#highwayman hat

[beanbowlbaggins]

details from my renaissance faire pirate costume

[sins-of-the-sea]

//GODFUCKING DAMMIT, I was already working on Phoebus first as the next of the Seven to have a body study, as he'd be used as a measuring stick/foil for Guy, who is among the Seven who most need a costume revamp to fit their respective Sin theme more. That and Phoebus is literally the easiest Sin to design for (Sloth and all).

But this post reminded me why I LOVE writing Giovanni's Greed themes as it is linked with commedia dell'arte and various cultural examinations on what defines Greed/Avarice. I love the Bible verse of Matthew 6:24 AND the Carlo Goldoni's 1746 play "The Servant of Two Masters".

But DURRRRRR, fuck drawing diamonds all over Gio again, and Cappn thinks it's best to keep the multiple array of colors instead of simplifying it to stay true to the "monster clown" archetype that the arlecchino/harlequin began. But then again, the point of the costume studies is for me to get better at color scheme, which will demand I keep it simple so it can compliment with other characters and not cause an eyesore of a design. I just need to figure out how to make yellow (as in gold) the dominant color instead of equal parts blue-red-yellow-green as is the usual for arlecchini.

I don't mind suggestions because coloring is still fucking hard for me. And I can invoke the Sin of Sloth as to why Phoebus is being benched for now.

[girlfromthecrypt]

Note: This is merely a pitch introduction post. Work on this IF will only properly start once Such Happy Campers is complete. A demo is not imminent. The working title is Reggie on the Run, but will most likely be changed.*

Story: You, an individual only known as Reggie Reese, are a criminal in the late 1800s. You find yourself stuck in a jail in Yellowhill, Letitia, where you are to be tried for your transgressions. Fortunately for you, a member of a prolific and feared local gang is brought in the same day. When the outlaw’s associates swoop in to rescue them, you too are given another chance at freedom. Before you know it, you are inducted into the strange and unusual band, most of whom appear to possess supernatural abilities.

Only, you were never exactly normal either…

Play as Reggie Reese (based on your choice of gender, this can either be “Regina”, “Reginald”, or simply “Reggie”, if you’re not one for the binaries)

Choose from four possible backgrounds that also determine the cause for your arrest! Play as a violent drunk, a highwayman or thief. More backgrounds may be added later

You have telepathic powers! Yay! Now, how to use that to get money…

Pick and name a horse from a selection of various breeds and personalities, bond with and care for it!

Face horrors beyond comprehension, and possibly end up saving the world

redeem yourself or become worse

Inspirations: Blood Meridian, Butcher’s Crossing, Red Dead Redemption 2, Lonesome Dove, and of course the actual Old West.

The Cast:

“Doc” — The Leader: You don’t know his real name. You don’t know where he came from. There are whispers about him having escaped from an exploitative freak show, though he’s certainly not forthcoming with any information. The one thing you do know is that he saved your life.

Age: 42

Power: Healing

Personality: Polite and kind (at least at first glance). Well-read and highly intelligent, idealistic.

Romanceable: Yes, for MCs of all genders.

Horse: Silksong, a palomino Mustang.

Isaiah Wilder — The Berserker: A behemoth of a man who’s draw is as quick and deadly as his fists. You have never encountered anyone as bloodthirsty or as dogged as him. He ensures people fear the gang, and should intimidation prove insufficient, he’ll delight in mending that. 

Age: 37

Power: Superhuman strength and zombie-like constitution

Personality: Caring to the gang, absolutely heartless to everyone else. Brutal, cunning.

Romanceable: Yes, for female MCs (why you’d want to romance a literal monster is your deal)

Horse: Black Phillip, a black Missouri Foxtrotter.

Margaret Malloy — The Black Widow: Thrice married, thrice widowed. Her husbands have a tendency to throw themselves off of cliffs, it seems. What exactly she’s hiding behind her ready smile is for her to know and you to find out… at your own peril, that is. She often acts as a decoy for the gang.

Age: 33

Power: Persuasion

Personality: Harmoniously cheerful and sweet, with a love for all things shiny. 

Romanceable: Yes, for male and male-presenting MCs (you’ve been warned)

Horse: Freckle, a Leopard Appaloosa.

Hilda Heinrichs — The One Who Dances in the Creek: She’s a strange, strange woman. Perhaps the strangest you’ve ever met. A former prostitute, she fell in with Doc after he treated a gunshot wound she sustained after attempting to steal from a suitor. Oftentimes, she’s off in another world— literally.

Age: 30

Power: Spectral awareness

Personality: Hard to grasp. Her temper changes at the drop of a hat, like she’s a force of nature. But she’ll happily entertain the others by playing her banjo.

Romanceable: Yes, for MCs of all genders

Horse: Virginia, a white Shire.

Francisco “Fran” Perez — The Gambler: He doesn’t talk much, barely at all, really. Maybe he doesn’t like you… or maybe he simply prefers the quiet. He’s eerily good at gambling, and even better at cheating people out of their money. His abilities are invaluable to the gang; he sniffs out most of their jobs for them.

Age: 26, the youngest of the gang

Power: Precognition

Personality: Calm, quiet, wary of strangers. Funny guy, once you get to know him.

Romanceable: Yes, for MCs of all genders

Horse: Cielo, a brown and white Pinto with striking blue eyes.

The Strange Lady— ??: She hangs around a lot. You don’t know what to make of her.

Age: ??

Power: ??

Personality: Confusing.

Romanceable: No

*MC is gender-selectable, but has a locked-in name. The canon reason for this is that MC’s name, Reggie Reese, is an alias, and that MC keeps their true name a secret (at least from the public). The game is set in a largely fictionalized version of the Wild West. There are a great many parallels to actual historical events, but to avoid writing about still-existent locations and organizations (among other things), I have taken some liberties with worldbuilding. Also, it’s fun to pick fictional town and state names, for example Letitia and Yellowhill. 

TW: gore, discussions of trauma, ptsd, c-ptsd, mentions of SA and related trauma, mentions of period-typical prejudice and sexism, morally gray characters depending on how you play, downright homicidal characters, sex work. 

Dividers by @plum98

So. What y'all think?

[deepseaspriteblog]

Happy Monday everyone! As promised, here's that batch I didn't finish last week. Teal has already been claimed from someone in the spriter's discord, but the rest are still up for grabs! My persona favorites are raver violet and highwayman cerulean. I hate hats so when I add them I make sure to love them.

As always, if you're interested in any of these kids, you can find them on my ko-fi through the links below! You can expect some festive fankids for friday ^^

1/2/3/4/5/6

7/8/9/10/11/12

[tundrafloe]

In an interview with Forbes this week, Noel was asked about appearing in the highwayman film “Plunkett & Macleane” in 1999!

Noel: “That was the first film I’d ever been in, and I was in it for about a second. God, I’d forgotten about that. It was nice to get back into the breeches. Having a flamboyant costume or silky blouse is always nice, and I always welcome a cape or tri-cornered hat. I was raiding the dressing-up box again, so it was perfect. I guess this is Vince Noir if he was in the 18th century. He’s definitely Vince Noir’s much older brother.”

[rj-drive-in]

Ye Olde American Pulp Department:

Independence Day draws near! Let's celebrate with a tale of America's first masked hero.

THE DEADLY PLAN OF DOCTOR POX! © by Rick Hutchins

“Call me Doctor Pox, my dear,” said the man in the scarlet cloak and theatrical tragedy mask, as he finished binding her wrists behind her back. Beneath the cloak, his proper British attire was spattered with mud from hard-riding the buckboard through the night.

“How dare you?!” she cried for the millionth time. “My father is Colonel….”

“I know your father!” screamed Doctor Pox, silencing her. He quickly regained his composure. “My dear Sybil.”

Turning on his heel, the madman marched off to a dark corner of the barn, out of the small circle of light cast by the single kerosene lamp.

Sybil struggled against the leather straps that bound her to the wooden beam, but to no avail. Her light blue Polonaise gown had been torn to shreds in the struggle and her low-cut bodice had been ripped, exposing an unseemly amount of decolletage. Strands of brown hair fell in her face, her bonnet having been lost in the kidnapping.

Doctor Pox reappeared from the shadows, dragging something heavy through the dirt and straw. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “I met the esteemed Colonel Willing during the Siege of Boston. He was so proud of his cannon upon Dorchester Heights. So proud of his ruffian irregulars who guarded the roads.”

He was dragging a large wooden coach trunk with iron braces; huffing and puffing, he positioned it three feet in front of Sybil. Leaning in close to her, his theatrical tragedy mask, which seemed wrought of copper, hovering near her face, he said, “It is my tender sentiment for your father which has brought you here.”

With a flourish of his scarlet cloak, the doctor turned and flung open the top of the trunk.

When Sybil saw what was inside, she screamed.

And with that, the barn doors burst open and in strode a tall and stately figure.

