#i was like perhaps if my trolls looked like the rap ladies

[askkwieon]

wip

wanted to put kerdor in a famcy fit and it... got outta hand

i do plan on doing this to All my trolls. so this will take a while

[ivorytowerblr]

NaNoWriMo 2021: Nov 29th

The remainder of the interlude is here, we start Year 2 next time!

Title: Warcraft: Invasion (Vol 1 of Reborn AU) Word Count: 42272 (of 50000) Includes: Violence, mature sexual content, strong language. Summary: It was a dark and stormy night when the rift opened. From it spilled warriors of an alien culture bent on finding and destroying the cause of a sickness that plagued their world, all unknowing that the true cause was right under their noses all along.

Five years after the birth of his son, Llane Wrynn, Crown Prince of Stormwind, would learn of a terrible threat to his people, his nation, and his very world. The only natural thing to do is send his son to the protective walls of Northshire Abbey and, all unknowing, to the protection of a great hero, the prodigy-knight Mara Fordragon.

When sickness ravages your very world, you have no choice but to do whatever it takes to cure it, even if it means traveling to another world by means of the foulest of dark sorceries. It means standing at the side of a butcher, a monster, an abuser, a warrior, a chieftain, a hero to your clan. It means putting aside what is right to do what you must.

All these threads and more weave together to bring about a war like any other; two worlds will never be the same again.

Previous: 1st . 2nd . 3rd . 4th . 5th . 6th . 7th . 8th. . 9th . 10th . 11th . 12th . 13th . 14th . 15th . 16th . 17th . 18th . 19th . 20th . 21st . 22nd . 23rd . 24th . 25th . 26th . 27th . 28th . 

“You overreach, Your Majesty!” cried Lord Millstipe, pointing towards Llane. “You cannot simply march the army onto our lands!” He felt a nerve twice under his jaw, twanging with tension the way it had during the last six arguments made by the Council of Nobles. The man himself was dressed richly, and his mop of curls was loose and jerked each time he gestured.

He reminds me of those players from traveling shows, Llane thought sourly. What did they call them again? Clowns?

At his side, Highlord Darius Fordragon rapped his mailed knuckles sharply against the table. “Watch your tone, Lord. Unless you plan on simply yelling at the greenskins to prevent them from killing your workforce and burning your lands.”

“We have fought the trolls without such serious intervention from Stormwind before,” declared Lady Pentaghast, of Westfall. “I have no doubt that we can do so again.”

“They aren’t trolls, my Lady,” put in Anduin. “They have been confirmed to be an entirely unknown lifeform. Perhaps you aren’t as familiar with the situation as you think.”

The noblewoman glared at him, and sat back. Llane hid a smile. “My intention is to see all of your lands safe. This means wielding our forces as necessary. The borders need defending. We can trap them there and push them back once we aren’t being forced to defend the passes. For that we need more forces.”

“Convenient,” muttered Lord Rethgar. “We didn’t need so many forces to deal with the gnolls, just a few decent knights to send them packing.”

“Packing back into the mines, perhaps,” commented Magistrix Azora, the woman looking over each of them, her expression grim. “Your Majesty, Goldenspire is doing its best to bring our forces to bear, but we are primarily a teaching academy. Our most powerful mages are all dead or out of contact.”

“You refer, of course, to Nielas Aran, his son Medivh, and the lady Aegwynn,” Lord Von Indi stated, tapping his finger on the table thoughtfully. “I had heard that Magister Aran had passed away several years ago and his son took his place. Is that not the case?”

“It is, but--” Azora hesitated. “We speak very little to Medivh. He resides largely in seclusion in Karazhan. The king can call him here, of course, but...”

“Medivh is so powerful that I hesitate to use him until we know the full extent of this threat,” Llane said. “We’ll make do with who we have. This will not be a battle of mages but mount and blade.”

Azora nodded once and folded her hands. The meeting continued for another two hours before Llane finally stood. He watched his nobles file out, still muttering to each other, and took a deep breath.

“They’re all fucking morons,” spoke a quiet voice. Llane didn’t flinch as an older woman melted from the shadows, a young boy at her side a moment later. Llane offered the boy a smile, and he stared back with a solemn gaze in return.

“An accurate but impolitic assessment, Pathonia,” said Darius, frowning. “Is it wise to bring such a young child to these meetings?”

“Mathias was quiet enough that you didn’t hear him, especially not with all the shouting and finger-pointing going on,” replied Pathonia Shaw. “Trust me, you’ll not regret having my grandson here learning the ropes.”

Llane nodded to the boy. “And what did you learn, Mathias?”

“That they’re all fucking morons, Your Majesty,” Mathias said. Llane coughed to swallow his laughter, though the effort was wasted as Anduin snorted and the boy’s serious countenance cracked a little to show a very pleased smile. “Grandmama can explain it better.”

“You need to defend Duskwood and Redridge,” Pathonia stated flatly. “Westfall is in the arse-end of nowhere, no one’s going to send an army to seize farmlands they don’t want to keep and a few mines. May as well say they want the damned lighthouse.”

“Noted,” Llane said. “Elwynn?”

“Safe if they don’t get past Redridge,” Pathonia said, spreading her hands. “But we thought your father was safe when he just went out to take a ride and look at how that worked out.”

Darius grunted, but said nothing. Pathonia gave him a sympathetic look. “No one but these greenskins are to blame. Do you have any idea where they came from?”

“Somewhere in the swamp,” Pathonia said. “Other than that? No idea. I can’t get my boys close enough to them without running into their patrols. They’re swarming the Sorrowlands.”

“Survivors?”

“Unlikely.” Pathonia shook her head. “Poor bastards.”

“We move forward, then,” Llane said. “Protect the vulnerable borders. Make sure the outposts know that any sign of a push at one of them means they need to bring more forces to bear to hold the line. If we kill enough of them, we might break their morale right there.”

“Let’s pray to the Light that it works,” Anduin said. “We’ve done a good job defending on our own lands but we can’t chase them into the Sorrowlands on horses, they’ll all get bogged down, and our foot soldiers can’t match their axemen.”

“Try to raise Medivh again,” Llane said to Pathonia. “This will be a battle of mages if we need it to be. I won’t take no for an answer. Not even from my old friend.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.” The head of the Stormwind Assassins saluted him and melted back into the shadows. Mathias followed her a moment later, leaving Llane to go back to staring at the great map of Azeroth. He whispered a prayer for good measure.

It couldn’t hurt.

~ * ~

He stood on the beach, water swirling around his ankles. Birds cried out overhead, wary of the shore and yet hungry for anything that might be discarded or left behind by those who trawled the shallow seas for fish, seaweed, and bokstroks.

The birds are out of luck this day, he thought. We are not here to fish.

In the water, a little girl splashed happily, water beaded on her pale green skin. Her hair was tied back in pigtails and she looked up at him with shining brown eyes. “Wet, papa! Wet!”

“Yes, my dearest, water is wet,” he said with a happy smile. Perhaps this time, it will be different. Perhaps this time...

“Ah, Restagg, stop it!” He turned his head and saw his sons shoving at each other. Ariok was only five summers old, his brother Restagg seven. He frowned direly.

“Stay there, Ahka,” he called over his shoulder, certain his daughter would continue to play in the water. He hurried over to his boys, and pushed them apart. “What’s the problem? Why are you fighting?”

“He wrecked my sand hut!” Ariok began, pointing accusingly at the mound of wet sand that could only be very generously said to be called much of anything. Sure enough, there was the imprint of a foot shoved into its side, ruining whatever it might have been. “Make him stop, Dada!”

“I didn’t!” Restagg insisted. “I only pushed it when he shoved me. He just wants to get me in trouble!”

“That’s not true!” Ariok protested. “Dada, he wrecked my sand hut first!”

“Now, boys,” he began. “That’s enough. There’s more than enough sand for you to play in. Just sit apart from one another and play with the sand as you like. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dada,” his sons chorused. Heaving a great sigh, he turned back towards where Ahka was playing in the water. The water lapped against the shore, unimpeded.

“Where did she-- Lokka? Do you have Ahka?” His heart moved to his throat and stuck there. “Lokka?”

“Eitrigg, where is she?!” his mate cried, dropping her basket of reeds, and rushed towards the surf. “Weren’t you watching her?!”

“The boys were fighting, I just turned away for a moment.” He took a step towards the water, then another. “Ahka!”

“You fool!” Lokka snarled, and ran into the water, her footfalls splashing through the waves, then she waded, ankle-deep, calf-deep, knee-deep before diving into the water. “Ahka!”

“No, you can’t--” He hurried behind her, though he stopped at the shallows. Out as far as the eye could see, there was smooth water, wavelets that hurried towards the shore. When the tide was high, the lands were covered in sand and brought with them a bounty of seaweed and other creatures. When the tide was low, sand was swept away, leaving behind more rounded stones than he could count.

Always, however, there were waves, the water that led towards a sharp drop into a deep, deadly ocean. It played host to any number of deadly creatures, and the ogres navigated it effortlessly, unafraid of the sea gronn or serpent-creatures they hunted. Orcs might skim the surface, but it was for that reason it was called the Devouring Sea.

Eitrigg of the Great Sands stood on the shore for a moment, mind frozen and chest aching with fear as his beloved mate rushed into the dangerous waters without hesitation. As the moment stretched, Eitrigg hurried after her.

“Lokka! You can’t go out that far!” he cried. “It will kill you too!”

Too because if his mate could not survive the Devouring Sea, there was no chance his beloved little daughter could do it. Lokka had moved quickly, reaching near the point where the land dropped away. She was swimming fully now, screaming as she kept herself afloat.

He could just imagine her standing on the tips of her toes to keep her head above water as she searched. He could see her flailing, weeping. He ran towards her, his footfalls heavy in the sand, sinking into it a little, imagining the rocks underneath.

Eitrigg saw his wife tip forward and fall. “No!”

He grabbed for her hand just as she fell, sliding down under the water. Orcs did not truly swim. They paddled where it was shallow if they were brave. Some might spend time in a lake if it would not pollute it, or wading in a slow-moving river if they had not dried to their beds.

The ocean was like neither as a force as malevolent as the cruelest orc Imperator grabbed at Lokka and pulled her towards the endless dark.

No, I won’t lose you both! Eitrigg thought desperately, and gripped at her wrist. He dug his heels into the sand, even as it slid away, pulling her from the tide’s grip. Lokka screamed in pain, and swallowed a mouthful of water. Eitrigg pulled harder, and harder yet. He felt something in her wrist give before he made progress, pulling her with him back into the shallows.

He stood as straight as he could, taking in a deep breath. Lokka seemed limp even as he pulled her up, lifting her to the water’s surface. “Breathe, my mate. Please breathe...”

So still. So lifeless. His heart pounded wildly as he hurried her back to shore, dropping her down when he could be sure the waves wouldn’t reach her. His sons were crying, but he could only hear them distantly as water streamed from his ears. He was not a shaman, he didn’t know the incantations to beg the spirits to take the water away from his mate’s lungs. He tried, vainly, pumping at her chest, even breathing for her, but there was nothing to be done.

His mate was gone. His daughter, gone.

Eitrigg of the Great Sands kneeled in the sand, bowed his head, and began to weep.

~ * ~

[If you follow your orders, you will die.]

Eitrigg of the Blackrock clan looked at the tiny slip of bark, sighed, and tucked it back into his armour. He had found it in his bedroll after seeing his sons to sleep, promising them that he would return from this scouting mission as he had any number of others since his old clan had been absorbed, their lands becoming Blackrock lands, even though he doubted Urzkal Blackhand had ever cared to gaze out over the ocean that both fed and murdered his people.

“What is it?” asked Askha Swiftblade. Like himself, she was a scout. Unlike himself, she was young, bright-eyed, and eager to impress her chieftain with her prowess. “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” Eitrigg said. “Or nothing that you can’t see too.”

He gestured towards the pass where a half-dozen humans stood, swords at the ready, eyes steady behind helms that covered their faces. Some, he had heard, thought them cowards -- orcs wore helms that only covered the very tops of their heads against crushing blows -- while others found them to be as mystifying as a shaman’s mutterings to the spirits.

It would be a simple matter to attack them in a rush. Even with their armour, a strong enough low could still crush the metal beneath heavy hammers. As smiths, many of the Blackrock understood the strengths and weaknesses of heavily protected enemies, and bore weapons to take advantage of those weaknesses. Eitrigg’s own axe had a pair of sharp claws at the back to pry open a breastplate for the killing strike.

[If you follow your orders, you will die.]

If I stay here, someone will slit my throat anyway, Eitrigg thought sourly, and looked around at his own forces. Three scouts total, himself, Ashka, and Humul. Two warriors. One spearman. A tiny force, few enough to not be missed if the humans attacked. Or enough to sacrifice us to distract the humans from looking for the rest of us.

Eitrigg was not blind to how Blackhand treated outsiders. Perhaps it had not always been so, but it had been like that even as he’d accepted Chieftain Fan’gor’s surrender. None of those with him were true Blackrock: Ashka had the nut-brown skin of the Warsong, different from the Burning Blade in that hers was a darker brown, theirs a red-brown. Humul was another of the Great Sands. Their spearman of the Earthen Maw, their skin yellow-green, though not as pale brown as one of their warriors, who had been of the Shattered Hand, while the last of them possessed the leaf-green of the Shadowmoon.

We all swore fealty to the Blackrock, but it does not matter to him. Not when our skin allows him to pass judgement and find us wanting. If I’d had any other choice...

If he’d lived alone, he might have chosen exile. It was possible, there were warrior-hermits, some even legendary. Most of those who lived alone were of mixed blood, but not all. His sons, though... his sons deserved to live with other orcs. So Eitrigg bore the insults and the cruelty, and vowed his sons would not suffer it as he did.

If they marry into the clan, my grandsons will be true Blackrock. Or their grandsons will. We just have to survive this foolish war. Eitrigg snorted, startling his companions. There had been no objecting openly to stepping through the Great Rift and coming to this new land. Those who did so quietly died in too many ways for it to feel entirely coincidental.

[If you follow your orders, you will die.]

“I know,” Eitrigg growled at the warning. Ashka and Humul exchanged a long look. “I’m not mad.” He shifted, and his armour creaked. “Stay here, and watch over my things.”

“Your... what are you doing?” Ashka asked as Eitrigg began stripping off his armour, dropping into the dust. Beneath the thick black and gold armour, his tunic was sweat-soaked despite the cold and damp. His legplates and greaves went next, leaving him barefoot. “You would go near the humans without protection?”

“If they cannot see or hear me, they cannot run me down,” Eitrigg said. “If this fails, go back to Blackhand and tell him there is no passage this way. Take care of my sons.”

Ashka, who was only a handful of years older than his oldest, looked troubled. Humul caught the look in his eye and nodded once in understanding. Eitrigg clapped his hand against the younger man’s shoulder and hurried off to the nearby hills.

These hills are what give the humans their advantage, Eitrigg thought, keeping low. They can use them to narrow the path to fight them... but it also narrows their field of view. If they do not have scouts in their turn...

The humans were not stupid. They had patrols in the hills, but they were predictable. Eitrigg had watched them pace back and forth and call orders in a language he half-understood. He’d vowed to learn more in the future, but for now, he knew only that he hadn’t been spotted.

Slowly, carefully, he picked his way through the hills to the other side and his eyes widened: there was a long, rolling valley below, a road set with stones leading to this narrow passage. There were more than simply footsoldiers. There were mounted humans, patrolling wide circuits as they shouted orders and prepared.

So many... Eitrigg thought, his mind racing. We cannot fight them. Not even with a dozen warriors. Two dozen. That is what the warning meant. If we attacked we would die and... stir up these guardians. They would fear we did have dozens of warriors instead of just six.

That left him with few choices: he could commit suicide as his chieftain had ordered him, or he could return to the clan a coward. He, and those with him, would likely be stripped of their rank as warriors and scouts and become peons. His sons, too, would fight with him. Ashka would likely lose her mate, a strong, resilient smith with fine arms, shoulders, and thighs. Humul would not be able to petition the shamans to tend to his ailing mother who had come with them to a new world in the hopes that the herbs there would cure her swollen joints.

No, Eitrigg thought. There must be a third way.

Eitrigg crept closer, straining to hear the humans speaking. “Have you seen any of the greenskins?”

“No, not today. Perhaps they’ve gone back to wherever they came from.”

“Hah, not bloody likely. Tell Sergeant Hansel that his boys should check the catapults. I don’t want any accidents.”

What is... khaght-apalt? Eitrigg wondered, and slowly looked a little closer at the humans. A weapon?

One of the humans offered an odd gesture to another and began walking down the hill. Eitrigg followed the human with his gaze. What he had taken for an odd pile of wood and steel was being watched protectively by a few humans. One of the pieces reminded him of a spoon. Near it there were large, unnaturally round stones.

What does it do? Eitrigg thought, brow wrinkling. What does it mean?

Suddenly, a memory floated into his mind of his children, laughing as Lokka scolded them for wasting food. Ahka gripped a spoon in her hand, flailing it about. A piece of food, stuck inside it, flew out and struck Ariok in the forehead. Startled, he had started to wail.

That’s it, Eitrigg thought, smiling to himself. All I have to do is get to that weapon and fire it at the humans guarding the pass. We won’t just distract them... we’ll win a battle and capture a tool to use against the humans.

Slowly, Eitrigg withdrew behind the hill again and began to plan.

[emospritelet]

Homecoming - chapter 22

In which Belle asks some questions, and gets some answers...

x

At eleven-thirty in the morning, Lady Tremaine’s bedroom was light and pleasant despite the heavy velvet curtains framing the bed and the dark oak panelling. Belle watched Alice walk around the room, lips pursed and a thoughtful look on her face.

“Anything?” asked Ogilvy, his tone suggesting that he was already anticipating her answer, and Alice wrinkled her nose.

“Not really,” she said. “No more than I’ve felt the whole time we’ve been here. It’s an old house, so you’d expect it to have some sort of atmosphere, but there’s nothing more than that. Can’t see or feel anything, anyway. Just - a sort of sadness. Bit like I felt up at the castle, but more so.”

Belle watched Ogilvy and the Professor exchange a look.

“Can you tell us anything more about that?” asked the Professor, and Alice pulled a face.

“It feels - kind of like loneliness,” she said finally. “Like the sort of grief that comes from losing someone you love, I imagine. Like it’s seeped into the walls.”

Belle flicked her eyes towards Ogilvy. He had hung his head, his fingers turning the moonstone ring on his finger.

“It’s different here at the house,” Alice added. “Sort of stronger. Newer. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” said both men in unison, and Belle was surprised to see that they both had the same grim look on their faces.

“But no spirits,” said Alice. “Nothing at all. Whatever’s causing Lady Tremaine’s sleepless nights, it isn’t a ghost.”

“As we thought,” said Ogilvy, glancing at Belle. “Miss Marchland, you mentioned something earlier this morning. An idea you’d had.”

