#dancer mastery

[gentlenekomata]

a name for the baby! | Sakura & Azama

After the winter’s tragedy, the arrival of baby wyverns in the stables is welcomed not just with the usual excitement, but with outright tears of joy. With the traumatic memories still fresh in everyone’s mind, everyone is being extra careful with the babies, and intends to ensure they have the best care possible. Will you volunteer your knowledge and services? Or perhaps do you wish to learn from the best? [Grants Flying +1]

starter for @carefreemonk <3

After the events Sakura and Azama have been through, the very first thought in the priestess’ mind to check on the newly little guy at the stables: she managed to make the baby wyvern accepted by the others wyverns and luckily for her, it was introduced a little later from the winter’s tragedy, giving it the time to properly getting acclimatised and to survive the rigid temperature of the wintry season. Sakura actually paid regularly visits to it, in order to make sure everything was alright and the baby wyvern was doing good.

That exact afternoon the petite princess was doing her usual stroll around the stables, already walking towards the wyverns’ stables and ready to give the little creature all the love it deserved: as she turned the corner, a very familiar face popped from behind a wooden window  and Sakura eyes shone as she immediately recognised the standing figure with a stern expression on his face.

“Azama, it’s so nice to see you here!” she quickly greeted him, though being cautious of not making any alarming or sudden sound that would surely scare the animals, “Are you taking care of the little guy?” she questioned, peeking inside the stables just to see it on the ground, searching for food. “Seems very hungry!” she giggled, returning her glance on Azama’s face.

“By the way, we didn’t even give it a proper name!” she put her right hand under her chin, on a perplexed and pensative position. “Do you have any ideas?” she paused for a moment, eyes observing the little wyvern, “To me, it reminds me of a… delicious biscuit!” she kept pondering, until she eventually came up with a very strange name –at least, strange for a wyvern.

“How about Cookie?” she cocked her head, staring at Azama knowing that the chosen name wouldn’t be accepted.

[reddragonprincess]

starter for @pirrhyc

The Ethereal Ball has officially ended. Everything of that event amusingly amazed Minerva in a positive way: the dance partner, the happy drink in company, the numerous gaffe she made… all of those memories would be gladly treasured in the red-haired princess’ mind, even if some things didn't go as planned or even if she didn’t manage to accomplish everything she wanted. She was satisfied with the ball's outcome.

And yet, the party wasn’t over… not for her, at least. She immediately heard of the request of help for cleaning the massive rest of food and drink, as well as the disasters left on the floor and the amount of brooches lost through the tables and chairs: the task wasn’t easy, but she wasn’t alone, apparently. As she started to mopped a portion of the area, she noticed many other volunteers doing their best to obtain a tidy area and possible earning a good reward –yeah, that was right, there was a reward at the end of that ungrateful commitment. Aside from her sense of duty, Minerva was actually curious to discover the true reward behind that long and laborious task: yeah, the brooches collection was fine and challenging, but the real thing was now, after the end of the ball.

She mopped, she cleaned, she rubbed away the dirt and she eventually finished all the cleaning with another small group, finally receiving the much desired prize… a coupon?! She stared at the paper that one of the member of the staff slipped in her hand, incredulous eyes as she wondered what the hell she should do with that thing: she wasn’t really a buyer, she didn’t like spending gold for futile stuff, especially for clothing… but then, a lamp lightened in her mind and as she looked through the crowd, she recognised the very same person she met before, during the ball.

“You.. Pelleas, right?” she addressed to him, flapping the coupon in her hand, “Would you mind going..shopping.. with me?” she was a bit reluctant at first, but she clearly remembered her promise and she always maintained promises.

a promise is a promise! | Minerva + Pelleas

Every year it’s the same: there is a need for voluntolds– ahem, volunteers– to clean up after the Ethereal Ball has rung its last, and this iteration is no exception. Between food fights and burn marks, there is much to tend to. Worried about being shorthanded, the Church has come up with a fun little game: the more you clean, the more points you rack up! At the end, those with the most points can supposedly look forward to a reward, although… No one really knows what the exact reward in question is supposed to be…

[mercenarymage]

A Dance of Ice and Snow

[Dancer Mastery Drabble]

It was a legend passed down from village to village, from fisherman to mercenary. A myth that defied the long-standing history of human and dragon - a proof that a world with kindness once was achievable. 

He remembers the tale when he was young, when he scaled the snowy path towards the mountaintop. When snow was met with joy, with a wonder and curiosity he hardly believes he was once able to express.

In the clearing, he recalls the offerings were provided by the village. By his family, by the elders, even him, he's sure, in his own way. It was a show of trust to the one who once lived here. A humble request for them to return to the mountain it once called home.

Apparently, the villages neighboring the mountain continued this tradition, year by year. But, as Hugh aged, he grew upset about the yearly tradition. He kicked and yelled and told his grandmother that he wouldn't go. He didn't want to climb that chilly mountain anymore.

He didn't want to get caught in the snow.

The years would continue by, kept afar from that looming mountain. Yet, no matter where Hugh traveled, no matter how much he fled, the story managed to follow him. It travels by word of mouth. It follows the sails guided by the ocean breeze, as sailors speak of the legend. He finds the tale among the chatter at the town's local tavern. He hears it whispered among the travelers during a ride across the countryside. 

"That dragon was kind to humans."

That's what they say, that's what they know.

"But that dragon left the mountain."

Because of the Scouring, the war that drove them away from home. 

Today, Hugh knows now that it's possible for humans and dragons to exist. He knows that there is kindness hidden behind the violence of war, and thanks to the help of the fiery haired employer of his, a lonely girl is saved from being destroyed altogether.

It should have been left at that. He should have moved on to other work, found someone else to line his pockets with gold. He should never returned to that mountain.

Yet, he finds himself there, shivering from the cold.

It's nearing summer at the least. He doesn't need to fear that a sudden snowstorm will block his path back - even if his racing mind warns otherwise. The setting sun makes for a beautiful sight, too. In the distance, he can spot the several villages that reside around the mountain.

There are still remnants of the offerings placed last year. Charms and trinkets offered to appease the one who once resided in the cavern nearby. Flowers and food once were placed here as well, but with time, most had eroded away from the icy cold and snow.

He's stupid for being here. He tells himself so. There's nothing that this dragon has ever done for him. They were gone long before he was born, maybe even before his parents were.

And yet, Hugh wonders how these lands would have fared with the dragon around. Stories tell that the dragon was a protector. Someone who helped the villages through the harshest of winters.

If that was the case, then could the dragon have...?

Hugh shakes his head. There was no fairness in imagining what-ifs. It was humanity's fault that this dragon had to flee. That these lands no longer were safe enough to be called home. That the dragon was forced to hide in a land afar.

Even so, he's reminded of them. Of the bits and pieces he can recall, it's the ones him scaling this mountaintop long ago that shine through. About the gentle nip the cold air brings, that sort that's met with irritation, not fear. About the smile of those he no longer can complete the faces of. Who took his hands, and gently brought him to this clearing to witness the tradition firsthand.

