#i want to draw her in something less opulent in the future

[my-various-aus]

And I'm back with three Critters!

First is Bubba as Prometheus, titan of forethought, fire, crafty counsel, and the creator of humanity. He's been released from his imprisonment, by Herakles, and spends his time making pottery at home.

Next is Dumbba as Epimetheus, titan of afterthought and the creator of animals. She's not too bright, often acting before she thinks, no matter how her brother tries to teach her otherwise. Case in point, how she used all the traits up on her beloved animals, leaving none for her brother's creation.

Last, we have Wimpin as Pandora, the first woman and wife of Epimetheus. Given that she was made to bring misery to mankind, for Prometheus's theft of fire, she is a little on edge about everything, especially after opening the pithos.

They all live together, partly because Bubba can't really stand being alone after his ordeal with the eagle and partly because Dumbba feels just awful for pretty much forcing her brother to do something so risky.

It took a while for Wimpin to believe that Bubba doesn't hate her, for unleashing evils onto humanity. According to him, she was made for a purpose and fulfilled it; it's not her fault it caused his creation misery. Bubba only cares that Wimpin genuinely cares for his sister, which she does.

Since I did Wimpin as Pandora, Kickin will be next.

Dumbba and Wimpin belong to @/eggritos

[mo-aiki]

Carson Langell, Heir to Earl Langell

Summary: Your childhood best friend was always a weird one, but you still loved him as a best friend none the less.

Warning: stalking, obessive behavior, never backing down when no is implied, I don't condone it, I just write it.

A/N: THIS ART IS NOT MINE IT'S THE MALE LEAD OF THE SECOND LIFE OF THE TRASH PRINCESS.

Connected to Yandere Isekai M. Characters x F. Reader

Carson has always loved you. Your families close from each other father's friendship and how well your mothers got along. He always remembered summertime at your manor. Playing as the princess who was protected by you, the knight from the dragons that were your servants. Spending days coloring and drawing, and reading books about fairytale romances. Sleeping together and always having sleepovers. He loved it.

He also loved your personality. You were mean to everyone but him. You always treated him with kindness and utmost importance. You cared for him if he fell down off a tree and got his knees badly scraped. If he got scarred by your family's hunting dogs, you would chase the dogs off somewhere where they won't bother him. If he got sick, you would care for him.

At some point, he realized something. After seeing your smiles and hearing your kind words, only for him, he realized what was happening to him. His ears blushed, his face felt hot, his heart beat at a quicker pace, and he felt like his tongue got tied every time he talked to you. At 8 years old, he finally realized something.

He realized he loved you more than a friend.

He will always see you as someone he always wanted to be near and close with.

He will make sure of it.

A strange boy came into your manor one day. His carriage, noble and opulent to look at. He thought nothing of it until he saw you talking to the boy, smiling and acting nice like you would with him. You laughed and smiled and talked absolute nonsense at times, like you did with him. The boy's expression looked like he hated it. How ungrateful.

To be graced with your presence and to ignore it because you find her boring? How dare he?!

It was also then when he found out from the butler that he was her betrothed. "What does betrothed mean?"

"Betrothed means to get married in the future, young master Langell."

Married in the future. A dream. His father told him once before. Marriage meant being together forever with the one you love. But right now, you were being forced to be with that boy for the rest of your life?!

He will not allow that!

He would never allow that!

He started being more clingy towards you, especially with that boy around. Always vying for your attention to grace him instead of that boy. But your behavior towards that boy was no help.

Yelling at girls who kept on talking to him, dumping that dark grape juice on their dress, you proved yourself to be completely enamored with him, and he didn't like that. He thought that he could've proved himself and get you to ditch him for him, but it didn't matter when he felt like he was losing.

How can you ditch him for that other boy just because of maybe looks? What did you like about him?

His looks? He thought he was pretty ugly.

His personality? He thought he was a trashy person.

His title? He doesn't remember it, but maybe it's because it wasn't very important.

But more importantly, what did that boy have that he didn't?

The day you had gotten the high fever, he felt like the world was going to end. The minute he had gotten that letter, he was freaking out big time. He hated how he felt hapless and uncontrolled. His little tricks didn't work when you were sick for 3 days. That boy came by, and he looked so different.

After you had woken up, you changed for the worse.

You stopped acting distant towards people and, instead, treated them with kindness. Helping the maids with their personal situations, talking more to everybody in noble society, being more open and more approachable. Everything changed after that day.

That stupid guy who he thought was worse than him all of a sudden was paying attention to you. Bring you gifts, his hand on your waist, kissing your hand, directly, holding hands with you, and dancing closely with you on the dance floor.

Which led him to up his game. Being pitiful. Being purposefully weak, sickly (from standing in the rain), and being injured to show you his pitiful side. It worked. Well.

It gave him excuses to be closer to you. To lay on your lap because he felt weak, to cling onto you because he was tired, and to always be cared for, by you.

But one day, you had gotten a guard. And not just any guard. It was the hero of the Bloody 10 Year war. He recalled seeing him at his ceremonial ball, meant for his victory against the rebelling state. Why would he want the position of a guard for a small count family. instead of a title of marquis, he doesn't know.

But he sure knows that he is truly annoying. Always being near. His job was to be near and protect you at all times, from a distance, not right directly in his face. That guard dog was annoying and some how even more clingy than him.

The men before him, were no competition, but now he had 2 rivals battling for her affection.

"(n/n)! I have a headache! Please help me!"

The day he had overheard your annulment talk, he was so happy. He was elated. He could finally have his chance with you.

He could give you the sweetest desserts from your favorite bakery, give you a field's worth of roses, a million kisses everywhere (I mean everywhere), and be the shoulder for you to cry on.

He could be your soulmate if you just let him.

"I need to prepare a bunch of roses and some sweets, maybe I should go ring shopping while at it..."

A/N: I'm trying to get all 3 guys released before I truly do commission work. But still. Did you enjoy it?

[richincolor]

Title: The Last Bloodcarver Author: Vanessa Le Genres: Fantasy, Science Fiction, Mystery Pages: 384 Publisher: Roaring Brook Press Review Copy: eARC provided via NetGalley Availability: Available now

Summary: Nhika is a bloodcarver. A coldhearted, ruthless being who can alter human biology with just a touch.

In the industrial city of Theumas, Nhika is seen not as a healer, but a monster that kills for pleasure. And in the city's criminal underbelly, the rarest of monsters are traded for gold. When Nhika is finally caught by the infamous Butchers, she's forced to heal the last witness to a high-profile murder.

As Nhika delves into the investigation, all signs point to Ven Kochin, an alluring yet entitled physician's aide. Despite his relentless attempts to push her out of his opulent world, something inexplicable draws Nhika to him. But when she discovers Kochin is not who he claims to be, Nhika will be faced with a greater, more terrifying evil lurking in the city's center...

Her only chance to survive lies in a terrible choice—become the dreaded monster the city fears, or risk jeopardizing the future of her kind.

Review: [The Last Bloodcarver includes a significant amount of body horror, from interacting with corpses to repeated references to medical experimentation by a colonial power. The book also includes animal death and extended scenes of characters seriously injured (stab/gunshot wounds).]

I absolutely adored Vanessa Le’s The Last Bloodcarver. Le’s debut novel is set in a complicated Vietnam-inspired fantasy (and science fiction) world, one where war has forced Nhika’s family out of Yarong and into the neutral city-state of Theumas. Even though Nhika has escaped into (currently) neutral territory, Daltanny’s occupation of Yarong still affects Nhika, from the proliferation of the term “bloodcarver” instead of “heartsooth” to the loss of cultural knowledge regarding heartsoothing after Nhika’s grandmother’s death.

That cultural disconnect and the loss of knowledge is something that haunts Nhika throughout the novel. She is keenly aware of her much she doesn’t know and has complicated feelings about how she uses her heartsoothing to survive when the previous generations could do it openly and were honored for it. Theumas might be better for Nhika than Yarong under Daltanny’s occupation, since she isn’t automatically slated for horrific medical “experiments”, but Theumas has its own problems. When the Butchers capture and arrange to sell Nhika, the prospective buyers range from people who think if they consume her heart, they will be cured of whatever ails them, to people who clearly want to use her as an assassin. Even when she is purchased by the Congmi family to try to heal a family friend (and promised freedom and payment even if she can’t help him), fear, suspicion, and hostility are close at hand.

So it’s wonderful whenever Nhika is able to make small connections to what she has lost. (There is a scene where she acquires some Yarongese items and is overwhelmed by what they represent that is just lovely.) Whenever Nhika made the choice to heal and to help, I was delighted by her determination to honor what her grandmother taught her. I appreciated the contrast Kochin represented to Nhika’s experience and the places where the two of them were aligned. Kochin was a character that I didn’t warm up to until after his reveal, but I think his character arc complemented Nhika’s very well.

The mystery of who killed Quan and seriously injured Hendon isn’t a complex one, but unraveling the mystery is far less important than Nhika learning why it happened. Once we have that information, the rest of the book falls into place beautifully. Le’s plotting and development of themes really shined in the second half and propelled the novel to an incredible final act that made me fervently hope there would be a sequel. (And there will be!)

Recommendation: Get it now, so long as you aren’t put off by body horror, medical experimentation, and some gore. Vanessa Le created a fascinating fantasy/sci-fi world in The Last Bloodcarver, and the impacts of war and colonialism on Nhika and her people are explored in interesting ways while a murder mystery unfolds in the foreground. Le’s medical-based magic system is fascinating, and Nhika’s character journey is compelling. I’m looking forward to the conclusion of this duology next year.

Extras: Author Chat w/ Vanessa Le | Books and Boba

Q&A: Vanessa Le, Author of ‘The Last Bloodcarver’

[wallgirl]

The Little Nereid Part 12

Record of Ragnarok fanfiction

Poseidon x OC

Word count: 2,200

Dynamene, youngest of the 50 Nereids, has lived most of her adolescence as a servant alongside her sisters at Poseidon’s palace. But with her coming-of-age birthday and other developments, what she initially thought was just admiration of her master blossoms into something stronger and more passionate… and painful. Loving someone like Poseidon is not easy period, let alone as your first love. But Dynamene is young and naïve, and all she wants is a chance to be at the sea god’s side.

Categories and warnings: Romance, angst, unrequited love, coming-of-age, earn-your-happy-ending, slow-burn (ish); no sexual content. There will be some graphic violence in the future.

Updated regularly; will have about 18 parts total.

—

It was still dark out when Dynamene arrived at the temple. Dawn was just breaking over the horizon, the ocean calm. Still soaking wet from head to toe, she left puddles of water with each trudge up the sizable hill where the temple overlooked the sea. She had never been to a human temple before. It was less grand than she had imagined, though still tall and stately. It was impressive as far as human architecture went, she supposed.

She entered hesitantly, feeling almost embarrassed to be tracking water into a sacred, if humble, place. In the room at the center of the temple stood Aphrodite's cult image. It was roughly life-sized and hewn from wood, with a delicate cloth draping it modestly. Dynamene suppressed a smile when she saw it; it was much less curvaceous and delicate looking than the real goddess. She approached it gingerly, not sure what to do next.

Most humans that came to temples to ask something of the gods brought an offering, she knew, but she hadn't the faintest idea what to present. She was entirely empty-handed, save for the thin chiton she wore and her treasured bracelet, neither of which she was about to part with.

After a few minutes of pondering, the answer came to her - Aphrodite was the goddess of beauty, too, not just love. Dynamene's hands went to her two braids. Would she accept her hair as an offering...? Surely there was little more a woman could give in way of sacrificing her beauty.

She picked up a sharp seashell from the altar and aligned it with the base of the first braid, against her neck, and took a deep breath. Her hair had been long her whole life, but it would grow back, right?

Before she could even make the first cut, there was a deafening clap, and she was surrounded by white light.

When the light cleared, she was no longer standing in the dim inner room of the temple. A strange burning sensation lingered on her skin before quickly subsiding. Dynamene hesitantly lifted her head.

She was in a vast room with golden floors and roses of every color climbing the frescoed walls. A giant fountain, several times her height, stood ahead to her right. It bubbled and gurgled merrily, the white foam so bright that she could hardly look at it. A handful of small cherubs tended to bunches of pristine lilies that floated serenely in the bottom pool. And to her left, reclining on a golden couch inlaid with diamonds and pearls, was a statuesque woman with golden waves and wide eyes.

"My, you weren't really going to cut your hair, were you?" Aphrodite cried, staring at Dynamene with alarm. "I may be the goddess of love as well as beauty, but I'll let you in on a secret - no woman should sacrifice her looks for a man."

Dynamene immediately turned red. "I... I apologize." She tucked the shell away awkwardly into the fold of her chiton. "Um, where am I?"

"You're at my palace, on Mount Olympus," Aphrodite proclaimed. She smiled at Dynamene and tilted her head. "I've been waiting so long to speak with you. Come, sit!"

Mount Olympus?! Dynamene had been here before on a few occasions to accompany Poseidon as part of his court, but only to the common grounds. Each of the twelve Olympians had their own estate and palace that they designed and furnished to their liking, most filled with opulence and treasure that lesser beings could barely dream of. To think that she should now find herself in one was incredible.

