#fur-trimmed mantle

[gogmstuff]

1908 (December) Les Modes - Manteau du soir par Doeuillet - Photo by Félix. From gallica.bnf.fr; fixed spots & flaws w Pshop 1512X2070.

[themxtleycrew]

The King of Knights heard something about capes?

[oogaboogasphincter]

a bowlful of joel-y

summary: he was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot / and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; / a bundle of toys he had flung on his back, / and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack / his eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! / his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! / he had a broad face and a little round belly / that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly || you never would have guessed who you find stumbling around jackson dressed up as santa claus on christmas eve night, leaving presents for all the kids in town. you take on the role of santa's elf and help him deliver his toys - and land yourself on his nice list just in time for christmas morning.

word count/warnings: 4.8k+ words EXPLICIT (18+ ONLY) MDNI! // reader has insomnia, a pinch of grumpy joel but he’s mostly jolly (at least by his standards), one mention of alcohol/drunkenness, christmas/holiday fluff, a conversation about loss and grief around the holidays (joel talks about sarah), description of panic attacks + healing❤️‍🩹, food and eating (milk+cookies ofc), unprotected piv sex (do as i say not as i write), jackson era!joel, friends to lovers teehee

a/n: merry christmas @lisadean! i'm so so sorry this is three days late, i got a head cold just as i was putting my finishing touches on this and i didn't want to post it without a final read-through :( i hope you enjoy your secret santa gift as much as i did writing it! 🤭🎁 i want to thank all my besties at @pedrostories for organizing this event, it's what introduced me to the blog and i'm so excited and honored to be participating in it both as a writer and moderator this year 💗 i wish all my readers a very happy holidays!! (pls let me know who made the beautiful gif above, i found it on pinterest w no credit ☹️)

It’s Christmas Eve and you can’t sleep.

No matter how hard you try, your shuttered eyes can’t keep.

You toss and turn with increasing agitation,

Thoughts of going downstairs gnawing with temptation.

It’d just be a little peek, you reason,

Of the freshly fallen snow of the season. 

With a huff of exertion and a swaddle of flannel,

You get up and trot down the stairs, passing the candles burning on the mantle.

The decorated tree twinkles with light to emit holiday cheer all through the night.

You push aside the heavy drapes of your window and you see red;

Specifically, a fur-trimmed three piece set.

Astonished by what to your wandering eyes did appear, you lean in and begin to peer. 

You must be being deceived by your eyes, you think to yourself. The apocalypse has brought to life many horrific figments that you wished were bound by imagination, but the magic of Christmas is something that seems too good to be true after such atrocity has ravaged the Earth. Maybe your vision is bleary from your biting insomnia caused by the latter, or you’ve endured enough that your mind is gifting you a glimpse back into some innocent happiness that you feared you lost long ago. To your surprise, the broad man outside doesn’t vanish with the blink of your eye; instead he trudges along in the snow with a harsh sense of reality, his back bent at a painful angle and his feet falling heavily with every step, bearing the brunt of his costumed weight plus the filled sack that is slung over his shoulder. 

Whoever this is - whether it’s a do-gooder or some bloke that had a few too many spiked eggnogs at the Tipsy Bison - it looks like they would appreciate some help. You slip your boots on and head out, wrapping your arms around yourself to cinch your flannel pajamas closer to your frame to shield yourself from the icy midnight flurries. Santa’s back is to you and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge your approaching footsteps. His grunts of exertion are carried on the wind that swirls around you in ribbons: his pack looks even heavier up close than it did from your living room window. You make an effort to announce yourself by grinding your heels into the snow, making each step crunchier than the last. 

For a fleeting moment, you relish the childlike wonder that overtakes you, that this could be the real Santa. His heart must be pounding in his ears because when you tap his velveteen shoulder softly, he jumps in shock. It’s immediately apparent that the erratic movement hurt his back further, as a large hand comes to support the small of his spine and he groans when he straightens his neck. The sack drops from his grasp into the snow below. You’re already apologizing as he turns haggardly on his heel, towards you, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you-”

Santa finally rounds on you and your breath catches in your throat. Framed by a faux white beard and the furry trim of his hat are big, gorgeous brown eyes that throw icicles at you with an annoyed stare. His thorough costume fails to work on you - you could recognize those beautiful, baby cow-esque eyes in an instant. A joyous cloud of condensation wafts into Santa’s face as you burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, doubling over with tears in your eyes. 

He steps forward and covers your mouth with a black leather gloved hand, “Don’t you know anythin’ about stealth?” 

The saturation of Joel’s Texan accent increases whenever he’s irritated, tired or relaxed, you’ve noticed, or whenever his controlling grip on stoicism slips just slightly and he’s allowed to return to a more organic version of himself. To his grumbling annoyance, you’ve told him how cute you find it - especially when it’s followed by a blush of tamped-down flattery that crumbles his carefully constructed grimace. 

He lets go of you when you’re able to stifle your giggles to a soft chuckling. You eye his outfit up and down, raising your eyebrow in approval. He tries his best not to mirror your bemused smirk. “ What are you doing, Joel Miller?” you ask incredulously. 

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?” he grouches rhetorically. You patiently await his answer anyway with a grin that spreads to your eyes with every second that ticks by. He eventually secedes with a sigh, his broad shoulders deflating with exhaustion from more than just your affectionate pestering, “‘M… deliverin’ toys to the kids. Getting a present from Santa is a formative experience. No kid should have their magic robbed of ‘em.” 

“Isn’t Santa just one big lie though?” you ask, genuinely. You remember the truth that your friends tried to peddle you while you were still a believer, asking you all kinds of questions as a test to your logic. How is he able to get all across the world in one night? If he’s so big, how is he able to fit down the chimney? Does Santa have to take bathroom breaks, and where?! Most of all, you remember the horror that washed over you when you confronted your parents with your newly-acquired facts, and to your fear, they confirmed the lie. It took you a while to have faith in anything they said after, to the point of absurdity - it took months for you to believe that taking medicine will actually make you feel better when you’re sick. 

Joel stiffens. Some inexplicable reason makes you think that it’s not just because of his aching back and tired knees. His voice is tight, uncomfortable, “Yeah, I guess…” 

He gradually warms back up, his words spliced with tired breaths, by explaining to you that, “Tommy told me that in years past, the adults would leave presents on Christmas morning, under that big tree they decorate in the town square,” he points behind him to the afar twinkling lights with his thumb, “just before the kids woke up. But since we found that fir tree lot about twenty miles out, everybody was able to get their own tree this year. I asked around if they think it’d be a good idea for someone… f’ me… to be Santa. So that all the kids could have the experience we had. Y’know… leave cookies out an’ all that.” He waves his hand noncommittally and looks off to the side like he thinks the whole idea is ludicrous, as if he doesn’t care. As if he isn’t the sweet, kindhearted man who introduced the very idea. 

You fight hard to disguise the enamor that strikes your heart and threatens to leak into your gaze. So you turn to a reliable defense mechanism: teasing. “So… the costume is purely for your own enjoyment then?” 

That pulls a breathy chuckle out of Joel’s chest. “I can’t have the kiddos wake up and see some old man in their house. You gotta keep up the illusion, girl.” He nudges you on the shoulder with his knuckles. When he leans in you can smell his breath, warm and sweet with faint notes of spice and cinnamon. His unprecedented playfulness always throws you for a loop and makes you squirm on your feet, a flustered smile warbling on your lips. 

It strikes you in inappropriate moments like these that you have the privilege of being chummy with one of the most sought after men in Jackson. A man whose charms you’re not immune to, but you guess you’re better at hiding their effect than others are, as Joel tended to avoid those who openly expressed intimate interest. A man who you so desperately desire, but force yourself to hide your attraction for. 

Joel sighs, bending to pick the sack handle up from the ground, “I’m bound to wake them up if I keep fuckin’ lumberin’ around like I am.” You can see how the heavy bag of toys weighs on his back and worsens his heavy-footedness. You can practically hear the alerting scuff of his boots against creaky floorboards, rousing sleeping kids and luring them to spoil their own surprise. “I damn near woke the first one up, ‘cause this fuckin’ sack got stuck between me and the door, an’-” 

He cuts himself off, gaping with offended bewilderment watching you try to smother your laughter. The image of him wrestling with the bag, let alone in a full Santa costume, is simply hilarious. A deviousness glints the smile that tugs on half of his face, “Oh, so you think my struggling is funny?”

“No, it’s just…” you search for a more suitable word but guilt shines through your twisted smile and speaks for itself. He lets the silence fill the space between you two for an uncomfortable stretch, running out your fuse until you can’t hold back your giggling. 

He puts his hand on his hip, fixing his gaze on you with lighthearted scorn, “You gon’ stand there and laugh at Santa ,” he jeers, scolding you for making fun of an innocent, jolly old man, “or are you gonna make yourself useful?” 

For a moment you completely forget why you had come out here in the first place. Joel was legitimately having a difficult time and you had wanted to aid him in any way you could. However, his badgering demeanor has put an equally brattish spin on your helping hand from its chivalrous beginning. You defiantly square your shoulders.

“Actually, I will. I can be like an elf to your Santa. The elves do all of the hard work, anyways. Making the toys, wrapping them, packing the sleigh and caring for the reindeer. And Santa… eats cookies?” 

Joel scoffs, pretending to not like the idea of some help, “Oh, yeah? You and what costume?” He jerks his chin at you, looks you up and down for your lack of costume. It’s hard not to pay any attention to the heat that rushes your cheeks thinking about him looking at you like that under different circumstances. He’s right though: you’ll need a costume to maintain the magical facade. 

A Christmas miracle bestows itself to you in the front yard you’re standing next to: a snowman outfitted as an elf. 

You go over and delicately pluck the pointed hat off of the top snowball so as not to disturb the icy artistry. You pull it down on your head, wiggle, and the movement gives the bell at the end of the point a jingle. “Ready when you are, Mr. Claus.” 

Like on patrols and other tasks you’ve been paired with him on before, you and Joel make a fantastic team delivering holiday cheer in the night. 

You’ll come to a house, quietly padding up the snowy front steps; Joel will sift through his bag for the correct present for the specific child; and hand it off to you to put under the tree inside. The parents in on the trick have left their doors unlocked and their kids have assembled platters of cookies, varying flavors from house to house, with a note of gratitude for their beloved Santa tucked underneath. You can only hope that the kids’ excited jitters for the following morning have worn their energy levels down enough that they’re soundly slumbering so you can pass through undetected. The bell on your hat is a hazardous giveaway to your presence, so you opt to leave it outside with Joel to ensure your drop-off is silent. There’s no chance any wandering eyes will catch you out of disguise, though, because, as quiet and quick as a mouse, you’re in with a gift and out with empty hands in a flash, ready for the next one. 

A couple hours in and you’ve deposited gifts to three quarters of the kids in town. You’ll definitely finish before the Christmas morning sun even thinks about peering over the horizon. Despite the share of labor you’ve accounted for, Joel continues to have a difficult time trudging through the snow, so you both slow down to a pleasant, unhurried stroll to fulfill the remainder of your recipients. 

“You okay?” you ask tenderly, smiling softly at him when he cranes his neck to meet your eyes. He nods, his voice tired and breathy, “Yeah, just… old .” He spits that last word out, with bitterness coating his tongue. The imperceptible shake of his head is impatient, agitated, that his body isn’t up to par with what it used to be capable of. 

Jackson has softened him, there’s no denying that, but you don’t think it’s such a bad thing. You only arrived at the settlement a year ago, a year into Joel’s stay. He had immediately shown you friendliness, a desire to help you settle in, to care for you. It struck you as odd when you heard the stories from other townspeople of what he was like when he was first welcomed in; that he was the cold, standoffish brother of their warm leader, Tommy, that his permanent scowl radiated a sourness, bordering on ungrateful. The par-baked sociability that you were introduced to was apparently underdone; his face flickered with uncomfortability when any affection was pushed on him, whether it was a simple compliment or a brotherly nudge to his shoulder. Joel couldn’t hide himself from you, though. His desire to surrender was so strong, so yearnful, but he constantly restrained himself from the comfort, the love, with an understandable fear that it could all be taken away. 

Accidentally, you forced him to face his fears. He enjoyed your company and soon sought out more and more opportunities to spend time with you until you were inseparable. You began to frighten him when he realized what you were to him, a friend , but it was too late; he couldn’t stay away from you, no matter how loud the loathsome voice in his head screamed for the safety that isolation guaranteed. His biggest source of anxiety now isn’t something reasonable, like clickers: it’s how far into the future he wants to go with you. 

Back in the present moment, you shrug, “Well, I think you’re doing a good thing, Joel. Old or not.” The tip of his nose and cheeks are beet red from the frosty air and itchy costume, but his blush deepens to a magenta upon hearing your words. He diverts his eyes. It’s sweet, in a way, how he has trouble accepting praise even from one of his best friends. You dump more validation onto him, because he deserves it, “The community will really love you for this, you know. I know how much you like your solitude, but it’s nice to see you involved. It suits you.” 