...and, that's right. There were more than just physical offerings. When the whole village had put their heart into showing they cared, performers spoke of their longing of the dragon through song. The stage was set so everyone and anyone could follow the along, their footsteps searching to bring comfort to the dragon left to flee on their own.

Subconsciously, he takes a couple of steps of his own. It was a lonely walk that this dragon made. The songs that illustrated that were far from happy, weren't they? His younger self never quite caught on. Back then, it was all fun and games for him. A joy shared with those he cared about.

Another thing lost, in that buried mass of snow.

A few more steps are taken. He's been to plenty of bars and taverns that have entertainment. Plenty where he can watch someone dance, or was even encouraged to dance along. But here, it was very different. It was dark, cold, with little signs of life. He was alone, but...

But as his steps slow, it reminds him of a journey taken long ago. Away from comforts, away from a place once called home-

-something that, although under very different circumstances, he took some time ago.

Hugh doesn't speak of the time that he travelled to this mountain. He doesn't speak of the snowy lands that was once his home. Conversations about his parents are few - he avoids taking about his grandmother, unless he's in a serious need of convincing someone to support his grandma's so called 'ailing health'.

But on days when the town's festivals bring the monastery and the grounds surrounding it to life, or when a local establishment encourages their patrons to take the floor, it's there in his footsteps. A childlike wonder. A wish to be with family, to see their faces once more.

A yearning to find his way back to the home he knew, even when he knows that it's out of his reach.

[machiot]

pas seul

“Child, why do you not frolic and dance with the other children?” 

A gaggle of children, making their own fun while their parents pray indoors, roughhouse with each other in the clearing in front of the church. Snow falls gently, creating clumps here and there, but it does little to distract the children from their games. If anything, it only excites them further. Childish voices squeal and giggle as snowflakes dissolve against their chilled skin. Holding hands, they spin in circles fast enough to make even onlookers dizzy. With their hands in one another's hands, they hardly seem to feel the cold at all even though they’ve been shut out from the warm church.

The question spoken by the priest is not directed toward them, though. It’s meant for the young girl sitting on the steps by herself. She is a pretty little thing, with big doll-like eyes and blonde hair that hangs over her shoulders as coiled ringlets. She sits alone at a distance from the other children, kicking her legs back and forth to keep herself warm on a frigid winter morning. Her frock, provided by the priests for the orphan under their charge, is speckled with blood; remnants of some sort of scuffle.

None of it is her own blood, of course. 

The girl jumps to her feet, tucking her freezing hands behind her back. Like a dog waiting for a treat, she looks up with sparkling eyes and barks out a line as if she’d been waiting to say it. 

“I’m not gonna waste my time with those pathetic weaklings, Father!” 

The priest smiles, eyes crinkling. He’d known the answer before he asked the question aloud, but to hear it is always satisfactory. He places his hand gently on the girl’s head and she giggles. Compared to how withdrawn she had been when she first arrived, it’s hard to tell this lively child had ever been anything but animated. Like a lone ballerina on an abandoned music box, she just needed to be taken in and have her crank wound up by someone who knew her value.

“Good girl,” the priest praises, patting the girl’s head. “Lord Sombron will surely reward your devotion once He is returned to us. You need not pay the other children any mind. They do not understand His intentions as well as you do.”

Rather than playing with the other children, the girl is much prettier when she dances alone. Putting her hand in another’s is a waste of her talents, a distraction from what could be. The twirl of an axe, the spray of crimson blood on snow, blonde ringlets bouncing with her steps; all of it is more beautiful when she’s dancing by herself. If someone else needs to be on stage with her, it should only be to wind her back up so that she may go longer. 

Faster. 

More brutal. 

Around and around, again and again until even onlookers are dizzy.

When the music finally stops, the only person whose approval she needs is the person who taught her the steps.

That is the whole reason she’d been asked to stand outside of mass today rather than join in like usual, after all. A reminder to an abandoned little girl that she’s different from all of those children that would return home with their parents after mass ends. When the crowds thin, all that will remain is the clergy and the girl under their care. It is pointless to desire more when everything she needs is right here. The other children will not welcome a rowdy and violent brat into their throngs, but the priests will welcome her with open arms. When her legs shake from the cold and the tips of her fingers begin to turn blue, they’ll open the doors wide and bring her back into the warmth.

“Marni,” the priest says. He puts his hand on her back, escorting her back through the grand doors of the chapel. “It is still early, but come, there is someone who wishes to be introduced to you. Be on your best behavior; she is favored by Lord Sombron. If all goes well, your position will rise significantly.”

The heavy door creaks shut behind the young girl and the priest walking hand in hand, drowning out the sound of children outside collapsing in a pile of giggles and claps.

Class Mastered: Dancer

[bxldrsdraumar]

Would not, could not, would not, could not

dancer mastery; word count - 637

There had always been the vaguest awareness that he was meant to be seen, from the announcement of his birth, the cannonade that had been reported to leave the air thick with magical smoke and the revelry, the tourneys and balls and the murmurs of an heir, did you hear? An heir for Baldr's blood. Just like his great father. 

His steps had been followed, stumbling across the lush carpeted salles, ambling through the gleaming tiled foyers, then sprinting through halls with Chalphy's stewards and retainers just half a step behind until he left them in the dust entirely, pushing through the great entryway and out into the world. 

One-two, one-two, pret-lunge-parry-ripsote, he learned the basic box of the Grannvallian waltz, could do it with his eyes on his partner - focus, boy! - could do it blindfolded, could do it on horseback as well as he could on his own two feet, eventually could move so fast and so precise that a candle held in one hand would not extinguish. 

His instructors at Belhalla could not have been more pleased. An heir for Baldr's blood, just like his great father. 

Even as he moved from slick tiled floors to slick mud sucking at his boots, his steps were perfect, one-two, one-two, rank and file with all of his fellows, his pace quickening by the day to place him at the head of the column, the spotlight of the sun warm on his shoulders and face as he led the lines of men into familiar patterns, familiar steps against familiar partners, familiar horns and drums and banners a call and response rhythm until the night was over and won. 

Eyes on him ever still, his glide across the stage, the predictable flow of his movements mirroring generations before, the common refrain that Baldr boy a man now, that son of Chalphy followed him wherever he may have gone. 

But what a shame, what a shame there's no pretty partner on his arm. 

He'd never had need of one, in truth, had never yearned in the same way that so many others had, in the way his great father had for as long as he could remember, the heart aching and calling for its missing piece, whose mirrored steps made for the complete picture the audience wanted to see. 

Deirdre did not complete him, but she filled him in a way that was almost the same, and he found his steps lighter as though the eyes on him had not suddenly turned quite heavier, as though the eyes had not suddenly turned to her and placed her in the spotlight beside this heir to Baldr's blood. 

He recalled, occasionally, a moment where he and his sister had peered around the corner, their mother's dressing room where under the hot lights the mother of Chalphy, the wife of Baldr's blood, had covered the weakness in her failing heart with layers of makeup, the strength of her smile carrying her soft steps as she put on show after show, of light, of strength, of courage. 

The virtues of Chalphy, just not her blood. 

