#hence the silhouettes and tracing…

[thelocalmoth]

♬ That’s just the way things go ✎

My hand slipped….:[

Gift for @unnoticedunawarestillhere

[dreamsofmoney]

-> L&DS Sylus x reader

GN!reader, sub!Sylus who resists but defeated at the end, dom!reader (kinda mean and harsh reader), slightly yandere Sylus, suggestive but nothing explicit

Sylus is portrayed as very dominant in game, the first meeting with him alone is enough to give a clear understanding of what kind of person he is (or at least how he wants to show off in front of others) : a strong and ferocious man whose authority rules over everybody around him.

For that reason, it was quite a shock for him to witness you being so daring around him during that night, the one after he had saved you from those delinquents (more like kidnapped you, but he sees it differently) .

To think that you were so helpless just a few hours ago when he had found you and kept you safe in his mansion ; at night you were suddenly brave enough to enter his bedroom, quietly pushing the doors, stepping in as quickly as a little mouse. While he was sleeping, you carefully took his large hand, clasping the handcuffs on his soft wrist and attaching the other end to the bed frame.

Sylus was a light sleeper, the minimal sounds of the bedsheets moving, the click of the handcuffs or even just your steady breath were enough to avert his attention. As the predator that he usually is, the white haired man was ready to pounce on his prey, catch it, and imprison it again for daring to prowl around him.

He was just about to open his eyes, until he felt a ghostly touch on his bare shoulder, going down to his chest, pushing the thin blanket further away. Now he could only feel amused by your manoeuvres ; really, the little hopeless prey he saved was taking their chance in seducing him with their charms, right in his moment of vulnerability in the middle of the night? He restrained a smirk forming on his lips. But what could happen anyway after he takes the matter in his control?

All of a sudden you grip Sylus's chin in your left hand, making him wince under you. He lets out a grunt when he feels his teeth clench under your grasp, urgently alerted by your actions he glares towards your direction but he can't see you yet. The lights above blind him and he can only make out your silhouette on top of him : one thing that he is sure of is that you're smiling widely at him, as you let out a quiet guttural laugh, mocking his reaction.

However, Sylus is a man who knows how to keep calm and stay level-headed.

" The little bird came for somethin'? " he teases between his gritted teeth. Sylus wonders what exactly has motivated you to act like this; perhaps revenge, perhaps you've realized he is your savior and you've grown a liking into him, hence your seductive approach for the night - or something far more sinister is in your plans.

Silently, you trace your right handed fingers over different areas of his upper body, your soft feathery touch lingering and making him shudder. Although he keeps his composure stable, you can feel the goosebumps of his skin and his body hair rising up. He grows impatient of your little game, as you keep playing with him and you tighten your grip on his face, you know it's only a matter of time until the tiger snaps : you must tame it quickly.

You push the blanket further down, revealing more of his naked body ; the coldness that hits him makes him tense even more, his glare becomes more menacing, trying to pierce right through you and yet, you keep an immutable tranquility in your movements. Suddenly, you violently turn his face to the right, Sylus lets out a small gasp, then he feels a crushing pain in his left wrist, his arm forcibly pinned above his head. He ignores the pain and when he turns his gaze back at you, you tower over him, you're much closer, he can finally observe the traits of your face from up close. He notices this intense shining in your slitted eyes, with a big grin plastered on your face, somewhat of an evil look that he cannot help but find adorable too. You seem amused by the situation, while Sylus cannot feel more frustrated than now, he's not in for the teasing and playing around anymore.

"Birdie I don't know what you're trynna do here, but I suggest you to stop. Prying on me so noisily, with this kind of ridiculous method and accessory isn't gonna lead you to a good outcome."

"No. You just don't understand what's coming for you Sylus, and you had no idea of what I am capable of when you decided to bring me here. Now I'll show you just that."

Sylus frowns his eyebrows at your answer, utterly astonished and confused by your words.

The swift touch of your right handed fingers comes in contact with the supple skin of his chest again, lightly pinching at it here and there, then caresses up his neck, while a subtle pressure between his legs makes him impulsively squirm underneath you.

"I'm sorry Sylus, but I'm the one keeping you trapped this time."

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Obviously this was inspired from the first encounter with Sylus in game and the moment when MC comes into his bedroom to steal the brooch. I really liked that moment in the game so I wanted to give it different turn hehe.

Writing is so hard!!! It's been so long since I wrote anything and this is my first or second time posting a drabble on here - I don't remember - so please do share, repost, like and comment if you like it and if you want more. Don't hesitate to come chat with me too if you wanna!

Also, excuse me for any spelling mistakes and grammar errors, english isn't my first language and I learn my language the way I eat my ice cream : messily.

[blue-jisungs]

MERRY GO

author's note. 3rd time is the charm so here's my final angst piece in this event :3 no but the song is so:( i saw ian's comment abt it on genius and i just ... dunno, had to write it

word count. 672

summary. your and jun's relationship reminds you of a merry go -- but there is time for you to get off it

“we need to… stop, whatever this is” 

your voice echoed through the walls – but also in his head. it was heavy but not as heavy as the burden jun carried in his heart.

“i know, i know” jun replied, a sigh escaping his lips.

the silence in the room buzzed between you, a tension hanging densely. one spark of a wrong word and there will be an outbreak. both jun and you knew it well, too well.

“we’re not making any progress, are we?” an airy scoff ripped out of you, something amusing in this helpless situation “it… jun, it feels like an endless loop”

“oh, i know”

shifting in the red leather armchair, crossing your legs, scanning junhui’s silhouette. his eyes were somewhat teary but you weren’t sure if it was because of you or his overall state of being. you knew him like the back of your own hand, like the inside of your pocket. jun was exhausted - both mentally and physically. maybe you were a part of the problem, sure. but something told you he wasn’t taking care of himself properly.

hence you’re here.

“i… we, jun. we can’t keep doing that” your voice was quiet “i'm still fumbling with your memories about the last time we tried, when our worlds were falling away from us”

your relationship with jun was sweet at the beginning. but over time it turned bitter, eventually leading to a breakup. and everything after that - because you wouldn’t call it a relationship - reminded you of a merry-go round carousel. breaking off, ignoring each other and then coming back, only to hurt the other more. again and again, in a loop; in a spinning circle. 

“you don't know what you've done to me, y/n” jun grunted. 

meeting on a neutral ground was a good idea. no sentimental value of his living room or your bedroom. just a cheap motel, with occasionally flickering lights. it lit up his skin with a yellowish gleam, making his brown eyes look less scary to look in. the ridge of his nose which you adored so much looked so appealing, you wished you could just reach your hand out and trace it… like you used to.

“i can’t live without you” the man in front of you said “i want it all back”

“we can’t, junhui” you still loved him but you two ere no good for each other “it’s a lesson we learned too many times. i don’t want to hurt you and… i don’t want to get hurt either”

“i know, i know” jun’s throat felt like there was a rock stuck inside, his ability to speak dropping to a toddler lever.

his work, your frustration. your bottled feelings leading to hurtful words. then redemption - shared moments sweeter than the previous ones, kisses more passionate because both of you knew it will snap eventually. a repeating loophole that you lost count of how many times it has repeated itself.

“one… final chance. i cannot live without you… you, you know it. and you need me” he stuttered out and it was true. both of you acknowledged it. 

with the sound of a flickering lamp in the terrifyingly silent room, a decision was made in your mind - quite the opposite of what your broken heart wanted.

“don’t… call me again. i love you jun but we can’t. i genuinely wish you the best, you deserve it. but i can’t be the one to bring you pure happiness” you didn’t even notice the crystal tears falling down your cheeks.

both of you stood up and jun wiped your skin with a sad smile. one word and he’s going to break down too, you could see it in his eyes. 

“sorry… but you know it’s a right decision” you whispered, letting his embrace comfort you for the last time.

“oh, i know” the most heartbreaking sigh reached your ears.

jun hugged your shaking silhouette, tears balancing at his own waterline as well. 

no more sending back around this merry go.

main masterlist | event masterlist

taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @mon2sunjinsuver ,, @eternalgyuuu ,, @rubywonu ,, @haecien ,, @mine-gyu

[aclowntiny]

Task Failed Successfully- Hyunjin x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2.6K | Friends to Lovers, College AU | Warnings: none really, very slight alcohol mentions but Reader doesn’t explicitly drink, one small swear

In all honesty, you were thankful for that tiny little art class with that temporary professor who moved universities the following semester. You were thankful even though you felt like those new brush types you were made to use irreversibly brought down the quality of the one portrait you painted- paint was a difficult, sometimes fickle medium anyway. Even though sometimes it felt like that class so few people had heard of was but a fever dream, it was more than worth it to you since you wouldn’t have met Hyunjin otherwise.

Your tablemate was a gifted painter, humble as he was toward every compliment paid him. The joke you two shared was that he could have taught the class, but art was Hyunjin’s major and he was truly eager to soak up every piece of knowledge his seniors had for him- even if he disregarded it sometimes to prove a point. Art types, you know. You remained more of a rule-follower, but you guys shared one of your famous stingingly enthusiastic high-fives for it. High-fives came so naturally to you two, neither of you had to look anymore. Hence why Hyunjin’s friend Minho described you two’s ‘creepy eye contact’.

Hyunjin was what you called a hopeless romantic. Many of the gorgeous children of his brush were roses, couples from movies that had become his muses. You teased him, called him the type of guy who must have had a ring already in his nightstand just waiting.

“Easy,” he shot back, “or are you trying so hard to get rid of me?”

“No, of course not,” you shook your head and mirrored his grin, “who’s going to buy my drinks at the campus café if I marry you off too soon?”

“Oh,” he elbowed you, “so that’s why you keep me around, huh? Bold of you to assume I’m going with you.”

Giggling, you shouldered your backpack and kept on down the posh brick walkway that marked the campus rose garden. Hyunjin kept by your side the whole walk past the waving blooms and right to the student center where the little restaurants and cafés were.

“Alright, fine, but only if you take bowling with me next semester.”

Your campus had a bowling alley and its own ‘sports’ course set there, a class that filled up quickly with students eager to get credits for fun, even if they sucked, because how do you fail bowling?

“Oh, no,” you placed your hand over your heart, eyes rolling away from him dramatically, “truly a fate worse than death.”

“You’re welcome.”

~

“What’s that supposed to be?”

Hyunjin was peering at your canvas, tracing the latest line you’d smeared across it with his head tilted and eyes darting. He looked like a curious cat.

“Why, what does it look like?”

“Oh, no,” he shook his tilted head, “this is the ultimate trap. I say the wrong thing and it looks terrible. Not falling for that one bit.” He punctuated his statement with an enunciated pronouncement of your name and a finger booping your nose.

“Well, I’ll give you a hint, it’s going to be a landscape.”

“Ooh! The beach! It’s the beach, huh? I should have known you were painting the sea again!” Straightening up, he clapped and pointed in excitement, having gone from cat to puppy in three seconds flat. That was one of your favorite things about him.

“Guess I’m predictable,” you replied jokingly, giving him a smile, “it is the beach. Well, sort of. At my family’s little spot there was this pier that would silhouette perfectly in the sunset, the water trapped on the sand reflecting it as an inverse on the ground. All the orange melting into blue- the sky geld more colors than the sea! It was like setting foot into another world.”

“Wow,” Hyunjin breathed, “and you say you’re not much of an artist. If I had half the way with words you do, it’d be over for everyone.”

“Well, then we’ll have to take over the world together.”

“Sounds good to me. Dictatorships sound lonely anyway.”

~

With that nature of his, it was only a matter of time. Hyunjin’s art spoke volumes about his subconscious, so it was no surprise when he started telling you about a blind date a friend of his was setting him up on.

“So I guess he sits by her in his fashion design class…”

“Ooh,” you muse. Sounds up his alley.

“And she’s been looking for a date for a while, so he told her ‘I have this art major friend’ and the rest was history.”

How was it so easy for some people? Though then again, volunteering your friends was a considerably different task than asking someone out, especially if your friends were as hot as Hyunjin. Not that you thought about that often. It was just a sort of objective appreciation thing, like straight guys talking about Ryan Reynolds. Yeah.

“So besides being single and taking a fashion design class with Felix, what’s her deal? Did he give you any detail?”

“She’s twenty-one. A bit of a partier, but sounds like nothing I can’t handle.”

At that, you suppressed a snort. Hyunjin was an E type, but the last thing he was was a partier. Getting a few drinks with his eight-person friend group or attending a wine and paint night was as crazy as he ever got. For being such an amazing dancer, he never hit the club and you were fine with that. All the noise and crowds could be sort of anxiety-inducing. Call you a child after heart, but you’d take the nights you two had painted the arcade red over going out dancing with strangers.

Enough about that, though. Pulling your jacket a bit tighter about your chest, you shook your head as if to dissipate a cartoon thought cloud. “So, where are you taking her, then?”

Hyunjin smiled, a bit…nervously? “We’re just meeting at the bar-and-grill across the way here, nothing fancy.”

“Hiding that side until a few nights in, huh?” You nudged him, chest feeling like it expanded at the way his smile opened up, relaxed.

“She’s a fashion major, she’s going to be way more pretentious than me.”

“I dunno, Mr. Windows to the Soul,” you kept teasing, this time with the name of his last assignment sketch of a pair of eyes.

“Not my last minute title,” he waved a hand before playfully grabbing yours and swinging it back to your side, “next time I’ll just use a drama quote like you did. Really show how serious I take the assignment.”

“Hey!” You protested, shoving his hand away in mock offense.

“Gotcha,” he grinned.

Hopefully Miss Fashion could handle him as well as you could.

~

Forwarding a picture of your pet that your parents had sent you earlier in the day, you texted Hyunjin ‘Good luck!’. Too robotic? You hoped not, because by whatever cosmic dice roll the vibes had just been off all day, clouds rolling across the atmosphere of your mind and obscuring any small good that came your way. If you seemed off, he would worry, and he didn’t need to carry anything unnecessary into his evening.

Hyunjin 🐹: Thank you 👍🏻 heading to the bar now! Hope we both have a fun evening 😁

You shook your head as your phone’s backlight illuminated your face an artificial blue-white. Hyunjin was too sweet for his own good.

Me: I’m just having a night in lol so have fun for both of us!

Squirreling your phone back into your hoodie’s front pocket, you wiggled a bit deeper into the garment and sighed. It wasn’t that you wanted his blind date to go badly or anything…so why weren’t you feeling the excitement you led on in your text?

