#commercial wall cladding

[rehauindia]

https://www.rehau.com/in-en/interiors/raushell-bravura-banner

Exterior wall cladding panels for outdoor walls of home, school and other commercial buildings. Check the features and materials from weatherproof external wall cladding sheet manufacturers in India.

[sahestatellc]

Commercial Wall Cladding Dubai

Enhance your business’s appeal with Commercial Wall Cladding in Dubai from SAH ESTATE LLC. Our high-quality solutions combine style and functionality. Contact us today at ☎ +971 54 340 3066 for a consultation and see how we can transform your commercial space! Elevate your business with our expert cladding.

[serflooraustralia]

Wholesale Wall Cladding and Vinyl Flooring in Australia

Serfloor Australia is a family-owned and operated flooring and wall profile wholesaler servicing all states across Australia since 2009. We are passionate about offering vinyl flooring solutions that meet the demand of today’s urban and contemporary lifestyle without compromising product quality, functionality, and service.

[interiorergonomics]

Interior Wood Works: Enhancing Interior Spaces

Interior wood works play a pivotal role in interior design by adding warmth, character, and sophistication to a space. They range from flooring and paneling to furniture and architectural features like doors.

Wood as Versatile and Timeless Component

These joinery works works offer a versatile and timeless aesthetic which complements a wide range of design styles such as the traditional to contemporary. Wood works contribute to creating inviting and comfortable environments by introducing natural elements and textures into interior spaces.

Flooring Solutions

Hardwood flooring, for example the best to add visual appeal while providing durability and acoustic benefits. Wood paneling and cabinetry boost the visual interest of walls and storage areas. On the other hand, custom wood furniture pieces add a sense of craftsmanship and luxury.

Architectural Features

Architectural features such as exposed beams or wooden trusses add architectural interest and define the overall character of a space. Additionally, the choice of wood species, finishes, and detailing allows for endless customization. With such, it enables designers to create unique and personalized interiors reflecting the preferences and lifestyles of their clients.

Finally, interior wood works elevate fit outs, contributing to the ambiance, functionality and aesthetic appeal of a space.

[smartroofings]

Smart Roofs & Fabs is a reputable WPC Wall Ceiling Cladding Manufacturer in Chennai.Our Architect team works with cladding materials for residential and commercial construction ceilings, walls and floors.

Website -     https://www.smartroofings.in/wpc-wall-ceiling-cladding-manufacturer.php

Contact  : +91 7338816164

Mail Id: sales@smartroofings.in

Location: No. 33/20, Ramakrishnapuram 3rd Street, West Mambalam, Chennai, Tamilnadu – 600033

WPC Cladding Manufacturer, WPC Wall and Ceiling Panel, WPC Ceiling Panel for Residential, WPC Ceiling Panel for Commercial, WPC Wall Ceiling Cladding, WPC Ceiling Panel

[corroded-hellfire]

no bc cockwarming with older!eddie is soooooooo

Oh I agree 100%. It’s something I need in my life but I guess I’ll have to settle for only having it in writing. Older!eddie my beloved 😍

Warnings: older!eddie, smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral, m receiving, cockwarming, brat and brat tamer

Words: 3.3k

Eddie was never a sports fan. Never interested him, never played nor watched. His needing to be home to watch a game had never been an issue you’d had to deal with in your relationship. So, when the day comes that Eddie is more focused on something that’s on the television than you, you’re not having it. 

It’s a Saturday night and the two of you had finished off the pizza that you’d ordered, and you’d gone to take a shower. Halfway through your time spent in the steam, you start to feel a little lonely and wish your boyfriend would join you. Calling his name a few times doesn’t seem to work, even though the walls are thin in his trailer. With a pout, you step out of the shower and wrap a fuzzy towel around your body. Still dripping little droplets of water on the carpet, you pad down the hallway to see where your man is. Nothing Else Matters is coming from the television, and you find Eddie sitting on the couch with a beer in his hand. You’ve heard enough Metallica through him to know that’s what’s on the tv, but you’re not sure what he’s so transfixed on.

“Whatcha watching, baby?” you ask.

His eyes flit briefly over to you before returning to the screen. “Metallica documentary.”

“Oh.” You take a few steps closer to the couch and cock your head to the side. “Didn’t you hear me calling for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. You okay?” Eddie’s words are very monotone. You don’t doubt that there’s real concern for you there, but he couldn’t sound less enthusiastic if he tried.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just wanted some company,” you say coyly. There’s no reaction from your boyfriend. Figuring you’ll make it plain as day for him, you drop your towel, leaving your naked body on full display. He turns his head towards you, his eyes staying on the television until the last moment, then flickering your way as well. Arching an eyebrow, Eddie pats his jean-clad thigh and looks back to the television. It’s not exactly the reaction you were looking for, but you’ll take it. 

You stroll over to him and perch yourself in his lap. His hands rest on your hips, but he tries to look around you at the television. Your gaze is trained on him, not quite a glare but only a skosh softer. Eddie either doesn’t notice the way you’re looking at him or he doesn’t care. So, you rest your hands on his shoulders and gently press your nails into his t-shirt covered skin, adding pressure bit by bit until he frowns and meets your eye.

“Ow, babe,” he says. “What was that for?”

“You haven’t looked at me once since I sat in your lap. Am I bothering you?” It’s hard to keep the snark out of your voice, even though you’re aware you sound like a petulant child.

“No,” Eddie says with a soft sigh. “I just want to watch this documentary. I haven’t seen it, and you know Metallica is my favorite.”

A groan tumbles from your lips as you drop your head forward and rest it on his shoulder. Cold water drips from your hair onto his neck, sending a shiver throughout his body.

“You want a blanket?” he asks. 

His words have you jolting upright and, this time, full-out glaring at him.

“You want me to cover up?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eddie says, suppressing an eye roll – he knows it will only make it worse. “You just got out of the shower, aren’t you cold?”

“A little,” you say. “So warm me up.”

“Babe, this is over in an hour, can we just–”

“Fine.” You move to get off his lap, but his large hands keep you pinned in place. The overly cheerful voice of a woman trying to sell some new workout video comes from behind you and it makes you huff. “So now that there’s a commercial you’ll pay attention to me?”

“You’re being a real brat, you know that?”

Your eyebrows pull together as you frown at him. “I just want to get some lovin’ from my boyfriend.”

“Oh, baby,” Eddie says with a sigh. “So desperate for my cock, huh? Be a good girl then, get on your knees.”

With how fast and hard your knees hit the threadbare carpet in the living room, Eddie suspects you’ll either have bruised knees or rug burn. But you don’t seem to mind one bit as you stare up at him with wide, eager eyes. Your hands immediately fly to Eddie’s belt, and you’ve undone that and his zipper in the short few seconds it took Eddie to lift his hips so you could slide his jeans and boxers down. 

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen it—or stroked it, licked it, sucked it, had it inside of you, etc—the sight of Eddie’s cock still gets you immediately wet. The promise of the pleasure that he’s going to bring you. 

Being eye level with Eddie’s semi-hard cock has you licking your lips in greedy anticipation. Not able to wait one moment more, you lean forward and wrap your hand around the base of Eddie’s cock. His pubic hair brushes against the side of your hand with every stroke.

You push yourself up on your knees so you can let some saliva drip down onto Eddie’s cock, making it easier for you to work your hand over it. A groan slips from your lips as you eye the bead of precum gathering on the tip.

As if based purely on primal instinct, you lean in and run your tongue flat over the head. Eddie’s thighs tense around your head as you savor the salty tang that coats your tongue. 

You’re tempted to tease Eddie but with him already accusing you of acting like a brat, he might not let you suck him off. It’s been the toughest torture you’ve ever had to bear when Eddie makes you watch him get off all on his own. 

Not willing to take that risk, you engulf the head of his cock in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip. One of Eddie’s hands rests on the back of your hair, not pushing, just lying there. It puts enough weight on your head to make you sink a little further down on his cock.

“Good girl,” Eddie drawls out. 

The praise does nothing to help the wetness that feels as if it will drool down your legs any second. You bob your head, taking a little more of him in each time you go down. Tears annoyingly pool in your eyes and you blink a few times to get them to roll down your cheeks; nothing is going to distract you from giving Eddie the best head you can. Just as you’re about to take him into your throat, Eddie’s fingers dig into your hair, rings lightly scraping against your scalp, and he pulls you off of him.

A whine of protest reflexively flies out of your mouth at the loss. Your brain hardly has time to wonder why your boyfriend pulled you off of him before he tugs your head backwards so you’re looking up at him. His attention is not on you though, it’s back on the television that you hear once again playing music you recognize as Metallica’s. Eddie is looking straight ahead, not sparing you a glance as you pout up at him.

“Get up here,” he orders as he drops your hair. 

“What?” you ask. Using the back of your hands you wipe the tear streaks from your cheeks and the saliva that managed to leak out of your mouth. 

“Get. Up.”

You push yourself up on unsteady legs and Eddie groans in irritation as you block his view of the television. A strong hand grips your naked waist and pulls you forward until you’re tumbling into his lap. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Eddie’s voice is low and husky, the dominance in it sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re going to sit on my cock and keep quiet until this show is over. If you’re good, maybe you’ll get rewarded. If you’re a brat, you can get yourself off tonight. Understood?”