Deirdre did not know the steps, did not know what was expected of her when he had whisked her into the spotlight, but it was fine – he was Baldr's heir and he knew these steps by heart, could do them on horseback as well as his own two feet, could do them blindfolded, could take her in his arms and lift her to floating above the stage until she moved in tandem with him in the bright of the sun for all to see. 

And when Seliph had been announced, it was with magical cannonade, the air think with smoke and revelry and expectation, whispers of did you hear? An heir for Baldr's blood. 

Just like his great father. 

[gentlenekomata]

As she listened to him, Sakura slowly began to feel more assured and confident about the next moves to do: she knew for sure that even if something might get wrong, the Heron Prince would be there for her to help and support the whole situation, not letting anything bad happen to her and nor to the majestic griffon. They were in exceptionally good hands, that was for sure.

Replying with a firm nod of her head, the petite priestess turned towards the saddle perfectly placed on the back of the griffon – which, to be honest, seemed just a little bit smaller than she thought, but that was just a mere impression: the creature itself was tall and very sturdy, surely a piece of cake for the griffon to lift the petite princess up in the sky and dragged her around for its own entertainment. As Sakura gently placed her hands on the saddle, the griffon emitted a low snort, tilting its head to observe the pink-haired girl’s actions; on the other hand, Sakura felt a little pressure from its gaze, but turning towards Reyson and seeing his reassuring expression, convinced the petite princess to go on and push herself up on the saddle. She made a little hop and she was on top of the creature. Everything went smoothly.

“I did…it?” she looked surprised and incredulous, then she turned to gaze Reyson once more, “The griffon seems at ease..” she turned again to observe the neck of the creature, a slight caress as to assure she meant no harm. “I’ll try the technique you suggested me a little while ago” and she proceeded in picking the reins and carefully tightening the grip of her feet, rhythmically moving the back of her feet: as result, the griffon began to slowly walk straight forward, while stretching its wings as to warm them up. Maybe it needed a more specific prompt?

Unsure of the consequences that might happen, she decided to try and lift the reins up, pointing at the sky and as soon as she did this simply action, the griffon bounce towards the sky, wings wide opening and giving Sakura almost an heart attack, since she wasn’t fully prepared for an outcome like this. “W-Wooow!!” that was all she could manage to blurt from her mouth as she felt the ground leaving far behind, tightening the grip on the saddle and grasping the reins with firmness and eagerness. She was flying!! But.. where was Reyson now?

       galdr for a mount.

[allegreta]

galdr of remembrance (dancer mastery drabble, 453 words)

Anniversaries, celebrated upon the year, are of less consequence to laguz than beorc. Years in and of themselves, while recognized, happen in far greater number to a laguz than a beorc, and thus are less significant.

When one follows the seasons as all living things do, though, times of year get associated with certain things. And the nightmares of fire and smoke and screams signify to Leanne that around now is the time of the Serenes Massacre, some twenty-six years ago. It is something she lives with, a scar that has closed and been soothed but aches from time to time, as is the nature of such a trauma.

She is no longer in Serenes to commemorate this as she has each year since she awoken from her slumber, but the woods by the monastery will do. The same moon shines upon them.

In the dead of night, she takes flight, quickly alighting as she reaches the forest grounds. The half moon flickers, nary a cloud in sight, and the chorus of crickets and owls welcomes her.

Slowly, quietly she joins them, her voice a low tone adjacent to sorrow. But not quite. It is melancholy, it carries sadness, but there is a life to it as well, a bittersweetness, as one might say.

The forest has gone silent, but slowly begins to raise its voice again--some in tune with Leanne. It is a mournful song, a remembering song, a song to honor the dead and grant strength to the living. Though the galdr is sung in ancient, its message is in a language universal.

It is about white wings raised in play and the crooning of loving parents. It spans arguments, festivals, and poetry in equal measure. Thousands of wings, thousands of beautiful minds and caring hearts are honored here, released into the wind with each breath. There is space for anger, space for the acrid smoke on the wind and the smell of charred feathers, blood in one's mouth and indignity at the senselessness of the world. But first and foremost, this is a galdr of remembrance.

Leanne carries this energy in her heart, releases it to the forest, to the spirits of those long passed. With the power of galdr, imparted upon her by the very people she honors in this night, she can bring joy and peace--and if it is necessary, utilize it in battle to protect those dear to her. This she promises to those who have gone before her, lost to time or tragedy. It will not end here. It will not end here. We will love and laugh and celebrate your lives, tell stories to our children and our children's children. It will not end here.

[freedomarrow]

The Way of You [Dancer drabble]

Do you remember the steps of this dance, Leonardo? Father’s calm voice asks. It has been so long since you last practiced, why don’t you show me what you can do?

I don’t like this dance, father, you say. It feels stifling, it feels crushing, it feels not like who I am.

But you must, my son, he says. This dance is a way of life, a way of fate, a way of you. We have another ball tomorrow, you must look the part, for the sake of the family, the line, the house. You will take the young lady’s hand, give a smile most charming, and remember:

Remember the correct steps: left, then turn, then bow, return.

Remember to join hands, gentle, warm, in gloves perfectly white.

Remember to turn right, then left, flow with the music, the noble lady in your arms.

So you do your best, but it feels wrong. You do it right, but it feels wrong. The steps are stiff, the hands are cold, the smile soon dies behind a frown. This is difficult, father, you say. Can we please take a break, at least for a little while? I will master it soon, I promise, I know this to be my role, my sworn mission to which I was born.

(Whether I want it or not, you think to yourself, for you shudder at the very thought of leading the house one day, but you are but a simple slave to your destiny, so privileged, and yet chained in this dance you did not desire to perform at all;)

But your father smiles and pats your back gently. Of course, my dearest son, you can take a break. This dance is a way of life, and there is time for a pause - but there is more to this role you have, and you must fill the momentary silence with another tune:

A tune of shouted orders, whistling of arrows, clanging of swords, hard boots marching against the concrete. A nobleman you are, and you have your duty, as a soldier, a warrior, a knight who will give his life for this land. Rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam, rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four! For Daein, for glory, for might, for your king; for a better world, a world without the inferior race!

Rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam, rhham-ta-ta-ta-tam-tam,

Father’s voice grows silent, why did he stop speaking. You don’t know the next steps, why is he not here to guide you anymore? Father, where are you, I’m lost, please help me. But he does not return; instead a new voice joins the song, a new pair of hands joins the dance, an unwelcome one, an unfriendly one, it hurts as they grab you, tug and pull, throw you to the ground amidst the crying, the shouting, the mocking, the laughing. Did you think that you did well, that it mattered?

It does not matter, nothing you do matters, what matters is that you remember -

Remember the correct steps (to the prison camp),

Remember to join hands (then break away and run),

Remember to turn right, then left (between those trees, they won’t find you there),

.

.

.

Father, I don’t know the rest of the steps, you never taught them to me.

That’s okay son, those are steps that I cannot possibly teach you. Those you must learn from the broken, the abandoned, the dispossessed.

They will take your hands and smile through tears, and you will do the same.

And you will dance through the streets, the fests, days and nights; across the plains and battlefields, you will dance through the way of your life,

and perhaps, one day, it will all be worth it in the end.

[goldoanheart]

Dance of the Evanescent

Dancer Mastery Drabble!

