Sacred Wood - and they are proud to showcase their unique culture and well-known practices to event attendees. Hosted by the Head Healer (OPHELIA), curious minds can learn how to blend basic remedies for at-home use. A medley of different elixirs, potions, and remedies are for sale - including a popular ‘energizer elixir’ that can be consumed to heighten the experience of this night’s grand ball

A quick jaunt outside of the main city street - the Lost Coasts hosts a civilian, boat racing competition aboard their civilian ships. Hosted by the Naval Commander (KAI), the winner can be declared “captain for the day.” After the competition, sunset begins and those that choose to remain may partake in the lighting of lanterns to adorn the night sky in time for the festivities.

Nighttime

The most anticipated event of the weekend - The Grand Ball. Hosted annually in celebration of Ashbourne’s rise from the ashes, this year’s iteration is the grandest yet. No expense is spared, as the gates to Ashworth palace are opened to nobility and civilians alike. Beginning at sunset, the attendees arrive in formal wear evocative of their respective Dukedoms.

Upon arrival, the guests are invited to drink, eat, and be merry. In celebration of Ashbourne, several of the evening’s provisions and entertainment is sourced from its Dukedoms. Refined meals composed of the freshest harvest from the Fairwinds and seafood from the Lost Coasts are in ample supply. An orchestra and operatic singer hailing from Sandspell, taking center stage, ensuring a grateful melody throughout the evening. It is a night of elegance, celebration, and patronage for all attendees.

An hour before midnight, Her Royal Highnesses take center stage. The picture of Ashbourne nobility and strength. The Ashworth’s royal address is typically inspirational and lofty, leaving nothing but giddiness for another prosperous year ahead. But Queen Catherine’s eyes are crossed with power, and Queen Beatrix’s cold gaze could cut through the smallest of noises.

“On our Kingdom’s hundredth anniversary, let us not forget how we achieved such an accomplishment. We were united by a desire to become bigger, better, and bolder than our predecessors. In unity, we found strength. And as we look to the next century, we must refocus on the values of Ashbourne unity.” A deafening hush falls throughout the ballroom, as Queen Catherine raises a goblet of wine.

“Beginning tomorrow, each Dukedom shall disclose all of their economic exchanges and trade agreements to the Crown. We will ensure the peace and prosperity of our people, by empowering our guardians from the Lost Coasts and Ravenpeak to oversee legality throughout the realm. And, in doing so, we ensure a safer and more unified Ashbourne.”

Sunday, June 6th, 1501

Daytime

A late start for the many attendees who indulged in last night’s luxurious festivities. The day is wide open to explore the Heartland, converse among friends, or simply enjoy a moment of solitude. Still - there is an unsettled aura in the air, as the grand pronouncement leaves the Dukedoms unsettled.

Nighttime

Sometimes - bad news is best taken with a few cases of stolen liquor from the palace, good music, and lively companions. Hosted by the Pirate Lord (HANA) and Lord of Thieves (ROWAN) - the “unofficial” after party of the underworld breaks after sunset. On the outskirts of The Heartland, an outdoor pub is bought out by our criminal lords. Unlike the grand ball, casual fanfare and attire is all the rage at this event and masks are encourage.The liquor is free flowing, illicit concoctions are consumed, and decadent meals have been smuggled out of the palace to keep hungry bellies full. A night of vice and debauchery, there is only one rule; what happens tonight, exists only for tonight.

The Lord of Thieves (ROWAN) catches the reserved Head Healer (OPHELIA) being unusually friendly with various, illegal tradespeople. They overhear her asking about the blackmarket, and corner her about Sacred Wood’s sudden interest in their enterprise.

Sandspell’s Duchy (YASMIN) appears in disguise, enjoying the fan fare when her Secret Keeper (AMARA) informs her that the army has been spotted leaving the Palace. The two quickly leave the party, before their arrival. But, before (AMARA) flees the scene she stumbles upon a crumbled encoded letter having belonged to the Lost Coast Duchy with specific instructions from the Crown.

Despite the event being hosted by and for the underworld, rumors of the event quickly spread throughout the city. Notable party crashers include; the suspicious Naval Commander (KAI) and the curious Ravenpeak Duke (NICOLO), recently emboldened by the Crown’s proclamation to learn more about Ashbourne’s underworld. Their presence is met with hostility from the rebellious attendees. But after a fight amongst thieves breaks out, the Royal Navy and Army storm the party and attempt to capture any suspected illegal traders.

Rumors of the ‘surprise guests’ reach the ears of famed Mercenary (KIERAN) - who received an enchanted, encrypted scroll with specific instructions. Along with it, a bounty of gold if he is able to accomplish his anonymous sponsor’s task; wound a number of the navy and army foot soldiers during the riot. In the name of Stone Garden, of course.

Caught in the crossfire is the Florist (LOLA), who was specifically invited by the Pirate Lord (HANA) to sell her poisons during the event. She narrowly avoids the Fairwinds’ Duke (JAVIER) and finds help in the unlikeliest of people - the Jack of All Trades (ARTURO) who guides her to safety.

