#highwayman hat

[beanbowlbaggins]

details from my renaissance faire pirate costume

[siena-sevenwits]

Since we're talking of recitations, I am curious. Do any of you have poems or other pieces by heart which are your go-to if there is need for a recitation? Or perhaps ones you learned in childhood but have never forgotten?

[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?

[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

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.

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Read on AO3.

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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

[karahalloway]

The Highwayman: Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

Fandom: TRR (Historical AU)

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: On a dark, moonlit night, a highwayman's luck runs out...

Masterlist: The Highwayman

Chapter Summary: Drake arrives, but it's too late...

Word Count: 4,100

Rating/Warnings: M (swearing, physical violence, murder, grief, suicidal thoughts, main character death) Do not read if you are triggered by any of these things!

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: As with Part II of this series, this installment is also quite grim and dark. So read at your own peril. There is no happy ending. As before, I have made some changes to the original, but hopefully, these are for the better.

A/N2: This is my third and final submission for @choicesprompts January 2024 Song Rewrite Challenge. The song I chose to rewrite is The Highwayman by Loreena McKennit.

Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

The crack of a musket explodes out into the night.

I duck instinctively, pistols primed and itching to return fire...

...until I realise that the shot had come from the casement.

My throat constricts. "Harper..."

But she has vanished behind the plume of powder smoke that now obscures her window.

"Shit..."

I'd known something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on her. She'd been too tense, too still, sitting on that ledge, more akin to a doll than a flesh-and-blood woman...

...but I'd spotted the silvery gleam of the barrel too late, and now all hell has broken loose.

Fucking Beaumont.

I should never have let my guard down.

Heedless of the preservation of my own skin, I leap forward, fingers on triggers, desperate to reach her.

Another flash of orange...

...and my hat sails from atop my head as a bullet goes just wide of its mark.

I raise a weapon, volleys of lead peppering the thatch to my left and right...

...but I am quickly forced to confront the obvious.

I cannot risk it.

The darkness, in combination with the smoke screen being kicked up by the 'Coats flintlocks obscures my sight into the room, and Harper's location within.

And though I desire nothing more than to dispatch each and every one of Beaumont's whoresons to the depths of hell, the truth is that I'd be firing blind. And I wouldn't be able to live with myself if my bullet found Harper instead of a dragoon.

So, I have but one choice.

Flank the bastards.

Spinning 'round, I dash back down the length of the roof, bullets nipping at my coattails. Diving to the side, I return a pair of retaliatory shots in the general direction of the inn — careful to avoid the actual window — so the 'Coats are under no illusion as to the direction of my retreat.

Sliding down the thatch, I push off from the roof to land bodily atop the muck heap.

Not the most graceful of my escapes, I have to admit, but beggars can't be choosers. And I am pressed for time that I do not have.

Rolling off the pile of shit, I quickly sheath my spent pistols and lope towards the barn with sabre drawn instead.

Emile, the stable hand, had paid back my previous generosity by making me wise to the unsavoury nature of the guests that had descended on the inn. So, instead of hitching Drogon and the new palfrey up in a stall, I've taken the added precaution of hiding the horses out in the gorse.

But where I erred was thinking that the Greencoat patrol had sought the inn out for benign purposes. Because it sure as hell hadn't been me who'd plotted the course for them. In fact, I've always taken care to ensure that my tracks never led directly back to Harper.

Which begs the question... How the fuck did I end up walking into an ambush? With Gale strung up as bait?

My grip tenses on the hilt of my sword.

Someone had let the cat out of the bag. They must've. There's no other explanation.

Who? I have no clue. As there are a grand total of two souls who are privy to the secret that I frequent The Crown, and neither would betray me.

Not willingly, at least...

But, first things first.

Skirting along the shadow of the structure's perimeter, I arrive at the stable doors.

It appears quiet. But after being greeted by gunfire once already this eve, I am loath to take further chances.

Pinching up a handful of peddles, I toss them through the doorway. Only when no shots fire in reply, do I dare slip inside.

"Sir?" comes the hesitant query from within the shadows. "That ye? I heard musket fire an'—"

My sabre slices through the night. "Thought I'd be dead?"

The boy's countenance morphs into a mask of horror as the blade comes to rest 'neath his jaw. "Nay, sir! I'd never! I—"

"Care to swear on that?" I interject with a dangerous edge.