Kurthnaga was never much of a dancer, always lingering off to the side during galas and balls, never quite one to join in the action. Always content to watch from the sidelines, never to join in.

He knew his waltzes, of course, he was a member of Goldoa’s royal family. Those around him had made sure he knew the dances by heart, even if he were to never use them. His sister had danced with him, Almedha’s gentle hands, so much tinier then, reaching over his own that had yet been untouched by time. And when Rajaion had time, he had danced with his elder brother too. Though, his brother had always taken a bit more convincing than his dear older sister. But he had always crumbled eventually, not wanting to disappoint his little brother.

He had danced with Ena, as close in age as they were, learning the dances around the same time, just kids stumbling around and tripping over each other’s toes. And when they had become older, she was one of the few he would drift towards during a gala, always by her side to offer a dance if they both still lingered to the side. Most of the time, though, he had been more than content to just let her dance with Rajaion, watching from the side as they waltzed through each other’s hearts.

He had coaxed Gareth into dancing with him once, when he was still young enough to convince people without having to offer extensive reasoning. To this day, he still wasn’t sure if the older man had agreed to it out of the goodness of his heart, or simply out of a loyalty to his family. Either way, they had danced, messy and energetic, following no particular rhythm. And Kurthanaga, as young as he had been, had been content with that. Content to let loose from his royal constraints every once in a while, and dance as any other kid would have.

The one person he had always wanted to share a waltz with, just to feel closer to him for a moment, had been even more reserved at galas than Kurthnaga had been, even though he had been Goldoa’s king, the one hosting them to begin with. He had never gotten the chance to dance with his father, not formally. Though, there had been one instance, many, many years ago, one time that Kurthnaga barely remembered, hardly old enough to stand on his own, just barely beginning to learn his waltzes under the instruction of a much harsher tutor than the one who had properly taught him later. His father had taken Kurthnaga’s tiny hands into his own rough and aged ones, and they had danced, without another soul around. No one had known, other than the two of them, and they had never spoken of it again. Even if Kurthnaga had wished that they had, his father remained distant and shut off. Perhaps if he had lived after the tower, they could have had another chance, to speak, and to dance one more time.

And now, at the academy, it is harder to remain reserved. Surrounded by so many people he can now call friends, he cannot bear to watch from the side anymore, desperate to join in on the fun in a way that he never had wanted to before. It is a different feeling, than the uptight royal waltzes he had learned as a kid, much more freeing. He is freed from his duties of being a royal, much in the same way that Goldoa has begun to be freed from its walls.

And he dances. Until he is so tired he can’t anymore.

Freedom.

[mmoneystones]

Citrinne B.(rodia) Goode

A young blonde struggles for a moment to open the heavy, metal doors of her castle's ballroom. But her resolve wins over the struggle over weight in the end, and the doors yield. She is able to enter, where two figures meet her on the other side of the wide room.

One of them, her dance professor, that she grew very used to seeing. The other, however, is a sight that she likewise knows yet finds great joy in seeing here. It is her older brother, the eldest one in particular. He has taken time off his precious schedule of representing their family on the battlefield to bless his precious younger sibling!

"Today's lesson will be a review on group ballet. I presume you have no issue with the predetermined partner?"

"None at all, Instructor!" she practically gleams at the opportunity ahead of her. It is so rare for her to have a chance to dance with her close family, let alone her brothers.

The professor has fronted this as a simple lesson, but the noble knows better. She will present her dance with no less effort than as if this was a test. She will ensure her knowledge is on full display for the entire showing. Starting with...

Rule One of a good dance: Introduce yourself.

The partner has decided to dance with you, you and no one else. 

The dance has not even begun, yet Citrinne is well aware that proper ball etiquette begins now.

"How do you do? I'm Citrinne...but you already knew that, didn't you brother?" Citrinne lets out a soft, practiced laugh as she holds out a hand. "Shall we dance?"

He opens his mouth to say some words and connects himself to her with one hand. She is pulled in as his other arm wraps around her shoulders. Good, that settles the formalities. Now for the real part.

Rule Two: Follow their lead.

The dance is yours to give as much as they give it to you. 

It is expected of the man to control their movements, but that does not mean Citrinne walks along idly.

When her brother steps, she steps alongside him. When he stops, she stops right next to him. When he intends to dip, she lowers her body as well.

All of these movements are too simple, Citrinne pouts to herself. He isn't going easy on her because of her age, is she? She has been practicing these moves for many months now, and she will do the same for many years afterwards.

It was time for her to be their guide. The child uses her free arm to lightly tap her brother's side. He only nods, the siblings not needing words to know what she wants next.

Rule Three: Share the dance.

The galas are for more than you and them. 

A teenage blonde is released by one brother, twirling down a straight line. She is then caught by another brother, this one being the younger of the two.

His dance maneuvers are not as polished as her previous partner, his footsteps being the slightest bit slower. But this is acceptable, great even. It is expected for Citrinne to adapt to any type of dancer on the ballroom floor.

And of course, there is no better excuse than now for her to take the lead.

Citrinne's grip tightens to her brother, demanding him to follow wherever she desires. Experience shines through as an awkward strut becomes a prideful march. Proper space is ensured before making proud leaps. Her free hand extends outward to put emphasis on their twirls.

She looks into her brother's eyes. They share a similar shade of red to her own. Even with a deeper hue, the shine within them proves that he is enjoying himself.

Everything is going so well...are there any steps that she is forgetting?

Rule Four: Express your enjoyment.

Enjoyment? I'm...I'm happy, am I not?

Citrinne recalls the lesson perfectly in her mind, but directs it at herself this time. While she has laughed, cooperated, and moved for the duration of this dance, she can feel her expression remain the same. That same, neutral stare.

She has never forced her lips to curl upwards. It feels unnatural, even if she feels content on the inside. Her brothers tell her that look suits her, but they are always smiling during their dances.

Citrinne looks down at her middle brother's happy expression. She wants so hard to mirror that look, to hold the same grin that her other dance partners have shown her in the past. But no matter the amount of balls she attends, the lessons she takes, Citrinne's face remains the same.

Her brothers said that she is fine the way she is. But...is that true? Are they happy to dance with a bored sister? An emotionless mannequin?

...Citrinne taps his side twice more. She wants to spin again.

Rule Five: Take the dance with you.

The dance floor is your battlefield. Only you can choose to initiate the fight.

An adult blonde lets go of an invisible brother's grip, twirling off by herself within an empty knight's longue. She is alone, yet satisfied enough to go through the routine by her lonesome.

Citrinne's spins shine with the grace of diamonds. Her eyes hold the fiery determination of rubies. She jumps to the rhythm of glistening emeralds.

No one is around to admire her waltzes, but that is okay. She is only practicing the same moves she has pulled off years prior, so that she is ready for the chance to show them off at parties once more.

To be honest, Citrinne holds little specific memory from most of her ballroom dancing lessons. The instructor always pushed her hard, but she held excellent rankings so often that every test is now a blur. That does not mean that she holds no nostalgia from those times, far from it.

She still struggles to smile even while dancing, her greatest place of comfort. Citrinne does not mind anymore, as seeing the smiles of her own partner is enough for her. Dance is her field of expertise, and she will always be happy to share it. That is all she needs to express her enjoyment.