~

It was about forty minutes later, just about seven-thirty, when your phone buzzed again. Reaching into your pocket with one hand, you paused the video you’d been watching with the other. The first word you registered was Hyunjin’s name, the little hamster emoji you’d given his contact because they didn’t make a ferret for some reason.

Hyunjin 🐹: She never showed.

Just three words, but that message alone was enough to have you kicking your blankets off and feeling your hand curl into a fist. You barely bothered beyond a perfunctory check and touch-up of yourself in the mirror before you had your keys in your hand, all but stomping out the door of your dorm suite.

How dare she! How dare Whatever-Her-Name stand him up! Guys like Hyunjin didn’t grow on trees, and whatever planet she was on where she thought she could do better than your friend, it wasn’t much like Earth. Had Felix’s words been cause of any caution, set forth any reservation? It sure hadn’t sounded like it from Hyunjin’s recounting.

Me: Stay there, I’m coming to get you.

Hyunjin 🐹: You don’t have to do that. She just forgot, apparently. She was already out with friends when I texted a follow-up thirty minutes into sitting here.

Swallowing down some very uncouth nicknames, you sent one more message before starting your car.

Me: I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Not cool 😕

Metaphorical red clouded your vision, forcing reminders from the greatly-diminished level fraction of your brain to slow down, keep a vigilant eye upon the dim road still. This was the kind of thing you read about in ridiculous website articles about ‘Top Ten Dating Nightmares’ or saw on a corny sitcom, not a real-life thing. Petty, sure, but you wondered how many assignments Party Girl had ‘forgotten’ in her college career.

After what felt like much longer than a twelve-minute drive you were pulling into the bar-and-grill, where a serendipitous front-row parking space was just opening up. Swiping the black SUV’s former resting place, you parked and took a short, forceful walk through the doors. It didn’t take long to find Hyunjin as he sat blank-faced in a red leather stool beneath the bar’s wine-tinted neon, chin in his hand and cocktail in front of him. The lights splashing the place perfectly mirrored the literary light of your fervor, spurring you on… and inspiring your next piece for class, but that was beside the point.

“Hey,” Hyunjin greeted you in a deadpan, giving you a halfhearted wave.

“I- I- I cannot believe her!” You spluttered, forgetting yourself as you grabbed Hyunjin’s hand and practically yanked him out of his seat. “But it doesn’t matter- we are not giving her the power to ruin our evening.”

When it became ‘our’ evening who knew, but such did not even occur to you until much later. Only one thing was on your mind, after all.

“Come on. Let’s forget all about that and have some fun at least.”

No resistance from Hyunjin- he simply followed you out the door, chuckling and sarcastically thanking you for making sure he’d paid for his drink.

Stopping right before the doors, you cocked a brow. “Had you?”

“Yes.”

“Look at you- picture of integrity,” you remarked, disappearing back out from the reddish glow into cool night air, the feeling of your friend’s hand in yours a warm tether.

~

Soon the two of you were bathed in a much different light, the brighter-and much cheerier in your opinion-blinking of the arcade. Your spot. Fiddling sheepishly with your hoodie strings, you bid Hyunjin pick a game since you’d paid.

He chose air hockey. Good man. Whirs and rampant clicks drowned out the echoing thoughts you both were surely having, brought forth shaky, then stronger and stronger smiles. He won. You pretended to be upset before relenting with an infamous no-look high-five, secretly happy he got the victory.

“You paid and you lost!” Hyunjin urged, waving a hand as if to usher you deeper into the colorful madness. “Pick the next one!”

“Alright, basketball!” You agreed, following the wave down to the hoop-shooting game.

With a swipe of your card, you were off, tossing with the best of your aim and protesting the snickering at your side when you proverbially ate it. Like a Jedi sense, you leaned to the left right as Hyunjin made to nudge you, something he’d done on your last trip too, and vowed your revenge.

In a way, you got it, because you won that game. Playing clean, you reminded him.

Neither of you brought up the evening’s previous half for several games, truly successful in your endeavor of distracting yourselves. It rose to your mind a few times, mostly when the sight of his smile drew one from you. No longer were your eyes framed crimson, though- rather all you felt was gladness at your move, satisfaction like the last piece had tumbled into a puzzle.

It was after the roulette spin that the subject of your un-ruined evening was broached. Your head had swiveled in search of the next expense of credits when his voice at your side had you turning back.

“Hey,” he’d said, and when you faced him again he tugged at the hem of his jean jacket and glanced up to your eyes and back down, “this means a lot to me.”

Your gaze softened into his, chest leapt at the sudden heartfelt words. “Of course. I told you, no reason to let the evening be ruined.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck, “but I guess what I really mean is I realized something when we came here. When Felix told me about the blind date, I just jumped at the chance without thinking. Well, we see where that got me.” He gave a short, sardonic chuckle. “Now, though, I’ve been thinking. Everything just feels right like this with you and I. You’re the one I’d rather be with.”

You gaped. “Like, date?”

“What happened to inverse worlds reflected on sand?” Hyunjin teased, giving you one of those infamous smirks of his.

“I wasn’t exactly surprised out of my mind talking about the old bay pier,” you shot back, though your expression was anything but intimidating, a smile no part of you could fight spreading across it in place of any pout or death glare you normally would have attempted.

And there he was, smiling back with a hopeful look in his eyes that had your heartbeat stuttering. “So, we going to unpack ‘surprised out of my mind’ or nah?”

“Nah,” you shook your head beneath the whirlwind of thoughts and thrumming of heartbeats, all your vision’s red faded to the rosy glow of something you never thought you would let yourself give into, “I’m just going to surprise you out of your mind.”

Ryan Reynolds, your ass. It blew your mind someone could pass over a person as amazing as your classmate, someone who could translate their heart into the most amazing things and feel like home in physical presence too. An open conduit for all the teasing banter that never went too far. Well, no matter- the floodgates had been opened, and with no further warning you surged forward to shut out every centimeter of air between Hyunjin’s lips and yours, smiling and resisting the urge to shake your head at- well, everything. Your arcade light fireworks lighting up the insides of your fluttering eyelids, the way his fingers found the curves of your cheekbones, tracing them like he was plotting his next painting.

Maybe both of you were hopeless romantics.

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

"Mysterious Liar"

Age: Unknown

Status: Unknown

Details:

The protaganist overhears this faceless, nameless characters speaking with Sylus at Onychinus' Base. But for reasons explained below, I've given him the nickname "Mysterious Liar". His silhouette doesn't give us any super distinct features to work with, either.

Exchange with Sylus:

Behind a closed door, the protagonist overhears "Mysterious Liar" informing Sylus of an unknown person/group. They say this person/group "plans to implant Protocores into human hearts. Then they'll insert the human consciousness into Wanderers". Whoever this person/group is, they're project has a name beginning with "The Fountain of Atei...". But since Mysterious Liar is cut off mid-sentence, we don't get to hear the full name.

According to Sylus, Mephisto said "Mysterious Liar" lied (hence my nickname) and wasn't telling him everything. Therefore, he had thrown away his "last chance".

"Mysterious Liar" begs for forgiveness and tells Sylus "you can still use me as a tool!". But Sylus is unmoved, concluding that their deal is over. The protaganist then hears his pleading voice "stop abruptly, like a balloon that leaves nothing behind after it". The room falls silent, the initial background music stopping, and then string music begins playing shortly afterwards. When she enters the room in question (below) to speak with Sylus, the source of the pleading voice is gone without a trace.

Note: It's unclear whether or not this character is dead or disappeared for another unspecified reason. Therefore, I listed his status as unknown until more details are know.

[lovedrunkheadcanons]

Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on AO3

RATED M

A predator knows how to hide in plain sight; A lion will camouflage with the Saharan grass next to a herd of grazing zebra; A bolas spider will emit chemicals akin to female moth pheromones to lure prospective male moths towards its web; A thousand year old cursed spirit will split his essence into twenty fingers and scatter himself to places forgotten by man, ready to be made whole. Predators understand that to hunt their prey, you must first lower their defenses. Give them a false sense of security. Dupe the fools into believing they are safe and sound and the danger has passed when it lies waiting on their doorstep. Hungry.

Satoru didn’t trust the finger outright. He wasn’t so naive as to think it could ever be that simple. His plan was to monitor. Cursed objects had to be monitored for twenty-four hours when found. Kumari was strong, but if anything were to go wrong she wouldn’t stand a chance, and his wife’s behavior only made him more suspicious, hence why he took the finger home (and maybe also to appease his inquisitive nature). Hannah thought nothing of it when they returned. It’ll be gone in the morning, she thought and cozied up beside her husband on the futon later that night. Satoru would take care of everything. He always did.

So she thought.

From the time she was small, since the tender age of five or six, Hannah had been hearing voices. One hears many voices when inheriting The Sight. Mostly last breaths and dying screams. A curse cackling by the carnage of torn bodies. All of them disturbing and violent and horrible. So why would this be any different?

It rasped somewhere far in the distance. Thames. Over the pine crested peaks of Mt. Takao, the mokoshi penthouse roofs, and the torii gates. Thames. It blew across the school yard, rustling passed the trees, billowing near their house, sighing through the eaves, through the walls, just outside Hannah’s bedroom. Rattling her eardrums.

She heard claws scrape across the floor, repeating a name no longer hers.

Thames.

Satoru’s arm was wrapped snugly around her torso, holding her dear, yet she had no trouble breaking free and rising from the floor, leaving him sound asleep on the futon. “Mmph,” he grunted and stirred at the feel of something missing, but then switched positions and grew still once more, snoring contently on their shared pillow.

Somnolent, Hannah stood and walked towards the entrance, a thin nightgown strap hanging loosely off her shoulder. The door slid open by its own accord, but she did not return to the only person who could grant her safety. Out to the beyond she wandered.

Each step felt lighter than air down the tatami woven corridors, the shoji panels. Door after door after door, adjarring without interruption, her silhouette a mere shadow across the many lantern-lit halls. The voice beckoned louder. Thames. It wanted her. She would answer.

She came to a halt at the twelfth door, riddled in spell-tags. The incantation Satoru recited could be traced back to the earliest of jujutsu, some say since before the monolithic Jōmon began texturing their clay with bands of rope.1 Ancient jujutsu was the purest form of sorcery for good reason. Untainted. Indomitable. Satoru had mastered the secret incantation quicker than his predecessors. Nothing on heaven or earth should’ve been able to cross those barriers and remove those spell-tags.

Hannah did so without lifting a pinkie.

The barrier didn’t object to her presence, and the paper tags unglued themselves, one by one, scattering to the floor like a pile of white autumn leaves. The door slowly parted. Inside over by the corner was the sealed box. That’s it now, come here. Come to me. Five steps and she was hunkered down in front of it like a curious Pandora, nescient of the evil she was about to release upon the world. She flicked open the notches.

The floor beneath collapsed.

Hannah felt she was falling…

falling.

falling.

Her bare feet hardly made a splash in the blood water, wading just above her knees. Something ripe mushed between her toes. The air stank heavily of decay and iron. Though her eyes were transfixed by the large blackened ribs scaffolded above like an animal enclosure.

On a mound of bones, human and beast, buttressed and stacked high, was a notch arranged into a dais. The eery crimson light, emanating from God knows where, began building in strength, and the bone-filled graveyard started to unveil its secrets. She saw the outline of a figure seated atop the bones. Something like four monstrous arms, two sets of eyes, tattoos, and a mouth where a stomach should've been.

Regaining her wits, Hannah’s head began to throb. Her knees quaked. Blood ceased circulating to her legs from the cold water. She couldn’t feel the oxygen exit her lungs, nor her heart crumble and un-crumble like a reused plastic bottle.

“W-Where am I?” she croaked.

She saw one of its two mouths twist into a wry, sinister grin and suddenly felt she had unintentionally signed her death certificate. That’s not human, she thought. Not anymore. An alien life form. A freak of nature. Demonic.

“Woman.” the four-armed demon drawled above its mountain of skeletons, man and beast. “Did Uraume send you?”

Hannah stayed silent, struck paralyzed from the waist down.

“Are you a challenger?” it spoke again.

Tendrils of fear clamped around her throat. “A what?” she said dumbly.

The demon gave out a snorting laugh, “Guess not,” and rose to its feet. In a flash, it was standing in front of her, frame hulking and grotesque, roughly seizing her face between a mass of blackened claws, hooking a thumb to her lower lip. Hannah drew mute. The malevolence in its four vermillion eyes was a raw, insatiable sort.

“Weak,” the demon crooned, and stretched its mouth into that awful, predacious grin that conveyed unspeakable harm. Something knife-point sharp tapped her lower back.

The last thing Hannah heard were cruel peals of laughter before the world was swallowed inside a scarlet sea.

A goodnight’s sleep was a hardfought luxury for a jujutsu sorcerer. Not that it mattered much. Satoru sucked at sleeping anyways. Always had. Always will, so it didn’t take much for him to become gradually aware that the primal, gut-wrenching screams ringing in his subconscious were not a figment of his dreams, but real.

Oh so terrifyingly real.

The Six Eyes wielder could recall the time he witnessed the late cauterization of a grown bull, back when the estate was in the business of raising livestock. Most dehornings are performed when the bull is a calf to reduce infection and long-term pain: chemical solutions,"tubes," saws, keystone dehorners, you name it. But the rancher they hired cared little for the well-being of their cattle, and thought axing the bull’s horns with an old splitting maul and cauterizing the wound with a branding iron was the method of choice; highly illegal. Satoru watched him tie the bovine’s head down in a compromising position and with zero remorse start chopping. The agonized lowing that left the animal with each forceful thwack of the maul. The blood. Satoru couldn’t remember much of what he did afterwards, other than running to Makoto in tears. He freed all the estate’s livestock the day he became clan-leader, suppressing childhood trauma he hadn’t told a single soul.

Now twenty years later, Hannah’s tormented screams reminded him of that one bull.

There was no escaping it.

Wide awake and panicked, he twisted himself over to see his wife thrashing wildly on the bedding, her screams not of fear, but of pain; vocal chords cracking and clicking from too much exertion. She couldn’t catch her breath.

But what alarmed him most were her eyes. Hannah’s frightened eyes were like two dying stars, glowing a bright, ember red, inflamed and leaking a flood of tears, staring wide open.

He grabbed her by the arms, shaking, voice pleading for her to wake up, but every attempt failed. She scrambled to get away, wincing whenever his fingers came too close to touching her back.

This did not go unnoticed. Holding her at an angle, Satoru ever so gently slipped a hand underneath and felt his body grow cold at the sensation of something warm and sticky soaking the satin nightgown, the tang of rust. He began praying, Please be sweat, please be sweat, and slowly removed his hand.