“Goodman America!” gasped Sybil.

His face entirely masked by white cloth, the famed mystery man was dressed in a waistcoat and tricorn hat of brightest blue; his vest bore thirteen red and white stripes. His breeches were midnight black, as were his rugged highwayman boots. The knob of his walking stick and the rattlesnake insignia on his hat were rumored to be of pure silver, smithed by Paul Revere himself.

“Surrender, Doctor Pox!” he commanded.

“Never!” replied the madman, drawing a flintlock pistol from beneath his scarlet cloak.

But Goodman America was upon him in an instant and knocked the weapon from his hand before he could fire. The two masked men faced off, circling each other warily, preparing for hand-to-hand combat.

Grimacing with disgust, Sybil reached out with her foot– she had lost her shoes in the scuffle as well– and knocked the coach trunk shut with her stockinged toe.

The noise distracted Doctor Pox for but a moment, but it was enough for Goodman America to throw a punch. The mighty blow knocked the theatrical tragedy mask from the madman’s face.

Both Sybil and Goodman America recoiled in horror, for that face was so hideously scarred and twisted that it was barely human.

“Look then!” shrieked the doctor. “Look upon the face of Doctor Silas Conduct! See what the smallpox epidemic of the Siege of Boston did to me! If Colonel Josiah Willing had let us pass that night, I would not be thus disfigured– and my beloved wife would not be DEAD!”

He pointed savagely at the coach trunk.

“But when the bits and pieces of the rotting human remains in that trunk, raging with smallpox, are added to the food and water of the Continental Army, then so too will the American rabble die! And the daughter of my most hated enemy will be the first to….”

The silver knob of Goodman America’s walking stick struck the doctor’s temple sharply, and he fell unconscious to the ground.

“Don’t tread on us,” said Goodman America.

Drawing an officer’s saber from a scabbard hidden beneath his blue waistcoat, he quickly went to work cutting the leather straps that bound Sybil Willing.

“Hurry!” she cried. “We must get away from that horrid trunk!”

As Sybil ran ahead through the open barn doors in her stockinged feet, the masked Patriot grabbed Doctor Pox by the cloak and dragged him out into the night.

“Wait here,” he told Sybil, as he dropped the doctor’s body in the dirt and ran back into the barn.

Taking the kerosene lamp from its hook by the door, Goodman America smashed it upon the coach trunk. Within seconds, flames had engulfed the trunk and begun to spread to the straw and wooden beams.

Returning to the barnyard, as the flames rose into the night sky behind him, the Revolutionary Hero looked around.

“Where has Doctor Pox gone?” he asked.

“He ran off across the fields,” answered Sybil. “But no matter! When that madman kidnapped me, my gentleman friend, Mister Nathan Hand, was knocked to the street and hurt. He is a man of learning, not combat, and I fear for him!”

“Then rest your fears,” said Goodman America. “I have already seen to Mister Hand and he is even now being tended to by the Sons of Liberty in their meeting place.”

“Thank God!” cried Sybil.

And beneath his white mask, Nathan Hand smiled.

[symphonic-scream]

Okay. The P4 Tokyo au. Here are the outfit themes

Yu Narukami [Prince]

For this, it's half royal half knight. So he has gauntlets and some metal plating on his legs, but leather boots, and a prince costume style top. He's got a black crown of thorns on his head, and his mask is pure white, with gold accents. Sharp angles and shit

Teddie [Kuma]

He's Teddie. He looks like Teddie. In the real world he's a little Bolognese style dog, toy poodle size. Fits in Yu's bag

Chie Satonaka [Merc]

So she's. Based on Kung Fu movie garbs. I was thinking a bright green version of the iconic Ip Man look, with a dragon themed mask. Fangs down the bottom, and two little mock horns in her hair?? But she'd have like, sneakers. Big chunky sneaks

Yosuke Hanamura [Captain]

Camo pants. Big leather boots. A black techwear/tactical jacket, and his mask is like the upper half of a paintball mask. Dark green. His lower face is exposed, but he has an orange scarf that's torn up a bit

Yukiko Amagi [Phoenix]

She's based on ribbon dancers! Flowy red/orange shirt, into pants of the same style that are the kind that look like they're a skirt sometimes? Flowy and billowy. Hair is an elaborate ponytail bun thing, with a sort of halo of red feathers. Her mask is also feathered, but they look like fire

Naoto Shirogane [Rider]

For Naoto, I went with a highwayman theme. A gentleman robber. The large tricorne hat, the suit, a cloak, older leather shoes or boots, all navy and black, with a cloth mask. Like, for the mask. Think of the Princess Bride

Rise Kujikawa [Starlight]

A skirt, thigh highs, sneakers, bows in her hair, long gloves, sleeveless top. All a base colour of black with pink and silver glitter, so she shines, drawing all the attention to herself. Her mask is themed like a masquerade mask, all elegance and beauty and shine

Kanji Tatsumi [Fixer]

It's a play on the sort of nickname someone would get in the mafia or Yakuza. His mask is like shaded glasses, and he's street link styled but. He's carrying knitting needles and spools of thread and wool. His main tone is purple

----

So yeah. That's everyone?? Let me know what you think

[forthegothicheroine]

Hats off to William Corder, the highwayman who dictated his memoirs in jail and arranged to have them bound in his own skin. What a guy.

[beaft]

october 13th

happy friday the thirteenth, everyone! and to celebrate, here's that poem you probably read at school that one time! today's spooky poem is "the highwayman", a delightfully melodramatic ballad by alfred noyes. there's an analysis of it here and a sung version by loreena mckennit here. and once you've listened to that you can watch this, if you're so inclined.

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Part I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,    And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,    But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,    Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Part II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—Alfred Noyes

[letheology]

Put together an updated "canon" outfit for Mina!

Some details:

Clothing - Anarchist's Sable - What it says on the tin! A black/dark coloured suit is their preference for clothes, though lately they've been wearing 1920s/devil style dresses sometimes too.

Hat - The Gant Moth - Not actually a mask for them, its a charm on their pocketwatch!

Luggage - Gentleman's Self-Similar Carryall - Ideal for smuggling, but most of the time they don't have anything. When they're working in the Khanate, the tiny drawers and boxes are all full of tea leaves that they sell as part of their front.

Gloves - Censor's Touch - Little mithridacy bonus, for the spy work. And they're VERY soft.

Boots - Infiltrator's Footsteps - Nothing special here. Really, these aren't even shoes!

Adornment - Justificande Cufflinks - There's something to me about Mina and promises, debts, oaths, forgiveness... But this may be something to untangle on a future day.

Weapon - Nuncian Pocket Watch - Includes lockpicks and an entire knife (thanks to the red science). May also include a "lights out" function (thanks to January)

Companion - Violant-Winged Bat - From Nemesis. Still has to help Mina with their memories sometimes. Her name is Mnemonic (Short for "Mnemonic Device")

Affiliation - Dream Shadow of a Curator's Visage - That's just their buddy idk what to tell you.

Home Comfort - F.F. Gebrant's Patent Neathoscope - Vital tool for a Neathy physicist

Ship - Nyx-class Zubmersible - Switched to this from the Yacht during Feast of the Zee this year, as a sort of... slight shift of persona. Leaning more into their spymaster vibes.

Crew - A Conspiracy of Smugglers - Even though this comes from the Midnight Moon, I imagine that for Mina, this is just the Clay Highwayman's gang.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

For the WIP meme:

Such richness, always! Let's take a stab in the dark for something I don't think I've ever seen any pieces of, and can't even guess the fandom:

Five Tragic Deaths of a Hat (and One Time it Survived)

And as a bonus, because I didn't think it was still potentially an active WIP and I still NEED IT:

Handsome and Generous sequel

Five Tragic Deaths of a Hat (And One Time it Survived) is a fic for Michael Chabon's Gentlemen of the Road, which is a historical Jewish highwayman novel set in 950 AD Khazaria. It follows Amram and Zelikman, two devoted friends, who cannot and will not stop sniping at each other. (I ship them very much; oh, how I ship them!) Zelikman has a horrible old hat that he adores; Amran HATES this hat with a passion. This story is a history of the Horrible Hat and its predecessors, gradually revealing the evolution of Amran's and Zelikman's relationship, why Amran is so devoted to Zelikman, and why he spends so much time bitching about the hat. Finally, we learn about the time that Amran, in an act of devotion even greater than his hatred for the hat, selflessly saved the horrible hat, purely out of affection for Zelikman.

(Zelikman, that acerbic asshole, accepts the hat with nothing warmer than a sour complaint. But they know. THEY KNOW.)

I created this file on Valentine's Day, 2017. Of this staggering work of heartbreaking genius, only the title exists.

~

Handsome and Generous sequel is exactly what it says on the tin, a sequel to A Handsome and Generous People, a story for Sherlock Holmes in the 23rd Century (23rd! not 22nd!!!), in which Sherlock Holmes falls into a time warp and is separated, seemingly permanently, from Watson. Happily, at the end of the story, we have reason to believe that Holmes will one day be returned to Watson's side.