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Chapter 1

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.9k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

fic summary: When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too.

a/n: here we go! Chapter 1 starts sometime in late fall, November-ish. See my notes on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions), a bit of angst

Chapter 1

“‘In a surprise move that shook the dance world, the Concordia Ballet Company announced yesterday that they have parted ways with principal dancer Din Djarin.’”

You could hear the sudden gasps through the open door of the large studio as you walked towards it. You recognized Clara’s voice as she read the news aloud, you assumed from her phone. 

“‘Djarin, 27, who trained at the rigorous Concordia Ballet School from a young age, has been with CBC for 10 years and is in the prime of his career. He was promoted from soloist to principal two years ago, as is the norm at CBC, where they do not promote dancers younger than 25 to principal. His performances have been highlights on the CBC schedule over the last two seasons, earning many rave reviews.’” 

You turned the corner to enter the studio and found most of the company class crowded around Clara as she looked down at her phone.

“‘The CBC press release did not indicate the reason for the split, which only makes this mid-season decision more disconcerting for fans and donors alike.’”

The group around Clara murmured and shifted their weight. You had just read the article on the bus and knew what was coming next. You slid down to sit against the wall by the door, watching.

“‘This decision comes amidst the company’s preparation for spring and for the last show on their fall schedule, Don Quixote, with no explanation as to how their roster of principals and other dancers may be adjusted to compensate for this enormous loss. Djarin is well known for his powerful physique, technical mastery, and classically perfect performances.’” Clara paused, and then continued, “then it talks about some of his work, we know all of that already, blah blah blah, ok whoa!” She gasped. “Ok. Listen to this – ‘Djarin has not been available for comment, but was seen boarding a flight to Nevarro two days ago before the announcement was made public!'”

You started to put on your shoes for barre and watched as everyone else in the room started to completely freak out.

“Here?!” Owen exclaimed, hand thrown over his mouth. “Is he coming here here?” He gestured around the studio as he asked.

Clara shrugged. “It doesn’t say, look, that’s the end of the article.”

Sophie had started rising up and down on the balls of her feet by one of the barres and you weren’t sure if she was aware she was doing it. Her tone was excited as she asked, “would he come here? Why? We’re, like, not his style.”

The room broke down into several noisy conversations at that point, and you felt your friend Adrian slip down the wall to sit next to you. “So, what do you think?” he asked, nudging your shoulder. 

You shrugged. “No idea. I can’t see any reason he’d even want to come here. CBC is so…” You trailed off, but he knew what you meant.

“Yeah. Traditional. Rigid. Not like us at all.” Adrian waved his hand towards the mismatched group of dancers in front of you and you both smiled. The Nevarro Ballet Theater was different from the Concordia Ballet Company in many ways, and the diversity of dancers in the company was one of the things that set NBT apart the most.

You nodded. “Right. If his flight destination even means anything.”

“If it does, what would that mean for us?” Adrian looked around the room. “We already have a full roster of soloists and principals.” He bit his lip. He looked nervous, and he wasn’t the only one — you noticed Sasha, Lu, Carlos, and Isaac were huddled around the bar, clearly worried. All principals, you assumed they were nervous about losing out on parts. For Adrian, you knew it was because he had just made soloist at the start of the season. A new superstar coming in might shake things up too much.

You nudged his shoulder with your own. “I was thinking about that when I read it on the bus. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I heard what Karga said, about how good you are.”

He nodded, but didn’t look reassured. “At least you don’t have anything to worry about, Ms. Soon-To-Be-Principal.” 

You rolled your eyes and shoved down the anxiety lurking in your stomach. You’d made soloist a couple of years ago, and then first soloist this season. There were some people (including Adrian) who seemed to think you’d be promoted soon, as early as the end of the current season. But there were at least a few critics who disagreed, and for months you’d been having trouble putting the words of one in particular out of your mind. You could quote it from memory:

“While her lyricism and skill are undeniable, one wonders if she has the artistry or stage presence to carry a narrative. She more than deserves the promotion to first soloist, but is this her ceiling?” 

You wished you’d never read the article, but it had seemed to be the usual season preview and you hadn’t been expecting the targeted commentary. You’d spent the last few months trying not to think about it too much, or you knew you would get all in your head about it.

“Shut up.” You nudged him again and he laughed.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the door opening next to you. It wasn’t your teacher who walked in, though, and once you saw who it was you both leapt to your feet.

Greef Karga, director of the Nevarro Ballet Theater, looked happy, but then he usually did. 

“Good morning, dancers!’ His voice was deep and loud and you all scrambled into a semi-circle facing him at the door, where your ballet instructor, Alexa, followed him in. You chorused a “good morning” in response.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen the news,” Karga continued, with a knowing smile on his face. “And you must be wondering why I’m here!” You glanced in the mirror and noted that everyone did indeed look both curious and a little wary. “Well, I am very pleased to confirm that Din Djarin will be joining us for the rest of the season here at NBT.”

There was some general murmuring and shock in response, but he was not deterred.

“I know we’re in the middle of the season, with many roles already planned. Din and I have agreed to try not to disrupt that too much this year. We’ll be adding some things to the anniversary gala and the mixed programs.” That made sense — the latter were showcases of the work of different composers and choreographers and could be more easily rearranged to include a new dancer. “We won’t be making any changes to Midsummer, Swan Lake, or Cinderella, which I know we’re already planning for and rehearsing.” You felt Adrian take a deep, relieved breath beside you. He was supposed to be Puck this year for the first time and it sounded like that wasn’t going to change. 

“Din will start joining your classes and the rehearsals for the gala and other programs over the course of the next two weeks. Please introduce yourself and welcome him — we are very excited to have him join us.”

You all nodded, of course, even though you knew a lot of your fellow dancers would be wary of the newcomer. 

“Well!” Karga clapped his hands together and smiled. “I’ll let you get started. Continue with your rehearsals as normal unless you hear otherwise. Have a wonderful day, everyone!”

Alexa moved towards the stereo system in the corner as Karga swept out of the room, and you turned to look at Adrian. 

“Well,” he said, turning towards his usual place at the barre. “This should be interesting.”

You nodded as Alexa turned on the music and you took your usual spot next to him at the barre. It definitely would be.

…

After all that excitement, you didn’t even see Djarin for a few days. He didn’t join the morning company classes right away, but you couldn’t really blame him — moving suddenly across the country wasn’t easy. It didn’t stop you from glancing around every room as you entered, trying to catch sight of your elusive new company member. 

You heard from the others that he’d dropped by a couple of rehearsals, and they’d overheard him talking about plans for the mixed programs with some of the choreographers and other staff, including Talia and Jee. You wondered if he’d ever met Kuiil, the current guest choreographer in residence, who traveled and usually worked with different companies every few years. You somehow doubted it — Kuiil’s style was much too contemporary for CBC.

You’d been in rehearsals for Nutcracker and Midsummer all week, though, so you weren’t really surprised that you hadn’t run into him yet. 