The palm was coated so thickly in blood you’d think it was fresh paint, staining the once white futon into a dark, sickly grenache that would never wash out. With trembling hands, Satoru mustered the courage to flip her over and see what his heart earnestly wanted to deny.

Bile rushed to his throat. It was worse than he could’ve imagined.

Gashes like a jagged cuneiform were scrawled all along the expanse of her back; phantom claws, five tallies each, plowing deep into the skin, digging for purchase. Hannah sobbed more violently than ever. Her pallor was like stained glass left exposed to sunlight, faded and drained of color. Blood. Blood everywhere.

To his frustration, Satoru’s eyes detected nothing wrong. He saw no neon trail, no grimy residuals, an invisible enemy he could not see and could not fight; a true ghost. The band of gold on his finger started burning.

What is this?

Hannah’s strangled cries were growing weaker by the second, either from fatigue or something far more life upending. Her lips took a bluish hue from the oxygen not circulating to her brain and the rest of her body, hazel eyes glassy. If he didn’t act now, she’d be gone forever.

“Stay with me, Hannah.”

Satoru scooped his wife in his arms, her cries faint and disoriented, and ran like hell out the door.

“Please, don’t die.”

Chapter Contents

[valentiwyo]

UNTIL I FOUND YOU | WOOSAN - CHAPTER 5

genre »» childhood friends to lovers

pairing »» choi san x jung wooyoung

warning »» cursing

"I came to you with my secret feelings and childhood. See, I'm grown and I'm still here, Wooyoung. I have never given up on you even though we fell out. I still love you as you are..."

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

SAN'S POV

The first flower to bloom on Earth is the orchid. All other flowers trace their lineage back to it. Gifting someone an orchid is to convey the message, "you are the first blossom to unfold in my world," intertwining both sentiment and botanical heritage.

In my opinion, I believe the meaning can change based on one's viewpoint. However, the reason behind placing a vase filled with orchids on the table at the heart of the kitchen was because Wooyoung happened to be the first bloom in my tiny universe. Hence, I associated him with the orchids, for he was the core of all flowers. Wooyoung was the first of all the beautiful things that had ever happened to me, and the very catalyst for them to incessantly weave into my life.

It was the wee hours of the morning, around three o'clock, and I still had no idea of Wooyoung's whereabouts. Did he enjoy the notion of driving me to the edge of curiosity? Countless nights I had spent perched like this, waiting for Wooyoung's arrival, yet he had never graced any with his presence. The silence of those moments seemed to echo the unanswered questions that swirled within me.

The fragrance of orchids waltzed into the obscurity of the kitchen, akin to a dance, and gracefully intertwined with my every breath, leaving my head gently swirling in its intoxicating embrace. Why was I even waiting, knowing he would never come?

Oh, how peculiar the human heart could be... Even when there was no hope left, it would ingeniously manipulate people, obstinately keeping them waiting for eternity on end, defying all logic.

I locked gazes with the orchids before me; they seemed to be smiling at me. Or was it my drownsiness conjuring me strange sights? No, that wasn't it either. I was quite awake, still, because I heard the sound of the door. Wooyoung must have arrived. A smile formed on my lips, a silent exchange with myself amidst the anticipation that filled the air.

Resting on the table, my elbows found solace, hands intertwined as I fixed my gaze upon the white vase before me. Even as the echoes of Wooyoung's footsteps enveloped the kitchen, my head remained tilted downward. Denied the privilege of his facial expression, I remained oblivious to the look he bestowed upon me as he saw me. In the dim kitchen, his silhouette cast upon me, as if all the sealed windows had swung open, ushering in an icy gust that ruffled through my being. This breeze sent shivers down my spine, while his shadow bore the weight of a dolorous gloom, a fusion of sensations that embraced in the quietude of the moment.

"What the heck are you doing at this ungodly hour of the night?"

I wasn't entirely sure if hearing his husky voice had given me any semblance of comfort, or if it was only my wishful thinking? That voice, a lullaby to my yearning heart, had always had a calming effect on me. But now, it had become a habit, and I couldn't discern whether it still held the same soothing power. All I knew was that I had an irresistable urge to lift my head and gaze at his face.

"Forget about me. But you better spill - where the hell were you till this hour, huh?"

The faint chuckle from him compelled my gaze, drawing my eyes toward his direction. The Moon's gentle glow, casting through the window, painted his smile in silver light, a sight both captivated and unsettled me. I can't quite put my finger on why, but a shiver ran down my spine, as if I was standing at the edge of a cliff.

A sense of unease settled within me, a disturbing fear that his lips might never grace me with their warmth again. A turmoil brewed in the pit of my stomach, the fear of losing his smiles carving a heavy hollow within my heart. In the secrecy of my thoughts, I murmured silent curses, a desperate attempt to ward off the shadows invading my heart.

As he pushed away from the countertop against which he'd leaned, Wooyoung strode over to me with a glass of water in hand. The moonlight cascading down his leather jacket revealed glistening raindrops, each one holding the delicate touch of a downpour from the outside world.

"Since when did you start grilling me like this, hm? Come on, tell me~"

"I dunno. Maybe for the past ten years?"

A faint chuckle gave way to a tiny smile on his face, but it faded just as quickly, replaced by an expression of discomfort that draped over both of us. "What're these for?" He asked, steering the conversation away as he extended a hand toward the vase. Gently, his fingers brushed against the orchids, a tender touch that spoke of his curiosity. "If you want, they could be yours. Their fragrance might help you sleep."

"My insomnia isn't as bad as it used to be, you know."

"Doesn't matter," I replied. "You can still take them."

With one hand resting on the table before me, Wooyoung leaned towards me. The window behind him cast him in partial shadow, veiling my view and enveloping the scene in a sense of twilight. "I know you bought these for me," his voice brushed against my ear like a whispered secret.

"Of course you do. You've always had an eerie ability for knowing everything, even when that knowledge leads to shattering what's delicate," I snapped. A silence drifted between us, as if time itself held its breath, a heavy truth tethering us in the charged atmosphere. His sudden approach revealed a glint of surprise, his brow furrowing as he attempted to unravel the layers of my expression.

You can't understand, I had the urge to snap at him at that very moment. He couldn't grasp it, could he? How could he understand the depths of my longing for him, the way his absence felt like a haunting pain that refused to ease?

"Why did you bother waiting for me all the way until this damn hour?" He changed the conversation once again, an expected avoidance. After placing the glass on the table, his back turned to me, an inpenetrable wall. "Just go and sleep already, San-ah."

Oh, the words unsaid... They swirled like a tempesr within me, a storm of emotions I couldn't put into words. I wished I could peel back the layers and reveal the truth that pulsed beneath my chest. His casual demeanor was a mask, a shield against the whirlpool within me. Inwardly, I wrestled with the urge to entwine my fingers with his, to make him understand. But my voice was nothing but a whisper, vanishing into the silence that enveloped us.

I swiftly caught his wrist, my grip firm yet not aggressive, "Where were you?" I asked, my tone serious. It wasn't my intention to put him on the spot, but the curiosity gnawed at me like an itch I couldn't ignore. I was deeply in love with him; there could be no other explanation for my concern.

"You know it's none of your fucking business," he retorted.

"You damn well know just how much it is my bussiness, Wooyoung!"

"Why??" he countered, turning to me in a sudden, almost harsh motion. "Why did you wait for me? Why the hell are you doing this?"

The meaning behind that question was crystal clear to both of us, a mutual unity. Like I said, he knew everything. He was acutely aware of everything. Tonight, he was asking me why I expected us to revert to how things used to be, using the night as an excuse. But what he didn't know was that what I truly awaited wasn't a return to the past. What I waited for was him, only him, and he would be forever.

"Because this world ain't big enough for you to escape from yourself," I retored, a sharpness in my tone.

"I don't fucking understand you! I'm tired, and I've got a damn headache, so shut the fuck up and get off my ass." He snapped back.

His wrist slipped free from my grasp, a deliberate retreat. "Then maybe you shouldn't have asked!" I shot back. There he was again, on the brink of opening up, allowing me entrance into his world, he'd suddenly hoist the drawbridge and leave me abandoned in a sea of uncertainty. He was slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, a ghostly figure whose presence was excitingly close yet frustratingly elusive. Before my eyes, he was holding a sign with bold letters saying, "NO ENTRY", turning me down like an unwanted visitor from the depths of his heart.

I managed to breach the walls he put up, almost touching the core of his being, and just when I was about to reach, his voice would send tremors through my fingers, and my tentative touch would withdraw once again. He was erecting barriers just as I was about to uncover the uncharted territories of his emotions. He would tease me with a glimpse of vulnerability, only to pull away.

Rain was drumming a steady rhythm outside. That night, as he slipped beneath his blanket, each rumble of thunder would resonate through him, potentially keeping him awake for hours, leaving me in a state of concern. Again and again, he would play this game, never tiring of the act. I couldn't afford to step back now; my feelings had come this far. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't ignore the "NO ENTRY" sign he seemed to project.

As he retreated with a draft of cold air from the kitchen, I rose from my seat, cradling the vase of orchids he had left behind. Through the gap of the slightly open door, I entered his room. The creak of the door's hinges accompanied him as he shrugged off his jacket, turning his gaze towards me. Once again, he was caught off guard by my presence. I walked, each step purposeful, placing the vase on the nightstand before turning back to face him.

"You know I got them for you, but you refuse to admit it," I finally spoke, the weight of my feelings simmering beneath my words.

"I did," he stated, his tone devoid of emotions. As he removed his sweater, he continued to keep his back turned to me, and I waited as he changed. "But wouldn't it be better if they stayed in the kitchen? That way, they could be our flowers."

Silently, I begged for him not to speak nice words like this. I wanted to shout this towards his face, but deep down, his way of talking warmed my heart. I was a broken vase, with cracks running all over, yet I was brimming with flowers inside. Wooyoung, on the other hand, was the embodiment of the white orchid nestled among them. And now, with just one beautiful sentence, orchid leaves were sprouting from the shards of the vase.

Sometimes, dishonoring Wooyoung wit the word "love" didn't sit well with me. Wooyoung was more than just "love." I couldn't simply love Wooyoung. I couldn't label my feelings for him with the same mundane term that ordinary people used for their meaningless connections. He was so much more, so much more special. He is the most beautiful among all orchids.

"No, they are yours."

"Ugh, fine! You cried so much, jeez," He muttered, pushing aside the candles on the nightstand to make room for the vase. "There you go, you've given it. Now get out. I'm going to bed."

Approaching him, I shook my head. "What the hell do you mean no? Have you lost your damn mind? Get the fuck out and leave me alone!"

He grabbed my shoulder and tried to push me away. Then, when thunder rumbled, his hands loosened, and he hesitated. I knew, he was still afraid. He'd been scared since he was twelve, and I didn't know why. Yet, every winter, I spent it with him. When he nuzzled into my chest, he would forget about the storm, the sounds outside, everything else. Perhaps that's why, perhaps with a silver of hope inside me, I took his wrists gently and lowered his hands.

"Wooyoung..."

As I delicately held onto his hands, his wrists felt like they might break if I squeezed even slightly harder. His skin was so delicate, and I found it hard to touch him. Yet sometimes, I wanted to hold onto him tightly until I felt all his bones ripped my heart. Was this called the instability of my emotions?

Licking my lips and lowering my head, I looked at our hands. Look at our hands, Wooyoung; look at our hands and tell me you weren't created for me... He looked. Wooyoung also lowered his head and gazed at our hands. As my thumb brushed against his wrist, a tremor passed through it, and I whispered, "Let me sleep beside you..."

His gaze momentarily shifted to the partially opened window through the curtains. He fixed his eyes on the rain-soaked glass, and a shaky breath escaped his lips. I was very sure he wouldn't grant me permission. Yet as our hands separated, he didn't reply. Sitting on his bed, he pulled the blanket over himself. "I guess our home isn't big enough for me to escape you either," he murmured, a shy smile touching his lips.

He never forgot a single thing I said, actually. He etched each of my words onto his delicate soul, keeping them hidden from me for a long time. He kept telling me to leave, but it was so clear that he wanted me to stay, that I smiled warmly at this dilemma. His dilemma became my hope.

As I lied down next to him, he turned his back to me for a moment. I knew he didn't want to look. If he did, he might say something beautiful that would flutter my heart, which he was scared to death. As my hand gently slid onto his shoulder, though he whispered ,"You've become a bit too spoiled," I didn't stop. While I caressed his arms, he took a deep breath, so deep that for a fleeting sound, neither of us heard the sound of thunder. Then, he tugged at the blanket and faced me. His hands were beneath his cheek, and he was gazing into my eyes now, while I had brought the whole galaxy within them.

"I'm stubborn, you know."

"Ooo, I very much do," He nodded immediately, smirking, saying this with excitement, causing me to chuckle and inch closer.

As I inched closer, he closed his eyes, his way of escaping once again. Even when I was right beside him, he tried to run away, but he was aware of it too, that he couldn't escape now, for I was right by his side.

[bookwormscififan]

As Long As I'm Near

Read on AO3!

A/N: There was some dialogue that @iamvegorott sent me that I forgot to put into the fic from the other day, so I ended up writing a little thing for it.

--

“You see, the problem they had was that they hadn’t done their research,” Mare smirked as he spoke into the phone, running his free hand through his hair as he walked down the driveway. “Two important things to know about this kid Mad: he loves science, hence the weird-ass science mansion, and he loves to read. Offer him a good read, and I bet I’ll have him at the house before you can say Mangle.”

Pocketing his phone, Mare took in the huge door in front of him, cracking his knuckles before waving his hand, sending himself inside without even ringing the doorbell. His next goal was to locate Mad, an exhausted yet incredibly clever scientist that Host had said would be useful in their strange melting pot family.

Initially a genetics college, the mansion housed numerous labs and testing rooms, seemingly endless halls leading anywhere from the foyer. Years ago, Dark and a select few others had stormed the college, burning the entire east wing before getting caught and ushered away. One thing Dark hadn’t factored in: Some of the people in that college weren’t just students.

As Mare walked down the halls, memories of the events that sent him here surfaced, recollections of Host’s message stating that someone new had been located. The way Dark had practically run out of the house to get the newbie, returning with a scorched suit and darkened expression fiercely demanding Mare go out to collect.

The minute Mare read about Mad, his heart leapt and then sank, feeling colder the further he looked into the scientist’s history. A prodigy from birth, Mad had been enrolled in the genetics college at age ten, moving in with his parents and discovering new things as if it was second nature. Finding out the fire Dark had set had killed Mad’s parents drove a knife into Mare’s heart, more than sympathy at discovering that Mad was an orphan.