“Yes, Eddie,” you reply, hardly above a whisper. 

Making sure to lean your torso to the side to keep out of his way, you straddle Eddie’s hips and reach behind you to line his cock up with your entrance. Slowly, you start to sink down on him, the initial stretch leading you to let out a low moan.

“Shhh,” Eddie chastises, never taking his eyes from the flickering screen behind you. 

Teeth gnash into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood to keep yourself from making any other noises. Tense fingers dig into Eddie’s black t-shirt clad shoulders as you fully seat yourself on his lap. After you’ve given yourself a moment to adjust, you start to lift yourself up again, but Eddie immediately slams you back down.  

A sharp whine is forced out of you, and you grip the cotton material of Eddie’s shirt in your fists.

“Wha—” you start to ask but Eddie cuts you off.

“You’re going to sit here, completely still. You’re not going to move around or make a sound.”

You drop your head forward and rest your forehead on Eddie’s shoulder as you let out a small whimper. This is pure torture. Being so close to everything you want, but not allowed to rock your hips to make the dream a reality. 

Metallica music continues to play behind you and when you glance up at the older man, he has his entire focus on the show. You almost slip up and let out an irritated groan, but you know you’ll regret it if you do. 

A few minutes pass by but it feels like an eternity as you just sit there, half listening to the loud metal music coming from behind you as you slump against Eddie’s body. Just as a song comes to an end and yet another journalist begins to talk on camera, Eddie’s hips shift, causing him to move inside of you. The unexpected jolt has you gasping and burying your face into Eddie’s neck.

“Relax, I’m just making myself comfortable,” he says. 

You highly doubt that but keep your thoughts to yourself as you try to calm your body down again. Eddie’s a little shit and you’d put money on this being only the first time he messes with you, looking to see how far he can push before you push back. Sure enough, just as you’ve let your guard down and let your mind wander, there’s a sharp smack to your ass. The sting makes you jump, and Eddie’s hands instinctively move to your waist to steady you.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “My hand slipped.”

He’s full of shit and you both know it. Eddie’s playing dirty now and you have to think of a counterattack. Anything too obvious and he’ll make both of you get yourselves off tonight, so it has to be subtle. 

Moving slowly so as to not interrupt his television time, you curl against his chest so he can feel it when you expand your lungs and let out a silent yawn against his neck. As you yawned though, there may have been clenching of your walls around his dick. You feel more than hear the growl that reverberates through his chest. Now when you bite your lip it’s to keep the smile off your face. 

You peer over at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall and see that this documentary should be over in about fifteen minutes. So close yet so far. The chill from your still wet skin is starting to settle in as well, which is going to make this quarter of an hour tick by even slower. 

Thankfully, the end of the show has some of the Metallica songs you’re more familiar with, so it gives you something to listen to while you wait for this test of wills to be over. With five minutes left you feel yourself getting antsy. Eddie just said until the documentary was over, right? Does that mean the second it’s done he’s going to start fucking you like you’ve been craving for what feels like hours now? Or will he be a prick some more and pretend like he doesn’t know what you’ve been waiting for this whole time. You’d place your bets on the second option. Eddie never turned down an opportunity to be a pain in the ass. 

The last song fades out and the show is over. You immediately sit up and look at Eddie with wide eyes. You did it. You had done what he asked of you and now you get your reward, right? Right? 

As nonchalantly as you’ve ever seen him, he raises his arms up over his head to stretch out his back and abdominal muscles. Usually, you’d take the opportunity to stare at his tummy when his shirt rode up, but with his cock literally inside of you it feels like a moot point. 

“Eddie,” you say. It’s not quite a whine, more like a poke—a nudge.

“Yes?”

He was going to drive you insane one of these days.

“It’s over, right?”

“It is.”

“So…?” you trail off.

“So, it was pretty good. Wish they had more metal documentaries like that.”

You’re two seconds away from putting your hands around Eddie’s throat—and not in the way he sometimes likes. 

“And I was good too, right?” You’re practically batting your eyelashes at him, and it takes Eddie a moment to compose himself enough not to laugh. 

“I guess you were.”

“So…” you drawl as you lean in to press soft kisses against the side of his neck. “Do I get my reward then?”

“What is it that you wanted, baby? Was it this?” Eddie rolls his hips up against yours and your eyes flutter closed at the feeling.

“Y-Yes,” you manage. “Need you, Eddie.”

“God, I love when you get all needy for my cock. Should I make you beg for it?”

He knows you will if he demands it. Eddie enjoys moments like this when he’s in full control, knowing you’ll do whatever he wants. That his cock drives you so wild that you become putty in his hands. It makes a nice change since in every other aspect of your relationship you have him wrapped around your little finger. 

“Please, please, Eddie,” you whine, fingers grasping at the front of his t-shirt. 

Eddie takes in your pouted lips and your widened eyes. He can’t help but smile at how utterly adorable you are; but somehow still the sexiest woman he’s ever met. 

“Alright, baby,” Eddie finally acquiesces. He reaches up and cups your cheek in his hand. Slowly and delicately, Eddie swipes his thumb right below your bottom eyelid. “Take what you want.”

The permission unlocks an energy reservoir you weren’t aware you had as you place your hands on Eddie’s shoulders for balance and push yourself up, almost letting his cock slip out. But at the last moment you lower yourself back down, the two of you moaning in tandem as he bottoms out again. You set a relentless pace as you begin to bounce on his cock. Eddie’s eyes hungrily watch your tits as they bounce along with you, providing your boyfriend with double the pleasure. 

“Fuck,” Eddie groans and drops his head back against the couch. Teasing you was definitely worth it with the way you’re taking his cock for all its worth. 

Your hands move up Eddie’s shoulder and slide around to tangle your fingers at the dark curls at the base of his skull. 

“This what you wanted, huh?” Eddie asks and pauses to catch his labored breath. He can feel how wet you are and that tells him this is exactly what your goal was. “Needed to have me deep inside of you.”

“So deep,” you mutter with a nod.

“Mm, what would you do without me, baby?” Eddie taunts, lifting his hands to massage your breasts. 

“God, I would die.”

Eddie chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Nobody could make you feel as good as I do. I know.”

“Uh huh,” you pant. 

Eddie notices your movements becoming slower, the strength draining from your body. Persistent woman that you are, you keep going, moving up and down to take what you want. One of Eddie’s arms snakes around the small of your back and the other comes up to cup your cheek.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” he says softly. Eddie turns to lay you down on the weathered couch and slides an old throw pillow beneath your hips. A loud whine of protest comes from deep in your chest when Eddie slips out of you as your positions change. “Love how desperate you get for me. Only me who gets to see you wrecked like this. So fuckin’ hot.”

As Eddie pushes himself back into your soaked, throbbing pussy your whines turn much more pleasurable. Your boyfriend holds onto the arm of the couch behind your head and uses the leverage to piston his hips. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you cry.

“Too much?” Eddie teases, slowing his hips. “Should I stop?”

“Fuck, no.”

A cocky smirk grows on the older man’s face, a breathy chuckle coming from him at your vociferous reply. His hips pick up speed again, just as eager to please you as you are to be pleased. The arm that isn’t holding him steady against the couch runs over your tits, up your neck, and his fingers meet your lips. 

“Open.”

You let your jaw drop, letting Eddie slip his middle and forefinger into your mouth. Just as you did to his cock before, you swirl your tongue around the digits, the feeling of something in your mouth only making you feel that much fuller. Reluctantly, you let Eddie move his hand when he starts to pull away, but not before letting your bottom teeth gently graze against the pads of his fingers. 

Eddie’s hand dips down between your bodies and rubs tight circles over your clit. The added stimulation has your muscles tightening, that familiar buildup soaring in you. Your right hand clutches Eddie’s arm, the grip hard enough to leave bruises that will linger for the next few days. 

“Eddie, fuck.”

“That’s right. Cum for me, princess.”

“W-Wanna cum with you.”

He dips down and trails hot kisses from your chin, all the way down your throat. 

“You’ve been naked for the past hour,” he mumbles against your sweat covered skin. “Never mind how long I’ve been inside of you. You really think I’m gonna be able to last much longer? Come on, baby. Cum for me.”

The urging is all you need before letting your orgasm wash over you, back arching off the couch, and pressing your tits against Eddie’s shirt. The clenching and fluttering of your walls around him has Eddie following right after you, spilling into you and filling you up. Wanting to make sure you take every single drop, Eddie fucks his cum into you even after his orgasm begins to wane. 

The weight of Eddie’s body pressing on top of yours is exactly what you need in the moments as your bliss fades away. Contentment fills the both of you as you breathe together, both sweaty and satiated. Eddie uses the last of the energy he has left to lift his head and press a few kisses to your shoulder. 

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to move some of the hair that’s sticking to his face. “I’d apologize for being a brat, but it turned out to work pretty damn well.”

“You are a brat but I’m good at handling it,” Eddie says with a soft smile. “And I love you too.”

“I feel like I need another shower,” you say, your sticky skin feeling attached to Eddie’s.

He looks up at you with those doe eyes and a cocky smile.

“Want some company?”

[deirdreskye]

Commercial I would produce as an advertising executive:

Night falls upon a normal suburban American middle-class home. The lights inside go off, the family is off to bed.