“Yes.” Belle stepped towards the fireplace. “It was just a thought, really. Much of the house has panelling, and I’ve read more than one story in which an old house has a secret compartment in the walls. I thought perhaps someone might be hiding behind the panelling and waiting to scare Her Ladyship.”

She rapped on the oak panels with a knuckle, producing a hollow sound, and Ogilvy frowned thoughtfully.

“Sometimes the most likely explanation is the most mundane,” he agreed. “Do you have a culprit in mind?”

Belle hesitated.

“There’s something else that occurred to me,” she admitted. “The timing of Lady Tremaine’s visitations matches up with the return of the Mills family. And there was an incident a few days ago, when Alice and I were in the nursery…”

“We couldn’t find the children!” exclaimed Alice. “I remember, we couldn’t work out how they had slipped past us! We could hear them giggling and couldn’t find them.”

“The panelling in the nursery is hollow, too,” said Belle. “I checked this morning before the sun was up. I thought we might go back there now there’s enough light to see by. It might give us a clue to what happened in this room.” 

“You think it’s Lucy Mills?” asked Ogilvy, his eyes twinkling. “Little minx!”

“I think she might be a little tired of being seen and not heard by her step-grandmother,” agreed Belle. “Whether that makes her the culprit is yet to be seen.”

“To the nursery, then,” announced the Professor, clapping his hands together.

x 

The nursery was bright and cheerful, winter sun shining through the tall windows, and the twins were playing on the rug with Lucy Mills, a game that seemed to involve the stuffed animals waiting in line for something. They looked up as the adults entered, and exchanged anxious looks as they scrambled to their feet.

“Good morning, children,” said Belle. “We wondered if you would like to be part of our investigations.”

Ava and Nicholas looked excited, but Ogilvy noticed that Lucy seemed wary. Doc stepped towards the walls, tapping on the panelling, and Lucy’s eyes widened.

“This sounds hollow,” said Doc cheerfully. “Almost like there might be a secret passage behind it. How exciting!”

“There is!” exclaimed Nicholas. “It’s dusty and there are spiders!”

Lucy frowned at him, and Belle bit her lip, clearly amused.

“May I see the passageway?” she asked.

Lucy sighed resignedly, stomping around the corner and moving one of the toy boxes. Ogilvy watched as she plucked at the edge of one of the panels, hearing a tiny click before it swung outwards to reveal a dark, narrow passageway that looked to be just high enough to walk in, if one crouched down a little.

“Goodness me!” said Doc, rubbing his hands together. “What an excellent addition to a grand old house! I’ve seen many secret passages in my time, but this is a particularly fine example.”

“Where does it lead, Lucy?” asked Belle, and Lucy shrugged uncomfortably. “Does this have anything to do with Lady Tremaine’s ghosts, perhaps?”

Lucy looked alarmed at that, dark eyes widening, but she remained silent.

“We’re not angry with you,” said Ogilvy gently. “But if there is something you know, please tell us.”

Lucy winced, digging the toe of her foot into the rug and twisting awkwardly.

“Did you explore the secret passage?” asked Belle, and she nodded. “Did you use it to frighten Lady Tremaine?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” said Lucy suddenly. “I just - I was exploring, and I started knocking on the walls, seeing if someone would answer. I didn’t know it was Her Ladyship’s room until I heard her scream. And - and then she was mean to my mother, and - and I thought someone should be mean to her, so I - I was…”

Her voice trailed off, and she hung her head, chewing her lip.

“Oh dear,” said Doc kindly. “Well, I’m sure it can all be cleared up. Little bit of mischief, what? No real harm done.”

Ogilvy privately thought that Lady Tremaine might take a different view of things.

“So you made noises behind the walls to scare her?” said Belle. “But I thought she said she was hearing noises during the night.”

Lucy looked puzzled, but shrugged.

“Does anyone else know about the passage?” asked Belle, and Lucy nodded.

“Just Tyson, the hall boy,” she said, and looked alarmed. “Oh, but I don’t want him getting in trouble! It’s my fault, not his! Please don’t tell Her Ladyship!”

Belle glanced at Ogilvy, and he shrugged.

“Perhaps Mrs Mills,” he suggested, in an undertone, and she nodded, turning back to Lucy.

“Lady Tremaine has been very scared these past few months,” she said gently. “So much that she invited the Professor and Mr Ogilvy all the way from London to investigate.”

Lucy looked guilty, hunching her shoulders.

“Well, we don’t mind that!” said Doc hastily. “Fresh air and pleasant company. It’s been an enjoyable few days, I must say.”

“Be that as it may,” said Belle. “I think she deserves to know the truth. What do you think, Lucy?”

“I suppose,” said Lucy dolefully.

“When we do something that upsets someone, the brave thing to do is admit to it, and apologise,” said Belle. “I’m sure you’re extremely brave, aren’t you?”

“Like a warrior princess!” blurted Nicholas.

“That kills nasty old trolls!” put in Ava eagerly, and Lucy giggled before looking serious once more. She took a deep breath, stretching up on her toes and lifting her chin.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll do the brave thing, Miss Belle.”

Belle smiled.

“Then I’m very proud of you,” she said. “Though perhaps it would be better if your mother was the one to explain things to her first.”

Lucy’s face brightened at that.

“Really?” she said eagerly. “Momma won’t be angry with me, I’m sure!”

“Then will you come with me to tell her?” asked Belle, holding out her hand, and Lucy nodded, taking it and marching from the room with her head held high.

x

Dinner was a jovial affair, the gentlemen returned from a successful hunt, the ladies having rested in their absence. Lady Tremaine was not present, reportedly lying down in her room with a bad headache. Ogilvy thought it was most likely due to the revelation that Lucy Mills had been the one haunting her for months, rather than an evil spirit. Mr Mills mentioned somewhat delicately that his wife had had to intervene on behalf of their daughter before Lucy made her own apologies, and that Lady Tremaine had been less than gracious with her acceptance.

“She wanted Lucy sent away to school,” he said, cutting a piece of beef. “Jacinda managed to soothe her ruffled feathers, but we’re going to take Lucy to Edinburgh for a couple of weeks, let this all blow over.”

“She was sent to bed early, too,” said Mrs Mills. “And she has to stay in her room tomorrow. Her Ladyship says it will give her time to think about what she’s done.”

“Poor thing,” said Belle. “I don’t think she meant to be malicious.”

“I’m just impressed that she was crawling through passageways in the middle of the night,” remarked Mr Mills. “Shows grit and determination, if you ask me.”

“Henry, really!” said Mrs Mills reprovingly. “It’s supposed to be a punishment. She won’t learn if you’re praising her bad behaviour.”

“I don’t think the midnight visitor was her, anyway,” said Belle. “She said it wasn’t. Perhaps one of the servants.”

“Hmm.” Mrs Mills looked amused. “She did say that the hall boy knew about the passageway. I decided not to mention that fact to Her Ladyship.”

“Good thing too,” said Mr Mills. “The poor boy would be thrown out into the snow.” 

“So Victoria’s dream of having her home invaded by restless spirits is over?” Lady Ella smirked, raising a glass. “I can’t say I’m surprised. It won’t stop her consulting mystics and finding new ways to scare herself, you know.”

“Well, I’m more than happy to leave her to it,” said Ogilvy. “It’s been an interesting visit, but I’m looking forward to getting home.”

“Yes, you never did like having society forced on you, did you?” she said, with a sniff. “Do you think you can bear an entire train journey in my company tomorrow, or are you determined to be disagreeable?”

Ogilvy grinned at that.

“I promise to be as entertaining as I can.”

“That’s a low bar, I must say.”

He chuckled, spearing a piece of meat with his fork, and shared a smile with Belle. She had settled back into comfortable conversation with him following the awkwardness of their early morning encounter. He had noticed her gazing at him now and then with a thoughtful look in her eyes, and he found himself willing her to make the connections needed, to ask the right questions. He wondered how long it would take.

“What time will we leave tomorrow, Papa?” asked Alice.

“Around nine, I should think,” said Ogilvy, ignoring Ella’s dramatic shudder. “It’ll take a while to get to the station, given the snow that’s fallen.”

“An early night, then,” said Doc, reaching for his wine. “I have to confess I’m looking forward to getting back home and into our usual routine. Interesting though this visit has been.”

“I’ve enjoyed exploring the house,” said Belle. “So many beautiful things to examine.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Alice, gesturing with a fork. “We never went to see your painting, Belle. The one you mentioned at the castle? We meant to look, remember?”

“Oh.” Belle glanced down at her plate, pushing a piece of meat around listlessly. “Well. Actually, I - I did take a look.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Alice eagerly. “What is it like?”

“What painting is this?” asked Ella, craning her neck to look at Belle.

“Oh, just a portrait in the West Wing,” she said, blushing a little. “A former resident of this house. Lady Tremaine thought I resembled her.”

“You must take me to see it after dinner,” said Ella. “Is it a good likeness?”

“As though Miss Marchland had sat for the artist herself,” said Ogilvy.

Belle’s blush deepened, and Ella turned her gaze to him.

“So, you’ve seen it too,” she said. “How intriguing.”

She glanced back at Belle, and Ogilvy could see her mind working. He decided to push her off course a little.

“You know how I have trouble sleeping,” he said, with a shrug. “When it’s too dark outside to walk, I like to wander the halls. One sees all manner of things in the dark of night.”

“Indeed one does.” Ella smirked at him. “Though I hadn’t thought you a connoisseur of portraits. Perhaps it depends on the subject matter.”

“Well, go and see it yourself, and form your own opinion,” he said. “I’m sure Miss Marchland will direct you.”

“May I go, too?” asked Alice eagerly.

“Very well,” said Belle. “I think there are certainly some similarities between the painting and what I see in the mirror each morning, but perhaps you’ll tell me that I’m imagining things.”

“I doubt that,” said Ella, glancing at Ogilvy again. “I’m inclined to believe those who have made the closest study of your person, Miss Marchland.”

x

Alice was eager to see the portrait, and so Belle found herself walking the corridor to the West Wing as soon they had finished dinner, this time with Alice’s arm through hers and Lady Ella behind them with Miss Waters.

“Wretchedly cold up here,” remarked Lady Ella. “I hope it’s not much further.”

“The gallery is just around the corner,” said Belle. “The portrait is at the end.”

She turned into the gallery, walking steadily towards the opposite end. The eyes of the woman in the painting seemed to follow her as she moved, and she heard a gasp from Alice as they drew close.

“Well,” said Lady Ella. “Remarkable. Ogilvy’s right, it’s as though you sat for the artist only yesterday, Miss Marchland.”

“Your Ladyship flatters me,” said Belle, with a smile. “I’m sure this lady was ten years younger than I when this was painted.”

“Well, be that as it may, the likeness is incredible.”

“As though they’re the same person,” agreed Miss Waters.

“It really does make one wonder if all that nonsense about past lives is true, doesn’t it?” mused Lady Ella. “Though if so I’d like to apologise to my future self for being such a hedonist.”

Belle chuckled, sharing a smile with Miss Waters. Alice was frowning up at the painting, one hand raised, as though she would touch it.

“She looks so sad,” said Alice, biting her lip. “I wonder why.”

“I’ve no idea,” said Belle. “I don’t even know who she was.”

“I bet Thwaites would know,” said Alice. “Ivy said he talks about the history of the house a lot down in the servants’ hall. You should ask him.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Belle. “I shall go in search of him when we go back down.”

“And on that note,” said Lady Ella. “I think I’ll head for the drawing room. There’s a draught in here, and it makes me yearn for a decent brandy. I’m sure the men will be finishing up their drinks soon. Shall we, ladies?”

She offered her arm to Miss Waters again, and Belle fell into step behind them, glancing over her shoulder at the portrait as they walked away. The woman in the golden gown stared back at her, blue eyes heavy with an unknown grief, and Belle looked away, her shoulders slumping a little, as though she carried some of the sadness with her.

x

Isabelle let out a contented sigh, settling back in the blankets and stretching her legs, pointing her toes. Rum was lying on top of her, a comforting weight pressing down, their bodies slick with perspiration where they joined. He kissed along her jaw, breathing heavily as he softened inside her, and she murmured happily, twining her arms around his neck as his kisses trailed across to her ear.

“Can you stay a little longer?” he murmured, and she smiled, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“I can stay until sundown,” she said. “Father went to London today, and Mother has one of her headaches. She won’t notice I’ve been gone all day.”

“Then we’ll make the most of it,” he said, and his tongue stroked the soft skin of her throat, making her shiver. 

He shifted his hips, slipping out of her, slick wetness against her thigh as his hands slid up to cup her breasts, and Isabelle sighed happily.

“I’ve missed this,” she whispered. “I wish I could spend each night in your bed, and wake up beside you every morning. We never had to sneak around so much before.”

Rum pushed up on his elbows, hair hanging messily in his face and a slanting grin twisting his mouth.

“You never had a father quite so determined to marry you off against your will before,” he said, and she made a noise of grumbling agreement.

“Remember that time at Bamburgh when my father offered you lands and you insisted on taking me instead?” she asked, with a giggle. “I thought he’d skewer you before he let you within ten feet of me, and never mind the truce he wanted.”

“Came around in the end, though.” He brushed a curl of hair back from her cheek, grinning. “I think the gold I brought helped.”

“Certainly didn’t harm your cause,” she agreed, and he chuckled, his eyes glinting.

“Although you were determined to have me anyway.”

“True. Headstrong girl that I was.” She kissed his nose. “I always get what I want.”

“That you do,” he growled.

He bent to kiss her again, and Isabelle moaned, pushing up into him as her mouth opened. His hand slid down between them, brushing over the tender skin between her legs, and she moaned again as his fingers pushed deep inside her.

x

Belle woke with a gasp, heart thumping in her chest and a heavy, throbbing ache low in her belly. She ran her hands over her face in the darkness, trying to dispel the last shreds of the dream that still clung to her. It was as though she could still taste him in her mouth, still feel his touch on her skin. It had been so vivid, so real. Almost like a memory.

A maid had been in to light the fire, but it was only just starting to burn, and the room was still cold. She rose quickly, before she could dwell on the events in her dream too much. It was distracting enough being in Ogilvy’s presence without imagining a higher level of intimacy. She felt herself blush as she remembered how it had felt to kiss him, her memory of being in his arms in the portrait gallery shifting seamlessly into the dream of being in his bed. Not his bed. His name was Rum. He had a different name, as did I, and it was a different time. All this talk of past lives has me inventing them in my dreams!

She had gone to her own bed not long after returning to the drawing room the previous evening, having had a conversation with Thwaites about the portrait, and she felt well rested. Despite the vivid nature of her dreams. Splashing water on her face was enough of a shock to clear her mind of those images, and she stripped off her nightgown, skin pebbling in the cold morning air as she dressed.

Most of her things were packed, and she had laid out a comfortable outfit for travelling, but there were some hours until they had to leave, and she felt that a walk would wake her fully. She drew on a tweed skirt and jacket over her blouse, laced her boots, and pinned her hair into place. Hat, scarf and gloves went on, and she draped her heavy coat over an arm as she made her way silently from the room. 

She headed for the main staircase, drawing on her coat. The first fingers of dawn were starting to show, and the servants were scurrying here and there. Thwaites opened the front door for her with a bow of his head and a warning about the cold, and Belle thanked him as she hurried out. The air was bitter, and she tucked her scarf around her neck a little more, shivering as she walked along the driveway and turned around the side of the house to head for the gardens. The moon was still up, the sky starting to lighten at the horizon, and she found her way easily, her pace brisk. 

Her conversation with Thwaites the previous evening had left her with more questions than answers. Despite him telling her what he knew of the Willoughby family, she had felt strangely frustrated, almost as if she ought to have known more than he did on the subject. It was as though the knowledge had been sealed in a box inside her mind, and she needed to find the key to release it.

New snow had fallen, her boots scattering the powder, and her breath misted the air as she walked along the garden paths, heading between flower beds and past the orangery towards the path that led to the lake. New snow covered the ice on its surface, clumping around the reeds that grew at the edges. There was a faint mist hanging over the lake, which seemed to grow thicker towards the foot of the nearby fells, and she quickened her pace to keep warm. Rounding a bend in the path, she stopped abruptly. Ogilvy was standing near the edge of the lake, staring out across it, a heavy woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. He seemed to be turning a pebble over and over in his hands, and glanced around with a smile as she approached. Belle felt her heart thump hard, and tried to push away the images that leapt into her mind at the glint in his eyes. For a moment, she saw the man in her dreams. Younger, thinner and more sure of himself. There had been an arrogance to him that Ogilvy didn’t have. She wondered where her mind had pulled it from.

“Miss Marchland,” he said. “You’re up early.”

“I - I had a restless night,” she said, hoping fervently that she wouldn’t blush. “Troublesome dreams.”

“I can sympathise,” he said. “I find I never properly rest in the houses of others. Despite my many years of travelling. It’s difficult to fully relax.”

“True enough,” she agreed. “And we have a long journey ahead of us today. At least we get to break it in Derbyshire this evening.”

“It will be pleasant to return to Furton Grange,” he said. “However briefly.”

“Perhaps we might get to walk in the gardens there before we leave,” she suggested.

Ogilvy smiled broadly, and bowed his head a little.

“I should be delighted.” He gestured to the path that led around the lake. “Would you like to take a turn with me now?”

Belle nodded, and took his arm, her mind still working furiously as they set off. She was chewing her lip, a nervous habit that she thought she had conquered years ago, and pressed her lips together to stop herself. Ogilvy glanced at her as they strolled along, but he said nothing, and she was content to walk in silence as she thought. It was as though she could feel pieces slotting together in her brain, but the picture she was creating was too fantastical to be real. It began to swell in her mind, taking shape, its colours growing brighter, and Belle suddenly let go of his arm and whirled on her toes to face him, taking a step back as she did so.

“I consider myself a rational creature, Mr Ogilvy,” she said firmly. “I believe in science and logic, in facts and evidence.”

“A wise choice.”

“I’ve been trying to construct a rational explanation for the experiences I have had since joining your household,” she added, and his eyebrows flicked upwards.

“And what does your logic tell you?” he asked.

“Precious little, truth be known,” she said wryly. “Thus far logic is eluding me.”

Ogilvy was silent, watching her closely, and she took a breath.

“I’ve been piecing together the scraps of evidence, for want of a better word,” she said. “It all makes perfect sense when I step back and look at the picture I’ve created from it, but the explanation my mind has created can’t be real, it just - it can’t be.”

“Why not?” he asked quietly, and she threw up her hands.

“Because it’s ridiculous!”

Ogilvy smiled slightly.

“Why don’t you talk me through how you reached this explanation in the first place?” he suggested. “I’m used to making sense of strange things, after all.”

“This may be too strange even for you,” she remarked, and his smile widened.