Finally, on Friday morning, you arrived early for class to find a group of your fellow company members huddled by the mirror and staring awkwardly across the room. You followed their gaze and found Din Djarin, in the flesh, warming up at the barre. For a moment you couldn’t reconcile the sight of him in your familiar space. He was tall and imposing, and dressed all in black — black ballet shoes, black tights, black sweats that cut off below his knees, and a tight black long sleeve shirt that showcased the breadth of his shoulders and just how strong he was. His curly brown hair was tousled. His signature mustache, somewhat uncommon in ballet, was in place, though you knew he often shaved for performances — there had been articles about his daring breach of the Concordia status quo when he didn’t. At least at NBT he’d be allowed to keep it, you thought. His face was blank, completely expressionless as he stretched. 

You knew he had to know the rest of the group was watching him, and when you glanced back and found them still huddled you sighed. You felt someone step into the room behind you and turned to find Adrian taking in the standoff. 

He shook his head. “Great start.” His tone was dry, and you laughed under your breath. 

“Should we say hello?” You sat to put on your ballet shoes and Adrian sank down beside you.

“Who, us?” Adrian raised an eyebrow at you. “Do I look brave to you?” 

You laughed again, and were about to suggest going together for moral support when Alexa walked in. She took in the situation and sighed, shaking her head as she crossed the room to where Djarin was still warming up alone.

“Look! Alexa took care of it.” Adrian nudged you and smiled. “No need for us to take one for the team after all.”

The two of you watched as she spoke with him, though you couldn’t hear what they were saying. He nodded at her, and she smiled before walking towards the stereo.

“Alright, let’s get started!” She called out without looking to see if anyone listened, but you all did. You realized as you took your normal spot that you were diagonal from Djarin across the space between two of the barres in the middle of the floor. You’d be able to see him whenever you were working your left side, and somewhat in the mirror on your right. You resolved not to stare.

You only sort of succeeded.

The problem, you quickly realized, was that his movements were beautiful. Even while doing simple pliés or tendus you could see the power in his body, the strength in his muscles, the rigor of his training. Every movement was precise, clean, and perfectly placed. The elegant line of his arm and the curve of his hip drew your gaze like a magnet, over and over again. His effortless coordination and control were mesmerizing. You watched the slow extension of his leg into grand battement until you had to force yourself to tear your eyes away.

Well, you thought, he certainly lives up to all of the hype about technique. CBC had a reputation and he more than exceeded it.

It made you painfully aware of the limits of your own abilities. You knew you were good – you’d made it this far, of course, and now you were first soloist, despite having what was seen as a late start in ballet (at age 7). And despite what the critics said, you were considered to be one of the better technicians at NBT. But you were no match for his level of skill, for the rigorous training you’d heard about at CBC. That much was obvious just from looking at him. 

You tried to clear your mind as the class continued, knowing your worries would start to show in your movements if you let them. It was hard to do that when so much strength and technical perfection stood only five feet away from you, demonstrating the ideal version of every move and transition that you attempted.

As you finished at the barre and quickly put on your pointe shoes to work in the center of the room, you finally put it out of your mind. There was no use in comparison, you’d learned that a long time ago. In the end, the only dancer you could compete with was yourself. And NBT was not a company that encouraged that kind of competition among dancers anyway.

You found your feet going across the floor, letting yourself sink into it as you moved through some jumps and short combinations. You tried to feel nothing but the pull in your muscles and pattern of your breath. By the end of the class you felt a little steadier, a little more centered.

Alexa dismissed the class, and you started to gather your things. As you slipped off your pointe shoes, you felt someone brush past you, heading for the door — Djarin didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold into the hall. You realized as he did that he hadn’t spoken a single word for the entire class. You wondered if he was unhappy to be here, after all. 

By the time you stepped into the hallway, he was nowhere to be seen.

Adrian fell into step next to you as you walked towards the larger rehearsal studios at the other end of the building. He hooked your arms together and looked around quickly to see if anyone was nearby. He leaned in to whisper, “did you see that? He was amazing!”

You nodded. “I know. I didn’t think anyone could live up to all that hype, but he does.”

Adrian shook his head, looking dismayed. “I know they said some roles wouldn’t change but, ugh. I wouldn’t blame them.”

“Hey,” you elbowed him lightly. “Don’t. You’re going to be amazing as Puck. And you know that role plays to your strengths. I don’t see him taking that one from you. It’s not really his style.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Ok, let’s hurry, I need to tape my knee before Nutcracker.” You winced in sympathy, knowing how much he’d be jumping in practice for both the Russian dance and the jack-in-the-box roles. But his words jogged your memory.

“Shit.” You froze in the hallway. “I left my tape in the studio. Go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded, but you were already turning as you said it, waving him on.

You heard him jog off towards the rehearsal rooms behind you as you walked quickly back the way you’d come, turning past the bathrooms and the administrative offices. It didn’t take long and your tape was right where you’d left it. 

Tape in hand, you turned around again and started walking back down the long hall. 

As you approached the offices, though, the sound of Karga’s raised voice stopped you in your tracks, just around the corner from his office door.

“We talked about this, Din. It's part of this company’s identity. You want to break away from them? You need to make a statement.” You heard the slapping sound of one hand against another and imagined Karga hitting his hand with his fist for emphasis. 

“No, Greef, listen. I don’t—“ You startled. It was the first time you’d heard Djarin’s voice and it was much deeper and more pleasant than you would have imagined. 

Karga interrupted him. “No, you listen. Din, you can do this. I know you can. And it will show them everything they’re missing, everything they let slip through their fingers. They are so stuck in their ways, they have no idea what you can really do. What you’re capable of. Let me help you get there.”

You heard Djarin sigh. “This will go badly and I’m going to blame you.”

Karga chuckled. You tried to picture Djarin looking amused, too, and failed. All you could conjure was the expressionless mask he’d kept in place for all of class that morning. Karga continued, “I’ll take it happily. This is going to be great, don’t you worry! We’ll ease you into it. Now, let’s go share the news.”

You heard them start to move around in the office and startled into motion. As you turned the corner, the door to Karga’s office swung open in front of you and Din Djarin stepped out of it. He was moving quickly, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed. He barely glanced in your direction, but when he did, you took a surprised step back at the fierceness of his glare. It was the most emotion you’d seen from him so far, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant. He didn’t stop, though, and quickly turned away from you to move down the hall towards rehearsal. You blinked, frozen mid-step, unable to shake the look he’d just given you. What was that about?

...

| next

a/n: sooo what do you think? ballet terms in this chapter:

see the masterlist for principal, soloist, class vs. rehearsal, season

plié - a bending of the needs (you've probably seen dancers standing at the barre and bending their knees -- that's a plié)

tendu - tight or stretched out - stretching one leg out long, often in brushes along the floor

grand battement - the leg is raised from the hip into the air and brought down again, both knees straight (with apparent ease)

barre - the rail that ballet dancers use in class (don't lean on it!). usually you'd wear normal ballet shoes at the barre and switch into pointe shoes (toe shoes) to do exercises in the center or go across the floor

and if you'd like a visual aid, one of the dancers I'm mentally modeling Din after is Carlos Acosta, who you can see in this compilation (~6:49) doing a variation from Don Quixote.

tag list coming in a reblog!