And so it comes to pass. Alas, Holmes is returned to a date thirty years after his departure…

~

I woke in what could only be a hospital, with Watson’s name in my mouth.

Even before I opened my eyes, I could smell the century around me -- bleach, chloroform, blood, and carbolic -- and likewise feel it in the bedsprings and the starched cotton sheets. Wild hope flared within me. I struggled to sit upright, calling for Watson, although why I imagined that he would know I had returned, never mind where to find me, I could not say. I knew only that Watson had never once failed me, and thus he would be here, somewhere, miraculously alive again. I only had to shout loudly enough, and he would come.

~

List of WIP titles

[sagemonsters]

Though Hell Should Bar the Way

Summary: Bess is a night owl and a college student—a combination that turns out to be dangerous when she realizes she can’t make it back to her residence during an ice storm at 3am. After being saved by a strange, mute motorcyclist who is reluctant to remove his helmet, Bess is eager to uncover his secrets.

Status: SFW

Relationship: cis female human (she/her) x cis male dullahan (he/him)

Word Count: 2,200

Notes: this is a modern AU fanfic of Alfred Noyes' poem "The Highwayman"

Chapter 1 of 1

Bess all but screamed when someone tapped her shoulder in the small study cubicle on the fourth floor of the Holger Library. One of the assistant librarians, Alex, grabbed her half-empty Starbucks cup before Bess could knock it over as she recoiled, and her Beyoncé-induced study euphoria ended as that motion yanked her wired earbuds out of her ears.

“—Closing in five minutes, Miss Noyes,” Alex said.

“Right, yeah… What time is it?” Bess asked. 

Alex set her Starbucks cup back down on the desk. “Five minutes to three o’clock in the morning,” he answered, and then looked down at his wristwatch. “Four, actually.”

Bess blinked, then dived for her phone in her backpack; the time was correct. “Damn,” she muttered. She had an English final—a timed essay—in six hours; she needed to get whatever sleep she could before it started.

“Be careful out there—the snow feels like falling glass, and everything’s iced over,” Alex warned. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope you don’t have far to walk to get back to your dorm.”

“My apartment is on Kerr Green,” Bess said.

Alex looked at her in horror for a moment, then gave her a wince of sympathy; Kerr Green was halfway across the city, since Losthaven University had a decentralized campus whose student residences gave grief to the aforementioned students and city planners alike. 

“Get an Uber or Lyft or whatever,” Alex said. “You cannot walk there in weather like this.”

Bess shook her head as she shrugged on and buttoned her navy blue peacoat. “I’m broke at the moment. I’ll be fine, though. Thank you.”

Alex gave her a final, worried look, then left the cubicle and resumed his patrol for other students who had missed the closing announcement. Bess shouldered her backpack and took the stairs to the library’s front door, and then paused.

The pavement outside the library was slick and shining with ice, just as Alex had promised, and she could see more ice coating the streetlamps and the lone USPS box. The plows had already come by, so the roads looked reasonably clear—but snow piled high in dirty, irregular drifts to either side of the street, and more was falling by the minute.

For a few moments, Bess allowed herself to despair. She could call her mother in Florida and ask for twenty-five dollars to get an Uber back to her apartment—but that would be the second time this week she asked for money, and it was three o’clock in the morning, so her pride forbid such a thing. Bess huffed to herself, then pulled on her hat and gloves and stepped outside.

The wind hit her like a broadsword, slicing through her layers and carving straight to her core. This was, without a doubt, a proper New England winter storm, and Bess fancied that she could feel ice crystals making shallow cuts into the inside of her lungs as she inhaled; the air was so cold that breathing hurt. She wobbled in place as the wind threatened to bowl her over on the slick pavement.

Bess managed to get five blocks in the direction of Kerr Green before she realized she should have swallowed her pride and called her mother. She had fallen twice during those five blocks, and her fingers were aching with cold inside her gloves even after she had shoved them into her coat pockets. 

She eased herself into an alleyway for some reprieve from the wind and unzipped her backpack with clumsy, gloved fingers. After some digging, she managed to pull out her phone, and then removed one glove with her teeth to unlock the device with her fingerprint. The cold ache intensified in that hand, so much so that it shook with pain. She could barely feel the phone anymore, but managed to open the CALL app—

The phone slipped out of her fingers and fell to the asphalt at her feet. The screen went dark, and when Bess picked it up she saw a spiderweb of cracks across the screen. 

Crying is useless. Crying is useless. Crying is useless… Bess told herself, but the tears were welling up anyway and stinging at the corners of her eyes. She fumbled her glove back on and turned to trudge back out into the wind. Maybe there was still someone at the library, and she could beg them to let her use the phone at the front desk…

A headlight sliced through the snowy nighttime murk in front of the alleyway, followed closely by the deafening snarl of a motorcycle engine. An all-black bike with a helmeted rider swathed head to toe in black leather gear pulled to a stop in front of the alley, its engine settling into a low, coughing growl. The rider’s helmet, with its shadowed visor pulled down, turned toward Bess. He let go of the handlebar and held out his hand to her.

Bess stared.

The rider curled and uncurled his gloved fingers in a beckoning gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, Bess stumbled toward him. The sidewalk was slippery beneath her boots. She tottered as another gust of wind hit her, instinctively reaching out for support, and the rider grabbed her wrist and helped her upright—helped her the final few steps toward him, too.

“Can you take me to Kerr Green on West River Street?” Bess asked, shouting to be heard over the wind and the engine. The rider was still holding her wrist.

The rider nodded, and Bess was cold and desperate enough to climb on behind him and wrap her arms around his midsection. The motorcycle’s engine howled to life like a thing possessed, and she and the rider tore down the street. 

The wind whipped icy snow into her eyes, so Bess hid her face against the rider’s leather-clad shoulder. At this speed, it was even colder than before, and she was so very tired. She’d have to get her phone replaced tomorrow, and she had her English final too…

When Bess lifted her head after a particularly hard turn, she saw tongues of green ghostfire licking at the motorcycle’s wheels, and more streaming out from the engine like banners. One flame seemed to be in contact with her leg, but it didn’t appear to be spreading to the cloth of her pants and Bess felt no heat. She blinked hard, but the flames didn’t go away. 

This is real, she realized, and a moment later: this isn’t a normal motorcyclist.

“Stop! Stop!” Bess shrieked, and shook the rider’s shoulder. A moment later he swerved into a narrow side street, slowed to a stop, and put his feet down to balance the bike. The green ghostfire dimmed and then faded to nothingness. He looked over his shoulder at her.

“Who are you?” Bess demanded. “What are you?”

The rider said nothing.

“What do you want?”

The rider twisted around as much as he could so that he could face her properly. Bess looked into the visor, but couldn’t see even the faintest shadow of a face beneath it. The rider reached up a hand and brought two fingers to her cold lips in the barest ghost of a touch, then pulled away.

“What does that mean?” Bess asked. And then, more softly, “Are you mute?”

The rider nodded. 

“Okay,” Bess whispered after a moment. “Okay, let’s… let’s keep going, then.”

The rider gripped the hand that she still had wrapped around him, threading their fingers together and giving a light squeeze, then pulled away and started the motorcycle again. Bess tucked her head back down against his shoulder and did her best to endure the cold and wind and ice, but the flaring ghostfire provided no warmth; by the time they arrived at Kerr Green and the student residences that lined the park, she had largely stopped shivering. 

The cold had numbed her mind as well as her extremities, and it was hard to move. The rider had to help her to her door, and he followed her inside when Bess struggled with her gloves in the entryway. He heated water in a bowl in the microwave of the kitchenette, then helped her remove her gloves and submerge her frostbitten hands in the warm water.

“Thanks,” Bess said, and started shivering again as her body thawed. The rider, still in all his leather gear, pulled off her ice-rimed hat and coat and boots, then draped the blanket on the back of the couch over the space heater to warm it up before wrapping it around her shoulders where she sat at the kitchen table. 

“You can take off your helmet if you want,” Bess said when feeling started to return to her fingers and toes.

The rider hesitated, and then the helmet shook from side to side.

Bess attempted a reassuring smile. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what you look like.”

Another shake of the helmet. 

When Bess’ fingers no longer hurt, she pulled them out of the bowl, flexed them experimentally, and then started fidgeting with a tassel on the corner of the blanket.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said. “It really… I mean, I think I might have died without you.”

The rider nodded, then moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Bess said. “Please… please don’t leave just yet.”

The rider paused and looked back at her. Bess stood up, still with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and went to him. She reached out and touched his arm; there really wasn’t a single inch of exposed skin showing among the black leather, not a single smidgen of humanity or clue towards his identity.

“What’s your name?” Bess asked.

