#coal barge

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Cars In Collision At Napanee Camp," Kingston Whig-Standard. June 20, 1933. Page 5. ---- Coal Shipment Arrives by Boat - Fred Bush Released From Custody ==== NAPANEE, June 20 - A collision between two cars occurred near the Sans Souci camp, which was investigated by Traffic Officer Rawlins. One car was in charge of Ross K. Campbell, R.R. Kingston, and the other car driven by Harvey Belcher, of Napanee. The latter car was coming out of the camp while the other car was proceeding to Napanee. The left front fender of Campbell's car came in contact with the right rear fender of Belcher's car. The damage to Camp-bell's car was about $15 and to Belcher's car about $50.

Coal Shipment The barge Cadwell arrived in the Napanee River on Monday with 590 tons of coal for the Napanee Fuel and Supply Company. This is the third shipment which has reached Napanee during the past week.

James E. Johnston, daughter, Miss Jean, son Percy, and friend Miss Taylor, all of Peterboro, were week-end guests of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Milsap, Adelpha Street. Miss Jennie Johnston is remaining for a few days.

Provincial Officer F. W. Barrett, who is confined to the house, through illness, is improving and during the week-end many friends visited him at his home in South Napanee.

Released From Custody Fred Bush, who was taken in custody a few days ago on an alleged charge of perjury in connection with evidence which was given several days ago, was released.

[eopederson]

Coal Barges, Monongahela River, near Morgantown, West Virginia, 1969.

[blueish-bird]

the body is weak (am sick) but the spirit is more than willing (draw. CSM)

[kirillmarchenko]

we’re not even gonna get adam fantilli 😹😹😹😹😹

[motomotosc]

Delivering coal at Samarinda city, Indonesia

[sun-snatcher]

Your take of Círdan being an old man who enjoys pestering people is my absolute fave bc yeah if I was the oldest elf alive I'd be a little shit half the time too for funzies

( credits to the lovely @peregrintook for this beautiful gifset ! )

✵ — WATER-DAMAGED!

summ.  Elrond arrives at Círdan’s workshop. He finds his heart instead. or:  The Herald and the Artisan fall in love. pairing.  elrond peredhel / f!reader  w.count.  1.2k (a lil baby!) a/n.  set in s2e1, friends-to-lovers kinda , fluff galore , mutual pining , Círdan being a thirdwheel (but highkey enjoying it because he’s a little shit like that)

       YOU’RE QUICK TO attempt to bundle Elrond up like a child when he’d arrived. 

Frantic, almost, at the sight of Lindon’s renowned Herald— drenched to the bone, head-to-toe, and dripping river water from his mess of curls, leaving puddles and a wet track wherever he went on the stone of the workshop.

“He’s not here yet,” is what you’d said, when he’d urged you for Master Círdan. The shipwright had gone off to appraise proper timber for the frames of the vessels prepared for Valinor, now that High King Gil-Galad has decreed preparations to set sail. 

“But he should return by nightfall, latest. So will you please sit down, Elr—”

“I cannot,” he overrides, wholly unconvincing through the chatter of his teeth. “You’ll be at risk if I stay.”

You blink. “…From who?”

“I—”

In the distance, a horse whinnies. 

Elrond tenses instantly.

“…Are you— hiding?” you realise, as he springs to his feet to make headway for the sidedoors. “Elrond, wait!”

“Thank you, truly, for your kindness, but I cannot allow the King’s Guard—”

“That was just Silef,” you say incredulously, muscling the door back shut and stubbornly standing in his way. “My mare, remember? From the stables just uphill?” 

A pause. 

He listens with pricked ears: gates of a stable door squeaking; hooves clopping from paddock ground onto pasture grass; the sound of grain and feed being chewed on, after a moment's pass. A notable absence of marching Elven armour and feet stamping its way downhill towards him. 

Just Silef. You’re right. He’d been paranoid. 

“Á quildessë, Elrond,” comes your quiet voice, gentler now as you chase to meet his anxious gaze. “I will make sure no one comes into this workshop, unless it’s Master Círdan himself,” you assure, resting your hands on his forearms. “Just please, sit down. You’re shaking.” 

…He is. He hadn’t even realised. 

It might have been adrenaline, or the bite of the cold from wind and water— but he’s trembling, nonetheless, like a leaf. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, much, much later, when you’d stoked the coals of the workshop hearth to life, and set him upon a wooden seat beside it.

From the open foyer of the atelier, the sea-reflected hues of the setting sun does little to hide the tentative worry in your features. Your voice is as gentle as the lap of tidewater. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“I shouldn’t have… barged in.” 

I shouldn’t have involved you in the first place, and put you at risk for treason for harboring a dissenter.

The firelight paints your face in soft, flickering licks of ochre as you tenderly dry off the dampness in his hair, the water trickling down his face. “You were afraid,” you reason generously.

(You don’t tell him that he looks adorably… pitiful. With eyes like that of a kicked puppy, almost. Even worse that he looks half-drowned.)

Elrond doesn’t argue. You’ve always been a kind friend to him. So, so kind. Ever-ready and steadfast to extend an olive branch, impervious to tactlessness, or even offence, from the sheer tenacity of your patience. Elrond has always admired you for it. Elrond has always—

Liked you. Cared. Loved.

(Too much to allow himself to let you get caught in this tangle he’s been forced into.)

He lays a hand over yours, and you pause mid-wipe of a droplet down his lined jaw. His eyes are shut briefly, as if falling into the comfort of your touch— candid indulgence. It makes your heart stutter.

That you’re allowed a quiet moment to admire him this close, so much so you can see the rings of sundering blue in his eyes; or to touch him this affectionately, so much so you could feel the very change of temperature on his skin— 

You think you’ve been blessed with a handsome vision by the Valar themselves.

“You must be curious,” he says, voice a low murmur. His palm swallows yours entirely. His fingers are warm by now. (You shouldn’t notice such details— but you do. You’re an artisan, after all. Or perhaps hopeless romantic is a better suited term?) “But this is beyond even me.”

He slides your hand down, much to your dismay, and uncurls the pouch he’s been clutching onto since he arrived. Now that it’s infront of you, there’s a pull to it you can’t quite understand.

You reach, almost too keenly— 

—but you close his fingers around it instead.

If Elrond had shown any surprise, you didn’t notice. 

“Must be why you’ve sought out Master Círdan,” you muse, looking up at him. “If it’s beyond you, it’s most certainly beyond me, a mere shipwright’s apprentice.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Elrond adds quickly, realising how he must have come across. 

“I know,” you laugh, before he can take off into a tangent. (It’s bright and musical to Elrond’s ears— thinks if he could drown in its sound, he would have done so willingly.) “You forget I know you.”

Not entirely, he doesn’t say. You don’t know how much my heart sings to be near you. How much your presence— or the very thought of you, even— have always brought comfort to me. 

You don’t know how much I’ve been resisting the urge to kiss you since you first sat me down by the fire.

He feels a little smile coming, the kind he couldn’t help, that would light his whole face whenever he cast his gaze on you. “You do, don’t you?” he whispers, voice sinking into something almost— nostalgic, at the sudden unravelling of old memories shared with you throughout the age.

“Well, when it comes to Kingdom politicians…” you shrug teasingly. “As much as I’m allowed to be privy to.”