Aphrodite snapped her fingers. A couch that matched her own appeared next to Dynamene, as well as a table with cups and a jug of some mysterious liquid. "You must be famished. You've had quite the journey; sit, sit!"

How could she know that? Dynamene settled nervously onto the couch and smoothed the bottom of her dress. She was all too aware of how bedraggled she must look, especially in such an exquisite place. The upholstery became dotted with dark spots of water from her damp hair.

Aphrodite snapped her fingers, and Dynamene's clothes and hair dried in an instant. "There we are. More comfortable?"

"Um, yes, thank you." Dynamene touched the bottom of her braid in amazement. The jug on the table before her poured itself into her cup, and she brought it to her mouth with both hands. Something incredibly sweet and steaming hot flowed into her lips.

"That's nectar. Careful you don't drink too much, it'll cause indigestion. Now then, you've called upon me for help," Aphrodite beamed and moved upright, crossing her legs. "I'm overjoyed, to say the least." She rested her chin elegantly on the thumb and pointer finger of one hand.

"You are?" Dynamene felt completely lost.

"Yes! I've been following your adventure ever since things began to really heat up a few weeks ago. Your birthday, to be precise. How exciting! I haven't seen a love story this gripping in centuries."

Dynamene almost dropped her cup. "Following me?! Do you mean you've seen everything that's happened since then?"

"Well, the juicy bits, yes. As the goddess of love, I can tune in on any love affair or infatuation I desire. Most are a bit boring, nowadays. But you... Your feelings for Poseidon... It's such a delight! What a turn of events! I'm quite invested." Aphrodite giggled.

Dynamene's face continued to burn red. "I... I don't understand."

Aphrodite sighed and leaned back once more. "Ah, Poseidon... such an enigma. Such a tall, dark, and handsome man... Such an incredible body... But such a wretched personality."

Dynamene flinched.

"He really is a delight to look at, though, isn't he?" Aphrodite sighed, her gaze turning dreamy. "There was a time when I thought I might add him to my body count... But his stifling demeanor quickly dispersed that idea from my head. Such a foul attitude."

Dynamene felt a different kind of heat rise up from her neck to her ears, and her gaze narrowed before she could hide her feelings. Aphrodite laughed in response.

"Oh, don't worry! I'd never touch him now; such a cold fish. Not the type to be a considerate lover, at any rate. An ice statue of a man," she scoffed. Her gaze moved back to Dynamene with curiosity. "But you love him anyway!" Aphrodite leaned forward once more, her eyes wide.

Dynamene stared at her lap, completely overwhelmed. "I... I do." Her voice sounded so small, even to herself.

"Tell me about it! How did it happen? What was it that made you fall for him? I want to know everything!"

"Um..." Dynamene swallowed hard. She could see him clearly in her mind's eye; that piercing gaze and chiseled body. She remembered the way his body had shadowed hers in the dark on the beach. What was it...

Aphrodite smirked, as if she knew exactly what Dynamene was thinking. "Yes, handsome, that much is a give-in. But what else? There has to be something drawing you to him."

"Well..." Dynamene racked her brain. "He's incredibly powerful, and smart. He knows his realm so well..."

"That's a start, I suppose," Aphrodite clicked her tongue. "But men like that are a dime-a-dozen. And that won't keep you warm at night."

"What?" Although Dynamene had no idea what she was getting at, she had the feeling it was something rather uncouth.

"Oh, I apologize. You're a virgin, right? You're inexperienced in these matters." Aphrodite took a dainty sip from her own cup. "Those qualities are all nice and fine, but there's nothing romantic or passionate about them. Not things that really light the flame of love, as it were."

Dynamene was silent for a moment, staring at her hands. She thought of the way he'd spoken with her on the beach, and the way he'd gone out of his way to show her the wonderful things he saw underwater. "He shared his power with me... He used it to show me all the things he could sense in the ocean. It was amazing, and so nice. He held my hand... and I didn't want him to let go."

"So that's it!" Aphrodite said triumphantly. "He made you feel special. He gave you a glimpse of something he's never shown anyone else."

Dynamene smiled wistfully. "And then, he promised me another bracelet... He's never given me anything besides on my birthday. It must mean something. He's never done that for anyone before."

"The frigid tyrant is finally thawing," Aphrodite pondered, swishing her cup. "Maybe he won't spend eternity a virgin, after all," she snickered.

Wait... Does she mean me and him...? Dynamene hid her face in her hands. Oh, no. This is too much. What am I doing here?!

"So he is getting sweet on you, then." Aphrodite threw her head back in laughter. "Oh, I can't believe it; that a day like this would come! It's too much."

"Well... not sweet, exactly, but..." Dynamene rubbed her arm.

"Not sweet?" Aphrodite rose one eyebrow. "He didn't kill you when he had the opportunity. That's quite the gesture of fondness for him, really."

Dynamene blinked, struck speechless.

"Now, then," Aphrodite continued, her voice taking on a more business-like tone. "As far as directly helping you, there's little I can offer. Poseidon would have my head if he ever found out I was interfering in his love life, and that wouldn't do." She sighed rather theatrically.

"Oh." Dynamene's shoulders sank. Then it was all for nothing.

"But..." Aphrodite continued with a mischievous smile. "That doesn't mean I can't point you in the direction of someone who can help you. I've heard through the grapevine that there's a witch not far from Poseidon's estate who does spell work for those who are willing to pay the price. She lives in one of the deepest undersea trenches. I'm sure she'd be happy to strike a deal with you."

"A witch?" Dynamene had misgivings about this immediately. Witches didn't exactly enjoy the highest of praises within the Greek pantheon's society. "Aren't a lot of them shady?"

"They are. But you're clever enough, and there's no guarantee that this witch will be as seedy as the rest. Just keep your wits about you. All you need is something to convince him to make a commitment to you. I understand Hera gave you a blessing during her latest visit."

Dynamene remembered the gilded pomegranate. "She did."

"Something about a guaranteed happy union, correct? She told me about it. There's your ticket to a happy ending; you just need to secure the union in the first place."

Dynamene smiled. "You're right. It was very kind of Hera to give me a blessing. I was so surprised."

"She didn't do it out of the kindness of her heart," Aphrodite sighed, giving her curls a shake.

Dynamene's smile froze. "What do you mean?"

"Hmm..." Aphrodite puffed her cheeks, weighing her next words. "I'll let you in on a little insider's secret: she wants Poseidon married to force a crack in his armor."

Dynamene stared at her. "Pardon? His armor?"

"If Poseidon gets married and has a family, he'll have a weak spot. Hera knows that Poseidon is feared more than Zeus, and she loathes the possibility of him holding more influence. She wants to have a way to keep Poseidon in line. That's why she gave you that pomegranate." Aphrodite shook her head, wrapping a curl of hair idly about one finger.

Dynamene's head was spinning as she tried to put two and two together. "But... the blessing would be useless to her purpose unless she knew that one of us liked the other. So how...?"

Aphrodite giggled mischievously and gave Dynamene a wink. "I guess I'm not always the best secret keeper myself."

Dynamene stared at her, aghast. Hera would use me as a tool to get to Poseidon? Her eyes darted back and forth anxiously. I'm so stupid. Of course she wouldn't give a random blessing like that out of kindness; that's not how the Olympians usually function.

"Don't fret too much, dear Dynamene." Aphrodite's eyes darkened above her smile. "It doesn't really matter what the future after your union holds; not how miserable of a man Poseidon is, or what your relationship turns out to be. If you marry him while holding that blessing, you'll be happy no matter what your situation is."

Dynamene's gaze searched the goddess's face. Why did it seem like Aphrodite's expression was almost one of pity?

Happy... even if I shouldn't be?

"Rest assured, I am rooting for you, little Nereid. Now go; I'll send you near the witch's home. Or, at least where I think it is." The goddess of beauty shrugged her delicate shoulders.

White light enveloped Dynamene once more, and she braced herself. Before Aphrodite's palace disappeared, she heard the goddess call out one last time: "In exchange, I expect to be the first to know about your wedding night!"

---

Author’s notes:

Did you know, when I started this fanfiction, I planned it to be 4 parts and about 9000 words?

I am now past 32000. Help me.

Things are coming to a head, stay tuned.

[laurelsofhighever]

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again. 

--

CW: sleep paralysis in the beginning

Something hunted her. Avarice, perhaps, or Glory. The light in her hand drew them ever closer, blinding them to the glint of the dragonbone Talon she kept unsheathed by her side, the blade that longed to sate itself on their spirit flesh. For one, the rose was a trophy, for the other, the essence of all she hoped to gain. The forest around her hung close, crooked branches girdled by beards of hoary lichen, roots trying to trip her, the light above blocked by the canopy so that only the bobbing green glow of wisps remained to guide her along the path. They drifted towards her and darted away again like shoals of curious fish, and as ever, the demons gained. She would have to turn soon, to stand and fight though exhaustion snapped at her heels. And something else nagged at her too, a weightlessness, a disconnect between her actions and the world around her as if chains dragged at her limbs.

A dream, then. In realising it, she slipped into sunlight as the forest dissolved around her, opening her eyes to rich furnishings and sheets of gold brocade overlaid with soft pelts to keep out the cold, the warm pull of an arm thrown over her stomach. Alistair lay already alert beside her, the details of his face blurred by the haze of first waking but no less dear because of it. As her body rolled and turned into him, he rose above her to bring her close, untangling his arm from the bedclothes to embrace her.

“Bad dreams?” he asked, in a voice that didn’t quite reach her sleep-fogged ears.

She felt no desire to reply, and instead slid her hand into the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck to pull him down to her mouth. His touch stirred the banked embers in her chest, his weight melding them together, one body, one lick of heat through questing limbs –

But he had no scent. There was no scratch of stubble against her cheek.

Her consciousness erupted into the prone form of her slumbering body, but got no further. She commanded it to move. Her flesh responded like stone, and panic rose like water to freeze her lungs. Avarice might be leaning over her, its claws poised above her to rend life from her bones and claim her skin as its own, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t even feel her sword in her hand. A finger, an eyelid – anything that might bring her back to herself. She fought. She screamed inside her own head, pushing back at the darkness and at the illusion it fed her of her hands moving, the iron of her will useless against the dead weight of her limbs.

It must have been only moments before the paralysis recoiled and broke without warning, but it felt longer. It left her gasping in the dim, moonlit confines of an unfamiliar room, with an unfamiliar shape lumped among the pillows next to her. Despite her sudden start, the figure breathed in deep, even lungfuls of air, and as her eyes grew used to the dark, Rosslyn made out Alistair’s bearded face poking from the covers. His eyes roved under their lids, his lips parted slightly, while his hair – though longer than it had appeared in her dream – stuck out at all the odd angles she remembered. The certainty that she could not have imagined him so calmed the race of her heart and brought her back to where she was, the knotted string that had led her back into his life.

“No, Ambassador, I didn’t say that…”

His mumbles trailed off as he shifted under the covers, and she bit down on a smile. They had been in Highever when she first found out he talked in his sleep. She had teased him about it, and all the salacious things he might have uttered without the filter of his conscious mind to stop him, but even as her hand reached out to smooth his hair away from his face, the sweetness of the memories turned bitter. They had shared so little time together without the world getting in the way, brief weeks after only a year of knowing each other, and since then, she had lived two years in an endless Void, without anything to bar the sound of her own breath from her ears. He, meanwhile, had grown into the grace of his kingship without her. She had known he would, but it didn’t stop the whisperings of the snide voice at the back of her mind that told her he no longer needed her. What if everything, including his image, were just another dream?

She withdrew her hand without touching him.

Carefully, so Alistair wouldn’t notice, she shimmied out from under the covers and set her feet into the thick silk pile of the rug that guarded the bed like a moat. She counted her fingers, pressing her thumb to the tip of each one in turn, and then along the scar on her wrist that she had received from an accident in the training arena when she was still a beginner. The movements had become habit by now, but experience had taught her habit itself was dangerous, a way for the mind to skip over inconsistencies in favour of familiarity, and so to ground herself she closed her fist around Talon’s blue leather scabbard. Slowly, making sure to feel the difference between cool metal wire and rough drakeskin, she half-drew the blade and winced at the scrape of the dragonbone as it came free.

Here lay the test; she breathed deep relief when her reflection showed her eyes, a slice of the tapestry behind her, and nothing else. It did not warp into any monstrosity, or move while she sat still, and with a roll of her shoulders she eased the sword back into its rest. Not that it stopped her hands from shaking. With a last long glance over her shoulder, she rose and padded across the expanse of gilded carpet, with Talon held tight in her left hand so the buckles wouldn’t jingle.

No expense had been spared in the appointments of the Emperor’s bedchamber. The high ceiling had been painted blue and dusted with silver stars that glinted in the moonlight spilling in from the windows. The largest of them mapped out the constellations visible in the night sky, though as she gazed upwards, Rosslyn noted that they had been arranged according to aesthetics, rather than accuracy to the true heavens her mother had taught her to read as a child. With a rueful twitch of her lips, she turned away and skirted the suite of chaises and spindle-legged sofas that clustered around the fire, their fine silk threads a heady texture under the trail of her fingers.