“I guess literally,” he gestures to his suit of red and white and you laugh together. Despite the tarnishes of age and stains of neglectful wear, the costume does fit him nicely. Just like the infamous poem, it complements his eyes that twinkle under the starlight and his merry dimple that deepens when he laughs. He even has the little round belly to complete the look, though you’re sure he has as much disdain for his softened shape as you have love for it. 

The night hours wane in proportion with the fun you’re having. Joel’s silent for a while, and though quietness is never awkward between you two, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about. 

You only have a few presents left to deliver when Joel says, “Sarah loved Christmas.” 

You slow down next to him to direct your undivided attention on him in this tender moment, but he waves his hand at you to keep moving along. Always some degree of averse to comfort, you work with him however he’ll let you. He faces ahead into the snow coming down, but that’s not what he’s looking at; his gaze is slightly unfocused, like he goes into a dimension that only he can see. You’ve seen that expression on him before and know that snapshots of memories are drifting by in his mind. 

His voice is happy to match his smile, only wavering with emotion slightly as he shares with you, “She’d always be eager to start putting the decorations up right after Thanksgiving, always so giddy to go to school and do all the festive little projects they had ‘em doin’. She’d get so into it, she’d come home with glitter all in her hair,” he laughs softly and so do you. “The fridge would be completely covered with her paintings and crafts by the time Christmas came around…” 

He stops in his tracks to take a sharp breath in, looking up to the stars with damp eyes. A touch to the permanent fixture on his wrist - his watch - grounds him and restores his smile, despite the painful tinge it now has. You simply observe him for a moment, give him the patience he needs. Then he continues a bit somberly, “I always got a real tree, I didn’t like none of that fake stuff. I would’ve gone and cut one down myself if they grew better than they did in Texas.” 

A detachedness casts over his eyes. He breathes hauntedly, “Maybe a lot of things would be different if I hadn’t lived there.” 

He sniffles and shakes his head to try and dispel his thoughts, getting irritated that they infiltrated him in the first place. You take a gingerly step forward and lay your fingers over his with impossible tenderness, stroking his quivering knuckles. 

“Sounds like she would’ve loved being your little helper tonight.” A stroke of happiness glimmers across his face, colors him back from his ghostly hue. 

“Yep, she would’ve been all over that.” 

With all of the delicacy you can muster to cushion your shameless, vital honesty, “I bet she would be proud of what you’re doing… of you .” 

You reach into his bag and take out the last remaining present, placing it into his hands so he can be the one to close out the magical evening and deliver the final gift. Joel nods with residual tears in his eyes, “I can only hope.”

“I know,” you reassure him. 

The corners of his mouth, downturned in shame and grief, begin to perk up ever so slightly. It sends you over the moon. A staggering leap of growth for Joel are imperceptible steps to others, but you’re always by his side to assure him that there’s nothing wrong with his pace. 

You’re the one to wait outside this time while he sneaks in. While he’s disappeared for a few moments, you think about how he used to react when Sarah was brought up - or more likely, when his thoughts brought her to him unprovoked. He’d have brutal panic attacks, where his heart would pound violently in between seizures of oxygen, courtesy of his crippling lungs. He’d be rendered debilitated for days afterward, trying to collect his shattered remains and haphazardly piece himself back together. 

But now, as he slowly closes the door behind him and turns to join you, his commendable progress frays your heartstrings. Though his eyes are still hurt and his heart still gives him problems, he’s able to talk about his daughter with unbridled joy . Her memory is no longer an abyss of torturous guilt; it has blossomed to remind him of all the happy days she did have, of what a beautiful soul she was and can continue to be in his heart. He’s realizing that instead of solely mourning her wrongful death, he can carry on her life by spreading the joy she instilled in him all those years ago. You view it as one of the highest honors to hear about her and to be friends with the wonderful man who raised her to be the kind girl she was. Seeing Joel’s misery lessened by any number makes you so happy you could cry. 

Joel comes up to you and concern crosses his face, “What’s wrong?”, upon seeing the gleam to your eyes, putting a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Nothin’,” you say with a shrug and a proud smile, subconsciously parroting his accent.

“Congratulations on another successful year, Santa,” you hold up your hand for a silly high five. Joel obliges with a resounding chuckle. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand long after the celebration. “Couldn’t have done it without your help,” he mumbles sheepishly, “Thank you.”

Since you were the one picking up Santa’s slack for the most part tonight, you were also the one to take bites of cookies and sips of milk to leave as evidence of your visit. It only dawns on you now that Joel hasn’t had any treats the whole night. What a holiday abomination! 

“I think Santa is entitled to his fair share of payment,” you playfully nudge at Joel’s belly and he swats your hand away with a grunt. “I made some cookies of my own, and I have some milk to pair if I’m remembering your tastes correctly.” He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Wanna come back to mine for some?” 

Joel squeezes your hand in his, “Sure.” 

The morning sun still has a few hours left to sleep by the time you and Joel cross your threshold. The house you were gifted in the center of town is small, but it’s a haven nonetheless. When you first moved in, Joel was assigned to check all the inner workings and help furnish, but most importantly he helped you return to yourself: what colors you liked and didn’t like, which way you preferred your living room to be arranged, where you wanted your mugs stored. It was incidental, trivial things, but their impact was seriously underestimated. He helped make the little blank-slate house yours. 

He enjoys being in it as much as you do because he’s constantly surrounded by you and the evidence of your habits and patterns. The rings of coffee staining your side table, next to the bookmarked novel on the arm of your couch. The shoes dropped unceremoniously by your front door. The dish towel powdered with the flour of cookies you made earlier, their mouthwatering scent lingering in the air with the dry, residual warmth from your oven. He doesn’t know if he wants to consume you or be consumed by you, but either way he knows one thing: he’s bewitched.

In the kitchen, he leans against the counter as you pour him a glass of milk and plate some cookies. The long night’s energy expenditure has worked up quite an appetite in him, so he doesn’t waste any more time and takes a bite. 

“You have to dip it in the milk and let it get soft! They’re best that way,” you offer, but he just waves you off with affectionate annoyance. 

From his sloppy eating, a piece of chocolate has smeared itself on his upper lip and into the hairs of his mustache. It makes you smile. Without thinking, you lick the pad of your thumb and bring it to his face to clean it off. 

Joel’s lips part, as if with practiced ease, so you can really get in there. It’s so natural , so domestic between the two of you; it’s startling. His eyes are on you and you can feel them, watching you with brazen intensity as you prod the plushness of his lip, but you keep your own gaze focused on your work. 

You flicker a fatal glance into his. Joel wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss that’s a strange mix of gentle and intoxicating. Just as it registers in your brain what is happening, he’s breaking away and it makes you want to cry.  

“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first, goddamn fool …” he grumbles to himself. He goes to remove himself from you further, but you pull him right back by the chest of his t-shirt that’s damp with sweat. 

“You should’ve.” You press your lips to his with ravenous fervor. 

You pull him to the living room, to the chair that he picked out for the space when you first moved in. The soft suede reminded him of you, he had said, and you didn’t realize what his true meaning was until now. His fingertips skim over your exposed skin, addicted, yet tentative in their touch of such preciousness. 

You swiftly rid him of the rest of his costume down to his underclothes and he soon follows to undress you until you’re left in your base layers. You’re practically shaking with need, wishing you could take your time with him but you’ve been pining after him all night (really, ever since the moment you laid eyes on him over a year ago.) That goofy costume couldn’t hide his delicious figure and he makes you delirious now that he’s exposed; his broad, inviting chest; his sexy, burly arms; his cute little ass. 

He shares your desire’s impatience. He falls onto the chair, pressing against the back. You climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, and wrap your arms around his neck to pull him into you for another desperate kiss.

One of his hands balances you on your hip and the other fumbles with his belt buckle frustratingly. He groans impatiently into your mouth, but your aid is being dispersed elsewhere; your fingers are tethered to his hair, brushing it and grabbing it and pulling it. 

Finally he solves the metallic riddle and you both sigh in relief when his stiff length is released, slapping against your thigh. You reach down and stroke him from base to tip a couple times, making his eyebrows scrunch in pleasure. This is going to be quick, you both know it, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be enjoyable. 

You’re just as near to bursting as Joel when you sink down onto him, inch by glorious inch. He digs his heels into the floor in preparation to fuck up into you, but you beat him to it and begin to ride. He groans loudly, his arms constricting around your waist and burying his face into your neck. He’s holding you so tight that you can barely move; it makes your thighs burn deliciously with the amount of effort you have to put in to keep up your pace. You work up a sweat to rival his as a fresh sheen breaks out on his brow. 

Combined with the heated passion, there’s an enamored twinkle in his eyes, an adoration. One that screams that four-letter L word, the one that his brain wants to profess to you from rooftops but that his heart can’t work up the strength to say it and make it real. 

The holidays are run on magic, anyways - you’re content to give him all the time he needs. 

“Please, Joel,” you whisper breathlessly into his ear, wanting his body if you can’t have his heart just yet. That does him in; his hips stutter beneath you and his warmth fills you up, radiating up from your core until it tickles the underside of your pounding heart. Your own release is brought on by his sly fingers against your clit and it seizes your movements, rippling in tantalizing waves from head to toe, until you’re reduced to a puddle in his arms and slump against his chest. 

Hazy with exhaustion and a potent shot of dopamine, you barely register him tucking a blanket around you before you succumb to some much-needed sleep. 

The Christmas morning sun breaks over the horizon a few hours later. Amidst your throes of passion in the darkness of night, you hadn’t realized your front window’s curtains were strewn wide open. You and Joel both startle awake when a particularly harsh sunbeam glints off of a frosty white snow bank, shooting directly into your unprepared pupils. 

You bury your face into his chest, groaning with embarrassment, “I really hope nobody starts singing that they saw an elf kissing Santa Claus.”

Your newly minted lover chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and holding you ever closer, “Eh, all the kids were asleep. And if any adults saw…,” he shrugs, “Fuck ‘em.”

Now, your blanketed bodies remain safely hidden from the happy kids running about and cheering in the streets with their new toys. Joel watches on with you, smiling despite the sleep deprivation that prohibits you from even thinking about moving an inch. And with Joel beneath you, surrounding you, why would you? 

“You know, I’ve been thinking for a while now…” he continues, running a finger delicately down your cheek, “I’ve been wanting to promote my head elf, but she’s already at the top of my list.”

You poke him in the chest playfully, “Hey, I’m a seasonal worker. Last night was a one-time deal. Well, what happened before we got home was a one-time deal,” you specify. 

Your clarification brightens his smile. “How d’ya think… Mrs. Claus sounds?”

Your heart leaps. “Sounds like just what I’ve been wishing for.”

You settle in to watch the rest of the morning unfold, with the joyous kids playing, their contented parents observing, and the snow swirling in the air in dreamy trails.

“Merry Christmas, Joel.”

He presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

summary excerpt from “‘a visit from st. nicholas” by clement clarke moore

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[disappointed-time-traveller]

Extremely similar fashion plates from 1861 and 1862

I just wanted to share easily the coolest two fashion plates in my collection. They’re both part of the small collection that I inherited from my grandmother and I have no idea where they came from, other than that like most of the fashion history recourses I got from her they’re probably from when she studied sewing in the 1960s.

They’re two fashion plates with descriptions from one November 1861 and the other from April 1862, from the Englishwoman’s domestic magazine.

The first thing about them is that they are incredibly similar looking, similar clothing, similar colours, the same amount of figures including a child. It was probably a deliberate choice to have two very similar plates to better showcase the similarities and differences between the two years and spring and autumn fashion.

The other cool thing is that they are both mounted on paperboard and have descriptions of each one mounted on the back seemingly clipped from the original magazines (though the could be the place my grandmother got it from). I’ve transcribed the descriptions under the cut.

November 1861

DESCRIPTION OF THE COLOURED PLATE.

1st figure on the left side: The bonnet is composed of white satin, trimmed with black velvet and black and white blonde, and a bunch of flowers on each side. The mantle, which is made in a shawl shape, is composed of velvet, and trimmed with black guipure. The top of the mantle is finished off by a guipure pelerine, which is fastened behind and on the shoulders on by a handsome gimp rosettes with tassels. The large sleeve which comes to a point at the bottom, is pleated at the top of the arm under the gimp rosette and tassel. The dress consists of one of the fashionable broché silks.

2nd figure: The turned up hat is ornamented with a kind of fur trimming and long drooping feather. The paletôt fits tightly to the figure, and may be made of velvet or a thick cloth. It is trimmed with fur, and is made open in the front with revers, the sleeves being large and also trimmed with fur. Two little pockets ornament the front of the paletôt, which are also finished off by a band of fur. There are three fancy gimp buttons on each side of the body, and the waist behind is also ornamented in the same manner with two gimp buttons. The dress may be made in silk or poplin. Little girls dress: The little Tudor hat is trimmed with blue velvet and a blue feather tipped with white. The pardessus is made to fit the figure; it is trimmed with fur, and is made with a fur pelerine or cape. The dress, which is striped, is bound at the bottom with a piece of black velvet.

3rd figure: The bonnet is composed of velvet, and ornamented with a bunch of flowers on the top, feathers on either side. The cloak is made of a shoulder piece, into which the fullness is pleated; the sleeves are large, and the garment is trimmed with fur, whilst the pelerine is composed of this material. This cloak may also be made in velvet, and trimmed with chinchilla, or corded silk, trimmed with velvet, and with velvet pelerine. These cloaks are usually made so that they may be worn with or without the fur cape, according to the weather; and in this style are excessively convenient for the changeable English climate.