“We won’t know until you tell me,” he said. “If it’s ridiculous, as you say, what harm can it do?”

Belle sighed, slumping a little.

“I’m not certain where to begin,” she said slowly.

There was a moment of silence. She expected him to speak, perhaps even to coax some answers from her that she was uncertain she would be able to give. Instead he waited calmly, and she realised he would not push her to speak before she was ready. It made her feel a little easier, and she wanted to fill the silence.

“You were up even earlier than I,” she said. “Before the sun rose, I imagine.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, and glanced away, across the lake. “Perhaps it’s because we’re leaving today. I wanted to get a final glimpse of the place.”

“It’s very beautiful,” she agreed. “I shall miss the mountain air when we return to the city.”

“Yes.” He hesitated, a nervous look in his eyes. “Perhaps we might come back here some time. When the weather is warm.”

“If Her Ladyship extends an invitation.” She felt herself grin. “Something tells me she won’t be asking us to remove any restless spirits for some time.”

Ogilvy chuckled.

“I imagine you’re right about that,” he said. “It’s been an interesting trip, though.”

“Despite the lack of ghosts?” she teased, and the corners of his mouth flicked upwards.

“Oh, there were ghosts enough,” he said quietly.

“I suppose so,” she acknowledged. “Such old houses have their own histories, don’t they? Their own tragedies. That portrait, for example. The one that—” she hesitated, unwilling to mention that she had found him crying in front of it.

“The one that Lady Tremaine directed you to?” he supplied, and she nodded.

“I asked Thwaites about it,” she said. “He said it was the family before His Lordship’s. Their name was Willoughby, and the woman in the painting was Elizabeth, their only daughter.”

He bowed his head a little, and seemed to hesitate, glancing up again. 

“What did you make of the portrait?”

“I suppose I can see why Lady Tremaine mentioned it to me,” she said. “Strange to think that someone from a century ago looked so much like myself. I almost felt a sense of kinship with her.”

He smiled faintly.

“What do you know about her?” he asked.

“She was sent to an institution,” said Belle. “Apparently she was heartbroken. There was a man she loved, and whom she could not marry. Thwaites said that perhaps her parents wouldn’t allow it, and so she chose no one. Poor thing.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“I wonder what became of her true love,” she mused. “Who was he? Someone of lower birth, perhaps, if her parents disapproved. Or perhaps he had no money.”

Ogilvy pulled a face, and turned back towards the lake, bending to throw the pebble in his hand. It skipped across the surface three times, skittering on the ice before disappearing in a clump of reeds, and he straightened up.

“No, he had plenty of money,” he said dryly. “Though likely not enough to overcome her parents’ disapproval, had they known of him.”

“You know who he was?” 

She should have felt surprise, she knew that. Instead it felt like satisfaction, his words confirming something she had hardly dared admit to herself. Ogilvy heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping a little, as though he regretted mentioning it.

“His name was Alistair McGregor,” he said, his tone heavy. “And when he wasn’t searching every benighted social gathering in London for her, he was in Boston, burying himself in work in a pointless attempt to take his mind off the pain of being parted from her.”

Belle stared at him, mouth open.

“Thwaites couldn’t tell me anything about the man she loved,” she said. “No one knew his name, she kept it secret.”

Ogilvy was eyeing her steadily, but then shrugged.

“I used to live in the area,” he said.

“Oh.” Belle felt her brow crinkle as she tried to remember their previous conversations. “Why did you not mention it before?”

Another deep sigh, and he glanced away, across the lake.

“It was a very long time ago,” he said. “Another life, another time.”

It wasn’t the first time he had mentioned other lives. A figure of speech. Perhaps he was here in his youth. It must be that. Any other explanation would be ridiculous!

“What else can you tell me about Elizabeth?” he asked, and Belle shook her head.

“Very little,” she said. “You seem to know more about that part of her life than I. Thwaites said that her father lost his fortune not long after she was institutionalised.” 

“And so the whole family suffered,” he said quietly. “So much suffering caused by the loss of true love. So much - waste - from one ancient tragedy.”

His fingers stroked his right hand, toying with the moonstone ring through his glove, his gaze far off. Belle swallowed hard, and was surprised to find that her eyes were stinging a little, as though she wanted to cry. She blinked rapidly, remembering how she had felt when she looked at the painting, as though she shared Elizabeth’s grief.

“I suppose a woman in her position would have little freedom to choose for herself,” she said. “It’s sad to think that so many had to do their duty and choose money and power over finding love.”

“Indeed.” Ogilvy’s voice was barely above a whisper, his gaze still fixed on a point across the lake.

“Sadder still that she could not be with the one she loved, and therefore chose to be alone,” she added. “After all, my own mother grew to love my father. Perhaps Elizabeth might have grown to love the man her parents chose.”

“Wouldn’t work,” said Ogilvy abruptly, and she felt herself frown curiously.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked. “One has to make the best of things, after all.”

His smile was wry as he turned on his heels to face her.

“And how does one make the best of losing one’s true love?” he asked, and she bit her lip, blushing a little.

“I - I don’t know,” she admitted. “Having never been in love, I can’t profess to understand it.”

“There is no greater sorrow,” said Ogilvy, his voice oddly hoarse. “Than knowing who you are meant to be with, and being parted from them.”

His eyes were shadowed, his shoulders a little slumped, as though the sorrow was his own. Belle shook her head.

“You sound as though you speak from experience,” she said. 

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Would you tell me about it?” she asked gently, and his mouth flattened, his jaw working a little.

“It feels as though your soul has been torn in two,” he said, his accent thickening. “Consumed by grief, buried in darkness.” 

He was gazing at her steadily again, and her eyes stung, a pain growing deep in her chest as what felt like an ocean of tears rose up inside her.

“I’m - I’m sorry to reopen old wounds,” she said. “It seems to be something I keep doing with you, and I don’t understand why.”

“Don’t you?”

Belle turned away, blinking to dispel the tears that wanted to form. She inhaled deeply, drawing frigid air into her lungs, gazing off towards the snow-capped fells, the rising sun tinting them rose-pink above the early morning mist.

“I - I suppose I can see why poor Elizabeth Willoughby ended up in an institution,” she said. “Grief is a terrible burden to bear.”

“Yes,” he said softly. 

“I’d like to think that treatment of such things has improved in the past century,” she added, “but all too often women’s suffering is dismissed as trivial. Perhaps if she had received prompt attention and understanding, there might have been a different outcome.”

“Perhaps.”

His voice was a whisper, and Belle turned on her toes to face him.

“But I still don’t understand why you were so upset at the sight of her portrait,” she said, and her voice softened. “You were - you were crying. Why?”

Ordinarily she would not have mentioned someone exhibiting such a display of emotion, but she had been trying to reason out what had upset him, and as the only explanations her mind could imagine were fanciful, she had decided to ask. Ask the right questions, Belle. Even if they seem completely ridiculous. 

Ogilvy, for his part, did not seem discomfited by her observation.

“Being here has reminded me of past pain,” he said. “And past failings. I’m afraid you came across me at a time when these memories were - particularly upsetting.”

“When you happened to be looking at that portrait?” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

He hesitated.

“I’m not sure how to explain that.”

“Please try.”

He glanced away, his face twisting a little, as though it hurt to think of it.

“The woman in the painting reminds me very much of someone,” he said. “Someone I lost. Someone I failed.”

“Oh.” Belle took an involuntary step towards him, reaching out as though she would touch him before letting her hand drop to her side. “I - I’m so sorry.”

“My life has been filled with sorrow, with regret,” he said. “Until very recently, I wondered if I would ever feel happy again.”

He was staring at her earnestly, the rising sun catching the rim of his glasses, making him squint a little.

“Until - very recently,” she said slowly.

“Yes.”

Belle nodded. Impossible. It has to be impossible. It can’t be real.

“You asked me about Elizabeth Willoughby,” she said. “But what can you tell me of her?”

Her words were rapid, hurried, as though her thoughts would seem less ridiculous if she spoke them quickly. Ogilvy smiled briefly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she echoed, and almost felt herself deflate.

“I can tell you nothing of the life Elizabeth had,” he said. “I can only tell you of the man she loved. I can tell you that he loved her too, and that he searched for her. All his long, desperate life, he was looking for her.”

“How can you know that?” she whispered.

Another tiny, humourless smile.

“I think you know.”

A tear tracked down one cheek, icy in the chill wind, and Belle dashed it away with her glove. You know. On some level, deep within, you know. Ask him.

“When we first met, you looked as though you’d seen a ghost,” she said. “You - you said I reminded you of someone.”

“Yes.”

“Who was she?”

Ogilvy licked his lips, glancing away briefly before looking back.

“The last time we met, she was called Isabelle.”

Isabelle Beauchamp. No, that’s ridiculous! That was a dream, nothing more!

“Isabelle,” she repeated. Belle. He called you Belle, that first day in his library.

“Yes.”

“And - and you loved her,” she said softly.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I will love no other. Not ever.”

Belle felt as though an icy hand had reached into her chest, squeezing her heart, freezing her from within.

“But…” She swallowed hard. “But you kissed me.”

“Yes.”

His gaze was steady, his eyes pleading, and she shook her head.

“I - I don’t understand,” she said. “You said that you loved this woman, that you will love no other, and - and yet you kissed me. You kissed me as though - as though you loved me.”

Her voice was a whisper at the end, a breath into the freezing air, and he stepped forward, his own breath ragged, white mist in the pinkish dawn. His eyes were fixed on hers, the glint of tears behind his glasses.

“I have loved you from the first moment I saw you,” he said sincerely. “And I will love you until the world ends. Until the end of time itself. I will step into the abyss still loving you.”

Belle sucked in a breath, her pulse pounding high in her throat and the frozen air sitting in her lungs like a ball of ice around her heart. She wanted to reach for him, to kiss him, to fall into his arms. It was as though her feet had been frozen in place, and all she could do was stare at him like a fool.

“You have no idea how hard it’s been to act appropriately around you,” he said, his accent thick with emotion. “I have wanted to take you in my arms and kiss you since the day you came back to me, and having to pretend this - polite indifference is killing me!”

“Please!” She closed her eyes briefly. “We agreed to move past what happened.”

“We did,” he agreed. “And I would not have mentioned it had you not asked, but now that you have…”

He took off his hat, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh before cramming the hat back on his head.

“You said you dreamed of me,” he said urgently. “On New Year’s Eve, you told me you had dreamed of me.”

Belle wanted to groan.

“Please don’t remind me of what I said that night,” she said. “I’d drunk rather too much champagne.”

“Was it true?”

“I—” She cut off, glancing away in agitation before turning back. “In some respects, perhaps. I dreamt of a man who looked like you, but - but he was not Tristan Ogilvy.”

“Ah,” he said. “One of the others, then.”

“What others?” she demanded. “Who are you?”

“It’s not who I am,” he said. “It’s who I was. Who we were.”

“Tell me.” Her voice was urgent, ragged, and he moved closer.

“I’ve had a hundred names,” he said gently. “A hundred lives. I think you’ve dreamed of some of them.”

Belle shook her head, but fragments of her dreams were creeping in, flashes in her mind like memories. 

“I was Cerin, and you were Elena,” he said, “and we lived in caves and tents made of skins, and hunted demons from the frozen north to the shores of the southernmost sea.”

His voice was trembling, and she could see tears spill over and roll down his cheeks, shining in the early morning sun. Cerin. Our bed was made of furs, warm and soft, and he told me his heart and soul were mine in all the lives to come.

“I was Cameron, and you were Lira, and I first kissed you on Midsummer’s Eve when your father was too drunk to notice,” he said. 

He kissed me in the wet grass, our heads full of mead and the taste of honey on his tongue.

“I was Rum, and you were Isabelle, and - and I couldn’t save you.” His face was twisted in anguish. “Please, sweetheart, tell me you remember!” 

“I don’t!” she blurted. “I - I can’t! It’s not possible!”

He reached for her, a desperate look in his eyes, and she pulled back, stepping away from him, her breath coming hard in her chest. Ogilvy raised his hands, palms facing her in a gesture of appeasement.

“I - I know it seems strange,” he said hastily. “Impossible, almost. I know that. But - but a part of you knows it’s true, I can feel it. You feel the connection between us, just as I do. The bond is still there, just - just weaker, that’s all. The Seer was right. It may have been broken enough to keep us apart all these years, all these lives, but - but it’s not gone completely!”

“Seer?” She shook her head. “Our - our bond? What are you talking about? 

“We made a promise to each other,” he said desperately. “We promised forever, and I tried, Belle, I did! I tried to find you! All those empty years! All that - all that pain. Lifetimes of heartbreak and loneliness. All that time, I’ve been looking for you, and - and now that I’ve found you—”

“There was no finding involved,” she said, her tone short. “Merely a word from Lady Ella and a letter of recommendation. There’s nothing supernatural in that.”

“I’m convinced Fate has an uncommon sense of humour,” he admitted, “but—”

“I was at Furton Grange for five years,” she interrupted. “No doubt our paths could have crossed before now, If Fate had wanted to concern herself.”

“Belle...”

“No!” she said sharply. “It’s ridiculous! Past lives don’t exist, and - and even if they did, we wouldn’t know it! We wouldn’t remember each other! It’s madness! No better than Lady Tremaine and her non-existent spirits!”

He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and shut it. There was a look in his eyes, a mixture of frustration and desperate longing. His body seemed to be humming with energy, and he was almost bouncing on his toes. Belle shook her head.

“I don’t know how to respond to you,” she said. “One minute you kiss me and the next you talk of impossible things. It’s highly unsettling.”

Ogilvy settled back on his heels with a defeated sigh, hands falling to his sides with a soft thump against the thick wool of his overcoat.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I suppose it is.”

There was silence for a moment. She could see his thumb worrying one of his fingers through the glove, and she knew it was the ring he wore. She remembered the time she had touched it, the strange flash of sensation that had gone through her. Ogilvy glanced up, his gaze steady once more.

“Tell me,” he said. “When we first started this conversation, you said the only explanation for your experiences that you could come up with was ridiculous. What was it?”

Belle opened and closed her mouth, glancing around as though she would find answers in the snow-covered trail, in the frozen trees. You thought about past lives, her mind said snidely. You came up with the idea before he poured his heart out to you. Are you so sure of this world that you can reject your own theories out of hand?

Ogilvy smiled slightly, breath making steam in the air around him, snatched away in the light breeze.

“You feel it,” he said quietly. “You feel it, and you’re fighting it. That’s alright. The mind likes to try to make sense of things, and the gods know there’s little enough sense in what happened to us.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said, frustration making her tone sharp. “In fact - in fact I almost feel as though I don’t know you.”

To her surprise, his smile widened, his eyes softening.

“No,” he said. “But you will.”

[theforsakeninterviews-blog]

Forsaken Interview: Bartock

((Bartock is a Death Knight currently serving as a Sergeant with the Shadows of Lordaeron.))

Gordon

Gordon sits at the table with a nearly empty glass of wine in front of him. He nods, "Good evening, Bartock."

Bartock

Bartock sits awkwardly at the table after hesitating a moment. "Good evening. Gordon."

"... You wished to speak?"

Gordon

Gordon reaches down beside him and takes a large notebook off the floor. He opens it upon the table. "Certainly. I'm authoring a book on the Forsaken people and I don’t think it would  be complete without including the thoughts  of the Forsaken people, wouldn't you agree?

Bartock

"I suppose not." Bartock waves off the bartender from selling him spoiled wine. "I hope it won't be. Difficult to keep up with me."

Bartock winces at his own halting cadence. "Or... for me. To keep up with you."

Gordon

Gordon nods at Bartock, "Neither of those will be an issue."

Bartock

Bartock shakes his head. "Ask what you will. Then."

Gordon

"I say this to everyone so I intend no offense. If there is a question that you don't wish to answer, ask me to move on instead of answering dishonestly"

Bartock

"Very well. I... think I've never liked lying. Anyway."

Gordon

"Excellent, I'll get to the questions. Do you recall anything from your first life? Anything of importance, of meaning?"

Bartock

Bartock shakes his head emphatically. "Nothing. It's all... Rotted away. Then, dissected."

"A few things feel. Familiar. But... Nothing I can hear. Or see."

Gordon

Gordon pauses to write several notes. He nods, "Do you remember any of your time shortly after your freeing? Perhaps with the Ebon Blade or early on with the Forsaken?"

Bartock

"The Ebon Blade..."

"You know. Being bound to the Lich King's will. It was a comfort. In some ways. I was... barely awake. Only a shred of myself... even there."

"Awakening with the other Knights. Being... Lent out to the Forsaken. It was unpleasant."

"My brain was... half rotted. Agonized. Trapped in between the past and the present."

Bartock raps his skull with a metallic clank. "Now all I have. Is the present."

"... It's better this way."

Gordon

"To be whole is a grand thing even if something is lost." He takes a few more notes and pauses for a short moment

"You tapped your skull, your brain was corrected. The Royal Apothecary Society's work?"

Bartock

"Yes. They've... helped. They need test subjects. I need someone to put my body. Back together."

Bartock shakes his head. "Better than returning to Icecrown. And the... Professor."

Gordon

Gordon grunts, "Certainly.  I recall you stating the Royal Apothecary Society needed test subjects, did they perform only what was needed or was more done?"

Bartock

Bartock tightens his fist, suddenly tense. "I'm not... Not allowed to say any more."

"Just... next question. Please."

Gordon

"Of course. You are a soldier at this time in the Dark Lady's Service. How are you treated by your comrades?"

Bartock

"Hm." Bartock seems as though he's never seriously considered it. "I think... I think most of them. Think of me as a mindless tool. Not that I can. Hold a conversation. Anyway."

"It's fine. I don't know what I would do with a... 'friend'. Anyway."

Gordon

"Do you carry out any activity outside of your duty?"

Bartock

"Like." Bartock blinks. "Like a. Hobby?"

"No."

"There is always more work. Always."

Gordon

"What does most of your work consist of?"

Bartock

Bartock looks down at his hands. "Killing."

"Alliance. Demons. Blood trolls. Even Horde rebels. These days."

Gordon

"Do you think of the reason why you do this?"

"Let me rephrase that."

"Have you thought of the reason why you serve in this way?"

Bartock

"Why I. Serve." Bartock seems troubled.

"I kill for the Dark Lady... Because I was told to. Ordered."

"I serve the Dark Lady because I was given to her. By the Blade. No longer of use to them."

"I was made to serve with the Blade... To die. With the rest of them. In service of our King."

"I served the Lich King... Because I had no choice. Because I was lost. In that dream."

"I guess... I guess I am still dreaming."

Gordon

"A profound statement for someone that claims to have difficulty speaking."

Bartock

Bartock grimaces. "Maybe the me that was. Alive. Was better at talking. Maybe he speaks still."

Gordon

Gordon writes down several notes before pausing to think. "That reminds of something I had heard before. Some other Forsaken claim to have had nothing hold over from their previous life. I find that to be false every time upon further questioning. There is one person despite what changes occur, would you agree?"