The rider shook his head, then reached up and brushed his gloved fingers over her lips again. 

Bess felt her cheeks heating in a blush. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Kiss me before you go.” She knew it was a ridiculously romantic thing to say, something out of the trashy romance novels she kept hidden under her bed, but what else was there to say in a situation like this? What else was there to do?

The rider reached into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a small, dogeared notebook and a stub of pencil. He wrote for a few moments, then showed the page to her:

I CAN’T KISS.

“Why not?” Bess asked. 

The rider started to move past her, toward the door, and Bess darted in front of him and put her back to the door to bar his path. “I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on,” she said. 

There was a pause. The warm yellow lights in the apartment flickered, dimmed, and then died entirely, and that sickly green ghostfire curled out of the lamps and from the burners of the stove. A chill crept in, not as terrible as the storm raging outside but still cold enough that Bess wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.

The rider took off his helmet, revealing empty air; he had no head.

Bess’ eyes went wide.

The headless rider wrote again in his notebook and showed it to her: SCARED?

“No,” Bess said, even though that wasn’t quite the truth. She stepped forward and put her hands on the chest of the rider’s jacket. “Show me the rest of you.”

The rider pulled off his gloves. He had normal-looking hands, although they were room temperature at Bess’ touch and had no warmth of life within them. The high-collared jacket came off next, revealing a plain black shirt that had a human-seeming chest underneath it. When Bess laid a hand over where his heart should be, however, there was no beat beneath her fingers, and his tattooed skin was cool.

“Why did you help me?” Bess asked.

WHY NOT?

Bess frowned. “That isn’t a good answer.”

YOU SHOULD STOP ASKING QUESTIONS, THEN.

Bess folded her arms over her chest. “Absolutely not. You…” She felt her cheeks heat in another blush and forced herself to be brave: “If you can’t kiss me before you leave, then I’m sure there are other things we can do.”

SUCH AS? the headless rider wrote.

Bess’ blush intensified. She reached for the top button of her blouse, but then hesitated. “I don’t know how to start without at least a kiss,” she confessed.

CAN I SHOW YOU?

Bess nodded. “Please,” she whispered, and the long ribbons of emerald ghostfire burned high and bright throughout the apartment as the headless rider set aside his notebook and reached for her.

•

The storm had died by the time dawn arrived, and newborn sunlight glittered atop the ice that sheathed the city in crystalline glory. Bess awoke alone, and found that her final had been postponed via an email from her English professor. She smiled and plaited a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Enjoy my writing? Please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write.

You can also read this story in the August 2023 edition of the much-loved M❤️NSTER magazine.

[headcanonsandmore]

'Stand and Deliver!', Chapter Five

Summary: Tegan rather likes the idea of dancing with Nyssa, but she was expecting it to happen indoors and with other people around. Having said that, she was also expecting to be wearing her prettiest dress and not have donkey feed in her hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read on AO3.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Sunday lunch, Tegan busied herself with chores. There was no getting out of them and, besides, it would give her an opportunity to think about the events of the previous few days without being interrupted.

Which was why she was refilling the feeding basket of the donkey currently residing in the inn stables. It was a sweet old thing which, according to the letters from her parents, had been purchased from a travelling merchant who had been erring about letting the creature retire after years of service.

There was a soft honk as the donkey stared hopefully at Tegan. Chuckling, the innkeepers daughter reached over and gently tossed a handful of feed down.

The donkey gave a happy honk, and began to eat.

Tegan smiled, leaning on the low stable door. She reached down and gently stroked the top of the animals head.

‘Mum hasn’t even given you a name yet,’ she said, softly. ‘That’s not fair, is it? Did your old master have a name for you?’

The donkey continued eating, but flexed his ears slightly so Tegan could scratch behind them.

‘Well, you’ve got a sweeter temperament than Adric, so that name’s out of the question,’ she chuckled. ‘Billy’s more of a goat name, you’re too small to be called Benton… how about Dan?’

The donkey looked up at her, smiled, and gave another happy honk, eyes twitching cheerfully.

‘Dan it is, then,’ Tegan laughed. ‘Good old Dan; pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

Dan nuzzled up against her hand, rubbing his muzzle against her fingers. He was exceedingly gentle, and made sure not to catch her with his teeth.

‘I’ll have to introduce you to Nyssa,’ Tegan smiled. ‘She seems like she’d appreciate you too. I’ll ask her when she comes round for the dancing later.’

‘Dancing, Miss Jovanka?’

Tegan spun around.

There was no mistaking the figure sat astride the black horse that trotted quickly into the courtyard. With a long dark cloak covering the ruffled shirt and black trousers, the phantom stared down at her through the black mask he wore. Upon his head was a wide-brimmed hat, again in black. In the half-light of the late afternoon, Tegan could just about make out the bright green of the highwayman’s eyes.

The masked figure climbed swiftly off the horse, their black boots landing with a gentle thud against the stones of the courtyard. Taking the reigns in one hand, the phantom briskly crossed to the stables and tied the reigns secure.

‘I… yes,’ Tegan said, quickly, as she moved away from the stable door, behind which Dan gave a curious honk, as if unsure as to why his new friend had left. ‘This evening. Why?’

‘No reason,’ the phantom said, with a gentle shrug as he turned to face her. ‘Word spreads about these things. I may have to pop in, just to keep an eye on things.’

‘You will do no such thing!’ Tegan exclaimed, temper rising. ‘I won’t have a highwayman disrupting the occasion!’

The phantom did not seem to take offence at her tone, and instead let out a chuckle.

‘I can see why Miss Traken likes you so much.’

Tegan’s mouth fell open in shock.

‘I- what?’

‘She gave me an earful yesterday evening,’ he said, smirking. ‘Complaining that I was dragging the village into disrepute and that I should -what was it?- “be more courteous to such a sweet young lady as Miss Jovanka”. It seems you have a great admirer in our local pastors daughter.’

Tegan stared, feeling an uncomfortable heat rising in her cheeks.

‘Miss Traken is rather a prissy young thing,’ the phantom continued, but his tone was not malicious. ‘But she was correct. I do apologise for putting a mark on your good face during our initial encounter.’

‘I… yes, well…’ Tegan stammered, quickly. ‘Just see that it doesn’t happen again. And you leave Nyssa alone; she is not prissy!’

The phantom raised his hands -both gloved- in a placating gesture.

‘My apologies. You have my word as a gentleman,’ he said, smiling. Tegan was surprised to see dimples appear in his cheeks. ‘I will make sure that no harm befalls Miss Traken.’

Tegan folded her arms.

‘I will hold you to that, Master Phantom,’ she said. ‘Nyssa is too good for this world.’

‘Oh, is that a fact, Miss Jovanka?’

The phantom took a step towards her. Tegan held her ground, regarding the masked man with a raised eyebrow.

‘I assure you,’ the phantom said. ‘My intentions are strictly honourable.’

‘No matter what they are, you -good sir- will get no quarter from me,’ Tegan replied, curtly.

The phantom stared at her for a moment, but did not step further.

‘It would impinge upon my honour to make a fine lady as yourself uncomfortable,’ he said, quietly. ‘I am far from the brigand that you make me out to be.’

‘Nys doesn’t like you that much, and I take her views on such matters seriously.’

‘Oh, well, if Nys sees me as such-’

Tegan slapped the man’s arm. The phantom gave a laugh, not seeming to take insult from the slap.

‘I must have offended her at some point,’ he chuckled. ‘I will have to extend my apologies to her as well, when next I cross paths with her.’

‘You’re impossible!’

Another dimpled smile. The green eyes behind the mask glittered.

‘I like to think so.’

The masked figure bowed down on one knee, and -slowly, as if gauging her reaction- reached out and took Tegan’s hand in theirs. The phantom did not press his lips to her skin, but instead looked up at her, eyes surprisingly wide. Tegan was suddenly struck by the almost… familiar expression of gentle kindness.

Tegan did not pull away. The seconds stretched on.

Gently, the phantom let go of her hand and climbed to their feet. They then crossed back to the stables and began to untie the horse’s reigns.

‘I will bid you good evening, Miss Jovanka. Enjoy your dancing.’

‘Thank you,’ Tegan replied, somewhat unnerved. ‘I’m sure I will.’

‘Oh, and send Miss Traken my esteemed compliments,’ the phantom said, as they swung a leg over their horse. ‘I do enjoy getting scolded by a pastors daughter over conduct, if I do say so myself.’

And, without another word, the horse -and its mysterious rider- disappeared into the rapidly descending fog.

Tegan turned back to the stables, and leaned over the low door.

‘What do you make of the phantom, Dan? Can we trust them?’

There was a happy honk in response.

Tegan smiled to herself, gave Dan a fond scratch behind the ears, and headed back indoors.

*

‘Hello, Tegan!’