4th figure: The velvet bonnet is ornamented with bands of satin cut on the cross-way, and roses and lace. The long jacket is made tightly fitting to the figure, in thick corded silk and is trimmed with gimp. The back of the skirt is cut to form three large pleats behind, each of which is ornamented with handsome gimp rosette and tassels. Bright blue poplin dress, made with quite a plain skirt.

April 1862

DESCRIPTION OF THE COLOURED PLATE

1st figure on the left: The bonnet is made with drawn front violet silk, and the soft crown of embroidered white tulle. The curtain is of violet sills, edged with a puffing of tulle; the strings are of broad white ribbon, and the bandeau consists of one large rose, ornamented on each side with bunches of wheatears. The pardessus is made of unlined corded silk, with a deep cape , and is trimmed with narrow Maltese lace and two two rows of narrow black velvet. The garment is cut in slightly to the figure behind, but is straight in front. The sleeves are of deep bell shape, trimmed round the bottom with a pleating of silk. The dress is violet silk, brocaded with black, the colour of the dress exactly matching that of the bonnet.

2nd figure:

The bonnet is of white crêpe, ornamented quite at the top with a large bunch of white ostrich feathers, and the Bandeau Impératrice is composed of one rose with leaves on each side. This mantle, which is quite circular, is made of plain glacé silk, trimmed with a broad gimp, whilst the neck is ornamented with a row of gimp, finished off with a tassel fringe. The dress is of drab silk, made with one flounce at the bottom, headed by two bands of silk of the same colour.

3rd figure: -Summer Costume.- This elegant costume, which is a charming toilet for a picnic, is composed of white muslin. The dress is made with a series of narrow flounces, all edged with narrow green ribbon. The burnous, also of white muslin, is trimmed with green silk ruching, and three handsome green tassels. The hat is composed of green silk, trimmed with a full plume of white feathers. This costume may be made more useful and durable by substituting white barège for the muslin, but in all cases (to look nicely) the cloak should be composed of the same material as the dress. White grenadine or lama might be used with advantage in this toilet, and the colour of the trimmings and hat might be altered to pink or light blue, suiting the colour to the complexion of the wearer.

4th figure: -seaside costume- The Leghorn hat is bound on the upper part of the brim with black velvet, and is trimmed with a white ostrich feather. The dress and jacket illustrated in this figure are both made of the same material, either nankeen, buff piqué, or Victoria cord, the latter material being rather thinner than pique. The coat is ornamented with a braiding design in black, the pocket, revers, and cuffs being trimmed to correspond. A costume of white piqué, braided in balance, would be equally stylish.

5th figure: -little girls costume- The straw hat is bound with violet velvet, and is trimmed with two white feathers, one lying on each side of the hat. The cloak is composed of silk, and is made with three single pleats behind, attached to a neck-piece, the front being perfectly plain. No trimming whatever is required for this stylish little garment with the exception of two rows of piping round the neck-piece. Black silk is, of course, the most appropriate material for a child's mantle; our illustration is coloured violet, to add to the effect of the picture, which would have been somewhat sombre were all the figures shown with black mantles.

Full-sized paper patterns, cut out in tissue paper, tacked together and trimmed, of all the mantles illustrated in this plate, may be had of Madame Adolphe Goubaud, 248, Strand, London, W.C., at the following prices:.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 5, 1 février 1902, Paris. No. 1. — Toilettes pour jeunes femmes. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Explication des gravures:

(1) Sortie de bal pour jeune femme. Mante en panne vert mousse, dentelée et bordée d'un haut volant de dentelle souligné d'une bande de fourrure.

Capuchon de taffetas blanc plissé, liséré de fourrure avec intérieur coulissé en satin saphir. Grand nœud et pans de satin vert mousse fixé par une boucle en simili.

(1) Ball cape for a young woman. Mantle in moss green panne, serrated and edged with a high lace flounce underlined with a strip of fur.

Pleated white taffeta hood, fur trim with sapphire satin drawstring interior. Large bow and panels of moss green satin fixed by a faux buckle.

Matériaux: 8 mètres de panne; 1m,50 de taffetas blanc; 1m,25 de satin saphir.

—

(2) Robe de bal pour jeune femme, en taffetas rose-pastel. Jupe collant, tablier uni autour, sauf devant, nombreux volants en mousseline de soie rose surmontés d'un large entre-deux d'Irlande.

Corsage drapé en mousseline de soie sur taffetas; la draperie se noue derrière en flots mousseux. Autour du décolleté en V, berthe double en dentelle, croisée devant; chute de velours noir sur le bras gauche.

(2) Ball gown for a young woman, in pastel pink taffeta. Tight skirt, plain apron all around, except in front, many ruffles in pink silk muslin surmounted by a large Irish insertion.

Draped bodice in chiffon over taffeta; the drapery is knotted behind in frothy waves. Around the V neckline, double lace berthe, crossed in front; black velvet draped on the left arm.

Matériaux: 14 mètres de taffetas; 16 mètres de mousseline de soie.

[cherubchoirs]

srry if you already answered this somewhere else, but was your fallen Gabe design inspired by some of the colour alts in this concept art

yes he absolutely was!!! i think i did mention it at some point like forever ago, but i was heavily inspired by that second to last palettes on both rows here! i knew i wanted something dark overall, but i loved shocks of white to evoke his layer of treachery and give a more "wintry" feel. really the only difference was keeping the skirt black, giving him slightly different armor for his legs, and throwing on the mantle + cape (as well as basically giving him sweater material underneath everything and some nice fur trim lol) i wanted him to be a hulking, beast-like entity that would evoke minotaur vibes - something far away from angel, to the point where once the transformation is complete, gabriel is stricken with the thought that no one, upon first meeting him now, would think of his as anything other than a demon. BUT i wanted to keep his design still highly recognizable as himself, so that's why i stuck close to the palette here and kept his armor largely unchanged as a base!

[cressida-jayoungr]

One Dress a Day Challenge

January: Red Redux

The Taming of the Shrew / Elizabeth Taylor as Katharina Minola

Kate wears this rich red gown with green stripes and gold trim for the final scene, which takes place at her sister's wedding--her first visit back to her home since her own wedding. When she first arrives, she also wears a red fur-edged mantle and looks very color-coordinated with Petruchio.

I've also included a side view showing her elaborate hairstyle.

Although most costumes for this movie were designed by Danilo Donati, Elizabeth Taylor's gowns were done by Irene Sharaff. They blend well enough with the other costumes that they don't stick out as different. There is something very 1960s about the combination of saturated red, deep olive green, and shiny gold. (Frock Flicks notes that it is probably modeled after this portrait below by Lorenzo Lotto.)

[whumpsmith-participates]

AI-less Whumptober 2024

Day 19 - Losing a sense

Tags/CW: medwhump (technically?), hospital, uhhhhhhh pain., sedative/sedation

King of Hearts was easily one of the most popular heroes in the city. It helped that he usually hung out in Times Square, a popular tourist attraction, and loved by the locals as well. It also helped that his getup was recognisable; nothing too flashy, just a deep red jacket with a white, fur trim around the collar and hem, reminiscent of a king's mantle.

Another thing that people seemed to appreciate about King was his seeming lack of 'flashy' powers. He couldn't control fire or water, he didn't have enhanced strength or unnaturally fast healing. He couldn't shape shift, shift shape, bend or alter reality, or anything else otherworldly.

No, King of Hearts was known for using simple skills that anyone could learn with some hard work and dedication. The only difference being that he was born with them. A generational muscle memory, as he called it, allowing him to take on anyone in hand-to-hand combat with minimal to no training.

He was young, approachable, and despite the simplicity of his powers, he was among the elite of the city's heroes. An inspiration to many, representing an achievable dream.

A dream, which unfortunately, turned into a nightmare.

It had been an exhausting day. King never knew that waking up could be so tiring. He never knew that lying in bed could be so painful. The nurse had given him a button, one he could click to receive extra pain medication, but he refused to use it. It didn't just numb the pain, it numbed everything. And he couldn't have that right now. He had to know...

The last twenty-four hours had been intense. He'd been held captive alongside a handful of other supers, all of them having their powers suppressed — a technique that didn't tend to work on King. You couldn't exactly suppress knowledge or muscle memory after all.

So when things were at their most dire, King was the only one who could act. The only one who wanted to act. Even though it was beginning to seem he had paid the ultimate price for doing so.

In his efforts to save the others, King ended up crushed between giant parts of machinery, his lower spine shattered so badly they had to fix it with surgery, and they refused to tell him whether he would regain any feeling in his legs. They just kept saying it was too early to tell.

"How are you doing?"

King glared in the direction of the green-haired nurse. He was offering a smile, carrying a tray with food.

"How do you think?" King said.

"You're right, that's a silly question," the nurse said, "you're probably not very hungry with all those drugs, but I figured I'd bring you some dinner in case you wanna try to eat anyway."

"...leave me alone, Ryan." King said.

"O-of course," Ryan said, placing the tray on his bedside table before heading off.

King sighed as he looked away from the tray. At least Ryan was right about one thing; he wasn't hungry at all. He wouldn't be until he knew...

He looked at the useless mound underneath his blankets that was supposed to be his feet. He wanted to move them so badly, but no matter how much he willed himself to move his feet...the mound remained still.

He had to know.

He pulled the covers back, sitting up a bit despite the pain in his lower back. He could feel the stitches pull at his skin as he leaned forward, gritting his teeth as he began pushing one of his legs towards the edge of the bed.

Maybe, just maybe, if he just forced it, he could rely on his muscle memory and just stand.

He bit his cheek to stop himself from screaming out in pain as he shuffled and pushed and writhed until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Tears pricked in his eyes as he watched his legs dangle motionless, just inches above the floor. The tears blurred his vision, until he stubbornly wiped them away, taking a couple of deep breaths before sliding off the bed.

He could see his toes touch the white and grey-speckled floor, bracing himself for the usual cold shock of stepping onto an non-carpeted floor, which never came. His ankles, knees and hips all buckled at once, sending him to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The only surfaces within reach to catch himself with his hands were his bed, or the bedside table. But his left hand just grabbed onto the tray of food instead, pulling it to the floor with him and sending the food flying everywhere, while his right hand only managed to grasp the blanket, yanking that onto the floor as well.

There he was on the floor. King of fucking nothing.

He smashed his fist on the ground in frustration, as he couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. He tried to pick himself up, but the pain in his back felt like it had gotten a million times worse, and his hand slipped on some porridge.

To make matters worse, he could hear footsteps approaching his room, before the door swung open. Of course someone was alerted by the ruckus. King couldn't bring himself to lift his head to see who it was. He couldn't face anyone while he looked so pathetic.

"Och...Arthur..."

Great. It was Dr Slade. Supposedly one of the best, yet he couldn't even tell him how royally fucked he really was.

"I-I can't..." King quietly said, "I can't wait... P-please...I need to know..."

"I know, lad," Slade just said, "but it really is too early to tell. Though, trying to stand too early will certainly diminish your chances."

"Chances..." King repeated bitterly, "I can't rely on chances! I can't stay like this!"

He choked back a sob, pressing his forehead against the cold floor. He wanted to get up so badly, without help. But his body refused to listen. He couldn't even stop crying, forced to watch his tears splatter onto the floor until he squeezed his eyes shut.

"FIX ME!!!!"

His desperate cry seemed to echo through the room, leaving an eerie silence for a good moment before Slade gently spoke up again.

"...I'm going to give you something for the pain," he said, "we'll get you back into bed and I'll take a look at your sutures...I'm sorry that I can't do more for you right now, lad."

"Stop saying you're sorry," King hissed, "j-just leave me alone."

"I will," Slade said, "after we get you settled back into bed."

A hand gently touched his arm, but King smacked it away.

"Leave me alone NOW!" he cried, "Just fuck off! Go away!! LEAVE!!!"

He tried to turn around. He just wanted to curl up in a corner, but the pain got so bad it dizzied him, and his hands began slipping on something again. Something wet and warm...

"Arthur, don't make me use force," Slade said, "you're losing a lot of blood—"

"Just let me die then!" King sobbed, "I-if I can't walk, I can't help people. A-and if I can't help people...then who am I?"

Slade had no answer for that. Fortunately he didn't have to give any as backup finally arrived. A nurse with the sedative he ordered, and a second doctor to help him assess the wound before lifting the injured and sedated super back into bed.

King could only weakly whine in protest as he was tucked back in, the world around him spinning, the pain about as numb as the voices echoing around him. And with a last exhausted sob, he surrendered himself to the darkness as he passed out.

@ailesswhumptober

Masterlist

Main account

In which a hero loses his sense of self.

[xantchaslegacy]

Rise and Fall

(Below is the unabridged version of a fanfic I did for the very cool MtG Lore *Adrift* fanzine. You can also read the unabridged version on my AO3 if ya like ;) )

Vaash Vroga walked the beach on a nameless world, following in the wake of its creator.