A nude woman crawls from a storm drain. Her skin is wrinkled and bone-white, her sagging breasts covered by her filthy black hair. She crawls on her hands and feet like a spider, slowly, silently, like nothing human. The front door is locked so she crawls into the back yard where the family's dog whimpers and cringes from the sight of her. She gropes at a window, unlatches it, and climbs inside.

She creeps through the kitchen, up the stairs, past the bedroom where the parents sleep, down the hall. Her wrinkled hand reaches for a doorknob, twists, and pushes it open, silently, ever so silently, and now she's inside the baby's room.

A portrait of Jesus Christ hangs on the wall over the baby's overturned crib. The woman is hunched over, spine bulging from the taut skin of her back, crunching, chewing, gnawing. She eats every part of him, bone and blood and organs all.

In the morning, the mother shrieks and wakes the whole house. Father and the other children come rushing to the baby's room to see mom holding the baby boy unharmed, although the crib fell over on its side in the night. No one can explain how this came to happen, or why the baby did not wake, but the baby is safe and well though it gave everyone such a fright. The family will forget this incident soon enough, but it will nag at the back of the mother's head from time to time when she can't fall asleep at night.

The boy grows up.

He does not learn to speak until he is five. He screeches inconsolably while the family is out to eat at the Cheesecake Factory. A boy on the playground calls him a retarded faggot and punches him in the stomach. He is so bored at church he picks his skin until it bleeds. His brothers mock him relentlessly for crying all the time.

He masturbates to a drawing of Sonic the Hedgehog and Dr. Robotnik kissing passionately. He smokes cigarettes in a parking lot with a boy in a trenchcoat and a girl in Cookie Monster pajama pants. His father slaps him hard in the face when he comes home from school wearing black nail polish.

A football player performs oral sex on him in the back of a pickup truck. He sells ecstasy to the pastor's daughter at an exorbitant markup. It's two in the morning on a school night and he is stinking drunk when he wakes his parents trying to sneak back into the house. He's wearing a dress and fishnets and winged eyeliner and lipstick and his father beats him bloodier than ever before. Mother weeps bitterly with a black eye as she prays for her youngest son's eternal soul. The next morning, the boy is long gone. His father comes to believe he will never see his son again but he is so very wrong.

Some years later, police cars burn in the night and the flames grow so bright the shattered glass on the sidewalk look like so many glittering jewels. Bodies litter the streets, some in riot gear and many in plain clothes. The streets are silent save for the distant, so very distant wail of police sirens. Long after the flames die out, an officer stirs and moans faintly in pain as he hears the sound of boots trodding upon broken glass.

He's so delirious he thinks his deliverance is upon him when a dozen black-clad figures surround him. A gloved hand pulls the officer's gas mask off to reveal the bloodied face of a middle-aged man.

"I've missed you so much, daddy," the antifa says, gayly giggling.

"Son?" His father croaks weakly.

"That's right, papa. It's me. I've accepted our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ into my heart and I'm ready to come home!"

His friends laugh uproariously as he reaches into a backpack and produces a freshly-looted, brand new iPhone 17 shrink-wrapped in its original packaging. The night rings with howling laughter as the boy recites the Lord's Prayer, slamming the box into his father's face.

"Our father,"

Crunch.

"Who art in heaven,"

Crunch.

"Hallowed be thy name,"

Crunch.

Think different. Apple iPhone.

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 4 - Homeward Bound

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3

Words Count: 7981

Warning: None

Dorothea

January 1868, London

The first thing that hit Dorothea was the smell: abhorrent, a stinging stench, almost choking in its miasmic pungency.

Phillip had warned her that it would have been a shockful amalgamation of foul odors, but at first, the young woman had deemed her cousin, with his penchant for the dramatic, exaggerated in his assertion.

Now, as she wrinkled her nose with barely masked revulsion painted on her otherwise delicate features, she found herself thinking that, mayhaps, her cousin hadn’t been dramatic at all.

Her sensitive nose had grown so accustomed to the fresh clean air of the surrounding forest of Sturefors, in Sweden -her mother’s ancestral home- that breathing the less-than-salubre air of London felt like a slap to her face and an execrable invasion of her nostrils.

Making sure no one would hear her, Dorothea allowed herself to let out a sigh, barely audible, yet lingering like haze in the cold winter air.

She had known she would miss Sturefors Slott the moment she had set foot in the carriage her mother’s family had prepared for her to bring her to the southern part of the country, where she had taken the ship that had brought her back to London.

Sturefors Slott -despite its name- wasn’t truly a castle as they intended them back in her beloved England, with their towering stone walls and turrets, built during the early middle age to protect the Lords and their people from the barbaric invasion; rather, it was a Hall, elegant and refined if modest in its appearance, nestled within the soft embrace of an endless vastness of evergreens and a clear lake, just outside the door.

Closing her eyes, she wished she could fool herself that it was not smog what she was breathing, but the fresh tingly scent of crushed pine needles and musk and balmy resin.

As she allowed herself to glide through her most recent memories, all she could see was the residence’s walls painted in a soft pale shade of yellow and white, in a way that made them resemble one of those Austrian pastries her father had always been fond of ever since she could remember; she could see the small artificial pond, sitting right in the middle of the small baroque garden, where waterlilies grew aplenty and birds would come and swim at their leisure; the orangery and hothouse, where she had spent countless afternoons reading during those chill summers, surrounded as she was by the delicate perfume of the flowers in bloom.

The complete peace that place provided was one of the reason why it was always guaranteed that she would be found there; but alongside that motive, also the fickle hope that, somehow, being surrounded by all those familiar scents might help quell the melancholy and yearning, she oftentimes felt in her young heart, to see her family soon.

As she raised her eyes to glance at a ferry passing by them- one belonging to her father’s commercial fleet, judging by the men clad in red that shouted on the decks, and the wolf painted on the funnel spewing out a dark, choking smoke- she wondered at what price that melancholy was finally about to be abated.

In Sturefors, she had known a freedom she never felt while in London, with her mother’s protective wings always looming over her and her father’s ever watchful gaze constantly following her, even while not being physically there; like Eva with the Apple in the Garden of Eden, she had tasted the fruit of a far greater independence she had ever dared to dream, a complete sovereignty of her own self she had never experienced ever since she had memory.

“Those days are long over, Dora. You are back home, now,” she thought to herself, sighing again, before straightening her back and tilting her chin up, as she gazed upon the industrial city opening up in front of her, studying at it with uncertain eyes.

Her home.

London, the Centre of the World.

The city had changed ever since she had left it in 1865, almost three years prior: cluster upon cluster of new factories had been built in the industrial neighbours, and even from the river she could see the enormous luminous signs bearing her family’s name or her father’s own wolf crest black on the walls of red bricks, the eyeless predator towering over the buildings that faced the Thames, its watchful gaze the same her sire’s.

So many changes.

So much to get used to once again.

As she let her eyes wander, she felt a small leap of reassurance in her heart when she caught a glimpse of the city’s historical landmarks, the towering height of Big Ben, his belfry raising high against the late afternoon sky, a familiar sight amidst all that chaotic maze of buildings veiled by a haze of smog.

This was indeed her home.

“And yet,” she thought, calling upon all her considerable will not to let the tears that prickled her eyes run free on her cheeks, “It does not feel like it any longer.”

With a subtle gesture of her hand, she tried to brush away the tears away, before anyone could notice, and trying to compose herself, she let her gaze wander around some more and touch the buildings at the side of the river.

She looked at the tiles and doors and windows, bringing her eyes up where the roofs and chimneys sat and let out their nauseous smoke that rendered the air impossible to breathe.

All of sudden, she stopped in her wandering, feeling that her gaze had been returned.

And it had been.

Someone - at that distance a mere silhouette- had moved with switf movement from behind the cover of red bricks, and without hesitation, had jumped from a chimney to the other, graceful and secure in their movement like a cat.

She narrowed her eyes, bringing one gloved hand to her forehead to shield herself from the last rays of setting sun, trying to make sense of what she thought she saw.

Could it have been a trick of the light or the fatigue of the journey that was finally starting to take over her mind?

No.

She was sure of that.

“Ditte, vad hände? Det ser nästan ut som om du har sett ett spöke!”(Ditte, what happened?It almost looks as if you have seen a ghost!)

Dorothea kept looking up the roofs, half hearing what the woman that was approaching her was saying.

“Sassa, såg du det?”(Sassa, did you see that?) she blurted out, pointing with her finger.

“Vad såg du, min kära?”(What did you see, my dear?) Astrid, a cousin from her mother’s family, that had took upon herself to chaperone Dorothea safe and sound to London, looked intently and raised an eyebrow when she saw nothing.

Dorothea looked again, but whoever was jumping around like a miscreant was clearly gone.

“Någon... som hoppade runt? Jag svär, jag vet vad jag såg, eller så heter jag inte Dorothea Marianne Starrick!”(Someone...who jumped around the roof? I swear, I know what I saw, or my name is not Dorothea Marianne Starrick!)

The woman gave her a long look, her lips pursed together in a thin, austere line.

“Herre Gud, Ditte, det är inte så en ung dam i din ställning ska tala! Jag visste att Minna var benägen till fantasiflygningar, men jag trodde aldrig att du också var det!” (Dear God, Ditte, this is not how a young lady in your position should speak! I knew Minna was prone to flights of fancy, but I never thought you were too!”)