[gentlenekomata]

Horses, pegasi, wyverns, kinshi, and now riding wolves and griffons - the monastery’s menagerie keeps on growing, and the stables can barely contain all of them anymore! The Church calls students, Professors and Knights alike to help ensure that all of these animals have proper care. It’s also important to them that everyone knows how to take care of and handle all of these different species, in the name of versatility, broader horizons, and preserving harmony. Perhaps you will take this chance to bond with a new mount you’d never even considered before? [Grants Riding +1]

starter for @firelles

Sakura was a frequent visitor of the stables, a place where she usually spent lots of her free time, because she was deeply in love with nature and creatures belonging with nature, that was any kind of creature the monastery could welcome – horses, pegasi, wyverns, kinshi, and now riding wolves and griffons. There was a wide choice and the petite priestess couldn’t more happier than this; two or three afternoon per week, she lingered at the stables for cleaning the animal rest areas, their bowls and then she replenished every single one with foodies and nutritious supplies. Plus, she always got the chance to groom each creature, even though not really everyone was friendly enough to be touched –but she did manage to reach most hearts!

That afternoon was like many others: the petite priestess was heading towards the new area of the stables – the one keeping griffons –, ready to clean some open spaces with the mop, but as she entered the area, her goldenish eyes immediately were caught by the presence of a familiar figure, but still not properly introduced: she was a petite girl like her, a student probably and she was gently caressing the snout of a horse, in a nearby area of the stables. The gentleness of her attentions deeply affected Sakura’s heart and without thinking twice, she changed direction and went towards her, still keeping the mop for later cleanings.

“You really do love animals, don’t you?” she chirped as she addressed to her, hoping to not have scared her with her sudden presence – the horse did notice her arrival, though –, “They have something unique –just can’t tell why, but I feel it, like they can touch my soul with just a glance” she softened the tone, though suddenly realizing she still had not introduce herself to her.

“I’m Sakura, by the way” she stretched her free hand, sharing a genuine smile with her, “Very pleasure to meet you!” and she gave a quick look around, staring at the new area of the stables. “Have you already been in the griffons’ area?”

animals lovers ❀ | Sakura & Céline

[heartlilith]

Astrology Observations

Here are some of my observations and opinions on various placements - Part 5

🖤Pay attention to the degrees in your natal chart, as they influence the energy projected by a specific planet/placement. Here are some quick notes:

0° - Marks a fresh energy, beginnings, a lot of things to learn, growing into this placement, can make this placement more naive/immature.

1°/ 13° / 25°- Aries/Mars energy - Makes a placement more aggressive/brave, extroverted, and quick. Brings more of a leadership energy to the placement.

2° / 14° / 26° - Taurus/Venus energy - Can make a placement more polite, grounded, sensual, and down to Earth. This degree can also signify wealth. Makes a placement more appealing and agreeable.

3° / 15° / 27°- Gemini/Mercury energy - Placements with these degrees can be more curious, detached, less grounded, more talkative. These degrees can also signify high intellect or a duality.

4° / 16° / 28° - Cancer/Moon energy - Can make a placement more soft, adds feminine energy or placement could be highly influenced by feminine energy (MC in 4° can signify working with women or women having a big impact on your career for example), can make a placement more emotional.

5° / 17° - Leo/Sun energy - The fame degree! Makes a placement more recognizable, popular, self-centered. These degrees also add creativity, boldness, and confidence to a placement.

6° / 18° - Virgo/Mercury energy - Adds more logic/analytical energy to a placement, adds wisdom and nervous energy, makes a placement more "neat" and confined.

7° / 19° - Libra/Venus energy - Emphasizes the beauty of a placement, politeness, creativity. Can make a placement more apt to romanticize (ASC - how you see the world, Venus - how you see love, Mars - liking romantic sex more than casual sex)

8° / 20° - Scorpio/Pluto energy - Signifies a lot of transformations for a specific placement, a lot of breaking and healing in the area of this degree. Can add obsessiveness/powerfulness/mystery/depth to a placement.

9° / 21° - Sagittarius/Jupiter energy - Adds a more "happy go lucky" vibe, more free flowing, popularity, brings luck and wisdom. Jupiter is expansions it could also expand whatever placement you have this degree in (Mars - more physical energy, Sun - more egotistical, 5th house - more children, creativity).

10° / 22° - Capricorn/Saturn energy - Can slow down a placement (Venus - won't be in a relationship until later in life, Mercury - might talk in a slower pace). Brings lessons and trials to the area of this degree, maturity, ambition, seriousness.

11° / 23° - Aquarius/Uranus energy - Brings something unique to a placement, gives a placement some shock factor and flare. Can make a placement more easy going and inclusive.

12° / 24° - Pisces/Neptune energy - Makes a placement more delulu (lol). Higher octave of Venus so it adds to the beauty of a placement (Sun - adds beauty to your energy, Mercury - adds beauty to your writing/speaking abilities, Mars - adds beauty to the way you physically move (like a dancer)).

29° - Can add mastery, maturity, karmic lessons to a placement. Can signify something that is ending, lessons learned, an almost finished book.

🖤There's so much more I could say about degrees and degree theory but that would take me all day. Here is a link that goes more in depth: 360 Symbolic Degrees

🖤Jupiter is the planet of luck and expansion, therefore looking at the sign and house that Jupiter is in can signify how to lean into that luck. Sign = how, house = where. For example, I have Jupiter in Gemini in the 5th house: using my writing/speaking/communication abilities (Gemini) can help me earn luck especially if it has to do with creativity, children, and romance (5th house).

🖤The sign Mercury is in can have an impact on your learning style. Water: Reading/Writing, Fire: Auditory, Air: Kinesthetic, Earth: Visual... (this is strictly opinion based)

🖤When I look at someone's chart that I'm interested in romantically, I like to make a Venn-Diagram in my head with their Venus and Mars signs (this is the most Virgo Moon shit I've ever written). For example, Sagittarius Venus + Capricorn Mars = Detached, money-minded/materalistic, likes to take things slow, hates possessiveness and feeling "anchored".

🖤THANK YOU FOR 1,000 FOLLOWERS🖤

Masterlist

[mya-valentine]

Headcanon: Alhaitham x Dancer S/O

Alhaitham is deeply drawn to the grace and precision of his S/O's dancing, even if he doesn't express it verbally. As someone who values intellect and logic, he initially sees dance as an art form that lacks the depth of knowledge he enjoys. However, over time, he begins to see the mastery in their movements, appreciating how every step, turn, and gesture is a calculated expression of emotion and skill.

His S/O's performances bring a sense of tranquility and fascination to his usually book-filled world. Though Alhaitham isn't one for public displays of affection, he often watches their rehearsals from a distance, using the excuse of “just passing by” or “needing some fresh air.” In reality, he finds their presence and movements captivating, almost like a beautiful puzzle that he can’t stop analyzing.

In private, Alhaitham would share his thoughts on the technical aspects of their performances, pointing out details that others might not notice, like how their movements could mirror the flow of ancient texts or how certain dances resemble patterns in nature. He enjoys having philosophical conversations with his S/O about the intersection of art and intellect, making their relationship one of mutual admiration and respect.