"On a tower of Bibles stacked on my parents' graves, sir!" Emile vouches with a tremble to his voice.

I assess the lad under the pale light of the moon. His face is ashen but his eyes glint with steadfast surety.

I lower my blade. "The 'Coats have Harper..."

The hand emits a gasp of disbelief. "Sacré dieu...!"

"...and I could use your assistance," I add, moving to the closest stall that houses a mount bearing Greencoat livery.

"Anything, sir," he proclaims earnestly. "Yerself an' Mistress Harper ha' always been good t' me!"

"Fetch a bag of oats," I direct as I grab the reins of the bay gelding. "And a length of rope if you have it."

"Right away, sir!"

While Emile sets about his task, I lead the Greencoat mount out onto the gangway. Reaching for the girth, I tighten it back up before slipping the bridle off and tossing it into the straw.

"The things ye requested, sir," huffs Emile, reappearing once more.

"Good," I approve, taking the sack of feed from him. "Now, help me lash this to the saddle."

Working in tandem, we quickly secure the decoy atop the horse. Shrugging out of my justacorps — on top of the retribution for Harper, that cunt of a Beaumont also owes me a new hat and coat — I sling the muck- and bullet hole-ridden covering over the sack to complete the trick.

"Think'll fall for it, sir?" asks Emile as he meets my eye from across the horse's neck.

"Better pray to God they do," I reply, slapping the mount on the rear to send it galloping out into the night. "Else this might very well be our last meeting."

Emile's throat bobs in consternation. "Best o' luck to ye, then, sir."

"Christ knows I'll need it," I accede, grasping his palm to press a gold ducat into it. "Now, make yourself scarce afore the dragoons show up."

With a quick nod, the lad disappears back into the gloom of the barn.

Withdrawing from the stables once more, I skirt 'round the far side of the building, careful to keep to the shadows. Hopping the low fence of the vegetable patch, I make my way towards the low door that leads into the kitchen.

Trying the handle, I find it unlocked. Pulling the heavy wooden door back, I slip warily inside.

The crash of boots above me confirms that the Greencoats have fallen for my ruse. But there is no guarantee that every last one of their dastardly lot plans to depart the inn.

Belvedere Beaumont may be a godless dog, but he is by no means a fool.

Which means I'll need to keep ahold of my wits... and weapons.

Pausing at the bottom of the short set of stone steps that lead up to the main hall, I spare a moment to quickly reload my flintlocks.

Slotting one gun back into my belt, I grasp the hilt of my sabre in one hand, and the second pistol in the other before ascending the stairs.

The hall is dark... and quiet.

Whatever patrons there may have been must've made themselves scarce upon the discharge of the first shot.

Honestly? I cannot blame them. I certainly would not wish to be caught on the wrong side of the dragoon's crossfire.

I clench my eyes shut. Please, let her be safe...

Moving through the hall like a ghost, I arrive at the main staircase.

Cocking my pistol, I proceed onto the first step with as much care as I can muster, even as every fibre of my body is raring to dash upwards as quickly as humanly possible.

Sticking to the wall, I inch my way slowly towards the second floor, flintlock before me, on guard for the faintest sound or movement.

Reaching the landing without incident, I am greeted by the wanton destruction left in the wake of the dragoon besiegement.

My jaw piques in ire.

This had been punition — pure and simple. The setting of a heavy-handed example to put the fear of God into the hearts of all those who may cross paths with Beaumont and his men.

A warning of what will befall those who dare defy the letter of the law.

I shake my head. I should never have involved—

A shadow moves in one of the rooms to my left.

Flattening myself against the wall, I sneak a peek through the doorway...

...and what I see roils my guts.

Robert Gale — the inn-keep — is hunched over the chest standing in front of the large, four-poster bed, his hands bound behind him, his shirt and hair matted with sweat. A dark puddle of blood pools at his feet.

Two 'Coats root through the things in the room, pocketing anything that catches their eye and fancy, sniggering amongst themselves.

A hiss of chagrin escapes me. "Putain de merde..."

There is punishment, and then there is persecution. And Harper's father is — without a shadow of a doubt — a victim of the latter. The extent of his wounds provides ample proof of Beaumont's abuse of his authority.

And I cannot allow myself to stand idly by in the face of this atrocity.