Bartock

"Maybe so." Bartock looks lost in thought for a few moments. "The Lich King. Arthas. There are some. Mostly... Alliance. Who would say he was taken completely by... Mal'Ganis. The sword. And the old Lich King's will. That he was good. But was corrupted."

"But then... I hear of atrocities. In Northrend. In... Stratholme."

"Should we forgive that Arthas? Should we say that... There were two of him?"

"It's pointless."

"Same of the Forsaken."

Gordon

"I think that's all I have to ask tonight." Gordon closes his notebook and gives a firm nod before standing.

Bartock

Bartock nods back, standing creakily. "Very well."

"Thank you. For giving me something... new to do."

[royal-writer]

In a perfect world,

there is more than just you and I. In an ideal world, the sound of many feet run through our house. And we love wildly, and without remorse.

She got up in the middle of the night, and left him.

It was unusual behavior, but then again so was the situation. The doctor was quick to map out what they could expect as their new norm, now that Essätha was expecting. Most of it was plainly obvious information to Amon; trivial common knowledge. Other comments came with warnings to heed, some of which churned his stomach to think about.

He was asleep again, by the time the Lady of the estate returned to their bed. When the morning sun rose, he decided not to stir her. There was fatigue written on her face, and a mess of knots in the twists of ebony hair like she’d been tossing and rolling in the sheets through the night. Better to let her have some rest and comfort, while she could.

Breakfast was quiet. Many of the maidens held to their silence like himself while they ate at the table. Amon’s fork pushed around the contents on his plate a bit before he would take a bite. The room simply felt a little emptier, without the added light and chipper chatter of his wife to his side.

After finishing his meal, he paid thanks to the women and headed upstairs. There were harvest reports to look over, and a few certifications sent his way to look over pertaining to life, death, and marriage. Two of those tasks were were always easier than the one, but it was all under his ward to examine.

The hours of the morning crawled on as he flipped from ledger to ledger.  Memos lay scrawled out on parchment in his hand, and the careful penmanship of his of his name along with the stamp seal dotted some written documents. Dreary work. He raised his head to look at the bedchamber door as he dropped the quill beside the bottle of ink.

Still no sign of her, and the sun was high in the sky.

A knock rapped the door.

“Milord Amon?”

“Come in,” he grunted with the scrapping of his chair’s legs against the floor as he moved to stand.

The servicewoman dipped her head respectfully as he passed her, nodding his own head in greeting. She seemed to frown a touch as he moved away from her, heading for the bedroom door.

“Lunch is ready to be served, milord.”

Turning the doorknob, Amon gently pushed the door open to peek inside. It was bright. The sun beamed in from the windows upon the floor. Everything was awash with Pelor’s divinity; glowing softly.

The bed was empty; the sheets crumbled and tossed aside.

A worrisome grunt exuded him. “Lucelle, where is my fair Lady?”

He turned back, seeing the woman startle slightly as their eyes caught.

“Downstairs,” the miss answered. “She’s been in the bathroom much of the day so far, milord.”

His tongue darted out, licking his lips anxiously. When had she left? It had to have been around the time they were dining downstairs. He’d been in the sitting room the whole time since. But that was hours ago, now.

“Is she… alright?”

“A uh, a bit of nausea, milord.”

His forehead wrinkled with concern.

“Would you be so kind as to send word to the doctor?” he inquired, “I’ll go check on her.”

With a curtsy, the housekeeper murmured a few words and headed down the hall. Amon was not far behind her; shutting their bedroom door and briskly walking to head for the stairwell.

Down the steps and through the family room and kitchen, he made his way towards the washroom. Two maids hovered anxiously outside the door as he approached. One was holding a rag anxiously in her hands. It twisted in her grip in a troubled manner. The other tapped her knuckles to the door gently, fidgeting from foot to foot.

“My Lady, can we get you anything?” There was no answer from the latrine.

Clearing his throat as he moved closer, the two women jumped away from the door with apologetic bows.

“May I?” he inquired, gesturing to the room.

“O-Of course my Lord,” the elder of the two women stated with some surprise. “Call if you need anything, my Lord.”

The Briarton Lord nodded wordlessly, and advanced to the threshold. The tap of the woman’s flat soles moved away from him and down the hall as he opened the door, knocking gently on the doorframe. It smelled of sickness in the room; wafting out from the thin opening provided. He had to shallow his breathing not to choke on it. Dim of light, it looked more like a troll’s cove then a bathroom.

“Essätha my darling, might I come in?”

When there was no response after a patient pause, he slowly pushed the door open further.

Through the veil of a pale glow, Amon spotted the delicate figure slumped against the porcelain. Her head lay against the side of it. Mouth parted, an exhausted snoring escaped the Briarton Lady between undignified snorts and gasps. Her hair was still a wild mess, and a faint sheen of sweat glossed over her clammy ashen features.

He strode through the room in a few steps, and descended onto one knee beside her.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he cooed, wrapping a supportive arm around her dainty structure.

She slurred tiredly. The bright glow of her soft golden-brown eyes blinking up to him sluggishly as she roused from her slumber. Faded smudges were beneath her eyes in a troublesome sign of tiredness. Even still, she was the most ethereal creature he’d ever seen.

“Come my dear, let’s get you up to bed,” Amon comforted. “You look tired. A doctor should be on their way; we’re going to have them take a look at you.””

“S’morning sickness.”

“I know, darling. I know.”

Her head lulled for a moment as she pushed herself to her knees. He slid an arm against her, ready to help her up when a shudder moved over her spine. Hands suddenly shoved at his chest, pushing him back as she rolled over to clutch the side of the toilet.

Wincing in sympathy, Amon went to gather her hair back tenderly from her face. He placed his other hand to her back, massaging deep circles into her as she sank back down with an agonized moan.

“I’m sorry-”

“That’s okay, the doctor warned us about this,” he soothed. “What can I do for you? Do you want some water? Ginger tea? I can bring you some crackers or nuts if you’d like; the physician said those would be okay.”

She gave a tiny shake of her head, spitting into the bowl.

“Can you stay?” she rasped. “I’m tired, and I ache.”

“Yes; of course my sweet,” Amon murmured, planting a kiss to her shoulder as he sat closer. He leaned in close; his body heat nestling against her side. One hand wrapped in the tangles of her hair, anchoring it back as he rubbed her back with his other other.

“You’re doing amazing, Essie.”

“Amazing, huh?” she sighed, leaning her head into the cradle of his shoulder as she sat back. “I don’t feel amazing.”

“Morning sickness is a natural part of the process,” he reminded her gently. “We’ll see what the doctor suggests, along with the normal remedies. Being ill doesn’t make me any less proud or impressed with you. Just let me know what I can do to ease your burdens, and help you to feel better.”

“You’re a great husband, and an amazing father,” Essätha mumbled, her voice filled with emotion. “I’d kiss you right now, but…”

“Please, don’t.”

They shared a tired laughter. Curled up on the bathroom floor, Amon’s hand slipping over his darling wife’s hip to rub her tummy instead. Hoping the gesture would soothe the growing life inside, and give her some much needed rest as he rocked her gently in his embrace, with her settled in his lap.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Curse the world. Curse the gods. Curse everything.

Pregnancy put a glow upon you. And for the most part, Essätha was inclined to agree. There was no greater pride than knowing she was carrying the life shared between herself and the man she loved. More than anything, she was eager with anticipation to meet them. It mattered little who they were, what they became, what may come. She would love them, kiss upon their belly, wiggle all their toes and fingers as she counted them aloud to the tiny babe. A part of her, a part of Amon, all themselves. A unique and beautiful child who she would get the joys of helping to grow and nurture.

But then there was the moments like this. Essie could practically cry. Her eyelids couldn’t stay open she was so exhausted. Not that it mattered, because no matter which angle she tried to rest in, everything fucking hurt.

Another unsettled groan echoed in her throat, and she rotated her hips to flip around and try flopping the other way. It was a wonder Amon tolerated it; still laying on his side of the bed instead of heading to another room, or the sofa. Or kicking her out of the room.

The bed creaked quietly, but this time she was not the one moving. Her head turned, meeting Amon’s dark eyes with her soured face.

“Having trouble sleeping?”

The groggy, gruff sound of his voice that melted her heart did not soothe her crabbiness, for once.

“Yessss.”

Grunting, her beloved Lord reached out for her.

She pushed at his hand, hissing.

Panic flared in his wide eyes, and his nostrils flared. The hand retracted as he exhaled, speaking feverishly: “Did I hurt yo-”

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped squirming further into her side of the bed.

Dumbfounded, Amon pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

“If it hurts my dear, perhaps you should tell me where so that I can make sure it is not of concern.”

“I hurt all over,” she muttered. Her lower lip began to wobble, and she moved to flop on to the other side, ignoring the concerned rumble moving through Amon’s chest as he reached for her once more.

“Ess’…”

“I’m fat and gross”

The room was silent. She could hear the soft sound of Amon’s breathing, but it was quickly becoming hard to as she whimpered and swallowed the lump in her throat.

She was tired. Tired, sore, and gaining weight. Her mood played tricks on her, and it was worse when she couldn’t get any damn rest.

But now her abdomen was starting to swell and gods be damned it sucked. How did people sleep when they were pregnant? Not to mention her wardrobe, which was all but packed away to make room for new clothes that she felt she was outgrowing but the week.

The bed bounced gently once more, and she grimaced. Essätha pulled herself into a tighter ball, blinking away her tears to glare at the far side of the room. A light presence of a hand brushed hair aside from her face and she grumbled unhappily.

“Essätha my darling, if you were not putting on weight, that wouldn’t be normal,” Amon assured in a soft voice. “Our little one is going to need that room and nutrition to grow.”

Some of the deep unhappy lines in her expression eased, but there was still a bitter note residing in her tone as she muttered, “I’m still unattractive. What are you going to do if I never drop all the baby weight? I’ll be gross forever.”

“You’re carrying a baby, Essie. There is nothing more inspiring or beautiful than that.”

Essätha placed her weight into her elbow, and turned over. Her eyes moved from Amon’s chest up to his eyes, flicking over his features and back again. His expression was innocent and gentle. Hiding from her nothing, as he gently stroked strands of hair out of her face.

“We should switch sides of the bed, until the pregnancy is over. Laying on your left side is supposed to be better for you. We can take some of the pillows, and use them for cushioning where you ache the most. And I can lay behind you, and be your spoon, if you’ll have me.”

She thought it over for a moment, before giving a sharp nod of her head.

With a smile, Amon rolled out of his side of the bed. It left a warm patch exposed, that she scooted into. It smelled richly of his shampoo and cologne, and she buried herself in his pillow as he climbed back in the other side.

Warm breath bathed her neck as he slid an arm around her, a hand moving over her abdomen.

“Better?”

A violent surge of lust had her heart racing. She gave a meek little nod, holding her teeth into her lip. Gods, her body didn’t know what the hell it wanted anymore.

His hand continued to idly circle over her baby bump as he spoke close to her ear: “You still look absolutely radiant and sexy, my darling Essätha. I loved you before, I love you still, and I will love you after you’ve given birth to our beautiful child. I love the extra softness and curves, and so will the baby. And if you shed all of them within a few weeks of having our little one, you will be just as alluring.”

An unabashed wanton moan lifted out of her in a sigh. She wriggled beneath the sheets, panting heavily as her hormones jumped wildly. Her rear pushed back, and a startled gasp escaped Amon as she pressed into him.

It gave her back her sanity, and a realization.

Heat flushing her features, Essie shifted to lean away from him.

“I- ehe, I didn’t mean to-”

The hand circling her stomach moved lower. Callused fingers teased the front of her sleep pants, and her breathing escalated hopefully.

“Mmm, I have an exercise in mind that might help you fall asleep faster,” he groaned, nipping her earlobe as he pressed the shape of his erection in her back.

Whining, she rocked her hips back. Her lips trembled; eyelashes fluttering as the tease of fingers dipped lower.

“Ooohhhh heavens above m’lord, don’t tease me, please…”

A grin pressed into her neck. The rough texture of his beard scrapping against her tender skin. He inched closer; molding himself to her back as his fingertips slid lower, until a keening note carried out of her lungs.

“Would it please my Lady to show her just how irresistibly sensual I still find her?” Amon teased, grinding his length into her in a slow, methodical measure.

“Yes, yes, please Amon-”

She barely managed to stumble the words out as he caressed her, a euphoric cry parting her lips.

She slept soundly as promised, well through the night and far into the afternoon resting on her left side, completely nude with a just as naked frame of her husband snoring peacefully against her back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was inches between them, but his fingers rested over hers. It left a spark. A physical line to their connection. His rough fingers felt perfect against her.

On his cushion of the sofa, Amon held a volume of one of his books. It was the scientific study of rocks. It lacked crystal clarity as far as Essätha, could tell. One could only take it with a grain of salt.

She was enjoying a book written by an upcoming author. They had a sadistic way of twisting tales of joy upon you into sadness. It was probably not the wisest choice for a pregnant, hormonal woman to read. An older strapping painter taking ill, and how his devoted seamstress wife stayed by his side. No matter how much she held her breath that the outcome might change as the book retold encounters of their life and how it lead up to where they were, she held a sinking feeling inside how it would end.

Wetting her finger, she moved to turn the page as a flutter of discomfort pressed against her tummy.

Her eyebrows drew together, but she ignored it. Discomforts, she found, came and went a lot when you were carrying.

Driving her eyes across the page, Essie became quickly engrossed in the story once more. She could picture it so easily. The man and woman’s hands interlocked as the woman recounted their desperate escape from a burning building. The smell of smoke was almost in her lungs, and embers and soot in the air. She could imagine the terror as they tumbled out of the broken glass window; bloody and burned, to see the pyromancer casting the whole town ablaze.

A swift jolt of pain left her gasping, ripping her hand out from beneath Amon’s.

He fumbled with his book; dropping it from his hand and onto the floor with a thud. No place marker where he’d last had it open, but it was not a thought even on his mind.

She slid the novel off of her lap, reaching down to press a hand to her abdomen.

“Ess’?” Panic laced her husband’s tone as he reached for her arm.

“Oh,” she murmured with surprise. She inhaled slowly, wincing as a pressure seemed to hold to her lungs.

“Sit still, I’ll go get the doctor-”

“No, Amon, it’s fine. They’re moving.”

“Moving?”

“Yeah,” Essätha laughed, rubbing her hand slowly over her stomach. “Feisty, too. Building up muscle to be strong like their father, I see.”

She turned her gaze slowly to her husband. His eyes were wide and large with surprise still, but he wore a lopsided grin of delight. The same elation was in his gaze and softening the edges of his rounded cheeks.

Offering the flat of her hand, she made a beckoning gesture with her fingers.

“Want to feel?”

“Yes.” The response was instantaneous and breathless.

With a shy giggle Essätha wrapped her fingers against his hand as he placed it in hers. She pressed his palm to her tummy, around the region she last felt the strong kick.

They waited in silence. Seconds ticking by. Her face began to fall with disappointment even as Amon waited with a forced seriousness overlaying his smile. It was comical and ridiculous, to say the least.

Another flutter of movement.

“By Pelor’s Light,” he whispered; voice cracking at the end as tears began to surface and well up in the corners of his eyes.

Essätha grinned from ear to ear with glee. She pulled her hand away from his, allowing him to rub soothing circles against her stomach.

“That’s your baby, m’lord.”

Amon raised his gaze. Meeting her eyes, his jaw flexed beneath the shape of his beard as he cleared his throat.

“That’s our baby, my dear Essie.”

Heat crept up her throat and into her face, glancing shyly away from the intense depth of her beloved’s gaze. Her emotional spectrum was haywire enough without being overwhelmed by the look of love and worship in his eyes. Look to long, and she would unravel and become undone in a mess of tears with the fragility of her emotions.

Scooting across the furniture, Amon stretched out gradually, laying his head upon her lap. He cooed softly at her bump, pressing an ear against her tummy.

“What are you doing?” she mused lightly, reaching down to run her fingers through his hair.

“Shhh. Trying to listen.”

“For what?”

“A heartbeat.”

Giving a sigh, she shook her head. “You know the doctor said that’s nearly impossible without a-”

“Shhhh,” Amon hushed, stroking a hand against her slowly.

Quirking a smile, she fell silent with disbelief. If it pleased him to try, she would let him. It was nice, having him laying across her lap. Warm and comfortable, where she could drag her fingers through his dark hair and over his scalp. She felt like the protector for once, and the small babe growing inside her and relaxed husband nearby were her charges.

“Hello little one,” he breathed quietly. “It’s your dad. Can you kick for daddy?”

After a brief pause, a sharp jab left Essie sucking in a sharp gasp for air.

“Not that hard,” Amon reprimanded gently. “Be nice to your mother; she’s not a playground.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I am for the moment,” Essie wheezed, flinching as the little monster used her intestines as a punching bag.

Grunting in response, the Illiad Lord snuggled himself closer to her navel. His quiet breath billowed over her as he grew quiet once more, slowly rubbing his palm to her chest. The hues of midnight disappeared beneath his eyelids as he closed them. All of his focus going to the small life growing inside her as she combed through his hair.

Essätha settled deeper into the sofa to ease her aching spine and lower back, breathing slowly and watching him with an adoring smile. There was such pure innocence in his actions; such wonder and awe in the calm composure of his face. It was almost impossible to believe the very same man who sprawled out on the couch now, nestled against her once kept a consistent mask of discontent and regal stone, once. There was so many soft edges now; carefree and lax around his eyes and in the tug of his lips as they moved upward.

“I can hear her, Essätha. I can hear our little girl.”

She swallowed against the tightness of her throat, tears swimming in her eyes. Totally speechless, and for once unable to correct him that they didn’t truly know if the babe was a girl or not.

Leaning her head back, her fingers continued to card lazily through Amon’s hair as he listened to the pitter patter of a little heartbeat from the best parts of themselves.

Their little girl.

[writersblockandapotoftea]

A Tale of a Misfit and His Talking Lizard

Prologue

Losuick waddled through the tunnels, pulling on their belt and scratching their belly. They hadn't been selected to raise a youngling. Again. They sighed; they shouldn't be upset, Dostine never chose the parents wrong. Perhaps in the next cycle, Losuick would be chosen.

They jumped as a desperate knocking came from the entrance to the mines, shaking the posts slightly.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," they called, stomping to the door and fixing their clothes. Losuick popped it open and a dark-skinned woman shoved a basket into his arms before collapsing in a bloody heap. Their eyes widened and Losuick set the basket down.

"O, Oi," Losuick said, shaking the woman. She didn't move. "Lady, stop that. You can't just shove random things into my hands and collapse," they crouched and poked the lady's neck. No pulse and blood pooled around her, sticky and warm, soaking through Losuick's boots. They stepped back, eyes wide and heart thumping. "Ikravye, Ikravye, Ikravye," Losuick cursed, rubbing their palms together and looking in the basket.