He trailed his fingers along the walls, tracing the scribbled crayon lines of a child that slowly evolved into crazed equations jotted at waist level, evidence of a scrambled mind crouching to write the ideas firing off in their mind. Mare barely understood the scribbles, but they reminded him of the sonatas he drew into the walls of his and Phantom’s childhood home, the music in his mind that couldn’t wait for a piece of paper to be released.

Softly, Mare started to hum, following the graffiti in hopes of finding his charge. Despite the destruction of the east wing, the mansion still boasted dozens of rooms, each one filling Mare with apprehension as he glanced in the doorways. He made a wide arc around a scalpel sticking out of the wall, frowning at a torn painting of a happy family before pausing, seeing an orange light coming from a room down the hall.

“Here goes nothing,” Mare said to himself, rolling up his sleeves and moving to the room, hesitating in the doorway to observe the man inside. Illuminated by the glow of a Bunsen burner, his hair seemed almost bronze, stature slight as he stood at his table, and Mare jumped as the charming silhouette of Mad made him drop his summoned dagger.

Immediately there was a flame in front of his face, the heat of it drying his eyes as whiskey-amber eyes glared at him from behind the flaming mallet. It took Mare a moment to break free of the combined shock and desire that clouded his mind, leaning back from the fire to fix Mad with a small smirk.

“Well,” he chuckled, raising his hands in surrender as he shook off the purple wisps encircling them. “I can see where Dark probably messed up. Do you mind putting that away? It’d be so inconvenient if you set me on fire, considering I just did my hair.”

Was that a smile? Mare paused as he watched Mad, ears catching on the soft giggle the scientist let out before setting the mallet aside, the weapon extinguishing before touching the ground. Without the heat of fire distorting his vision, Mare noticed the array of freckles dusted over Mad’s face, clearest across his cheeks and nose. The dark circles under his eyes certainly revealed that Mad probably spent too much time studying, but Mare found the entire look to be quite… sweet.

“You know,” he began, smile quirking wider when Mad tilted his head curiously. “You’re pretty cute for someone who fought off one of our strongest assets. I bet you could look even cuter curled in a comfortable chair with a good book.” The blush spreading over Mad’s cheeks was enough to tell Mare he was making the right choices.

“You guys have books?” Mare took a deep breath to calm his heart when Mad spoke, wanting to hear more of that voice. “He never mentioned books when he came before, just that I was important to his group…” he mumbled to himself, peering at Mare for information.

“We’ve got a whole library full of books,” the musician replied, stepping closer to Mad as a test. “Free for you to use whenever you want, for however long you want.” The fact Mad wasn’t moving away was testament to Mare’s success, and he raised a hand to summon a small, translucent image of a pile of books with a tiny version of Mad sitting atop them.

“I-I guess,” Mad stammered, eyes fixed on the image hovering above Mare’s palm, “I could check it out.” He squeaked when Mare pulled him into a hug, reaching blindly for some kind of weapon before realising that he felt comfortable in his arms, relaxing into Mare’s embrace slowly.

“My name’s Mare, by the way.” Mare released Mad, hands moving to hold his cheeks and look into his face. “I’m going to stick by your side until you’re sick of me. I wasn’t lying when I said you were cute, and as long as I’m here, you’re never going to be alone again.”

“I-I have to pack a few things,” Mad whispered, face bright red as his eyes darted between Mare’s and his lips. “Then we can go to your place. Will you stay here? I won’t take long.”

“I’ll be wherever you want me,” Mare replied, leaning down to kiss Mad tenderly, feeling his anxieties dissolve as he melted against Mare’s body. “Go get your things, I’ll make a phone call while I wait.”

As Mad left the room, Mare pulled out his phone, dialling his brother’s number and moving around the room as he waited for him to pick up.

“I told you,” He stated with a smile, eyes bright. “Offer him a good book, and he’ll come to the house. And tell Host to stop being vague about his visions; I’d have gotten Mad here sooner if I’d just been told the scientist would be my soulmate.”

-----------------------

@brokentimewatch @dungeon-dragons-dragons @rattyboyisemo

[designforfaison]

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There are an affiliate link of a best product in this article which may make some profit for me.

[bardofsomerset]

Allison Russell at Omeara, Part Two: Live and Singing

Previously, in Part One, I was introduced to the music of Allison Russell and made the big decision to go to London and see her in concert. This caused me to reminisce on all the other concerts I've seen, hence, Part Two, with even less Allison Russell in concert than the first part.

Maybe it’s because my taste in music leans so heavily to before I was born, but going to watch live gigs has always seemed a rare and special thing. I’m never going to get to see Nina Simone or Dusty Springfield or Ella Fitzgerald in the flesh. When I saw Cleo Laine for the first time, she was in her eighties (having lost absolutely nothing of that voice) and I was the youngest person in the audience by a few decades.

That’s been a bit of a recuring theme since my first ever concert (not including musicals, which play a bit differently), seventeen years before I ventured out to see Allison Russell. When I took my seat in front of Joan Armatrading’s stage, I was very aware that I was possibly the only child in a room full of adults.

(Well, technically Joan Armatrading was the second concert, but as the first one started an hour and a half late and we had really bad seats, I don’t count it as a full experience.)

Joan Armatrading…there was no first listen to Joan Armatrading. Those melodies crawled into my ears while I was still in the womb, and they’ve been floating through my body ever since. She’s my mother’s favourite, has been ever since the 1970s heyday of Back to the Night and, of course, the eponymous album that introduced the world to “Love and Affection”, the song you probably know best:

I hear that opening and I’m a child again, home and safe and certain of the shape of the world. Funny, really, when uncertainty is part of the fabric of the song. It’s not music I “discovered”, there was no moment when it found me, but that makes it important in a whole different way. It’s how I grew with it, when the lyrics stayed the same but something changed in the way I listened; how every subsequent replay remade what I thought I knew.

It’s probably fair to say Mum was more excited than me as she directed the car through the growing evening darkness of 13th October 2005 and took us into Bristol. Yeah, there was some budding anticipation, but after that failed first gig I didn’t really understand. I could be sitting comfortably at home and still hear my favourite songs. I liked Joan Armatrading, but not in the way Mum did. How could I, without all those decades of following her, without those songs echoing through all the days of my life? You can trace the history of a person in their album collection, but I was barely a teenager. I hadn’t had time to build musical connections like that.

Plus, there was the fact that my literary analysis wasn’t quite at the level it is today. Joan Armatrading is a poet, and not one who explains her every thought and feeling to you. She wraps mysteries around her lyrics, leads you in and leaves you to draw from them what you will. Back then, I still didn’t have a clue what it all meant (I mean, I’m not going to say I understand it perfectly now, but I can see silhouettes and build something meaningful around them). It can be hard to fully appreciate something that you don’t understand.

Did preschool me hearing “Drop the Pilot” for the first time have any comprehension of a bogey outside of something that came out of your nose? Nope. Did I have the faintest conception that the titular “Rosie” might be a man in lipstick and heels? Not at all. I just knew I liked the songs with a faster rhythm, the ones where I could sing along with enthusiasm. “Drop the Pilot” is still one of my favourites, and that’s partly because I remember how it felt as a child, and partly because I can hear it now in a way that was impossible back then.

There was no sitting up in the gods this time like that failed first concert, we were right there in the front row, knees to the stage and almost in the centre (a feat that wouldn’t be repeated until 2014, when my parents finally bought me tickets to see Elaine Paige, after previously missing her twice. That evening took me through every show she’d ever played, every character I’d never had the chance to see, where every slight hunch or stretch of her shoulders was all that was needed to turn the actress who sings into someone completely new).

Any worries about disappointment vanished the moment Joan Armatrading took her place.

I may have preferred the more up-tempo tunes when I was little, but on that night, sat in what was still known as the Colston Hall, before renovations and renaming rebirthed it as the Bristol Beacon, it wasn’t “Drop the Pilot” that hit me most. It got me, don’t get me wrong, I think pretty much every song landed twice as heavy as I’d ever heard before; in that way that only happens when you and the singer are barely a breath apart, but the moment of the night was one I hadn’t remotely expected.

By the time we reached that point, I’d already seen tunes that I thought I recognised shimmering with a new kind of life. I’d journeyed through songs that were completely unfamiliar, but that settled as old friends by their final note. My ears had opened to the jokes and backstory woven between the music, the phrases delivered in that Birmingham accent, until it was suddenly clear to me that the disembodied voice coming through my speakers for so many years was actually a real human being. Just like the rest of us, except there was that melody, that talent, so far beyond my imagination.

It couldn’t have been better. That’s what I thought, but it turned out there was another space I didn’t even know needed to be filled. When the end was rolling close, but the audience wasn’t ready for her to leave, that’s when Joan Armatrading decided to sing “Willow”:

“Willow” wasn’t one of my quick and bouncy tunes where I already liked to sing along. I wasn’t yet at the point in my life where I could dig into its deeper meaning. When it started to play, I didn’t even know the words. It was immediately clear that everyone else did, so all I could do was listen to them, and to her.

I knew by this point that Joan Armatrading was a poet, but somehow that was the moment where it became real to me, when her voice and theirs drew out those shapes from the lyrics. I could hear it in the thunder, see it illuminated in the edge of the lighting, wrap myself in the softening storm. “Willow” was shelter from everything else in the world, leaving nothing but us. Everyone was singing along, even me, and I still didn’t know the words exactly. It just felt right.

It was the first time I realised that a concert isn’t you watching them. It’s them sharing with you. It’s you giving back. For so many of the people in that audience, it wasn’t just that moment but all the memories that accompanied it, reliving every replay since the original 1977 release. I found myself joining them in a place they created before I was born. It was learning not just the lyrics, repeated in every chorus, not just the melody, poured nectar-like over the congregation, but also how to experience the song as a living thing.

I’ve seen Joan Armatrading twice more since then, first at Warwick Arts Centre (one of the great advantages of attending the University of Warwick was having that right there on campus) with two brilliant supporting acts – part of her mission to bring attention to the local talent who it’s sometimes easy to miss, in this case Jamie Sheerman and Chris Wood  – and once again she fed her distinctive lines of humour between some of the most beautiful love songs ever written. Now I was finally in a place to hear “Dry Land” (one of that small cluster of early songs that weren’t hers alone, but with lyrics by Pam Nestor) and “The Weakness in Me”. I was ready to wonder how I ever missed their depth before.

Second was at my old friend the Playhouse, right at home in Weston-super-Mare. That was when she was scaling down her touring and it was just her on the stage, an entire band within one woman’s fingers. There was nothing between her and us. She made the switching between instruments look so easy, and she crafted those songs into whole new shapes yet again.

In between, I heard the way other musicians, famous and important and influential ones, talked about her, the way they all honoured her with such boundless respect. I watched the documentary, the one about how in the 1970's no one had seen or heard anything like her before, and that’s still true today, about all those poor, confused white, male record execs who saw a black woman who wasn’t singing blues or jazz or soul and didn’t have a clue how to respond, whilst she just kept on doing her own thing and the listeners kept finding her, because you might not be able to describe Joan Armatrading’s music in relation to anything else, but you know it’s something special. By the time I was in my twenties my appreciation was on a whole new level. Small me couldn’t have conceived of it.

When I was at uni, Joan Armatrading became one of the artists I played as an antidote to homesickness. She just reminded me of listening with my mum. She was top of a list of singers that also included Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits and Elkie Brooks. Other than Tom Waits, I’ve had the immense privilege of seeing all of them live.

Leonard Cohen I saw twice (July 2009 in Liverpool, September 2013 in Cardiff), and both times he seemed so bemused that we’d all made the effort just to go and listen to him. He took off his hat and pressed it to his heart, ever the gentle romantic, a poet who sang whilst his backup, including the Sublime Webb Sisters (his description) turned the occasional surprise cartwheel and band members, including the man he called “maestro of the wind”, played along. He rendered the full version of “Hallelujah”, the proper one, no verses cut and no meaning lost, enough to silence the drone of all those inescapable covers (I once had to watch a performance of “Hallelujah” by a choir of teenagers in a Christmas concert. It didn’t have quite the same weight), and he sang all the melodies I try to press on people when they complain Leonard Cohen’s music is depressing. Who hears “Anthem” or “If It Be Your Will” and feels anything less than hope? As for all when he asked that audience to see you naked, and made his vows of devotion, I’m pretty sure there was some actual swooning amongst his long-adoring fans. Even in two big arenas, not remotely intimate spaces, there was still a closeness that’s hard to describe.

Then there was Elkie Brooks, with that voice worn in over decades, with every new texture just elevating the whole. She’s going on her Long Farewell Tour in 2024 and beyond, so if you want to see her, now’s the time. I’ll definitely be there.

We saw her in Yeovil, at the Octagon (I think this was May 2010), a present to make up for missing her most recent appearance in Weston. She has this gift, Elkie Brooks, across all the genres, whether on her own or back with the woefully unappreciated Vinegar Joe. One moment you’re in a pub or bar, rowdy and rousing, dancing, probably on the table, with a glass in your hand. Then you stop, dead still, ears clinging to each lingering melody as she takes you to a club 1940-something where it’s long after dark and the music curls around you like smoke.

(Also, as I discovered when searching for the best videos to illustrate this section, she was once a cavewoman.)

When we saw her, she was half apologetic about the fact she had a new album out. It was just after the release of Powerless and, perfectly understandably, she wanted us to buy the CD. That meant she needed us to hear stuff like the title track and “Why”, which for someone still relatively new to all this were two absolutely beautiful songs, but for everyone else clearly didn’t have the weight of the classics. I can’t find it on YouTube, but her version of “I Can’t Make You Love Me” was the first I heard, and remains pretty close to Bonnie Raitt’s for me.

Elkie Brooks knew the new album was not the main reason her audience was here. She was very aware that most of them (this was another one of those concerts where I was a different generation to everyone else) had been loving “Lilac Wine” and “Pearl’s a Singer” for many, many years. They were going to need to be satisfied.

How do you keep a song alive on the hundredth time through? The thousandth? What’s left other than reciting it like a child with their times tables? Can you really find a new emotion every night, whilst still keeping the core that made people love it back then?

The answer was in her own personality, in the spaces where she found room for character and conversation. The knowing pause and raised eyebrow on “I drink much more than I ought to drink” in “Lilac Wine”, a moment that made us all chortle. Introducing “Pearl’s a Singer” and playing up her exasperation at just how many times she’d had to perform it. After all, its success took even her by surprise back in 1977. We couldn’t help but laugh again, just before she emphasised how she was going to need our help to work up her enthusiasm:

(Obviously not a concert version, but the closest I could find to how it was when I heard it.)