It was not the first artificial plane she'd ever tread. Her journeys through the multiverse had taken her through the meditation realm of Nicol Bolas more than once (an oddly high number of times, truth be told, for a place closed off to so many). She had even spent several painful minutes staggering through the ruins of old Phyrexia, failing to locate some ancient artifact or another at the behest of her now-discarded mantle, before the vile fumes of the place had overcome her and forced her to flee. She still bore scars along her legs from the whip-like blades that passed for grass on the sixth sphere.

This current plane had a more convincing veneer of naturality to it, but the hallmarks of a planeswalker's vanity were still there, if one looked close enough: The sand was just a bit too clean and golden, and the air not quite as fishy as it ought to be, this close to the sea. 

An unsettling creation to tread, pleasant though it was on the senses.

The creator, for his part, moved at an infuriatingly leisurely pace, slowing often to stare out over the water at storm clouds which had been gathering for the past half-hour. His eyes were bright, and uniformly amber, set deep into chiseled features lined with age.

“How much further?”

“Hm?” The creator turned his head, slackening his pace further by half a step. He was dressed in a simple sleeveless tunic of gold-trimmed white, with a cloak of the same pristine fabric that left his legs bare from mid-thigh down. Both garments glowed with an almost imperceptible light.

“How far is our destination?” Vaash gestured ahead, jabbing all five fingers at the stretch of beach and grassy hills before them.

“Ah.” The creator nodded and resumed his previous pace. “No destination. I thought a walk would be a nice change for you." He veered a degree to the right, and started up a low rise overlooking the shore. Tall, dark-green grasses grew in patches that quickly thickened as the beach rolled inland into a meadowed field. "'Tis nicer by far to walk in the open air, under the sun, than remain cooped up in some Izzet lab or tolarian dormitory."

Vaash squinted up at the sky. It was decidedly overcast by now. There were rays of light still peeking through the seams in the clouds, but those seams were closing rapidly.

"Did you make that?” She asked. “It feels just like natural sunlight."

"It's a rescue," the creator replied, his grin full of teeth. "A treefolk 'walker pulled that sun into the eternities about five hundred years ago to deny it as a power source to a rival. I plucked it from there."

"The Battlemage Ravidel is as resourceful as he is formidable," Vaash remarked.

The creator paused, mid-stride, and Vaash halted two paces away. When he turned to look at her, his smile was tight.

““Ravidel,’ if you please. We will have a frank, straightforward conversation, unmuddied by titles or deference. We are peers of the multiverse, you and I.”

“No deference here.” Vaash held out her hands and gave a mock bow. “If the mighty Ravidel wishes to call me 'peer', I won’t deny him.”

Ravidel snorted. “Very good. You can lose ‘the mighty,’ but good.”

“Surprisingly humble for a centuries-old tyrant.”

“Hm.” Ravidel nodded, not turning back. “I find myself discovering and re-learning humility every century or so.”

The two planeswalkers hiked a ways longer in silence. They passed two fishermen, and a group of children combing for shells in the surf, but weather had driven the other inhabitants of this pocket plane further inland. The fields Vaash could see were mostly empty, save for fireflies and a far-off shepherd herding a flock of woolly, blue-furred creatures. The grassy portion of the beach started to slope upward, and soon they were walking along the ledge of a low ridge, with the meadow to their right, and a straight drop of several yards down to the sands on their left.

"Well." Ravidel paused at a small boulder set at a high rise, and perched upon it. "What do you think? Not bad for my first plane."

Vaash regarded the sea and sky.

"Not bad for an old man's retirement home, I suppose."

Ravidel chuckled. "Hard to impress a planeswalker. Even one of you young bloods."

Vaash shrugged. “I’ve seen plenty impressive bits of this vast multiverse; Jodah could have told you as much. My adventures on all the planes that Ral and that little mind-mage friend of theirs chased me through could fill a book.”

“Mind mage?” Ravidel shot her quizzical look. “Jodah told me it was a necromancer that helped them subdue you and strip you of the mantle.”

“So he thinks,” Vaash grimaced. “Ral insists their ally is a geomancer. And the first time we fought, I was certain their traveler friend was a beast mage. The only explanation I have for the discrepancy is that they’re actually an illusionist, hiding whatever other powers they have with mind-tricks. Of the three, they are the one I trust the least.”

"Hm." Ravidel shrugged. “Sounds like an unusual fellow."

“What planeswalker isn’t?” Vaash shook her head. "Ral and Jodah think I'm a bit mad. They don't even realize that they can't agree what their nameless friend is."

Ravidel didn't offer a response to that. His attention had turned to the figures on the beach below: a clutch of older children, human and goblin. A few were tending to a small fire, while the others stood in the shallows, ankle-deep in the slightly-too-sapphire-colored water, fishing with sharpened sticks. The ones by the fire caught sight of Ravidel and called out excited greetings. Ravidel acknowledged them with a wave and a nod.

"You're wondering why you're here," he said.

"You didn't give Jodah much time to explain...or make introductions."

"I thought he'd have filled you in on who I am ahead of this meeting."

Vaash grimaced. "The archmage can be a bit absent-minded in that regard."

"Old, old habits," Ravidel sighed. "My name, at least, speaks for itself?"

"I have had a rudimentary schooling in history, but even that poor education found time for you.” Vaash lifted her hands and made a line in the air. “Apprentice to the long-vanished planeswalker Faralyn, Destroyer of Arathoxia, ‘The Plague Upon Corondor,’ scourge of your fellow planeswalkers, and bitter enemy to the line of Carthalion."

"All apt monikers." Ravidel patted his knee thoughtfully. "History has judged me fairly, if harshly."

"The old Cabal head claimed some of those names for his own, a while back." Vaash lowered a hand to the ground, dropping spores of green and black to the grass. "Your monikers, and others, too. Though he's dead now. Pasty-skinned demon bastard." She spat in the grass, and a saproling shimmered into being where the spores hovered: thigh-high, and made of thick tendrils supporting a cushion of tan toadstool caps.

She sat down upon the saproling, and sighed as the pressure eased off her tired soles. Ravidel regarded her, elbows on his knees.

"You slew him?"

Vaash shook her head. "Other ‘walkers took care of him. The same ones who thrashed old Bolas on Ravnica."

"You'd rather have done the deed yourself." It wasn't a question.

"Sure." Vaash shrugged. It was an easier gesture to do nowadays, without that heavy garment draped around her shoulders. "But it's a positive outcome no matter who killed Belzenlok. The Cabal is weakened and Urborg is safer for it."

"And that is important to you."

Again, not a question. So Vaash did not answer.

They sat in silence a long while, faces cooled by the pre-storm winds whistling in from the sea, and backs warmed by the inland breeze, smelling now of bittersweet milkweed and ozone. Ravidel's breaths were short and loud enough to be heard over both winds. Awkwardly so. The few oldwalkers Vaash had encountered in her time were all like that in some regard. Still uneasy in the trappings of newly mortal bodies, even decades after the mending had lessened the nature of the spark.

Maybe they just breathe loud because they miss being the center of attention.

"What is it you want out of life, ultimately?"

Vaash looked up at Ravidel. He'd lifted up a hand, where five rings gleamed, one on each finger. Each was inset with a gem.

Vaash could have sworn they were not there a minute ago.

“What?”

"What does Vaash want for Vaash?” Ravidel continued. “Surely you do not begin and end at Urborg." As he spoke, points of colored light peeled off from the rings and swirled in his open palm.

“‘Vaash’ has not had much time alone for Vaash. But I am content in the freedom I enjoy as a mage and ‘walker to do as I please.”

Ravidel raised an eyebrow. “Or as others please that you do?”

Vaash regarded Ravidel. He held her gaze, lights spinning faster and faster in his palm.

"This talk is going to be about Leshrac, isn't it?"

"..Yes." The lights in Ravidel’s palm did not falter, but as soon as Vaash said ‘Leshrac,’ their rapid orbits expanded to circle around the back of Ravidel's hand.

"Why?" Vaash rested a hand on her hip, close to the hilt of her sword. Ravidel had requested she not bring her blades with her. This was her compromise. "Why bring me here to lecture me on my tormentor?"

“I am uniquely qualified to do so: I know what it is to be twisted to the ends of another planeswalker. I know what it is to twist others to my ends. And, of course, I knew the planeswalker who has most recently twisted you to his ends."

The colored lights slowed and hovered, one over each of Ravidel's fingers. The pearly light elongated into the figure of an old man with golden robes and a shining crown. The sapphire unspooled into a burly, many-tendriled beast with scales the color of dull steel. The black twisted into what appeared to be an old crone, with flame around their brow, and a large tunic the color of night.

"Leshrac,” Ravidel said as this last figure spun into being. “A peer of my first master, Faralyn. Along with Tevesh Szat, they conspired to slay one of their fellow 'walkers during a Summit on the Null Moon, and then to use the life force to escape their joint imprisonment on Dominaria. Instead, their plotting led to my own death and sparking, and the death of my dearest friend.”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Vaash whispered, eyeing the dark-cloaked image. “Supposed to have died decades ago in the mending, shoved face-first into a rift by the god-emperor-dragon of Madara.”

“We died with surprising regularity, we walkers of old,’” Ravidel sighed. “an astounding regularity, for beings so close to gods.”

“Well he didn’t die...or at least, old Bolas didn’t do his job thoroughly enough.” Vaash crossed her arms. “Left enough of that wretch alive in the mantle to use and torment me.” She shrugged her shoulders again, to reassure herself they were still bare.

“Yes,” Ravidel said, not soft, but softer than he had spoken previously. “But that can all be behind you, if you would re-think your schemes for the future.”

Vaash scowled "I have not spoken of schemes for the future. Or for Leshrac. To you or Jodah or Ral."

"But you have spoken about him to Jodah, and for all his peculiarities, a planebound mage as old as Jodah doesn't survive as long as he has without a sense for reading intentions between the lines."

"Go on then." Vaash rose from the saproling seat and placed her hands on her hips. "What are my intentions?"

Ravidel’s eyes tracked hers as she rose. He pursed his lips, watching her and breathing sharply through his nostrils.

"Your intentions are ones I know well," he said at last. "Vengeance. Plain and simple."

"Yes, plain and simple." Vaash walked past Ravidel, moving slightly past him along the slope. Her saproling scurried to follow. "Intentions so plain and simple, in fact, that we don’t need to discuss them further."

"Jodah wishes you to reconsider. I wish you to reconsider."

Vaash turned and frowned. Ravidel had risen from the stone, and the colored lights were circling his entire arm now, tracing a rainbow of lines through the air.

"By threat?" She snarled.

Ravidel shook his head. "By reason. By example and demonstration."

“The great Ravidel has become a teacher?’

“Ravidel is more than a magical tyrant,” he replied, with a dry smile. “Ravidel has had centuries to hone subtler arts than spell-craft. You’d be amazed what you have time for when you step away and let all the world think you’re dead.”

“I have too many responsibilities for something like that. Urborg’s enemies are many and industrious; I cannot tear my attention away from their activities for long.”

“Urborg is important to you.”

"Urborg is my responsibility. A land in need of Freedom. All the world dismisses us as a sulfurous swamp, yet all the world cannot help but interfere with our people. The black primeval, Nevinyrral, the Cabal...tyrants all, and I would see an Urborg free of tyrants. I would see a multiverse free of tyrants, if possible, but Urborg is where I have started."

"Noble and high-minded." Ravidel nodded. "Were you brought up among freedom fighters, or do you come by these ideals yourself?"

"Hah!" Vaash spat upon the grass. "My ideals are my own. 'Freedom' couldn't have been further from the aims of those who raised me."

"No love lost between you and your parents, then?" Ravidel turned a wry look out toward the beach. He was watching the children in the surf tramp back to the fire, with nets and sticks full of fish and shellfish. The fishing group had taken notice of the planeswalkers as well, and a few were waving to Ravidel. He returned a broad wave, and motioned for them to return to their play. "I sympathize."

"I lost my parents to the breathstealers when I was six." Vaash hissed. "Urborg’s infamous death cult. They are the ones who brought me up, raising me and children like me to feed into the meat grinder of their mercenary service.” Vaash paused. her chest was filling and falling rapidly. She closed her eyes. And slowed her lungs, letting the rise and fall become deeper, slower, and then regular again.

"And yet the breathstealers taught you many lessons," Ravidel observed, as she opened her eyes again. "Your prowess with death magic demonstrates as much."

Vaash shrugged. “A good lesson can come from anywhere. It does not make the teacher good. Always there was an ulterior motive with the breathstealers. They taught power for no purpose but to farm us out as child soldiers to any unscrupulous mage willing to pay the right price. Breathing exercises to make us silent killers. Lessons in eating mana and casting spells to make us deadly in magicks. Artifacts of power gifted to us not out of pride or for our protection, but always in service of the Nightstalker Spirit in its many manifestations. Can you guess how many times I was taught growing up that the greatest thing I could aspire to was to die and merge with the great nightstalker? To die and spread death in the names of Avarre and Necros and Bethanelle? To serve-" Vaash cut off, and folded her arms, looking out toward the water. "No, Ravidel. My inclinations to freedom are separate from and antithetical to the breathstealers. They are another ill upon Urborg and upon Dominaria, and I will see their cult erased from the world."