A little baby was lying there, fast asleep despite the spattering of their mother's blood across their dark-skinned face. Losuick's heart melted as they opened their eyes and let out the smallest yawn they had ever heard.

"Dostine below," Losuick cooed, crouching and touching their little scrunched-up nose. "Look at you, cutie." The baby babbled back, reaching up and grabbing Losuick's finger. "Soft," Losuick whispered, marvelling at how small and soft and squishy the baby was. Their eyes softened as they picked up the basket, smiling and making soft noises at the baby. They walked to their caves, taking the baby out of the basket, watching their tiny nightshirt curl around their wee feet.

"Losuick, have you got a size two bolt?" Thym called, wandering into the cave. "What's that thing?" They asked. The baby began to cry, shaking and clenching their tiny fists.

"Shh, shh, Gri, Gri," Losuick soothed, rocking them back and forth. "You scared my human, Thym."

"Why do you have a human?"

"Their mother gave them to me," Losuick replied, letting the baby suck at his finger.

"Where's the mother now?"

"She shoved the basket into my hands and then died."

"You left her in the doorway, didn't cha?"

"Ya."

"C'mon, bring Softy with you," Thym said, waddling away. Losuick followed, bouncing the baby gently.

Thym stopped at another cave on the way, rapping on the entrance.

"Espi," they called. "It's happened again."

"Yer kidding," Espi came out of the cave, pulling on their hair. They stopped when they saw the baby. "Well, look at that. It did happen. Abandoned?"

"Kind of?" Losuick said, giving a quick rundown of the situation, the full weight of what had happened sinking in. His eyes widened. "Oh Dostine, what am I going to do?" they whispered, holding onto the baby.

"What we always do. We look after them until they're big enough to make the journey to the nearest human town," Espi said. "Thym, go bury the mother. Give her a proper marker and such. I'll make some formula and look after the baby." They held out their arms. Losuick shook their head.

"I'll take the formula, but the mother gave them to me."

"Lo."

"I'll look after them," Losuick said softly, rocking the baby, who giggled. "I like wee ones."

"Are you sure?" Espi asked, leaning on their staff. Losuick nodded, looking at the baby. "You should name them, make it official."

Losuick looked at the baby, with their tear-stained cheeks and slightly snotty nose. They were so small, cheeks softer than cotton, hands that gripped. They loved them already, giving them a dwarven kiss, rubbing his nose on their forehead. The baby giggled and Losuick grinned.

"Grigori," they whispered. Espi and Thym looked at each other and nodded. "Welcome to my family, Grigori," Losuick whispered. "I'll always do my best to take good care of you."

Mishka was proud of herself. She had an egg. It was smooth and round and warm and she could curl around it just so in her little nest in the hole of the bagabond tree. She breathed on it, admiring her reflection on the smooth bronzy surface. She'd have to leave in a bit to go get more heather and bits of cloth and straw from the nearby encampment of wildmen. She huffed.

Why were they here anyway? Everyone knew it was nesting season, all sorts of dragons and trolls and other magical creatures would be gathering to start the complicated rituals and habits of giving birth. It was incredibly dangerous, which is why she was here so soon.

She needed a good nest this year, she wasn't just guarding the nest of other dragons.

She heard thumping outside and poked her head out of the hole.

A woman with thick red hair that was cut around her skull like a helmet was standing at the foot of the tree.

"Go away," Mishka called, ducking into the hole again. She didn't have time to deal with humans.

"Mother Dragon, I ask for a favour."

"No."

"You haven't even heard it," the woman called back. Mishka sighed and stuck her head out of the hole again. "I am Elianore of family Delphinae, hoping to become a student at the Royal Magic Academy. To do so, I need a familiar."

"You flatter me with your interest, but I have a bond awaiting me when I return to my home," Mishka replied, narrowing her eyes. There was something off about that woman.

"And your egg? Are they promised to someone?" Elianore asked, cocking her head to the side. She was playing with a heavy stick.

"No and you may not have them," Mishka replied. "Ple-" a hand grabbed her by the scruff and tried to pull her from her nest. "Unhand me," she howled, biting the hand and scrambling back into the nest, rolling her egg out of reach, her scaly limbs shaking and her tail flicking back and forth. The hand retreated and the person climbed down.

"I can't believe you missed," Elianore shouted. Mishka heard the stick break.

"You will never have my egg," Mishka called, curling around it. It was unharmed, thank Lila. She licked it, feeling her baby pulse within and a fire burn through her. They were going to be a boy, she realized, making a contented purring sound.

"You have to eat eventually, Mishka," Elianore replied, her footsteps leaving.

"But you can't stay here much longer, Elianore. I can wait until you and your humans leave," Mishka muttered.

"I'm not leaving without that egg!" Elianore shouted back. Mishka's eyes widened and she hissed. She had left a plant. Mishka crept to the edge of the tree and swiped around the edges with her tail, finding the black bulb. She squished it, hearing a satisfying squip as it died, oozing black liquid down the tree bark.

"Go stuff a ham," she muttered, going back to her egg. It was really beautiful, she congratulated herself again. She had done well.

She curled up around the egg and went to sleep.

The next day, Elianore was back, sitting at the foot of the tree. Mishka hissed at her, scales sprawling out to make herself look bigger. Elianore chuckled behind her hand and went back to sharpening her blade. Mishka growled low in her throat, feeling her stomach grumble.

Three days and two nights passed like this, with Elianore sitting beneath the tree, scraping her whetstone across the blade. Mishka paced around her nest, making sure her egg stayed warm and safe. She tried to ignore the scraping of the blade and managed to catch an unfortunate squirrel.

But she needed water. Her throat was dry and stiff and she was having trouble staying awake. Her head thudded against the wall, sending pain spiralling through her small body but waking her up.

She needed water.

She peeked over the edge of the tree. Elianore was still there, but the sound of the whetstone had stopped. The human was sleeping. Mishka sighed in relief and began climbing down the tree, careful to make no sound. She paused in front of Elianore.

Definitely asleep.

She padded through the undergrowth to the little stream, lapping at the cool water, feeling it trickle down her dry throat, soothing the itches and aches.  Mishka purred slightly as she dipped her feet in it, seeing little silver fishes.

She crept back towards her nest, heart thumping. Her eyes widened.

Elianore was gone.

She scrambled up the tree and sighed.

The egg was still there.

She sniffed at the egg. Still whole and safe.

Suddenly, something grabbed her tail. Mishka squeaked as Elianore threw her from the tree. She scrambled back as Elianore grabbed the egg, slamming her small weight into her so Elianore fell flat on her back, the egg rolling away towards the little stream. Mishka squeaked and ran after it. Elianore stumbled after her, kicking the little dragon out of the wait.

Mishka yelped and bit Elianore's thigh, tripping her. Elianore picked her up and threw her again. Mishka crashed into a tree, dazed and stunned as her egg rolled into the stream.

"No," she howled. Elianore swore as the egg slipped away, into a tunnel, going underground. Far, far away from both of them.

"Ikravye, Ikravye," Elianore shouted, stamping and throwing her sword into the muck. Mishka stared at Elianore in horror and disgust. Her egg, her child was lost and Elianore had caused it. She curled up in a ball and lie there, shaking and mewling to herself. Her baby was gone, she had spent years waiting to be a mother and that was all gone.

The egg bobbed and swirled in the darkness as it headed deep below the surface of the world. It caught the light of some torches and a small hand reached out to grab it.

"Doma," Grigori called, holding the egg in the light. "I think I found something." He turned it over in his palms, marvelling.

What had he found?

[future-rp]

static’s main vocal & leader romeo

verve creative; song making, variety 13 vocal / 02 rap / 05 dance

1994. the son of a teacher and an accountant is born in culver city , california. he is a normal boy, bright for his age — “ he gets that from us , ” his parents coo — and altogether too ordinary to make much of a difference. but that’s what his mother and father wanted. a normal boy. the standard. romeo , named so because his parents wed in verona approximately nine years prior to his birth , lives unremarkably for the first decade of his life.

2004. after his third grade teacher , who surprisingly still remembered that he liked to sing when all he did was disrupt her class , lowers the microphone for him , romeo clenches his little fists , and begins to belt his heart out. eyes searching the dimly - lit crowd , he holds in his disappointment at not finding his mother within the sea of faces. but his little sister valentina , seated in their father’s lap , is there , and she claps so enthusiastically that it almost makes up for it.

romeo takes home a congratulatory certificate , his school’s budget unable to afford the gaudy trophy he might’ve gotten at the private academy his mother wanted him to attend.

2009. like his namesake , he falls hard , and he falls fast.

he’s instantly enamored by the offer of the older woman who approaches him and his friends while they’re grabbing a cup of froyo at yogurtland. his eyes are wide when she steps up to him , even wider when she produces a business card and tells him that he would be a very good fit in their company.

“ i saw you sing the other day on that corner over there , ” she says , pointing across the street to where he occasionally sat with a bucket and his dad’s old guitar. “ you have a very beautiful voice. with some training , you could make it very far in the entertainment industry. do you know what idols are ? ”

he does , his sister loves them. he’s more of an r&b type of person , but he’s … at least familiar with the occupation. thinking of himself as one of the boys valentina squeals over and plasters all over her walls , depleting their father’s wallet with constant trips to k - town , is a little strange. surreal , even.

his cheeks warm as his friends jeer at him , fists furiously pounding all over romeo’s back , shoulders , and upper arms as they shake him about. “ say yes , ” they tell him , cheering when a slow smile spreads across his face.

“ i need some time to think about it , ” he says , earning a chorus of disappointment from his companions. “ um … i need to talk to my parents … ”

“ of course , ” the woman says. “ we’ll be having an open audition this weekend. feel free to stop by with them if you need some extra convincing. i do hope you decide to join us at verve. ” she produces a flyer , which he reaches out to take before he even quite realizes it , and bows quickly before walking away.

his mother says no , immediately.

his sister , though dreadfully excited at the prospect , wilts under her mother’s critical gaze. his father , as usual , is neutral. romeo thinks he pleads his case well , sweeping declarations about how music is and has always been his passion , that he really feels like singing is something he’s always wanted to do. it’s an almost - truth ; nothing else he’s encountered has ever really captured his interest as much as music has. but he’s far from a prodigy , and he’s certainly not dedicated to it enough to convince the one major obstacle standing in the way.

sure , he knows how to play the violin. but what asian - american from la county doesn’t , if they aren’t already too busy with the piano ?

singing ? as far as his mother’s concerned , he’s … “ average. ” what , like winning an elementary - school wide talent show is supposed to mean something ? for all he knows , the lady at yogurtland could be a child trafficker. verve is brand new , with nothing to its name to prove that it’s a credible label and not a scheme designed to snatch impressionable young men just like romeo off the streets. and even if it was , they’d never take him anyway. what’s so special about him ? she can’t name a single thing.

“ i … ” valentina flinches when when all eyes suddenly land upon her , and romeo reaches out to squeeze her shoulder apologetically. “ i think he’d be really good … don’t you , dad ? ” she casts a look up at their father through a curtain of long brown hair , brows furrowed and the beginnings of a pout forming on her lips.

man , what romeo would give to be able to do that without getting smacked upside the head.

he ends up attending the audition , and he narrowly makes it.

his mother doesn’t help him pack , but valentina does , chattering in his ear all night long about how she’s jealous he’s going to meet all of her favorite artists. he thinks about telling her that it probably won’t be that easy , that her biases probably wouldn’t give him the time of day.

but he’s grateful that she gave him this opportunity in the first place —

( not resentful , not furious , not desperately heartbroken that little valentina born five years after him can flutter her lashes and get everything she wants. he’s not that kind of guy. )

— and so he smiles , gives her a noogie , and tells her that she better buy all of his albums , or at least get dad to.

“ of course ! ” she chirps at him , face splitting in a grin. “ i love you , romeo ! ”

he presses a kiss to the top of her head , murmuring an “ i love you too ” into her hair.

at least one woman in his family has said it.

2011. they break him , easily.

romeo’s always been a sort of ‘ go with the flow ’ kind of guy. perhaps a little cocky — he’s willing to admit that. being praised so often for one’s good looks and sweet , honey - like voice is bound to go to anyone’s head , and romeo is not extraordinary enough to avoid that.

but as it turns out , he may not be extraordinary enough at all.

his skin was dark , his nose a little too big , his american accent far too noticeable. he was lucky he had his voice , a natural talent , a killer smile , and a willingness to learn. he overheard whispers that he may not be worth the investment , that they were wasting their time when domestic talent was always going to be there.

that was year one , and he figures now that they were just trying to see how far they could push him.

by some miracle — spite , really , if he were pressed to think about it — he manages to hold on. to be perfectly honest , romeo’s not entirely sure when determination turned into something so … dark. where there was once dedication toward improvement festered a desire to be better than others. to put himself first , so that he’d be at least considered if nothing else.

it wouldn’t be correct to say that romeo snapped , really , because he’s still sane and completely aware of the change in his personality. but he’s still on the fence as to whether this is a good thing.

on the one hand , it seems that this may be what the company was looking for. soft romeo , who’d first come to seoul with only the vaguest idea of his dreams and aspirations , was not going to cut it. even after the skin bleaching and the nose job , he was just … not trying hard enough.

( “ you never try at anything , ” a familiar voice hisses in the back of his head. “ how are you supposed to become a doctor or a lawyer if you can’t even finish your homework in an hour ? you lack discipline and brains. you’re hopeless. ” )

so when he decided to try , he tried hard. and it’s been … starting to pay off. hours of practice consume him , and he tires himself out studying grammar books and dictionaries so that his korean is impeccable. his roommates tell him that he mumbles basic workbook phrases in his sleep , chuckling as they comment that his pronunciation has improved greatly because of his unconscious practice.

the company expresses surprise at the effort. romeo jung is not a lost cause. he just wasn’t taking things seriously before , but once they get a taste of what it’s actually like for him to put his mind to something , they are … pleasantly surprised.

even more so when he tells them that he’s been trying his hand at composing. “ they’re mostly duds, ” he says at a monthly evaluation , scratching the back of his neck , “ but i think i’m improving , slowly. ”

it’s so easy to put it that way , as if he isn’t staying up every night staring at his computer and the midi controller propped up on his desk and the seventy - six files he refuses to let see the light of day. making them aware of his efforts is the first step , he tells himself. coming straight out of the gate would be coming on too strong. he’ll just lightly imply that this is the direction he wants to take his career , and the company will understand.

but it’s still not enough.

he was dumb to think that just two years of training would be enough for him to make the final lineup of leo. romeo’s cute and knows how to charm the pants off a person ( quite literally , it seems ) , but he just isn’t enough. and maybe he’s too young , too unrestrained , not talented enough , and most certainly not disciplined enough to maintain the level of self - control verve needed from its introductory group. there were perfectly valid reasons why he wouldn’t be included even when though he was with the company from the beginning. valid and logical , even in spite of his bitterness and slightly unhealthy competitiveness , both of which would refuse to let him accept that he just wasn’t the right fit. both of which also turned a perfectly kind boy into one who would let almost nothing stop him from clawing his way to the top.

it would take him a few years before he finally realized that mama isn’t actually as annoying as he thought.

2017. it has been eight years since he first signed a contract with verve. he used to get upset when people called him the “ dungeon grandpa. ” now , he just corrects them. “ i prefer to be called the dungeon troll. ”

a lovely title for an equally lovely man. one who’s only a few steps away from remembering people are people. that they’re not tools he can use to get ahead or to let out some steam. and really , romeo recognizes that — he’s not a complete and utter asshole. he understands the golden rule ; he’d hate it if people treated him like he was just something to be used , but this is what’s become of him after all this time. after spending over almost an entire decade training , well into his twenties , he knew something had to change.

just trying wasn’t enough. he needed to put himself first above everyone else , which was how the dungeon troll was born. a budding heartbreaker burning through fellow trainees like wildfire , the current reigning master of the stink - eye in verve creative. expert at casually implementing and improving ideas from others’ compositions , just different enough that he couldn’t be called out for plagiarism. if being nice was just going to earn him some consolation prizes instead of a place on the podium , then he’d just have to tear everyone else off of it.

and so it isn’t so fun to snicker at him in the hallways anymore — not when he’s eventually promised a fall debut and a whole group to lead himself.

the woman who scouted him laughs when she tells him the news. “ your eyes are as big as they were when i first saw you all those years ago. ”

if he were more coherent , he might’ve quipped back. “ i needed you to make sure you were talking to the right person , ” he might’ve said. “ that you meant to talk to romeo and not whoever reserved the practice room from nine to twelve. ”

but as it stands , eight years into training , all he can do is grab her hands and bow , fighting back the tears prickling at his eyes and the tremble in his voice as he thanks her and ceo oh and all the executives that made this decision.

an actual group. and it would be his.

he clings onto these phrases as he prepares for debut. even after listening to a demo of can you feel it , it doesn’t feel truly real. not until the pieces start falling into place , learning the choreography , stepping into the booth. though the song he’d submitted for a b - side was rejected , the reception to it was anything but negative. romeo may not be very fond of verve’s supposed promises , but when a producer brought up the idea of having later , improved work on their future comebacks ? romeo was euphoric.

finally , everything’s coming together. everything he’s worked for in the past eight years , the sleepless nights , the tears shed in the shower with his hands pressed to his mouth so as not to make a peep , the blisters and pulled muscles , it’s all come to something. it’s come to static.

and when they finally make it on stage , staring out all those people , when romeo counts down and leads the group in their introduction and synchronized bow , his heart swells.

it’s only a matter of time before someone pops that balloon.

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

There is only one man worse at Twitter than Donald Trump

Donald Trump's frequently misspelled tweets put the increasingly fragile world order at risk. Former Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee's, by contrast, pose a far greater danger: They threaten America's comedic leadership in a world increasingly dominated by "funny" reddit photoshops and bad homemade cat GIFS.

Huckabee might have failed to secure his party's nomination for president, but he's determined to stay relevant, no matter the cost to our Twitter feeds.

SEE ALSO: What to do when you're so overwhelmed by the Trump presidency you can barely move

Take a look at his most recent round of tweets and how viral they've become. At first, they might seem impossible to interpret — Huckabee can be inscrutable, like a Jaden Smith of the American right. 

But keep trying. There are jokes there — jokes that are often so deeply bizarre we loose the will to even embed them.

What's clearis  that the right is undergoing a crisis in comedy. Remember when John McCain appeared on The Daily Show in 1999 and we laughed of our own free will? (Though, to be fair, early Steve Carrell might have had more to do with that than the presidential hopeful.) 

Now all we've got for right-wing comedy is scrolling through Ann Coulter's Twitter feed while hoping in vain that she won't dog-whistle white supremacists, or praying that Trump calls Buzzfeed a "failing piece of garbage" again (honestly, that was pretty good). 