I step out of the gloom and into the doorway.

A floorboard creaks beneath my boot.

One of the dragoons glances up...

...but by the time his faculties have clocked the fact that I am foe, not friend, I have already splattered his brains onto the wall behind him.

His compatriot meets the same fate half a breath later, as he fumbles ineffectually for his musket, his body thudding to the floor as the second of my bullets also finds sharp and swift retribution.

Robert Gale's voice croaks out from the foot of the bed. "Ye should'a left them alone, lad..."

But even that simple act is too much for his broken body, and he starts to hack violently.

Taking three quick strides 'cross the room, I manage to grab the old man 'fore he keels over. "Easy now..."

He heaves a shuddering breath 'gainst my breast. "Now, we'll be strung up fer sure..."

"Nay," I counter softly, reaching behind him to loosen the bonds that secure his wrists. "You just lay the blame at my feet. Where it belongs."

Robert twists his neck up to regard me with bruised eyes and cracked lips. "Yer him... The Raven Rider..."

"Amongst other things..." I admit, lowering him as gently as I can to the floor.

The inn-keep hacks out a strained laugh. "Aye... I can see why she likes you..."

"Have you seen her?" I demand, shrugging out of my waistcoat to press it to the wound at his side.

"Nay," Robert replies hoarsely. "Not since they found the gold in her room..."

The icy hand of dread grips my heart. "Sweet Jesus...How the bloody hell did they even know where to look?"

"Théo..." comes the raspy confession. "He... He heard—"

I nearly choke on my own breath. "The window..."

We never closed the damn window...

Springing to my feet, I dash from the room, heedless of the sound of wood striking wood as my booted feet pound the length of the hallway.

How could I have let myself be such a careless fool!

Not only have I tarred the woman I love by virtue of our association, but I've unwittingly led the bastards right to her! And if they found out about the gold, then...

I cannot allow myself to even think on that.

Skidding to a stop in front of the last doorway, I throw myself inside...

...and skid to an abrupt halt as I lay eyes on the horror spread out before of me.

"No..."

The dogged denial slips from my tongue in a whisper.

But my lack of acceptance does nothing to assuage the merciless truth of the reality that assaults me like a thousand knives to my chest.

Harper lies prone in the moonlight, bound and gagged, her golden tresses soaked in the slick crimson of her blood.

"No... No..."

My feet carry me unthinkingly to her listless form beneath the casement — the window of which sits still ajar — and I crash to my knees at her side.

Grasping her by the shoulders, I pull her to me with trembling hands, praying under my breath, hoping against hope that it's a mere trick of the night, a cruel misjudgement, a sordid nightmare that I have somehow stumbled into, soon to awake from...

...but even though her skin still feels warm to the touch, no breath issues from her chest and those hazel eyes that once sparkled with magic and love now stare dully out into the night.

My nails dig into her flesh as my body bows over hers. "Oh, God... Please... No..."

But if the Almighty Lord hears my plea, He is either a heartless bastard or an impotent fraud because He ignores my beseeachment. And she remains unmoving 'gainst my heart.

"NO!!!"

The delegation roars forth from my chest with a force that is naked in its brutality. The heathen keen echoes out into the night as the bitter taste of anguish engulfs my throat and my soul shatters 'neath the stars.

I am too late. And she is dead.

Shot in the heart and left to bleed out on the cold floor like a dog. Alone. Without any assurances or prayer.

All because I'd allowed my heart to sway my head. Convincing myself that despite all my prior misdeeds, I could nevertheless steal a future for myself. A future I had no right or claim to. A future that was more akin to the spectre of a mirage than any flesh-and-blood destiny. A future that was doomed from the start.

Yet my covetousness knew no bounds. And blinded as I had been by the promise of the lie I'd weaved not just myself but Harper as well, I'd led us into the mire of disaster.

"It should've been me..." I rasp into her neck as anguish blurs my vision. "It fucking should've been me..."

I hear the floorboards strain behind me. But I care not. I have no words or sentiment left. And if it's one of Beaumont's enterprising men come to shoot me in the back? Well, then at least they'll be doing me the favour of putting me out of my luckless misery.

Because the knowledge that I have doomed the woman I love cuts deeper than any mortal knife could.

And I've lost the right to live anyway.