We obliged, hanging on that moment of stillness in the middle of the song before rushing into the acceleration. You could tell, through every moment of that gig, that Elkie Brooks was someone who’d lived her whole life on the stage, that she knew and understood every inch of it, so utterly comfortable with every shift in tone, with how she reached us and how we responded. There wasn’t a single moment when that connection wasn’t there, us and her and the music all together.

Which brings us back to Cleo Laine, who, as I mentioned, was in her eighties when I saw her. July 2009, I’d just finished the first year of my A-Levels and she was more than fifty years into her career as Britain’s greatest jazz singer. I swear if Cleo Laine was American, she’d regularly be mentioned in the same breath as Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan. That quite frankly ridiculous vocal range (four octaves? Five octaves? I’ve heard it debated, but either way, seriously?). That glorious scat singing (the whole video is worth watching, but go to 6.35 for when it starts getting really fun). The fact she decided to do an album of Shakespeare set to jazz. I mean, really, is it possible to design something more specifically to my taste?

If we’re talking concerts that were particularly special to me, not just my mother, then we have to talk about Cleo Laine. My mother still has a role to play (we share a lot more music than I do with my dad, though he’s probably the reason I like country, and he was also the one who stood next to me through the non-stop, three hours and no interval experience at Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium as Bruce Springsteen piled the energy higher and higher, until he sent off all his band and perched there at the end of the stage, just him and his guitar, playing “Thunder Road”). No, my mother was the one who bought me a Cleo Laine CD one day, having seen it at random in a shop, and told me she thought I’d like it. Being a teenager, I ignored her. That was very silly, as I discovered when I finally hit play.

Jazz doesn’t have to work as hard as other music to make me fall in love with it (don’t ask me to explain the technicalities of why that’s true. It’s not a conscious thing), but that CD wasn’t actually a particularly jazzy one. At Her Finest took the songs of some of the great songwriters: Billy Joel, Stevie Wonder, Stephen Sondheim, each of them so capable of creating an image, a story, an insight into our own nature, and it strummed them to that unmistakable, unsurpassed voice. Into this potent mix, Cleo Laine had added her own pen, painting lyrics over the rippling melody of “Cavatina” to create “He Was Beautiful”. What all those tracks had in common was a humanity, poured into words and music and feelings, that found its way deep inside you.

That first time I saw Cleo Laine live was in St George’s Hall, Bristol, where we’d also later see Curtis Stigers jazzing things up. It literally used to be a church, one small enough to hold everyone close. It was a most appropriate sort of venue for a divine experience. We were only a couple of rows back, right at the heart of it all, and it almost seemed she was staring directly at me as she sang. At other moments she didn’t forget to look up and to the sides, to the people tucked in at the edges who weren’t necessarily in the line of view. She was there for her audience. I had no doubt she saw every one of us.

The thing about someone having that much experience on the stage; they have so many stories. There’s nothing they haven’t seen, no escapade they haven’t enjoyed. Dame Cleo Laine and Sir John Dankworth were side by side, and their banter flitted between every song, the embodiment of a 50-year marriage and shared life between two people who understood each other’s music better as much or more than they did their own. They would be mocking each other one minute, then harmonising perfectly the next. She’d make fun of him, he’d menace her with his clarinet while she wasn’t looking. Behind them, shoulders curling around the deep, heavy voice of the double bass, their son Alec carried the family tradition in fine form.

They dusted every moment with fun and good humour, like they’d just invited us into their everyday lives. One time, as Cleo was introducing a song, she told us she’d first heard it sung by a lady (I can’t remember who and it’s really annoying me) who’d been 91 at the time. Still a decade away from that, despite being well past what most people would consider retirement age, with absolutely impeccable delivery, she explained, “It gave me great hope.”

On the other hand, when she sang “Sonnet 18”, or as you may know it, “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day”, the world stopped.

Melody by John, lyrics by that Shakespeare guy. I mean, as Cleo herself said, if someone wrote you a poem like that, would you have any option but to fall in love?

The second time we saw her, a few years later, John was gone but the whole rest of the family was there, children and grandchildren: Jacqui, Alec and Emily, singing and playing along, and we were in their back garden at The Stables near Milton Keynes. A shared communion indeed.

We saw Jacqui Dankworth on her own once, back in Weston, just a few days before I left for uni. Cleo Laine had sung the classics, but this night was about something new, songs I’d never heard before. I could hear the similarities to her mother’s voice, and the differences too. She’d inherited something special, but despite the almost irresistible urge to compare, there was no denying she could stand alone. That was also my introduction to Charlie Wood, his piano dancing around her voice as they both fed off the other. They weren’t married yet, but the connection between them came alive in every note.

At uni, I saw Alec Dankworth with his Spanish Accents in the Warwick Arts Centre. Someone said to me once, and I think it might be true, that it’s impossible for a double bass to sound bad. No screeching, no wailing, none of those completely inexplicable noises that my saxophone sometimes decides to randomly make when I blow it. There’s just something about that deep, earthy rhythm that gets right into your blood.

Getting the CD of Back to You signed after Jacqui’s gig, she asked if I was a musician (I think it was because I was again on the young side of the audience and that was the most obvious reason for me to be there), always a slightly awkward question. Technically, I suppose, but not really how she meant. She also commented on my unusual name.

That’s another recurring theme at these events. Lesley Garrett (possibly the most exuberant singer in the world, and equally enthusiastic about encouraging my own singing), and Clare Teal (Yorkshire again, a voice so familiar from the radio, who’d introduced me to so much jazz, but who I’d only recently realised was a singer in her own right) would both say similar things. “That’s an unusual name.” “Are you a musician?” like there was anything comparable between me and them.

Of all the concerts that have been and could have been, of all the old favourites given new breath and surprise discoveries brought to life in the chamber of an auditorium, only one still seems like a dream, like something like that could never have happened. Aretha Franklin had given up on international tours long before I became a fan. There was no chance she’d be coming to the UK any time soon.

No, she wouldn’t come to me, but I did go to America in 2011, one year on a university exchange, from Warwick to Vanderbilt, from Coventry to Nashville. Flicking through the internet and seeing that Aretha Franklin was on a US tour and suddenly realising, “yes, I’m in the US.” Opening the list of dates and seeing “Ryman Auditorium, Nashville” and barely taking time to consider. I walked to the Ryman (I wanted to make sure it was an easy journey so I’d know I could do it on concert night) and I bought my ticket there and then, taking the opportunity to do a little tour of the building too. I didn’t realise quite how much history was in the Mother Church. Yet another religious experience hallowing the halls where music plays.

It was raining on the night, the weather was absolutely foul and I was not looking forward to trudging down Broadway, but it turned out one of my professors was going with her family and she offered to give me a lift. I had a very good seat, down and near the front, but frankly I could have been sat on the roof outside, right in the heart of the weather, and it still would have qualified as the experience of a lifetime.

I’ve been trying to construct a narrative for that evening, one that sums up every moment and emotion, the crowd of that stage with its band and more band and singers and dancers filling in every corner, the second piano they rolled on halfway through so she could play for us on the most beautiful (and longest) version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” that’d I’d ever heard, the audience overflowing with love and her love in return, the fact that not a single word or note mattered in the face of that feeling, but I don’t think it exists. Could any description do it justice?

It’s a good place for music, Nashville. I realise you already know that, but I also saw Sonny Rollins while I was there (a very good reminder of what the saxophone is meant to sound like when I’m struggling myself), and I took in Memphis the Musical just weeks before I actually visited Memphis for the first time. A lot of fond memories accompanied that long year, despite the lonely moments and the homesickness.

There have been other concerts as well: the ancient energy of Clannad twisted into something cool and modern under the roof of Warwick Arts Centre, Natalie Williams at Ronnie Scott’s (as much about the venue as the music, fabulous as that was), Tony Bennett at the Royal Albert Hall and Sir Willard White at The Forum in Bath, barely a word spoken between those classic songs perfect phrased, Gladys Knight at the Royal Albert Hall with love and celebration, several slightly overwhelming Big Gig performances with the Guides where we sat next to the aeroplanes and watched the dots on the stage who were presumably the artists we were there to see. But live performance had fallen by the wayside a bit, and not just because of the pandemic, when I made the decision that this time, on this tour, I was going to stop putting things off until the next opportunity and make an active effort to put myself in the same room as Imelda May.

*

My first encounter with Imelda May came when “Johnny’s Got a Boom Boom” was playing on the radio with somewhat unavoidable frequency, and I didn’t mind because every time I’d nod my head and tap my foot, thinking to myself as I heard that unmistakable, bouncing off your bones bass line, “I like that beat. It’s pretty cool” Then I went on my way, working on my A-Levels. At some point, I did see an interview in person, saw her with that hair and those lips and that look in her eye, and my vague thoughts added, “She looks pretty cool too.”

Then, a few years later, I saw this performance on the Graham Norton Show:

Not only did I again think “I like that beat”, this time I also had to smile at the lyrics:

"I love your nails, even your entrails I love your soul, even your little mole Yeah I love you inside out

I love your arms and your laugh out loud charms I love your wits, and all your wobbly bits I love your lungs, and your talking tongue Yeah I love you inside out"

I might not have a competent musical ear, but I know what good words look like. These were clever, and funny, and not long after, when I happened to be a in a music shop with money to burn, I bought Mayhem in its entirety as an album. It wasn’t planned. I spotted the CD in the ranks, I remembered that performance, and there was a spontaneous decision that I’m still glad about more than a decade later.

Those first two albums I bought, in fairly quick succession: Mayhem, then Love Tattoo, became the albums I played when I was tired and I needed a burst of energy, whether to my hands or to the thinking parts of my head. They were (and still are) what I turned up loud when housework needed doing, even if they made basic tasks take longer because of the constant need to dance, and even if I could only play them when I was on my own because yes, I still felt compelled to sing along very loudly. They made life a little bit easier and a lot more fun. They could blast me into a writing mood, but sometimes I’d have to wait until the CD finished because I couldn’t concentrate on my words when my ears were still hanging on hers.

Tribal was the first album I ever preordered before it had even been released, claiming the bonus EP despite the fact I didn’t at the time own equipment capable of playing vinyl. It was also the first time I watched an official Imelda May music video, and I still go back to It’s Good to be Alive” whenever I need an immediate pick me up that’ll make me grin so loud you can hear it. Or you could, if I wasn’t alone in the house with the speakers on full blast, crushing every other sound under the vibration of that rhythm.

Then came Life Love Flesh Blood. Before Outside Child, no album had ever come into my life with such a definite force. There were the interviews with Imelda May first, some that I heard and some that I read, promising that it would be something different. Was that a good thing or not? I was reasonably certain that the quality of the singing would make any shape of melody worth a listen, but would these new tracks have that same energy, that mix of humour and humanity, that made the previous records so precious? I was excited, yes, because the odds seemed good, but there was a little trepidation too.

I’m not sure what I was worried about, really. I love those rockabilly rhythms but my favourite songs on Love Tattoo and Mayhem are the slower ones: “Knock 123” and “Kentish Town Waltz” respectively. You can linger in the lyrics, and in all the power and control thrumming through that limitless voice, and you can feel every inch of meaning bleeding into you. The first time “Call Me” poured through the radio, it stopped me like those two had, and all my doubts were scoured away in the echo of that first perfect note.

Caught in the pain and the pleading of Life Love Flesh Blood’s first song, feeling its ache in my ears and my chest, I knew there was something special coming. Then I saw the guest list for Jools’ Annual Hootenanny, saw her name, and I was very ready to hear what came next. It turned out it was the kind of sound that claws itself into your spine. My music, written especially for me.

Yes, she had new hair and a new style, but she still had that look in her eye. That command to pay attention. It was coupled with something else. Without that beat, there was a new kind of vulnerability, one that would tremble throughout the album. Behind the evocative notes of that title, “Black Tears”, behind that striking, captivating image, was a darkness and a pain that spilled out until it swallowed the world.

Somehow, I ended up buying Life Love Flesh Blood twice. Two CD versions, both preorders with bonus tracks. They had a different image on the front, and one had a signed insert whilst the other had extra, extra bonus tracks (the ukulele versions), so they were technically different. No regrets.

No, it wasn’t like the previous albums, but sometimes music finds you at exactly the right time. It wasn’t a happy period, and I was wallowing, to put it mildly. A series of songs with “the world’s not perfect but we can still make it better, I’m not perfect but I’ll still try my best” as a central message? A battered hope depicted through all those admitted mistakes, through humanity in all its shallow, selfish, prideful moments? The declaration that love is something we can actively choose, and that we have to keep choosing? I can’t overstate how important it was for me to hear that.

It's a highly personal album, like you’re being allowed a glimpse into someone else’s soul, but somehow it also manages to distil humanity as a species:

"I've chased away my demons But I'm human at my best

So come adore me But know I'm going to fall Off of this pedestal That I hope you put me on"

I’m going to try and explain why this works for me, but I’m not sure there’s a better way to say it. How does someone write something that brilliant? Place so much depth in such simplicity? The tension there, that conflict between who you want to be and your actuality, the intense desire for someone else to see you and the fear of what will happen when they do, the hope that they’ll love the idea of you and that creeping voice reminding you that the idea is unsustainable? All you can do is your best, but is your best really worth that much? Romance and reality in the same hand; all the difficulty and beauty of being human.

If those few lines of “Human” gave me feelings, then the entirety of “When It’s My Time” ran through me like a blade. It’s not often I see depictions of religion that match the people of faith that I know, not borderline saints, not judgemental bigots, but everyday humans who are so aware of how impossible it is for them to have all the answers, and yet who are so willing to keep trying to understand better, to try and be better. It’s the faith that tests itself every day and comes through on the other side, that admits its own doubts and frailty and is all the stronger for it.

It’s also that conflict again, that precarious balance of hope and helplessness. How do you accept your own imperfections? Is it possible to do better when you’re so intimately aware of your own flaws? Can you find the value in trying, even when you know you won’t succeed? Where do you put your faith? How can you be so small and so human in such a big, complicated world?

I know some people complained about the new sound in Life Love Flesh Blood, but listen to “Proud and Humble” and “When It’s My Time” back-to-back. One leans more into the triumph, the other’s more pleading, but both are pretty explicit about their faith and failure. “I’ve done wrong but that’s not the sum total of me. Look at what I tried to do. Lord, love me like I love you.”