‘Hello Polly,’ Tegan smiled, as her friend pulled her into a hug. ‘Looking forward to the dancing? Dad’s been able to get a couple of travelling musicians to join in.’

‘Oh, wonderful!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Yes, I am rather; although that may just be because I’ll be dancing with Ben.’

Tegan rolled her eyes fondly. Ben and Polly had nursed feelings for each other since childhood, and it was sweet to see them enjoying themselves now that they were engaged.

It was rapidly approaching the evenings dancing. Twilight was rapidly descending over Crofters Lodge, more quickly than normal due to the dense fog. Outside, the villagers could barely see a few feet in front of their own faces; Tegan’s father had put a particularly bright light outside the front door so that people wouldn’t get lost on their way to the dance.

Tegan had initially intended to change into a nice dress that Aunt Vanessa had bought her during her time in London, but Joy had apologetically asked her to help out with the setting of the temporary wooden stage for the band. As a result, she was still wearing the blouse (sleeves rolled up to the elbows) and long skirt that she had been wearing that afternoon, with a slightly threadbare pinny tied around her middle. She had quickly gone to scrub her face with soap and water earlier so, at the very least, she looked halfway presentable.

‘Nyssa not here yet?’

Tegan startled at Polly’s question.

‘Er, no. How did you-’

‘Oh, Benton told me that you would probably be inviting her along,’ Polly said, cheerfully. ‘You always did like her a great deal.’

‘Well, yes,’ Tegan replied. ‘She is a good friend.’

Of course, like all of Tegan’s friends, Polly had no idea as to the sheer extent of Tegan’s feelings for Nyssa. Aside from Benton, who had always been far more perceptive than people gave him credit for, none of the other village youngsters had ever suspected anything other than platonic affection in Tegan’s thoughts towards Nyssa.

Polly had a happy laugh as Ben came to stand next to her, slipping his hands into hers.

‘Anyway, have a good time this evening,’ Polly said, cheerfully. ‘Hope Nyssa enjoys herself.’

Tegan gave a smile, and her two friends headed away to a table on the far side of the common room.

In their place was now stood the tall, friendly form of Benton. He was wearing his watchman uniform and a pair of sturdy, shined boots. Benton took a great deal of care when cleaning and polishing his boots, Tegan knew; the man was fastidious in his own appearance but without vanity, if that was possible.

‘No sign of Nyssa yet?’

Tegan scowled up at the man.

‘No, and I would thank you not to mention that to every other person in the village. Poor Nyssa was nervous enough about coming here without everyone knowing that I invited her.’

‘Why would them knowing you invited her cause Nyssa nervousness?’ Benton said, deflecting the question and giving a quietly knowing look. ‘Anyhow, I’m sure she’ll be here soon; I imagine she was simply pulled into helping a parishioner with something and got delayed.’

Tegan sighed.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Anyway, why are you here? You do realise my mum’s going to suggest I dance with you, right?’

‘I’m on duty,’ Benton said, with a smirk. ‘Your mum knows better than that. We’ve got this top-brass from London arriving later, and I promised that I’d meet him here at the inn.’

‘He’s here about the phantom, isn’t he?’

Benton nodded.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we have a lot more notice placed upon our little community in the coming months. Anyway, nothing for you to worry about, Tegan; you just focus on making sure Nyssa has a good time this evening.’

Leaving her with an encouraging smile, Benton headed over to the bar to strike up a conversation with Tegan’s father.

Tegan sighed, and scratched the back of her neck absentmindedly.

While she did appreciate that Benton didn’t seem to have any issues regarding her feelings for the parson’s daughter, she did wonder just how much he was aware. Now that she had grown up a bit, Tegan got the distinct impression that Benton knew a lot more about the goings-on in the village than he ever let on. People tended to assume he was a little slow-minded, given his large stature and affable face, but Tegan could see that it was far from the case. While still a profoundly kind and decent person, Benton was a great deal quicker on the mark than initial appearances suggested.

Tegan was interrupted in these musings, however, as her mother motioned her over to the bar.

‘Tegan, go outside and check the stables. Don’t want anyone leaving horses there without letting us know.’

‘What?’ the young woman exclaimed. ‘The dancing’s due to start soon; can’t it wait?’

‘Afraid not. Hurry up, and you should make it back in time.’

‘Send Adric; he doesn’t even like dancing!’

Sure enough, Adric was sullenly stood amongst the group of young people than included Ben and Polly. His hands were shoved in his pockets, although he kept casting glances over at the kitchen, clearly thinking about his stomach.

Joy frowned at her, placing her hands on her hips.

‘Exactly why he needs to stay here; it’ll do him some good to be socialising with other youngsters. You know how awkward he is around people his own age.’

‘Oh, brilliant; so both me and Adric can be unhappy this evening!’

‘Need I remind you, my girl, that I could have easily asked you to help out with the cooking this evening. So no more lip, okay?’

Biting back a retort, Tegan stalked past her mother and out the side door, towards the stables. As she exited, she grabbed her shawl from the hanger and wrapped it loosely around her shoulders.

The cold air was cold against the bare skin of her forearms, and she shivered as she crossed the courtyard. The drizzle from the afternoon had given way to a sort of damp mist in the air. By the distant lights of the inn, Tegan could see her own breath frosting in the air as she exhaled.

As she approached the stables, she could see that Dan was softly snoring within his little bay. The rest of the stables were completely empty.

Refilling Dan’s feeder, Tegan shivered again, already looking forward to heading back inside. Away from the lights and sounds of the inn, the night had an oppressive feel to it, as if some malevolent force was hanging amongst the dank, murky mists that had rolled in from the common.  It was like something out of one of those ghost stories that had so terrified her as a small child.

Tegan packed away the donkey feed, and turned to go.

Yank!

Tegan was stopped in her tracks at the door. Twisting awkwardly, she looked to see what part of her clothing was holding her in place.

Sure enough, her shawl had gotten caught on a stray splinter of wood that was sticking out from the door. In the half-light, Tegan bent down and pulled it free. The shawl was left mostly intact, but now had several bits of loose fibres hanging free. That would require some sewing to repair, a skill at which Tegan had tried and failed to master.

‘Stupid- bloody- thing!’

Angrily, Tegan gave a hard kick to the offending door, and received a sore foot for her trouble. Hopping on the other foot, and mentally cursing her own bad luck, she swore loudly. She knew she must surely look a comical figure. 

‘Tegan? Is that you?’

Tegan turned to the sound of the voice, and promptly lost her footing. She overbalanced and fell backwards onto the hay barrels behind her, causing a loud thump. Dan, awakening nearby, gave a loud honk of confusion at the disturbance to his beauty sleep and walked sideways into his feeder, knocking the thing over the stable door and causing a large cascade of assorted foodstuffs to dump itself over Tegan’s head.

Staring through her wet hair, now festooned with donkey food, Tegan’s vision swept up from her own hay-strewn dress and onto the face of the startled Nyssa Traken, who was stood at the entrance to the stables, wearing a pretty burgundy dress and an expression of bewildered shock.  

That settled it. The universe clearly hated Tegan Jovanka.

‘Oh, Tegan…’

Nyssa hurried forward and, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, knelt down next to Tegan. Before the older woman could stop her, the pastors daughter began to wipe away the donkey feed and water from her face.

‘Nys, stop it, I’m fine…’

‘Tegan, you’re covered in hay and animal feed,’ Nyssa continued, matter-of-factly as she continued her ministrations. ‘We can’t have you dancing with all this on your face, can we?’

Once the donkey feed had been mostly removed, Nyssa helped her to her feet, and the innkeepers daughter felt her face burn with mortification. She had wanted to seem sophisticated and friendly to Nyssa when they met this evening; being covered in straw and various animal feeds had not been the impression she had wanted to give.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I know I must look a right state.’

‘My fault entirely,’ Nyssa replied, kindly. ‘After all, I did startle you when you needed your concentration.’

‘You mean you saw me hopping around on one foot, swearing blue murder.’

‘Well… yes,’ Nyssa admitted, with a chuckle. ‘I asked your mother where you had gone and she pointed me towards the stables.’

‘Of course she did,’ -Tegan rolled her eyes, before letting out a sigh- ‘Er… sorry, I imagine you probably thought I’d stood you up.’

‘Not at all,’ Nyssa replied, cheeks dimpling with a kind smile. ‘But I did see Adric sullenly dancing alongside Ben and Polly, so I put two-and-two together.’

‘Right. Er…’-Tegan’s eyes darted over Nyssa’s clothing- ‘Y-you look pretty.’

‘Oh, thank you! Do you really think so?’

Tegan nodded, and the pastors daughter’s mouth broke into an even wider smile, cheeks dimpling prettily.

‘Very pretty indeed,’ Tegan continued. ‘Sorry, I had to help out with the setting up, so I couldn’t get changed into anything nice.’

‘I think you look lovely as well, Tegan.’

‘I had horse feed in my hair barely a minute ago, Nys.’