However, several join in on the fun - and get into a little trouble of their own.

Monday, June 7th, 1501

A new day begins in the Kingdom of Ashbourne, as the residents come off the weekend’s turbulent high and begin their journeys home.

#fantasy rp #original rp #lsrpg #new rp #ashrpevent #ashrpevent1

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monosko · 4 years ago

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PRELIMINARY WORDS Calcutta acquires its distinctive flavour presumably from the fusion of characters grown in diverse cultural environs in distant lands. Being the first capital of modern India, the city attracted overseas traders, bread-earners, fortune hunters and travelers who spent varying length of their lives here amid the locals giving exposure of spectacular living styles and standards to them. Many of those were great names who had left for us textual and visual details, others left too little to trace back their lives in those maiden days of Town Calcutta still wrapped in haze. Much of the important constructs gone amiss in want of contexts culled from firsthand records, or from the secondary sources left by contemporaries. Reconstruction of the period can possibly be done only by collaging syntactically the fragments likewise promising many a surprise.

This portrait of Julius Soubise(1746-1798) a self-styled ‘African Prince’, is believed to be the long-forgotten work of Johan Jaffony referred to in the Reminiscences of Henry Angelo.(1830). See Notes

It is, indeed, surprising to know how many shades of skin the early visitors of Calcutta had and in how many different tongues they spoke. But more amazing was the loaded experience of the colourful past they had lived before landed in India. They looked different, thought different and did things differently for living. Those were the people who opened up new sources of learning to live in different ways beautifully in a plural society of modern time. The 18th century Calcutta with its formative society had welcomed the harbingers of change. Among them were two cavaliers of rare charms, both banished from their homelands apparently for guilt of chivalrous romancing. Julius Soubise the Caribbean boy groomed as a English dandy, and the French nobleman Antoine de l’Etang the personal bodyguard of Luis the XIV were contemporaries. Although l’Etang was 3 year senior by age, arrived later in 1796, while Soubise, nearly a decade before, in 1778.

JULIUS SOUBISE IN LONDON

Soubise may be said to have been born twice, the first time in London, next time in Calcutta. His two lives were opposite to each other but inseparable like day and night. This is why you must allow me to dwell upon his London life before narrating his life in Calcutta.

Catherine Hyde Douglas (1701-1777), Duchess of Queensberry, Painted by Jervas. 1720

Charles Douglas. 3rd Duke of Queensberry

CIS:E.2185-1949

Dominico Angelo, Italian fencer

Angelo’s Fencing School, Haymarket

Little we know of the Caribbean child, later grown to a notorious young dandy, a self-stylized ‘Black Prince’ in London high society, except that he was born around c.1754 in St. Kitts to a white planter father and a mother of African descent. The boy was sent under the guardianship of Captain Stair Douglas of Royal Navy to England. Reaching London on April 2nd 1764 he was given to the care of the captain’s cousin sister Kitty or Catherine Hyde Douglas, the Duchess of Queensberry (1701-1777) – an eccentric beauty and a socialite, known for her fondness for aprons. [Here is a portrait of her painted by Charles Jervas in the 1720s]

The Duchess apparently freed the boy from slavery and named him Julius Soubise, after Charles de Rohan, Prince of Soubise. [Miller] An all round education appropriate for the British genteel society was set out for him. The celebrated Italian master Angelo Dominic taught Soubise in gentle arts in his School of Arms. Soubise began to make his mark by 1772 – a decade before the rising popularity of amateur and competitive fencing matches cemented the sport’s position in the leisure economy of the fashionable world. He also became proficient at the violin and composed a few merry pieces in the Italian style, and even sang in a comic operatic manner. Soubise was a great favourite of David Garrick’s, the elder Sheridan gave him lessons on elocution, and was loved by some of the brightest luminaries of his time.

His rising success in such a young age inspired Soubise in modeling himself as the ‘Black Prince’ – an epitome of aristocratic masculinity – opened for him a reckless life of a ruthless womanizer and squanderer. He became a source of worries for the upper-class Britons because of not having any real contenders to stop Soubise demeaning the values and the image of the British nobility. As we find from the stray records fetched by recent scholars, the Duchess, alone had the key role in upbringing Soubise in baronial fashion. She maintained a house in town for Soubise, as well a liveried carriage to take him around, and all amenities for leading his foppish life. She herself suffered often from his heedless drives, but made no attempt to check him firmly, probably due to her kindly feelings toward the black boy less than half of her age. The vanguards of the high society in London thought that circulation of a scandalous cartoon involving Soubise and the Duchess should be a sure measure to stall Soubise by embarrassing him as well as his patron the Duchess, and his mentor Dominico Angelo all at once.