That same wry humour that I loved in “Inside Out” is still there as well, especially in “Bad Habit”, otherwise known as the catchiest song on the album, the one I’m most likely to keep humming for weeks every time I hear it.

"Spending money like I have it A bad habit, spending money like I have it

…

The doctor said 'Girl to my surmount There's nothing wrong with you But you bank account!'"

In other places, it flips the script the other way round. Songs like “Big Bad Handsome Man”, where he tempts you and it’s enticing and celebratory become songs like “Sixth Sense” and “How Bad Can a Good Girl Be”, where the temptation calls directly into your own darkness. Rather than looking out at him and his devilish charm, they take a more introspective route and dare to explore the less palatable side of that desire.

The album is also about love. Like with Allison Russell, I love how Imelda May writes about love. This the woman who admired “all your wobbly bits” for “Inside Out” and then on the same album included “Kentish Town Waltz”, one of the best bits of storytelling in song I’ve heard, absolutely devoid of anything that resembles the ideal of romance whilst still being one of the most romantic things you can possibly imagine.

I love how this love is never flashy, never about grand gestures. It’s about everyday drudgery that you choose to share, about a whole range of choices that you need to make for a love to work. It’s the stews lasting three days into four, it’s knowing you’re going to fall off of the pedestal you hope they put you on, it’s not fear, it’s home, and all that’s good and bad about that. On 11 Past the Hour, it’s “Diamonds” that carries that theme best:

"Don't need to wish on stars We don't have to reach that far Everything's right where we are"

I thought no love song could stop “Kentish Town Waltz”, but “Diamonds” is pretty close. They’re different in tone, but they’re both about the grounded side of love, about a reality that isn’t full of sparkling glamour but is all the stronger because of it. Imelda May writes about love in a way I don’t think I’ve seen from anyone else. It’s never flamboyant, sometimes it’s annoying, but it’s also a way of living.

It doesn’t even have to be set to music. When 11 Past the Hour was announced, I did as I’d done for the last two albums: listened to every single as it was released, poured over every interview to try and eke out the details, and as soon as it was possible, put myself down for a preorder. This time, rather than a bonus EP that I couldn’t play, the extra was a disc of poetry, yes, set to melodies, but spoken, not sung.

Now, 11 Past the Hour is a pretty evocative title in its own right. That’s not a bit of casual speech, it’s an image with some depth to it, the kind that that’s at once instantly understood and enduringly enigmatic. This album was following on from Life Love Flesh, Blood, which had already been pushing the poetic pretty hard, that had managed some points when I thought the lyrics turned almost Leonard Cohen-esque:

"You got my mind In the gutter of love"

Now, however, for Slip of the Tongue, the melody drew back a little so you could see every syllable of each word, though when read in Imelda May’s voice there was music anyway.

Lay those lines out in isolation and they carry their own weight. Here’s love again, in “Home”, perhaps the best of them all. “It’s choosing kindness over being right”. It’s not all harmony though, there’s the punch and the dance of “GBH”, then the shock awakening of “Elephant’s” first line, there are moments of delicacy and violence colliding together, there’s questioning and uncertainty and humanity, the things I love so much in her music. Then every time you think you have a grasp on the images and the feelings of Slip of the Tongue, there’s moment of transformation into something more.

Since then, I’ve bought the A Lick and a Promise poetry book. It now on the desk next to my laptop, where I can pick it up and dip in at leisure whenever I have a craving to see words painted like art.

Of course, you can’t ignore the songs of 11 Past the Hour. It’s a fairy tale from that opening “'Twas”, it’s a romance where sweetness and sorrow sit side by side, it’s intimacy danced under an open sky. We travel a long way over the course of this album, from Ireland to London to Mexico to the most war-torn corners of the world and all the roads in between. There are temptations and doubts and darkness, as we’d expect. “I’m no psychopath” says the woman who once celebrated how, “I go with a psycho” There’s triumph that bursts forth in “Made to Love” in a similar way to how it roared in “Should Have Been You”. There’s storytelling. It rewards every listen, and every relisten, as you try to unravel all its questions and their uncertain answers.

Seeing Imelda May in concert shouldn’t really have been that difficult, as she has several great advantages over most of my other favourite singers. For instance, she is still alive, in good health and actually touring in the UK on a regular basis. The only real reason it hadn’t happened was that I hadn’t got round to it. I was sure I would one day.

A new album meant a new tour, so in the aftermath of 11 Past the Hour I poked around her website to find dates and destinations. Bath. Bath was on the list. It was the perfect place for it to happen. Bath is one of my favourite cities and I’ll take any excuse to wander there. There’s so much history in every street, but not the heavy kind. It’s beautiful in the pale stone of the buildings and almost mystical in the shimmering waters.

Of course, I’m not actually anywhere near Bath at the moment. I’m stranded a long way from home and don’t know when I’ll be able to get back on a more permanent basis. That meant that when I took a casual look at those tour dates, as I’d done nearly every year since I became an Imelda May fan, Bath didn’t represent the city of closeness and convenience, but instead an excuse. I could combine it with a trip home, not the long-term settlement that I really wanted but still an improvement on my current status.

As always, my mum jumped on the opportunity to encourage me to socialise, this time by suggesting I go with one of the members of that three-person social network of mine. Asking him to come wasn’t actually that difficult. It’s hard to believe when you see me craning my neck to look at him, but we met when he was shorter than me. We’re friends in the way that’s only possible with someone you’ve known since before you had a memory. We’re close in the way that no matter how many paths you both travel, whether in philosophy or physical space, you know you’ll always come back, and that when you do you’ll be able to just pick it up again. We started a conversation nearly 30 years ago and whilst it’s curled many ways in between, it hasn’t stopped since.

That meant that something as simple as sending him a message didn’t have to be debated and worried over, that I knew before I started that I wasn’t overstepping. Of course, that wasn’t the same as knowing he’d say yes, or even if he’d like Imelda May’s music. Not that I was too worried about that second one. He’s a musician, a proper one who can hear the things I miss, and that means that his musical genres can basically be divided into “good” and “not for me.”

I didn’t send him links at first because I was still trying to decide which tracks would make the most representative sample, but I did offer to make recommendations if he wanted to listen. He was enthusiastic about coming even without hearing a single note. “I’m sure I’ll love her music. I’ve not heard of her but feel free to send anything over.”

After some debate one my part, I decided on “Johnny’s Got a Boom Boom”, as that was the one I was pretty sure he’d have heard on radio if he’d ever encountered her without realising, the Graham Norton performance of “Inside Out” that had pushed me over the line into a fan, and the “Black Tears” video from Jools Holland that had made me realise just how special Life Love Flesh Blood would be. There needed to be some old and some new if he was to fully appreciate her.

Then he started wondering if going to see her without having a clue what to expect would actually be more of an experience. It was a month later when he messaged me that he’d finally decided to listen to the links “I love the three that you sent and while I like the 50s Rock n Roll stuff, her latest album is blowing me away! Her voice is incredible no matter what genre she's singing but I like this latest stuff the best.”

I may have bounced up and down slightly with excitement.

(In case you’re wondering, yes, I did later turn him towards Allison Russell – “I love Hy-Brasil, the atmosphere and harmonies are amazing” – followed by a deep plunge into the Silk Road Ensemble as he fell into the many layered wonders of Rhiannon Giddens.)

When I went to buy the tickets, there were two options. Yes, I could have just gone with the regular ones, which would have got us to a decent position in the stalls, but the very front few rows were only available as part of a VIP package. A VIP package that also came with the right to watch the soundcheck, and attend a Q&A afterwards, plus a special gift. That was ridiculously enticing and if I’d been on my own, I wouldn’t have been able to resist.

Was it fair to ask someone else to buy a VIP ticket to see a singer that they hadn’t heard of a month ago just to indulge me?

Yes, I decided, it was worth it, and if he wanted I’d cover the difference between this and a regular ticket so he wasn’t too put out.

It was just after I’d bought the tickets that he messaged and told me he was having trouble rearranging his shift at work.

“Don’t do anything yet,” he said as I rechecked my confirmation e-mail.

There were a very nervous few days before that one was resolved, and all that was left was to wait for Tuesday 12th April.

*

When the day rolled round, I was already in a good mood. I was home, in Somerset, and that’s always been the best thing to help me breathe. I wasn’t worried about finding the venue, because I’d been to The Forum before. There was no stress about getting back to Bath Spa station before the last train, because as you’ll know if you’ve ever been to Bath, getting to The Forum basically involves leaving the station and turning left, and getting back is just as simple. Everything was in such a clear line.

His dad gave us a lift, him from his house and me from my B&B, and from the car to the station to the train we picked up that conversation we’ve been dipping in and out of for so long. We’d left at lunch to allow plenty of time to get something to eat and be at The Forum before the soundcheck began, which meant we also had time to wander around one of my favourite cities in the world.

You can’t walk through Bath without feeling its age, the echo of all those Victorian voices, the shape of all those Roman constructs, the song of that older time before stories had words, when the Pagans first touched the magic in its waters. We talked, and we talked, and the sun was bright but still cool enough, as you’d expect in early April, and the streets were lively, but not crowded, and there was really nothing that could be changed to improve that day.

We walked past a bookshop and I felt that irresistible pull, and unlike the vast majority of people who know me, who wouldn’t have trusted me to leave again, he said “We can go in if you want.” Yes, even though we were still on a schedule. Drifting between the shelves, running fingers over all the intrigue and excitement promised in every different colour papering the spines, until yes, if we wanted to have something to eat before the soundcheck started, we needed to move a little quicker.

A little vegan café full of garlic mushrooms and katsu curry. Conversation about music of course, but also comics and politics and personal lives and all the topics in between. His music degree had led him into a career as a postman, clearly such a natural choice, but now he was making a change. He had decided to become a music therapist, was just starting his early reading before the course started, and that meant he could talk through the deconstruction of a melody in a whole different way, to how it could bypass and jumpstart parts of the brain that were otherwise losing their connections.

We came to a halt in the sun and sounds outside of The Forum, that curve at the point of the road, the art deco cinema turned dance school turned bingo hall turned church, a model of architectural beauty like all of its city. Forum is an ancient word, it takes you back to those Romans again, and it sounds like a conversation, like something for people to share. It’s a name that carries a lot of ideas. And of course, this was yet another concert venue on sanctified ground, a site dedicated to both God and music over the course of a life.

No one else was there when we first arrived, but others soon followed, coming up in their ones and twos, presumably for the same purpose as us. I watched them with curiosity, all those different looks and different voices but united intent. If we hadn’t all been stood outside of that same door, could we even have known the music we shared?

Eventually, those doors opened. It was finally time to step inside.

[samkkshopping]

Embrace Your Radiance: A Samyakk Musical Journey of Lehengas Cholis to Festive Elegance

Introduction:

From religious reflections like Diwali’s lights to harvest bounty celebrated in Onam, India’s festivals are a vibrant mosaic of culture, history, and seasons. Lehenga cholis, dazzling in rich fabrics and colors, are a festive staple.

Marriages see brides adorned in auspicious reds and gold, symbolizing prosperity and new beginnings. During festivals, these outfits reflect the joyous spirit and connect people to their heritage. The celebrations extend beyond attire, with elaborate feasts specific to each occasion. Sweet treats like laddoos and gujiyas become synonymous with Diwali, while biryani takes center stage for Eid celebrations. Festivals are a time for communities to gather, share traditions, and express individuality, all woven together with delicious food and vibrant attire.

“Festivals are the times when the whole world seems to come together as one family.” — Rabindranath Tagore

The lehenga choli, a dazzling ensemble of a skirt (lehenga), blouse (choli), and dupatta (scarf), is synonymous with Indian festive attire. Its origins can be traced back centuries, though the exact timeline is debated.

Early (Ishara) means indication in Hindisuggest depictions of similar skirt-and-choli combinations in Indus Valley Civilization artifacts (3300–1300 BCE), hinting at an even longer history.

Mughal Era Influence: The Mughal era (1526–1857 CE) is widely seen as a period of refinement for the lehenga choli. Tailoring techniques flourished, and intricate embroidery using zari and silk threads became a hallmark.

What it was called before?

While “lehenga choli” is the prevalent term today, there are regional variations:

Langonior ghagra choli in some parts of North India.

Pavadain South India, particularly referring to lehenga cholis worn by young girls.

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Krishna Janmashtami

Celebrates the birth of Lord Krishna, the eighth avatar of Vishnu, a central deity in Hinduism.

Children’s Often dressed in new clothes, sometimes representing characters from Krishna’s life. Involves fasting, prayers, devotional singing (bhajans and kirtans), and cultural performances like Rass Leela of Radha and Krishna. Hence on this day celebrate the festival with Multicolor Resham Embroidery Lehenga which will comfortable.

Ganesh Chaturthi

Ganesh Chaturthi, also known as Vinayaka Chaturthi or Vinayaka Chavithi, is a Hindu festival celebrating the birth of Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom, prosperity, and new beginnings.

Gear up for Ganesh Chaturthi with a dazzling Festive Salwar Kameez For Women! These stunning ensembles, perfect for any celebration, come in vibrant colors and rich fabrics, making you shine throughout the festivities.

Muharram

Muharram, also called Muharram ul Haram, is the first month of the Islamic calendar and is observed by Muslims worldwide.

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Embrace the festive spirit and celebrate in style! This guide equips you with all the information you need to find the perfect outfit that reflects your personality and celebrates the joyous traditions of India.

“From savory biryani to melt-in-your-mouth mithai (sweets), festival food is a celebration of taste and culture.”

Embrace Festive Elegance with Breathtaking Lehenga Cholis

Organza, a fabric synonymous with airiness and grace, has taken the festive fashion scene by storm. Its delicate yet structured nature allows for stunning lehenga cholis that are both eye-catching and comfortable.

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1. Are organza lehenga cholis comfortable to wear? A: Organza is known for being a lightweight and breathable fabric, making it a comfortable choice for festive wear. However, some lehenga cholis might have additional lining or heavier embellishments that could affect breathability.

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So, this festive season, embrace the magic of organza. Explore the plethora of options available online @ Samyakk and find the Buy Online Festival Lehenga Choli that makes you feel confident, beautiful, and ready to celebrate! Do visit our Physical Store at Bangalore. Happy Shopping…

[tipsyave]

how does love appear? its exterior shell, oh, does it even have a façade? where leaden whatsits lies inside with tenebrosity which have lived there for decades. have i ever once laid an eye on it? that certain dingus that people know . . . ?

do people really know love?

if one thing, to be spouted with neither trace nor ounce of swither, it is i know and i have.

i have perceived love. many, or not too, years from this very day — when i espied a gyrating silhouette, performing a pirouette, its arms and legs swiveling; when i witnessed a scintillating soul descending from the ether through a coruscating beam of light; when i discerned an empyrean melody as pure and seraphic as the driven snow, except it was from the gap between your thin, pretty lips.

i have perceived love the moment i perceived you.