This time she did not need to correct her breathing, though Ravidel still waited a long moment before responding.

"That's where the mantle came from." This time there was the hint of a question in his voice. But just a hint.

"Jodah told you of the mantle?"

"A power-storing and consuming garment that bears the mark of Leshrac? Of course he did. I am, as I said, one of the few living authorities on the Walker of the Night."

"I thought you didn't care for titles."

"This particular title might be salient, given the mantle's origins." Ravidel looked her up and down. "‘Spirit of the Night’… ‘The Nightstalker’… ‘Walker of the Night’ … I am curious why they would bestow such a tool upon you. Are you a descendant of Leshrac? Was he a breathstealer himself?"

"I do not know or care if Leshrac was a breathstealer. A handful of my elders among the breathstealers thought he might be some legend from their past...perhaps even the Nightstalker itself, taken the form of a man. As for me...I was an orphan," Vaash turned away from Ravidel. Her voice became a harsh whisper on the breeze. "My parents were nothing and nobody, but they were mine, and the breathstealers killed them to make me into a tool. This is their practice all across Urborg. I was nothing special to them, and the mantle was just a means. A pretty basting on another sacrifice intended to raise another iteration of their night-stalking god." She let her arms fall to her side. "Well, I guess they succeeded in the end, didn't they?"

Ravidel nodded. “I must ask...do you have any inkling of how Leshrac survived? How he came to be in the mantle? Anything you didn’t tell Jodah?”

“I have answered every question Jodah has asked of me fully and honestly. Do you have any inklings? You claim to be the authority.”

Ravidel shook his head. "I have theories, but that is all. Perhaps the mantle was made from the same artifact Nicol Bolas stuffed Leshrac's spark into. Perhaps it was an unrelated contingency Leshrac cooked up after seeing so many of his fellow walkers of old perish so suddenly and unexpectedly over the centuries.”

"In any case," he sighed, "you are better off quit of the mantle. And of Leshrac.”

"We are all better off quit of Leshrac," Vaash replied through her teeth. "So it will be quite the favor I do the multiverse when I track him down and erase whatever sliver of him still lingers among the living."

Ravidel pursed his lips, eyes on the clouds in the distance. The colors circling his arm shuddered, leapt up into the air, and spiraled in a wide ring overhead, twisting around one another into a broad, tangled, rainbow-hued circle.

"Your life magic is self-taught, I gather, given your upbringing, so likely you never had a mentor to teach you of the cycles of life."

"I taught myself quite adequately," Vaash said, eyes narrowing. “And even self-taught lessons can be educational.”

"Humor me." Ravidel's eyes flashed, and the space within the ring overhead filled with a blaze of imagery. Dragons, forests, fire-red skies, armored giants, and dozens of scenes lasting but a fraction of a second that Vaash could not identify.

The images began to slow and blur. Color melted into color, and for a moment the disk was pure, unbroken white. A second later, two figures resolved from the blankness. A tall woman with a warrior’s build and cascading blonde hair. Beside her, a hunched but burly old man with a walking stick and a thin cap upon his head.

“Tev Loneglade was a planeswalker,” Ravidel began. His voice had a slight echo to it. More vanity. “Old and powerful. Not the friendliest of ‘walkers, but content to keep to himself.”

"Tev Loneglade had a sister, Tymolin. One precious to him, for whom he expended his magical prowess to protect and keep alive. She was taken from him-"

A flurry of figures swirled around the two Lonelades – saprolings and elves, merfolk and lobster-people. Goblins, orcs, and dwarves, a man speaking to a cluster of hunched homunculi, and figures in white. These last surrounded the tall woman, and she fell out of the disk, limp.

“-and slain. So Tev fell to rage and despair, and became Tevesh. Tevesh Szat.”

The hunched and burly man turned reptilian and blue-scaled. Tentacles blossomed around the ring. The reptile-man reached down.

“Szat swore a vengeance against his sister's killers, and then against Dominaria, and eventually, once free of the shard, against everything and everyone, so fully did he lose himself to his hatred of the few that stole away his sister. He sowed discord and ruin across all Dominaria and every plane he could in the Shard of Twelve Worlds.”

Steaming tears streamed from the burly thing’s red-hot eyes as it tore through figures – black and white at first, then green, blue, and red.

"Many years later, Tevesh Szat slew my dearest friend at the Summit of the Null Moon, to escape the Shard. Tore away the most precious one in my life in the same way the Farrelites took his sister from him. He did not do this to spite me. Nor did he act with any intent to inflict a wound on my soul the same as he had suffered, but he did so nonetheless, and in doing so spurred me to become a beast not entirely unlike he was."

The scene twisted again and fractured – the golden-robed man in the crown spoke to a blue dragon, and was vaporized by mist. A long-antlered man screamed from a pyramid as the dead rushed around him through knee-deep snows.

“I became a scourge to many, mortal and walker alike, all in the name of revenge-”

Ravidel himself stood on a rise before a collection of figures, brandishing a chained bowl. A red-haired man was struck dead by Ravidel’s magics. A freckled woman trudged through a dark forest. A man in a turban assaulted a minotaur with magics, and was in turn cut down by a golden-haired figure wearing dark glasses. Szat screamed in a dome of glass as electricity cooked his flesh.

“-and all for naught. Did my campaign of vengeance bring my friend back from the dead? It did not. I accomplished nothing against the ‘walkers I saw as having manipulated me, other than to hurt the ones who once wished to help me. Faralyn got himself killed like a buffoon the moment he made it out of the Shard. Tevesh Szat evaded me for centuries, only to die at the hands of some greasy-fingered tinkerer. Taysir and I sealed Leshrac away for a time, but by then my hatred...my bitterness had a mind all its own. It had become so core to my being that I could not put it aside, and I embraced means that made me indistinguishable from the walkers I had sworn vengeance upon at my sparking.”

Ravidel closed his eyes. “So it was that the cycles of vengeance claimed me, and used me to perpetuate further misery.”

Vaash snorted. "And let me guess - it all starts with one bad decision. A decision to chase vengeance."

Ravidel nodded. “It starts with a compromise. A bending of your principals, justified with the belief in the good of your ends. Then another compromise, allowed because two compromises cannot possibly be that worse than one. Then, eventually, comes a complete break from your principals, once you are well and invested in your ends. Before you know it, a snowdrift of compromises have buried the ruins of whoever you once were.”

“So what’s the solution?” Vaash spread her hands. “Never risk compromise? Never retaliate against the wicked?”

“Not at all. A better way is to be honest, and to not fool yourself when a compromise comes. When you break with your ideals, acknowledge the break, and reassess yourself. Otherwise you’ll have no idea what you’ve become. You won’t understand that you are fundamentally a different person, and in trying to reconcile the self with the lost ideal, you will lose yourself further.”

“Easy enough. I promise to assess whether I am at peace with killing Leshrac.” Vaash stared at Ravidel for two and a fraction of a second. “Done. I have decided to proceed.”

Ravidel shook his head. “Whether or not you make that honest assessment of yourself, you’ll still have changed. You’ll still have become the you who makes the compromises vengeance demands, and even if you make peace with that person, the rest of the world must now contend with them. The person you are now, or the person who compromises. You can’t be two people at once.”

“What if I want it both ways?” Vaash drew her hand in a line through the space between Ravidel and herself. Five spears of mossy light bloomed around her. A moment later, a second Vaash stood on the rise beside her, skin glowing with green veins. “Who says I must choose between the Vaash I am and the Vaash who takes vengeance? Why must it be an inherently corrupting process?” She cut another line, and a third Vaash appeared, this one trailing wisps of black smoke.

The green Vaash nodded. “Who says it is even vengeance? That is your word, and Jodah’s. Can I not simply be a responsible mage who cleans up after her own messes?”

“Everything we do changes us, Vaash Vroga.” Ravidel clenched his fist, and the ring above pulsed with fresh power. Overhead, the red-haired man knelt before a black horse with a flaming mane. The turban-clad man spied on the freckled woman from before, as Ravidel whispered into his ear. A young man with long black hair raised a sword above a fallen archer, screaming in rage. A bronze-skinned woman poured fiery magic into a burly elf, who spasmed in pain. “One does not pursue a creature like Leshrac, or even the shadow of Leshrac, without risk to oneself and others. Inherently self-altering risk. Did you not compromise yourself significantly in your pursuits for artifacts to feed to Leshrac’s mantle?”

The black Vaash crossed her arms. “It seemed a better path than nourishing the mantle with the breath of orphans.”

“And yet look at what you did do. Destabilizing Zendikar. Attacking your fellow ‘walkers.”

“Walkers who did not care to understand-”

“And Shiv? Were your actions there the work of the ambitious, high-minded mage who wishes to free the planes of tyranny?”

The black Vaash’s eyes fell to the ground. “That...was a compromise. A bad one.”

“A man like Deniz-”

“I know!” Vaash herself interrupted. “I know and I regret it! I told myself he was Benalish. That his people also fight against the Cabal. I saw them as allies, and I thought his intervention on Shiv would be beneficial for their...”

She tapered off as Ravidel raised an eyebrow.

“...it was a compromise.” She turned to face the beach and the sea. A trail of smoke was blowing off the children’s fire, swept inland and up the slope below them, where the warm breeze from inland carried it back over the sands and the waves. “One of many. There was power to be gained in having an ally who controls the mana rig. Enough perhaps to power the mantle without hunting artifacts on other planes.”

“It must have been quite the burden, keeping the mantle fed.” Ravidel lowered his ringed hand. “What was that like? The hunger of the mantle? Of Leshrac?”

“At first? Not much at all. I fed his mantle because sustenance for it meant power for me. A pool of energy. Easier spellcasting. A sort of intuition that helped me develop my own casting. But after a while...” Vaash grimaced. “...it became worse than hunger. Worse than any thirst, or the need to breathe, even. I would have cut the throat out of my own mother if it meant staving off the pain the mantle’s cravings caused me.”

She looked over at Ravidel. “Still, I told myself it was better than feeding on others. Better than sucking the breath out of children to keep the mantle...to keep Leshrac sated.”

“When did he take control?”

“He didn’t...” Vaash paused. “That is, there was no one moment. It’s not like I became a puppet or anything like that, it’s just that feeding the mantle became its own end. That’s how bad the ‘hunger’ was. One day on Zendikar I woke up, and instead of feeling an intuitive guidance from the mantle, it was whispering directions into my ear.” She clenched both her fists. “I could have not listened, maybe. But I’d lived so long feeding the mantle at that point that, well...” She trailed off. “Let’s just say it’s good Ral and his mystery friend stopped me when they did.”

“It’s the cycle.” Ravidel said. He said it like that was all there was to say. “The Breathstealers wronged you. The Cabal wrongs your homeland. And in your efforts to right those wrongs, you have spread the cursed cycle of wrongs wider still. The only solution can be this: Remove yourself from the cycle, and feed it no longer.”

Vaash and both her copies were silent. Green looked down at her feet, scowling. Black gazed off into the sky, arms folded and face blank. Vaash herself regarded Ravidel. He had his clenched fist raised, and one foot resting on a rock. His breath was slow and steady, his belly swelling and contracting with each breath. He might have looked grand, posed as he was, if she weren’t completely certain it was all just a display. The emerald ring on his finger was glowing a conspicuous degree brighter than the others.

“Do you like the person you are, Ravidel?”

Ravidel blinked. “I...what?”

“Would you say that you like yourself? As you are now?”

“I am proud of what I am,” Ravidel said. “Of what I have made of myself, considering my past. He gestured toward the children, who were cooking their catch over the fire, surprisingly uninterested in the magics happening above their heads. “Where once I ruined lives, broke homes, now I provide preservation of both. A whole plane, safe and peaceful, for the orphans I left in my wake, and for their descendants.

“And for myself, I have found that, removed from the cycle of vengeance, I have had time to find out who ‘Ravidel’ is. I am a powerful mage, yes but also a cultivator. A builder. A provider for many. I have found peace, humility, and an appreciation for my place as a walker of the planes.”

“You found humility?” Green Vaash raised an eyebrow, eyes on the battlemage’s impossibly gleaming garments.

He shrugged, spreading his arms. "I found out Ravidel is someone who enjoys a bit of theatricality, and grandeur. I like that about myself as well."

“And would you be who you are now, if you hadn’t done all those things? If you had not fallen into the cycle of vengeance? If you had not learned all you know now from the mistakes you made?”

Ravidel’s arms faltered, falling a few inches. He pursed his lips. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t be. Still, I would excise those years of my life from existence, if I could. All those lives lost, people killed...were they worth it for one mage to become a better man?”

Vaash stared at him, and shrugged.

“Yes,” Ravidel said, smiling sadly. “Fair enough.” He looked at Vaash and each of her simalcra in turn. “I suppose we live with all versions of ourselves at all times, don’t we?”

Vaash shrugged again.

Ravidel took his foot from the stone, and sighed. “Taysir told me once, back when he deigned to be my mentor, that the people of old Yotia believed we have many souls. Many selves throughout the many stages our lives. They believed the good would be judged separately from the bad. Redemption and ascension for part of the self, punishment for the rest.”

Green Vaash laughed. A rough, harsh sound. “Sounds like a fiction to comfort the repentant wicked.”