So that leaves Mike Huckabee as the right's only hope — a hope that, sigh, is founded on colonoscopy jokes.

Here are some of his most viral/terrible tweets, along with our attempts at translation. 

You're going with pork sausage? Really?

Breaking News! Jimmy Dean Sausage Co will be renamed GORSUCH SAUSAGE because he's grinding up some Democrat Senators into PURE PORK SAUSAGE!

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 21, 2017

During Supreme Court nominee Neil Gorsuch's Senate confirmation hearing, Huckabee posted this tweet, which seemed to suggest both that Democrats depend on government pork and also that they had gone through a meat grinder.

Not only that, Huckabee seems to imply that Gorsuch himself had committed some kind of murder-suicide and heroically pushed himself through a meat grinder, only to come out a sausage himself?

So both Gorsuch and Democrats are now sausage, but Gorsuch is the higher quality Jimmy Dean sausage — a man good enough to eat. Or something.

Fake news — it's hilarious!

CNN launching its own social media platform to rival Zuckerburg's-Zucker vs. Zuckerburg. CNN will call their new site "FakeBook."

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 21, 2017

We've got to give credit to this joke. Sure, it's part of a larger campaign to discredit mainstream media sources and give the right full control of the information cycle but who cares: it's a joke. It's coherent and actually a little bit funny once you get past Huckabee's inability to spell Zuckerberg and weird use of a hyphen.

I Tweet for my amusement and your amazement. To haters trolls and humorless people-you really shouldn't follow me. It's way over your head!

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 21, 2017

Of course he followed that tweet with the one above, so let our earlier assessment be stricken from the record.

A Baha Men throwback is just never a good idea.

Poop Dogg has nephew named Bow Wow; both bad dogs who advocate murder and sex slavery for @POTUS and First Lady;Who let the dogs out?

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 17, 2017

"Who let the dogs out" was created by the Baha men, not "Poop Dogg." Of course, Huckabee has probably filed them both under "music I find threatening," so who can blame his confusion. 

No.

At museum in Oslo—wasn't sure if this was Edward Munch's "The Scream" or Nancy Pelosi at Trump speech last week. pic.twitter.com/0ImsZr2kQz

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 5, 2017

Oh, dad. 

Someone spring for Photoshop for Huckabee. Please, we're begging you.

Dems select ticket for 2020. A match made in Transylvania pic.twitter.com/iKLJxPTdVx

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 2, 2017

If there's one advantage the left has, it's this: graphic design.

Who was the poor intern forced to photoshop this photo and use comic sans un-ironically? How did they align the photos? Why did they use the Microsoft Paint on my parents' computer?

Yeah, no.

Choice: Trump or the Grump. the Don or the Con; a Winner or a Weiner; Swamp Drainer or Swamp Dweller; Take No Prisoners or Be a Prisoner?

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) November 5, 2016

Rhyming barely has a place in poetry, let alone Twitter or *shudders* my Twitter feed. Also, Huckabee endorsed a candidate whose campaign is currently under federal investigation for collusion with a foreign adversary all while calling his opponent a hot dog. So.

Why would you do this?

Breaking news from Hollywood! Sen. Chuck Schumer cast in lead role for remake of "Boys Don't Cry."

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) February 5, 2017

This movie is based on the true story of a teenager who is brutally murdered for being transgender. 

This one's just nonsense masquerading as a sentence.

Dems poured out of the House Chamber as if someone flushed a commode. Where were they in such a hurry to go? Is there a sale at Penney's?

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) March 1, 2017

I assume he's referring to J.C. Penney, a chain that isn't exactly known for attracting hordes of Washington elites in search of a Jordache sale. But how fast does Huckabee think toilet water flows? How many people in his life run away terrified every time they hear a toilet flush?

I'm forced to approach this tweet like it's abstract art and not try to force "meaning" on it. I encourage you too to sit back and just enjoy the delightful J.C. Penney's reference.

Butt jokes — always classy.

Watch celebs spew ignorant political venom at Oscars?? Nah...think I'd rather have a colonoscopy. Both happen from same location.

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) February 26, 2017

Does Mike Huckabee get his colonoscopies at the famed Kodak Theater in Hollywood? Please sign me up if that's the case, I'm told they have phenomenal seating and fancy bathrooms.

And to be fair, colonoscopies get a bad rap — they're not nearly as painful as your MSM friends would have you believe.

Which car accident is worse?

Trump may be a car wreck, but at least his car is pointed in right direction. Hillary is a drunk-driver going the wrong way on the freeway.

— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) November 4, 2016

Forget politics for a second. I will go to my grave trying to understand the logic of this tweet. Doesn't a wrecked car (implying death, destruction) pose the same threat as a drunk driver who has yet to cause any damage? Where is this wrecked car positioned? The side of the road? The median? Why is Hillary drunk? Who let her drive? Perhaps we shouldn't appoint a flaming car wreck to be leader of the free world? Will these questions ever end? Will these thoughts?

Will these tweets?

WATCH: Indulge your fear of heights with China's latest glass bridge

[itsfinancethings]

It’s only April, but Fiona Apple may have already given us the lyric of the year: “Fetch the bolt cutters, I’ve been in here too long.” Fetch the Bolt Cutters is, in fact, the title of both the song where she murmurs the line as a refrain and her first album since 2012. Apple couldn’t have known when she quoted the line, first uttered by Gillian Anderson in the BBC crime drama The Fall, that she’d be releasing the record into a world on house arrest. But Apple has always been spookily prescient about the mood of the culture, magnifying her own internal landscape until it starts to look like a near-future map of the universe.

As a young artist in the late ’90s she wrote piercing songs about, among other things, her experiences with sexual assault and mental illness—topics mainstream pop culture mostly avoided until well into the 21st century. Critics praised her music but mocked her preternatural candor; in retrospect, you get the sense that the presence of such a talented, articulate, tortured brain in the head of a beautiful teenage girl threw them for a loop. Two decades later, Apple has outlasted her haters and now lives a tabloid-proof life in Venice Beach. For company, she has her dog, a roommate and the roommate’s dog. When a reporter asked her, last year, whether she’d seen the movie Hustlers—which includes a scene where Jennifer Lopez strips to Apple’s 1996 hit “Criminal”—she replied, “If I were a person who actually left my house, I’d go.”

It figures, doesn’t it, that Apple was voluntarily self-quarantining years before the rest of us were forced to? She even did much of the work on Bolt Cutters at home, where she cobbled together a studio and recorded with the help of GarageBand and a three-piece band of veteran musicians (bassist Sebastian Steinberg, drummer Amy Aileen Wood and singer-songwriter David Garza on guitar), with whom she shares production credits. According to a recent New Yorker profile, Apple laid the rhythmic foundation for the album by leading the ensemble around the house, where they chanted and banged on homemade percussion instruments. Comfortable though its author might be in semi-seclusion, the album arrives as a message in a bottle from one castaway to a sea full of them. You bet Fiona Apple knows what it’s like to be bouncing off the walls of your bedroom—and your skull—with too much time to second-guess every choice you’ve ever made. How lucky for listeners that her unsparing introspection possesses the alchemical power to make us feel less alone in ours.

Mountaintop sage is a role that suits her better than enfant terrible ever did. Now that the culture is catching up with her, Apple has evolved in the public imagination into a sort of folk hero—trolling powerful sexists, reaching out to other artists who struggle with mental health, donating two years’ worth of proceeds from “Criminal” to refugees. In a 2018 video, she responded to a fan’s question about whether she still believed the words she’d notoriously muttered during a photo shoot in the ’90s: “There’s no hope for women.” Apple patiently explained that she was a scared kid back then and that the music industry in particular had changed for the better in recent years. “We’re gonna be fine!” she exclaimed, shifting into encouraging-big-sister mode. “There’s always hope for women. We are hope.”

Courtesy of Epic Records

That’s not to say she’s gone full girl-power cheerleader. Bolt Cutters can be quite dark. In “For Her,” Apple executes a devastating variation on the standard “Good Morning” with nothing but sparse, hollow percussion as a net: “Well, good mornin’, good mornin’, you raped me in the same bed your daughter was born in.” Like most the album, it’s a song that calls attention to its own construction, transitioning from one sound to the next with minimal artifice. What begins as a clapping, stomping jump-rope rhyme becomes a rhythmic chant whose intonations fall at the intersection of rap and R&B, then stretches into something bluesier. Finally, the shocking “Good Morning” line gives way to a layered, angelic chorus that feels like a sonic representation of healing. The song reportedly originated from Apple’s anger over the Brett Kavanaugh hearings.

Her (mercifully non-literal) form of Trump-era rage coexists on the album with blunt dissections of her past, personality and public image. The incantatory refrain of “Relay”—“Evil is a relay sport, when the one who’s burned, turns to pass the torch”—makes for a timely indictment of our hate-poisoned political discourse but actually comes from one of Apple’s teenage notebooks. She vents her resentment at fakes, jerks, people who present their “life like a f—ing propaganda brochure.” (Never one to perform happiness she doesn’t truly feel, Apple is a conscientious objector to influencer culture.) Yet the song resolves with her finding the wisdom to break the relay’s chain: “I know if I hate you for hating me, I will have entered the endless race.”

Bolt Cutters takes a special interest in her relationships with women. Though she’s proven her feminist mettle over and over again, she has also taken more than her share of abuse from women—especially early in her career, when she was accused of giving girls eating disorders and allowing her 19-year-old self to be objectified in music videos. On “Ladies,” she repeats the title until its two syllables become meaningless, then slides into a lilting torch song for “good women, like you/Yet another woman to whom I won’t get through.” Still, Apple admits that she can be weird with, say, her exes’ new girlfriends. Amid a gentle metallic clatter, the title track opens with a plaintive, charmingly clumsy admission: “I’ve been thinking about when I was trying to be your friend—I thought it was, then, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t genuine.” Perhaps because having compassion for women also means having compassion for herself, she affords herself the same respect: “Kick me under the table all you want/I won’t shut up,” goes the sing-along chorus to “Under the Table.”

The record’s conversational tone, manifested in Apple’s talky delivery as well as in lyrics that scan as prose more often than poetry, creates a rare intimacy. And it’s echoed in compositions defined by their rough edges: hand claps; a cappella passages; sudden shifts in tempo; vocals that alternate ragged whispers, attenuated moans and bracing falsetto with her unmistakable throaty croon. Ambient sounds—the dogs barking, people talking—as well as seconds of near silence, made their way into the mix. As beautiful as the melodies and the epiphanies they carry often are, the songs are not what you would call “pretty.”

This makes the album a significant departure for an artist whose early style was defined in large part by sophisticated, bespoke arrangements created with collaborators like acclaimed producer and composer Jon Brion. Yet Bolt Cutters wouldn’t be the extraordinary experiment in aural and lyrical honesty that it is if it sounded too polished. The record is a missive from the mini-studio in Apple’s house to whatever confined space we’re stuck in these days, compelled as we are to spend a lot more time than usual in our own heads. It offers us a roadmap to understand who we are and make peace with who we have been; to take responsibility for our worst selves and protect our best ones; to come out of our ordeal stronger, wiser, but still self-critical. From Fiona’s lips to God’s ears: We’re gonna be fine.

[readingclubstuck]

Section 11 image descriptions

Page descriptions for all pages with flashing images (except for 003049, [S]: Enter, which has its own post [link: here])! Trigger warnings for this section are [link: here].

2973: [S] Jade: Pester John.

A yellow moon floats in a cloudy sky as a loading screen. Then it fades to the moon of Prospit near Skaia. Jade begins talking to John from her dreamself’s keyboard. The minor moon of Prospit rotates closer to Skaia, which flashes white occasionally. Jade’s tower grows ever closer until it is almost entirely in Skaia.

We zoom in on Jade’s tower; clouds around it turn to space, then John holding the cruxite apple. We see Jade continue to type, and the screen splits to show her roboself typing for her. We zoom out to see the real tower, which turns out to be just an image juxtaposed on the dream tower by a passing cloud.

Another cloud shows John’s house in the Medium, then Rose’s house, on fire; Rose’s house in the snow; the tree growing from the remains of John’s house in the future; Dave’s house; just the shape of Bec’s head in cloud; the active volcano by Jade’s house; John’s head in cloud.

It’s unclear what happens next; the dream tower appears to be standing on rock near the active volcano, then we see a cloud with space and a spirograph portal in it launch a meteor, which turns to cloud when it exits the cloud image it is in. The meteor smashes into the rock by the volcano, making a crater with a mysterious light at the bottom.

Jade hears the impact and indicates to John that she heard an explosion. The crater by this time has filled with lava, and we see Bec emerge. Jade’s roboself tells John she will go outside and look, and Jade’s dreamself and roboself both go out near the volcano.

Jade looks surprised at the light with a spirograph in it in the lava; Jade’s roboself looks at the frog temple in the water. Jade tries to approach the light but Bec blocks her. Jade’s roboself is also blocked by Bec from going into the frog temple.

Jade goes back to talking to John on top of the dream tower. Meanwhile, John’s dream bedroom, covered with clown graffiti and with a harlequin imp doll on his bed, is empty. John is no longer sleeping there. We see John, his eyes still shut tight, floating near his dream tower, as Jade looks on. She begins to fly closer and John begins to blink his eyes open.

We see Skaia and Jade’s approach, flashing between the previous flash where he saw clouds turn into things important to him, such as Dad’s face and the cake. The girl’s silhouette he saw is now Jade, of course, and the silhouette flickers to her dreamself, but just as she finally approaches, both Jade and John’s real selves wake up, simultaneously shaking their heads.

Narration includes these two pesterlogs:

http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002069

http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002193

2976: ==>

There is a picture of Jade’s island, with the frog temple at the center.

[Panel 2] Bec sleeps in the grand foyer, while Jade’s Grandpa is silhouetted by a raging fire.

Narration: Bec has never allowed you to enter the MYSTIC RUINS for reasons you never understood. You always assumed it was on account of your protection. But your dream has strongly suggested to you that is where you need to go now!

Since your DREAMBOT is secured in its chamber and does not need to be looked after, Bec is taking a nap in the GRAND FOYER as he usually does. Perhaps you can take advantage of this and sneak out of the house another way?

2985: Dave: Eject your modus and set it to Scrabble values.

Dave selects ‘eject’ on his modus, and everything goes flying everywhere, scattering all the birds. The swords slice up the smuppets. Dave catches his phone.

[Panel 2] Dave selects the hash function where each letter is a different value, Scrabble style.

Narration: You dump all this crap all over the roof.

You then set your modus to the SCRABBLE HASH FUNCTION for some reason. This function always makes it a little less intuitive to calculate hash values for items, and therefore more cumbersome to rap with. But you guess that's kind of a moot point now that your BRO flew off fuck knows where. His mysterious ways transcend irony once again.

2988: ==>

Rose stands on her bed staring out her window, out of which is only visible the tree and fire.

Panel 2: Dave pesters her on her computer while Mutie sleeps.

Narration: You have finally finished your building project. You have done about all you can do for John. You don't think you can provide much assistance against all those ogres this time, but at least now John appears to be armed to the teeth.

All there is left to do is wait for Dave.

2989: Rose: Captchalogue and send John code for his present.

Rose stands in front of the purple package. There is still fire outside the window.

Narration: That would certainly hasten the parcel's delivery, but the gift is not finished yet!

You have spent months accelerating your knitting skills to be able to make the gift of perfect sentimental appeal. You even incorporated a cherished heirloom you have had as long as you can remember.

When he sees your staggering gesture of sentimentality he will finally understand. He will understand that in the game of facetious sentimental gestures, no one gets the best of Rose Lalonde.

2993: Rose: Answer.

We see Rose’s computer, which instead of the pretty octopus lady, at this point in the past is a distressing picture of a purple octopus-faced monster attacking a city. In the TROLLSLUM, the username grimAuxiliatrix flashes, its face rancorous.

-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] --

GA: Why Is It That When The Subject Of Temporal Mechanics Is Broached Your Sparing Human Intellects Instantly Assume The Most Ingratiating Posture Of Surrender Imaginable

GA: Time Is Not That Difficult To Understand

GA: It Is A Utility That A Universe May Resort To In Order To Advance A Desired Degree Of Complexity

GA: Or May Not Resort To If That Is The Case

GA: Its All Pretty Pedestrian

GA: But No

GA: When Time Travel Comes Up You Present The Face That A Man Shows When The Breeze Gradually Alerts Him To His Absence Of Netherdressings

GA: I Dont See How We Are To Properly Agitate You All If You Continue To Insist On Failing To Understand Basic Concepts Which Common Infants Effortlessly Manage To Describe Via Scrawlings In Their Own Puddles Of Sloppy Discharge

TT: Have we spoken before?

GA: Yes

GA: In The Future

TT: You and your friends never cease to invent ways to strengthen the credibility of your assertions.

GA: Oh My It Is Your Human Sarcasm Again

GA: I Enjoy Listening To It And I Wish Doing So Could Serve As My Primary Form Of Recreation

GA: There See I Just Did It Too

GA: Saying The Opposite Thing To Emphasize My Contempt

GA: But Suddenly I Feel More Primitive And Hate Myself A Little More

GA: It Was Like This Funny Miracle That Just Happened In My Heart

TT: I would admire the sophistication of you and your fellow future-dwellers a little more if you seemed to be aware the word "human" only functions as that sort of adjective in bad science fiction.

TT: But I won't be rude and change the subject.

TT: There's a still a bit of unflagellated straw poking out of your rhetorical effigy over here.

GA: Oh Dear

GA: No We Arent From "The Future"

GA: But We Are All Already In Agreement That You Dont Get It And Never Will

TT: I thought you said we spoke in the future.

GA: We Did

GA: Your Future

GA: For Me It Was Only A Couple Minutes Ago

TT: I understand.

TT: You exist in some temporal stratum through which you have communication access to various points of my timeline.

TT: It's not that complicated.

GA: Yes Thats Right

GA: Will You Try To Talk Some Sense Into Your Idiot Friends

GA: So That We May Proceed To Bother Them All On More Rational Terms

TT: I try to every day, with mixed results.

TT: But you see, it's not that I don't understand you.

TT: It's just that I don't believe you.

TT: Because it's nonsense.

TT: Albeit persistent and coordinated nonsense.

TT: Why would a bunch of temporally dislocated trolls want to harass a group of friends throughout completely random points in time?

GA: I Will Admit This Campaign Of Provocation Wasnt All That Well Thought Out 

GA: Dont Tell Anyone I Said That

TT: Alright.

TT: Maybe you should get some trolling tips from us humans.

TT: Our sparing intellects are probably better suited to it.

GA: Yeah Maybe

GA: Why Dont We Be Friends

TT: You want to be my friend?

GA: I Think So

GA: I Think Were Supposed To

GA: You Suggested As Much Earlier

TT: You mean I did in the future?

GA: Yes A Couple Minutes Ago

TT: Probably because I remembered you mentioning it in the conversation we're having now?