She found the opulence garish, from the sculpted marble halla framing the hearth to the tapestries on the wall that showed scenes of nobles hunting or riding into battle on horses with faces that seemed almost human, and she imagined the expression Alistair might have let slip when he first opened the door. Only the drift of woodsmoke from the fire brought her any familiarity, the faint, whining hiss of its heart filling the silence as she explored. A bookcase stood in the corner of the room at the edge of the fire’s shaky glow, but close enough to spark against the gold-leafed titles on the spines. Still unsettled, she tilted her head to read them, mouthing their names to herself before she pulled out a likely tome concerning natural science and let the pages fall open on a discussion of dragon anatomy. She forced herself to see the shape of the words as well as their meaning, the first sentence on a page and then the last, and then the first again to make sure it hadn’t changed.

“Rosslyn?”

She dropped the book and turned, Talon already ringing out of the scabbard as she sank into a defensive crouch at the unexpected voice. Blinking groggily, Alistair sat up in the bed, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down. His eyes shifted from her face to the weapon in her hand and the battle-ready stance she was too slow to hide.

“What are you doing over there?” he asked as she turned towards the window and tried to calm the race of her pulse. She heard him kick the covers away, the grumbled command to the glowstone, and the pad of his bare feet across the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Even though she heard him coming, she flinched when he touched her arm.

He edged closer. “Bad dreams?”

She clenched her jaw against the chill of déjà vu down her spine. “Something like that.”

“Are you alright?” he asked.

A sigh tumbled from her lips as she ducked her head, as she leaned into the hand sliding into the small of her back and fought against the part of her that wanted to make light of what he must have seen. And yet, hadn’t she been trying for months to find him again? His lack at her side had been a physical ache beyond even the scars the Fade had left on her; to shut him out now when he was reaching out seemed too much like madness, like being bested by the fear she had pushed back for so long.

“When I was in the Fade, it was difficult sometimes to tell what was real,” she admitted, drawing her hands around herself. “When I had to sleep I’d wander through the dreams of others, and when I woke up I could never really be sure that I really was awake or if it was just some trap set by a demon. It’s been… hard to adjust back.” She kept her gaze on the carpet, but then she didn’t need to look to feel the cautious sympathy radiating from every line in Alistair’s body.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I…” The heat of his palm was a distraction, a reminder of all the times she had opened her eyes on his image and wondered whether the illusion might be worth succumbing to it. She had been alone too long, and left too many pieces of herself behind with the corpse of the Nightmare. But he was too clever, reading her silence and the fear behind it as if the words were scrawled across her face, and he moved close so that his bulk and his scent might fold her away from the world, cupping her jaw to lay a kiss at her temple.

“What will help?” he asked.

Rosslyn let herself wrap around him; her body acted on its own initiative and buried into his shoulder as her mind drifted back to the bad episodes of the first few days, when Merrill had led her through reality and shown her all the ways to rely on her senses again.

“Details,” she said, content to lose herself in the rhythm his fingers made against the back of her neck. “Things to ground me, that my mind can’t make up.”

“Such as?”

“Words on a page, smells…” She allowed herself a smirk. “That damned beard.”

“More baseless attacks against facial hair?” He tutted, shaking his head and deliberately mussing her hair with the accused beard in the process. “You’re still as cruel as ever, dear lady.”

Her heart fluttered. “I’m still ‘dear lady’?”

“Always.”

When she could stand to lean away, she looked up at him, gazing at her with the same oak-bronze eyes she remembered, the same flecks of gold, the calm and the rapture and the certainty that had steadied her soul from the beginning. Unable to bear the weight of his expression, she turned her focus to the slight bow-curve of his mouth, and the growth of hair that accentuated the strong line of his jaw. It was several shades darker than that on the rest of his head, though as she gently raked her fingers through it, strands of copper and gold caught in the glowstone’s light. His eyes slipped closed at the touch and she smirked wider.

“You like that,” she murmured.

He hummed. “I never thought it would feel so nice.”

If they had been together, they would have discovered such sensitivity long ago.

“Rosslyn?”

She bolstered her crumbling smile. “I just thought of a use for these bristles of yours.”

“Mm?”

Instead of answering, she closed her fingers and drew him down with the lightest pressure until they met in a soft brush of lips. “That’s a much easier way of getting you to kiss me.”

“Easier than just being in the same room as me?” he teased. “Easier than being brave and beautiful and everything I’ve ever wanted?”

She let go. His smile was earnest but she couldn’t look at it, blinding and stealing her breath as if she were stepping out into the sun on a winter’s day. And still, his sigh cleaved her like a butcher’s knife as his hand skimmed the length of her arm to where Talon still rested in a white-knuckled fist.

“I have guards outside,” he told her. “You’re safe. Whatever hunted you before, I won’t let it get you here.”

She remembered another night, after an attempt on her life, when he had sworn himself to her defence. “So Orlais has run out of assassins, then?” asked lightly.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured, raising her knuckles to his lips. “Or – we could read one of the books, if…”

“If I don’t think this is real? You don’t need to worry about that, I’m convinced.”

The tension knitted tight through his shoulders unspooled. “I’m glad.”

“You don’t have to stay up on my account.” A smile ghosted across her mouth, brief and unconvincing. “This is hardly my first night without sleep, and from what I overheard earlier, you have negotiations to attend in the morning.”

“And rob you of the company? Perish the thought. Besides,” he added, bending past her to pick up the book she had been skimming, “Une étude de draconides du sud sounds fascinating.”

“It’s rather dry, actually.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then maybe it’ll send us back to sleep faster. Come on, those chaises look comfortable, even if they’re gaudier than any furniture has a right to be.”

Defeated, Rosslyn sighed and let herself be tugged along, unable to entirely fend off the infectious grin sent her way, or the squeeze in her chest as she sat and Alistair knelt before her on the floor to wrap a heavy blanket around her shoulders.

“Will you read to me?” she asked.

His smile softened. “Of course. Now budge up.”

Negotiating the chaise took more effort than the bed. Despite being wide enough for the voluminous panniers favoured by Orlesian fashion, the springy, overstuffed cushions had not been designed to accommodate even one person lying down, much less two who had become unused to coordinating their limbs. After a lot of awkward folding and a brief interlude where she made him sit up again to take one half of the blanket, Rosslyn settled on her side with her back against the chaise and her cheek resting on Alistair’s shoulder in order to see the pages as he read them. Talon, still within reach, had been propped against the armrest.

“Now, let’s see, where shall we start…”

Heaving a contented sigh as he flicked through the pages, she snuggled closer and wrapped her free arm more fully around his waist. The movement pushed up the loose hem of his nightshirt, and without thinking she followed the feel of warm skin and slipped her hand beneath the fabric, pleased with the small hum elicited by the movement. After a moment, however, she paused, frowning. Instead of the smooth expanse of muscle she had once known almost as well as her own body, her fingertips tracked along a line of hard, raised tissue that curved across the point of Alistair’s hip.

“What…”

“Rosslyn?”

She levered herself upright and lifted the fabric to get a better look at the scar. “I don’t remember this.” Three long, uneven stripes stood out pale against the richer tone of his skin, faded enough that the initial blow must have been healed by magic, but still livid pink beneath where the new flesh didn’t quite meld with the old.

“Oh, that. It’s nothing, really.” He pulled the shirt down again to cover it, and dragged her hand to his lips. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It looks like it hurt,” she pressed.

He smiled, too wide. “Barely felt it, actually. This looks like a promising page –”

“What happened?”

“Just leave it alone!”

Stunned, she flinched away to better look at him, at the immediate regret in his eyes and the wariness that still lurked behind it.

“Rosslyn –”

“It happened at Ostagar, didn’t it?” she said, and felt her stomach lurch as he sat up and hunched over with his elbows on his knees.

“It… It was while they were still clearing the rubble. There was still hope, but not much, and every rock they lifted where they didn’t find you…” He bit his lip. “It all got too much in the end, so I took a party out to hunt down the demons that escaped the rift’s collapse. One got a lucky swipe.”

All because of her. She shut her eyes and dropped her forehead to his shoulder to banish the image of him, wounded and grieving and hating her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured “You’re the one who was always telling me not to drop my guard.”

“If I had been there…”

“No. Don’t do that. I’ve spent two years wondering what might have been.” Arms wrapped around her waist, fingers under her jaw coaxing her to look at him. “You’re here, now, and everything’s going to be alright.”

Still unsure, she shook her head. “I thought this would all be so easy. I thought I could just… walk back into my life like none of it happened. But everything’s so different.” Just because she had been stuck in time, she had assumed the same of everything else, that she might return to the moment she first struck the Nightmare and still have her place as the Falcon without politics or resentment to cloud her triumph. The worst of it, the part she could barely admit even to herself, was that everything from her return to Harrowhill to the painted stars above her might not be real at all, and yet she had wearied so much that not even the guilt of surrender could make her care. Perhaps the real Alistair had died along with her at Ostagar, the only thing left of him this illusion, a phantom set of hands around her waist the closest she would ever get to him again.

The pressure of those hands tightened before she could move away, drawn into his lap instead with the blanket forgotten around her knees.

“Not everything is different,” he said. “Not the important things. You’re still my wife.”

Her breath caught in her lungs.

“Unless…” A pause. “Rosslyn, when this is over – when you’ve done what you have to for Flemeth and these trade talks have been hammered out – you will come back with me, won’t you? Ferelden still needs its queen.” He swallowed. “And even if it didn’t, there’s not a moment that’s gone by that I haven’t needed you. It’s been awful, I’ve missed you so much.”

Something sharp constricted in her chest as the firelight caught in his eyes, on the tears he rapidly tried to blink away. “I didn’t know if you’d want me like before,” she confessed.

“Of course I do.” For the second time, the book tumbled to the floor, this time displaced from his lap so he could turn and take her face between both of his hands. “I love you. I never stopped.”

“I’ve caused you so much pain –”

“It’s alright,” he repeated, again, stroking her face with his fingers as he leaned forwards and pressed his brow to hers. “You came back to me. It’s alright.”

Soothed by the patterns he was drawing across the back of her neck, she shifted until her legs pressed on either side of his. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m here. Rosslyn, I…”

His hands had wandered again, palms ghosting down her back and over her thighs, pulling her closer while his knees came up behind her to take more of her weight, to tip her forward onto his chest. She cupped his face and kissed him before he could gather himself enough to speak, and then followed the line of his jaw with lighter brushes of her lips to the pulse point in his neck, her concentration only broken when he found the hem of her borrowed shirt and slinked into a tighter embrace against her skin.

His teeth rasped against her shoulder, a chuckle low in his throat. “We’re supposed to be reading, dear lady.”

“You’re the one who started this,” she murmured back, as her fingers inched beneath his collar.

“You’re the one encouraging me,” he retorted. “Maker, I can’t get you close enough – tell me you don’t want to stop.”

“It’s not that…” A worry tugged at the small corner of her mind not yet consumed by the sensation of being touched, growing in presence until it could not be ignored. “I don’t know if I’m – if we’re still, uh, protected.”

“Ah.” To her relief, he didn’t push her away, and instead leaned back against the chaise with his arms around her shoulders. “And you don’t have any of that tea with you?”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting to need it.”

For an instant, the shadow of thwarted expectation hung in the air, mingling with her worry about the cost of her hesitation, until with the breath of a low, rumbled laugh, Alistair sent the tension blowing away like errant cobwebs on a breeze.

“I’m sure we’ll dig some up from somewhere eventually,” he allowed, helping her adjust so she lay adjacent rather than astride his lap. “Besides, after two years, I can’t say it would have been my best performance anyway.”

She stretched up, careful not to jab a knee into where it wouldn’t be appreciated, and pecked him on the cheek before tucking herself back against his side. “The performance isn’t what I care about.”

“I love you. Have I said that yet?”

“I could stand to hear it again.”

Their fingers laced, and for a while only the fire made conversation.

“It occurs to me,” he offered eventually, with a sly wiggle of his eyebrows, “there are other things we could do. If you wanted. We could find out why that bed is so ridiculously big.”

“We could,” she replied, careful. “But… I think I want this over first. I’m still bound, and I want to feel like myself when I call you my husband again.”

Another sigh heaved through his body, shuddered with uncertainty. “‘Husband’. I’ve missed hearing that. I’ve missed –” He scrubbed at his eyes. “You know, we never got our honeymoon. We said we’d go to Eastwatch when the war was over, but we never made it.”

“We were going to take picnics to the riverbank.”

They’d had it pictured so clearly before Ostagar, a shining beacon for which to strive, when their responsibilities might fall away just for a little while and allow them the peace that had always at the last eluded them. Her family’s estate, couched in a slow meander of the River Rangett with the sweeping glades and pastures of Marl-land beyond, had seemed the perfect remedy to the demands claimed of them by war.

“I left Teagan in charge in Denerim,” Alistair mused. “There’ll have to be a progress to show you off to the people now that you’re back, but I’m sure we can persuade the guard to lose us on the Imperial Highway – what are you laughing at?”

She drew his knuckles to her lips. “You. Talking like a politician. Plotting. You’ve grown.”