“But I know..what I saw…” she murmured back in English, lowering her head in shame at her cousin’s words.

“Där, där, min kära, ta dig samman! Denna smutsiga luft måste ha spelat dina ögon ett spratt.”(There, there, my dear, pull yourself together! The dirty air must have played a trick on your eyes) The woman said with a condescending tone, caressing a wayward strand of silvery blond hair away from Dorothea’s cheek. Then, she turned to look at the houses built parallel to the river with barely contained disdain. “Säg, Ditte, hur kan man bo på ett sånt här ställe undrar jag?”(Say, Dora, how can you live in a place like this, I wonder?)

Shaking her silvery blond ringlets, Dorothea tried with all her might not to sigh in exasperation, her jaw tensing as she turned to look away from the woman that had just spoken to her.

There was no use trying to reason with her.

But she knew what she saw.

“I can live in a place like this because I was born here, min kära. But pray tell me: what happened to all the good propositions of speaking only English from the moment we left Gothenburg?” she answered, putting an emphasis on the English name of the city.

Astrid brought her perfumed handkerchief to her nose, as her periwinkle eyes filled with tears from the disgust the vile air was causing to her poor nose. She stared at Dorothea for a moment longer than necessary, a wrinkle appearing on her brow, as if she was fighting the natural impulse to rebuke in her native language out of spite.

“Very well, Ditte,” she finally conceded, switching to an heavily accented English. “I am going to be here only for a few weeks anyway, I can afford to do that. For your sake, if anything else,”

“Your effort is oh so deeply appreciated, Sassa,” Dorothea pursed her lips, trying to drown her annoyance in a sweet, if tense, smile of gratitude.

However, much as ever, she had to contain the impulse to roll her eyes at Astrid’s tone and words; if caught, it would have earned her a reprimand and a tirade once in front of Mother and Father, and the last thing Dorothea desired was to have her return to London being soured by the constant complaining and nitpicking her older cousin was known for.

Deciding that she had given the woman far more attention than she deserved, Dorothea took a few step away from Astrid, leaning against the handrail that faced the side of the city where the Clock Tower was and tried to distract herself by looking at the busy stream of ferries in front of her.

But melancholy crept again into her heart. If only Minna, Astrid’s own younger sister and Dorothea’s closest companion in Sturefors, had been the one to be allowed to accompany her back home, maybe the journey would have been less grievous, if anything because she could have retained with her some of the happiness she had felt in Sweden.

“My my, isn’t Astrid a charming choice for a chaperone? Are my ears deceiving me or is the Lady Ankarcrona complaining yet again, Dora?” she heard a young gentleman addressing her thoughts, as if on an invisible cue.

The tone was conspiratorial, yet affable in cadence, and the velvety quality of his timber did nothing to hide the sharpness of his silver tongue.

“With extreme passion, I dare say,” she giggled, for the first time since leaving Sturefors.

Dorothea turned to to face the tall, handsome blond man that was approaching her with an imperious gait that well suited his authoritative appearance.

Philip Edmund Starrick, her first cousin on her father’s side, older than her by only a handful of years, was doing nothing to hide the condescension from beaming in his deep eyes, but when he turned to look at Dorothea, his gaze melted into a mischievous look, as a warm smile stretched on his lips.

Dorothea reciprocated with an impish smirk of her own.

“If you were to ask me,” he said, doing nothing to lower his voice,”If she applied all that passionate effort into something other than making everyone else’s ears miserable with her constant twaddling, her husband would not go looking for a nicer company among the valets of the house,”

Gaping in disbelief, Dorothea leaned over to glance behind his shoulder, to make sure that Astrid hadn’t heard his words.

“Mind your words, Pip! How could you possibly even know about that?” she muttered.

He winked at her, his smirk widening even more.

“It is my job to know what is going on around me,”

“In London, maybe,” she chuckled, poking his ribs with her elbow. “But not in Sweden,”

“Sometimes it is indeed hard not to perform one’s job, especially if that someone is considerable remarkable at doing it ,” he chuckled, leaning in so that he would be able to whisper without anyone hearing them.

“Ever the paragon of humbleness, I see,”

“False modesty is for mingling peons and the church ministers who have time at their hands. I have little patience for it, and much more interest in the fruits my job brings; Speaking of, my darling cousin, I couldn’t help but hear voices about how eager young Master Daae was to instruct you in the art of the violin, during your sojourn in that desolated farm they dare to call a Hall. “

Dorothea gaped once more, opening and closing her mouth as a look of profound abashment found its way on her face. She wished she could stop the blushing that prickled her cheeks at the insinuation Philip had purposely left hanging in the air, founding herself unable to.

She gave him a piercing gaze, tilting her chin up in a silent challenge of wills.

“ I haven’t even set foot in London, and you are already enquiring about businesses that are none of yours. Gustave was my teacher, and nothing more than that,” she whispered, glaring at him. “And you might insinuate all you wish, but my conscience is at peace. My conduct at Sturefors has been nothing less than impeccable.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow, giving her a look that spoke aplenty.

“Not even for a moment has the thought crossed my mind. I am well aware you are a paragon of virtue, cousin dearest. He did fancy you, however, or so I had been told,” he added. “He indeed had the insolence to send you letters with flowers, as well as paying constant calls to you, and invited you for frequent walk together, sometime…unchaperoned?”

Dorothea narrowed her eyes, not liking for a moment that last insinuation.

A realization came to her mind, and irritation found a way in her voice.

“I have nothing to hide nor to apologize for. Who spied on me while I was at Sturefors, Phillip? Was it Father that told you to follow my every step? Or Mother, Heaven forbids?”

Chuckling, he took a step closer, leaning against the railing.

“No need to fret or get yourself into a state, cousin. Neither Uncle Crawford nor the Countess had their hands in this. I am at liberty to say it was in fact my own doing.”

“What for, may I ask? Do you think me so inept that I am incapable of properly take care of myself?” She furrowed her eyebrows and  gave him a stern look, crossing her arms against her chest.

The young man gave her a long look, as silence hung between them, a silence Dorothea couldn’t truly decipher. All it did was rendering her more aggravated with each passing moment. Wasn’t she at liberty to have companionship but the one approved by her family?

“As your spies have most likely already reported to you, my good flibbertigibbet, all that Gustave sent me -all he ever did - was to politely express his respect and devotion toward a friend and fellow connoisseur of the art of the violin and singing. It was done in perfect accordance to all rules of propriety and decency, as my Lady Mother has instructed me to,” Composing herself, she wrinkled her nose as her face morphed into a mask or haughty disdain. “As for what you refer as “fancying me”, Mr. Daaé fancied my competence in playing and composing melodies, and in my voice when I found appropriate to accompany his violin. I assure you, he did not want-“ She faltered for a moment, a sting in her chest where her heart was. She cleared her throat from the lump that had formed there, before regaining her word.“-whatever interest he might have shown toward me, it was not personal at all, but merely connected to all that I had to offer as an artist in my own right.”

Phillip didn’t answer immediately, keeping his thoughts to himself as he observed his cousin with an intense look in his eyes.

“Do I hear a certain vein of disappointment in your voice, Dora? Did you wish for him to acknowledge you in a more,how to say…womanly fashion?”

“I-“ the young woman’s face flushed, her cheeks turning a scalding hue of red that could rival the one of the garment she was wearing. “This is not the place nor time to discuss such matters, Phillip. On my word, your boldness had grown bigger than your ego, and that in itself is an accomplishment. I have no idea what you are insinuating, and I surely hope you did not report a single words of this postulation of yours to Mother and Father? Because I shall not accept any besmirching of my own reputation from no one, yourself included, cousin,”

Dorothea felt her heart thundering against her chest, where contempt and mortification took turn in mocking her.

When she saw him still standing, still observing her with those piercing eyes that had nothing to envy to the winter tundra in the North, with no intention to utter a single word, Dorothea felt dejected.

“It matters not,” she murmured, turning again to face the river. “Not now, not ever, because nothing more than friendship dwelled in Gustave’s heart. He did not know who I was -what I am- and even if he had, nothing would have changed. At all.”

How to explain that the companionship Gustave had offered her had proved to be both the greatest of comfort and the bitterest of yearning, and not reciprocated in the slightest? Her young heart knew all to well what her fate was, where it lead her.

A nightingale in a golden cage, that’s how she felt.

Unable to soar against the dark vaults of the sky, forever locked in the maze that was her reality.

“I could very well have hoped to have Brave Lancelot coming at my window and whisk me away to Camelot, and my chances to find a companion worthy of Mother and Father’s approval would have been the same,”

Phillip let out a small chuckle.

“Now now, you are being rather unjust toward our Mr. Daae. Sir Lancelot would always have an unfair advantage compared to any suitor that might end up asking for your hand. He can very well be considered family at this point,”

Dorothea allowed herself to let out a giggle, her aggravation slowly subduing, as it always did with Phillip.

“I might have driven my father out of his mind with all my jibber-jabbering about the Knights of the Round Table and their quest.”

“Him and everyone else in the Order. All the letters you had the Old Bear write for you, asking noble Lancelot to come and rescue us all from the dragons that were threatening your Father,”

He chuckled at the memory, before speaking again, this time, reciting some verses.