“Perhaps,” Ravidel sighed, “but Taysir took comfort in it, I think, when he abandoned his interplanar questing and settled down to live apart and in peace. His own nature was such that a belief system built around a multiplicity of souls must have felt natural. I find myself taking comfort in it in my twilight years...and who's to say? Gods, immortals, afterlives; I’ve seen a dozen different belief systems play out before my eyes on a dozen different planes. It’s hard to fully be a skeptic.”

“Being a planeswalker is a great cure for skepticism,” black Vaash muttered.

Ravidel laughed. “Agreed.”

Vaash’s response faltered on her lips as a fork of lightning speared the sea, far out at the horizon line. The sky had grown quite a bit darker since they’d left the sand for the grasses, but the bolt illuminated the landscape like a flicker of sunlight.

Another spear of lightning flashed across the sky seconds later. Then another and another.

Another.

Another, far too rapid in succession to be natural. Vaash looked over at Ravidel. He nodded, and put up a hand, but his eyes were fixed on the crackling horizon. She bit her lip, but turned to face the sea, and inhaled. The green and black Vaashes flowed back into her.

The children were likewise transfixed, but weren’t retreating. A few of them had actually walked closer to the shore, skewers of roasted seafood in hand, though they stayed well clear of the waterline.

All the while the lightning riddled the distance with lines of power.

Just when Vaash thought the noise and the light could not grow any more overwhelming, the horizon fell dark and silent.

But just for a moment.

A dragon flashed into being over the sea. Then again. And again. It took three strobes for Vaash to realize the dragon was not real, but a sculpture of electricity, soaring toward the shore, roaring with the blast of thunder. By a trick of light, its scales appeared to be solid chrome, reflecting the sea and the clouds.

It rushed the shore, blinking in and out of being with millisecond rapidity, wings wide.

Closer it came. Closer still, until Vaash thought it would tear through the sky overhead. Just as it reached three hundred yards from the waterline, the dragon reared up, wings and limbs spread in a triumphant display. There was another, booming roar-

-and then silence.

The sky was empty once again, save for the undulating blanket of stormclouds.

The children lost no time in cheering and jumping about the sand. It was odd, Vaash thought as she watched them. The bolts never actually touched the water.

“A tribute to a friend,” Ravidel whispered, hoarse. “A little vanity built into the structure of the plane back when I had the power for such things.”

“Was he fond of dragons, this friend of yours?”

Ravidel tilted his head as if considering the question, then let out a soft laugh.

“You know, one could make a convincing argument that he was not. His name was ‘Rhuell.’ As in, ‘to rule.’ An ironic name for one who spent so much of his life in servitude.” Ravidel closed his hand. The ring of mana above them collapsed into his fist and was extinguished. Raindrops, minute pinpricks of coolness in the still-warm air, dotted Vaash’s face and arms.

The wind slowed from bellow to whistle, a warm whip across the skin.

“I’d welcome you to stay here a while,” Ravidel said. “To think over vengeance before you take it. The planes will carry along fine in your absence. All our schemes and plots spilling out from world to world? It isn’t natural, and it isn’t beneficial.”

“Natural?” Vaash laughed, swinging her hand out over the ocean and the children. “None of this is natural. A world with engineered weather? A world peopled by transplanted citizens? Only a planeswalker could do such a thing, and you cannot tell me it is not an especially slick patch on the slippery slope of abusing godhood.”

Ravidel grimaced. Not quite a flinch, but the closest thing to it Vaash had seen from him. “It would be impossible for me to do more than this now, with the nature of the multiverse so changed by the Mending-”

“You’ve made a dollhouse that will fall apart as soon as you are gone from the multiverse. An irresponsible decision even when you were a true immortal, and downright ruinous now that the Mending has come and done its ravaging work upon the nature of the spark.”

“I’m trying!” Ravidel snapped back. His brow furrowed. Just a fraction, but it was the most agitation he’d shown so far. “Do you think I haven’t considered the fragility of this place? It weighs on my every moment. Not a day goes by that I do not plumb my prowess and knowledge for a way to preserve it past my passing. I do not mean to be Ravidel the careless, any more than I wish to again be Ravidel the cruel. Ravidel the callous and hateful.”

“That’s my point. A walker does not have to be cruel or hateful or vengeful to be a danger to the multiverse.”

“I am more at peace with the multiverse than-”

“Peace!” Vaash laughed. “Don’t kid yourself, Ravidel. We ‘walkers can never be at peace with the multiverse. We are an aberration. Intruders by nature. Every trip we take through the eternities is an affront to the nature of existence. A man might tread cautiously through the swamp, but still he will trouble the fish with his movement and crush the snails underfoot.”

She cut off, breathing measured, but deep. Ravidel grimaced, and said nothing.

“But,” Vaash said, after a moment, “it is not a terrible thing. What you have done here. I think it admirable in its aims, overall. I would commend you for it on another day, when my temper does not run so hot. But what I will not do is nod along with you and pretend that your sort of meddling is less a danger to the planes than mine.”

“I keep myself to this plane now. I have left the rest of it to be as it will.”

“As it will?” Vaash’s nostrils flared. “And how exactly do you think it will be, left all alone? Sunshine and freedom for all, now that big, bad Ravidel has graciously decided to rampage no longer?”

Ravidel, clenched his jaw. “I acknowledge I am not the only danger out in the multiverse, but by leaving my own vengeance behind-”

“It is not better to leave the cycle behind than to remain.” Vaash snapped. Her saproling, which had gone to huddle in the taller grasses when the lightning began, scurried over for her to sit upon. “Power not used for good out in the multiverse is power that might as well have been snuffed out. Was it not a great tragedy when your actions removed more benevolent planeswalkers from the world? Or when Lord Windgrace gave his life to preserve the nature of reality itself? Tell me, how did it help the multiverse at large when Taysir went into seclusion and hermitage? Doesn’t the inability of such powerful beings to do good throughout the multiverse tear at your heart? And would the outcome not be the same if they had just disappeared to a pocket plane, never to be seen again except to lecture at-”

“Lord Windgrace was just as much an isolationist as I when he lived-”

“-And now he can never be anything else!” Vaash snapped. “Your question before, if your growth was worth the cost of your sins – it’s the wrong way of looking at things altogether. Nature does not care about moral equity. What is done has been done. Maybe you’ve become a better person, but it’s of no benefit to the multiverse if you stay here, closed off from it.”

“Be careful how much you presume the multiverse needs people like us.” Ravidel extended a hand toward the storm. “Despite the many ills that ravage it…” He gestured toward the fields, where fireflies drifted through the grass “...the denizens of the planes will endure.”

“Yes,” Vaash replied, “But I would rather they endure without tyrants than with. With fewer storms and calamities.”

“An answer for everything.” Ravidel let his hand fall.

“Yes. This is a conversation, isn’t it?”

Ravidel opened his mouth as if to respond, but seemed to think better of it. He exhaled instead, still loud and abrupt, and sat back down upon the stone.

“It is that. I forget myself.” He inclined his head, and gestured at Vaash. “Please.”

“All belief and magic comes from nature, and all nature is about the cycle. The cycle of wrongs and responses is as natural to human intercourse as the predator-prey system. There’s no escaping the cycles, at least not for the planebound. Even the gods must live within them the best they can.” Vaash clenched her fist. “You’ve made me realize something. As walkers, don’t we have a privileged position? A rare perspective on the cycles? Of life and death, vengeance and kindness? How can you tell me it is good to remove ourselves from the cycles when our privilege makes us among the few who can ease the suffering of those within?”

Ravidel stared at her, though by the way he worked his jaw, he did appear to be considering her words.

At last he smiled.

“The green mage wishes for harmony, and black mage will do anything to achieve their ends...together...peace at any cost.”

Vaash frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Ravidel chuckled “Just thinking about some blowhard old friends. Antiquated theories on the colors of magic. I’m not sure how much stock I put in them anymore. We used to be very old-fashioned about spellcasting.”

“Old indeed,” Vaash shrugged. “The magic of the forest and fen are closer than most mages imagine. On most planes it’s just the ratio of mulch and moisture.”

Ravidel nodded, slow. “The same tree that drinks sunlight above casts darkness below its leaves.”

Vaash grimaced. “Yes.” She flexed her fingers, and a five-pointed fork of moss and mud-colored light jabbed up into the space in front of her face. The spikes of light twisted into a spiral, and collapsed again into a single point over her palm. “Many cycles at work. And these… ‘colors,’ as you put it, are not always what they seem.”

He nodded, first at Vaash, and then toward the fields, glowing the fireflies. “Do you know, they call them ‘lightning bugs’ in some places? Fire...lighting...the very soul of the red mage, yet I’ve yet to find the pyromancer or lightning mage who have ever called such creatures to their aid. I suppose lightning bugs make for poor combatants.” He raised an eyebrow at Vaash.

“We summon for reasons other than combat,” Vaash returned.

“We do that,” Ravidel acknowledged with a smile. “I have considered your rebuttal, and I think us perhaps both wrong.”

Vaash raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So an old dog can still ponder new tricks?”

“To stay in the cycle and let it buffet us about is beneath a walker. Even if we see the cycles for what they are.” Ravidel opened his hand. His rings glowed, faintly, but there was no display of light this time. “But to abandon it is, as you suggest, a waste of our potential. We can be proactive in our good as much as in our wickedness. More so, if we are willing to be selfless.”

“I say we must still be careful about assuming a direct outcome between good intentions and good outcomes,” Vaash offered. “My vengeance against Leshrac has much to offer the multiverse. My vengeance might do more good and save more lives than the high intentions of most other powerful ‘walkers.”

“So what do we do then, young blood?”

“You seem to have all the answers, old man.”

Ravidel stood, and clapped his hands together. “We cannot leave the cycle, and it make no difference to simply remain.” He began to pace the grasses.

Vaash pivoted in her seat to follow his pacing. “So we guide the cycle.”

“We influence it the best we can.” Ravidel pounded a fist into his hand. “Use our knowledge having been tossed about by the cycle to determine how to best spin to the ends of peace. Perhaps find an equilibrium where those within the cycles do not just survive, but thrive.”

Vaash nodded. “Remove the worst elements to keep the cycle from spinning out of control. Elements like Leshrac.”

“Yes, like Leshrac.”

“Agreed on all points.” Vaash tapped the hilt of her sword. “Not a conclusion I would think it’d take centuries to arrive at, but agreed.”

“I don’t talk much with other travelers these days. The mind stagnates when left alone.” Ravidel stopped in place. The winds were picking up again. The fireflies were going to ground once more. “It will be dangerous, chasing Leshrac. There will be risk and a great danger of collateral damage if not handled carefully. It would be completely understandable if you preferred to leave this task to me.”

“Fuck off, old man. I am the one allowing you to accompany me in this endeavor.”

“...very well. I’d hoped I could be an instructor to you, but perhaps you’ve got a thing or two to teach me as well.” Ravidel waved his hands, and his garments transformed. His tunic turned to leather armour, and his cloak to a cape of crimson.

Vash grinned. “There we go. I won’t call you ‘Battlemage’ if you truly loath the title, but I’m happy to see you looking the part again.”

“You have quite formidable allies already, Vaash Vroga.” Ravidel clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the edge of the rise. The children had returned to the fire to eat their catch. A few had finished and were playing some sort of dancing game on the sand “I ask again, are you quite certain you want one like me in your life. Not just to offer my advice, but to strive alongside?”

“Ral has been an agreeable companion, and Jodah a useful contact. Now, I need an ally with fangs, and a willingness to draw blood with those fangs.”

“This has been a serendipitous meeting then.”

“Serendipitous, sure. If we will be working together, you should know I make my own luck.”

Ravidel blinked. He hadn’t done much of that, even with the storm winds battering them.

“How do you mean?”

“You said it yourself: you are one of a very few people alive who know Leshrac. Who can speak to his person and power from personal experience. Who would have a reason to go after him, as I would like to. Jodah in turn is one of the few people alive with the longevity to have known a person like you. It stands that, if I indicated an interest in pursuing Leshrac, he might draw you in as a resource.”

Ravidel stared at Vaash. His mouth was agape by a sliver of an inch; somewhere between amused and aghast. The two warred a moment, before he smiled.

“I appreciate the honesty, though I grow warier of you with every surprise you throw my way.”

“Good. If I am to learn from you, I would rather you be on your guard.” Vaash returned Ravidel’s smile. “If you are still willing.”

“Don’t underestimate me.” Ravidel smirked at Vaash. “I’ve years of practice at manipulating mentors to my own ends. I’m on the lookout for your tricks.”

“Don’t you worry about me; I’m not an aspiring megalomaniac.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I hope you will not take too much offense when I say you have the perfect cadence and bearing to become one.” He raised his brow. “I have some expertise in this area, you understand, having studied a few up close over the centuries.”

Vaash raised an eyebrow. “Thank Windgrace you didn’t pick up any of their bad habits.”

Ravidel laughed at that. Really laughed, a cackle that cut through the growing bluster of the storm. A madman’s laugh, no mistaking it, but Vaash found it oddly comforting.

“I try to limit myself to their good habits these days. For example: I would be following Taysir’s path to the letter if I took on a protege.”

“Taysir is dead, if I recall my history correctly. He and his protege.”