A satirical picture depicting Soubise and the Duchess of Queensbury engaged in a fencing match, an engraving of Austin brought about on May 1,1773

“Macaroni” was a contemporary name for a fashionable young man; “Mungo” was a name of an officious slave from the 1769 comic opera The Padlock

On May 1, 1773, they brought about a satirical picture depicting Soubise and the Duchess of Queensbury engaged in a fencing match, an engraving of Austin based on illustrations of fencing compiled by the Angelo fencing dynasty. Duchess Catherine and Angelo are thus implicated in the most disgraceful public attack on Soubise. As researchers think, it would be a mistake to read the cartoon’s use of fencing as merely allegorical, or to assume that the duchess is the cartoon’s only target. In fact, the cartoon also implicates Dominico Angelo. Besides William Austin’s engraving, there have been most notably, A Mungo Macaroni (published September 10, 1772), part of a famous 1771-73 satirical series of engravings depicting fashionable young men, published by Matthew and Mary Darly.

In some sense, Cohen pointed out, “the ultimate target of the cartoon is neither Soubise nor the Duchess of Queensberry, nor even Angelo, but the market economy in which the trappings of rank could be indiscriminately bought and sold.” [Cohen. 2018] The satire was of poor taste and offensive in nature. It must have dampened the spirit of Soubise at least temporarily, and the Duchess felt obliged to bring him back to his good senses to the possible extent. As it appears, Soubise used to stay at Angelo’s, yet remained a favourite of the Duchess who continued to take care of his fads and follies and pay off his large debts quietly. Things suddenly went out of her hand when the Duchess got informed that ‘one of her maids had been raped by Soubise’. She tried to dissuade the woman in vain from going to court. [Sandhu] It was probably from the Duchess, Angelo came to know of the kind of fast life Soubise had been leading in his private apartments where he assumed the habits of an extravagant man of fashion in company of succession of visitors in rooms decorated with roses, geranium, and expensive green-house plants. It was Angelo on whose recommendation, Soubise was sent to India at the expense of the Duchess. [Miller] The Duchess had hardly any option but to arrange passage for Soubise to flee the country he was so madly in love. It was the tragic end of her cherished relationship with the little black boy she brought up as a social rebel decrying against racialist, xenophobic and moralist sentiments in her own fashion. She died of eating too much cherries on June 17th 1777 [Fryer]. Next month Soubise sailed for Calcutta on July 15th 1777 [Sandhu] to start another life very different from the one vanished with the passing of his noble patroness.

III

SOUBISE IN CALCUTTA

On July 15, Julius Soubise left the English shore boarding the Bessborough East Indiaman under the captaincy of Alexander Montgomerie. The ship reached Madras via Media and Cape on 9 February 1778 [Three Decks]. In those days river trips from a South India port to Calcutta would take about three weeks. It could not be any earlier than March 1778 Soubise arrived at Calcutta’s Chandpal Ghat where large vessels used to embark. Almost a nameless black boy of twenty-three, Soubise landed in the small township of Calcutta leaving back his gorgeous past of princely life assuredly protected by the Duchess of Queensberry till her last. Soubise wanted her most to be at his side while starting a new life of a labouring common man instead.

Nabakissen’s Evening Party attended by Calcutta British and European families

Begum Johnstone, the grandmother of the Earl of Liverpool

Calcutta was then ‘the grave of thousands, but a mine of inexhaustible wealth’. [Long] Already the capital of British India, Calcutta was still then a small township resurrected from the ashes of Lalbagh Battle centering around the Customs House amid the ruins of the old Fort William. Clive Street was then ‘the grand theatre of business’, and there stood the Council House, and every public mart in it. The day Soubise landed, there was no Mint, no Calcutta Gazette, no Asiatic Society of Bengal, but a Court House to render legal services as well as facilities of balls and theatrical acts besides running of the charity school for which the building was funded by the Lottery Committee and Omichand a Rothschild of India. Calcutta had ‘a noble play-house—but no church’, service was held in a room next to the Black Hole. The St John Church – the first Anglican Cathedral of Calcutta was founded by Lord Hastings on the land donated by the Hindu Nabokissen in 1874. [Long] All these institutions nevertheless came up one after another in the presence of Soubise. There were, however, no dearth of amusement and recreation with theatrical houses, hotels and coffee shops for the white population, largely Englishmen, Eurasians, few Americans. The presence of native society in Tank Square vicinity was imperceptible, excepting a few men of affairs like Omichand and Nabokissen. Those days the influence of the fabled socialite, Begum Johnstone, the grandmother of the Earl of Liverpool, prevailed over the lifestyle of Calcutta’s citizenry. Till ten at night, their houses were lit up in their best style, and thrown open for the reception of visitors. There were music and dancing for the young, and cards for the old. Common people live both splendidly and pleasantly, the forenoons being dedicated to business, and after dinner [= midday meal] to rest, and in the evening to recreate themselves in chaises or palanquins in the fields, or to gardens, or by water in their budgeroes. [Blockmann] The condition of Calcutta was not too kind to the young men fresh from school, lavishing large sums on horse-racing, dinner parties, contracting large loans with Banians, who clung to them for life like leeches, and quartered their relations on them throughout their Indian career.