“His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.”

“The Lady of Shalott,” Dorothea murmured, her smile growing wider. “Have you perchance seen reason and read the poem, finally giving our good Lord Tennyson the praise he deserves ?”

Phillip adverted his eyes, his mustache quivering as he held back a contemptuous snort.

“Well?”

“Mayhaps.”He conceded.

She kept her eyes fixated on him, cocking an eyebrow as her smirk widened the more he avoided her gaze.

“Fine. I’ll admit to it, you impertinent pest! This past winter, Cip and I might have spent the evenings perusing some of your books because we missed hearing your voice reading story to us, and Charlie was adamant we went through “The Lady Of Shalott” at least once per week because he knew it’s your favourite. I swear to all the Heavens, he was more punctual about this reading than he was to attend Mass,”

“Let us always be thankful for Charlie and his sensitive decisions. If we wereto be left to your devices, you would have us read something that would make my father’s hair turn white and my mother’s poor heart fail,”

Phillip rolled his eyes, but cannot hid his smile. “Preposterous. I do not know where you get all these ideas.”

Then, all of sudden, Dorothea felt Phillip taking her hand in his in a gentle gesture, and brought her palm against his cheek. Gone was that quick moment of mirth, to leave place to a far somberer one. The calculating light had all but disappeared from the young man’s eyes, leaving place for a warm compassion she had not seen in many years.

“Forgive me for my actions and words earlier, cousin dearest. I..might have been in the wrong with my own conjectures. I did not mean to bring any harms nor sullying to your conduct while away.”

Dorothea gave him a small smile that did nothing to hide the sadness in her eyes.

“Did Charlie agree with your vision? Did he support this decision? And be honest with me, Phillip: I cannot abide any falsehood to be thrown to my face. Not from you.”

The young man shook his head with a smile.

“Cip was adamantly against me intervening. He knew you would have not approved, and that I had no right to do something like this without you being in the known,”

“At least someone in our family still retains some trust in me and my endevours, I am glad to see,”

And yet she knew in her bones that, if Charlie was aware of Phillip’s intentions, so would her father. She knew that Phillip alone couldn’t have the authority to order her to be followed in Sweden. Not without the giveaway of someone higher than him in authority.

And only two people had that kind of prerogative within the Order.

But which of them, she could not fathom.

“Do I have your forgiveness, cousin? I cannot bear to know you are aggravated with me,” She heard Phillip ask her, his voice now warmer.

She raised her eyes to look at him, and saw the same honest glint he always had as a child when he knew one of his prank had taken things too far and he would be in trouble.

She let out a sigh, giving him a tiny smile.

“ I cannot bear to be mad at you for too long either, you know that, Pip,”

“All I did, I did with the best intention and your well being in mind. I was worried about you,” He continued. “The Swedish Rite does not act as your father would, as the British Rite would, and it was only concern that had moved my hand to extend my authority in Sturefors. And after all that happened at the Manor that year, I-”

Dorothea brought her fingers to his lips, in a delicate but firm gesture, her gray eyes silently pleading.

“Say no more, I beg of you, Phillip. For the love you say to bear me, do not open this door. Let me keep the peace I found in Sturefors for just a little longer.”

The man did as he was told, and stopped talking, not without feeling his own heart growing heavy at the seriousness painted all over her face. So much had changed since the day she had been sent away, loaded on that ship, away from her family, alone in the darkness of the north. 

And he couldn’t help to think that, while having changed in appeareance, while having become even comelier than she was when she sailed away, Dorothea had not regained any of the innocence that she had lost that godforsaken night. Where once warmth and good cheer dwelt in her silvery eyes, now an hollowness remained, a desolation that made his blood boil.

The spectre of fear still lingered all over her, attached to her like a tick to the coat of one of his hunting dogs, sucking away at all the joy she once had as a child.

His heart broke at the memories of what once was, but kept his silence, as promised.

“There you were, you two,” a squeaky voice took them away from their conversation, and both cousins turned to look at Astrid, strutting toward them with small, rapid steps.

“I dare say, Mr. Starrick, is this the way to welcome a foreigner in this country? I was under the impression that the Starrick were amiable people, from what I gathered from my cousin here and her behaviour, but now I have to assume that it was my Aunt’s teaching to her daughter rather than the staple of her father’s family education.”

Dorothea had to silence the chuckle raising in her throat at the sight of her cousin rolling his eyes so much, she was sure he could see the back of his own head.

Not much could faze Phillip or break his composure, for he was known to be one of the most bewitching men, but being around Astrid had been proving quite the trial on his nerves ever since they had crossed the border where the Thames met the North Sea.

Nevertheless, the Master Templar’s expression morphed from aggravated in a mask of charming gallantry, with an easiness that came from constant practice. He took a few steps away from Dorothea and reached for the Swedish woman, looking straight into her violet eyes.

“Why, dear Astrid, you hurt my heart with your unjust words. What can I do to prove to your genteel spirit the extent of my family’s “amiability”?” he said, taking her hand in his with delicate touch, allowing his thumb to caress the back of her gloved hand. Astrid held her breath, too stunned by the young man’s boldness. “I assure you, us Starricks can be most…cordial, when given the chance,”his voice now a sultry husked murmur, almost a caress to the ears. “Just say the word, My Lady, and I will make sure to show you to what great extent us Starricks know how to make a respectable woman such as yourself feel…welcomed”

Dorothea’s eyes bulged as she silently put a greater distance from them, reaching the opposite side of the deck and making sure not to be within earshot.

She had heard enough, and she had no intention to bear witness to her cousin’s own trifling, even less so with that trifling being directed to Astrid. She was not one to admire demonstration of affection in public, preferring to read about it in her books: if one were to look upon two lovers exchanging their deeds of love, she would find herself blushing and wishing to be as visible as a spectre. Modesty and propriety lead her actions, and while being a young woman yearning to find love of her own - or, affection at the very least - she dreaded the idea of showing that love to anyone but her proper husband.

How could Phillip behave in such manner with so little concern of who might be bearing witness to his action, she could never understand.

Trying to distance herself from that lingering feeling of uneasiness, she raised her eyes once more, hoping to be able to see again a glimpse of the jumping figure she had seen earlier.

She knew what she saw.

Byron, so dear to her heart, oftentimes praised her for her grounded intellect and her propensity to not let her emotions drive her best judgment.

She allowed herself to gather strength from that, when she decided that she had indeed saw a figure looking back at her, before disappearing in front of her very eyes.

But what was it?

Or rather.

Who?

**************

The moment the ferry’s gangplank touched the dock, was the moment that truly marked the end of Dorothea’s journey from the North.

But all melancholy and sadness at the lost liberty seemed to melt away, like snow in summer, the moment her eyes found the blond man that was awaiting for her close to the pier, his face almost a mirror of her own.

Charles Magnus Starrick was standing tall and straight as an arrow, waiting for her, his round playful face just as amiable as she remembered, and his smile as warm as the gentle summer sun. She couldn’t help but think how much it contrasted with the much soberer faces of the flock of Templar agents surrounding him.  He had always looked out of place among the Templars, almost as if he did not belong, and yet, his authority, while not as great as Phillip’s, was never disputed.

“Charlie! Charlie!” she called at high voice, waving her hand at her cousin.

“Ditte, show a little restraint! This is not how a Lady should behave,” she heard Astrid’s reproach in her ear.

Dorothea tried as much as she could to maintain the elegant composure of her usual pace, but the child-like joy at seeing her cousin’s sweet kindhearted smile was so great, she couldn’t help herself from hasten and almost fly in her cousin’s open arms and hug him as tight as her own strength allowed.

“Darling Dora, welcome back home,” Charles whispered against her hair, reciprocating the tight embrace.

“I missed you so much, Cip!” she whispered back as  joyful warmth spread in her whole chest. “All your letters kept me so much company in those long winter nights where I could not be with you and Pip!”

“You were equally missed, Dora, I assure you! Oh, but do I dare say: did you become taller since the last time we saw one another? Or maybe my darling cousin has been lured by the Erlking and the one in front of me is but one of his elven vassals? Wait! Let me see for myself, I have an infallible method to know if it is indeed my darling Dora!”

Dorothea giggled, shaking her ringlets as Charlie started to count the freckles on her cheeks.

“Ah,Yes! They are all there! It is indeed you, cousin dearest!” and before she could answer, she was wrapped in another bear hug.

She had to call upon all her strength not to shed tears of joy at the relief that she felt back in arms that had hold her ever since she was a toddler.

She was home.

She was truly home now.

“Here she is, brother of mine. Delivered safe and sound, as I promised, “ they heard Phillip’s voice come from behind them, as he strutted down the gangplank while carrying one of Astrid’s luggage.

Charles took a timepiece out of his pocket, and cocked an eyebrow, as a smile appeared on his face.

“And with only fifteen minutes of delay from the advised time. I daresay I am almost impressed by your efficiency, Pip, albeit your delay cost me a whole round of beers with the men.”