Nyssa gave a chuckle.

‘Regardless, you still look very pretty.’

There was a pause where Tegan’s brain momentarily froze.

‘Thanks. Er… this is Dan,’ she said, gesturing to the donkey, who stared up at the two women with a kindly inquisitive eye. She needed something to talk about that didn’t involve Nyssa saying how pretty she looked; she didn’t think her heart could take the strain. ‘My parents latest edition to the household.’

‘Oh, lovely!’ Nyssa exclaimed, eyes widening with delight as her mouth blossomed into a huge smile. ‘What a sweet name for such a sweet animal!’

‘Thanks,’ Tegan replied, with a grin. ‘I thought it would suit him; can you believe the bloke who owned him last never bothered to name him?’

‘Oh, the poor thing,’ Nyssa chuckled, reaching down and stroking Dan’s long face. The donkey gave a happy honk, clearly delighted to have a second friend visiting him. ‘Aren’t you a good boy, Dan…’

Tegan smiled softly, watching the pastors daughter as she continued to fawn over the old donkey. Nyssa’s kind and sweet nature was wonderfully intoxicating to behold. The way her eyes lit up with delight, and the way her entire spirit seemed to fizz with joy was… well, Tegan didn’t have the words for it. She was just happy to witness it, and to bask in the glow of the moment. She was surprised to find that she wasn’t even remotely jealous that Nyssa was so enamoured with Dan.

Her heart gave a soft thud against her chest, and Tegan leaned against the side of the low stable door, resting her head on the crook of her arm to watch Nyssa.

‘I think the name definitely fits him,’ Nyssa said, happily, before turning to face Tegan. ‘You’ve done an excellent job of naming him… er, Tegan?’

‘Hmmm?’

To Tegan’s delight, Nyssa’s cheeks flushed with colour and she blinked quickly, smile becoming flustered.

‘You’re… staring at me.’

‘Oh,’ Tegan said, without breaking eye contact. ‘Is… that a problem, Nys?’

‘No,’ Nyssa replied, cheeks dimpling. ‘Not at all. But… why?’

Tegan shrugged.

‘You’re beautiful, Nyssa,’ she said, her eyes not leaving Nyssa’s face. ‘When you are excited about something, it’s like… watching a sunrise.’

Nyssa’s cheeks bypassed red and turned a deep maroon. The pastors daughter seemed suddenly unable to look Tegan in the face, and her eyes ducked down. Her hands awkwardly clenched at the material of her dress.

‘I… I’m nothing special,’ the younger woman stammered.

‘Yes, you are!’

The force of Tegan’s exclamation shook even her, but she couldn’t focus on it. She strode forward, and clasped Nyssa’s hands gently within her own. Nyssa’s eyes immediately darted up, wide and surprised.

‘Nyssa, you are the loveliest and most wonderful person I have ever known!’ Tegan said, staring deep into those grey-green eyes that she so adored. ‘Don’t ever think that you are nothing special, because I will passionately argue against that whenever you think it.’

‘T-Tegan… I…’

They gazed into each other’s eyes for several moments, each second passing as if every moment had the weight of a thousand years.

The innkeepers daughter was suddenly aware that there was barely a few inches of space inbetween them, and that she was clasping Nyssa’s hands as a lover would.

Honk!

The women startled at the perplexed exclamation from Dan, who was clearly wondering why he wasn’t being patted anymore by his two friends. And Tegan remembered that existence did not comprise herself and the wonderful woman stood in front of her.

The world crashed down around them once again.

Tegan took a deep breath, and gently let go of Nyssa’s hands. However, she was unable to move away, and the two women stood, staring at each other, blown away by the sheer emotion that had passed between them barely a few moments before.

‘T-Tegan?’

‘I-I forgot myself,’ Tegan whispered. ‘Please forgive me.’

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Nyssa said, just as quietly. ‘I… thank you, Tegan. Truly.’

There was a very heavy moment of silence, as the two of them continued to stare at each other. Tegan could feel her heart hammering against her chest, and took another deep breath.

Their eyes broke contact.

Tegan cleared her throat. Nyssa rubbed her upper arm with a nervous hand.

‘Er…’ Tegan said, looking back at the parson’s daughter. ‘You came here for dancing, did you not?’

‘I came here to dance with you, Tegan,’ Nyssa said, smiling prettily as their eyes met again. ‘If… if you will have me?’

‘I’d consider it an honour, Miss Traken,’ Tegan said, bowing low with her hand gestured as if she had just taken off a hat.

Nyssa giggled.

‘As would I, Tegan. But you needn’t bow; neither of us are gentlemen.’

‘That phantom bloke apparently is,’ Tegan chuckled. ‘Has he apologised to you yet?’

‘Yes, early this afternoon,’ Nyssa replied, still giggling. ‘He mentioned -what was it?- “getting schooled in decorum by a certain innkeepers daughter”. I take it you are the cause of his reformist actions?’

‘I reckon I am. Couldn’t have him calling you names.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first to refer me as “prissy”, but thank you, Tegan.’

Nyssa looked across the courtyard. The lights from inside the inn were spilling out from behind the curtains, and various silhouettes could be seen. The band had, by this point, started warming up, and the sounds of music (banjo, fiddle and a type of Irish drum known as a Bodhrán) could be heard despite the distance.

Tegan saw Nyssa place her hands nervously against the front of her dress, curled slightly.

‘Well… we don’t have to dance in there,’ Tegan said. ‘I mean, we can hear the music just fine out here. Bit quieter, too.’

Nyssa’s eyes darted away from the inn and back to Tegan.

‘It’s rather… improper, isn’t it?’ she said, sounding unsure. ‘To dance in a courtyard with another person?’

‘Maybe, but -and maybe I’m overthinking things, Nys- you and I are both women,’ -Tegan extended her hand-‘so surely no-one would suspect anything untoward?’

Nyssa stared at her for a moment, before her eyes glittered with nervous excitement. She reached out and took Tegan’s proffered hand.

‘Imagine that, the pastors daughter breaking convention like this.’

Nyssa gave a hearty laugh, that sent delicious shivers up Tegan’s spine. The younger woman then leaned in close, bringing Tegan’s hand up with her own, and spoke into Tegan’s ear.

‘Oh, I can break far more conventions than this, Tegan,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not as prissy as you may think.’

The next thing Tegan knew, Nyssa had dipped her, keeping one arm wrapped around her back. The younger woman’s eyes sparkled mischievously as Tegan stared up at her, heart hammering in her chest.

Rabbits!

‘I-I never thought you were prissy…’ Tegan stammered.

Nyssa giggled.

‘Did I make you flustered, Tegan? I may have to do that more often; you look adorable from where I am right now.’

Nyssa gave a wink. Tegan’s stomach flipped over.

The parson’s daughter gently helped her back upright, and the two began to step in time with the music, their hands joined softly together. Despite the cold, Tegan was feeling distinctly flushed but she found it difficult to complain. With the courtyard deserted around them, and no prying eyes to intrude upon this moment, Tegan felt her stomach settle into a sort of giddy ecstasy.

Nyssa’s hand was warm and gentle against her own, and the eyes of the pastors daughter never left Tegan’s own as they continued to dance, the way they had both been taught at folk dances from an early age. Their heels of their footwear clapped smartly against the cobblestones of the courtyard, and their breaths misted slightly in the cold air.

Tegan wasn’t sure how long they danced for, but the next thing she knew, the song had finished and there was the sound of applause from within the inn.

The two young women stopped, both breathing heavily from the exertion. Tegan could see that Nyssa’s face had flushed slightly, giving a rosy red colour to her cheeks. She looked even prettier than normal, and her dimples showed as she smiled at Tegan. It did not occur to Tegan to remove her hand from Nyssa’s, and presumably Nyssa was much the same, as neither of them broke contact.

‘Wow,’ Nyssa said, softly.

‘Yeah,’ Tegan replied, breathlessly.

‘Thank you. That was… wonderful.’

‘Was?’ Nyssa’s mouth quirked into a smirk. ‘Can we not continue? I’m sure the band will begin playing another song soon.’

Tegan nodded, chuckling.

‘Of course we can.’

*

Eventually, they had to stop dancing. Tegan’s hands were growing cold, and Nyssa insisted on dragging her towards the inn so that she could warm up by the fire inside. Tegan reluctantly allowed herself to be pulled across the courtyard, and through the side door. It was rather hard to complain when her fingers were intertwined with Nyssa’s, she had to admit.

The dancing had wound down, although the place was still packed with people. The band were still playing, but it was a slower romantic ballad. Tegan’s parents were slow-dancing together, along with Ian and Barbara. The youngsters, including Ben and Polly, were mostly chatting nearby the fire. Adric was eating from a plate he’d clearly taken from the kitchen while his mums back was turned.  