It was perhaps the most critical phase in Calcutta history that Soubise witnessed during the last two decades of the 18th century. This was the time when Calcutta extended itself far beyond its boundary limits to the jungle, covering one-third of the Company’s territories, inhabited only by wild beasts, and in Chowringhee, between Dhurrumtollah and Brijitalao, where the new colony of the Europeans was being stretched out. The changing scenario of the Town Calcutta growing into the City of Palace can be envisioned by looking into the earliest Calcutta maps charted by Aaron Upjohn and Mark Wood, and going over the innumerous paintings of world-class artists, like Thomas and William Daniells, Thomas Hickey, Tilly Kettle, William Hodges, John Zoffany, and others. Within a year after the momentous duel fought between Lord Hastings and Sir Francis on 17 August 1777, Soubise entered the Calcutta scene prospecting as an accomplished lancer, a musician, and a horseman.

ENTREPRENEURIAL VENTURES Settlers of those days were hospitable. As we learn from an anonymous account of travels (1760—1768), “there was no part Hospitality of the world where people part with their money to assist each other so freely as the English in India.” [Anon. Edin. Mag.] We might have then some reasons to believe that Soubise had not been left all by himself totally incapacitated in his ventures, if not black-skinned.

Soubise took a couple of years to initiate the business plans he designed after his mentor Dominico Angelo’s model. It was from Angelo, Soubise equipped himself with the arts of aristocratic sportsmanship – horse-riding and fencing, and also some marketing skills as well. Before he formally inaugurated his Riding Academy on Thursday, November 7, 1780, Soubise had started teaching fencing. We understand from an insertion, most likely by Soubise himself published in Bengal Gazette of November 4, 1780, that next Thursday Mr. Soubise will open his Manège for the reception of the horses. His Fencing days will be shifted to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The next thing he did was staging Othello in the Theatre commemorating his first business venture in Calcutta. The Bengal Gazette declared sometime between 9th and 12th December that the Managers of the Theatre generously offered to give a benefit play to Mr. Soubise, toward the completion of his Manège. Mr. Soubise will appear on that night in the character of Othello. And afterward perform the part of Mungo in the entertainment ….. The part of Iago will be attempted by the Author of the Monitor, and Desdemona by Mr. H. a gentleman of doubtful Gender. [Bengal Gazette, Dec. 9th-12th 1780] Here, the reference to Mr. H. seems to be to Hickey himself, the editor of Bengal Gazette, who was known as an eccentric Irishman. Hickey’s acting or posing as a person of neutral sex may have been one of his eccentricities as Cohen maintains but it was perfectly in tune with the contemporary practices followed in the British stage in London as well as in Calcutta she pointed out. [Cohen. 2018].

Four years after, in 1784, Soubise set up his Fencing School advantageously housed behind Harmonic, the famous tavern of 18th century Calcutta, stood opposite the Lall Bazaar Police Court. As announced in the Calcutta Gazette on Thursday, June 24, 1784, Soubise proposes to teach the art of fencing against a nominal fees of two Gold Mohurs for the entry and two Gold Mohurs for tuition per month. His days are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Such Gentlemen as choose to take private lessons at their own house’s, will be attended on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays; in which case his terms are three Gold Mohurs entrance, and three Gold Mohurs per mouth. [Seton-Karr]

Soubise was preparing for his new riding school since early 1788. Fort William reportedly granted him permission to run the school vide Calcutta Gazette April 24, 1788. The most enthralling publicity feat Soubise brought about for his new venture was an event report he made to appear in the Calcutta Chronicle of December 11, 1788. The report clearly reflects the way his businesses were packaged for a defined clientele belonging to Calcutta society as Domino used to do it in London. The report went as follows:

“Yesterday morning, early, the manly exercise of horsemanship was practiced at the Manège, by the scholars of Mr. Soubise, before a very numerous assembly. After the practice was over, near two hundred of the principal people of the settlement sat down to an elegant breakfast provided on the occasion. Breakfast being over, a ball was given, and the ladies and gentlemen were so highly delighted, that it was not without evident signs of regret, they relinquished such a pleasing and health-giving source of amusement …” [Calcutta Chronicle of December 11, 1788] Soubise in his manège taught “more than just horsemanship: it offered education in – as well as the opportunity to take part in a simulative performance of – English gentility”.[Cohen. 2020] Notwithstanding his best motive and organizational capability time and again he failed to take off.

“The newspapers that document these years are a chronicle of his financial instability. Soubise placed advertisements to publicize his new ventures – fencing lessons, horse riding lessons, sales of the mare. Those were followed at regular intervals by notices of insolvency. Yet, whether imprisoned for debt, hounded by creditors, or suffered the sale of his stables at auction, Soubise inevitably bounced back with new ventures”. [Cohen, 2020]

So far we have seen him in Calcutta, Soubise was a master performer and zealous teacher – a man of extraordinary talent in public entertainment with full of ideas for publicity and promotion, yet success eluded him in Calcutta. Soubise lost every business opportunity he created but never let go his indomitable spirit to start anew over and over again. His social and personal life too was rarely without unwelcome events. We come to know from Calcutta Gazette of 26 March 1789 that Soubise survived a brush with death when a French neighbour took a razor to his throat. He bore a ‘large Scar on the left side of the Throat’ from this encounter until his death.