“The nerves you got there, brother! I thought that by now you knew that when I say something, I deliver my promise. And it is not as if I had a way to make that godforsaken piece of scraped metal go any faster, even if I wanted to,”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you decided to commandeer it and cause mayhem across the Thames. You surely would have made it on the evening papers, I can already hear the titles echoing in the streets: “Gentleman of dubious background causes an halt to the viability of the river to deliver precious cargo unscathed,”

“Do not even jest on this, brother: the Old Bear and Uncle Crawford would have had me hanging by my breeches, if I dared doing such mischief,”

“Oh, to be sure. But I have a feeling that our Dora here would have had her fun,” he said, winking at the young woman and causing her to giggle.

She was ready to answer with a jape of her own, but once she felt the gaze of the small flock of Master Templars on herself, she quickly tried to regain her natural decorum.

She would never forgive herself if she were to stain her father’s reputation with a less than impeccable conduct, especially in front of all his subordinates.

All of them were wearing dark garments in the finest cut and on their short capelets, the red Templar Cross stood almost flamboyant against white fabric.

Even Charles, not one to showcase his appurtenance to the Order, was sporting the formal attire, and Dorothea could have not felt more honoured to know that he had done so just to welcome her.

She brought a hand to the cross tied around her neck by a silken red sash, caressing the engraved enamel with tender affection. It had been the last gift her father had given to her before she left.

She thanked her forethought for having decided to wear it during her journey back home: what kind of impression would have she given to the other Master Templars, if she, the Grand Master’s own daughter, were not to wear the symbol of the Order itself?

But, despite all intention of propriety being on her side, she couldn’t stop herself from tiptoeing to have a better look around her, trying to find other familiar faces among the much soberer ones that were standing guard around them.

“Where is Father? And Byron?” Dorothea asked, her lips forming a small pout of disappointment when she couldn’t catch a glimpse of Byron’s caring eyes or her father’s solemn face.

“The Grand Master and Lord Harrison have been….held up by an unexpected nuisance that needed to be dealt at once, I am afraid,” said Charles, sharing a knowledgeable glance with Phillip.

Dorothea’s own features turned to ashen, all colour leaving her face when looked in her eldest cousin’s eyes.

Even without a word being said, she knew precisely what the nuisance was.

“Assassins? In our dear London?” she whispered in disbelief . “Has our beloved City of Light become an abode of chaos and ruffians in the three years I have been away?”

“You needn’t to concern yourself, Dora.” she heard Phillip murmur, his lips twisted in a disgusted grimace.

She narrowed her eyes, not entirely reassured by Phillip’s word, before turning to face Charles.

“Is it true?” she asked, a tinge of authority in her normally soft voice.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes running from her face to his brother’s, and more than ever, he looked like a tiny mouse trapped between affection and duty.

"I am afraid…I am afraid to admit that in the last few months there might have been more…”chaos” than foreseen,"

Dorothea shook her silvery ringlets, a look of incredulity on her face.

“Impossible. Father has held the reins of London since before I was born, and no assassins has ever dared to even cross the threshold of the city. He never mentioned anything in his letters to me. Byron never did, either.”

“I told you already, Dorothea: you needn’t concern yourself with this. It is being taken care of.” Phillip said, his tone final as he shared another glance with his brother, a silent command written all over his hardened face.

Dorothea felt her heart sink, just for a moment, before determination found a way through her bones.

“Be as it may, Pip. Keep your secrets and I will keep mine. Two can play this game. But I swear they won’t be yours much longer,” she thought, letting her features to settle back in an expression of neutral calm.

“Very well, cousin. I shall probe no longer. I will not lie that I am saddened in not finding my sire and Byron here,” she murmured with polite courtesy, folding her hands together. “But if it is true that disruption has reached our fair city, I am most reassured that the Grand Master is taking the due steps to ensure that no Assassin will dare to ruin his work.”

Charles let out a nervous laughter of relief as Dorothea stirred the conversation.

“Cousin dearest, allow me to say that none is more disappointed than them in being unable to welcome you in person after your long absence. Nevertheless, they wanted to be sure that their presence would be with you, despite everything.”

With a small nod of his head, Charles beckoned one of the henchmen standing behind them to come forward.

Dorothea turned and exchanged a glance with him, and for a moment she found herself wondering where she had seen him before.

His face seemed familiar, with the neatly stilled whiskers and short trimmed beard framing his face and a lock of dark, unruly hair brushing over one of his temples.

He was very pleasant to the sight, to be sure, but what caught Dorothea's attention was the subtle glint of mischievousness in his grey eyes, hidden just beneath an apparent playfulness.

Before she could ask any questions, the man did as he had been told and produced a small box and a bouquet of pink soft roses.

She smiled to herself at the sight of those gifts: she knew the flowers were from her mother’s own hothouse and the small box was from Byron himself. With a small thank you, she took them with gentle hand, promising herself to open the box once alone in the privacy of her own rooms.

"I took upon myself to make sure they were to be delivered to you in person, Lady Starrick"

Dorothea raised an eyebrow.

"That is very kind of you, Mister..."

"Markus Barclay, My Lady," he murmured with a bow. “I work underneath Lord Harrison the Eldest himself, and I was given order to attend to all your needs in his absence. I am yours to command,”

Squaring her shoulder and straightening her back, she nodded with solemnity.

“Very well, Markus. I want you to oversee that the Lady Astrid Ankarcrona is to be brought safely to the Grand Master’s residence and that she is settled in the most comfortable of the rooms within the Manor. She is an esteemed guest, and she will be treated with all the honours due to her station.”

“Consider it done, My Lady,” he answered, raising his face and looking straight at her without hiding the smirk that touched his lips.

Something about his demeanor caused an uneasiness to stir within Dorothea’s chest and this, along her inability to focalize why she thought she had seen him before, left her in complete diquiet.

When the Master Templar left to do as he was ordered, Dorothea turned to face Charles, a tired smile on her face.

“Will you accompany me home, Cip?” she asked, trying to hide a small yawn. “I think the journey might have taken its toll on me, afterall,”

Charles took her hand in his and brought it his lips with gentleness.

“It will be my honour to pick up from where Pip has left off,” and with a swift gesture, he beckoned for the other Master Templars to take care of Dorothea and help her to her carriage.

Waiting for his cousin to be far enough from where he stood, Charles approached Phillip, careful to lower his voice.

“Have you told her anything about what Uncle Crawford has in plan for her?”

Phillip shook his head at his brother, as they both stayed behind, looking as Dorothea was giving directions to the ones helping her.

“No. I-“ He hold his silence just a moment longer than necessary, weighting the word he was about to say. “I didn’t have the heart to see her smile wane. She had found some peace while in Sturefors. I let her keep it. But I will not lie to you, Charles: I wish I could offer her the same peace here,” he murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“Now I undestand your need for secrecy. But I never thought you as a sentimental, brother,”

Phillip shook his head with impatience.

“This has nothing to do with me being sentimental. But after all that happened that night, I was afraid she would not smile ever again,”

“The Assassins have paid aplenty for that,”

Phillip cocked his eyebrow, his face now severe, a quiet question in his eyes.

His brother return his question with a smile so cold, so devoid of any of his usual kind warmth, it left Phillip with a feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

“Frye is dead.”

“The perpetrator?”

“The Leviathan, of course. He has left nothing in his wake, not even a body for his children to cry on,” Charles said, his voice grave.

Phillip stood silent for a moment, with the loud chattering of people filling his ears. But nothing could deafen the thumping of his accelerated heartbeat.

Finally, he spoke.

“That’s not enough,“ murmured Phillip. “Not nearly enough. Not after what he had done. The ripples of that bastard’s actions have left more than one broken. His death alone is not enough. Is the Leviathan satisfied and his revenge finally accomplished?”

Charles let a small smile appear again on his lips, just as cold as the one before.

“No.”

At that answer, Phillip's own lips stretched in a vindictive smile, a reflection of his own brother’s.

“Good. Then we know what to do next.”

“Pip! Cip! It is time we go!” Charles and Phillip turned their head as they heard their cousin calling them from the carriage window. “ Are you are not coming with us, Pip?”

“I wish I could, cousin dearest, but alas, we need to part ways here, for my services are needed elsewhere.” He smiled, as he approached the carriage and took his cousin’s hand in his, bringing it to his lips in a parting gesture.

“Will you be attending to the Lady Astrid, cousin?” she teased.

Phillip rolled his eyes, shaking his golden ringlets.

“God forbids I have to spend another minute with that woman. If I wanted to hear someone nagging in my ear all day, I would have asked Father for his services. He has years of experience and a disdain that rivals no other’s. No, dearest, I am bound toward other purposes. Duty calls, as it always does for me,”

Dorothea’s smile couldn’t be but a melancholic one at those words.

“So soon? The time has flown much faster than I wanted to. What will I do without your pestering chatters, I wonder?”

Phillip’s face turned into a mask of disdained, but his eyes were smiling at her.

“Preposterous. I daresay, you have grown far too bold for your own good, cousin dearest. No, you will have to do with Cip’s own chattering, I am afraid. But,” he added, as he smiled to both her brother and Dorothea, “ I leave you in good hands,”

“Oh, I know. The best hands indeed,” she replied, returning the smile and holding Charles’ hand in hers.

“Now go, before your Lady Mother starts worrying for your late return. I shall call on you tomorrow, first thing in the morning,”

“ I count on that, cousin,” she murmured, not truly wanting to let go of his hand.

Not after three years without her family.

He squeezed her hand three times, a silent gesture she understood immediately.