He barely laughs, too busy looking at you with rapt, reverent attention. It curls a timidness in your heart. “You are allowed all of me. Always.”

Something takes wing in your chest. Butterflies, maybe. Doves taking flight in your ribcage. 

As are you, to me.

At least, that's what you would’ve said, had your ears not caught the distant clop of hooves headed downwind towards the river edge. “Master Círdan is here,” you say instead, diverted. You recognise the huff of his steed anywhere.

You watch Elrond perk up and tune into the approach: the rustle of saddle and stirrups, the shuffle of robes and footsteps. When the doors squeak open and shut, the Kingdom’s shipwright finds the Kingdom’s herald standing in the heart of his own workshop.

“Elrond,” he says, by way of greeting. There’s naught a hint of surprise in his voice— Círdan had felt a call louder than the sea long before he���d arrived, and now he can understand it’s carried in the herald’s charge. “Have you come to seek a certain apprentice of mine?” he asks, regardless.

It’s playful. Knowing.

“He seeks you, Master Círdan,” you answer politely, rounding from the corner where you’d grabbed your spare pelerine cloak to pass to Elrond. “Here, to keep warm.”

“Thank you.”

You bow your head to them both. “I shall be at the lighthouse just across.”

Your fingertips brush against Elrond’s hand as you leave. It tarries; merely a millisecond— enough, however, for Círdan’s keen eyes to catch— before he watches you depart through the sidedoors to give them the privacy they needed. 

Elrond's hand flexes reflexively. Longingly.

A beat passes.

“…Are you sure it is still me you seek?” Círdan muses, brows shot to his hairline.

The tips of Elrond’s ears burn. 

[classicalcanvas]

Title: Coal Barges

Artist: Vincent van Gogh

Date: 1888

Style: Post-Impressionism

Genre: Cityscape

✨ Feel free to check out our community for more art! ✨

[vincent-van-gogh-paintings]

-Coal Barges-

[nathanwinter]

i've seen a few tweets that sort of started going down this train of thought, but has anyone made a post about how uncanny the farmer must seem to the rest of pelican town?

a few friends and i were talking about just. this silent, unknown person showing up to a miniscule town to live on a piece of property that is, in some games, full of violent and aggressive monsters. They proceed to:

Eat raw and inedible food on a regular basis -- if anything, it's most of what you subsist on until you get a kitchen;

Work near-tirelessly every single day for 18- to 20-hour days of hard labor;

Barge into people's houses at any hour the front door is not locked just to wordlessly hand out a gift and immediately leave;

Charge through town carrying axes, swords, pickaxes, and other very large and dangerous-looking objects in their hands;

Casually slaughter dozens of monsters in the cave systems that are considered by the rest of the town to be incredibly dangerous;

Immediately start using magic and communicating with local fey apples, something it seems none other than the Wizard can do;

Possess the ability to easily and consistently dig fossils and ancient artifacts out of the ground, with seemingly no limit to this ability.

These poor people must think they accidentally awakened some primal eldritch horror or something. They just don't mind because the horror grows really nice potatoes and also kills megacorps for fun.

And if you ignore the existence of video game mechanics and all, you can include:

Always wakes up at the exact same time, then will always collapse into instant unconsciousness at the exact same time at night with no exceptions;

Pulls hot coal, metal, and food out of forges/ovens without batting an eye;

Almost never speaks, just stands in front of townsfolk and stares wordlessly at them until they make enough small talk to satisfy them;

Run faster than any other character and might be the only one with a footstep sound? Which paints the hilarious mental image of them having these loud thundering footsteps like a dinosaur in Land Before Time;

Only occasionally use their breathing animation.

[9vvo]

Hey all, first post I'm going to do here.

I'm going to talk about the USS Indianola (pictured above), mainly because the story surrounding this could honestly be an idea for a potential sam o'nella video.

The USS Indianola was a casemate ironclad which served under the Union during the civil war. The ship was built by Joseph Brown of Cincinnati, OH for the US Government for $128,000 dollars at the time or about $4,000,000 adjusted for inflation.

By September 1, 1862 construction was nearly complete, however this would be halted when Union Forces under General Lew Wallace seized the unfinished ship the day after and would be launched on the fourth that month in order to defend Cincinnati from Confederate Forces. When the Threat ended on the 12th that month, the ship was returned for completion and would be officially commissioned later that month.

The thing would finally be completed on December of 1862, but the Ohio River's water levels were too low to cross the Falls of the Ohio. Eventually on January of 1863, she would join the Mississippi Squadron at Cairo, IL.

During the Vicksburg Campaign, Union Navy Rear Admiral David Dixon Porter would order the USS Queen of the West (pictured below) down the Mississippi in order to intercept Confederate Shipping between Vicksburg, MS and Port Hudson, LA and would operate there until the 5th of February, 1863. Remember the Queen of the West as she becomes relevant later on.

The Queen of the West would later make a second trip and entered the Red River on February 14. Indianola would now be under the command of Union Navy Lieutenant Commander George Brown. Indianola would leave her moorings at the Yazoo the night before with two barges loaded with coal strapped onto her sides and steamed south under fire from the Vicksburg defenses. She would link up with Queen of the West in her operations down the river. After passing Confederate positions, she would anchor for the night and resumed sailing toward the south.

Indianola had been specifically chosen for this operation because her engines would allow her to reach a speed of 2 Knots (or 2.3mph/3.7kph) upstream against the current making it a lot faster than other ships under Porter's Command making her a better fit for escaping upriver if there were an emergency.

Queen of the West would disabled in a fight against Confederate Shore Defenses along the Red River and had to be abandoned. Her crew would make it to the Indianola on a captured packet steamer while being chased down by the Confederate Steamer CSS William H. Web.

Indianola would move against William H. Webb and would eventually spot her that afternoon. Indianola fired it's guns but William H. Webb was out of range and managed to escape into the fog. She would eventually hold a blockade of the junction of the Red and Mississippi, but withdrew on the 21st after learning William H. Webb, the captured and Repaired Queen of the West, and two steamers filled with Confederate soldiers were moving to attack her.

Indianola would be slowed by the two coal barges she was bringing and would be caught on the night of the 24th by Wiliam H. Webb and Queen of the West. Brown would face the Indianola toward the Confederate Ships and prepared for the inevitable fight by positioning the ship so that one of the coal barges were inbetween Indianola and the Confederate Ships.

She would fire her guns at the Confederate Ships, missing her shots. Queen of the West would ram Indianola on her left side and nearly smashed one of the barges in half. The William H. Webb would ram the Indianola Head-On immediately after with the William H. Webb also being damaged in the Collision.

Queen of the West would move upstream to build momentum and rammed the Starboard Side of Indianola, destroying one of the rudders and the Wheelhouse. The William H. Webb would perform a similar manuever, damaging the Indianola's Stern. Brown ordered the ship to fire, some say that the Indianola only scored a single hit on the Queen of the West which caused casualties but did basically no structural damage. Others say the Indianola scored two hits on the Queen of the West which one disabled cannons and also hit William H. Webb once.

At this point, the Indianola was barely functional and was sinking rapidly and Brown had the ship run aground to the Western Bank of the River and lowered the ship's flag. The Confederates were able to pull the ship over to the Eastern Bank which they held. Indianola would sink in 3 meters of water. During the fight, Indianola would be rammed seven times. All but one sailor onboard would survive the battle, but only three escaped the ship's capture to bring word to Porter. Brown and most of the Crew had been taken Prisoner.