"Imma sorry, lad..." says Robert Gale, laying a calloused hand on my shoulder, his own voice cracking.

I shrug the gesture off. I don't deserve his pity. Let alone his succour. I am the one holding the body of his dead daughter in my arms. If anything, he should be setting on me to tear limb from limb in payment for my sins.

Yet, he does no such thing.

"Had I know afore tonight 'bout ye..." He heaves a hoarse breath from above me. "But I s'pose we all had our secrets... And I know it inna any consolation as of now, but we'll bury her 'neath the oak tree. Next t' her mother. That way ye can—"

"Them," I bite out through clenched teeth.

The old man shifts. "What do ye—?"

"She was with child," I grit, reaching up to pull the bloodied gag from her face.

Robert falls into deathly silence beside me.

"So, raise your hand," I tell him bluntly as I pull her eyes gently closed. "Beat me. Wring my neck. Kill me, for all I care. For this is the only opportunity I'll afford you to exact your just vengeance upon me."

"Ye must think very little o' me, if ye think I'd strike a grieving man," rebuts the inn-keep with a hint of steel. "Let alone one who loved my daughter so."

"Then you are a better man than me," I reply solemnly, leaning in one last time to lay a kiss on her lifeless lips.

"Imma'n older man," he corrects as I gently return Harper's head to the floor. "Who's stood where yer standin'. So, I can afford some clemency. 'Specially in this bitter hour."

"You might come to regret your choice," I reply, forcing myself back to my feet. "As I bring nothing but death. And our paths will not cross again after tonight."

"Where ye goin'?" comes the flummoxed query as I push past him.

I throw my reply carelessly over my shoulder. "To exact vengeance of my own."

"They'll kill ye, lad!" Robert calls after me as I stride from the room. "They'll hang ye fer murder! And her death will've been fer n—!"

"I'm a dead man anyway."

Without caring to look back, I let my boots carry me back 'cross the corridor to retrieve my weapons from where I'd left them in the master bedroom.

Reloading the pistols on the fly, I stash them in my belt and I beat a determined path back to the lower level of the inn and out into the night.

The crash of the door 'gainst the wall catches unawares the pair of dragoons that had been left to stand watch on the exterior. But by the time they turn towards me, I have already run both of them through.

Leaving the sods to bleed out in the mud, I plunge into the darkness rising before me.

The cold, winter air whips through my hair, stinging my eyes and my lips in sharp contrast to the hot blood slithering between my knuckles.

But I pay it no need. For I have but one goal. One mission.

To take every soul I can into the night.

Because death? It is all but assured for me. As whether I go by my own bullet or a Greencoat's, it is simply a matter of choice at this point. For I have no reason left to live.

My world turned to ash the moment she died. And there is nothing left to salvage.

Coming to a halt some ways off from the inn, I shoot a sharp whistle into the depths of the murk. A shadowy form raises its head from the gorse, and in the next instant, Drogon is trotting eagerly towards me, the new palfrey in tow.

"Change of plans, mon gross," I advise as he comes to a stop in front of me, breath steaming in the moonlight. "And I don't think you're going to like it..."

The Merèns regards me for a moment, as if sensing the shift in my soul, before letting out a world-weary sigh.

"You always were far too opinionated," I tell him dryly, reaching up to untether the palfrey from his saddle.

Turning the bay towards the stables, I give it a slap on the rump to send it on its way. With Harper gone, I have no further use for the horse. And Emile will ensure it is well cared for.

The stallion shakes his head at me as I swing myself onto his back. But I allow him no further opportunity for protest as I gather the reins in one hand, and point him north.

"Hue!"

Upon command, Drogon leaps forward, and the night becomes a blur as we fly across the moor, like an ill wish upon the wind, seeking our quarry 'neath the path of the stars.

I have no clue for how long we ride. The silvery eye of the hunter's moon casts an eerie pall over the land, distorting any earthly sense of time or distance as its lunar magic stretches shadows and swallows minutes.

Eventually, though, from out of the darkness and the mist appears a ghostly glow, bobbing on the brow of the hill.

"Beaumont," I growl, watching the company ride closer.

They must have caught the horse and realised the nature of the ruse they had fallen prey to.

But it matters not. The time for tricks and cons has passed. There is no more running... No more hiding. No more trying to cheat or contrive our fates. The last of the road has run out.