‘Hello, Miss Traken,’ Benton said, cheerfully, as Tegan and Nyssa closed the door behind the them. The tall man was stood nearby the bar, nursing a flagon.  ‘Are you enjoying the dancing so far?’

‘Yes,’ Nyssa replied, as they joined him. ‘Tegan’s been showing me some moves.’

‘I bet she has-’

‘Benton!’

The man laughed good-naturedly as Tegan’s face flushed. The innkeepers daughter, seemingly reluctantly, let go of Nyssa’s hand and headed over to the fire, striking up a conversation with Ben and Polly.

Nyssa waved her face with her hand, the warmth of the room quite a contrast from the brisk air outside. She could still feel the touch of Tegan’s skin against the palm of her other hand, and the sensation made her happily giddy.

She smiled after Tegan for a few moments, but turning her gaze to the couples still swaying in the middle of the room. Barbara’s hands were slowly drifting down Ian’s back as the two slow-danced.

‘Tegan cares for you a great deal,’ Benton said, matter-of-factly. The room was so busy that Nyssa could only just hear him. ‘About as much as you care for her, I believe.’

It was like the air had suddenly been sucked out of Nyssa’s lungs. The atmosphere seemed to crystallise around her, and her head felt as if it had been forcibly dunked into a large bucket of cold water.

Her smile froze on her face. She slowly turned her head. Benton’s face did not give anything away; he might as well have just said that he hoped the spring weather would arrive soon. What… just what was he-

‘I think you two have something special,’ Benton continued, the skin crinkling softly around his eyes as he looked down at her. His tone was now soft and gentle. ‘Very special. My aunt in Brighton has such a close friend, and for many years now.’

‘I…’ Nyssa said, blinking very quietly. ‘You don’t-’

‘Don’t I?’

Benton’s smile faded slightly, and he turned to face the parsons daughter. Nyssa felt herself bristle.

‘If you tell her-’

‘I won’t. I assure you, I will not,’ Benton said, looking serious. ‘And I won’t tell anyone else, either. But… if you’re going to be close to her, you need to make a decision about what your intentions towards her are. Tegan has a good heart, and I will not see it broken, you understand me?’

Nyssa swallowed.

‘Tegan doesn’t-’

‘Oh, Tegan wouldn’t notice if you kissed her full on the mouth,’ Benton interrupted, with a wave of his hand. ‘But she’ll tie herself up in knots trying to rationalise your actions and convince herself that you’re simply being kind. She’s too harsh on herself, is Tegan.’

Nyssa’s hands curled into the material of her dress.

‘I… I know that,’ she said, very quietly.

‘Besides…’-and here Benton leaned in and lowered his voice-‘That’s not the only secret you have, is it?’

Nyssa went very still, and her eyes widened.

‘What are you implying?’

‘You know exactly what,’ Benton said, frowning. ‘How long are you going to keep lying to Tegan about… that?’

‘I’m not lying to her!’ Nyssa hissed. ‘And you will not tell her that, either! That matter is entirely different!’

There was a momentary distraction as Ian let out a giddy laugh behind them. Barbara’s hands had clearly found their intended destination.

Benton sighed, and turned to face Nyssa again.

‘Listen…’ he said, slowly. ‘I don’t mean to be harsh with you. I know you care for Tegan a great deal, I do. But… I just don’t want to see her get her heart broken. Can I trust you to make sure it isn’t?’

Nyssa swallowed again.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, you can.’

Benton smiled.

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he said, grinning. ‘I will hold you to that promise, but I think you’ll do a better job of doing so than I’ll have to.’

The tension in the air eased, and Nyssa took a breath. The air had mercifully returned to her lungs, and her head didn’t feel like she had just dunked it under ice-cold water.

‘You’re a good friend to her, Benton.’

The man shrugged.

‘I suppose,’ he said, taking a sip from his flagon. ‘You are too, as it goes. Although definitely not in the same way-’

‘Oh, shush!’ Nyssa exclaimed, slapping him softly on the arm. The two of them laughed.

At which point, Tegan ended her conversation with Ben and Polly, and headed back towards them.

Benton touched his forelock, and headed away. 

‘What was that about?’ Tegan asked, frowning after the man.

‘Er… nothing,’ Nyssa said, quickly. ‘I was just saying that Benton is a good friend to you.’

‘Oh,’ Tegan said, before shrugging. ‘Yeah, I reckon he is. Wish mum would stop trying to pressure us into marrying, though.’

Nyssa chuckled.

‘Oh, goodness forbid Tegan Jovanka ever settle down.’

‘Yes,’ Tegan grinned. ‘That would be most miserable. Speaking of being miserable… oy, Adric!’

Adric, who happened to be passing on the way to the kitchen, rolled his eyes, but without any bite. His eyes flicked between his sister and the pastor’s daughter.

The young boy smiled, and headed away through the kitchen door.

‘Oh, you do tease him so!’ Nyssa chuckled.

‘Sibling perk,’ Tegan laughed, nudging the younger woman softly with her shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me you never used to tease Turlough when you were growing up.’

‘Well, maybe a little,’ Nyssa relented, with a fond roll of her eyes in the direction of the innkeepers daughter. ‘But I don’t have your way with witty quips.’

‘Says the woman who winked while mentioning she wasn’t prissy-’

‘Ssshhh!’ Nyssa laughed, flapping her hands as her face went slightly pink. ‘Alright, you’ve made your-’

Creak…

The door opened, and a figure stepped into the room, mist leaking slightly into the common room before the door was closed neatly again.

The newcomer was a man. His eyes were intelligent. A small moustache -neatly trimmed- bristled slightly as his gaze swept around the room. He had the stiff posture of a military man of rank, without any of the relaxed affability that Benton possessed. His hat was placed under his arm, pushed up against his torso. Buttons gleamed on his jacket. His boots were polished in a very no-nonsense sort of way; enough to be smart but without any great love. As his eyes came to rest on Benton, his brow furrowed slightly, as if thinking quickly.

Tegan immediately got the sense that this was a man used to being in charge.

‘Watchmen… Benton, was it?’

Benton stepped to the front of the assembled crowd, and saluted.

‘Sir.’

‘Very good, man,’ the newcomer said. ‘Slight delay on the roads, but better late than never.’

‘Yes, that happens a lot round here, sir. Not due to highwaymen, I hope.’

‘The braggards wouldn’t dare.’

The man turned to look at the assembled villagers. Tegan stepped closer to Nyssa. Nyssa responded in kind, her shoulder pressing against the older woman. Seemingly without realising what she was doing, the pastors daughter reached out and intertwined her fingers with Tegan’s, the act of casual intimacy hidden by the material of their clothing.

‘Lethbridge-Stewart’s the name,’ said the man. ‘Here on official business. Don’t you worry; we’ll have this… phantom on trial in front of a judge before springtime arrives.’

Tegan couldn’t be sure but, out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn that she saw Nyssa’s face turn very pale indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading, everyone; apologies for the delay with this chapter but -given the increased length compared to the previous chapters- I wanted to spend more time on this one. Hope you enjoyed it!

Oh, and in case it wasn't obvious, I DID decide to set this fic on Sutton Common purely due to the happy coincidence of it having the same name as Sarah Sutton (Nyssa's actor) XD

[warnersister]

Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Walking

The Highwayman Series | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

The pack had arrived at around midnight, the moon was high and the town was asleep, yet the only place jake could bare to look was your window; shutters open and curtains drawn as they billow in the cool wind and if he squinted, he could make out a faint shadow of your silhouette in your bed, shoulders rising and falling as you slept in a deepened slumber. Could even make out the shape of his Stetson on your vanity. Maverick pat his back, “c’mon kid” he allowed them to let their horses into your ranch and penny had made accommodation in the vacant rooms above the saloon. His room was opposite yours. He sighed heavily as he shut his eyes, ready for a sleepless night mere metres from his old love. God, what had maverick gotten him into?

The next morning your dad had been the one to wake you up, opening your door quietly only to start coughing “daddy? Y’okay?” You ask, shooting up “yeah yeah darlin’, you bought new horses?” He asked, nodding to the window and you crease your brow, heading to look at the new additions to your ranch and you bit your lip harshly “no daddy, one minute I gotta go talk to Mav” you say sweetly, before not even taking the time to change from your night dress and heading straight across the street to the saloon, running up the stairs and banging harshly on the door where you knew maverick would be.