GA: Thats Likely

TT: Hmm.

TT: Your commitment to this roleplaying scenario is intriguing.

TT: What choice do I have but to accept?

3018: ==>

An explosion occurs low on the remaining temple tower.

Panel 2: This panel is drawn crudely. The tower falls over and lands with a LAND! sound effect that shakes the whole image. WV and PM throw up their hands in surprise.

Narration: Oh no!

3021: ==>

The reticle moves quickly from PM to the round station.

Panel 2: An explosion occurs in the side of the round station.

Narration: YOU ARE THE LAW WHOOPS

3025: ==> WV flails distractingly in the reticle.

Panel 2: a rocket shoots out of the frog temple with a SHOOOOO noise. It tracks smoke everywhere in a long winding trail that lands exploding the side of WV’s station.

Panel 3: WV goes flying in the flames and smoke, with Serenity blinking frantically.

3028: ==>

The box blurs and flashes as it is sendificated.

Panel 2: PM stands beside a successful SENDIFICATE message on the screen.

There is a transparent gif of the word ‘MAIL’ made up of a collage of envelopes and stamps.

3031: ==> 

Grandpa Harley, alive at this point, holds an enormous gun that is shooting with a giant BLAM.

3037: WHOP

the word WHOP flashes in white over a red striped star background.

3038: ==> 

Dad, standing in front of a safe outside his cell, punches Jack Noir with said WHOP effect.

Narration: You bear the vicious brunt of this story transition directly in the face.

You are getting really tired of this feisty man and his busy fists.

3040: ==>

Dad holds out a lighter and lights Jack’s hat on fire. Jack falls a few inches, one eye squinting closed and the other eye opening in surprise.

3048: Dave: Install beta.

Dave types away on the computer, which shows a speech bubble with a spirograph symbol inside.

Panel 2: Rose types in her own room, the speech bubble from her laptop showing the Sburb logo.

TG: alright im installing this game finally

TT: Where doing this man?

TG: yeah

TG: you could almost say

TG: where making this

TT: Go on.

TT: What is it where making this?

TG: TRANSPIRE

TG: [sunglasses emoji]

TT: Excellent.

TT: Let's make shit take place.

[gizoogletranslateshomestuck]

> John and Dave: Respond ta memo.

n we out!CG AT ?:?? opened memo on board FRUITY RIZZLE ASSHOLE FACTORY.

CURRENT turntechgodheezee [CTG] RIGHT NOW responded ta mizzemo. Bounce wit me. 

CTG: what 

CURRENT ectoBiologist [CEB] RIZZAY NOW responded ta memo. Im crazy, you can't phase me. 

CEB: ok, i be hizzay cuz this is how we do it. CEB: Slap your mutha fuckin self. oh, hi dizzy! 

CTG: hey CIZZAY: what be go'n on 'n here fo gettin yo pimp on? CTG: some kinda izzle rizzles looks like 

?CG: EVERYBODY SHUT THA FIZZAY UP, I HATE YIZZOU BOTH, ETC. ETC. ETC. ?CG ya dig? NOW THAT THA PLEASANTRIES BE OUT OF THA WAY, THERE BE IMPIZZLE BUSINESS TA DISCUSS. ?CG: DIS MIZNEMO BE NIZZAY 'BOUT WHICH HOMEY CIZZAY MANAGE TA BE THA HIZZLE SIZZACK OF SHAME GLOBES TA ONE ANOTHER. ?CG: IT BE NOT 'BOUT WHIZZAY ONE OF US WILL MOST DECISIVELY ESCORT THA OTHA "TA SCHOO'", WIZZY THIZNEY WIZZY RECEIVE A VIZZAY HELP'N OF "OH SNAP" RAMMED DIZZOWN THEY INSATIABLE IGNORANCE SHAFTS. ?CG: DIS BE AN IMPORTIZZLE CONVERSATION WHICH I BELIEVE NEEDS TA TAKES PLACE HIZNERE N NOW, SO YIZZLE WILL BOTH SHAPE YO' SIZZY UP N PERHAPS BEGIN TA APPROXIMATE THUGZ WHO IZZLE EXCRUCIATINGLY RETARDED. 

CTG: ok lata windbag 

?CG: STRIDA FUCK OFF ?CG: N BY FUCK OFF I MIZZEAN FUCK OFF RIZZAY BIZZAY HERE AND LISTEN, YOU INSIZZLE PRICK. 

CIZNEB in all flavas: Y-to-tha-izzeah, dave, don't go! CIZNEB: i think we should lizzle ta what he hizzas ta say like this and like that and like this and uh. 

?CG: YES, LISTIZZLE TO YOUR LEADA DAVE. ?CG: Im a bad boy wit a lotta hos. AS DUMB AS EGBIZZLE BE, HE BE SHOT CALLA THIZZAY YOU N BE THIZZE RIGHTFUL SUPERIOR AMONG YO' DREARY SHAWTY PARTY. ?CG: BUT I BE THA SUPERIOR OF B-TO-THA-IZZOTH OF YIZZAY N WIZZY YIZZLE REALLY NEE' TA BE DOGGY STYLIN' BE LISTEN'N TO ME. ?CG: SO DAVE, TRY TA KIZZAY ALL THOZE S-TO-THA-IZZICK FIZZLE CHECKED N THOZE STIZZLE L-TO-THA-IZZIPS PURZE' FO` A GOD DAMNED SECOND ?CG like old skool shit: N TAKES DIS SIMPLE BIT OF HATIZZLE ADVICE: ?CG: S-T-TO-THA-IZZOP DIPPIN' ON TEREZI IMMEDIATELY, IT FUCK'N RIDIN' TA WATCH. 

CTG: nah 

CEB, niggaz, better recognize: haha, dave yoe hitt'n on terezi? really?? 

CTG: no CTG: bizzay bitch he thizzle im hatin' im not go'n ta sizzy CTG: tha guys jealizzles obviously he T-H-to-tha-izzinks hizzay girlfriend has a th'n fo` me n you knizzow what hes probizzle right CTG so show some love, niggaz! but what elze be nizzew just anotha ladizzle from outa space mackin on me whateva chiznance sizzy gets 

?CG: OH, HA HA! IF SIZZY WAS A MOTORCYCLE, IT JUST JUMPED OVA A DOGGY STYLIN' CANYON. ?CG: THA CROWD GIZZOES WILD WIT DISMAY, AND THEN COMMITS M-TO-THA-IZZASS SUICIDE. 

CEB: karkizzle, be terezi rizzle yo' girlfriend? Snoop dogg is in this bitch. 

?CG: GUESS WIZZY DIS CONVERSATION BE 'BOUT, ya feel me? NIZNOT THAT PARTICULAR TOPIC. ?CG: AIZZY GUESS WHOZE BUSINESS THAT STILL ISN'T, WEED-SMOKIN' YOURS, THAT RIGHT. 

CTG: pretty sure shizze be CTG: or he thizzinks shizzay be or sum-m sum-m CTG: made it pretty obvioizzles whizzay he started rant'n at me months ago CTG: biznack W-H-to-tha-izzen i suspected theze trolls were full of shit CTG: bizzut nizzow look how far wizzy C-to-tha-izzome CTG: therizzles not any doubt lizneft 'bout that at all 

?CG: EVEN IF THIZZERE WAS ANYTH'N CRUISIN' ON, WHIZZAY THERE DEFINITELY [OOPS TIME TA MIZZIND YO' OIZZY BUSINESS AGAIN, ASSHOLE!] ?CG: OUR ROMIZZLE BE MIZNUCH MORE COMPLICATED T-H-TO-THA-IZZAN TIZZY JOKE THAT PASZES FO` YO' GANG BANGIN' OF THA CONCEPT. ?CG and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow: YIZZY ONLY HAVE ONE QUADRANT so sit back relax new jacks get smacked! THAT J-TO-THA-IZZUST ABSURD. 

CTG: R-to-tha-izzight CTG: sizzy like its time ta gizzle a clizzle shizze be ova you dizzay 

CEB: what be so different 'bout yo' rizzle like a motha fucka? CEB: what a quadrant? hizzle many d-ya hizzle? Throw yo guns in the motherfuckin air. 

CTG now pass the glock: john god dammit stizzay embarrass'n us CTG: first of all wizneve gots ta be on record hizzle as not rhymin' a shit 'bout that CTG: second obvioizzle thizzles giznonna be 4 quadrants come on 

?CG cuz this is how we do it: JIZZY, I TAKES BACK EVERYTH'N I SIZZLE 'BOUT YOU BEIN THA SMART ONE. ?CG cuz its a doggy dog world: DAVE BE NOW THA LEADA, EVIZZLE THOUGH HE A SMUG SHITSTAIN WIT SHADES N A POKIZZLE FACE. ?CG: IF THIZZERE WIZNERE FIVE, T-H-TO-THA-IZZEY'D BE CALLED QUINTDRANTS, GIT IT? You'se a flea and I'm the big dogg.?? 

CEB: wizzy, okay! Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. CEB ta help you tap dat ass: wizzy cares, jeeeeeeeez. 

?CG: YIZZES, EXACTLY. WHO CIZZLE? ?CG: Nigga get shut up or get wet up. AS FASCINAT'N AS A LIZZLE ON ALL TIZZY WOULD BE, IT NOT WHAT DIS BE 'BOUT. ?CG: WHICH BRINGS ME TA A RELATED POINT OF BUSINESS. ?CG: Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. JOHN, DIZZON'T T-H-TO-THA-IZZINK I DIZZIDN'T NOTICE HOW MANY E YIZZY JUST TYPED THERE. ?CG: THAT GOTS TA SIZZY TOO. CIZZLE: whizzay does? ?CG: STOP TALK'N TA VRISKA. I'M FUCK'N SERIOUS. 

CIZZEB: Ill slap tha taste out yo mouf. whizzat! Im crazy, you can't phase me. CIZZAY cuz its a doggy dog world: no way. vriska coo', i'll rap ta ha all i want! Tru niggaz do niggaz.  

?CG: You gotta check dis shit out yo. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. ?CG fo gettin yo pimp on: YOU JACKASZES HAVE NO IDEA WHIZZLE YOE GETTING YOURSELVES INTO. ?CG with the S-N-double-O-P: T-H-TO-THA-IZZEY'RE DANGEROUS, N YOE J-TO-THA-IZZUST BLUNDER'N RIGHT INTO THEY HYPERCOMPETITIVE MINDFIZZLE MURDER-THICKET. ?CG: THEZE PSYCHO GIRLS HAVE ALREADIZZLE GOTTEN EACH OF YOU ICED AT LEAST ONCE TA MAH KNOWLEDGE. 

CIZZLE: wizzell, yizzle... 

CEB: but terizzle iced me 'n an altizzle timelizzle, so that isn't too bizzay i guess puttin tha smack down. CEB: plus, i be pretty sizzy that she be sorry 'bout it. 

?CG: OH GIZZLE, YIZZOU EVEN KNIZZOW 'BOUT IT? ?CG: N YOE STILL GETT'N UP TA THEZE ANTICS ?CG with the S-N-double-O-P: YOU BE BIZZOTH CHILLIN' HOPELESS, I GIVE UP. 

CTG: k then byizne 

?CG: SHIZZUT YO' SQIZZUAWK BROTHA N STAY PUT. ?CG: I'M NOT DONE. 

CTG: One, two three and to tha four. siznounds liznike a loudmouth inferiority th'n go'n on hizzle ta me CTG: like yizzle dizzy wizzay ta acknowledge thizzle yo' troll ladies find a cizzy of humizzle dudes irresistible 

?CG: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. YOU D-TO-THA-IZZON'T GIT IT. ?CG: I DO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT AS MUCH AS IT MAKES ME SICK TA MAH VARIOUS BIZZAY OF ALIEN PHYSIOLOGY YOU NEVA HEARD OF, THEZE GIZNIRLS BE CLEARLY MOBBIN' WIT BOTH OF YOU PRETTIZZLE HARD. ?CG: Aint no stoppin' this shit nigga. THA FACT THIZNAT T-H-TO-THA-IZZEY HAVE SWEPT YIZNOU BOTH INTO THEY SIZZY ASSASSINIZZLE GAMES BE SADLY WHIZZAT MIZZLE DIS OBVIOUS. ?CG: THAT WHAT T-H-TO-THA-IZZEY DO. 

CEB: wizzle... CIZZEB: be yizzou spendin' that vrizziska be interested 'n me hittin that booty? CEB: like, romantically in tha hood? 

?CG in tha dogg pound: EGBERT JIZZAY EARNED A FIZZAY BRAIN POINTS! ?CG: Im crazy, you can't phase me. HE HIZZLE REACHED A NIZZEW RIZZUNG ON HIZZLE HUSTLA, "EASILY OUTFOXED BY SIMPLE UTENSILS" ?CG: "BUCKAROO" ?CG: OR SUM-M SUM-M LIKE THAT 

CTG n we out! smooth 

CEB: oh man. CEB: uh... 

?CG: YES LET ALL HIZZAVE A BOOTYLICIOUS BIZZY OH DAWG OVER THAT ?CG: N THIZZLE BLINGIN' CUT THA HORSIZZLE FOREVER. SOUND GIZZY with my forty-fo' mag? 

CEB: i'm not sure what ta think 'bout dis. CEB cuz Im tha Double O G: D-to-tha-izzave, W-H-to-tha-izzat d-ya think i should do? 

CTG: i dizzle CTG: d-ya like ha 

CEB: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. well, like i said, i thought she was pretty coo'... CIZNEB: I'm a mutha fuckin 2-time felon. kinda bossy! but also pretty friendly.  

CTG: They call me tha black folks president. yeah ok CTG: biznut i mean CTG: doggy stylin' more than that CTG cuz its a doggy dog world: like CTG like old skool shit: if earth wasnt destroyed n shizze werent 'n some otha univerze on a planet full of unspeakable crack-a-lackin` dipshizzles CTG cuz its a G thang: n she wizzy on earth visit'n yo' ghetto or sum-m sum-m CTG: Chill as I take you on a trip. would you want ta ask ha ta go siznee one of yo' dumbass movies CTG: like tha new maconnohey jam where he smizzirks n like all biznut deliberately driznaws tha audiencizzles ire like a gizzle magnetron 

CEB: mcconaughey!!!!!!!! CEB: um, wizzow, i don't know. CIZZEB: i mean, yeah, sizzure it would be fiznun ta do sum-m sum-m lizzy that wit ha, i T-H-to-tha-izzink cuz this is how we do it. CEB: but... Relax, cus I'm bout to take my respect. CEB: beyond thizzle, it a shawty blunt-rollin'! CIZZLE: i D-to-tha-izzon't thizzink i have eva actually liked a gizzle before 'n that wiznay, so i be not really sure what i be suppoze' to feel or do, know what im sayin? 

?CG: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. HOLIZZLE FUCK WHAT BE I EVEN READ'N HIZZERE????? 

CTG: doesnt concern you diznude 

?CG: Fo'-fo' desert eagle to your motherfuckin' dome. OK JIZNOHN, BE YO' RIDIN' QIZZUITE SORTED OUT YIZZET? ?CG: BE YOU QIZZY DIZZONE SLOGG'N THROUGH THA EMOTIONAL MORASS OF ADOLESCENCE, EMERG'N F-R-TO-THA-IZZOM THA SLUDGE 'N YO' JUNIOR ECTOBIOLOGY WADA? ?CG: BE WE FEEL'N JUST A SHAWTY BIT NIGGA? DIZZID WE GROW TODAY? THAT WOULD BE WONDERFUL! ?CG: YOU WOULD THINK MESSIN' YOU GIZZLE THAT FRATERNIZ'N WIT THEZE FEMALES BE RIDIN' YO' LIVES 'N DANGA WOULD BE ENOUGH. ?CG, chill yo: REALLY, DANGA YIZZLE SIZNAY so sit back relax new jacks get smacked? OH GOODNESS, WE NEARLY MADE A HIZZLE MISTIZZLE! WIZZY THIZZANK YIZZOU, MR. TROLL, HOW GRACIOIZZLE OF YOU TA ALERT US TA OUR FOOLISHNESS. 

CTG: i dunno dawg doesnt sound like you really gots our interests 'n miznind here CTG: you just sound kinda bitta CTG fo gettin yo pimp on: did one of tha hizzle ladies rizzle yizzy 

?CG: OF COURZE NOT. 

CTG: how dizzid it go did you stand 'n a qizzle like yizzay were play'n four square CTG: hizzle a bucket fizzle of motherfucka or slime or whatizzle n jizzy was like no thanks brizzle CTG: be that how it went dizzown 

?CG: YES, YOU FIGIZZLE IT OUT! YOU BE A SAVANT OF XENOBIZZLE DIZZAVE N I SALIZZLE YOU WIT ONE OF MAH MANY INTERGIZZLE SPACE TENDRILS ?CG fo gettin yo pimp on: (THAT FAKE, I MADE THAT UP TA FIZZAY WIT YIZZOU) 

CTG bitch ass nigga: or M-to-tha-izzaybe it wiznas a homey who rejizzle yizzou 

?CG: FUCK OFF. 

CTG: H-to-tha-izzaha wow bingo CTG: see hizzy i look right now thats a poka face might want ta takes some notes 

?CG: I SEE NUTTIN BIZNUT A COWARD BEHIND DARK EYEWEAR CLIZZLE DESIGNED FO` BITCHEZ N A PAIR OF IMPIZZLE LIZNIPS PURZE' SO TIGHT IT'LL SIZNOUND LIKE AIR SQUEAL'N OUT OF A BALLOON WHEN I PUNCH YIZZLE 'N THA GUT. 

CTG: oh god stizzop talk'n about mah lips thizzats tha secizzle time CTG: ok youre clearly gay n youve probably gots some izzles 'bout it diznude CTG and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow: john just a heezees up 'n tha future i thizzle yizzay gonna spurn oizzy of hizzy awkward advances 

CIZZY: uh oh! 

?CG: JIZZY DON'T LISTEN TA DIS HUSTLA, HE THE W-TO-THA-IZZORST HOMEY AT GIV'N ADVIZZLE I'VE EVA SEEN. 

CEB: yizzay, i dizzy dave, i hizzle talkizzle ta karkat a lot n i really dizzon't thizzink he has a messin' fo` me. 

?CG: EXACTLY. JOHN ONCE AGIZZLE BE CRACK-A-LACKIN` HIGH AS SMIZZLE HUMAN. ?CG: Chill as I take you on a trip. N JOHN, PURIZZLE HYPOTHETICALLY, IF ONE OF US 'N TIZZY FUTURE DIZZAY MAKE SOME SORT OF SOLICITATION YOU DON'T QIZZAY UNDERSTAND... ?CG cuz I'm fresh out the pen: COZ OF PERHAPS SOME CULTURAL DIFFERENCES ?CG: Bounce wit me. I MEAN NO ONE 'N PARTICULAR HERE ?CG: MAYBE TRY TA UNDERSTAND THIZZLE PIZZLE MIGHT NOT BE THINK'N TOO CLEARLY AT THAT MOMENT 

CEB in all flavas: uh... 