“I hope that’s not a comment on the number of fine cheeses I’ve been sampling of late,” he huffed, shifting beneath her.

She recognised the deflection for what it was but let it go, realising the dark turn of her thoughts must have shown in her voice, the knowledge that so much of the person he had become was a stranger to her. And yet, as he reached down to retrieve the now sadly crumpled Une étude des draconides from where it had fallen, the way their bodies fit together and the logs cracking in the fire brought back all the promise she had felt in those few weeks by his side as they waited out her recovery from the Battle of Highever, the winter nights long and the frozen wind turned aside by the thick walls of her childhood home. He had read to her then, too, taking her away from the pain of her healing wounds to places woven by his voice alone, with his heartbeat under her ear and his fingers idle in her hair.

“Is the book alright?” she asked.

“A bit creased,” he answered. “But intact.”

“Good. Tell me about dragons.”

--

He read from the book until his voice turned hoarse, the winding prattle of academic language somewhat beyond his grasp of conversational Orlesian, but he tried keep the flow of words in cadence to at least get the general meaning. When he finally laid it aside and pinched his hands over his eyes to refocus his vision, the first rime of daylight could just be seen over the distant trees outside, a faint lilac stain against the ink of night swallowing the stars. Rosslyn didn’t stir even when he touched her shoulder to check her realness, when he gently carded the jet strands of her hair back from the wet patch of drool slowly seeping into his shirt. She had always slept heavily, like a true soldier, deep to dream and grumpy to rise, while he often started at phantom noises or spent hours trying to calm the whirl of his thoughts long enough to let him rest; more than once, he had used the slow, even rhythm of her breath to follow her into slumber.

He had so much to tell her. Without her to share it, his life had turned into one long road of nothing but duty stretching to the horizon, but now the details flooded back into his mind, full of colour. The two mares Fergus had given her as a wedding gift were stabled below as his own personal mounts, and Cuno waited back in Denerim, a pampered sire of many litters who would no doubt prove unbearably smug about being right that his mistress had survived.

The news could wait until they had more time, however, when they no longer had to hide her presence from Celene. For now, he had no wish to move her, but the angle of the chaise was beginning to hurt his back and they would both be in far more comfort on the bed.

“Rosslyn? Love, we need to get up, just for a bit.”

A wordless mumble was the only reply, tilting his mouth in a smile as he gave up and hooked one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. Had she been awake, she would have complained about being carried when she had two perfectly good legs of her own, but as Alistair stood the movement only turned her further into his chest and her hands closed around the folds in his shirt. He tried not to think about how light she had become as he laid her down again a moment later, how much colder.

After pausing only long enough to retrieve Talon, he slipped under the covers beside her and pulled them up until she was tucked in snug up to her chin. Too much did her trusting, easy breathing remind him of their last night together before the battle at Ostagar, the morning when he had unwound his arms from her warm body and left without a word, hoping to keep her safe.

He would not suffer that again.

Careful and quiet, he tore his eyes away and rolled over, reaching for the top drawer of his nightstand where servants had stashed a set of reed pens, paper, and a writing pad. Both of them had duties, he his meetings and she the destruction of Morrigan’s mirror, but as he dipped the nib into the inkpot and sponged off the excess, he breathed deep through his nose, determined not to waste the gift Fate had chosen to grant him. After their trials were over, he would make sure they could both be together again. Forever, this time.

[prophecy-is-inevitable]

Indulgence of Divinity: Chapter 1

Michael Langdon x OFC

Four months after the events at Outpost 3, Michael begins to grow restless in the Sanctuary. His powers continue to grow seemingly without a purpose, and the Cooperative is clamoring to know his next move. Help arrives from an unlikely source that changes everything Michael thought he knew about being the Antichrist.

Rebuilding the world requires a delicate balance-destruction and creation, death and life, dark and light. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to do it alone.

Chapter Warnings: Mild Language (we’re just warming up)

Word Count: 3846

So excited to finally have the first chapter posted! Hope you enjoy! (Also posted on AO3 under the same title.)

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

Chapter One: Court of the Divinity

Water droplets traced the lean outlines along his torso and thighs while others collected in the hollow at the small of his back. The aqueous kisses briefly reminded him of caresses that yearned to memorize each dip and swell of a lover’s form. His eyes drifted closed as he tipped his head back, lips drawing apart to pass contented sighs, in an attempt to savor the sensation. How long it had been since it was more than an illusion… His head lulled with a deliberate slowness to feel the tension ebb and flow from the corded muscles across his shoulders, up the base of his skull, and down the center of his spine. A delicate floral note occasionally touched his senses that he couldn’t quite place as past or present, simply familiar; nonetheless, it momentarily quelled the chaotic swarm of thoughts plaguing his mind. Even kings deserved a reverie now and again.

Michael’s gaze flitted about the room as he stood from the bathing pool and retrieved his towel hanging from the decorative iron gate.

Flickering candles lined the stone alcoves and shelves carved centuries ago out of the grotto rock and filled the room with a serene luminance. Their reflections danced and swayed on the surface of the water only to writhe in the wake of his languid movements. The sheer array of burning wicks had produced a surprising warmth in the chamber–a warmth that drew memories from the rugged stone and imparted the scent of incense from pilgrimages long-forgotten into the air. A shrine to the Lord and his archangel Michael that once stood proudly at the front of the holy cavern had been reduced to nothing more than an opulent light fixture. It brought him a sense of satisfaction in no small measure, and a smug curl of his lips accompanied the thoughts of sacrilege.

‘How fitting that the Sanctuary of Saint Michael Archangel, his oldest shrine in Western Europe and a holy destination for centuries, would become the seat of power for the Antichrist of the same name. The Sanctuary of the Apocalypse,’ Michael mused while patting himself dry. The infernal heat thrumming through his veins made short work of any dampness left to his skin. The grotto he stood in had once been the location of a church. Since coming into the possession of the Cooperative, the pews had been removed to make room for a stepped recess to be carved into the floor and filled with water in the style of an ancient bath–an extension of his personal chambers. ‘Someone clearly thrives on irony.’ Of course, it was not to be lost on him and his smirk of satisfaction only grew as he pulled on the sleek black fabric of his pants.

The journey back to his rooms saw the return of Michael’s incessant thoughts of uncertainty. The existence of the Sanctuary had been somewhat of a surprise even to him. Then again, the best lies were always built from a foundation of truth. What had begun as a ruse to incite panic and chaos amongst survivors was apparently very much an actuality. An actuality that he had been living in for the last four months.

Outpost 3 had been the last for…liquidation. Once the task was completed, the Cooperative had sent him a communication informing him of an automated jet waiting to take him to a “safe place”. They didn’t want to risk the use of Transmutation, despite his ever-growing powers. The flight was long and turbulent from the dramatic air currents and storms swirling in the wake of the cataclysm. A coastal mountain topped with a medieval structure loomed outside the window as the plane started to descend. The Sanctuary.

Noticeable architecture and the few remaining geographical features alluded to a location somewhere most likely Mediterranean. Michael’s lips stretched into an open-mouthed grin, and his eyes burned from how widely they were opened as he looked at the landscape of his making. Previously turquoise oceans undulated in new scarlet waves onto a gray shore. Bare branches strained against the raging wind–their leaves decimated long ago. Armageddon had truly come, and it was by his hand. Sure, he had seen first hand the result of his handiwork in America, but the satisfaction of seeing the effects clear across the world… Michael remembered the way his chest swelled and his shoulders straightened with pride.

That had been four months ago . Fucking hell… What great accomplishments had he achieved since those glorious days of revelation? Once again, he had been left to do his father’s will with no direction, no help of any kind. The remaining Cooperative members were breathing down his neck like hellhounds, either trying to curry favor with absurd and depraved behavior (which he may or may not have accepted on occasion) or hovering for a command. How could he lead his people when he had no means of navigating the future himself? Even the stars were silent behind the eternal midnight cinders cloaking the sky.

He dropped onto the lush mattress and draped his forearm over his eyes. In times of stress, Michael’s mind conjured up images of a world that no longer existed and perhaps never had. The sense of familiarity surrounded him once again as he stood amongst the tall pines and colorful oaks. He remembered these woods. Birds trilled happily above as if pleased by his return. His blood no longer marred the earth in a ruby pentagram; sprigs of white bell-shaped flowers sprung up from the circle and perfumed the air with their sweetness. They were larger than last time. Michael crouched to slowly reach out a hand, palm up, to cradle one of the drooping blossoms.

“Do you like them? I’ve been practicing.” A soft voice reached his ears just as the scalloped tepals dusted the tip of his middle finger. The uncertainty in the voice made his brow crease. He turned his head with a frown to face the shimmering specter, their radiance shrouding any distinguishable features aside from their feminine figure. She was always there, stood in the same space his frantic young mind had hallucinated an angel while begging for his father’s aid.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” It was much more a statement than a question. Had his own imagination turned against him, too? Was this a subconscious manifestation of his own doubt?

“White and delicate isn’t exactly your style,” the figure said. Her tone had relaxed a bit at the sound of his disappointment.

“Perhaps that’s all the more reason for me to like it. A palate cleanser to the world before my eyes every other minute of the day.” The flowers captured his attention again when they began to bob in the breeze. “Beautiful,” he breathed. He couldn’t see a smile, but he got the distinct feeling of happiness from his companion. Curiously, his own heart beat a bit easier as the aura permeated his space. Michael straightened again to take in the full effect of the flowers and surround woods.

“Something’s bothering you, Michael. You’re never here otherwise,” she mused. The light shifted as she moved to sit on a mossy rock. He titled his head to look at her without turning his body. Long strands of golden hair fell over his shoulder and framed his face in the sunlight. A shrug tugged at his shoulder as he spoke.

“What comes next? Have I done all I was meant to do?”

“Is fire, blood, and chaos all you were born for?” A tight nod answered her question. “Doubtful.” She rose and stepped into the ring of flowers with him. The hair hanging in his face was pushed behind his ear by misty tendrils he perceived to be fingers. A slight chill tickled his cheek from the contact and caused the hair at the base of his neck to rise. “With each breath, you grow in strength and purpose.” One of the flower stems was placed in his hand. “Why do you think these have flourished? As you grow stronger, so do I. It would be pointless to give you more power with no purpose behind it, especially since you already hold more power than any being left in the world.” A dark chuckle bubble in his throat at that. Her words satisfied him when similar grovels from those in the Sanctuary would find his ire.

“Then why -” The presence of a frosted hand directing his gaze back towards the glowing woods stopped him short.

“Patience, Michael. Having power does not mean you have to be omniscient. It simply means you will be more than capable of whatever is required in time. You’ve given them what they wanted–there’s no reason to believe you would fail at that in the future.” Phantom fingers slid up his cheek and into his hair in a gesture of comfort and Michael closed his eyes with a sigh. “Patience, my king.”

The stone ceiling of his bedroom greeted him when he next opened his eyes. Goosebumps still prickled his skin as a reminder of his dream. For a few moments he did nothing but stare blankly, wondering if he could close his eyes again and return to the simplistic visions of his mind.

“Patience…” he grumbled, dragging a hand down his high cheeks and chiseled jaw. Could the Antichrist possess such a heavenly virtue? Michael couldn’t remember any recent time he was met with less than near-instant gratification. Several soft yet pronounced raps on the door put an end to his wishful thoughts of mental escape. That would be Ms. Mead, and he certainly didn’t want to keep her waiting. It wouldn’t do to treat the one person here that was truly on his side so poorly, and certainly not after she’d undergone such extensive repairs from the events at Outpost 3.

A rare, genuine smile graced his full lips when he pulled the door open to reveal the woman. The deep furrow of her brow and the shift of her eyes promptly removed the carefree expression from his face.

“You’re needed in the great hall.” The muscles around Michael’s eyes twitched in scrutiny. Only incredibly important or special occasions called for the use of the great hall, and he certainly hadn’t issued any grandiose decrees. She wasn’t pleased to be ignorant about whatever situation had arisen, either.

“I will be with you shortly once I’ve made myself presentable.” Michael acknowledged her request with an elegant incline of his head. Ms. Mead nodded quickly and turned on her heel to await him outside his chambers.

Michael quite enjoyed catering his looks to maximize the effect of his presence. Without knowing the purpose of this engagement, he would have to work with what previously resulted in the most success. Within three minutes, he was walking through the halls with Ms. Mead and rather pleased with his appearance. He had donned his usual black dress pants and tucked button-up, the buttons of the cuffs trailing well up his forearms. A luxurious black side button dress coat accentuated his broad shoulders and lean stature; Michael enjoyed the feeling of the fabric conforming so perfectly to his body.

Many survivors admired the thought that went into the Sanctuary’s design each time they walked the halls. Displays had been embedded into the mountain walls where the builders encountered the fossilized remains of prehistoric flora and fauna–lingering reminders that all origins were followed by the same undisputable end in time. Rivers of fire ran down trenches parallel to the walkways for sufficient lighting. Without access to the outside world, they set the fire to cycle intensity and mimic the path of the sun. At night, minerals were added to the oil to make the fire burn blue in homage to moonlight. Large fireplaces dotted the hallways for added warmth and light in the deeper parts of the mountain.