Portrait of Nathaniel Middleton.by Tilly Kettle c.1784.

Lucknow After recovery, Soubise disappeared from Calcutta scene for three years while he stayed in Lucknow. One of his attractions was the famed stable of Nawab of Awadh . Soubise got acquainted with many distinguished people. It was told that a gentleman who held a high station in the east, known by the appellation of Memory Middleton, became a friend and patron of Soubise at Lucknow. [Angelo ] The gentleman could have been none other than Nathaniel Middleton a closed associate of Warren Hastings who sent him at the court of Nawab as the Resident. Middleton got involved in the lengthy dispute between Hastings and his Bengal Council, which eventually led to Hastings’ impeachment. However, since Middleton had resigned from the East India Company in 1784 and went back to England much before Soubise arrived at Lucknow, no meeting ever taken place between the two contrary to the general belief. [Stonopedia] Before Soubise left Lucknow at the end of 1791, he had developed some good connections with high officials of the Stables of the Awadhi court, some of the largest and best on the Indian subcontinent, which he exploited later. Calcutta meanwhile prepared to move south with completion of the Esplanade ground after getting the Dhurrumtollah Tank constructed. He took quite some time to resettle.

PRIVATE LIFE VS SOCIAL ISSUES This was the time when Soubise met Miss Catherine Pawson, a pretty and progressive young lady, popularly known as Kate. She was the only daughter of William Pawson, a good friend of Richard Blechynden (1759-1822), who became a soar critic and an reluctant business patron of Soubise.

Eduardo Territa, Active by James Gillrayi(Activen 1792

Richard Blechynden. Courtesy: Gerald Johnson Fox

Blechynden arrived in Calcutta in 1786 at the age of 22 years, and since then worked in various capacity – as a civil engineer, architect, or building contractor on his own, and sometimes worked under the Superintendent of Streets and Buildings – an Italian architect called Eduardo Tiretta of the Tiretta Bazaar fame. Blechynden also had a share in the Chronicle newspaper. Although he lived in rented houses in town, Blechynden spent his leisure time hunting in the manner of an English squire in “Belle Couchée” – a grand garden house with stables he owned at North-East Calcutta, off Dum Dum (later ‘Belgatchya’) road, about an hour’s walk from Tank Square. By 1806, after renovations, it turned into a very large, lower-roomed house with plenty of grounds and a tank of excellent water. It looks like, this had been the original premises of the legendary Belgachia Garden House and Blechynden its first owner before the property was sold to Lord Auckland and then passed on to Dwarkanath Tagore.

Rammohun Roy 1772-1833

Dwarkanath Tagore 1794-1847

In spite of his multiple income sources, Blechynden was not always financially steady, particularly in those days of French War, neither was his friend William Pawson. On coming to India, Pawson, son of a London wine merchant, joined the East India Company in 1765 and held the position of Paymaster General [Busteed]. He was dismissed in 1781 on the abolition of Provincial Councils. Depending on a small allowance he was permitted to draw, Pawson lead a humble life with his daughter. Although Blechynden, Pawson, and many like them, struggled with debts in 1790s, they nonetheless considered themselves genteel. Catharine Pawson, a member of the ‘polite society’ like her father, never cared much for social sanctions and taboos. “Upon making her acquaintance in 1793, Blechynden ‘thought she was very forward for a young lady’. A newspaper poem published by one of her admirers gives a similar impression, as does her penchant for acting, an activity considered out of bounds for gentlewomen.” Blechynden believed “her attitude undermined her class identity and social standing.” He might have felt something more than that – that it was not she alone but her family and friends too were at risk. The fear and anxiety of social rejection disturbed Blechynden’s peace of mind. His debts, his inability to pay salary to his staff, his gradual loss of hearing – were some of his moral and physical failings that made him apprehensive of social repercussion. The latest however was the shock he received from his friend’s freakish daughter and her scandalous affair with Soubise the ‘Coffree’ boy of a questionable character. Later, when Blechynden heard about their engagement, he could hardly conceal his indignation from the bride’s father, ‘I had heard, but scarcely knew how to believe it’. Pawson had no answer for him but openly speculated as much, that ‘he supposed the Coffree screwed her up tight — and that was the reason she preferred him’. [Cohen. 2020]

It was not interracial marriage as such that vexed Blenchynden’s mind. As Cohen pointed out, ”especially among men of Blechynden’s milieu, who tended to establish long-term relationships with Indian ‘bibis, albeit often outside the legal institution of marriage.’ In fact, between 1792 and 1809, Blechynden fathered two sons and six illegitimate children by four mothers – two Indian Muslim, one Indian or Eurasian, and one India-born Eurasian bibi.