The Confederates would dispatch a salvage crew to raise Indianola. The Union High-Ups knew if the Ship was repaired and added to the Confederate Navy like Queen of the West was, it would be disastrous for the Union Fleet on the Misssissippi and considerably harm the war effort.

Now, this is where it gets funny:

Porter did NOT have any ships available to send on the mission to destroy the Indianola before it fell into Confederate Hands, so he ordered the construction of an "Ironclad" in order to scare the Salvage Crew into abandoning the Wreck. This "Ironclad" would be made by lengthening an old Coal Barge with logs and adding a Casemate, Fake Cannons made out of Logs, and two smokestacks made out of Pork Barrels. The "Ironclad" would be given the name "Black Terror" and would be sent downstream on the 26th.

The Black Terror would pass the Vicksburg Defenses without any major damage and scared the Queen of the West into leaving the area of the wreck. The Salvage Crew (who were allegedly drunk at the time) threw the Indianola's 9-Inch Guns into the Missisippi and pointed the 11-Inch Guns at eachother muzzle-to-muzzle and fired them at eachother before burning what remained down to the Waterline.

On the 27th, the Confederates would realize the Black Terror wasn't an actual Ironclad Warship. Vicksburg would fall to Union Forces on July 4th and the Remains of Indianola's wreck were raised on January 5th of 1865 which were sold in Illinois on January 17th.

[mystwrites]

hi congrats on 200 followers!! 🥳

May I request Lee! Megumi and ler! Gojo? (JJK) And the sentence starter shall be 🍉! And the activity 🎮 (video games)

Tysm! And be sure to stay hydrated!!

200 Followers Event is still open! (🍉&🎮 are no longer an option now)

With Nobara and Maki both sick, there was no way they all were going to get together for another training day having all been in close contact the day prior. With Yuji and Inumaki also feeling slightly under the weather and no training or classes, the group all decided to check out a new game they heard of.

“Alright! Last Train Out of Wormtown! Let’s go!” Yuji exclaimed.

“Who’s the worm?” Nobara asked.

“Looks like Inumaki and I are the worms.” Maki said.

“Tuna!” Inumaki added.

“Great! Let’s go!” Megumi concluded, the game in full swing.

The graphics were horrible in Megumi’s opinion. It all looked poorly done but he also thought that the overall idea of gathering coal to get the train up and running, blowing up train cars blocking the tracks and trying to survive against sand worms was intriguing.

After fifteen minutes of playing, the game was actually rather fun. Megumi loved the thrill of nearly getting eaten by the sand worms and having to escape if the worm caught his character. The others also were having fun, laughing whenever they juked Maki or Inumaki in the process.

Absorbed in the game, Megumi didn’t comprehend Gojo who had been doing his rounds and checking in on all the students. One of his biggest mistakes had always been not locking his door ever since Yuji and Nobara began to barge in at random hours.

Megumi flinched, realizing someone had put their hands on his shoulders. Letting out a gasp, he took off his headset and whipped around, met with Gojo’s smiling face. Grumbling, Megumi put his headset back on and turned back to his game.

“Guys…I got a problem.” Megumi said into his headset. “I have a SG (Satoru Gojo) over my shoulder.”

“Who ya talking to, Megumiiii?~” Gojo asked, kneeling to look at the computer screen. “Ooh? You playing with the first and second years?”

Megumi grunted and suddenly jerked, Gojo watching as a sand worm suddenly exploded from the sand on the screen.

“WHOAAA!!” Megumi gasped. “Ohhhhh!!! Inumaki almost got me! ITADORI MOVE YOUR ASS!!!”

Gojo hummed, tapping his chin as he tried to figure out the mechanics of this new video game Megumi was playing. He’s certainly never seen this specific game before and was interested in learning how to play. However, he knew Megumi wouldn’t include him. It wouldn’t hurt to ask though.

“Megumiiii! Teach me how to play this game!!!” Gojo pleaded, shaking Megumi’s shoulders.

“Dude! Go away!” Megumi hissed. “Yeah, sorry guys…Gojo sensei is bothering me again!”

“Meguuuumiiii!~” Gojo sang, poking Megumi’s sides. “I’m gonna tickle you until you acknowledge my request.~”

The boy glared. “Don’t you dare!”

Gojo dared and he poked his student in the center of his tummy. A growl escaped from Megumi as Gojo continued poking him and before they knew it, Megumi had forgotten about the game and was cackling, desperately shoving Gojo away as he fell off of his chair and onto the floor.

“S-stop! Ahahaa!!” Megumi cried, his headset tumbling away from him. “Thihihis is childish! Quit this nonsense!! Ahahahaa!!”

Squeezing the teen’s hips, Megumi shrieked, Gojo cackling as he continued to playfully tickle him. “Just agree to teach me how to play and I’ll stop.~”

Being stubborn, Megumi refused. This only worsened his current situation and caused Gojo to continue tickling the life out of him. Screaming, Megumi finally began to fight back, begging and pleading for Gojo to stop in hopes the others would hear what was happening and come to his aid. No such help came and he finally submitted to the tickling, gasping for air as Gojo finally released him.

“So, I’m guessing that’s a yes?” Gojo asked, squeezing Megumi’s sides.

“YES!!” Megumi squealed, laughing harder as Gojo continued to tickle him. “YES!! YES! YEHEHES!! IHIHI’LL TEHEHEACH YOU HOW TO PLAY!! STOHOHOP!!”

With all that said and done, Gojo happily took a seat on Megumi’s chair, ready to learn how to play. Grabbing his headset, Megumi readjusted the mic and began to speak to whoever was still present.

“Sorry about that guys. Gojo wants to learn how to play. Don’t go easy on him, okay?” Megumi said, smirking as Gojo gasped in offense at the comment.

A/N: Thank you for the request! Sorry it’s a little short, the semester is wrapping up now and I’m doing registration. I’ve also been watching a lot of videos of ppl playing The Last Train Out of Wormtown so that’s where this inspiration came from 😆

[whencyclopedia]

The Origins of British Pub Names

Pubs remain a prominent feature of the rural and urban landscapes of Britain, but their names very often date back to medieval times. Red lions, white horses, and colourful characters peer from pub signs as landlords choose names to represent local history, legends, landmarks, national figures, or simply imply their drinking establishment has a long and prestigious heritage.

This article presents the meaning behind some of the most common pub names seen across Britain from Penzance to the Hebrides. According to The Wordsworth Dictionary of Pub Names, there were over 50,000 pubs in Britain at the beginning of the 21st century. The same source identifies the top 20 pub names. Red Lion, Crown, and Royal Oak are the top three, then (in alphabetical order) Anchor, Angel, Bell, Bull, Coach & Horses, George, George & Dragon, King's Head, Nelson, New Inn, Plough, Railway, Rose & Crown, Swan, Duke of Wellington, White Hart, and White Horse (269). As the appeal of pubs and inns has widened to other countries, many of the traditional British pub names can be seen today around the world from New York to Melbourne.