Ravidel shook his head. “He is my model, not my destiny. I have my own path to walk.”

“Nothing is foreconcluded,” Vaash ventured. 

“Very green of you,” Ravidel said with a smirk. He stepped back from the ledge. "I would ask one thing of you, at the outset of our partnership here."

"What would that be?"

"If we do this...once its over...while it's underway...I want you to think long and hard about who Vaash Vroga is, and what she wants for herself, should she ever allow herself to rest." He held out a hand. "Agreeable?"

"Tolerable," Vaash clapped hands with him, and they shook. "I look forward to getting to know both of us."

"Indeed."

“And when we find what remains of Leshrac, will you be kind to him, as you have been to me? Is rehabilitation on the menu for the walker of the night?”

Ravidel laughed. “There is more difference between his wickedness and yours than there is difference from a drop of water and the core of the sun.”

Vaash paused. “...and what is the difference between your past evils and his?”

"Hm..." Ravidel tilted his head one way, then another. “My rehabilitation was a rare bolt of lightning shot through the eternities.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”

“I just might. Regardless, I would not count on such a turnaround happening lightly.”

Vaash snorted. “Sounds solipsistic.”

Ravidel grinned. “It is.” He spread his arms at the sea and hills around them. “But much of my life has been similarly self-centered.” He laughed again, and Vaash found herself chuckling as well. The air was still warm, but now thicker droplets of cool water were beginning to pepper them, wetting her face and bare forearms.

“Arcades’ Scales, that’s a nice feeling,” Ravidel remarked as the laughter faded to a chuckle. He had his face upturned to the sky.

“You’re breathing wrong.”

“Hm?” Ravidel turned to look at Vaash sidelong.

Vaash drew in a long breath, letting her chest swell slowly. She gestured at her breast. “Expand as you inhale-”

She let it out, whistling into the wind. “Draw in as you let your breath go. Let your chest rise and your lungs fill. Your lungs, not your belly.”

Ravidel copied her for several repetitions. “Hm. The benefit being?”

“Oxygen gets into the blood; you’ll live longer, old man.” She smirked at him. “And waste less time on spells of vigor.” She nodded her chin at his emerald ring, which still glinted brighter than the others.

Ravidel snorted. “Impudent. You’ll make a fine protege.” He breathed in and out again, with a thoughtful grimace. “And is this a technique of…?”

“Just good practice in many cultures, on many planes.” Vaash turned back to the sea, and nodded. "But yes, learned in Urborg.” She let the weight put on ‘Urborg’ say what her words did not.

“A lesson learned can be put to good use no matter the source,” Ravidel said. “I heard that once, but in my old age, I can’t quite remember where from.”

Vaash snorted. The rain water had soaked her hair by now, and warm trickles of water were pouring down her neck and face.

It did feel tremendous. She allowed herself a smile.

A laugh.

Ravidel howled in turn. Their laughter melded with the rumble of thunder. The whistle of the storm wind. The laughter of the children on the beach.

They both sounded quite manic.

But it takes a bit of mania to change the world.

[allebooklover]

Thoughts about future Class 1-A:

In chapter 357, Endeavor was thinking about Shouto’s future, and this image popped up. It’s his vision of what he hopes future!Todoroki’s path would be like (that he’s surrounded by friends who support him), I guess, but I think it’s Horikoshi’s way of giving us a sneak preview of what the kids future selves might be like - one possible iteration of them, anyway.

Stuff I found really interesting about this:

Shoto:

• Shoto’s hair is more ruffled and cut shorter and spikier.

• his hero costume has mostly stayed the same as his high school one, but the collar has three lines through it resembling the one he wore during the raid in the world heroes mission movie. There’s some kind of latch thing at the left side of his collar - the lines function as both aesthetic and buttons to keep the collar shut?

• his wrist gear is more compact, like exercise wrist bands instead of taking up most of his forearms. The metal bits are more sleek. The cloth provides soft protection to his wrists to prevent chafing from the metal bits? Either way it looks good on him.

• he’s got more stuff attached to his belt. Looks a little like canisters. Nice to know he’s added more rescue material to his outfit.

Deku:

• Deku’s cape is longer, and there’s a line drawn at the halfway point of the cape that sits near his waist. Implies color change or a mantle? Either way I find it pretty neat that he maintains his homage to Gran Torino while also making it his own.

• also look at the bunny ears on top of the cape, behind his neck. Looks like he’s still got his homage to All Might in his costume.

Kirishima:

• Kirishima! Silhouettes a lot better - his pant skirt has grown longer and fuller, reaching down to his ankles instead of his knees, and I think there’s some kinda fur overlay, if that white stuff is fur and not like, ragged white additional trimming attached to the overlay.

• The gear shoulder pauldrons he’s got on has changed, extending two rods behind his back like Iida’s thrusters.

• can’t tell if his hair has grown into a mullet, or if it’s still the same hairstyle he has currently. Either way it’s interesting that the shape of it is less spiky than what he’s currently sporting. The spikes I can see are shaped towards his back, much like the pauldrons. That said there’s still a little spike up top, so I guess he’s still keeping his homage to Mina. Also his hair is still dyed.

• mask thing has changed from the dinosaur skeletal structure he’s got on his face into a visor that hides the upper part of his face from view. Makes him look more intimidating, I guess?

Momo:

• Momo my love. Her outfit has changed from full back to backless, sort of like a halter top, and closes up near the waist. A good adjustment to her costume considering big stuff seems to spawn from her back. Too bad she loses the cape, it suits her.

• we don’t see her front so we can imagine anything, but I like to think she’s got an easily bared midrif so that she can produce things easier. By easily bared I mean a piece of cloth that can be opened and pinned back like a window for easier access, that functions as a pocket/hidden from villain’s view area for produced items.

• From what we see of one leg - she might’ve gotten knee length boots? Either that or it’s shading.

• either her encyclopedia has gotten smaller, or she’s got everything memorised so she doesn’t need it anymore, leaving the belt as a pocket holder of sorts.

Bakugo:

• He’s got lit dynamite fuses for his mask now. That’s surprisingly cute. Symbolizes he’s got more control over his temper?

• It’s probably just shading for shadows, but it looks like he has a buzz cut underneath the mask.

• arm blasters no longer look like grenades - they’re more cannon-like now. They look more like modern grenades.

• dude has more stuff attached to his thighs. I dunno what it is, maybe item holders like bandages? More grenade capsules? Either way it adds to the military look he’s got going on. They’re crossed too - additional representation of the X symbol on his chest.

• wait, is the mask lit fuses his own somewhat subtle homage to all Might’s spiky hair?

Iida:

• biggest change is his legs - the white bits look like cowboy chaps, and his leg engines are huger. The boots on the other hand are tighter, giving the silhouette of ‘baggy pants tucked into boots’.

• the decorations he’s got on the back of his upper body looks like the number 8. Probably not intentional since it looks like back decoration mufflers facing each other, but if it is, does that mean he’s the 8th generation of Iida’s to bear the name Ingenium?

Ochako

• boots are big. Super big. They’re the most noticeable part of her outfit in this shot.

• she keeps her gauntlets and adds a circle pouch thingie at the back of her belt - do they help her Quirk, adds onto the gauntlet, or function as a bag?

Tsuyu:

• we don’t see much of her, but she keeps her hairstyle and the back of her outfit is white.

• she’s slightly ahead of the rest - implying she’s closest to an ideal hero amongst her peers? But this is from Endeavor’s pov, so - more competent than the rest?

Misc:

• Look at Shoto. He’s closest to the camera, and his back is facing the viewer, and his position implied he’s taking a step towards his friends, who are a little ways in front of him. A glowing bright light that’s facing the camera illuminates them.

• Also not shown in the pic but there’s a line attached to that image: “so that when those kids walk that path… my past won’t stand in the way.” And before that line there’s a whole lot of stuff about the future being a path for the young. This is from endeavor’s viewpoint, so he’s the one who’s thinking those lines.

• main interpretation is that he’s determined to not let his mistakes hurt his kids, and the other kids futures. Endeavor doesn’t want his mistakes to block their way towards a brighter, better future.

• more interesting interpretation: Shoto is facing away from the viewer, towards a blinding light. If we assume that the viewer is the narrator, aka Endeavor, then one way to interpret this is Shoto stepping away from Endeavor (and his traumatic past), towards a better future in which he has people that will support him instead of tear him down. And that Endeavor views this as a good thing - the best thing Shoto can do. Considering his douchebag behavior at the beginning of the series, it’s good to see that growth.

• look at the positions of future!class 1A. Bakugo is the one closest in position to Shoto, followed by Deku. Ochako, Iida, Momo and Kirishima make up the next line. Tsuyu is slightly ahead of the rest, and I can’t tell who the next person is since we only see their legs, but I’m assuming it’s also a member of class 1A and the rest of them are out of the picture and waiting.

• Bakugo and Deku are facing forward, but have twisted their upper bodies to look back towards Shoto. They’ve got both feet planted on the ground. Are they waiting for Shoto to catch up?

• Also despite being physically closer to Shoto, Bakugo is 3/4 turned to the side and his face is in a side profile, while Deku is turned fully to the side and has a full face profile. Origin trio feels.

• Kirishima is also looking back at them - from his position and line of sight it looks like he’s either looking at Bakugo, or Shoto. Probably both. Also considering his posture—hands on hips, half turned, foot rising off the ground but not entirely as if he’s in the middle of stepping forward—he’s in the middle of taking a step towards the future like the rest of his classmates, but just like Deku and Bakugo, is looking back to make sure they (Bakugo and Shoto) are catching up. (The Kiribaku shipper part of me is screeching with joy)

• closeness indicates level of emotional connection? Same for looking back. Even in that hypothesized future, Deku shows concern for Shoto, with Bakugo (and maybe Kirishima), showing their concern as well.

• sort of hard to notice but we can see a bit of Momo’s face. She looks like she’s talking to Iida.

• Something I find really interesting is that Ochako, Tsuyu, Iida and Momo are looking and walking forward towards the light, while Kirishima is walking forward but looking back at Shoto and Bakugo, and Bakugo and Deku have paused their walk and are looking back towards Shoto. Not only does it imply that they’re way ahead in reaching the golden future they desire unimpeded, but it’s also… the ones who aren’t looking back, they trust that Shoto will catch up to them. The ones who do look back hold that same trust, and look back to confirm that he’s catching up to them. And with the way they stopped walking, they’ll wait for him to catch up to them if needed so that they can continue walking towards that desired future together. Gives me the feels.

• also look at the way they’re grouped. Ochako, Tsuyu Iida and Midoriya are close together, bc they’re friends. If read left to right, the next person we see from Ochako is Tsuyu. Even in the future they’re paired up, dawww. Momo is also talking to Iida, implying that they’ve grown closer thanks to their class representative positions. Ochako is walking alongside Iida, with Deku standing a bit behind but inbetween them, symbolizing how he brought them together. And then there’s Bakugo, who’s near the center but standing alone, only the one closest to him and on the right is Kirishima, whose posture is relaxed and waiting, symbolizing that Kirishima is Bakugo’s closest friend. And all of them are loosely grouped together, symbolizing their bonds, and since Shoto is walking up towards them, also shows that he’s a part of those bonds. It’s super cute.

[spaceselkie]

I broke down how I would go about making Dimitri's new winter alt because I'm completely normal about it and not obsessed with him at all. (Also my spouse already emotionally committed to winter Felix and the designs match well).

I thought I would share because designs with a lot going on can be intimidating to break down, but going layer by layer and thinking about what makes sense for the garment helps me and is helpful to do if you get stuck or overwhelmed.

This one is on my list for AWA 2024, since it will be in December (and as much as I'd love to go to Holmat, there is no way my queer ass is going to Florida any time soon). I can't start this until I finish dancer Dimi and I'm still in goldwork hell for that.

(I forgot his pants so further detail about that and also a breakdown of the layers more concretely below the cut).

Here's the most informative referece images we're working with (first one is just the clean version of the one above):

Starting with the inner most layer to outermost (because I think that's the most straightforward):

1) The Pants

There are a lot of options here, depending on what you're going for. It's cold in Faerghus so if you're going for most appropriate options, you'd want to make these out of a heavier fabric. They're not skin tight (you can see this in the second image more clearly), so I personally will stay away from stretchy leggings, but I don't think that would matter much aesthetically if that is your preference. You could also match these to the jacket material, but I personally don't want to make velvet pants. A nice, heavier cotton or linen would probably do the job nicely here. A heavier cotton blend knit would be a good choice, with an elastic waistband (basically you'd be making sweatpants). If you do a nonstretch, you don't have to go with an elastic waistband, but consider how easy it is to reach your closure for things like bathroom breaks. There is a seam (maybe a pleat?) on the front of the legs so that is something to pay attention to if you're going for maximum accuracy. I'd make this a seam on the stretch pants. I'd make these pants capri length so that there is enough to fit under the knee armor and top of the boot so it stays, but there isn't excess bulk in the lower boot, and probably finish the end of the legs with an elastic cuff like some sweat pants are finished. Pockets are unnecessary for this layer because you really can't get them under the layers.