Blechynden acted like a responsible father by providing the children with English education and did nothing exceptional against the norms of the then Calcutta society. Two noblemen of his time, Major General Claude Martin and the business tycoon William Palmer had their children by native mothers socially recognized as their wives unlike all others. [Puronokolkata] Of course, in the case of Soubise’s marriage the racialization of gender was contrary to the conventional model. White men marrying black women were not unheard of in Job Charnock’s settlement, as he himself took a deshi wife, and many followed him thereafter. But the interracial marriage in opposite direction, that is, white-women marrying black-men most probably did not take place in colonial India ever before, although hundreds of Indian Lascars of British ships espoused English wives in England for more than two centuries.

Major William Palmer with his second wife, the Mughal princess Bibi Faiz Bakhsh by Johann Zoffany, 1785.

It was hardly possible for Blechynden to judge Soubise by common social parameters as they belonged to different layers of the English society at two different cultural setups, one in London, the other in Calcutta. In London, Soubise ‘was taken up by fashionable society, became a fop among fops, used expensive scent, went around in a liveried carriage, a favourite of Garrick, brushed shoulders with some of the brightest luminaries of his time. He was Britain’s first Black Dandy, and a virtual socialite.[Fryer] Whereas, “the Calcutta social milieu Soubise entered after his marriage was a world away from such exalted circles.” [Cohen. 2020] What bothered Blechynden was the class identity and social standing rather than ethnicity issues. Catherine’s wedding, he feared, should undermine the very ground on which Catherine stood with her people socially connected. It was more so because the black man here was none but Julius Soubise, an African by birth, overly proud of his own black figure reminding an Othello. Blechynden, with his racist mind-set could not stand the air of self-importance and arrogance of Soubise. Blechynden hoped, Soubise being a chronic debtor and all-around rogue, could hardly promise to make an ideal husband. But he was all wrong and he came to realize that in later days and admitted it with a shade of repentance when Soubise was no more. It was Blechynden who investigated if Soubise did actually married Catharine and found that they did marry but in Portuguese Church by Padre Geovan showing their limited positioning in polite society.

Belying her father’s friend Blechynden’s forebodings, Catherine wedded Soubise and remained devotedly in love with him. She never ever left side of Soubise while passing through a series of challenges up to the end of his tormented life, physically decrepit and financially bankrupt. Soubise, even in his worst time never stopped admiring his wife’s beauty. We see him saying to his guests at dinner “I declare my wife grows handsomer every day”, and sportively to his wife, ‘I wish I had a couple of you!”.

It looks like Soubise with his family had been staying around Lall Bazar-Cossitollah area for more than a decade until he moved into Dhurrumtollah neighborhood. His new establishment, Calcutta Repository was ready by early 1795. The Calcutta Gazette published on February 19th, 1795 an elaborate description with a complete business profile of the Calcutta Repository, including its services, facilities, locale and t&c. Very likely, the news report was penned and sponsored by Soubise himself.

CALCUTTA REPOSITORY “Mr. Soubise having observed that the disagreeable and ill-contrived stables in which many gentlemen’s horses stand in Calcutta, and even in home that are more convenient, the smell, noise, and mosquitoes they occasion, has long had a wish to erect a set(?) of spacious, airy, and convenient stables, upon a plan of his own, for the accommodation of the Settlement; and having at length, by the patronage of some of his friends, been enabled to carry it into execution, he tenders his Calcutta Repository to his friends, his subscribers, and the public in general. As every convenience that could possibly be devised has been adopted to render them complete, he flatters himself they are, without exception, the best stables of any in India; and as Mr. Soubise’s professional knowledge and long residence in the country enable him to pay every requisite attention to that noble animal, the horse, he hopes to obtain a share of that liberal patronage which has so often distinguished this Settlement. The Repository, which in now open for the reception of horses, is situated to the north of, and nearly behind Sherburne’s Bazar [where Chandni Market now located], leading from the Cossitollah down Emambarry Lane, and from the Dhurumtollah by the lane to the west of Sherburnc’s Bazar.

With a view to the further convenience of the Settlement, Mr. Soubise has erected one [range?] of stables, nine feet wide, for the accommodation of breeding mares, or horse who have colts at their side. There are likewise carriage houses, with gates, locks and keys to each, which render them very complete. The terms of the Repository are made as reasonable as possible and are twenty-three Sicca Rupees per month, in which is included every expense (medicines excepted) for standing, syce, grass-cutter, feeding, and shoeing, and for standing at Livery only at five Rupees per stall. Further particulars may be known on application to Mr. Soubise at his dwelling house, near the Repository, or at the menage.”