English Pub Signs

Mark Cartwright (CC BY-NC-SA)

The pub names below have been selected because they are especially common, their meaning is obscure, or the history behind them is of particular interest. Self-explanatory but, nevertheless, very common names such as Hop & Grape, Jolly Sailors, or Duke of Marlborough are omitted for want of space. As shall be seen, many variations of a name are possible, even in broad meaning, but a local would always have known the precise significance of their pub's name since, from the late Middle Ages until the mid-19th century, when most of the population was illiterate, it was the pub's sign which gave the establishment its name (and not vice-versa, as is usually the case today). Pub signs, which were made obligatory by a 1393 law, can take the form of a painting, a representation in wrought iron, a three-dimensional model, or even a weather-worn example of the object itself.

Anchor

The name Anchor is, naturally, most popular by the coast where fishing traditions are strongest. However, the name was also common for pubs near canals, particularly overnight stops for barges carrying goods such as coal and wine between towns and cities. The name can be qualified by all sorts of adjectives related to seafaring such as Foul Anchor (used to rescue a ship in distress), Sheet Anchor (a ship's largest and most reliable anchor), and Raffled Anchor (an entangled anchor). For extra cachet, the name might be upgraded to Royal Anchor. A lesser-known significance of the name is when it is used in reference to Saint Paul who, in the Bible, mentions that faith is like an anchor and gives hope, hence the pub name Anchor of Hope. As the colour blue is symbolic of hope, pub signs for this name very often depict a blue anchor. Finally, there is the common variation Crown & Anchor, which refers to the arms of the Lord High Admiral and the badge of petty officers in the Royal Navy.

Continue reading...

[ltwilliammowett]

Wreck of the William Young, Lake Huron, photo by Becky Schott

The William Young was built as a schooner in 1863 and cut down into a barge later. She was carrying coal and being towed with 3 other ships when she began to take on water. She sank but the crew was rescued in the Straits of Mackinac that day in October 1891. The 139 foot long ship sits upright in 120 feet of water on the Lake Huron side of the bridge. She is one of only two schooners in the Straits to still have a wooden wheel on the stern. There are many dead eyes still on the ship and coal inside. The bow is crushed but a windless and wood stock anchor can still be seen.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Immortal Beloved - A John Shelby/Vampire OFC Story.

Well, guys. It's happening. Kinda happening. Testing the waters, yep. We'll go with that. I'm not convinced it's any good despite my best efforts, so I thought I'd see what you thought by sharing the prologue. Who knows? You might love it and then I could feel a little much-needed cheer when I'm going through a bit of a black spot at present, but if not then I know I have to go away and work harder on it. Either way, your feedback matters to me, and I thank in advance those kind enough to leave it.

The story will differ slightly from canon here and there, as you will notice, but not so much that's unrecognisable. Slightly AU, shall we say!

Here we go!

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 1,956

Warnings - Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

Prologue

He stumbled, muttering cusses that fluttered off to permeate the silence of the night, rooting his feet as he straightened, pulling his overcoat around himself more. The cobbles underfoot already twinkled with a smattering of frost, the air thick with winter mist and pungent coal smoke, John feeling his pale skin tremble. The bitter December cold greeted him with her usual sting upon that night.  

“Don’t get so pie-eyed that you don’t know what’s what, John. That goes for all of us.” 

John Shelby wasn’t always the most proficient at following orders, especially when a bad business day had led to his arrival at The Garrison, a decision to sink nine whiskies one after the other and six pints, thus leading to him sitting there sloshed and grinning.  

His troubles had been far behind him as he’d revelled in merriment, loudly championing to his cohorts exactly what he would like to do to Clara Bow, for instance, should he have the screen siren within his lustful clutches for long enough. He’d heeded Tommy’s advice to begin with, but on that day, the loss of over a grand thanks to a horse who should have lost, and a jockey with other ideas, his elder brother’s words of warning had fallen on deaf ears.  

“Fucking Rasmussen’s,” he muttered, sniffing as he at least attempted to walk up Watery Lane in a straight-ish line. “Bastards can fucking try and ‘ave me, but they won’t. Fucking Geordie cunts.”  

The Rasmussen’s, of the family Rasmussen, were a definite thorn in the side of anyone with the surname Shelby at that moment, the Newcastle criminal outfit currently making their presence known, and loudly. Barges that moved through the canal systems anywhere close to their areas within the north had been firebombed, their cargo sunk, Shelby bookmaking stands ransacked at the races, and threats to the family delivered with malicious intent; stay out of the north, or else.  

The Shelby’s were not the type to simply back off, though. They were the type to be on their guard against any reprisal attacks, vengeance against the kind of Shelby retribution the likes of which had - after quite the bloodied brawl - sent the Rasmussen’s scarpering from a race meet in Derby two weekend’s past.  

The family would not simply roll over and take the threat lying down, and neither would the Rasmussen’s. They were great in number, and where hand to hand strength lay, perhaps the most formidable in force that the Shelby’s had ever encountered. That strength did not seem normal, more deity gifted than naturally arising.  

They bred ‘em hard as nails in the north, apparently.  

As he staggered, lying down was exactly what John wished to be doing, once again standing to root his feet upon the slippery cobbles, looking up at a streetlamp which had begun to flicker slightly, the bulb then suddenly popping with an audible bang.  

First assuming a stray bullet had been responsible, it was just the sobering shock he needed to quickly take stock, his sky-blue eyes scanning the darkened street for any kind of movement through the thick fog, drawing himself up taller as his hand automatically hovered over the gun nestled within his ever-present holster. Bang, bang, bang, another three streetlamp bulbs all shattered, plunging the lane into darkness, John feeling the effects of the whiskey diminish as his senses prickled on high alert.  

He stood statuesque, his ears pricked, eyes still darting from left to right while his hand curled around the thick handle of the gun, primed, ready. They wouldn’t get the better of him, oh fuck no. He blinked, and a figure finally came into view a couple of hundred yards ahead, seemingly appearing from nowhere. He blinked again and saw that the woman dressed in white and stained with blood had moved again, John shaking his head in confusion.  

It must have been the drink. People did not move from one side of the street to the other at such a speed, seemingly vanishing and appearing once more within a blink.  

She appeared to be on high alert, John watching as she sniffed the air, a deep, foreboding rumble sounding through the night. He wondered whose dog was out at that hour, until it hit him; the growl was coming from her. It was a noise neither of human nor beast, an eerie, echoless reverberation, his heartbeat amping up a notch as he watched.  

Another blink and she was once again moved, a tearing sound filling the air, followed by a shrill cry, gurgling noises, spluttering. Looking to his right, he witnessed the woman dragging a man who had been concealed within the shadows out into the street, her mouth clamped upon his neck. John stood motionless, his eyes widening as he viewed the scene, a cold snap of horror shocking his bones as he witnessed her yank the man’s head clean from his neck with frighteningly swift finesse.  

His jaw began to tremor, his grip upon the gun in his hand tight as she walked to him, her fingers tangled in the black hair of the severed head she carried, a shock of crimson painting her chin and neck from where she had gorged upon the blood of the now lifeless, headless body slumped upon the cobbles.  

“Who the...” he began as she halted before him, changing track. “What the fuck are you?” 

Her lips curled into a smirk, holding the severed head aloft, blood and sinew dripping onto the ground below. “I am the one who saved you from Samuel Rasmussen. He waited for you.” Her head jerked back a fraction in the direction of the darkened lane. “Same as his three friends.”  