A promise.

And Phillip had never failed to keep his promises.

**************

The pub was loud, messy, chaotic with its patrons busy gulping down pints after pints of what could be considered the foulest beer available on the market.

And yet, its despicable taste seemed to do nothing on the one gurgling it down as if it was water, as the rowdiest of songs accompanied their time sitting at those squalid tables.

Among those people, two men sat in front of one another, barely looking at each other in the eyes. The oldest one, built like an ox, with a sour face and brutish hands that could snap an arm in two without any effort, was busying himself with the food served in front of him, while the youngest one, leaner in his figure and more elegant in his demeanor, could barely keep his own meal down.

“The little Countess has returned, at long last” he murmured, trying to distract himself from the queasiness in his stomach.

“So it seems, my friend. Ain’t so little anymore, though, I’ve been told. All grown up.”

The youngest of the two pursed his lips, an uncomfortable light in his eyes.

He didn't want to be there. At all.

“Come on, eat somethin’, will ya? You look like you’re goin’ to faint, if you so much dare to stand up. Eat. It’s on me, this time.”

“No, thank you,” the youngest murmured through gritted teeth.”This...grub does not sit well on my stomach,”

“What a sissy. Well, suits yourself, mollycoddle. I, for once, have never been one to love wasting a good meal,” and without ceremonies, he took the plate sitting in front of the youngest man and started to scarf it down as if it was his last meal.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you any manners?”said the young man, barely concealing the disgust on his face.

“Aye, me mom. She tried when I was a younglin’. Didn’t quite work out, my brother was much better material for her to work with. But what good are manners anyway? No need for them durin’ a brawl in the street.”

“If you say so…”

“Let’s talk about more important things, shall we? Is the Grand Master still set on his plan? Is she to succeed him, when the time comes?”

“How should I know? I am not in Starrick’s mind.”

“Indulge me, lad,”

The young man sighed, crossing his arms against his chest.

“There might be this possibility, yes. Nothing has been decided as of yet.”

“Bollocks.” said the other, curling his lips in disgust.

“Facts.”

The oldest of the two spit on the ground.

“Don’t fuck around with me, you ninny. I can’t believe Crawford Starrick would do somethin’ so stupid. He has enough foresight to know that it would be a catastrophe for the Order.”

“He might be in possess of knowledge about her that we cannot foresee. When he comes to his daughter, the Grand Master is most secretive,”

“Horse’s shite!” he said, slamming his hand on the table. A few people turned to look at them but hastily ignored them when the older one glared at them, his mouth the snarl of a bulldog.

“Would you care to lower your bloody voice?” said the youngest one."Mind my words, you are the paragon of discretion. It's a miracle all of London did not hear you!"

The young man grabbed the pint in front of him, and chugged down the alcohol, hoping it would wash away his nervousness. His eyes darted all across the room, hoping to not meet anyone familiar. The trouble he would be in, if he were to be found in such company, would be beyond repair.

“That’s an absolute pile of shite right there! “See somethin’ in her”? There is nothin’ to see there! All I’m seein’ is a father too blinded by his love for his child and his own desire to create a dynasty through her!”

“Maybe so. But you forget her father has personally overseen her initiation in the Templars ever since she was but a babe in arms and her mentor is none other than the Leviathan himself. She is a Starrick. I would not do the mistake to discount her on the account of her sex. And young she might be, but she resembles her sire more than you can imagine: there is steel hiding underneath that silk. Do not let yourself be fooled by anything else.”

The other grinded his teeth as he leaned closer to the young man, his face splotched by red stains of seething rage.

“Bah! All you have are conjectures and hyphothesis, nothing more than that! It can’t happen. The Order won’t accept her, just because she's his daughter. She's a woman! She belongs to the house, opening her legs for her husband as he sees fits and whelping as many little bastards as possible. She can’t be made anything else than what she is! We need someone strong at the helm of this ship.”

The younger one looked at the elder man, an inquisitive look in his cat-like eyes.

“And what do you propose we do to stop this? Kill her? Kill HIM?”

The brute hesitated, long enough for the younger man to know that, even blinded by rage, he would not act in haste. They needed a valid reason to justify any action taken, lest they were to become a target like the one they were set to control.

“That’s what I thought,” the youngest one finally said, after the long pause. “You will find that patience, my friend, is a virtue not to be discarded in favour of a hasty approach. We shall wait in the shadow, as we have always done, and seize the moment when the right window of opportunity opens. London is already in chaos as it is, with the Assassins rearing those bloody heads of theirs and causing ruckus all around the city. Those blasted Frye twins are an annoyance we need to take care of now, before this annoyance starts veering into dangerous territories.”

“Ethan Frye's bastards?” said the eldest one. “Had they learned nothing from their father’s death? Are they trying to meet the same end he did?”

“Mayhaps.”

“Wasn’t aware those assassins were a family of suicidals,”

“More like children playing with fire. But a fire that need to be quelled at all costs, nevertheless,”

"The challenge is that they’re unorganized. Chaotic. There's no plan or pattern behind their action and this makes them dangerous. Rumors have it that the Frye lad’ve been fightin' at the pits: the lad packs a mean punch.”

“Nothing that will worry you, I assume?”

“Are you jokin’,? Me and my brother will make a pulp of him, as soon as our paths cross. And trust me on this, ninny, they will cross. Wish I could do the same with the Starrick girl. Hell, I’m a gentleman myself, and would be gentle with the little poppet,” he murmured, leaving the promise hanging between the two of them. “That little neck of hers can’t be too hard to snap. A twig in my hands.”

The younger man’s mouth curled in an expression of disgust.

“You will do nothing of this sort. We have to let the Grand Master take care of this, before striking." The young man took the moment before speaking again, weightung his words with moderation. "Kill the young lady, and you will kill Crawford too, in spirit if not in body, and we do not want that. Not now, anyway. The assassins need to be dealt with first, and for that, we need the Grand Master. We need to destroy the Brotherhood, or what remains of it. Then, we shall take care of Crawford Starrick and his daughter."

The eldest one gulped down his entire pint of beer, slamming it against the table once done. He smiled, but there was no warmth in his light eyes.

"What are we waiting for then?"

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER -  “Confrontation”]

[NEXT CHAPTER -  “Awakening of the Hunter” ]

omg, could it be true??? THE 4TH CHAPTER IS FINALLY DONE AND UP??

Seriously, I don’t know what possessed me to finish this, but I just sort of did?

I missed working with my Starrick family, and so I started to read again the chapter, and before you knew it, I basically added 3k words to it today, and just finished it.

Well, as said in the previous chapter, we are finally back in 1868, so finally we have the chance to move around through London with Dorothea :D

I hope you will like this, I know I will be needing a long nap lol

also, a huge thanks to my dear @susann- noir for being my beta reader and helping me through! you have been immensely kind, I appreciated your help so much <3.

Hope you will like it!

--Nemo

[adgp35]

Eyes Front!

Harry the outraged executive wasn’t accepting the storming of the MyloCorp board room by a group of young female activists calling themselves the Ninety Niners. When the women insisted the directors line up against the opulent wood panels of the meeting room walls, Harry outright refused. “I know you girls probably think it highly amusing to interrupt the proceedings of one of the most important commercial operations in the world,” he fumed at the leather clad and masked protestors, “but we have decisions to make that will not be held up simply to enable a gang of infantile playground politicos to make a really fun clickbait YouTube video!” The black clad leader of the intruders who called herself Wild Cat, gazed at the Chief Operating Officer cooly, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of impatience and contempt. She tossed her cascading blonde hair back over her shoulder and replied: “And we have ninety nine days to save the planet, asshole!” Harry’s eyes were drawn to the woman’s shapely PVC clad thighs and an involuntary smile passed over his lips just as Wild Cat’s booted foot connected with his groin. “Eyes front, pal!” she told the man as he bent double. Harry unsurprisingly then limped to join his colleagues facing the wall as Wild Cat and her comrades brandished rolls of pantyhose in their surgical-gloved hands. “You corporate morons are temporary prisoners of the Ninety Nine Revolt!” the young revolutionary proclaimed. “Let’s tie them up, girls!”

[witchycatwife]

In my new RPG setting, light is magic, magic is industry, and industry is religion.

The continents might be shaped differently, but the laws of nature are exactly the same as ours up to quantum mechanics, which is replaced by, for lack of a better word, magic.

Mana is a characteristic of matter like temperature, conducted like electricity, carried by photons, and subject to conservation of energy. Certain patterns and wavelengths of light have observable, measurable, and exploitable interactions with matter, often transforming the latent mana in substances into other forms of energy in a variety of ways.

Downstream of this, most of everything else follows.

Soldiers march to war in grim columns of gleaming brightplate, visors on their helmets blocking sight above the horizon until the last moment before contact to protect them from the mind-twisting spells cast by war-sorcerers clad in black velvet.

A city covered its walls in leaf gold to reflect off the shots of lens-cannons, fiendish devices that transform sackfuls of lycopodium spores into explosive releases of kinetic force at their target using miraculous optical mechanisms.