2) The Boots

I'd buy a pair of knee high black boots with a very short heel. You could make boot covers, but I'd only do that if you had a hard time matching the finish. These don't look like suede to me, these seem like a smooth black leather/faux leather. The heels you could leave alone (they just won't 100% match), or paint gold. I tend to scuff up heels that I paint, so if you go that route make sure to be prepared to touch them up occasionally. The cuff with the fur I would add as a separate piece, trying to match the leather texture as much as possible. You could glue or sew this on (probably by hand) to the base boot, or make it removable with something like velcro. I'd personally just attach it permanently, since you have to add the stars on anyway, and I'm not likely to make those a temporary attachment, though you could. For the fur, you can get some fur trim, or use the same fabric as the cape and fur mantle. I'll touch on construction of the stars later, since they match the ones on the coat, but I'd just glue these onto the boot with a good glue (E6000 would be my first choice). Not every glue works for every material so you may want to experiment. Other options that might work would be contact cement or loctite (which makes a pleather glue).

3) The Knee Armor

I'd go with EVA foam for these. You could use worbla for additional sturdiness if you wanted, or even 3D print these if you'd rather model them yourself... but the foam may help with movement, as it will give where plastic will not. These will be sturdy enough though with a thicker EVA foam (5 mm?), with thinner layers for the upper ones. The accents I would make with a thinner foam and as the top layer. It looks like these are 3 layers to me (4 with the details). They remind me of Byleth's knee armor on the Enlightened One, which I have worn and can attest to them being very stable with just craft foam. Honestly I would just attach these to the cuff at the bottom, and add some strapping behind the knee that can open with snaps or velcro for maximum stability. You could also add a snap onto the pants at the front of the knee for extra security as well.

4) The Tunic

This is the blue layer under the red coat. It has a slit in the side seam (you can see it in the second picture) - make sure you keep that for mobility if nothing else. I'd make this out of a fabric that has a sheen, as it looks like it does in the art. If you wanted to be really indulgent, you could use a silk of some kind (I think you could use smooth or textured, depending on the aesthetic you were going for). I'd probably go for a nice cotton (a cotton sateen would be very appropriate), since this cosplay will be hot and that will help with breathability. A dull poly satin would also work in a pinch, or maybe even a crepe back satin. Lots of options here, I'd just go with nonstretch. Since this will be covered, you have options for neckline and sleeves. I think it would be a good idea to have sleeves, since the coat, depending on material, could rub. For the gold motif at the bottom, you have lots of options too. You could use heat n bond with a gold satin to make an applique, or you could use a vinyl fabric for an applique. You could do beading here. Iron on vinyl would also work (I'd go with the shiny metallic one). I'd just make sure this is shiny, ideally shinier than the tunic fabric. This is a festive costume after all, you can bling it up. I'd only worry about the front panel. You can ignore the back since it won't be seen.

5) The Coat

I really think this should be made out of a sturdy, nonstretch velvet (probably one of the home decor velvets). An alternative would be microsuede. Based on the art, I think some kind of nice sherpa would be best for the fuzzy edges, to contrast with the fur on the cape. The brown belts I would just make out of a pleather, with snap or hook and eye closures on one side. The stars, since I said I would talk about those (this applies to the ones on the shoes too), I would do out of foam, worbla, a combo of those two, or 3d print. I'll probably 3d print these since I have it on good authority that I'm getting one for Christmas this year. The gold lines at the sleeves and bottom you could do as a satin applique, beading, vinyl, or some combination. Iron on vinyl may or may not work with the velvet, you'd want to test that. I'd probably use a gold satin bias tape for the edge at the front of the coat, I think that would be the easiest thing and would look the nicest for that part.

6) The belt

This would have a secret closure at the front for ease of getting on and off without having to undo the belt. I'd interface the hell out of a red fabric (probably a satin, cotton/cotton sateen, maybe velvet), and add an applique of the green at the edges (or bias tape). I'd make the tassels out of a fine metallic thread or floss, personally. You probably want to stiffen these so they stay nice and clean. The star I'll talk about with the mantle. Metallic pieces on the belt would be a combination of foam, worbla, and/or 3d printing.

7) The Breastplate

My spouse has already made a breastplate almost exactly like this, thankfully. I'll be making this out of EVA foam, 10 mm for the larger layer and 5 mm for the bottom (which will probably just be attached at the bottom edge of the 10 mm layer so there is less bulk to worry about). The details would be a thin foam. It looks like the top motif is probably a fleur de lis. The chest star, which mimics his timeskip armor in houses, looks like it is convex rather than concave, so I'd make this out of foam and maybe fill in the underside with something just for structure. The plate itself would work like a reverse backpack, with buckles that would attach at the back to keep it sturdy. When I work on this I'll upload a picture of the breastplate my spouse made for reference.

8) The Scarf

I'd match this to the cape liner or the tunic fabric, so go for something with a slight sheen. The gold details I'd iron on or applique, and potentially add some coordinating rhinestones for sparkle's sake.

9) The Cape

The big, fluffy cape. I think the outside should be made from a heftier fabric, probably a microsuede. This would drape nicely and match the overall aesthetic of the costume. The liner I would match to the tunic or the scarf, so some kind of satin or sateen. I would probably go for the iron on vinyl for the stars of the liner, but you could do the satin applique strategy.... but that's a LOT of satin stitching to finish edges. Applique would work better for the stars at the bottom of the outside. You could also incorporate beads and/or rhinestones. This is festive after all... I'd get a nice fake fur for the edge, which you can match to the furry mantle.

10) The Mantle

This matches his houses design, based on the references, so you can refer to the in game art. Making this out of fake fur is the easiest option. My spouse attempted to make this by latch hooking yarn, but the brushing..... it will be less time and energy to go the fur route, but would be more money. For the stars, you could 3d print them, and gold leaf if you wanted a lot of shine. You'd probably want to hook these to the fur with invisible thread instead of gluing them, or you could match the thread to your gold paint. I'm also considering beading these on felt and I would attach them the same way, with invisible or matching thread. The one at the bottom of the belt you can sew or glue on, but I'd match construction to the mantle stars.

11) The Gloves

Technically lower in the layers than the coat, but awkward to put in earlier. These look like a faux suede or leather to me. I'd make them out of a nonstretch with a personalized, gusset-including glove pattern.

12) The Wig

It's a short, pale blonde wig. You might want a lace front with his hairline. But I think you can make it work without it... you'll have to do some styling with those bangs. This matches his pre-timeskip hair closely. The holly I would wire in to the wig after making, and use maybe beading or glitter an existing floral pick.

13) The Axe

I'm not a prop person, so this will be very basic. Pvc or dowel base, with foam, worbla, and/or 3d printed parts. The bow would look nice as a loop bow. You'd put the color blocks on there as previously discussed with bias tape.

That's my wall of words on that! I hope this was helpful to somebody. I'm planning on getting started on this one next year after some other costumes in the queue.

If you want to see a breakdown of anything else please let me know.

[tudorqueen6]

6 July 1483: The Coronation of King Richard and Queen Anne

The night before the coronation, like monarchs before her, Duchess Anne of Gloucester (born Lady Anne Neville) stayed in The Tower of London. For the procession from the Tower to Westminster on the eve of the ceremony, she wore a kirtle and mantle made from 27 yards of white cloth-of-gold furred with ermine and miniver, and trimmed with lace and tassels of white silk and gold (Laynesmith, p.…

[katharined]

@edmcndd

It was late in the evening, and there was not a sound throughout the house – not even the floorboards creaked, and the wolves in the nearby forest had released nary a growl as dusk dissolved into pitch-blackness.  The Duchess’ servants had long taken abed, and the hearth was nearly extinguished, with only a singular pair of charred logs continuing to flicker, emitting the occasional spark of embers that licked against the mouth of the fireplace.  When the Grey women were lodged at Court, Chelsea Place was all but deserted, a solemn cathedral – Katharine employed a modest staff to watch over the home, to bleach the linens and dust the draperies – but when the Duchess and her new husband had come thundering up the road to take sanctuary, the servants had filed out into the lawns in packs, willing to catch a mere glimpse of their mistress and new master.�� But even still, there was scarcely enough firewood to keep Kate’s chamber warm and cheery.  Ned would fix it, she knew, with his endless Percy coin-purse; but the icy freeze felt throughout her rooms felt symbolic, in a way, of the lengths she’d fallen in the matter of mere hours. 

King William’s repudiation of her husband was a bitter cup to drink from – that ginger fool – but fleeing from court with a husband more than fifteen years her junior was an even greater sting to her pride.  But Katharine had made her bed and as she cut her gaze – eyelids weighted with fatigue – to the glowing coals of the fire, its fading heat and dimming luster, she knew that she must now lie in it. Finding that she could no longer bear the chill, Kate rose from her chair by the mantle and bundled herself in a furred robe, trimmed with cloth-of-gold, before creeping toward the edge of the oak four-poster that dominated her chamber and drawing back the curtains that enclosed it.  No sooner had she begun to crawl into bed did a rap sound against the door, prompting the Duchess’ brow to furrow in confusion.  ‘Bessie?’  Called she, figuring it was her lady’s maid who beckoned.  ‘Pray tell, good woman, did you find another log to burn?’

But as the door creaked ajar, and Ned’s lofty, broad-shouldered figure shadowed the threshold, Kate immediately stood ; regaining the posture, aplomb, and steeliness for which the Duchess was lauded.  ‘Oh.’  Freeing her face of the chestnut-ringlets stuck to her cheeks, the Earl’s winter-bride remarked, ‘couldn’t sleep?  ‘Tis frightfully cold for November… one must wonder what horrors the deep-winter will bring.’

[aslightaddity]

He wore a tight-fitting satin red waistcoat, fastened with a number of tags, along with close-fitting breeches; both of which were designed to emphasize the king of Gotham's figure. He wore a red velvet doublet, tailored to emphasize the broadness of his shoulders and hips. His sleeves were puffed and slashed and styled in such a way as to make him look broader at the shoulder. His mantle, trimmed with the finest fur available, remained open. The hat worn atop the king was bright red, rich with feathers and decoration. The shoes worn by the phantom were made of white leather and had a large, deliberate heel. Jewelled buckles and other ornamentation wore attached to his clothing and person, as well as a large ring for every gloved finger.

And a mask that only covered half of his face. The material was clearly marble, white and gold swirled into a delicate pattern. The mask jutted out, in a shape similar to a plague mask, though sculpted in shape to that of the skull of a penguin. I looked down. His clothes were wet and dripping on the floor, creating a puddle of dirty, black water.

Psy is short for psychological torment @psymarketofobsessions

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 43, 26 octobre 1895, Paris. Notre patron découpé. Manteau (Grandeur naturelle). Bibliothèque nationale de France

Détails et explication du patron découpé:

Le modèle du nouveau manteau que nous donnons en patron découpé se compose de cinq morceaux:

The model of the new mantle that we are giving as a cut-out pattern is made up of five pieces:

No. 1. — Le col. (Collar.)

No. 2. — Le devant qui se rattache au premier biais par un cran (Front, attached to the first bias by a notch.)

No. 3. — Premier biais. (First bias.)

No. 4. — Deuxième biais qui se rattache au dos par trois crans. (Second bias, attached to the back by three notches.)

No. 5. — Le dos. (Back.)

Tous ces morceaux sont très étroits dans le haut de façon à former l'encolure à laquelle vient s'adapter le col.

Chaque couture est garnie de passementerie.

Le devant est garni d'une fourrure, soit d'astrakan, de loutre, de cygne ou toute autre fourrure; ainsi que le col, qui se fait très haut et évasé.

All these pieces are very narrow at the top so as to form the neckline to which the collar fits.

Each seam has trimmings.

The front is trimmed with fur, either astrakhan, otter, swan or any other fur; as well as the collar, which is very high and flared.

Métrage: 4 mètres d'étoffe en petite largeur suffisent pour faire ce modèle.

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

🍧 for Jia AND Miraak (if he has) from the ask game! :D i may send more later when i actually finish reading the rest of it. i saw that one and RAN to your ask box hehe

🍧 SHAVED ICE - do they still have any objects from their childhood? what significance does it have to them? what would their reaction be if they lost it?

For Jia, I have answered here, but thank you so much for asking this; it was one of my favorites as well!!! 🥰

As for Miraak now... Ah, I wanted to reveal this in the story, but I guess it's not a big spoiler, after all. Before officially becoming a Dragon Priest and dressing himself the way the Dragon Cult appointed him to, Miraak had a fur-trimmed hooded cloak that was dark blue and sparkled in a vibrant purple hue (Miraak's significant color in my headcanon is blue and purple, so most of his clothing are in these shades). It was actually coated in magicka that helped him regenerate his inborn talent for ice, frost, and lightning. This mantle was made and given to him as a gift by his brother-by-choice, who was none but Vahlok, and Miraak wore it always, until the day he took his oath as Dragon Priest, and his beautiful blue cape was replaced by a heavy and thick golden-stitched cloak (I imagine it like Rhaenyra's in HoD) depicting draconian patterns on it and was placed upon his shoulders by Alduin's High Priest... Nowadays, Miraak doesn't possess Vahlok's cloak anymore, but this was for sure the most valued object from his childhood, and he was devastated when he was forced to put it aside forever and wear the Cult's mantle.