Today, residents of the Sanctuary that had found themselves a partner were happily clinging to each other in alcoves or corners. Some exchanged gifts they’d either made or traded for tied with red ribbon. Someone had poorly scribbled hearts decorating their package, and Michael’s eyebrows jumped momentarily in realization. Of course. It was February. Many of the survivors had chosen to observe the old holidays in a vain attempt at normalcy. If it gave them reason to remain happy and kept morale high, then he would allow them to cling to their absurd traditions. They smiled and waved, some bowing their heads in respect, as he passed them. An occasional brave soul wandered his way with the intention of handing him chocolates or paper flowers. Michael held up his hand to stop them with a small, appreciative quirk of his lips but shook his head.

“There’s no need for that. Your loyalty and support are enough.” They held eye contact for a moment until the person scampered away to a cluster of others standing by a fire pit. Almost immediately, Michael’s jaw squared and returned his expression to simmering annoyance.

“Ms. Mead,” he drawled, “why am I on my way to the great hall for an obligation that I can’t seem to recall arranging?” Her head shaking slightly was barely visible off to his side.

“This wasn’t arranged at all. These…people–Court of the Divinity they called themselves–just showed up and wanted to see you. Wouldn’t say what for, but I recognized the man in charge as a member of the Cooperative. Some high ranking clergyman or some bullshit.” Ms. Mead continued to shake her head and gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know where they get off thinking they can make such demands of their king. It’s impertinent if you ask me.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratory level. “We shouldn’t trust them.” Michael’s head tipped back with a pleased laugh.

“Oh, not to worry, Ms. Mead. We must attend to the needs of our people.” Michael stopped outside of the oversized mahogany doors and turned to the older woman. His hands came to rest on her shoulders as he fixed her with a pointed gaze. “And if they waste my time, it will be the last time that they do so.” Ms. Mead returned his look with a smile and watery eyes, one of her hands reaching out to delicately stroke the long curls resting over his collarbone before she replied. The pride rolled off of her in waves nearly as strong as the electronic pulses of her fabrication.

“That’s my beautiful boy.” Michael would always hold her affection in highest regard. With a deep breath, Ms. Mead returned to the moment and smoothed down his hair. “You go in ahead. I’ll retrieve your guests from the auxiliary hall. My king.” She left with a bow and beaming smile so Michael could take his rightful place in the extravagant throne chair at the front of the hall. He certainly cut an imposing figure. One leg rested crossed over the knee of the other, his elbows firmly on the arm rests to allow his steepled fingers to remain steady in front of his chest, and his jaw clenched with a minute grinding the longer he waited.

Several minutes passed before the heavy doors were opened and Ms. Mead, now wielding a stern expression, led in a bizarre group of men. Michael couldn’t help leaning forward a fraction in interest. Each man was dressed in different holy garb. A Buddhist lama, a Hindu sadhu, a Jewish rabbi. Those were only the ones in clear view. Still more troubling, not one of them did he recognize beyond the cardinal standing at their front. He had worked as the Cooperative’s source inside the Vatican for decades under the guise of a faithful God-worshipper. Michael lifted his chin out of habit at the man’s approach, heightened even more as the small congregation bowed before his dais.

“Cardinal Vicente Santori.” The name dripped off Michael’s tongue like saccharine wine. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your audience? For your sake, I would hope it’s something of the absolute utmost importance.” The cardinal bowed again. The tone in their king’s voice left no conflict regarding his displeasure.

“My king, as you know, we are more than 20 months through your prophesied reign,” Santori began. Michael’s intrigued gaze turned to that of ice, and he brought his chin to rest on his bejewelled fist.

“I am aware. So…what is this?” He opened his palm up towards them inviting silent answers. “As you said yourself, we are beyond the halfway point of the Apocalypse. It’s a bit late for any religious intervention.” Michael’s patronizing chuckle reverberated in the vaulted room, “Especially from you, Cardinal.” The man quickly shook his hands to brush away those notions.

“No. No, we are here for quite the opposite.” The slight tilt of the king’s head drew the cardinal’s attention before he continued. “You have done well in cleansing the stain of humanity from the world. You’ve also grown stronger since coming to the Sanctuary, haven’t you, my king?” When he did not receive a denial, Santori delved into further explanation. “We are the Court of the Divinity, tasked with a special purpose. We have the answers to that phenomenon: there is still more work to be done. Work that you cannot be expected to complete on your own. What we have experienced is only the beginning of your father’s great plan. Preparation of a canvas about to become your greatest masterpiece.”

“What would you know of this ‘work to be done’?” His father had refused to answer his own questions, yet these heretics claimed to have knowledge of his purpose? All Michael had ever wanted was answers. Would it be washed-up clerics that gave them to him? Michael ran his tongue over his teeth. The most irritating aspect of it all was that not a single one of them held a lie within their heart or mind.

“Satan was cast into the fire and chained amidst the burning lake against his will. Would you wish to remain in a prison for all eternity? Is that what you would base your greatest wish from? It is one thing to condemn others to share your fate, but it’s something else to rise above it. There has always been a deeper longing for Paradise, and what better way to secure his claim on Earth than by his son creating something that surpasses that of God. However, you will not succumb to such hubris as God, my king, for you won’t be alone.” There was a pause in the cardinal’s ramblings to let the information settle. Silence hung heavy in the air for so long that some of the men began to shift uncomfortably. Even Ms. Mead seemed to be holding her breath off to Michael’s side.

Their king stood, each vertebra aligning themselves one by one, until he reached his full height. His descent from the dais was marked by the crisp, measured knocking of his heeled shoes on the stone floor. Arms clasped elegantly behind his back, Michael approached the cardinal and looked him up and down. The older man was in his choir dress for what he must have deemed a special occasion; vibrant scarlet cassock with matching scarlet trim, red elbow-length cape over the lace-trimmed white rochet, and a red cleric’s skullcap. One item was notably missing; Cardinal Santori no longer burdened himself with the symbol of the cross. Michael stopped directly in front of the man to give him a sardonic smile.

“Will it be you, Cardinal, and your men that seek to help me with this task of surpassing God? The one you once promised to worship and honor with every breath and whom you have now forsaken?” They were so easily swayed by a little show of power. Michael had won their faith by hardly lifting a finger. The cardinal stepped aside and issued a beckoning wave back to the others. The group parted, three men on either side, to form a passage for the remaining associate at the back of their cluster.

“Unfortunately, the act of creation has always been a divine gift. We have never been blessed in such a way, though we have been given the honor of upbringing for the one who has. Our glorious purpose.” Soft heels clicked across the thin carpet runner approaching the dais. “God failed because there was no balance, which he now knows. There cannot be creation without destruction, no life without death, no light without the dark. To force one into extinction is to condemn the other. Someone once called you ‘the Alpha and the Omega,’ correct? Well, they were halfway right.” A slim hand settled into the one the cardinal left outstretched.

“My king.” Michael’s eyes quickly darted to the speaker when they stepped into his view, dipping into a low curtsey.

She was his opposite in every way. Delicate feminine features and form contrasted his strong, masculine bone structure and build. Her lustrous amber eyes met his aquamarine, and both pairs widened at the sudden jolt they received. Fire and ice. Twisting. Turning. Climbing from earth to sky. Something about her called to him. Something quietly familiar. Michael stepped forward with a creased brow while she allowed him to continue his observation. He swept a wave of her silken obsidian hair over her shoulder. Her breath shuddered momentarily, but her smile widened when their gaze met again. She waited patiently, allowing him as much time as he needed. After all, she had been patient long enough in waiting to meet him, and this gave her an equal opportunity to drink him in as well. His skin held the warmth of the fire he was born from in both color and temperature. She, on the other hand, seemed to be risen from the first winter snow. Could it be true that he wouldn’t be left to rebuild the world alone? Their proximity caused a breeze to weave through the room that centered around them. Years of waiting and begging and training…would this be the beginning of their purpose?

Clothed in flowing white, the crystalline vine embellishments captured the firelight to give her a glowing illusion. Chiffon draped from her shoulder straps and down her back in a delicate cape veil that did nothing to obscure the expense of her open back. More of the gentle fabric was braided across her chest to protect her dignity. A large portion of the bodice remained sheer except for more sparkling embellishments designed in the same intricate vine pattern. In place of a slit, the sheer fabric continued from the bodice, over her left hip, and down the entire left side of the otherwise modest, floor length skirt. It was a look meant to make an impression while still conveying the purity within her body and blood. Sensual yet sinless. She wanted him to be pleased, to be intrigued. And he certainly was in both respects. Cardinal Santori’s voice broke through Michael’s considerations.

“This… is the Divinity.”

[cypher2]

DAVIE, Fla. — Jamaica’s consul general in South Florida held a party at his home on Wednesday night to celebrate the Reggae Girlz, the first national soccer team from the Caribbean to qualify for the Women’s World Cup.

The tables were set up around the pool and the players and their coaches were there, but every guest was asked to bring a little something extra: a donation of at least $100 to help Jamaica complete its preparations to compete at the World Cup in France next month. The tournament begins in less than two weeks, and so time, just like money, was short.

If the story of women’s soccer in recent years has been the ongoing fight for equal pay, there always has been a different inequality just below the surface. While women’s international soccer has made significant progress in some countries, support for it, especially financially, from individual federations and corporate sponsors continues to vary widely.

France, the host country for this year’s championship, has a thriving professional league, and its players have spent the last few weeks preparing for the World Cup at their federation’s national training center. The United States, the defending champion and a three-time winner of the tournament, is completing an opulent send-off tour across the country this weekend, replete with nationally-televised games on ESPN and giant billboards on big-city buildings.

Jamaica’s run-up to the World Cup, by contrast, has been much less visible, and its program’s mere existence far less financially secure. Historically, the Reggae Girlz have received tenuous support from their national federation. As recently as 2015, the federation cut off financing for the team entirely.

As a side trip on their road to France then, Jamaica’s women first detoured to South Florida, trying to raise money one contributor at a time to cover a shortfall — as much as $400,000 by one estimate — created by training camps, travel and warm-up matches, and to begin to establish a reserve that the team can draw on for current and future tournament costs. There was a fund-raiser and an auction of sports apparel at the consul general’s home; a pep rally at a chiropractic center; and an exhibition match on Thursday night preceded by a celebrity game featuring entertainers from Jamaica and Haiti.

But signs of the team’s struggles weren’t hard to find. At Wednesday’s party, the coaching staff wore shirts meant for the men’s national team, and used markers to scratch out that team’s nickname — “Reggae Boyz” — on the sleeves. Some Jamaican players still must buy their own cleats. And when the women’s team qualified for the World Cup last October outside of Dallas, several coaches went to Costco and paid out of their pockets for jackets so their players could train in the chilly, rainy weather.

No high-ranking official from the Jamaican federation was present to celebrate that momentous qualification in a penalty shootout against Panama, the team’s coaches said.

“Their attitude has been pretty poor,” goalkeeper Nicole McClure, 29, said of the Jamaican soccer federation. “We’ve always been an afterthought, and we’re still fighting for equality. We want a seat at the table. It’s been quite frustrating.”

In March, McClure, who grew up in Queens, held her own fund-raiser. She plays without compensation on a club team in Northern Ireland, and she needed money to pay for food, toiletries, a bus ticket, checked baggage for a flight and some soccer gear. Her needs were not uncommon for her team.

Yet she and her teammates — and Jamaica’s coaches — acknowledged this week that things are improving, at least for the moment. Jamaica’s World Cup players have signed a contract with the federation that will pay them $800 to $1,200 a month, retroactive to January, Coach Hue Menzies said. And Menzies, who has been working free since 2015, is to receive $40,000, he said. According to team officials, this is the first time a Caribbean women’s team has signed contracts with its national federation.

“We haven’t been paid,” Menzies said with a laugh. “But we signed a contract.”

Michael Ricketts, the president of Jamaica’s soccer federation, said that criticism of the organization had been “grossly unfair.” The federation has spent about $4 million on the women’s team since it began qualifying for the World Cup, he said. Costs to hold a weeklong training camp can run to $100,000, Ricketts said, and it has been a struggle to get spectators and corporate sponsors to embrace the team. Even so, he said, a women’s league in Jamaica has been restarted on a limited basis, as well as a youth program for players under 15.

Under the circumstances, Ricketts said, “We’ve done exceedingly well.”

The Reggae Girlz coaching staff disputed the $4 million figure. “No way,” said Lorne Donaldson, an assistant coach. “I don’t buy that.”

Instead, coaches and players widely credit a different benefactor, Cedella Marley, for resurrecting the women’s team with help from the Bob Marley Foundation, which is named after her musician father. Cedella Marley, angered by the sorry state of the program, was the one who spearheaded an international fund-raising effort to revive it several years ago, and she was the one who persuaded Menzies, who runs a prominent youth soccer club near Orlando, Fla., to become its coach.

Without Marley, McClure said, “There would be no Reggae Girlz.”

The Alacran Foundation, a philanthropic organization, also has become a benefactor of the team. And the Reggae Girlz Foundation, a nonprofit, is raising money for such things as medical equipment to help Jamaica prepare and compete at the World Cup, but also to support the team in coming Olympic qualifying and youth national team campaigns.