The silken purr of her voice was so alluring, it almost overrode the fact that John stood so terrified, he honestly did not know what on earth to say next. Had he truly seen what he saw? Was this merely a whiskey hazed dream? Surely, he was about to wake with a start, a thumping headache accompanying the morning that followed such peculiar dreams, for this couldn’t be real. 

Could it? 

Dropping the head to the floor, her hand reached for him, John’s shaking grip upon the gun solidifying as he thrust his arm forth, attempting to press the barrel to her skull. He found himself disarmed faster than he could comprehend, the Webley revolver landing with a clatter upon the ground.  

“Shhh,” she soothed, her enchanting eyes flitting over him, her long nails gently trailing his cheeks as she viewed him intently. “I mean you no harm.”  

Studying her up close properly, it was then that he noticed them, the two long, pointed teeth in place of where her canines should have sat, the smooth white smudged with red. His heart pounded like a war drum, his entire body feeling light. The lithe muscles of his form pinched tightly in fear, yet a juxtaposing sense of calm seemed to swirl through him at her softly delivered words. 

“You can trust me. I wish nothing more than to instil that within you.” What on earth was that accent? He couldn’t place it at all. 

How exactly, he could trust a woman who had just decapitated a man with her bare hands after drinking his blood, he didn’t know, but he felt on an instinctual level that he could. Unless it was the whiskey. Whiskey, of course, had the power to lie.  

The woman, though, seemed to be earnest in what she had told him, her nails stroking her cheeks as she studied him, her blue eyes flitting, taking him in. Oh, how she approved of what she gazed upon. He was magnificently handsome. Her nails stroked a hail of goose bumps over his alabaster skin, reaching his neck as she leaned forward, sniffing him. A contented sigh fluttered over her lips. 

“Your blood smells like earth and fire, honey and dark orchids.”  

What?  

He frowned, perplexed, opening his mouth to speak. No words came forth. He was so overcome by her that speech was beyond him. It felt like she was pouring soothing waves of calm into him, and little did he realise, but he was correct. Her kind could transmit energies to humans in order to placate their fears. 

Staring down at her, it struck him sharply, how much she didn’t quite look like she belonged there. Striking she was, with her milky skin that matched his own, her throat and chest covered in tattoos, symbols and swirls he didn’t recognise whatsoever. He knew tattooed ladies existed, but he was yet to witness one up until then, the dark-haired, blue-eyed woman smiling, her nails like sensual daggers upon his neck. 

She was unlike anyone else he’d ever encountered, a woman of distinct enigma.  

There was something about her that didn’t fit, decapitation and blood drinking aside. She looked as if she’d come from another time, a different age. This yanked at his interest almost as much as her allure, her pale skin seeming to glow beneath the light of the moon, now unincumbered by clouds as it shone its rays down upon them.  

“You are perhaps the most beautiful creature I have seen in a long, long time.”  

No, it was not he who uttered those words. It was the woman, her statement one of parting, John blinking and finding her vanished once more into the night. She’d left him breathless, with every hair on his body feeling like it was standing on end.  

Vampires tended to have that effect on the living. 

While the third youngest of the Shelby men made his way into their abode, the vampire moved at speed, perching herself atop the roof of one of the opposing back-to-back houses. The dark slate tingled against her bare feet, but being a creature of zero body heat unless she was sitting close to a source of warmth, it was of no bother to her.  

She sharpened her senses to the night, listening intently to every noise, every rustle. A bottle rolled over and tinkled over the cobbles a few streets away, a gentleman a few further on than that regurgitated the many beers he’d sunk in a nearby pub into the gutter, too, but other than that, all was quiet.  

Well, mostly all.  

Within the homestead she had been watching over, she heard the brand-new object of her desire being berated by the woman named Polly, as she’d gathered. Closing her eyes, she saw the one she knew to be named John there in her mind, a throb reverberating through her. Goodness, how handsome he was close up, perhaps the most divine man she’d encountered in a while.  

He carried himself with such pride and confidence, being a member of a notable criminal outfit, of course he would. A vampire of her age could tell so much more about a person, though, just by studying them, as she had with him and his family from the shadows. For all his acts of violence and authority, of which she had witnessed a couple, she sensed a man a little less ruthless than his elder brothers, with a heart a touch softer.  

It was the softness within him that pulled her in the most.  

She had gone there that night with the view of a single-minded agenda, only to encounter John Shelby up close for the first time and realise that her plight was perhaps not going to be quite as polarised as she’d first envisioned. Confident that the family were safe from any further acts of violent subterfuge, the vampire took one last look at the house.  

“Until next time, beautiful creature.”  

She was gone into the darkness within a blink.  

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets Thursday

The next part of the one where I made Damas catch a virus because inconveniencing serious characters is funny (found HERE)

This time I give Jak a hard time, dealing with cranky sick rulers 😆 Spargans speak Mando'a as a second language in this story Because I Said So, but there's translations lol

Jak was not having a good day. First that business with Kwan at the garages, then getting scolded like a kid by Damas (wasn't trying to cause trouble-!), and now Blackwater?!

Worse, it was very clearly his fault that the freaking king of Spargus was out for the count. No one still carried that disease except for himself, Daxter, Samos, and Keira. And only one of those four was both in Spargus and a channeler.

The joint pain, the eardrum pressure, the fluid in the lungs-! All of it was Jak's fault!

Suffice it to say that Jak was not his best self when he stormed back into the throne room to collect charred wood from the braziers. It wasn't quite the same kind of driftwood that Samos used to use for the remedy in Sandover, but it was close enough in chemical makeup -- he hoped. When the elevator gears began turning, Jak wanted to throw something. Now was not the time for people to come looking for work or for someone to settle disputes. Priorities, people!

A round man with three jagged scars across his forehead barged out of the elevator with a purposeful stride. When he saw Jak, he faltered, and stopped to look around, clearly expecting Damas to be somewhere in the room.

"You there," he barked, "boy! Where's the king?"

"Busy."

Jak shoved the coal into his belt pouch and wiped his hands on his shirt.

"Come back later."

The man didn't like that. He puffed out his chest and glowered at Jak’s back.

"This is important!"

"I'll take a message."

Jak rolled his eyes.

"Damas isn't taking appointments right now."

"I ought to box your ears, boy," the Wastelander snarled, "You think you speak for the king?"

Jak turned and faced him. He looked almost bored.

"I speak from experience, buddy. And you're welcome to try. But I can't promise you'll like what happens."

The man -- Ektor, Jak would later discover -- stormed up the walkway, clearly intending on some kind of confrontation.

"When you're done playing, go get the bloody king."

"I said he's busy!"

Jak planted his feet and met Ektor's glare, just daring him to push his luck when he had the high ground.

"What's important enough to go bother him, huh?"

Ektor did not have a particularly good impression of Jak. Kid just shows up out of nowhere, turns into a demon -- literally -- in the ring a couple times and suddenly thinks he can walk around the tower without a summons? Like he owns the place? This brat was just looking for trouble. And Ektor consoled himself with the knowledge that when the king caught him in the act, it wouldn't be pretty.

"How about Apex Metalheads moving in a bloody pack formation, just ten miles from the city! Is that "important enough" for you, "your highness"?"

Jak furrowed his brow.

"Again? Wouldn't Kleiver already have headed out to deal with that?"

The look Ektor gave him was almost pitying.

"This is why bloody children got no place in the ranks!" he groused. "No, Kleiver isn't "headed out". They're too close to the city, idiot! He's on the turrets!"