It is judgment hour.

Wrenching the flintlocks from my belt, I press Drogon forward, down into the valley, down into the well of our doom.

Yet a strange sense of calm blankets me as we draw level with the oncoming troop. Perhaps because my heart already stopped beating the moment I laid eyes on her. And this last, earthly act is merely a formality. Or, I'm so drunk on the potent potion of grief and bloodlust that swirls through my veins that I've become numb to all else.

Either way, I am a shadow of the man I once was. And welcome the sweet promise of release.

The reins slip from my fingers as I raise the pistols to sight my shot.

The figures of men and horses coalesce from out of the gloom, torches borne aloft.

I reach the edge of the sphere of light...

... and let the first shot fly.

The lead dragoon's eyes widen in surprise as the crack of flint 'gainst frizzen ignites the black powder in the pan, splintering the calm of the night.

The lead round explodes out of the barrel in a flash of smoke and fire, hurtling through the air to imbed itself in the soft flesh of the man's cheek, shattering teeth and bone as it goes.

The shock of the impact causes the 'Coat to jerk back on the length of his reins, pulling his horse into the path of its neighbour.

Taking advantage of the confusion, I fire another round into the heaving mess of bodies, catching a horse in the shoulder, causing it to throw its rider from its back.

Cries of horror and surprise rise up as the precisely stacked formation careens into itself, turning both man and beast into a maelstrom of panic.

Slinging the spent weapons into the night, I whirl Drogon back 'round, his hooves rearing into the air as he seeks to redirect the sharpness of his momentum.

Whipping my sabre from its sheath, a hellish howl erupts from my throat as I point the tip of the blade across the narrow divide in vengeful promise.

"BEAUMONT!"

A glint of gold flashes in the middle of the fray as my target snaps his head up at the sound of his name.

"Shoot him, you whelps!" screams the captain, grabbing for his own pistol. "Blast him dead!"

But I am already charging forward.

Shots crack out into the night as I bear down upon my mark...

...and there is but one prayer on my lips.

"I am coming, mon coeur..."

I am almost upon the wall of dragoons when I feel Drogon stumble. Another round pierces my gut a breath later. A third lodges in my shoulder.

But still, I urge the stallion on...

...until his knees give way in the face of the desperate volley of bullets and he careens into the mud, taking me with him, mere steps from my goal.

A thousand pounds of horseflesh crashes down on me, pinning my leg 'neath the weight. My sabre clatters from my hand to vanish into the tangles of the gorse beside me.

The back of my head collides with the ground, and I find myself staring up into the black expense above me, my body broken, my senses reeling.

Drogon lifts his head briefly, attempting to pull himself to his feet, before succumbing to the inherent futility of the exercise with a mournful sigh.

"It's alright, mon gross," I whisper, attempting to comfort the wounded beast lying atop me, even as my vision skips and my lungs struggle for breath as a familiar wetness drenches my shirt.

This is not the way I planned to go. But it seems I left what remained of my luck in that cramped room where my love had blossomed and then died.

Fitting, really...

A pistol clicks above me.

With the last of my strength, I reach beneath my shirt, where Harper's talisman lies coiled 'gainst my heart.

Twisting the damp silk 'round my finger, I close my eyes with a final exhale.

…look for me by the moonlight.

They say that in the depths of the dark — when the moon is high and full — that the sound of hooves may be heard, galloping 'cross the moor...

And though you may not glimpse it, a ghostly rider's there. Searching for his love, they say, who gave her life for his...

If he finds her, 'tis not known; but he made a solemn vow to her. And a promise bound in blood and silk, is a promise that must be filled...

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[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

[warnersister]