The Church which unites the Pelagian region in the worship of a definitionally absent god has given the local glassworks a commercial monopoly on producing the stained-glass Holy Symbols of Saint Ambrosius, which provides minor relief to headaches, hangovers and stomach to whomever receives rays of sunlight through it. The local public house has one mounted above the door, and the baron's men-at-arms (usually at The Miller's Arms, the aforementioned pub) have a permanent reservation to the table which receives this blessing in the late morning.

The First Prophet is said to have discovered magical light, defeated the dread idol-king of Karrak and banished the disease of tomb-shivers from its population through his prohibition of cannibalism. If everyone could just observe all the rules correctly and conduct their affairs justly and appropriately the world would become perfect and God could finally act within it directly.

Dragons, whose transparents scales have evolved refractive patterns far more intricate than what human hands can accomplish, soar the skies as terrible, majestic megafauna, and skitter through granaries looking for vermin in the ecological niche of cats. A glimpse of moonlight through the wings of an angel moth is like getting a megadose of ambien shot into your eyeballs, and leaves you easy prey for the devil spiders that often skulk in the shadows, following the gigantic moths as they sip nectar from equally gigantic nocturnal flowers.

Those murdered under moonlight, aware of their own foul death, leave psychic imprints in the form of ghosts until erased by the new moon. The testimony of a ghost is weighty but not infallible evidence in court; once a man was hanged by the words of a spitefully paranoid man who was convinced his cart accident was deliberate sabotage, yet later evidence proved him innocent.

A great golden dragon rules the Occident overseas, enforcing a heavenly peace that has lasted millennia and staving off any dreams of conquest and colonisation. A naked god-king claims to be descended from the dragon, his tattooed body basking in the glory of Sol while the lowest classes of his heathen country are forced to cover even their faces, unworthy as they are of its graces. It is said that the dragon is the greatest scholar of astronomy and astrology (a legitimate science studying the influence of starlight, planetary movements and their interactions, although the signal is noisy and its predictions only statistically reliable) in the world.

Eighty years ago the heretic king Michael III was deposed when his greatest general of the generation overextended her armies in the east and disappeared fleeing into the lands of the steppe nomads. This proved that his claim to absolute monarchy was not the right way and the ancient freedoms enjoyed by the nobility were reinstated, yet his reforms to taxation and the military still stand. Even the gentry must pay monetary taxes now, and the virile knightly military leaders of old with their glorious retinues were replaced by effeminate commanders of austere artillery armies where even the prostitutes carry knives or old, crappy lens-gonnes to nominally satisfy the maxim "all who march, also fight".

(Seafaring is masculine, managing a business is feminine.)

Drakesbrook is named after the river (narrow enough to jump across) dragons (8 inches long) the townsfolk make bilberry sacrifices to. The baron is proud of his grandfather's service to the Proportionist cause in the Civil War. The vicar is a workaholic. The doctor is an overqualified genius who fell for a disabled hunter twice her age and followed his retirement to a backwoods town where nothing happens.

And for some godforsaken reason, one bright morning in March, the Church is full of cows.

[sahestatellc]

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[archinform]

Fisher Building, Chicago

343 South Dearborn Street

Completed 1896; addition 1907

Charles Atwood, D.H. Burnham & Co. architects

1907 addition, Peter J. Weber, architect

2001 restoration and adaptive reuse, Pappageorge Haymes, supervising architects

by Roger Jones, August 2023

Fisher Building, photo by Roger Jones

Lucius Fisher (1843-1916). He was a Chicago, Illinois paper company magnate and architect. In 1895, he commissioned Daniel Burnham and Company to build the 20 story, 275 foot tall Fisher Building in the Chicago Loop.

Fisher Building, Chicago, taken April 29, 1896. From The Inland Architect and News Record, May 1896. [Link to full article PDF here]

The writer of the 1896 article described the building thus:

But here, for what we believe to be the first time in human experience, one of the highest commercial buildings in the world has been erected almost without any bricks. It fronts on three streets, and on the remaining side adjoins other property. The fronts are covered with cellular terra cotta on the outside, not in imitation of a wall, but following upward the steel supporting members, and closing in the transoms between the windows, leaving two-thirds of the exterior to be enclosed by glass… Only two bricklayers were employed at any time in this part of the work.

(Left) Daniel H. Burnham (1846-1912)

(Right) Charles B. Atwood (1849-1895)

The Fisher Building, 343 South Dearborn Street in the Chicago Loop, was commissioned by paper magnate Lucius Fisher. The original 18-story building was completed in 1896 by D.H. Burnham & Company; the architect was Charles B. Atwood, who died before the building's completion. An addition was later added in 1907.

Some facts about the building, from the Emporis site:

The original wing was only the second building in Chicago to reach 18 stories (after the Masonic Temple), and is the oldest still standing at that height.

Because of the building's great height for its time, the usual spread foundations were supplemented with piles underneath them to support the added weight.

The second floor was originally a banking room, and has especially large windows compared to the floors above it.

To enhance the facade's vertical emphasis, most of the ornamentation is placed on its horizontal members, reducing the banding effect that would occur if they were blank.

The Gothic ornament is in the 15th century style of Bruges and Rouen.

Declaring the structure a Chicago Landmark in 1978, the Landmarks Division noted:

Cladding this early skyscraper with Gothic-inspired, terra-cotta tracery was not a casual stylistic choice. Its designers looked for inspiration to the early Gothic cathedrals of Europe, which shared common characteristics of tallness and often having more glass than masonry. Cut glass door panel Eagles and mythical beasts decorate the upper stories, and aquatic creatures and seashells--a visual pun on the name of the building's original owner, Lucius G. Fisher--are found at the base. A later addition to the north is largely a repetition of the original design, except for the absence of bay windows.

Early postcard views of the building

Archival photos

Fisher Building under construction (left) and on completion (right)

Van Buren (main) entrance; Lobby stairs

Entrance hall

First story entrance corridor in 1896

Original elevator cage

Original elevators

Advertisement for Winslow Brothers, who executed the metalwork for the Fisher Building

Late 19th Century Cast Iron Elevator Lobby Door from The Fisher Building, listed for sale on 1stdibs.com. Compare to original elevators photo above.

Rendering of the 1907 addition, Peter J. Weber, architect

Other illustrations

Upper elevator grille. Art Institute of Chicago

Elevator frieze panel. Urban Remains, Chicago.

Architectural Description from the 1965 Historic American Buildings Survey Report [Link to PDF of report here]

PART 11 ARCHITECTURAL INFORMATION A. General Statement: I. Architectural character: The Fisher Building is a large office 'building designed by the firm of D. H. Burnham Co. in 1895. It has been cited by the Chicago Landmarks Commission and it is indicative of the level of achievement in skyscraper design attained by the architects of the Chicago School. The steel cage structure is sheathed in a curtain wall of decorative terra cotta and glass, providing ample space and light for the occupants and making it possible for the building to be erected relatively quickly and economically. B. Description of Exterior: 1. Over-all dimensions: Rectangular 70'-6" (five-bay south front) x 150' 0" (eleven-bay west front), including addition. Eighteen stories. 2. Wall construction, finish and color: The original block of the building had tripartite projecting bays alternating with planed surfaces. Bays end at sill of 17th story. Arches of varying width span the window openings of the 17th floor. The original salmon terra cotta finish is now coated with a black patina from the soot and dirt of the city. 3. Openings: a. Doorways and doors: The arched entrance on VanBuren Street, originally the principal entrance, is intact; that at 343 South Dearborn Street has received a 20th century I 'modernization"--a polished granite portal with plate glass and aluminum doors. The original doors from the vestibule inside are decorated with an ornamental fish cut in the glass panels. b.. Windows: Mostly one-over-one light, double-hung windows; those of the original building are grouped three to a bay window, two between; in the north addition, the windows are placed in a plane in groups of three. At the 17th floor the lights are gathered under wide arches; at the 18th they are again in threes with transoms above. The first floor display windows have been disfigured by a variety of signs, aluminum panels, and other attempts at commercial modernization. ...General setting and orientation: The buiIding occupies the southern portion of a narrow block at the south end of the Loop. Its neighbors are the Old Colony Building (HABS No. ILL-1053) to the south and the Monadnock BuiIding (HABS NO. ILL-1027) to the west. The buiIding fronts the sidewalk line on three sides and is adjacent to the elevated on VanBuren Street. Prepared by Larry J. Homolka, Historian and Assistant Supervisor National Park Service August, 1965.

My Photos:

Links / Sources:

Architecturefarm - old chicago skyscraper of the week–Fisher Building

Chicagology

chicago.designslinger

Emporis Buildings on the Wayback Machine – Fisher Building Chicago

HABS Report 1965

Historic Structures

cityclubapartments.com - Daniel H. Burnham's Fisher Building interior lobby original elevator doors executed by Winslow Brothers

Chicago Landmarks - Fisher Building

Researchgate

Urban Remains - Fisher Building

Urban Remains - Fisher artifacts

Wikimedia commons

[castlelucian]

Elevating Design Excellence: The Marvels of Powder-Coated Metal Sheets Unveiled

Introduction:

In the realm of modern design, the choice of materials is paramount to achieving a harmonious blend of aesthetics, functionality, and durability. Powder-coated metal sheets have emerged as a transformative force, offering a versatile and visually striking solution for a myriad of applications. In this blog, we'll explore the distinctive features and advantages that make powder-coated metal sheets a preferred choice among designers, architects, and manufacturers.

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