The Repository was the last major effort Soubise made with Mr. Pawson as his partner. Pawson invested a good amount of money he borrowed from Blechynden but had no luck to pay him back. This project failed as every other one did. Returned from Lucknow, the idea of trading horses came naturally to a clever horseman like Soubise, who knew all about horses. The first horse race of India was held at Akra on January 16, 1794, where Soubise must have been present to enjoy the inspiring mounted sports and became alive to a potentially big market of horses in Calcutta. Besides, the growing demands of war horses after Plassey, and carriage horses with the road expansions there always a niche market for the horse as a luxury commodity. Being in India for nearly a decade Soubise had enough exposure to realize that the horse trade was a risky game, but for an over-confident man like Soubise the first concern was the money to fuel his business, and that too not so much a problem for him being a shrewd negotiator in credit manipulation – so long the project was profitable enough. But as we know, luck seldom favoured Soubise. Out of the amount of Rs. 5000/- Pawson borrowed from Blechynden, Soubise lost Rs 3500 on the horses of Awadh stables that Saadat Ali Khan sent him in August 1796. In the same month, Soubise was imprisoned ‘for shortchanging a customer on the sale of a horse in another complicated credit transaction.’ Pawson’s stables were later sold by lottery and the lotto winner made an offer to Blechynden but he was not ready with the money. Ultimately the stables went to De l’Etang who completed the deal by December 1797.

VII

FINAL YEARS

Blechynden noted in his diary that the final three years of Soubise’s life were a downward spiral. The stabling proved unprofitable and by 1795. Soubise was already looking out for new revenue streams. Blechynden noticed with dismay, Pawson was in a mood to seriously consider Soubise’ latest fad for setting up an Auction House at the ‘old Harmonic’ – the grand tavern equipped with spacious accommodation once used for holding large parties, and ball. Blechynden was perturbed: ‘how then could Soubise prosper without money—without interest—without friends — and without a particle of public confidence’? He sounded genuinely worried. But didn’t Soubise dare to take such a challenge many a time since he landed in Calcutta? A failure could not deter him ever to take another stake in another sphere of business. Besides running horse-riding and fencing schools, and livery stables, Soubise worked for the East India Company conducting breaking-in of military horses. As suggested in an unverified source, Soubise might have also tried out an unfamiliar field like keeping a bookshop in Calcutta – the only shop of its kind owned by a man of African origin.

Before launching his Auction House Soubise planned for establishing a ‘temporary’ Riding House. Why did he call it ‘temporary’ we are not sure. Perhaps that he wanted to generate a quick money to meet some pressing expenses or meant this experimental in scope.What we know for certain is that his plan was inspired by his recent rapport with Nilmoni Halder, a resourceful Bengali businessman of Bowbazar. He came forward from outside Soubise’s circle, to support him with money and encouragement. The Calcutta Gazette advertised Riding House on July 5, 1798 inviting public attention to its sessions. We had no idea, however, how it all went off, but his other plan, a promotional theatrical evening at Calcutta Theatre was performed successfully on March 7, 1798 where ‘Kate’ (nickname of Mrs. Catherine Soubise) was reportedly ‘played with great applause’ [Busteed ?] Next Monday, on the 12th, the Calcutta Theatre presented the Comedy of of the Chapter of Accidents by Miss Lee was staged for the benefit of Mrs Soubise.

There was no indication that Soubise himself took any part in that evening; perhaps he did not. Soubise, a stage-artist groomed by Garrick, an elocutionist tutored by the elder Sheridan, a gifted violinist and singer, was surely expected on stage playing a stunning show befitting to the occasion. The sole reason for his remaining behind the screen might have been his suffering from intense rheumatism he was suffering from last few years.

The Riding House, that started on July 5, made way to the sudden accidental fall of Soubise from a devilish Arabian stallion on August 24. Blechynden found him in the Gallery laying on a mat, perspiring profusely — his head was slightly cut behind — but his Skull did not feel fractured. Blechynden saw blood oozing out of his right ear, and immediately sensed the blow was not only very dangerous but most probably mortal. Pawson and Mrs. Soubise went to the Hospital and remained with him till he died the next day from hemorrhaging in his brain. The death of Julius Soubise was reported in the Calcutta Gazette on 25th August 1798, and entered in the Asiatic Annual Register, vol.1 1798-99.

Within a week, Calcutta Gazette on August 30, 1798 reported the ‘Sale of Horses by Public Auction’ to be held every Wednesday at 10 o‘Clock in the forenoon. It was the beautiful Arabian saddle ‘Noisy’ – a property of Joseph Thomas Brown – to be on auction sale for the benefit of Mrs Soubise. The auctioneer Mr. A. L’Etang was the nobleman who alongside Mr. Blechynden rushed to see Soubise at the site of the accident. We will find him again in closer perspective in the forthcoming episode of magnificent horsemen.