Chapter 4 - A glass of Bourbon from Denison

The Highwayman Series | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

You’d agreed to work that evening with Penny but you’d spent most of the day just sat, tending to lightning. You didn’t want to speak to anyone, lost in your thoughts. “Hey, sugar” that infamous drawl came from behind you, you shut your eyes and breathed slowly, but refused to reply. Your mouth wouldn’t allow. “I know y’ told me to go. I know ‘m sorry-” “did my daddy tell ya he’d make me kick the bucket?” You asked and silence ensued “darlin,” “answer the question, hangman” he smiles and you can almost hear it “yes” “is tha’ why y’ broke your promise? That why y’ never came back?” You asked and he shoved his hands into his pockets and fidgeted his feet “yes.” You nod, still not looking at him. “Daddy had a stroke. Damn nearly killed ‘im finding us” you tell him “m sorry” he replies and you just shake your head, finally turning “what was I to you, Jake?” He surveys your face, eyes lingering on his hat on your head. “Everything.” You just look at him “fuck you were the world, my life, my light. God left a piece of me here” he shakes his head. You turn back to the horse, trying to prevent him from seeing you cry. “Goodbye, Jake.” You say, sobbing slightly and you hear nothing, only feeling arms wrapping around you and pulling you into his embrace as you cry and hit his chest as he let you. Understanding that he’d just left you without an explanation. “You’re still everything. I still love you.” He says and you just look up at him, chin resting on his chest; eyes red and sore, lips swollen. You grit your jaw. “Sheriff’s daughter” he smiles and shakes his head “got me damned wrapped around your finger, girl.” You laugh and tip your hat back so he could kiss your forehead.

You push him back. “Get out o' here.” You laugh slightly, wiping away your tears. “Go on, get. My daddy’s about to do his rounds” you say and he behinds to walk away, doing as told “Jakey” you call after him and he stops dead, eyes closed. He hadn’t heard that name in years. Not from your lips. It was blissful. “Yeah, pretty?” He turns “I’m working at the Hard Deck tonight.” You say; motioning to the saloon across the way, and he smirks “guess me and the boys'll be need a drink then.”

The bar was bustling, as Penny had promised. Men drinking to celebrate the end of a working week, a few already having a substantial more drink than they should’ve. You felt an elbow in your side, and you look to Penny who’s smirking and nodding her head towards the door “your hangman’s here” she says and the two of you connect eyes at you attempt to suppress your smile. The four of them headed across the saloon to the bar, rooster tipping hit hat at you. “What can I get y’all?” You ask “I’ll have a tall glass of you, sweetheart” rooster replied with a joking laugh but the look being shot into the side of his face suggested otherwise “shut up, Brad” you reply with a small giggle “I’ll serve the distinguished ones.” You reply, turning to Bob and Coyote “what can I get y'fine gentlemen?” “I’ll have a whiskey. Any ya recommend” Coyote replied with a smile you nodded then turned to Bob who motioned for you to lean in. He leant to your ear “can I have a glass ‘o milk? Liquor don’t settle on my stomach” he whispered sheepishly “y’ want me to hide it as a drink, darlin’?” You ask and he perks up and nods “comin’ right up, gents” you say and turn away hearing two scoffs “damn lil lady, what bad customer service!” Jake jokingly complains “well when y’all learn to be polite I’ll serve ya, let me know when that is.” You reply, pouring Jake’s favourite whiskey into two glasses, another with rum as you’d remembered Rooster’s preference. Then you grab the shaker and hide the milk to poor it in, shaking it then poring it into a port glass, sliding it across the bar to Bob with a wink. “What’s he got?” Coyote asked “well if you were cultured in your drink you’d know. Called ‘con leche’.” You tell him matter-of-factly and you see Bob smile.

You pass the whiskey to Coyote, then the other two to Rooster and Hangman. “We ain’t even order yet.” Bradley complained and you raised a brow “what? Captain Smith rum ‘nd glass of bourbon from Denison. Isn’t that right?” Brad raised his brows “good memory, girl” he said, knocking back his drink. “Can I send a drink to someone?” Jake asked and your mouth ran dry “sure” “whiskey watered down with lemonade” he said and you grinned, he remembered too. “And who would you like that sending too?” You ask, leaning over the bar “oh this mighty fine bar maid. Real stunner, she is.” He says “sorry sir, Penny don’t drink lemonade.” You reply and he shakes his head, drinking his whiskey and chuckling.

A few hours later and a couple of drinks being drank, the final call was made and a few patrons began to pay their tabs and leave. “What do I owe ya?” Brad asked, dropping his sun glasses and batting his eyelashes at you to which you laugh “nothin’ any of ya.” You say “ya sure?” He asked and you nodded “just want the lot of ya to stay out of trouble and out o' my daddy’s sight.” You reply, telling them to get gone back upstairs to Maverick's through the back door rather than the front. “I’ll hold back, walk ya home.” Jake said as the other three bid their good nights. You shake your head “it’s fine, it’s only over the road” you reply, shrugging on your jacket. “I ain’t movin’.” He replies and you just shake your head, hugging Penny goodbye and allowing him to walk you out.