Money remained tight, though, as the team departed Friday for Europe, where it will play a warm-up match in Scotland before continuing on to France. Even after an initial payment of $480,000 from FIFA, soccer’s world governing body, for qualifying for the World Cup, and another payment of at least $750,000 to follow, Jamaica’s buildup to the tournament has faced about a $400,000 shortfall to cover costs of training camps, travel and practice matches, according to Lisa Quarrie, the vice president of the Reggae Girlz Foundation.

Long-term, the foundation is seeking to sustain women’s soccer in Jamaica by creating an academy, building an extensive youth development system and persuading men’s teams in the National Premier League, the country’s top division, to also sponsor women’s teams.

But first things first. The World Cup starts in two weeks, and no donation is considered too small, be it a $10 ticket to Thursday night’s celebrity match or a $25 contribution on the website of the Reggae Girlz Foundation.

“They need money all the way around,” Quarrie said. “We’re going to the World Cup on the fly.”

Women’s international soccer has long faced a Sisyphean battle to gain respect and support. The American women’s team continues to find it necessary to sue U.S. Soccer for gender discrimination. Players in Australia and elsewhere have refused to play matches, and stars in other countries went public with complaints on everything from training pay to a lack of games.

It has been a particularly tough slog in the Caribbean, where soccer has been blighted by corruption, and the women’s game especially has been widely dismissed. When Trinidad and Tobago arrived in Dallas for the final qualifying round of the 2015 Women’s World Cup, its coach, Randy Waldrum, sent out a financial S.O.S. via Twitter.

“I need HELP!” Waldrum wrote at the time. “T&T sent a team here last night with $500 total. No equipment such as balls, no transportation from airport to hotel, nothing.”

Haiti’s women’s team also attempted, just as futilely, to qualify for the 2015 World Cup, relying on benefactors at an extended training camp in South Bend, Ind. Its players and coach received no salary, and the team tried to make ends meet by selling rotisserie chickens and T-shirts, and holding clinics for churches and schools.

In Jamaica, soccer has been considered by many to be too rough of a sport for women and not sufficiently feminine. Players and officials hope that this summer’s World Cup appearance will help overcome the cultural stereotype, and that women’s soccer will be elevated at home in the way track and field became appreciated with the success of the sprinter Merlene Ottey, who won nine Olympic medals between 1980 and 2000.

“The men have always received far more support,” said Oliver Mair, Jamaica’s consul general for the Southern United States. “So when the women qualified for the World Cup, it caught us all by surprise.”

He added: “When you start on the road, you are on your own. They had a dream, a vision. They started to do well and more people have come on board.”

For now, Menzies and his staff have countered the lack of resources inside Jamaica by helping to place top women’s players at American universities and high schools, and in leagues in the United States and Europe.

Jamaica’s star forward, Khadija Shaw, known as Bunny, attended Tennessee, where she was the Southeastern Conference’s offensive player of the year in 2018. She, perhaps more than any other player, represents the indomitable perseverance of the Reggae Girlz, having maintained her career despite the deaths of three brothers in gang-related violence in Jamaica.

Kayla McCoy, a forward and midfielder who plays for the National Women’s Soccer League’s Houston Dash, said, “I think everybody carries self-pride about how far we’ve come but also a sense of humility just because of what people have had to overcome and what people have seen and what people have had to go through.”

She added: “Nothing was handed to anybody here.”

The goal for the Reggae Girlz at the World Cup is to advance out of a forbidding group that includes Brazil, Australia and Italy. Lingering is the question of whether the Jamaican federation will provide the necessary support to keep women’s soccer growing as an international power after the tournament ends.

Asked how confident he was in the federation’s long-term commitment, Menzies, the coach, said, “Not very.”

“But,” he added, “when they tell us no, that just fuels our fire.”

Jeré Longman | New York Times

[anthionsoulshade]

A Balance In Us

I am in a sorry state. I might as well be a packrat or some other loathsome creature that dwells in the garbage pits of a major city. I smell like the sea, my robe still has sand clinging to the edge of it and my arms are filled with, trash. To be perfectly frank, when Alice and I decided to go fishing and get away from the festival, I had thought I had a good grasp on fishing. I am, forever surprised that I am not nearly as adopted with everything as I thought I was. The few fish that were caught were all hers and I have been left with the noble thought that I might have cleaned up much of the beach of Gadgetzan before my time was through.

All of this being said though. I returned to the Duchy and my Duchess with a bag full of empty rum bottles and enough tattered cloth to make many many blankets from.

“Alle Dear.” I called out as I came into her living quarters. I know I am a state, but, I think there is a talk that needs to be said, and... I am curious if she can do anything with all of this. I do promise, I am not a hoarder or anything, but, this was a perfect opening to a neutral conversation.

As I’m putting the makeshift canvas bags down I notice Alle sitting neatly on a sofa near by. She is dressed more casually than normal, her dress not as ridged and I can tell she’s not wearing a corset at the moment. The thought, is almost like someone hit me with a snowball on a warm day. It’s shocking, but I have to remind myself, I have seen women in nothing but what they were born with. But this is different and I feel as if I am intruding upon her... I am intruding, I always intrude at first, but this time I feel it.

Her bright eyes lock on me and my bags. “What is all of that?”

“Bottles, cloth... I was going to see if you had any recycling facilities I can use? Glass is always needed for... people.” I am bullshitting out of my fine silk clad ass. I have no idea if she needs this, but I wanted to bring it to see if it was a good neutral opener for the more, pining questions in my heart.

Part of me wonders if she saw right through me. She always sees right through my acts. “We can try to find something to do with them. The cloth could be very good for making paper.” getting up she crossed over to look into the bags. “How was your.... day with Alice?”

“Perfectly charming as it should be with anything a man does with his daughter.” I say but I know I sound aloof, I am always aloof vocally, call it a natural defense if you must. “We had a good time though, I might have learned a little too much about my son, but, it was charming.”

“I believe Quin will want you to say Alice is your future daughter-in-law.” Alle reminded me, but honestly, I don’t care. Quin can groan about it, but to me a child is a child and I am firm on this.

But for Alle I just nod and continue to speak. “Sadly the festival wasn’t to my taste, nothing good to eat and I’m not so fond of... people in general.”

“That is hardly a surprise.” Reaching into the bag I watch her pull out a bottle and examine it. “You know, if these had been broken they would make beautiful sea glass pieces later on. That’s a future idea for yourself, you’ll be able to see the reaping of your seeds if you do that.”

I need to ignore the mention of my immortality, and instead do what I always do, divert. Maybe many don’t notice this, but I am a master of diverting conversation. It’s an old habit I picked up and use, often. “Do you like sea glass? It can’t be common in Silverpine.”

“It wasn’t.” She said her smile small, and I know I have unlocked a door to some beautiful memory she had. “My Father had made my mother a necklace of sea glass. It wasn’t something opulent like other noble ladies had, but, it was beautiful.. She was buried with it.”

There are times I see through her wall, that Gilnean wall of strength and fortitude, and I see the woman inside. Maybe others see this woman as a strong, unmovable force, but I have see the young scared noblewoman. The little girl who was given impossible choices to make and survived them. 

“It sounds lovely... Maybe I can acquire you something of the same make?”

Her eyebrows move slowly as she thinks, what would that mean for us? I have made her a ring once for her protection, but now, a piece, just so she can have a piece? That’s a line and I know we’re reaching something that I have been wanting to ask.

“How long have we known each other Anthion?” Her even saying my name draws up a shiver.

It takes me a moment to calculate it. “A little over a year and a half, why?”

“How long has it been since... we told each other how we felt?”

Oh yes, not even a month since we admitted it that she finally puts together some small pieces. “Less that a month my Dear.”

“What does that mean then?” She put the bottle down and looked up to me. I know we are strange, there is nothing about out relationship that should be ‘normal’, but here we are.

My tongue lightly wets the seal of my lips, not wanting to appear threatening, I slowly hold a hand out to her. “Normally, when people admit such things, and there is nothing to stop them, they normally, court.”

Court. I have hated that word since I was a child. It meant escorts and family having to negotiate over what we can and can’t do. All of those things nobles have to worry about, all those things I thought I left behind when I died. Alle and I are not normal people. She’s a wild beautiful thing, and I am no longer beholden to my races ridged traditions.

“Court, is a very formal term.” Alle said, taking one small step away from me. The distance was easily felt and I wonder if I have stepped over one of her unseen lines. “But the term, boyfriend and girlfriend is... immature. I’m too old to be called a ‘girl’ anymore, and I doubt you want anything as juvinaile as that.”

She didn’t want- My mind had been rubber banded and I felt the world spin around me. “Are you saying, that, you do want to court me?”

The wait was like everything froze. Maybe she didn’t know what she was saying, maybe I was reading between the lines. Her eyes flashed up to me and those lips of hers pulled in as she though.

“Did we not admit we...” She stopped, and I suspect that it is hard to say it again in a moment like this. A flush was rising to her cheeks as he pushed through what she wanted to say. “love one another? That, as you said, means we should, court.”

Oh I adore how strained she is. This is probably the hardest thing she has ever had to do and I am as always, in awed of her resolve. “I had more wanted to inform you what is normal, and... you deserve better than normal.” I stopped facing her head on. “Lady Beithioch,” I said dusting the front of my shirt. “May I court you?” This was the only way to truly play this hand we’ve been dealt. Forever I will be asking her for permission, and I am happy to do that. She deserves to pick, she deserves to have a proper moment of someone asking her this. So again I hold my hand out to her, and this time her warm hand rested over mind.

Her heart beat is easy for me to hear, the thundering shuddering beats were almost all I could hear. How much strength does it take to admit this? There is no way to quantify but I can say the outcome is, magical. “Yes.” She said finally, the strength returning to her voice. “But give we aren’t normal, I never want to be called girlfriend. Your Lady, if you must.”

“My Lady.” I said a smile growing on my face and I know I can’t help but show my teeth. Others would be afraid of my fangs, but this is just one of us smiling at the other. Both of us finding the one thing we’ve been trying to find. Where is our balance, and what makes us, us. “I am more than overjoyed to agree with your terms.”

Lifting her hand up I press my lips to her knuckles and hear a small intake of breath. The cold alone of my lips remind us both of how off we are, but right now, I don’t care. She’s the noblewoman with the heart of the wild in her, and I’m an undead monster who's attempting... some form of life.

“You do know that this means all of our previous contract of friendship needs to be renegotiated.”

If I ever die, this is what I will remember in any future life. This damn woman and her ability to cut me down from a high point and into a place where I know she’s always thinking one step ahead of where I have been plotting.

(( @allebeithloch))

[olympivnshq]

congratulations hanna !  we’re so glad to see someone applied for our boy ACHILLES!  we immediately agreed your application was amazing the second we laid our eyes on it  - and the fact you went above and beyond to research achilles’s lore was just so heartwarming. it was very clear you were passionate about the character in how you’ve captured his voice and essence effortlessly throughout the application. so, that said, we’re happy to have you with us with your first faceclaim choice: NEILS SCHNEIDER!

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ  OOC INFO.

I’m Hanna, a 22-year-old nerd hailing from the GMT +2 timezone. I love coffee and drunk crying because I couldn’t pet a dog once.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ  DEITY  —  GENDER. AGE RANGE.

ACHILLES – MALE. 26 - 29.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ MORTAL NAME. JOB/OCCUPATION. BOROUGH/NEIGHBORHOOD.

Austin Alexander Pelham-Niarchos, though for the sake of simplicity, he goes by Austin Pelham. Actor / Heir. Tribeca, Manhattan.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ AESTHETICS.

deafening cheers of the adoring crowd. letting the waves wash over your feet. a confident posture, challenges welcome. lazy mornings with a lover. biting into fruit and cherishing the taste. gilded crowns. teeth bared possessively when you try to take something that is theirs. flippant eye rolls. the constant presence of paparazzi. bloodstained swords. the rush of adrenaline. a child living entirely in the moment, not caring about the future. cities decimated after a whirlwind of rage and grief. dividing your time between two homes. a silver spoon in his mouth. spite is a great motivation. golden curls that bounce as you run. screams loud enough to frighten the gods themselves. a heart tattoo on the crook of your arm. a grin as sharp as a knife. a blindfold covering your eyes at the critical moment. slender fingers skillfully manipulating the strings of a lyre. boys or girls? boys and girls. bones tainted with exhaustion. black sunglasses, black leather jackets, black jeans. it’s this or that – no time for in-betweens. death is a friend. whatever it takes. the dust in your competitors’ eyes as you run past them with ease. a tight, terrified grip on it so it won’t slip away.

☆ﾟ*・ PLAYLIST.

i. so in god’s son we trust/ ‘cause they know i’m gonna give ‘em what they want. ii. some legends are told; some turn to dust or to gold. but you will remember me, remember me for centuries. iii. if there’s light at the end, it’s just the sun in your eyes. iv. i’m gonna fight ‘em all / a seven nation army couldn’t hold me back. v. you people are mistaken if you think that i’m awake and celebrating anything that i’ve become.

☆ﾟ*・ HOW WOULD YOU PLAY THEM?