This was not what Jak needed right now. Growling, he turned on his heel and snatched up his talk-box.

"Dax, I need you to take the coal and get that medicine made. I gotta go deal with something."

"H'oh boy. How bad of a Something?"

"Average." Jak unhooked the leather pouch and dropped it on the throne in tense motions. "It'd be faster if you were on the guns, but somebody has to hold things down here. I've got the Beam Reflexor. See you in a couple hours."

"Roger roger, good buddy. I am very on-board with not going on whatever dangerous hunt this is."

"Yeah. You get the fun job."

"....suddenly not so on-board."

Jak stowed the radio, tightened his bracers, and turned back to Ektor with a sigh.

"Alright, show me where they are."

Ektor looked at him a little differently now.

"Kleiver wasn't kidding about you having some kind of death wish," he said, shaking his head with a low oath.

Ektor wasn't the only person Jak ran afoul of in the coming evening.

Damas did not want to stay in the apartment.

The temporary relief the first of the ten charcoal mixtures had provided gave him a false sense of strength, clearing away the pain and the respiratory difficulty. Damas thought he could just go back to work like nothing had happened!

Jak was bone-weary, fingers still numb from how many times he'd shot components off the backs of the Apex Metalheads. There'd be an absolute goldmine of salvage for the next round of scouts. All Jak wanted to do was sleep. But someone kept trying to jeopardize his recovery.

Jak braced himself against the door controls, blocking a man just as stubborn as he was. They glared at each other while Daxter ignored them both to grind up the next charcoal batch. Damas tried to reach around him, and Jak knocked his arm away just as quickly. His reaction time was slowed with exhaustion, and his reluctant patient took advantage of that.

Damas took hold of the iron ring over Jak's chest. He had enough strength back to lift Jak up to eye-level, leaving him on his tiptoes.

"I will not," he hissed, "be kept back like a witless noble when I have duties to attend to. Do not test me, boy."

Jak barely flinched.

"And then what? You collapse into one of the pools when the eco toxin rebuilds? Are you trying to get sicker?!"

"Not to mention," Daxter called, more calmly than Damas thought the situation warranted, "There's already peeps who act like bein' king around here only lasts until you show weakness. And frankly, I don't want any of those suckers in charge. Just take the vacation already, would you?!"

The boys had a point. He hated that the boys had a point. Hated that he'd been reduced to relying on children just to stand.

"You think they will not already assume weakness if I abandon my duties for three days?" Damas demanded.

Jak lifted his chin. "I already told everyone who came in that you were busy."

Damas pulled Jak a little closer by the ring, too astonished to even notice that he’d left the door controls free.

"You were not authorized to make that call."

Frustration bubbled in his veins, tipping too close to anger for his liking.

"Fine. Go out then. Get them all sick. Get the whole city sick, why don’t you! Go ahead!”

“Copaani mirshmure'cye, ‘ad?” Damas muttered under his breath.

You looking for a fight, boy?

Not like he needed to keep his voice down. He knew no one had taught the boys more than a few sentences in Joha -- the language Wastelanders used in front of enemies -- yet.

Jak pried Damas’s hand loose and dropped to the balls of his feet.

"You won't slow down for your own sake? How about theirs?"

Anger stirred the eco in Damas’s blood, and the eco circulated too close to the virus in his core. The pain began again, a dull ache for now that promised future knives in his lungs.

"Don't you dare, boy-" he warned.

Jak dared, apparently.

He had the temerity to push Damas, shoving him back a step.

"I deal with this all the time and it puts me down for days! You've never had it! It could kill you, don't you care?!"

Seeing the black look on the king's face, Jak pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled sharply.

"This is going to get worse before it gets better. And it's my fault you caught the virus, so I'm not going anywhere until it passes. It's hell staying inactive. I know. It's-"

His voice quieted.

"It's like the Fortress. You're in pain, and you can't leave, and you know more pain is coming. But- but at least yours only lasts three days."

Damas faltered.

Jak had not told him the story of what Praxis had done to him willingly. Damas had walked into the washrooms below the Arena by chance just as Jak had been patching himself up after earning his second war amulet. And the scars he'd seen were not the kind a young fighter picked up in combat. The shame on the boy's face as he'd scrambled to get his wrist wrappings and shirt back on had struck a chord in Damas. Without really knowing why, he'd taken off his vambrace in the space of a minute, and moved back the wrappings to show the shine of old burns.

He'd spent more than his fair share of time on "excavations" -- a pretty word for Wastelanders being punished by the former king, left carving out of the cliff what eventually became the stables. By hand. In chains. In the midday heat. A lot of men died working that wall.

He didn't know why he'd told Jak that story. Why he'd told Jak about the two years when he was in chains more than out of them.

And yet it had meant something to Jak.

In that moment, a dam seemed to burst in the boy. The whole sordid tale had bubbled out of him in a tangle of words and desperation. He spoke as though he'd never encountered anyone who understood what it was to be that kind of survivor. To bear those kinds of scars. Like someone who had been asked why he couldn’t just “get over it” when the evidence was in his skin forever. He spoke like he was expelling poison from a wound.

That thought rang in Damas’s mind like a solemn bell.

Jak had overstepped, that was undeniable. But he seemed...

He seemed like he was desperate to keep the closest thing he had to a kindred spirit alive. The boy was legitimately afraid for him, wasn’t he?

Jak looked up again to meet his eyes, and there was a lot more emotion there than Damas had been expecting.

"Please," Jak insisted, "Just- Just rest! One more day, at least one more day, please!"

Damas felt a new round of pain beginning, starting in his vertebrae this time. Still, he couldn't just back down.

"Jak," he tried to gentle his voice past the harshness of pain. "I...know you do not understand what being king means. What is required."

"If it means breaking yourself down to bloody bones for people who will never be grateful, then yeah. He understands," Daxter said bitterly.

"Come on," Jak sounded like he was scolding now, "Didn't you say you have to pick your battles wisely sometimes?"

Oh confound that boy.

Damas’s spine twinged, but pride did not let him bend. Even so, Jak seemed to sense his pain. He sighed and, without a single word -- not even "I told you so" -- he offered his shoulder to support Damas long enough to get him back to the couch. Damas’s face burned with frustration and shame alike. To lose control of his body and have to do as the boy sais was infuriating. A little of that pique left him before he had time to guard his tongue.

"For the record, since you lack experience in the matter, most fathers would not tolerate being spoken to in such a manner by their sons."

Jak stiffened, and Damas regretted it. He knew that was a sore spot for the boy and he'd carelessly lashed out anyway.

Jak gave him a Look.

"Well you're the closest thing I got to one, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Damas actually winced. Jak seemed to mistake it for physical pain and sighed again.

"I'll get you more water. You're gonna need it in a minute."

"Less than a minute." Daxter glared at the king as he held up another glass of the vile liquid.

"Guess what, buddy? That attitude just earned you one free trip to Vomit Town."

"Dax," Jak called over his shoulder, "He's in pain as it is. You don't have to rub it in."

Daxter narrowed his eyes at Damas. He pointed silently at Jak’s back, then at Damas. Dramatically, he drew a finger across his throat: a clear warning of what would happen if Damas brought up absent parents again.

At the moment, Damas was more occupied with both the sensation of the virus congealing the eco in his core into an infected mass, and the mixed emotions he had about Jak’s parting shot.