“Y' gonna go ‘nd get yourself killed, boy” you tell him and he shrugs “rather die knowing I had ya than live knowing I don’t get ya” he replied, going no further than the entryway of your house. You sigh and look at him “god I missed ya” you say, crossing your arms over your chest and looking up at him, he lifted an arm over your head to rest on the top of the entrance, the other hand coming to rest on your waist. “Y' ain’t even real.” He whispered. “What would’ve happened?” You asked, cocking your head to the side. “To what, darlin?” He asks, southern drawl growing stronger as he feels your breath against his own. “If he’d never have ran y’out?” He thinks for a moment. “Well we’d probably have a house, Id’ve given up this highway gig.” He says, counting something in his mind “three or four young‘uns by now. Married, y’know baby. The works.” He says and swallows, imagining what could’ve been.

You chew your lip as he speaks “y’like the sound of that? God couldn't get that image out of my head. Pregnant with my children” he saw your eyes darken and he wraps the arm further around your waist, pulling you into him. “Could still happen darlin. We’re still young.” He whispers “'ndmy daddy still hates ya” you reply and he grunts “he ain’t gonna be round much longer” he says leaning to kiss you but you stop him, reclining back “my daddy may be an ass, but he’s still my daddy. Don’t you bad talk him.” You say and he sighs “I know girly, m’sorry. Gonna have to try harder to get his blessing, ain’t I?” He smirks and you giggle, this time allowing him to dip his head and catch your lips with his.

It was as if he’d never been away, as if he’d never left. Your lips remembered his own; like enzyme and substrate: locking perfectly together, only made for each other and no one’s else. He still had that small scar on his bottom lip, bumpy and unhealed from where he’d still bite it. “Ya let another man touch ya sugar?” He asks, growling against your lips and resting his forehead on your own. “No sir. Just you.” You say and he feels a deep clench in his stomach “you had another lady?” You ask and he picks you up, pushing you against the wall “no sugar, can’t look at another girl without thinking about ya.” He says “got me fucking hypnotised. If this was Salem you’d be tried” he joked “we’re both dead, might as well go out with ya.” You say.

“Bet you’re still as sweet as I remember” he retorts and you scoff “please, we never got to do nothin’” you reply, remembering when your father entered before you’d gotten far enough “well I ain’t gonna wait another five years” he promises and you think for a moment, looking at the empty and darkened street, then into your house, which was quiet. He was asleep.

“This better be worth dying for, Seresin.” You say, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the house and up the stairs.

Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

[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

[p5x-theories]

Heya it's me again, since we're getting closer to the upcoming updates of next week and beyond alongside the rumoured international reveal at TGS, I felt compelled to do further rough sketches in preparations of possible new info regarding our two favourite Kiga High students~ So here's my interpretations of their own Personas based on the theories discussed here; Claude Duval & Biddy Early:

So Duval was simply making a typical romanticized highwayman with the dapper coat, regal mantle and fancy hat with plumes. I felt giving him a very slender build with a robust chest & shoulder width would help put emphasis on a dashing nature. And knowing his legend, I gave him a rapier with a safety tip for good measure. (Also apologies for how I drew the mantel, as creases ain't my strong suit ;v;) For Biddy, hers was a little tricky as I didn't want to just draw a typical witch, so I instead decided to combine elements of Celtic witches and Early's status as a folk healer. So a wizened old woman who despite her ragged appearance, has the air of kindness and wisdom to her. So styling her rather nicely was a must. (especially the spectacles resting on her nose ridge) As for that TGS rumor, while I don't know if they will indeed say much about any big major updates beyond the September 12th one, I do low-key hope we'll at least get some sort of roadmap overall for when the game comes out in other languages :>

Ooo, these are both very fun, very nice drawings!! Thanks for sharing them, I like your thinking with both of them :D

My personal guess is that we're probably not getting any information about future game updates at TGS, since the game's not even out in Japan yet. My expectation is that, at most, we'll get a Japan release date, and maybe an English one too (especially if they're going to come out at the same time), but not any new game content. It'd be a bit odd to announce something that the Japanese and English versions won't get for another half a year or longer, right?