“Pete, you get your goddamned ass out here.” You shout and the door swung open, your uncle stood with his arms crossed over his chest “y’ brought ‘im back?” You growl and he nods “his god forsaken mare in my field? How dare you-“ he grabs you and pulls you inside. “Shut up.” He says “look, your daddy ain’t gonna be round much longer and you ain’t gonna settle down cause you’ll always be in love with a goddamn highwayman.” He hisses “I ain’t leaving you with no man and I ain’t making you live wi’ me ‘nd penny. You don’t want that” he tells you. You inhale sharply. “Go home, get dressed and get ya head screwed on, girl.” He says and you pivot, walking away without a second thought to pad across the road again and back up to your room. Where inside, you find your father turning the hat in his hands. “Horses were a gift from uncle Mav-” “your boy back in town, girl?” Your father cuts you off and you raise your brows, realising you’d forgot to move his hat. “No” “don’t-” he was cut off by incessant coughing “don’t lie to me girl, is he back?” You shake your head again “no daddy, you think too much. Travellers came by yesterday, one was worried about me gettin’ heat stroke and left me ‘is hat. Ain’t nothin’ more.” You say, fibbing through your lips. He throws you the hat that you catch and he stands, towering over you as he points accusingly at you “so why’s it say hangman in the hat?” He asks quietly and your throat runs dry “you sure this ain’t your hat, daddy? You’re the hangman round here ain’t ya?” You ask, looking up at him as he grits his jaw. “You’re lyin’ to me girl. If I find ‘im I’ll cut his balls off; then I’ll fuckin’ hang him” he promises “finally finish my job” he stalks past you and slams your door behind you. You sigh, clutching the hat in your grasp as your thumbs run over the damaged lacing keeping the leather bound together.

You look up and find a pair of eyes looking back at you, there he stood. The hangman. He licks his lips, as if apprehensive to do anything first. You lift the hat up, silently offering it back and he shakes his head, small smirk on his lips ‘keep it’ he mouths, walking out onto the balcony as you do the same. “Y’ shouldn’t be here, Jake.” You say “stop callin’ me that” he says “what? Jake? Your name ain’t it?” You ask “you’ve never called me Jake” “alright. Y’ shouldn’t be here, dead man” he shakes his head and looks around, street still deserted “my daddy knows you’re here” you say and he nods “I know” “get out, Jake. Don’t do this again” you say, wordlessly turning and shutting the shutters on your window to block him out. He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to leave you. Not again.

Later in the day, you’d headed into the Hard Deck, Hondo having told you that Penny was searching for you. “Afternoon Pen, y’alright?” You ask her as she wipes down tabletops in preparation for the saloon’s evening. “Ah, just the lady I wanted to see” she grins “can you help me tonight? Natasha’s gone West with her mister for a week or two. Fridays are always a busy shift” you hesitate. “Penny-” “y’ can’t avoid him forever, darlin” she says with a small, sympathetic smile. You huff “I know” you slink into one of the chairs by the bar and slump onto the bar, Penny moving to occupy the seat beside you. “Why won’t ya see him? He was here a long time before I was and Mav says y’ were head over heels. Why not now?” She questions and your head drops to rest in your hands.

“Well,” you begin, ready to delve into your mind to extract the memories you’d pushed so far away. “He came to Miramar when I was eighteen, highwayman.” She nods “came looking to loot, take some stuff ‘nd run like they all do. He’d came in here, time before it was the Hard Deck” you continue “came in for a drink, I was alone, servin’. Friday, actually” you laugh shortly “and this other gang came in, nasty bunch they were. Cain they called ‘im. Old man too. Causin’ trouble, tried to touch me” you look at her seeing if she was understanding what you were implying and you nods, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hell, Jake came in and beat ‘im to a pulp, gave ‘im a whiskey on the house” you recall “walked me home, right across the street” you reminisced “daddy hated ‘im. Turns out he had some business with Cain but he’d never come back to Miramar and he blamed Jake. I started sneaking round with ‘im. Even bought my lightnin’ over there. Fine mare. Must’ve cost a fortune” you inhale “but then someone had a go at the bank, and daddy was so certain it was the Daggers causin’ trouble, came home so damn angry. Insisted it was Jake. I started callin’ ‘im hangman.” You laugh “daddy told me that if he ever saw ‘im he’d hang ‘im and take the gold back from his pockets.” You sigh “then one night he came into my room, Jake was there, nearly met with the devil, y’know?” And she nods in response “gave daddy a stroke and damn near a heart attack. Got the shotgun and told ‘im to get out of his house. Said he’d hang ‘im.” Your lip quivers slightly as you swallow harshly. “Promised me he’d be back. 'Soon' he said” you scoffed “never came back. Never.” You sigh. “Looked after my daddy, helped ‘im recover. Always felt guilty, he still can’t speak right. Now he’s dying. He’d be find if I’d never met Jake.” “You can’t blame yourself, sweetheart.” Penny coos, caressing the side of your face “your daddy’s ol’ and mean” she says and you nod silently, she was right.

“Do y’not know why Jake left?” She asked and you creased your brows, posture straight as he question got you shooting up from the bar “what? Yeah my daddy ran ‘im out. Lyin’ bastard just never came back.” You sigh “your daddy said he’d hang him and make you kick the bucket.” She tells you and you shake your head “no, that’s not-” “Maverick was there” she tells you and you don’t know what to say. “God that man was willing to get hung for ya, baby. But couldn’t let you hang him. Couldn’t let ya live like that. Never came back.” She says.

“So who are ya really angry at?” You look at her in question. “Your daddy or your man?”

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

[pinchinschlimbah]

Continuing from my previous post let's talk about the queercoding and themes in Dick Turpin episode 3! So first off, I had previously said I was hoping we'd get to hear more about Honesty's backstory since I was having a hard time identifying what his deal was, and I was delighted to find out this episode that the reason he needed less help finding himself than the other two is because he's got parents who are actively and enthusiastically supportive of his- and I use this phrase very intentionally- alternative lifestyle :)

In direct foil to this, the other main theme of the episode is Wilde's relationship with both himself and his son. Wilde is so caught up in the old fashioned, violent, and oppressive life path he's gone down that he views it as the only path and that anything less is failure. He prides himself in this toxic masculinity, and in the exchange Wilde and Dick have about it, Dick notes that Wilde seems insecure explicitly about not being the "big boss" in charge, and possibly implicitly (unbeknownst to Dick thus far) that Wilde's boss is a woman who has power over him. Just as we saw with Dick and his father in the first episode, Wilde seems to be resentful and embarrassed of his son for not living up to his expectations of what a man should be- he expresses frustration and dismissal towards Christopher for being too soft and not the violent criminal mastermind Wilde wishes his son to be, but also expresses that he feels Christopher is too fragile to be exposed to the world without his father's protection and therefore shouldn't be given the chance to have his own experiences. In response to Wilde explaining that he expects Christoper to follow in his tough guy crime boss footsteps, Dick remarks "what if he wants to be an artist....or a barista...or an artist who works as a barista" which you cannot tell me isn't deliberate queercoding!!

In the later conversation between Dick and Wilde, Dick tries to find common ground between them as they each list their interests and we're shown the divide between staunch seriousness and compassionate enjoyment, toxic masculinity vs joyful flamboyancy. During the eventual moment of vulnerability from Wilde, he admits that he feels like the joyful parts of him have been drained away by the society he exists in, and only the serious and evil parts are left over. Dick, who by his own self-confidence and unabashed authenticity has clearly evaded this same fate despite seemingly experiencing a similarly conservative upbringing, remarks that that's a really bleak way of existing, and encourages Wilde to spend more time with his son and enjoy the world around him. Wilde, to his credit, does actually work toward following this advice! Meanwhile, Christopher (or as Nell calls him, which feels significant to all of this in that so much of Noel's work casually has no regard for traditional perception of gender, "Jennifer") once left to his own devices ends up bonding with the gang and admits that he himself wants to be a highwayman. He becomes particularly attached to Moose, arguably the most queer-coded (and I wouldn't be surprised if it becomes more explicitly stated later in the show given how he's been portrayed so far) character in the show- arriving in London twirling in his dress and being excited about dancing, flamboyant hats, and the theatre. After Christopher gets to spend a day with someone who encourages his flamboyance and sense of joy and fun rather than expecting him to be someone he's not, Christopher seems changed for the better and more sure of himself, and once he's reunited with his father who has been on his own journey of learning this lesson, the episode ends with the indication of them moving forward together towards a more compassionate, accepting, and happier future. Anywayyyy, I love this silly little show so goddamn much already. Stay tuned for probably more in the coming weeks!

Editor’s note: I just realized I forgot to address that Dick’s first choice of disguise was a female character and that the fight club leader reacts to her as a pretty lady but also like….do I even need to point that out? Standard par for the course for a Noel media hahaha

[sunglasses-hide-hungry-eyes]

Have we considered a Dreamling AU of the poem The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes?

Hob, of course, is the Highwayman himself, impeccably dressed:

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,   

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.   

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

         His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Dream, of course, is the landlord's daughter, with dark eyes and a face as pale as the moonlight.

Tim the ostler, who betrays them, is of course The Corinthian ("his eyes were hollows of madness/his hair like mouldy hay/ but he loved the landlord's daughter/the landlord's black-eyed daughter")

It would, of course, still be a tragedy - major character death all around. But they could come back as ghosts! And maybe haunt the Shit out of the Corinthian