&. i have seen love. years and everyday — and until evermore, until hell freezes over. i spied love and it has doe eyes n sharp jawline, i have seen love and it is adorable yet impossibly enthralling. i beheld love when i opted to raise my head from being perched on my arm where i was sitting on the nook of a dusky box. suddenly then, it extended and offered its hand for me.

i have seen love the moment i saw you.

&&. i began to know love when i knew you. you illuminated mediums and means to love, and even love itself. you irradiated yourself when the gray clouds obscured the sun, or when the bulb can no longer provide luminosity, you furnished the phosphorescence i seek.

you are always what i crave for, no, what i always need. though you are a sought-after entity for every being in this world, for you deserve to be considered and cherished. once and twice when i had my eyes screwed shut due to extreme perturbation, you were there to glide me ahead equanimity. thrice when i was deep under a reservoir, you were there to let me suspire. you are always what my life requires for me to draw warm breaths and you are never missing a chance to effectuate that.

&&&. love is what you are, your existence is the solitary delineation of love. hence, love never dies for you will interminably live in my heart and thy epithet engraved in here for perpetuity.

i love you if there is no more word better than that.

[umbralsound-xiv]

Coincidence.

Three hundred and fifteen. Three hundred and sixteen. Three hundred and seventeen.

I was close enough to listen, but far enough that they never saw it coming. What kind of fences entertain the idea of selling people? Where is the honour? The standards?

It covers my tracks enough for the time being. Just enough to lure more out, but not enough to know they’re being targeted.

I took their papers... But had not noticed how late the night had drawn on. So i made way to my post, as promised.

Bexy Amalaryssia leans back against her post; as she did almost every night she had found herself able to. She's much more in view this night; a silhouette against the pale light, but still doesn't call out for attention, difficult to spot unless someone were someone truly looking for her.

Quiet, careful footfalls beg Bexy's attention, as Khive quietly wanders the path - fingers connected before herself and fidgeting. Her gaze wanders the area, searching for the Seeker who's location she did not know.

Bexy Amalaryssia watches from high above, eyes narrowed as they traced along the path. Many people; mostly denizens of the night, drunkards and merchants, occasionally Keepers paraded the walkway. One such face moves along the path, and Bexy is quick to find her. "...Khive...?" Bexy asks, unseen from her perch above.

Y'khive Xetyalha comes to a halt as her name is spoken, ears perking up - flickering softly. "-- Bexy?" She asks, quietly.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Up on the tree." She calls. There's a hesitation that comes with her words. "Don't... Be too alarmed." A pause. "...You -did- come to help me, yes?"

Y'khive Xetyalha's gaze shifted upwards, finding a glimpse of the Seeker. "I did." She confirmed, making her way over to the tree trunk. She scales it with relative ease, making her way up to Bexy.

Bexy Amalaryssia quietly regards Khive with a degree of uncertainty. Bexy herself is unscathed; only her coat still carried the war wounds of the past sennights, whilst her face and hair were now remarkably free of blood. "...You know i cannot involve the company, yes? You read the note?"

Of all people, i’m not sure Khive was one of the few i’d expected. She has always kept her quiet, and i always thought her a sweet enough girl. Sure enough, i have seen her capabilities, but...

Y'khive Xetyalha's hands clasp before herself, eyeing the Seeker with a degree of worry upon seeing the blood clinging to her attire. ".. I know." She spoke softly, ears lowering a touch. "I.. may not have known either Eir nor Sayuri particularly well as some others who have undoubtably come to see you already, but.. I'd like to help." Her gaze wandered Bexy a little further, as if trying to find a cause for it. ".. Are you.. hurt? Or.. is that.. not yours..?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Some was, but i am not hurt, no. At least, not any longer." She raises her gloved hands, to show where the fabric split, mirroring on her shoulder. "Do you know what happened, Khive? I am unsure how much the company has been speaking."

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. That's a relief." Khive managed a small smile, before the corners of her lips sank into a tiny frown - head shaking lightly. "Only what you wrote in the note.. With Eir being taken and.. Sayuri going to retrieve him? I.. assume she didn't come back.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...She did not, no. They are in the hands of slavers, now. A band of more than two hundred strong, hence my want to deter the attention from the company. Leaving her -- Both of them there, is not an option." Her newly painted lips pull into a small line, glancing aside. "...Khive. You have never struck me as a woman of violence, but..." She trails. "...You know i will kill people, yes? Many of them."

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. Slavers.." Khive's ears droop, her head lowering - the thought quite clearly not sitting well with her. ".. I.. am not." She admitted, raising her head back up to meet Bexy's gaze. ".. But I have been a mercenary since I was fourteen.. I'm hardly a stranger to it." A brief pause lingered, as she fidgeted with her hands. "And I have no intention to get in your way, or question your methods. Personally.. I'd prefer to incapacitate over killing, but if I have to.. I will." The smallest of frowns graced her features. ".. You saw what I can do, when we met those.. things, last cycle.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I remember." Bexy recalls quietly, lowering her head into a small nod. "...I won't ask you to kill. I wouldn't bloody your hands unless that was a choice of your own making." Bexy's attention turns to regard the younger Keeper, then. "...I had never known such was the case since you had been so young." It does, at least, seem to settle her. "I would tell you all i know... But i regret to tell you, it isn't all too much."

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. Not many know. I'd tell you the story, but.. I'm not sure now is the time." One arm dropped down to her side, with Khive opting to reach her other across her torso and gently cup the opposite arm's elbow. "It's more than I know, so it'll still help. Saves me from bringing back the same information, too."

...I’d be interested to hear one sun. But she’s right. Now is, perhaps, not the time.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "Very well." Bexy nods, seemingly content for her answer at least. There was a strange kind of calm that seemed to wash over her as she recalled. "...Eir was taken by the slavers that once held Sayuri in order to get her back. Which... They did. She left before any kind of arguement could be made for her staying, insisting that Eir would die if she did not go. She said she'd return... And she hasn't." She slowly pulls her lips to a line once again, considering. "...I've killed eight in pursuit of her. I've learned they are both still alive, at least from what i last knew. Those who took her are beneath a man named Grym, and most if not all wear red marks on their faces. They are based in Thanalan."

Y'khive Xetyalha's frown deepened a touch at the news, ears flattening wholly. ".. I.. didn't know she had been a slave before.." Her head lowered, the grip of her own arm tightening. She listens to Bexy as she speaks, brows furrowing little by little. ".. Grym..?" Her gaze lift, then - some amount of recognition seemingly being held for the name. A thoughtful silence lingers, the smallest crackle of lightning dancing across her bare arm. ".. A-.. c-coincidence, surely.."

Bexy Amalaryssia watches Khive. Catches the spark, as it travels and dances along the skin of her arm, and slowly raises a brow. "The name isn't a stranger to your ears. You know of him? With your previous time as a mercenary, perhaps? His like have been around for at least twenty cycles."

...Recognition. I know it well. She knows him, or knows the name, or at the very least this isn’t the first time that she’s hearing of him.

...I wonder what she knows...

Y'khive Xetyalha frowned weakly, raising her gaze up to Bexy. "-- N-not.. as a -slaver-.. I-.. It must be a coincidence.. A similar name.." The crackles reappeared, darting across her arm a little more frequently as Khive quite frankly seemed distressed by the potentiality of it being whoever she knew of. ".. Is-.. Is it a Roegadyn..?" She questions, her fingers starting to lightly dig at her own arm.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "It is. Sayuri has had an acute fear of them for as long as i have known her, and i wager that a large part of it is because of him." Bexy slowly shakes her head. "I had never thought you to be slaver or anything of the sort, only... That you might have had dealings, or knowledge of him from before."

Y'khive Xetyalha slowly begins to rock back and forth anxiously, the slightest of whimpers leaving her. ".. G-Grym-.. -Grymahtyn-.. I-.. His.. brother took me in.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I hadn't known he ever had a brother. I know little of him, aside that he's a sadistic bastard that i'd put in the dirt, if the dirt wasn't too good for him." Her words held the malice that her expression betrayed, bringing a small chill of cold. "I pray his brother was a kinder man."

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. He protected me.." She frowned. ".. I uphold his morals." Her head turned aside and dipped down, her features giving a telling sign that she's struggling to truly accept the news. ".. He said Grym.. was a very angry person.. but not a bad one.. I met him once.." Another pause, her arms slowly reached up to wrap around herself. ".. His eyes were very.. cold.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...People have said this of me, before. Suppose there's some truth to it." Bexy looks to her gloves. Not all of the blood on there is so old, not that it's so easy to tell from the colour. "...You seem troubled, Khive." A pause, then, as Bexy slowly tilts her head. "Are you certain you want to help now, knowing this? It may still be a coincidence... But the risk remains."

I worry this knowledge will impair her. Will make things more difficult than they already are. But i will not make that decision for her, no.

Khive has always been earnest... There is always a trustworthiness she’s embodied on the few times we have met.

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. I want to help more." She nigh whispered. "..Had Strym been alive, he'd never let this slip through his fingers..." She frowned. ".. I want it to be a coincidence, but whether or not it is.. Eir and Sayuri are still at risk, and getting them back.. that's more important.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...That... Speaks much of your courage." Her gaze lowers an ilm. "...I'm going to do less than pleasant things to many people, Khive. I want you to know that. I want you to know before you make this decision."

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. I'd offer to try to reason with him, but.. that sounds foolish." She lowered her own gaze, crackles still dancing along her arm occasionally. ".. I had already made up my mind the sun I decided I was going to come here." She managed an almost pained smile, betraying the conflict she clearly felt. "..Strym taught me that if I was in a position to help someone in need, I should." A short pause lingered, as her gaze returned to Bexy. "..I'd say our friends count as in need, and my position as one who can help."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Indeed. Indeed it does." Bexy agrees, but there's something that doesn't sit quite at ease with her. "...Under no circumstances should you try to reason with him, Khive. I've had someone close to me run off into his clutches. I won't tolerate it a second time."

Y'khive Xetyalha shook her head swiftly. "No, no.. I met him once, if it is him. I wanted to try to talk to him then, but he merely asked about my connection to Strym.. then left. I'm not so foolish to think I can sway him to give them back.. less so, if he has already had Sayuri once before.." She frowned. ".. I just-.. I don't understand -why-. Why he'd become a slaver.." Her arms tightened around herself ever so slightly. "..Maetisath was a mercenary, and Wheilona is a baker.. Strym followed Maetisath's footsteps.."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I don't know. Pleasant hypotheticals should be saved for Mist. She knows people well enough, much as she doesn't enjoy speaking with them. But for me, it doesn't matter. He stands in the way of bringing them back."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I'd put an arrow in him myself, but... I think none have better reason for killing him than Sayuri. I wouldn't deprive her."

Were he in a room opposite, i’m not sure if i’d hesitate. By all rights, Sayuri deserves to be the one who commits the killing blow, but if it was between letting him leave or putting an end to him, i’d surely take it.

Y'khive Xetyalha nodded slowly. ".. Of course. Why isn't what's most important." She spoke quietly, exhaling a deep breath through her nose. ".. Do we know where in Thanalan Eir and Sayuri are being held..?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I know the approximate location. But approaching is impossible; there's simply too many of them to be able to approach unnoticed. Eastern Thanalan. Khive... If you must go there... Be careful."

Y'khive Xetyalha nodded gently. "I'll be as careful as I can.. and if anything goes wrong.. I won't make the mistake to face it alone."

Y'khive Xetyalha smiles weakly at you.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Good." Her words bring the faintest of smiles to Bexy's lips. "...Though i come here every night i am able, i know it is far from a convenience. I have a... Home in the Shroud, that you are welcome to visit. The East Shroud. Follow the river downstream to a fallen heavenspillar. Walk in the direction it points. You'll find it."

Y'khive Xetyalha nodded twice. "I will be sure to visit it."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Those within are to be trusted." Bexy comments, dipping her head. "...Though it grows late. I should venture back to my searching... I cannot afford to stay out here so long..."

Y'khive Xetyalha: ".. Please be careful. And don't hesitate to call if you need a hand."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "....I will. If i need to." Bexy regards Khive with another glance, before slipping from the top of the tree, and back into the thick of the Shroud.

...If i needed to. If i absolutely must.

Only if my life was truly in danger.

But i won’t let it come to that.

[3217journey]

Final Project

For my Final Project, I chose the self-branding option. I feel that it allows me to explore about myself and tap on my creativity without any restrictions.

I started off by analysing key traits and adjectives that I associate myself with. I resonated more with the adjectives fun, creative, curious, positive and being strong. I am also at the stage where I am constantly trying to figure out more about my culture and its roots, and was deeply intrigued by the Javanese culture, being that is where my ancestors were from.

To start off my brand, I decided to work on the logo first. I’ve used a mixture of two elements – one being the silhouette of a mythical creature, the makara, and the other a reinterpreted version of a batik motif, the parang rusak.

Using the Pencil tool, I traced out the Makara, a mythical creature that is known for its protective nature. I chose the Makara as I personally felt that the creature symbolizes strength and creativity. It is made up of the different parts of different animals, signifying the endless possibilities of exploring and being creative. I decided to go with the Makara on the left, after seeing its grandeur in real-life (it is a permanent exhibition at the ACM!). Furthermore, I was awed by the intricacies of the woodcarving.

From stage 0 of the traced out makara, I made a few developments and exploration of my logo. I’ve also explored writing my name in Javanese and incorporating it into the logo, as can be seen in the Final stage. However, after much consideration, I felt that the logo looks too traditional. The cutout parts could also potentially pose a problem when integrating the whole logo onto my namecard, affecting the readability. Also, as my Final Stage logo consists of my Javanese name written using the pencil tool, I felt that it was too light and might affect the logo.

I decided to reference the other aspect of my inspiration, batik and batik designs. As each different state in Indonesia has their specific motif that is unique to its own state, I focused on the motif unique to Yogyakarta – the parang rusak motif. Having went there recently for a holiday, I find that the culture and the nature of the people there were very intriguing – it is one of the few regions in Indonesia granted a special status and is being run by a monarchy. I love how originally there is a form of playfulness and flow in the motif. I wanted the flow to be separated, allowing me to focus on each of the “flow” as an organic shape, further highlighting the “fun” aspect, which I have reconstructed the original into my logo.