Alhaitham may not be a dancer himself, but he quietly supports his S/O in practical ways—whether it’s helping them research traditional dance forms from ancient Sumeru texts or providing them with custom-designed footwear suited to their needs. His gestures are thoughtful and subtle, showing his care in ways that matter most to them.

When his S/O is performing, Alhaitham stands at the edge of the crowd, watching with a calm and composed expression. But anyone who knows him well can see the slight softening of his gaze—a rare sign of how much he cherishes their talent and the beauty they bring into his world.

After particularly intense performances, Alhaitham might offer quiet praise, simply saying, “That was well-executed,” but the understated warmth in his voice speaks volumes. His S/O knows that beneath his reserved demeanor, he deeply admires their artistry, making their bond all the more special.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[makingspiritualityreal]

Saturn’s power is achieving freedom through precision.

You might think that freedom of expression is the same as free will, but in reality things that look smooth and effortless require a lot of minute training. Think of a ballet dancer, who looks so light and airy, who moves so smoothly. She endures a lifetime of dieting and painful, rigorous exercise. She doesn’t just walk on stage and move perfectly by herself, it is a result of years of precise labor.

For the final result to be smooth and look refreshing, dirty work must be put in behind the scenes. That’s why the exaltation point of Saturn is Swati, Nakshatra associated with the God Vayu, who rules twists and turns and currents of fate, because it takes duress, patience, maturity and life mastery to navigate life in such a way that it looks easy externally. That’s why Saturn is an ironic planet.

The planet that is the most straightforward and is supposed to be actually effortless is the Sun. The Sun is our inborn, unrefined, natural regal glow, our birthright, that we shouldn’t need to work for. However, the Sun is also a malefic, and thus it is often less appealing to the external eye than Saturn’s results, because the Sun is literally blinding and tolerates no competition. As a result, the Sun’s light provokes resentment and jealousy and creates a necessity to keep people “in check” and can make a person lonely in their private life. As opposed to this, a Saturnian person is going to ultimately enjoy many fruits of their labor through careful cultivation.

[beansidhebumbling]

The Art of War

The study was empty when Eris entered it.

He was quite sure of it.

Or had been until he heard a startled gasp when he slammed his hand against his desk.

He turned suddenly, catching his emerald brocade waistcoat on the corner of the bureau. Yet another casualty of this disastrous ball if the ripping he heard was anything to go by. There the intruder sat, across the firelit room in his favourite armchair, a vision of stunned elegance in white muslin.

Under his burning gaze, emotions burst like fireworks across her sharp little face- nervousness, irritation, anger, hope -before disappearing beneath a veil of polite, practiced concern.

'My Lord, I apologise for the intrusion.'

She murmured, head tilted down, voice trembling just so. She was a poised model of simpering female softness, slippered feet peeping out beneath the hem of her ivory dress, gloved hands clinging to a book, probably poetry.

And yet.. she made no move to stand, no rush to leave what was no doubt a compromising situation for any young debutante. Indeed Eris had a suspicion that the violent bang of his arrival was of little surprise at all. Only fools believed women incapable of deception, when indeed in polite society their very existence depended on their mastery of it.

Unfortunately for this actress he had no intention of being trapped by yet another conniving mama and his extinguished patience was not present to temper his tongue.

'What a skilled artist you are, Miss. Your concern for me is as artificial as the rouge on your pretty lips, yet most convincing. A lesser man may have been fooled. May I suggest you leave here and find such a man before I lose what is left of my good will.'

He snarled, feeling his face redden with frustration as he spoke until his complexion surely matched his hair.

He expected a few tears or a dramatic exit once he spoke.

He'd inspired both before.

Instead the creature had leaned back in the chair and raised her face towards him, so he got to observe her thin eyebrows climb higher and higher in disbelief and her plump bottom lip thin in fury as he raved.

There followed a few moments of painful silence where the only sounds that could be heard were the distant ballroom music and his own heavy breathing.

Then she rose from her seat, her movements liquid and graceful, a dancer he guessed, the book still in hand. Advancing on him she began to speak, voice low and steady, her grey eyes like knives pointed at him,

'I am skilled artist, my Lord, though not as you insinuate. And it is a damning indictment on men that I believe I could find lesser than what exists before me.'

He winced at her condemnation, an expert with blades of all kinds clearly. His chest tightened strangely and his hand clutched at it but he received no mercy from the descending angel.

'I have heard many tales of you, Lord Vanserra, but none had quite readied me for that introduction.'

His heart was ready to burst from his chest. Maybe because it was wrapped, from her first word, in a bow of barbed wire, that glistened gold and extended across the rapidly disappearing space between himself and the vengeful beauty. The clarity of this realization was as striking as his regret at his own insult towards her.

She continued, blessed as he was with the sweet timbre of her voice, damned as he was with its contents,

'I entered your study for a chance to meet you, my charming soulmate. So as to allow the bond to click for you in private, so you would not have to suffer publicly, as I did.'

Gods damn him.

She was breathtaking clothed in rage. It may be the only solace he could take from her anger, as based on his actions she would feel little else for him henceforth.

She reached him, those dainty feet now so close to his fine leather boots, her perfume of orange and vanilla filling his nose. He was sure he appeared to be a madman, clenched over his desk in pain as his heart was reforged as hers. His pale hand reached for her but she artfully dodged him, skirts whirling as she dropped the book on his desk and leaned down so her lips were by his ear.

'My name is Nesta Archeron, my Lord. And I will go now and seek one of those lesser men that you speak of. Do come join me when you are less indisposed.'

Nesta, he tried the name out, finding it to be most delightful even as a searing jealousy at the thought of her with another man threatened to turn his stomach.

By the time he could choke out her name, she was by the door.

'Nesta. Please.'

Funny how words that came so easy to him mere minutes ago had vanished somewhere between his head and his heart.

'Nesta.'

She did not turn but he saw her posture tense slightly as she pulled open the door and disappeared back to the dance.

-

He was not sure how long it took him to recover. Only that when his vision finally cleared the moon was high in the sky and the crunching of carriages and laughter could be heard through the bay window.

Nesta.

She was his first thought, as she would be for the rest of his life.

How Lucien would laugh at him. Only Eris Vanserra could offend his mate so thoroughly before an introduction. When he tentatively probed at the bond, that gold ribbon he felt bound to his heart, it echoed into the darkness with no response.

She had shut him off.

No great surprise but disappointment bit at his gut like a viper.

Pressing his forehead against the cool mahogany he sighed in despair. He allowed himself a moment more to wallow in his own stupidity before standing and fixing his jacket, buttoning it so as to hide his torn waistcoat.

It would do no good to admit defeat at this early stage. Eris had been fighting for his place since the day he was born. If it were to be no different with his mate, he could rest assured that none were more practiced than he.

His eyes turned to the thin book she had left on the desk, the smell of oranges still clinging to it. He turned his first gift from her, for it was one in his mind at least, over to read the title.

The Art of War.

For the first time that night, a smile tugged at his mouth.

How apt.

And though sleep beckoned Eris relit the candles in the study for it was time to prepare for the fight of his life.