"You're the closest thing I got to one", he'd said. The closest thing Jak had to a father. Him?!

Confound that boy. How does he always catch me off guard so easily?

More as a peace offering than anything else, he muttered, "Did you at least give them a reason?"

"Who?"

"Everyone you told I was busy. Did you give them a reason?" he pressed.

Jak returned with a recycled bottle filled with water.

"Yeah. But you're probably not going to like that, either," he said matter-of-factly. He nodded at the charcoal.

"Probably don't one-shot it this time."

"Don't tell me what to do," Damas grumbled rebelliously. But he noticeably didn't chug the medicine.

He'd survived on worse foods before. But that was irrelevant to his gag reflex. It took some doing to swallow the first sip, and each one after that got harder.

"Tell me what you told them, Jak." He narrowed his eyes over the rim of the glass. "I can't help you out of whatever mess you're determined to get yourself into if I don't know what I'm walking into."

Jak was generous enough to let Damas keep his pride. He shrugged and dropped to sit next to him with the weary expression of someone twice his age.

"I said you were researching the tunnels under Haven for something, and to mess up your concentration at their own risk."

Damas forced the last of the charcoal down in one gulp. Soon it would start absorbing the two enmeshed ecos that had caused the infection, and he'd be able to get some relief for a few more minutes. Physical relief, anyway. His mind was racing. That excuse- Jak wasn't supposed to know about the invasion plan. It was an "utmost end of need" scenario: if the Daystar impacted on the planet, he wanted his people safe in the Underport.

"And what..." he had to choose his words carefully.

He would overlook the major breaches in protocol Jak was tossing around like confetti. The boy's heart was in the right place. And it was very Spargan to act first and ask permission after. But he still wouldn't give Jak top secret information! If Jak was getting into dossiers he has no business touching-

"What made you think of tunnels?" Damas muscled through another painful spasm and feigned a teasing tone. "Planning to invade Haven, are you?"

Beside him, Jak's cheek twitched in an exhausted equivalent of a smile.

"Wishful thinking, honestly. But they bought it."

"For now."

Damas dug his fingers into the couch as the coughs he'd hoped to avoid made their next appearance.

"But you- still- can't-" the hacking overtook the rest of his words.

Jak scoffed. "It's not like I was making any decisions for you. They were all jobs you would've sent somebody to deal with anyway."

He lurched to the side as the first of the gel-like corrupted eco eruptions shot from Damas’s mouth and into a bucket Daxter had found. Poor guy. He had about three more rounds of the medicine, three hours apart, before the coughing gave way to just vomiting. Unfortunately that part lasted a whole day before giving way to musculoskeletal pain and vertigo.

Blackwater sucked.

"I'll take over, Dax," Jak yawned. "Go get some rest. You good with doing this tomorrow?"

He didn't ask Damas, notably.

"What're you gonna do this time?”

Jak fought to keep his eyes open. "Seem lost a party of monks in the volcano. I said I'd look into it. Probably going to end up putting the fear of Precursors into the asshole in the North Market who just started overcharging rookies for water to the point where they're stealing it. I said I'd look into that, too."

"Did you." The ottsel didn't sound that surprised. "And how, in your infinite grasp of diplomacy, did that go?"

A little too tired to be embarrassed, Jak made a helpless gesture.

"I said Damas was busy, and they'd better deal with their issues before I came over to deal with it for them."

"Yeah," Daxter sighed, "I was afraid you were gonna say something like that."

It was a little disturbing how the boy seemed to have set himself in a role like an enforcer. Like Sig's cover act in Haven.

"That's. Not. Your job," Damas gasped between retching coughs.

"I know: you said," Jak acknowledged. He rubbed his face with fingers just barely shaking. "Too late to take it back now."

He thought Damas was still upset about the crossing of boundaries he'd done. It was more than wounded pride that drew his concern though. Older feelings. Unpleasant memories.

"Crowns. Were not m- meant. To. Weigh. Down the. Young." Damas managed to fight through the pain in his joints to elbow Jak.

"Not. Your burden to. Bear."

Jak hesitated. Then,

"I know.”

[teufelsabbiss]

Story-idea: teacher/father

OG!Shen Qingqiu/Tianlang-Jun; unrequited Luò Bīnghé/OG!Shen Qingqiu

Tianlang-Jun falls in love with Su Xiyan and both fall into the trap of the Huan Hua palace master. But the battle goes very differently. Tianlang-Jun and Zhuzhi-Lang manage to escape to the demon realm. Tianlang-Jun sulks for 10 years before he by chance meets a diviner who reveals to him what actually happened. He exacts revenge on the palace master and then goes to find his son. Even though he doesn't necessarily care to be a parent, he figures he should maybe at least try to ensure his son is fine wherever he is. A ritual reveals that he's somewhere in a certain cultivation sect in the human realm. Oh dear, how did that happen?

On his way to the sect he makes a stop at a nice little brothel called the Warm Red Pavilion which has excellent music and service. And coincidentally meets Shen Qingqiu.

Tianlang-Jun loved Su Xiyan; she was cold, strong and beautiful. Once he sees Shěn Qīngqiū, Cupid's arrow hits ten times harder. The man seems to be quite ruthless, a vicious beauty with many talents, humor black as coal and the quick wit befitting a master strategist. He's everything any demon dreams of in a partner. And apparently has had enough bad experiences with fellow humans to not socialize easily. A pity, but Tianlang-Jun is more than ready to tackle the challenge!

While both demons try to figure out a safe way to secretly get into the sect to look for the child, they stay at the brothel. It's a nice place to lounge and has the added benefit of meeting Shen Qingqiu again. Also questioning the prostitutes about him provides very valuable insights. That he's a high-ranking member of the very sect they try to get into has to be fate!

Tianlang-Jun goes on to annoy befriend Shen Qingqiu and reveals that he's searching for his long lost son, shows him a portrait of the late Su Xiyan and says that he has reason to believe said son is in Cang Qiong. Unbeknownst to him, this makes Shen Qingqiu inwardly spit blood, because the portrait clearly shows the irrefutable relation to Luo Binghe. Which means his hated newest disciple is the son of this rich weirdo and has strong backing after all. He has to put a stop to all harassment going on as soon as he gets back to his peak and make up a convincing reason for his prior bad treatment to avoid inevitable backlash. Luckily the little beast hasn't been there all that long yet and is hopefully naive enough to fall for a made-up explanation.

Tianlang-Jun still hasn't found a way around the security. He could just barge in and follow the ritual to it's target, but that would only cause another war with the humans and he doesn't want that. So he's continuing his flirting and wooing in the meantime. Shen Qingqiu develops feelings rather quickly, but refuses to admit it at all costs. He tells Tianlang-Jun that the son he's looking for is his disciple, but doesn't allow immediate contact with the excuse that it would confuse the child to suddenly be confronted with an unknown parent at this point in time, intending to prolong their meeting until he can be reasonably sure Luo Binghe believed his prior treatment was for a beneficial goal and won't say anything to the contrary.

To his surprise, Tianlang-Jun seems perfectly content with this explanation as well as the overall situation. Shen Qingqiu doesn't really know how to feel about this. On the one hand, this makes it easier and should he ever be inclined to reciprocate the advances, he probably won't have to worry about said lover having a crazy wish to have children. But then, isn't that a terribly flaky attitude to have for a father?! Typical rich bastards! Despite that, the flirting continues and the better this goes, the better Bīnghé is treated.