Soubise’s death turned Blechynden, his worst critic in Calcutta, into a compassionate ally, appreciative of his talents and aggrieved at his tragic end. Blechynden did not press his friend Pawson or Mrs Soubise to repay his loan but could not save them from financial distress. Mrs Soubise with her father and children moved in a barrack, possibly one of the Bow Barrack quarters. Mr. Pawson passed away in 1802 leaving his daughter Catherine alone with her children William and Mary. We know nothing for sure about Catherine and her daughter Mary (baptized on 20 June 1785). William Soubise, an assistant in the Sudder Dewanhy Adawlat, married Flora Ward in 1819, and Maria was born to them on April 25, 1821, and Henry in 1824 (died in his teens). In 1839, Maria was married to James Bernadotte Vallente. William Soubise died on July 9, 1841 at the age of 43 at Calcutta.

VIII

END NOTES

If high fashion and luxurious life of love with a fair lady is an offence for a black gentleman then Michael Madhusudan Dutta, the Bengal’s celebrity poet of the next century Calcutta, was no lesser offender. The British-African Soubise was driven out of country by the racists and got blackballed by their counterpart British-India society in Calcutta, otherwise laudable for their camaraderie and supportive spirit. Madhusudan flared, as he had a friend like Vidyasagar to help the pauper to live princely regardless of social decry and hostility that had strangled Soubise to death.

Michael Madhusudan Dutta, 1824-1873

Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar, 1820-1891

It is interesting to note that both of his contemporary authors believed that the accidental death of Soubise was particularly tragic because of two separate reasons. Angelo writes “departed from his former thoughtless habits, his talents and address had placed him in the way to fortune.”[Angelo] Blechynden seemingly believed that having had Nilmoni Halder as a dependable impartial partner “a career was at length opened to him of getting out of his difficulties, in short, we can better spare a better man.” [Blechynden] This was the first time Soubise had a chance to overcome the racist resistance since he was ousted from the British society and exiled to colonial India inflicted with politically influenced racial hatred. In an environment of mistrust, Soubise had little opportunity to secure business credit on fair terms. Often he had to take deceptive means and ended up in jail; or prayed and rejected, for an instance, Soubise requested Blechynden to be one of his securities to the Asiatic Society for Rs 5000. Blechynden lied and declined politely.

Soubise did not leave anything in writing for us, except a specimen of his stylish love letters. There have been luckily two important documents of his contemporary writers: Henry Angelo the memoirist, and Richard Blechynden the diarist, providing significant events of Soubise’s life, and some scholarly works of recent writers that critically reviewed and analyzed those facts to portray Soubise meaningfully in modern contexts. In my modest attempt to restate Soubise’s life in the ethnocentric settings of the last score of the 18th century Calcutta, I remain indebted to Ashley Cohen and Peter Robb in particular for using their in-depth studies extensively.

NOTES This portrait of Julius Soubise(1746-1798) an Afro-British self-styled ‘African Prince’, is believed to be the long-forgotten work of Johan Jaffony referred to in the Reminiscences of Henry Angelo (1830). Until now, the pastel painting has been identified and re-identified with some nameless black servant or an ‘African prince’ attributed to John Russell, or toOzius Humphry.

Joffany painted Soubise’s portrait either in London before 1777 when Soubise left for Calcutta or in Calcutta between 1773-1789 when Zoffany visited India to paint number of masterpieces like Mordaunt’s Cock Fight (1784–86) Last Supper (1787) and significant portraits of dignitaries like Warran Hastings, Asaf-ud-Daula. Courtesy: Tate gallery.

See more: https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/humphry-baron-nagells-running-footman-t13796

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Angelo, Henry. 1830. Reminiscences of Henry Angelo; with Memoirs of His Late Father and Friends .. Oxford University. Vol. 1. London: Colburn and Bentley. https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=xsK6QCfrXPQC&hl=en.

Anonymous. 2004. “Middleton Nathaniel.” Sotonopedia. 2004. http://sotonopedia.wikidot.com/page-browse:middleton-nathaniel.

Blechynden, Richard. 2011. Sentiment and Self: Richard Blechynden’s Calcutta Diaries, 1791–1822. Edited by Peter Robb. New Delhi: Oxford U P. https://books.google.com.au/books?id=9PQtDwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false.

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Busteed, Henry Elmsley. 1908. Echoes from Old Calcutta; Being Chiefly Reminiscences of the Days of Warren Hastings, Francis and Impey. London: Thacker. https://archive.org/details/echoesfromoldcal00bustuoft.

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Sukhdev, Sandhu. 2003. London Calling: How Black and Asian Writers Imagined a City. London: Harper. https://www.harpercollins.com.au/9780006532149/london-calling-how-black-and-asian-writers-imagined-a-city/.

JULIUS SOUBISE: A MAGNIFICENT HORSEMAN IN 18TH CENTURY CALCUTTA

I PRELIMINARY WORDS Calcutta acquires its distinctive flavour presumably from the fusion of characters grown in diverse cultural environs in distant lands.

JULIUS SOUBISE: A MAGNIFICENT HORSEMAN IN 18TH CENTURY CALCUTTA I PRELIMINARY WORDS Calcutta acquires its distinctive flavour presumably from the fusion of characters grown in diverse cultural environs in distant lands.

0 notes