Achilles. It would be easy to focus on what is known of Achilles’ and conjure an idea of his personality through his deeds. A legendary child with a destiny that had even the gods themselves trembling. A ruthless and skilled warrior who, instead of being deterred by the crimson covering, was energized every time he was out on the battlefield. A stubborn and prideful man who was unafraid to close his eyes to the suffering of others if it helped him make a point. A fiery inferno of rage on a quest to avenge his beloved’s death. All these traits are a part of Achilles; there is no denying that. However, if he was reduced to only these, it would be a major disservice to his legacy. The aforementioned traits paint a portrait of a godlike creature with very little humanity in them. That is not who Achilles is, though. He was half-god, yes, but he was also mortal and had traits which highlighted this part of him. Achilles was a trusting child, for he had been told from a young age that he would be great and, therefore, had little to nothing to fear. He was a natural performer with an innate power, a way with words, to captivate people and draw them in. He was a fearless leader unafraid to fight beside his men instead of forcing them to fight his battles for him. He was a man in love – and oh, did he love ( & grieve ) deeply. Achilles was a man who made mistakes and, consequently, despite his invulnerability, suffered the horrifying consequences of those actions. Did he deal with those consequences well? That can be contested. But in the end, he did learn from his mistakes, even if it was slightly too late. But that just proves that, despite his demigod status, beneath the expectations of greatness placed on his shoulders at a young age, Achilles was human.

Austin. The memories of Austin Alexander Pelham-Niarchos indicate a story eerily like the original hero. The only son of a US Army General and a Greek heiress to a shipping empire, Austin’s destiny seemed clear from the start – enjoy the opulent life, join the Army, and become the greatest hero this nation had ever seen. This was the path laid out for him; and Austin accepted it with a casual shrug of his shoulders before resuming his daily adventures as Manhattan’s boy king. Some called it arrogance, some called it indifference – but truthfully, that reality felt like a distant dream, years away, so of course a child could not be bothered to focus on it for too long. And so did Austin’s rich kid life – education in the best institutions in the world, money, fancy clothes, fast cars, and a large crowd of adoring sycophants. While he did enjoy the advantages granted to him, he could not shake the feeling in the back of his mind that something, or perhaps someone, was missing. This obstacle, nevertheless, was not powerful enough to complicate his future plans, but as he graduated from Harvard University, one such challenge did arise. She had never before openly objected Austin joining the Army when the time came, but suddenly his mother was vehemently against it. His parents had a major argument over it, yet Austin remained indifferent – this was not, after all, the first time his parents were quarreling. He was even less interested in getting involved when his mother, through her connections, got him his major role on the silver screen. Acting hadn’t been a profession Austin had seriously considered, but it did not take long for him to get swept up in the glamour of it. Specializing in action or war films due to his athleticism and ability to fight, Austin knew he had found his calling. Sure, some people called him a particular personality ( a polished way to call him a stubborn, somewhat single-minded asshole ), but what could they do to him? He has millions of fans screaming his name, he’s Hollywood’s moneymaker even after several years in the business, and he gets the job done in a way no other can. Even now, when he’s on a break after finishing shooting next spring’s major blockbuster film, Austin feels like he’s a god at the dawning of the world.

answer these questions:

1. Are they more likely to stand with the pantheon or against it?: I’d say Achilles is quite indifferent towards the matters of Pantheon. Despite being a demigod himself, he holds no special love for them; this was evident after Patroclus’ death when he willingly defied them in order to avenge his beloved. Gods are, in Achilles’ mind, a messy and dramatic bunch (a bit rich, considering what a drama queen Achilles himself is) and he does not have time for that. He fulfilled his destiny back in Troy; now he just wants to live his best chill life with Patroclus without the interference of the gods.

2. what is their stand on mortals?: Mortals > gods. 100%. Achilles is half-mortal himself, so how could he ever despise them? Furthermore, several things in his life swayed his opinion toward pro-mortal. Firstly, when the quest for glory was his main goal in life, he preferred mortals because they would be the ones responsible for ensuring his legacy would remain alive. To gods, he knew, he’d be just another hero. Mortals, on the other hand, would revere him in the years to come. Secondly, Achilles wouldn’t want to live forever without Patroclus (and there’s basically no way for Patroclus to become a god), so that’s another reason why he would rather stand with the humanity than the gods.

☆ﾟ*・ SAMPLE PARA (OPTIONAL)

              he has barely set a foot inside the bar; his hand still rests on the door, holding it open. not everyone within the establishment, but already austin can sense that, within a few seconds, all the attention will be on him. an arrogant observation, perhaps, but a truthful one as well. readying himself for this encounter, his lips twist into his trademark smile ( a cheshire cat, and a veil of secrets all in one ) mere second before he lets go of the door. it clicks closed behind him and, as if compelled by the sound, everyone’s heads turn toward him. the heir observes their wide eyes, their not-so-subtle whispers for a moment ( a cheap source of amusement ) before he strides toward the bar with purposeful steps. with graceful movements, he hops on to a bar stool with ease and lifts his hand to catch the attention of a bartender. “i’d like to have—,” austin considers. his expression turns serious before an idea hits him. he glances at the glass of the person next to him, “— whatever they’re having.” the bartender nods and as they leave to make him his drink, austin shifts so that he’s facing the person whose drink idea he just borrowed. “aren’t you going to tell me what exactly i’ll be drinking?”

☆ﾟ*・ ANYTHING ELSE?

Here’s my pinterest board!

[flokidokie]

Eyes as Black as Coal

Here’s the dishonored one shot I promised! Took a bit longer to translate and please if you find any mistakes tell me! Sometimes I write and write and forget that some idioms we have aren’t a thing in English and it ends sounding strange. So... yeah... have fun! :D

Eyes as Black as Coal

The void was a cold and dreary place. The boy knew that.

Since he woke up that night, not seeing the familiar streets of his hometown but finding himself in the endless width of the void instead, the freezing grasp of the place would not release him.

He knew about the legends around this place and it's marked ones. A handful of people wearing his mark and wandering through a world no mortal would enter before their death. People with mighty powers, who almost always had to pay a terrible price for them.

The people feard him, the outsider. The man with eyes as black as coal.

He met him. Almost.

His trip into the void had found a sudden end, when this pair of eyes had spotted him. Since then he didn't got sucked into that strange world, where everything was so different from what he knew.

The boy suspected that his stay in the void had been everything but intentional. Different than the numerous priests, working in secret while being not half as hidden as they thought, he didn't try to attract his attention. There were shrines to honor him all around the town, undetected in abondoned buildings and hidden blind alleys. The citizens knew that every kind of ritual act in his name was prohibited and a punishable offense but they didn't care much. The shrines outlasted.

One of these shrines was located in an old abondoned factory. The boy could hear the subtle song of the whalebones wherever he went.The shrine had stood there since he remembered. One day he and his mother had discovered it on their way home. Strange voices seemed to come from the unprofessional carpentered wooden construct and his first impulse had been to draw near, to reach out and check if the dull humming could be felt. But his mother had pulled him back quickly and called the wardens to report the shrine as soon as they got home.

Less than two weeks after that the shrine was rebuild at the very same place.

This procedure has continued the same way since then. Once the shrine was removed it never took more than two weeks until it would be consecrated again. But the boy hadn't visited it once.

He didn't had a reason to. The cult of the outsider was prohibited and his mother had done her best to keep him away from social marginal groups. And up until now he hadn't had any connection to the cryptic god.

But now things were different.

How do they say? Once you see something you cannot  simply unsee it.

The legends told about an outsider, who was above time and space, allknowing and ever so neutral. There was nothing unknown to him, neither the future, that would happen, nor the future that might be happening under certain circumstances. And still, when the black eyes of the leviathan spotted him in the void they had shown a certain level of surprise.

Since this night the boy had return to the shrine. Not intentional of course; his feet had brought him back to it over and over again these days, without his head meaning to. Sometimes he walked so mindlessly on his way home, that he had to bump painfully again the wooden boards of the shrine to see where his feet had lead him again.

Considering that one could hear the whalebone runes well enough until his homeplace, one could have thought that the noises would be much stronger directly in front of the shrine. But even here the deep humming stayed an ambient noise, that had a more relaxed effect than it should have had.

But as much as it itched him to reach for the runes he never dared to.

It was a shrine, a holy place, no matter to whom it belonged to. To take sacrificed items from there seemed like blasphemy to him, especially since he didn't even had a use for them. In fact had he always wondered what the exact use of the rune artifacts was.

Some of the cult members sacrificed food and wine, arranged carefully on plates of copper. Others brought jewellery and precious frippery. All of this seemed far more useful to the boy than a few old whale bones. But what did he knew about the needs of a god in a world full of nothing. Nothing but coldness and desolation.

He remembered clearly the frosty temperature in the void. He had only stayed for a short time but it had cost him ages to warm up again after he had left. He didn't want to imagine how bad it was for the outsider.

The boy blinked and made a choice.

In the dark of the night he sneaked through the streets, from shadow to shadow, and tried to avoid every other person that perhaps was strolling through the night. He arrived unseen at the old factory and slipped through a small opening into the run-down building.

A little further in the back of the hall under a half-collapsed staircase was the shrine. Opulent panels of blue fabric where attached in between the niche and next to the purple glow of the lamps the whole construct only appeared more out of place.

The boy came slowly closer. Since the last time he visited someone had brought a new lamp and if he wasn't mistaken there was one of the rune artifacts missing. But the new empty place on the shrine was only convinient. Without a word he put the padded blanked he brought from home onto the wodden surface and stepped back. A few moments passed. Nothing happened.

He didn't knew what he was waiting for. Not that he had waited for some kind of reaction. Also there were so many shrines around the town that the outsider impossibly would say thanks in person at every single one of them.

Or he just prefered the old whalebones.

Slowly the boy made his way home, still avoiding to be seen by anyone. No soul took notice of his ramble, only one pair of eyes he could not escape.

A pair of eyes as black as coal.

[chvrchesrp]

Welcome to CHVRCHES’ fifth event!

This event is our second missive event, which means a little bit of what happens tonight will be assigned to your muse. This event is a finale of the “Pestilence Chapter” and will be served to you in two parts. For the first part, your muse has been assigned a specific thread topic to explore. It’s up to you to delve into the interaction! 

For now, we ask that for this night, you explore just this assigned thread—and not to make more threads during the time of the Escape Room. (There’s more to be revealed; after Part 2 drops, you can make your own independent threads.) You can, however, make threads and starters before the clock starts at your Escape Room location if you wish.

The date stamp for the event is Thursday, January 26th, for timeline purposes (though you aren’t restricted to beginning threads tomorrow, of course, you can even begin them today). Assignments are considered game canon, whether or not you explore them deeply. If you have an issue with an assignment, let an Admin know! For after, please do not write past January 26th for any thread yet—the drop of Part 2 might affect your muse’s future outlook. 

Escape Rooms are a beloved past time for adrenaline junkies, gamers, team-builders, and competitive folks of all sorts. The premise is that you are shown to a room and then locked inside of it; within are a series of puzzles you have to figure out as a team in order to get released from the room. You must do this within one hour or your team fails the room. (You’re released, but you fail and take a shameful photo - you are the weakest link, goodbye.)

Escape Rooms are meant to foster trust, connection, cooperation, and critical thinking. Meant to.

ROOM ONE: MURDER MYSTERY INC.

“Love is clockworks, and it's cold steel, fingers too numb to feel, squeeze the handle, blow out the candle—blindness.”

After arriving at the Escape Room headquarters, you are ushered into a sleek black limousine; you are asked to put all of your cellphones in a velvet black bag, which will be returned to you at the end. After the 8 people in your party are all settled in, 1920s music filters through the stereo system, grainy and warbled and nostalgic. A champagne aperitif is offered to you, if you dare to drink it. The car smells of polished leather and money—the actual scent of money, as if a great amount of it had been there recently.

You are driven for about fifteen minutes: do you drink? do you laugh? do you speak? Suddenly, the car screeches to a halt, hitting the breaks hard. The lights in the limo go dark and the music stops playing. And then one by one, each of you is led from the limousine. When it’s your turn to exit the limo, you step outside and find a dark bag placed immediately over your head and your hands bound in front by lead-rope: and you are led, stepping on concrete toward somewhere else. You hear door open, and you are pushed inside, then your hands unbound. You can remove the bag from your head.

The rest of your team is there. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, you can see a room dazzled with 1920s opulence. There is even a chandelier hanging over a running fountain—it’s ridiculous in its mockery, it’s entreatment. You find there is a stranger in your midst: a ninth person, who welcomes you to his humble home. Then, the lights flash, and he screams, and the actor lies on the floor, ‘dead,’ the echo of a gunshot hanging in the air like a question mark as blood pools around him.

The clock starts and you must all discover who has ‘killed’ your generous host—before that person ‘kills’ you for witnessing! Search the room, leave no painting hung, no chair upright, no drawer unopened—

Assignments:

Shibah/Donato: Shibah naturally begins by observing the paintings on the wall—they seem out of place for a 1920s theme. She identifies them as The Triptych of the Temptation of St. Anthony, but realizes they are out of order. Near by, Donato has found a small lock that requires a 3-number code to open a drawer in a stately foyer desk. They must work together to crack the code—inadvertently drawing them into a required long-awaited reunion neither of them would prefer to have right now. Conflict emerges and it isn’t long before the two are full of rage and angst.