Shen Qingqiu asks Luo Binghe whether he would hypothetically want to leave the sect, if he found out he had family? Binghe very firmly answers that he would never want to leave Qing Jing peak and that the only family he thought of as his family was his now dead adoptive mother anyway.

After about a year, things look pretty good between Tianlang-Jun and Shen Qingqiu. Good enough that he thinks it's time to reveal that he's a demon. It doesn't go very well.

It takes a lot of effort, disclosing everything about the betrayal of Lao Gongzhu, what went on later and continued wooing over several months to convince Shen Qingqiu that he never had any nefarious intentions, but eventually Shen Qingqiu warms up to him again. Now, though, there's the question how reuniting Tianlang-Jun with his son will impact things. What if he truly rather stays in the sect? Which Tianlang-Jun seems to be perfectly fine with, if that's his son's wish. It's difficult to carry a big secret like being a half-demon around as a hormonal teenager who would then know he's constantly in danger. In the end, they decide to not tell Binghe until he's old enough to leave the sect if he deemed staying too dangerous, so he wouldn't need to rely on the backing of anyone person or a sect and can decide without duress. (Yes, they are both very bad at making good decisions.)

With this hurdle out of the way, Tianlang-Jun can express himself fully and without any holds barred. Shen Qingqiu eventually has to admit his feelings and they get together. Eventually he agrees to carry a gifted trinket with him at all times that alerts Tianlang-Jun should he be in trouble. He couldn't bear to have the same tragedy happening twice. Shen Qingqiu is very flattered and moved by him showing such care.

Not long after, the rumor mill of Cang Qiong flares up again due to his greatly increased visits to the brothel. Shen Qingqiu is angry enough about it this time to forego all safety concerns for the sect and installs a teleportation-array in his bamboo house. This way he can meet up with his lover in private and it's possible for Tianlang-Jun to get to him in case of an actual emergency even in the sect.

Then Shěn Qīngqiū goes into seclusion in the Lingxi-caves, despite Tianlang-Jun's lovesick whining. He takes Tianlang-Jun's gift with him and when Liu Qingge has his qi-deviation, he's alerted and rushes in to help. Together, knocking out a qi-deviating Liǔ Qīnggē is child's play and he leaves Shěn Qīngqiū to take care of his shidi until he's better. Luckily, Tianlang-Jun did remember to take the concealing talisman that Shen Qingqiu made with him to hide his demonic qi so that no alarms go off.

Tianlang-Jun obviously misses Shen Qingqiu and goes to roam around his house every now and then, just to be closer in thought (poor Zhuzhi-Lang has to listen to a lot of dramatic pining). During one of these visits Sha Hualing attacks Cang Qiong. This is swiftly and brutally dealt with. Can't have his beloved come back to a plundered and humiliated sect after all. Sha Hualing flees as soon as she realizes who stands before her, but some others are less smart and also too slow.

When Shěn Qīngqiū comes out of the caves, he's greeted by unhurt, but mortified disciples and a smug heavenly demon and his obedient nephew inmidst a massive bloodbath. Tianlang-Jun bows to him and makes flirtatious small-talk that make the disciples witnessing their banter believe the demon owed the Qing Jing peak lord a favor. Or that he's challenging him. No one is quite sure, but everyone agrees it's awesome that Shěn Qīngqiū succeeds in making them leave without further trouble.

Due to the good treatment, Luò Bīnghé falls in love with Shěn Qīngqiū. After meeting Meng Mo, he asks his shizun whether he thinks that all demons are evil? Shěn Qīngqiū replies that humans and demons are the same, capable of good and evil, but demons tend to chose evil with glee, whereas humans deceive themselves into thinking their evil is better and less awful. Although this bleak, cynical worldview saddens Bīnghé, he is also hopeful and vows to protect his shizun and one day court him.

The Alliance Conference is infiltrated by Mobei-Jun's demons and Bīnghé's seal is broken. To his surprise, his shizun knew about his demon heritage for years. Then Tianlang-Jun shows up, almost kills Mobei-Jun before he can retreat and speaks with a lot of innuendo to Shěn Qīngqiū. Bīnghé remembers him from the attack on Qiong Ding a few years ago. What this mighty demon said to his shizun back then (and now yet again) makes Bīnghé fear this man is an old enemy that wants to harm or abduct his shizun. He tries to attack and is stopped by Tianlang-Jun without effort. Tianlang-Jun then fully removes Bīnghé's seal. Binghe is mortified, stumbles away from him and accidentally falls into the Endless Abyss. Tianlang-Jun tries to grab him, but doesn't succeed. Since it has come to this, he calls after his falling klutz of a son to train well while he's there. (Which Binghe obviously takes as the cruel mocking of an enemy.)

Once Bīnghé is gone, he waves off Shěn Qīngqiū's (minimal) worries; the healing power of Bīnghé's heavenly demon blood will prevent him from dying, no problem. And it actually will indeed be a very good, if highly unpleasant, training opportunity. There are a few more rifts to the Endless Abyss in the demon realm, he and his nephew can go search for Binghe later.

A few days after this disaster, Tianlang-Jun jokes that now that his son is out of the disciple phase, Shěn Qīngqiū has no reason at all anymore to suspect the courting is a sham to ensure favoritism and starts to make marriage proposals. Tianlang-Jun searches for Binghe regularly, but can't find him.

Bīnghé comes back after two years speed-running the Endless Abyss, spurred on by the fear that his shizun was hurt or killed by the demon who was responsible for him ending up in this hellish place. Instead, he finds Cang Qiong is the riot of the cultivation world for having an alliance with heavenly demons.

The rumors vary. Some say the insidious Qing Jing peak lord seduced and bound a mighty demon to further the sect's power.

Others say he was ravaged and forced into marriage by the heavenly demon and, unable to defeat the demon or break the curse that was placed upon the pitiable immortal master, the sect had no choice but to accept the bond and ally with the demon to ensure at least a minimum of safety and respite for the man. There's a whole book written about this version of the story, with outrageous, detailed scenes of forced papapa. (So basically The Regret of Chunshan with different characters.)

This is obviously terrible gossip to hear for an already frightened Bīnghé.

The truth is, in a way, even worse for him in the end, because it squashes all hopes of ever having his shizun by his side like he wants to. There is no need for a hero who swoops in to save his beloved. Shěn Qīngqiū happily accepted Tianlang-Jun's marriage proposal a month after the disastrous Alliance Conference and they spent the next three months to convince the other peak lords that Tianlang-Jun was framed back when they tried to seal him. That he had nothing to do with either the attack on their sect nor with the Alliance Conference debacle. And on the contrary, helped them a lot over the years already and that allying themselves with him is extremely beneficial. As soon as that was accomplished, they announced the marriage and made their vows on Qiong Ding peak with Yuè Qīngyuán and Zhuzhi-Lang as stand-ins for the family.

(Welcome back, Luo Bīnghe. You missed your master's marriage day. By the way, since Tianlang-Jun is your father, I'm not only your shizun but also your stepfather now. I expect you to keep calling me shizun, though. Oh, right, you didn't know he's your father yet. Well, now you do. While we're at it, meet your cousin.)

Meng Mo is laughing about this whole absurd situation until Binghe threatens to not play host anymore.