?CG: Keep the party crackin while I'm steady rappin. IT MIGHT BE THA CIZZLE THAT T-H-TO-THA-IZZIS PERSON HAS GOTTEN TOO WRAPPED UP 'N A SORT OF CALIGINOUS IDEAL ?CG: N GIT CARRY AWAY, POSSIBLY SO MUCH SO THEY WIZNERE BLIZNIND TA HIZZAY COMPLETELY FUCKED UP N WIZZAY IT WOULD BE TA PIZZLE ANYTH'N LIZZIKE THAT WIT ANOTHA SPECIES ?CG: ESPECIALLY ONE THAT DIZNIDN'T EVEN UNDERSTAND THA CONCIZZLE OF A CALIGINIZZLE RELATIONSHIP 

CTG: whiznat CTG: tha fizzle CTG: be you talk'n 'bout 

?CG: BUT I'M NOT THIZZAT PERSON. I HIZZAY A FIRM GRASP ON HOW DERANGE' N UNNATURAL IZZLE SORT OF INTERSPECIES RELATIONSHIP WOULD BE, WHETHA CALIZZLE OR CONCUPISCENT. ?CG: SO I ASK ?CG: NO I'M FUCK'N BEGG'N YIZZY BOTH ?CG: Bow wow wow yippee yo yipee yay. TA QUIT HO-SLAPPIN' UP THEZE SHIZZLE BRIZZAY N LEAVE WELL IZZLE ALONE. 

CTG: thizzats obviously not gonna happen 

?CG: FUCK. ?CG: LOOK. ?CG: ALRIGHT I ADMIT DIS ISN'T PURELY MAGNANIMOUS CIZZLE FO` YO' SAFIZZLE HERE. ?CG: Ill slap tha taste out yo mouf. WIZZLE ALL SORT OF STEPPIN' UP A PLAN RIZZY NOW. ?CG: Im crazy, you can't phase me. MAH RIZNIGHT NOW. ?CG: WHICH IF SUCCESSFUL, MIZZAY, N I DO STRESS MAY, END UP WIT ALL OF US MEET'N FACE TA FACE. ?CG: N WHAT I'D LIKE TA AVOID IF AT ALL POSSIBLE ?CG so i can get mah pimp on: BE TA HAVE DIS RENDEZVOUS INSTANTLY DETERIORATE INTO A LIZZY OF REVOLTING TROLL/HUMIZZLE SLOPPY MAKEOUTS. ?CG: T-H-TO-THA-IZZAT WOULD JUST RUIN IT FO` ME, OK? ?CG: REALLY THA THA SCENARIZZLE THAT I BE SURE WIZZLE CAUZE ME TA REGRET SUCCESS. GOTS IT ridin' in mah double R? 

CEB in tha mutha fuckin club: er... CEB: do... CIZZLE and cant no hood fuck with death rizzow: you think that vizzy is dippin' to try ta make out wit me?

?CG: SHIZZAY UP. ?CG: Tru niggaz do niggaz. I'M NOT ANSWER'N YO' D-TO-THA-IZZUMB QUESTIZZLE 'BOUT HIZZOW MUCH SNOGG'N YOE 'N FOR N I'M NIZZOT WEED-SMOKIN' INTERSPECIES MIZZY MAKA HERE. ?CG: SERIOUSLY, WHAT BE WRONG WIT YIZZAY GUYS? ?CG doggystyle: I SHOULDN'T EVEN NEE' TA BE SAYING DIS. ?CG: GOD DAMMIZZLE, IT NIZNOT EVIZZLE L-TO-THA-IZZIKE YIZNOU DIZZON'T HIZZLE ACTIZZLE HUMAN FEMIZZLE NEARBY FO` ACTUAL BIOLOGICALLY VIABLE MATESPRITSHIPS! ?CG: DO I H-TO-THA-IZZAVE TA DRAW YIZNOU A DIZZLE??? 

CEB: You'se a flea and I'm the big dogg. roze n jade to increase tha peace? CEB: so, uh... CIZZAY: yiznou want us ta L-to-tha-izzike, dizzay them? 

?CG: WOULD IT REALLY WEED-SMOKIN' KILL YIZZLE TA CONSIDA IT? Dogg House Records in the motha fuckin house.????? ?CG: I MEAN GOD. WHIZZAY D-YA EVEN THINK YOE STRAIGHT TRIPPIN' HERE 'N DIS GAME? ?CG: YOE CREAT'N YO' OIZZY UNIVERZE TA GO LIVE 'N. ?CG: N JUST HOW D-YA THIZNINK YO' SPECIZZLE BE SUPPOZE' TA REPOPULATE ITSIZZLE??????????? IDIOTS. 

CTG: I started yo shit and i'll end yo' shit. dude CTG: no CTG: jiznust CTG: Snoop dogg is in this bitch. stop 

?CG: OH OK, SO THA IZZLE H-TO-THA-IZZERE BE THA ONLY ONE CONCERNED WIT THA PROPAGATIZZLE OF YO' SPECIES. ?CG: THIZZLE MAKES A LOT OF FUCK'N SENZE. WHY DON'T YOU WIZE THA FUCK UP, COOLDOUCHE? 

CEB: i think he is R-to-tha-izzight, i T-H-to-tha-izzink we be all a shawty young to be cruisin' 'bout that! 

?CG: WELL NO SHIT, NOW YIZZLE BE OBVIOUSLY. ?CG: Dogg House Records in the motha fuckin house. BUT WHIZZAY 'BOUT LATA? THINK 'BOUT THA BIG PICTURE. ?CG: HIZZY DID HUMANITY GIT AS FIZZLE AS IT GOTS BEIN SO DUMB?  

CEB, ya feel me? um, also, CIZZLE: we be kinda all related! sizzle of. through shared ghost slizzay genes. right? CEB: so, uh... 

?CG: OH RIGHT, THA BIZIZZLE HUMAN ANATHEMA OF INCEST, I FORGOT. 

CTG where the sun be shinin and I be rhymin': oh mah fuck'n gizzay CTG: pizzy let dis conversizzle not be tak'n place 

?CG: OK WELL LET SAY THAT HYPOTHETICALLIZZLE A PROBLEM, EVEN THOUGH I'M RACK'N MAH BRAIN TA UNDIZZLE WHY IT WOULD BE. ?CG: I GIZZLE I W-TO-THA-IZZILL HAVE TA DRAW YIZNOU A DIAGRAM, COZ YOU BE JUST THIZZLE STUPID. ?CG: HERE ?CG like this and like that and like this and uh: http://tinyurl.com/MATINGDIAGRAMFORMORONS 

CTG: It dont stop till the wheels fall off. ok youre by far tha wizzay artist out of any of us CTG: n thizzay say'n sum-m sum-m 

?CG: SHUT UP I DREW IT FIZZAST ?CG so show some love, niggaz! NOW ?CG: AS YOU CAN CLEARLY SEE, THERE BE ONLY TIZZY S-TO-THA-IZZETS OF COMPATIBLE QUADRANTS HERE FO` LEGITIMIZZLE CONCUPISCENT PAIRINGS. ?CG: DAVE N ROZE BE "RELATED" ?CG where the sun be shinin and I be rhymin': JADE N J-TO-THA-IZZOHN BE "RELIZZLE" ?CG: THIZNAT ONLY LEAVES TWIZNO PAIRS. ?CG: ONCE AGAIN, THA DECISIONS STRAIGHT TRIPPIN' TA HUMAN ROMANCE REMAIN STUNNINGLIZZLE SIMPLE. ?CG: N YET I STIZZILL HIZNAVE TA SPELL IT OUT FO` YOU. YOE WELCOME. ?CG: Freak y'all, into the beat y'all. NOW GO H-TO-THA-IZZASSLE YO' FUTIZZLE MATESPRITS N LIZZEAVE THA TRIZZLE GIZZIRLS ALONE. 

CTG: thx fo` tha shipp'n G-R-to-tha-izzid bro imma drop everyth'n n go hizzle a baby wit jade right nizzle CTG: no peek'n k CIZZAY: I'm a mutha fuckin 2-time felon. wizzow, i have ta marry roze cuz Im tha Double O G? 

CIZZEB: uh... CEB: wiznow. 

?CG fo gettin yo pimp on: N NIZNOW THAT I HIZZLE SAVED YO' ENTIZZLE WORTHLIZZLE SPECIES WIT MAH IMPIZZLE ROMANCE BROKER'N SKILLS ?CG: I WIZZY BIZZY YIZZY A BITTA FUCK'N FAREWELL. ?CG: Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. JEGUS I AM SO TIRED. 

CTG: yiznou shizzay go back ta slizneep CTG: it was so mizzay cracka whiznen you were asleep n i basically neva had ta listizzle ta yizzou eva 

?CG: I CAN'T GO TA SLEEP 

CEB: why not? 

?CG in tha hood: COZ I'M TOO TIRED TA EXPLAIN WHY BE WHY. ?CG: YIZZY FIGURE IT OUT LATER. ?CG: MEMO OVER. ?CG: GIT OUTTA HERE. 

?CG banned CIZNEB frizzle straight trippin' ta mizzemo fo gettin yo pimp on. ?CG banned CTG from crack-a-lackin` ta M-to-tha-izzemo.

?CG cloze' mizzle.

> Karkat: Be Past Karkat.

[future-rp]

static’s main vocal & leader ROMEO

verve creative; song making 13 vocal / 02 rap / 05 dance

1994. the son of a teacher and an accountant is born in culver city , california. he is a normal boy, bright for his age — “ he gets that from us , ” his parents coo — and altogether too ordinary to make much of a difference. but that’s what his mother and father wanted. a normal boy. the standard. romeo , named so because his parents wed in verona approximately nine years prior to his birth , lives unremarkably for the first decade of his life.

2004. after his third grade teacher , who surprisingly still remembered that he liked to sing when all he did was disrupt her class , lowers the microphone for him , romeo clenches his little fists , and begins to sing his heart out. eyes searching the dimly - lit crowd , he holds in his disappointment at not finding his mother within the sea of faces. but his little sister valentina , seated in their father’s lap , is there , and she claps so enthusiastically that it almost makes up for it.

romeo takes home a congratulatory certificate , his school’s budget unable to afford the gaudy trophy he might’ve gotten at the private academy his mother him to attend.

2009. like his namesake , he falls hard , and he falls fast.

he’s instantly enamored by the offers of the older woman who approaches him and his friends while they’re grabbing a cup of froyo at yogurtland. his eyes are wide when she steps up to him , even wider when she produces a business card and tells him that he would be a very good fit in their company.

“ i saw you sing the other day on that corner over there , ” she says , pointing across the street to where he occasionally sat with a bucket and his dad’s old guitar. “ you have a very beautiful voice. with some training , you could make it very far in the entertainment industry. do you know what idols are ? ”

he does , his sister loves them. he’s more of an r&b type of person , but he’s … at least familiar with the occupation. thinking of himself as one of the boys valentina squeals over and plasters all over her walls , depleting their father’s wallet with constant trips to k - town , is a little strange. surreal , even.

his cheeks warm as his friends jeer at him , fists furiously pounding all over romeo’s back , shoulders , and upper arms as they shake him about. “ say yes , ” they tell him , cheering when a slow smile spreads across his face.

“ i need some time to think about it , ” he says , earning a chorus of disappointment from his companions. “ um … i need to talk to my parents … ”

“ of course , ” the woman says. “ we’ll be having an open audition this weekend. feel free to stop by with them if you need some extra convincing. i do hope you decide to join us at verve ” she produces a flyer , which he reaches out to take before he even quite realizes it , and bows quickly before walking away.

his mother says no , immediately.

his sister , though dreadfully excited at the prospect , wilts under her mother’s critical gaze. his father , as usual , is neutral. romeo thinks he pleads his case well , sweeping declarations about how music is and has always been his passion , that he really feels like singing is something he’s always wanted to do. it’s an almost - truth ; nothing else he’s encountered has ever really captured his interest as much as music has. but he’s far from a prodigy , and he’s certainly not dedicated to it enough to convince the one major obstacle standing in the way.

sure , he knows how to play the violin. but what asian - american from la county doesn’t , if they aren’t already too busy with the piano ?

singing ? as far as his mother’s concerned , he’s … “ average. ” what , like winning an elementary - school wide talent show is supposed to mean something ? for all he knows , the lady at yogurtland could be a child trafficker. it doesn’t matter that the company seemingly checks out , that their official sns accounts have announced that the casting is happening. they’d never take him anyway. what’s so special about romeo ? she can’t name a single thing.

“ i … ” valentina flinches when when all eyes suddenly land upon her , and romeo reaches out to squeeze her shoulder apologetically. “ i think he’d be really good … don’t you , dad ? ” she casts a look up at their father through a curtain of long brown hair , brows furrowed and the beginnings of a pout forming on her lips.

man , what romeo would give to be able to do that without getting smacked upside the head.

he ends up attending the audition , and he narrowly makes it.

his mother doesn’t help him pack , but valentina does , chattering in his ear all night long about how she’s jealous he’s going to meet all of her favorite artists. he thinks about telling her that it probably won’t be that easy , that even if black beat were still together , they probably wouldn’t give him the time of day.

but he’s grateful that she gave him this opportunity in the first place —

( not resentful , not furious , not desperately heartbroken that little valentina born five years after him can flutter her lashes and get everything she wants. he’s not that kind of guy. )

— and so he smiles , gives her a noogie , and tells her that she better buy all of his albums , or at least get dad to.

“ of course ! ” she chirps at him , face splitting in a grin. “ i love you , romeo ! ”

he presses a kiss to the top of her head , murmuring an “ i love you too ” into her hair.

at least one woman in his family has said it.

2013. they break him , easily.

romeo’s always been a sort of ‘ go with the flow ’ kind of guy. perhaps a little cocky — he’s willing to admit that. being praised so often for one’s good looks and sweet , honey - like voice is bound to go to anyone’s head , and romeo is not extraordinary enough to avoid that.

but as it turns out , he may not be extraordinary enough at all.

his skin was dark , his nose a little too big , his american accent far too noticeable. he was lucky he had his voice , a natural talent , and a willingness to learn. he overheard whispers that he may not be worth the investment , that they were wasting their time when domestic talent was always going to be there.

that was year one , and he figures now that they were just trying to see how far they could push him.

by some miracle — spite , really , if he were pressed to think about it — he manages to hold on. to be perfectly honest , romeo’s not entirely sure when determination turned into something so … dark. where there was once dedication toward improvement festered a desire to be better than others. to put himself first , so that he’d be at least considered if nothing else.

it wouldn’t be correct to say that romeo snapped , really , because he’s still sane and completely aware of the change in his personality. but he’s still on the fence as to whether this is a good thing.

on the one hand , it seems that this may be what the company was looking for. soft romeo , who’d first come to seoul with only the vaguest idea of his dreams and aspirations , was not going to cut it. even after the skin bleaching and the nose job , he was just … not trying hard enough.

( “ you never try at anything , ” a familiar voice hisses in the back of his head. “ how are you supposed to become a doctor or a lawyer if you can’t even finish your homework in an hour ? you lack discipline and brains. you’re hopeless. ” )

so when he decided to try , he tried hard. and it’s been … starting to pay off. hours of practice consume him , and he tires himself out studying grammar books and dictionaries so that his korean is impeccable. his roommates tell him that he mumbles basic workbook phrases in his sleep , chuckling as they comment that his pronunciation has improved greatly because of his unconscious practice.

the company expresses surprise at the effort. romeo jung is not a lost cause. he just wasn’t taking things seriously before , but once they get a taste of what it’s actually like for him to put his mind to something , they are … pleasantly surprised.

even more so when he tells them that he’s been trying his hand at composing. “ they’re mostly duds, ” he says at a monthly evaluation , scratching the back of his neck , “ but i think i’m improving , slowly. ”

it’s so easy to put it that way , as if he isn’t staying up every night staring at his computer and the midi controller propped up on his desk and the seventy - six files he refuses to let see the light of day. making them aware of his efforts is the first step , he tells himself. coming straight out of the gate would be coming on too strong. he’ll just lightly imply that this is the direction he wants to take his career , and the company will understand.

but it’s still not enough.

silver debuts instead , the day before his nineteenth birthday.

a few years later , he finally starts to realize that i don’t know isn’t actually as annoying as he thought.

2017. it has been eight years since he first signed a contract with verve. he used to get upset when people called him the “ dungeon grandpa. ” now , he just corrects them. “ i prefer to be called the dungeon troll. ”

a lovely title for an equally lovely man. one who’s only a few steps away from remembering people are people. that they’re not tools he can use to get ahead or to let out some steam. and really , romeo recognizes that — he’s not a complete and utter asshole. he understands the golden rule ; he’d hate it if people treated him like he was just something to be used , but this is what’s become of him after all this time. after spending almost an entire decade training , well into his twenties , he knew something had to change.

just trying wasn’t enough. he needed to put himself first above everyone else , which was how the dungeon troll was born. a budding heartbreaker burning through fellow trainees like wildfire , the current reigning master of the stink - eye in verve creative. expert at casually implementing and improving ideas from others’ compositions , just different enough that he couldn’t be called out for plagiarism. if being nice was just going to earn him some consolation prizes instead of a place on the podium , then he’d just have to claw his way up to a gold medal.

and so it isn’t so fun to snicker at him in the hallways anymore — not when he’s eventually promised a fall debut and a whole group to lead himself.

the woman who scouted him laughs when she tells him the news. “ your eyes are as big as they were when i first saw you all those years ago. ”

if he were more coherent , he might’ve quipped back. “ i needed you to make sure you were talking to the right person , ” he might’ve said. “ that you meant to talk to romeo and not whoever reserved the practice room from nine to twelve. ”

but as it stands , eight years into training , all he can do is grab her hands and bow , fighting back the tears prickling at his eyes and the tremble in his voice as he thanks her and ceo oh and all the executives that made this decision.

an actual group. and it would be his.

he clings onto these phrases as he prepares for debut. even after listening to a demo of runaway , it doesn’t feel truly real. not until the pieces start falling into place , learning the choreography , stepping into the booth. using a song that he’d made in his free time , one ( out of a hundred or so compositions ) that he’d nervously submitted for consideration , as a b - side ? romeo’s positively euphoric.

finally , everything’s coming together. everything he’s worked for in the past eight years , the sleepless nights , the tears shed in the shower with his hands pressed to his mouth so as not to make a peep , the blisters and pulled muscles , it’s all come to something. it’s come to static.

and when they finally make it on stage , staring out all those people , when romeo counts down and leads the group in their introduction and synchronized bow , his heart swells.

it’s only a matter of time before someone pops that balloon.