For my name card, I wanted to go with something of an unconventional design. I was inspired with the wavy flow of some batik motif and referenced that as the card’s shape. While it breaks away from the conventional rectangular design, I felt that it does not look practical, with the potential to condense the information in the card.

Then I thought about how I could incorporate the card to look like batik. I tried using the background of the card into a similar batik motif. After putting in my contact details, I realized that the information looks too condensed. The use of a patterned background also reduces the readability of the card. Thus, I have decided to keep it minimal and replicated the parang rusak motif onto the other side of the name card.

These are the colours that I have chosen for my colour scheme. The primary colours are found in the logo and I have retained the use of #BC2419 and #E73C27 as the main colours of the makara silhouette. These two are the boldest colours hence my intention of fixing them to the makara and signaling strength, fun and creative. #E0a626 and the secondary colours can be used to create variations to the logo if need be.

These are the typeface pairs that I have chosen for my typography – Poiret One and Blanket. Both are from the Sans Serif family. I felt that this pair complements each other nonetheless as Blanket has a slight mixture of Serif from the way the strokes of the letters are presented. Poiret One represents my forward-looking motto in life as this clean-looking Sans Serif font gives off a futuristic vibe. For Blanket, other than the unique strokes of the alphabets, I felt that it also represents my aura of always balancing between being serious and light-hearted regardless of the situation.

During the critique session, one of my classmates suggested implementing my logo into my resume. At first, I did not want to as I felt that there were many icons in my resume. But, I realized that there wasn’t any visual anchor. So, after tweaking the size and rearranging, the logo did help in creating a visual anchor for my resume. I’ve also implemented the feedback on the alignment of texts. Initially, I thought that by using the Justify function, it can help in reducing the instances of orphans in my text information. However, there were awkward spacings, hence I used the left or right alignment instead.

Overall, I think that this Final Project really gave me a chance to fully experience the affordances of both AI and ID. In creating the brand guide, I appreciate how ID helped in ensuring the neatness and comprehensiveness of the whole guide.

[cruelprincae]

❛ Oh. ❜ Makes the Prince before falling silent and since he doesn't know how to apologise ( for it was never necessary in Elfhame nor accepted from a prince ) for his assumption about her, he doesn't make an attempt at it. Since Lorraine confessed that she has no intention to either study him or physically harm him, Cardan feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment over how easily he was overcome with panic ― a panic that now appears to be as unreasonable as the night bright with sun and the sea painted the deepest of reds. A silly conclusion, really, if one is to take one look at the clairvoyant's composition and warm smile, but when one Is raised to know nothing but cruelty, betrayal, and abuse then nothing seems too far-fetched; and even though, in contrast to the Fae, mortals are well known for lying and never holding true to their promises, he doesn't think that is the case here. Hence, Cardan allows his shoulders to ease on their stiffness, the muscles on his jaw to unclench and his tail returns to the curious, invisible patterns it traces above the soft, woven pillow of the couch.

For the first time since the brunette admitted him to her household, the Prince's gaze darts from silhouette to take in his surroundings. A nicely groomed garden lays beneath the wooden windows, but the interior is just as nice ― and warm. Everything is warm and welcoming. The wallpaper embracing the living room's walls is featured with undusted, well-taken-care-of pictures of what Cardan can only assume to be of herself and her family, pictures he can spot on whatever furniture allow for them to be. She has a lot of them, which strikes him as both fascinating and confusing at the same time.

Eldred never bothered to make this much effort for neither of his six children. Granted, he would always praise his thirdborn, Prince Dain, and show him off whenever he got the chance, but this much fatherly affection is unheard of in Faerieland; Faerie children never require as much food or as much love and affection and care as mortal children, but Cardan who has grown up with none of those things, thinks it would be nice to have them. A pang of jealousy biles in his throat which he is soon to swallow down with a careful sip of his sugary tea before black eyes, ringed with gold, dart back to Lorraine and the weird necklace she holds in her hands. He deems it to be a weird item, but he speaks none of it.

❛ My name is Cardan Greenbriar, Prince of Elfhame. ❜ He declares although he knows such titles hold no importance in the mortal land. Then, glancing at the nearby photograph he spots on the coffee table before him, he adds; ❛ You have a family. ❜ It's no question, but rather, a statement ― perhaps this explains the woman's generous nature to have gathered him from the street.

Looking at his tail as it begins to whip around behind him, Lorraine offers a gentle yet defiant shake of her head. She didn’t at all think him to be evil, even with the tail and pointy ears to match. Sure, he was different. Certainly not something of this world. But that surprisingly didn’t bother her very much at all. “I don’t think you’re evil ..” She reassured, her thumb running along the ruby beads of the rosary wrapped snuggly around her hand, “And if it’s any comfort, I’m able to get a pretty good sense of people’s auras.” The clairvoyant stopped her hand from fidgeting and let both of them rest in her lap, mind reeling on his choice of words. In contrast to popular belief. That was interesting to Lorraine; just from looks alone, she thought him to be rather harmless, really. Although .. Even if she did have psychic abilities, the truth was that she still barely knew the man. And looks could be deceiving sometimes. Nobody knew that better than her. But even still, she often had a decent amount of trust in humanity.

The last thing she wanted was for him to feel like a subject or some sort of case for her to analyse in great detail. “Besides, I mostly stick to spirits and demons, you know. The stuff people usually can’t see.” She tilts her head slightly, nails gently scratching at the back of her neck, “Although I can often see it all.” The brunette stated calmly, gaze dancing over Cardan for a moment. One thing was sure - she certainly was curious about him.

[arlofloyd]

[  sam fender &  he / him  ]  –  arlo  floyd  is  a  twenty - four  year  old  senior  at  monterey  university .  around  campus ,  arlo  is  usually  known  for  leaving  no  trace  except  wrinkled  bedsheets  on  one  side  on  the  morning  after  one  night  stands  &  scuffed,  faded  pale  blue  denim  .  apparently ,  when  he   was  a  teenager  he  &  his  family  moved  over  from  england  to  flee  his  violent  father  ( true ) .  i  wonder  if  it's  true .  if  i  had  to  choose  a  theme  song  for  them  it  would  be  the  bourne  identity  by  the  last  shadow  puppets .  a  quote  from  arlo  would be  “ have  you  read  ‘on  the  road’,  by  jack  kerouac ? ”  ( jess ,  25 ,  she / her ,  bst )

hiii  all  !!  my  name  is  jess,  i’m  25  and  from  england,  placing  me  in  the  british  summertime  timezone !!  i’m  a  chaotic  bisexual  aries  with  adhd,  and  also  a  steve  harrington  stan  first,  human  being  second.  i’m  super  late  getting  this  up,  i  know.  blame  my  annoying  full  time  job  and  ritalin-reliant  brain  pls !!  

—  ** tw //  parental  death,  heart  disease,  alcoholism,  abuse.

a  study  in ...

smart  sensitive  type  disguised  as  a  himbo,  the  ‘freudian  excuse’  trope,  an  inability  to  take  anything  seriously,  too  much  emotion  &  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  it,  sketchbooks  &  novels,  pale  blue  eyes  watching  pale  orange  sunsets  from  a  rooftop,  what  the  fuck  am  i  doing  with  my  life ??,  fuck  you  dad,  jerk  with  a  heart  of  gold  trope

stats  /  basics

full  name:  arlo  james  floyd.

age:  twenty-five

gender  &  pronouns:  cis  male,  he  /  him

d.o.b:  29th  january,  1996

star  sign:  aquarius

sexuality:  bisexual

religion:  agnostic  atheism

nationality:  english

hometown:  stockport,  greater  manchester,  england

current  location:  monterey,  california

background

arlo  was  born  in  a  small,  mostly  non-descript  town  called  stockport  in  greater  manchester,  england  to  jane  floyd  &  michael  carrington.  their  relationship   was  somewhat  loveless  all  along,  hence  them  having  a  baby  without  marrying,  and  jane  insisting  on  arlo  taking  her  surname.  his  mother  was  a  humble  shopkeeper  &  his  father  was  a  handyman,  who  just  carried  out  various  jobs,  from  home  removals  to  quick-fix  mechanics.  his  mum  was  the  only  present  parent  in  his  life,  as  michael  was  hardly  ever  around  —   more  just  a  silhouette  in  the  night  times,  when  he’d  return  home  with  a  stolen  pint-glass  in  hand  from  the  local  pub,  dregs  of  frothy  amber  liquid  still  swishing  around  in  it.  a  sight  arlo  was  familiar  with  from  a  very  young  age.  his  father’s  loud  return  home  from  drinking  would  always  disturb  his  sleep.  not  only  this—  the  family  were  dirt  poor.  times  were  hard  for  them,  to  say  the  least.

arlo  was  quite  an  unruly  child.  poor  jane  would  blame  herself,  thinking  his  mischievous  ways  could  be  put  down  to  her  not  having  as  much  quality  time  with  him  as  she  would’ve  liked,  or  not  being  able  to  shower  him  with  expensive  toys  and  gifts  outside  of  birthdays  and  christmas.  but  it  wasn’t  something  jane  could’ve  controlled  even  if  she  would  have  had  the  means  to  spoil  him  with  materialism  and  constant  activity—  it  was  just  the  way  he  was.  he  was  never  a  mean-spirited  child,  in  fact,  he  would  talk  to  anyone  he  met  and  charm  them  with  toothy  grins  and  light-hearted  quips  and  eccentricities.  he  was  just  difficult—  didn’t  like  being  told  what  to  do,  could  never  sit  still,  could  never  make  his  mind  up  about  things,  and  was  hard  to  read—  but  he  grew  up  in  a  house  with  just  as  much  love  from  his  mother  as  there  was  dysfunction  from  his  father.

jane  was  the  shining  beacon  in  arlo’s  life.  he  idolised  his  mother,  and  being  an  only  child  with  no  siblings,  who  the  kids  at  school  often  thought  was  weird  or  a  little  too  overbearing—  she  was  his  best  friend  and  main  source  of  company.  you  can  imagine  how  much  it  crushed  him  when  she  got  sick  with  heart  disease  when  arlo  was  just  thirteen,  and  within  a  year,  she  had  passed  away.

this  left  arlo  with  his  father,  and  for  a  while,  they  were  bonded  in  their  shared  grief.  this  didn’t  last,  though,  unfortunately.  in  fact,  it  was  quite  the  calm  before  the  storm.  by  the  time  arlo  turned  fourteen,  his  father’s  drinking  had  reached  its  worst  point—  and  with  this,  mixed  with  his  growing  resentment  for  the  way  he  had  let  his  life  pan  out,  was  enough  to  turn  michael  violent.  sneaking  out,  relying  on  friends  to  let  him  sleep  over,  attempts  at  running  away  are  things  that  all  became  commonplace  for  arlo  after  that. 

at  fifteen,  it  had  all  gotten  too  much  and  there  was  still  quite  a  few  years  until  he’d  be  a  legal  adult  and  could  face  the  world  alone.  he  didn’t  know  where  he’d  go  at  first,  until  with  the  help  of  social  media,  arlo  tracked  down  his  mother’s  older  sister  kate  who  had  emigrated  to  the  united  states  when  she  was  younger.  as  soon  as  she  learned  of  the  violent  abuse  arlo  was  facing,  deciding  to  start  the  long,  difficult,  legally  complicated  process  of  taking  him  in  from  across  the  pond  felt  like  the  easiest  decision  in  the  world  rather  than  letting  him  carry  on  being  michael’s  punching  bag,  until  what,  he  ended  up  dead ??

moving  to  an  entirely  new  continent  was  terrifying  for  arlo,  but  luckily,  he  was  the  king  of  faking  it  til  you  make  it.  and  make  it,  he  did.  he  managed  to  settle  in  well  to  his  new  life  and  finish  high  school  at  18,  following  which  he  was  off  to  college  after  an  acceptance  to  his  local  university,  to  study  literature.  don’t  you  just  love  a  happy  ending ??  ...  well,  i  suppose  it’s  not  that  simple.  arlo’s  past  still  haunts  him,  but  at  least  his  new  life  acts  as  a  pretty  good  distraction ...

personality  &  more

a  cynical,  sarcastic,  immature  little  PUNK  but  he  hasnt  let  the  shitty  hand  of  cards  that  life  dealt  him,  completely  ruin  him.  hes  a  charming,  generally  lighthearted  person  but,  as  many  abuse  victims  do,  he  internalizes  all  of  his  struggle  and  bottles  up  all  the  bad  until  he  inevitably  explodes  <3

Unhealthy  Coping  Mechanisms  to  boot!!!!  uses  sex  &  recreational  cocaine  to  fill  a  void  i  hate  this  for  him

he’s  an  creative  !!!!  in  his  degree  he’s  a  literature  major  with  a  minor  in  visual  arts.  

a  complete  and  utter  Whore  he  sleeps  around  a  lot  and  commitment  ??  hes  never  heard  of  it  bc  he  has  trust  and  commitment  issues  up  the  wazoo.  i   imagine  hes  broken  a  lot  of  hearts.  stupid,  idiotic,  blue  eyed  blond,  stunner  of  a  man

a  massive  softie  on  the  inside  tho  and  wants  to  believe  in  things  like  love  and  sees  a  lot of beauty in life,  just  like  his  mum  taught  him  to,  now  that  hes out  of  his  shitty  situation  ...  feels  very  lucky  for  getting  the  fuck  out  of  what  he  was  going  through  &  doesnt  take  that  for  granted  for  one  moment

you  wouldnt  be  able  to  tell  most  of  the  time  that  hes  just  a  massive  ball  of  resentment  as  he  hides  it  so  well  with  a  super  sunny  disposition

kind  of  a  really  selfish  person  tho  like  ...  come  on  arlo  i  know  youre  a  very  brooding  person  but  work  on  ur  morals

really  doesnt  try  with  anything.  got  into  monterey  university  p  easily  bc  of  good  grades  ( he’s  actually  really  smart  )  but  he  doesnt  know  what  he’ll  do  with  his  literature  degree  or   what  to  do  w  his  life  in  general

sexy  manchester  accent

chaotic  bisexual

with  elements  of :  steve  harrington  from  stranger  things,  max   from  love  &  anarchy,  benedict  bridgerton  from  bridgerton,  jack  dawson  from  titanic,  jim  hawkins  from  treasure  planet

i’d  rather  it  if  everything  else  about  him  you  just  get  to  know  thru  plotting  &  writing  w  me  so  let’s  hit  each  other  up  weeeeeww !!!!