Belial/Babylon: Babylon notices eggs hiding all around the room—golden-painted eggs, silver-painted eggs, rhinestone-covered eggs. Collecting a few, she realizes by shaking them that there might be something inside, so she breaks them open, revealing the following strands of paper:

without one friend, alone

I cannot come down

world without end. Below me

young lovers Tread the sweet ground—

in my purity

But I am God—

Belial is studying the book case, noticing that among the many authors there, almost all of the books look faded and worn except one, which peeks out slightly. It’s marked as a book of poems. Perhaps if they can determine which poem Babylon found, they could find another clue on its page. That is, if they could cooperate—it seems Babylon hasn’t yet had the opportunity to confront Belial for “damaging” Dom. Belial engages in her argument, but has no trouble reminding her that he’s her boss.

Maria/Isadora: Maria turns over a heavy, ornate sitting chair to find that the base of the seat is hollow and that there is a latch she can undo; she finds a series of love letters from the now-deceased host to a woman named Chanterelle, who appears to have been a singer at a jazz club. For all of the letters, there are no post marks, no envelopes. Were they never sent? Some random letters are in all caps, and if she arranges them in order of date written, it spells out:  C H E C K T H E D R A I N. Maria shouts to Isadora, who has been studying the fountain. Isadora is less than interested in helping Maria, but for the sake of the task waves Maria over when she realizes there’s a key in the drain of one of the shallow trays. They have to figure out how to get it—but Isadora can’t help letting drop that she knows the cure exists.

Raziel/Cassiel: Cassiel finds a piece of old film in a jewelry dish that has a few frames, seeing what appears to be a woman singing at her own wedding. The man she marries is not the now-deceased host. She wonders what it could mean, but Raziel swoops in with a film reel he found taped under the desk that holds Donato’s drawer. Raziel and Cassiel must splice together the footage to discover the ‘end’ of the story—except Cassiel doesn’t even think Raziel can do that right, so how can he possibly do anything in Heaven right? Raziel obviously spats back, saying Shibah has been absent and done nothing to earn the throne. That if she wants to be God so badly, she should act like it.

ROOM TWO: JEKYLL AND HYDE.

“Say hello to something scary, the monster in your bed, just give in and you won’t be sorry, welcome to my other side.”

After arriving at the Escape Room headquarters, you are shown through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Your party winds down a sterile looking white concrete hall, fluorescent panel lights above, flickering. Your shoes squeak and squick as you walk; even the floors seem too clean. You even feel a weird urge to not touch the walls. At the end of the hall is another door with the glass of its window frosted over: you’re shown through that, too. On the other side is the outdoors, actually: you can see a dirt driveway with haphazard gravel and unkempt, half-brown grasses. Lined up are 3 stately town cars, each pristine and white, freshly washed.

Each town car has a driver with white gloves, opening the door for your party. Three folks in the first two, two in the last. The car door is shut behind you and, as the engines revv to life, the windows of the car and a divider between you and the driver goes up—pitch black and opaque. You can no longer see where you’re going, but you’re comfortable enough. In what feels like forever—or is it only ten minutes?—you finally park and the car doors open. So rushed you can barely take in the outside, you are brought into what looks like a small house, and then down a flight of stairs. Your party is put into what would be a basement, the door behind you locked.

The basement itself is hardly grotesque: rather, it, too, is very stately. It looks instead like an office. There is a heavy oak desk with a green lamp and a laptop on it, an expensive throw rug, an assortment of pads and papers, a pad for prescriptions. Chairs opposite it, as if to invite guests or consultations. Locked pristine white metal medicine cabinets, a wall with shelves of scientific books, specimen jars carefully arranged and labeled. The floor is interesting: under the rug, there is a pattern of alternating colour tiles, grey and white, almost resembling a checkerboard.

The clock starts and you must figure out how to escape the basement, or else be charged for trespassing on Dr. Jekyll’s property! Search the room, leave no cabinet locked, no rug arranged, no jar unturned—

Assignments:

Abaddon/Olivia: In an almost metaphor moment, Abaddon discovers that the tall Grandfather clock in the room has no hands. Even this broken clock can’t be right twice a day—and she’s running out of time. In a fit dissonance, she overturns the clock and breaks it. From the loudspeaker comes one of the managers: “Please do not break any items in the room that do not easily break themselves.” Abaddon curses under her breath: seemed easily broken to her. Olivia, by a cabinet requiring a 4-number code lock, tries to distract Abaddon into helping, thinking maybe the clock and the nearby cabinet are related. How could the clock help solve the code? To tempt Abaddon into being helpful, Olivia tries to create a rapport, and soon the two enter into a muffled, whispered conversation about trading secrets as they try different number combinations. Olivia reveals to Abaddon that she thinks she might really be possessed this time—Abaddon gives her secret: back in August, during the chaos, she ripped off Gabriel’s wings without authorization.

Kiara/Jairus: Jairus has gone to studying the laptop; when he touched the trackpad, the computer asks for a Password. He types in a few attempts, but nothing comes of it; in fact, he has one try left before the computer gets entirely locked. Kiara notices his struggle and comes over to brainstorm and observe: she notices the keyboard, which seems unusual. After studying it a moment, she realizes she must have the Password—but can’t help jabbing Jairus over it. She, a young girl, figured out the answer when a hundreds-year-old man couldn’t. It sounds shakily familiar to their current situation... as she wryly types in the password that unlocks the computer (can you figure it out?), she throws out how hard it must be to have a young girl finding easy answers to all of his problems: the cure and the password both. How long can Jairus keep his calm when she’s hitting his rawest nerves?

Adele/Crowley: Adele is studying the book case, trying to see if anything seems particularly out of place. After shuffling through some of the books, she finds no discerning markers, no torn pages, no handwriting, nothing dog-eared. She puts each book back and tries for another: methodical, thorough. Crowley sees her doing this and laughs at her. Crowley does not like a sheep who bends over backwards, who does things as expected, so she proceeds to throw barbs at Adele as she looks. Adele is not really sure how to deal with someone not liking her, even every demon and sinner she has ever met does. Adele quips back that at least she’s trying—to help, to solve the puzzle, anything, trying—and all Crowley does is nothing. Glowering, Crowley leans on the bookcase as they argue... only to find the bookcase moves. Swinging open the book case like a door, another, heavier door is revealed—but there seems NO visible way to open it.

Elijah/Ethan: Elijah is studying the small, framed medical diagrams on the wall. He sees there are four and wonders if the order of them might be some kind of code or combination—each one is labeled strangely: H7, A4, D5, E2. He can’t seem to locate anything that might use and 8-digit code—none of the drawers have locks or combinations, none of the locked cabinets need that many. He shouts to the room for help, thinking he has something, just not sure what. Ethan—used to working for what he gets—isn’t adverse to helping. But when he starts, Elijah just sits back and watches, waiting. It starts a contentious argument between them, where Ethan says that all Elijah wants is an easy life of fame and hasn’t worked for anything in his life—and Elijah gets defensive and says he doesn’t know him. Meanwhile, Ethan does figure out that removing the throw rug reveals the floor—which looks just like a chess board. The edges are even marked 1-8 and A-H. Maybe if each person in the party stands in one of the designated squares... something will happen.

ROOM THREE: ZOMBIE OUTBREAK.

“Don't know what I'm after but the pressure driving me insane, searching for a different ride, had a funny feeling I can't hide, do the zombie stomp.”

After arriving at the Escape Room headquarters and checking in, you are sent directly right back out the door you came in. Out front is a school bus, yellow and beat-up looking, with spray paint all over it. It says things like “Turn back now!” and “QUARANTINE” and “Don’t open, dead inside.” Of course, you go inside. There’s no driver that you can see, but the thing can’t possibly be automated, so you just sit on the empty bus and wait as the rest of your party shuffles in. After everyone is seated, suddenly, each of you feel hands on your feet, anchoring you to the ground by the ankles—as you look down, a black cloth is placed over your head and zip-tied on. You can breathe, but the effect is obviously jarring and you can’t get it off.

The ride is a bumpy one, but any childhood notions of yelling ‘drive it off a cliff’ or similar to increase the ‘fun’ bumps of the ride have all but left your mind. You keep reminding yourself that of course, none of this is real, and maybe you even think some of it is hokey, but it’s hard not to get caught up as your body’s natural response is already flooding your mind with adrenaline and other survival neurochemicals. The bus slows to a snail’s pace, almost to the point where you think you’re not moving any more, and then begins to shake left and right, as if trying to be toppled over by forces you can’t see. Slowly, you start to feel tipped, and then suddenly righted, jarring. There’s a sound of the zip-ties being clipped off. Immediately, you take off your bag.

When you can see, the lights on the bus are all flickering, but you see no people except those in your party—no driver, no one to have tied the bags, no one to have held the feet, no one to have jostled your bus. You all get out, a little worse for wear, and head to what looks like a small warehouse. Entering, it’s all one room. You get to look around for about 3 minutes with the warehouse door still open. There’s an actor on the floor with his ‘guts’ ripped out, fake blood pouring from his entrails, appearing dead, a chain attaching him to the wall. There are 2 other, empty chains. There are 4 flashlights in various places in the room—4 too few. As you start to dart for the nearest one, the door slams behind you and locks and all of the lights go out. You’re in total darkness.

The bright, lit-up digital clock starts and you must figure out how to escape the warehouse, or else become zombie food! Search the room, leave no crate unopened, no shelf ignored, no stomach untested—

Assignments: (For clarity, those with flashlights are: Josh, Naomi, Dom, and Zoe.)

Josh/Magda: Magda immediately disregards the flashlight and heads for what she knows has to be a clue: she shoves her hands into the ‘stomach’ of the dead man. Triumphantly, she comes up with a key, but not what it goes to. Josh meets her with a flashlight, just in time for them both to jump back: where there once was an empty chain, now there is a living zombie trying to attack. They back away from the area and advise everyone else to do the same—but the zombie gains more chain (and more range to attack) the longer they’re in the room. Josh searches for something to put the key in among the warehouse crates and calls her reckless—that he should have done that, because if it was real, he’d be safer. She argues she isn’t fragile and has been through a lot herself—even lets drop she’s been sleeping with Crowley. How does that make him feel?

Satan/Naomi: Naomi, given her history, goes immediately for the flashlight. She starts to examine the shelves and begins to figure out that some boxes are marked with red dots. She starts to collect the boxes of varying sizes; they’re taped so well they can’t be opened by manual strength. Satan sees her struggling and goes to try himself, to the same lack of avail. This, of course, immediately gets under his skin: he can’t be foiled by boxes. Making them an unlikely team, the two bicker constantly as they try to figure out the puzzle—Satan making cruel and degrading remarks, Naomi biting back, but Satan’s blood starts to boil under the surface. By the time they find an empty shelf with red dots marked 1-6, it’s unsure if they can figure out the order without one of them snapping.

Renee/Dom: Renee and Dom both headed for the same flashlight and immediately start fighting. Renee, preferring to retain class and composure, lets him keep the flashlight, but not before she starts artfully picking him apart for his poor attempt to take her Church from her. How does Dom hold up under her acute interrogation? Perhaps in a moment of deflection or denial, Dom finds a lone object out on a crate: a skull, but one of those fake, glittery Halloween ones clearly not meant to resemble a human. It’s overt in its nonconformity, which means it’s a clue. Meanwhile, Renee notices a scale that had a small velvet bag on it—in front, instructions read that removing the bag without placing equal weight will detonate the warehouse. Perhaps they can solve this together, if they can stop tearing each other apart.

Zoe/Noah: Zoe gets one of the flashlights while Noah disregards and immediately gets to searching well away from the zombie. He finds a crate that seems to have a knocking coming from it. A knock sounds once, at even intervals, and figures the crate must mean something. Zoe, feeling the stress of everyone fighting about God and particularly creeped out that she's locked in a small room with Satan, tries to get Noah on her side. It does not go as planned. She flashes light on the box and sees there’s a sheet outlining Morse code. If they can figure out what code to ‘knock’ back to the box, perhaps it will open—if they can focus on the task and stop having an intense debate, that is.

Enjoy, darlings!!

[caeliri]

Preparations

A sea of letters lay on her desk, wrist deep and in dire need of tending. 

Dawn came and went in a whisper of satin and silk, her nightgown surrendered to the floor of her suite and exchanged for slacks and a loose fitting shirt made without the same intention for enticement as her nightwear. At least she had nowhere to be today; of late, her days were spent in constant motion, bounding between Dalaran, the Dawnspire, and the quiet village of Summerglen - the province which the Archon bequeathed to her. The trips were expensive and exhausting, the effort spent in transcending space with magic and riding back and forth from one place to the other wearing her thin and leaving little time for all else save crashing into her sheets come midnight and curling against whatever warmth she’d invited for the night. All carnal desires in her had been stilled of late, though they still roved beneath the surface, waiting for the fire of her passions to ignite again - perhaps when there was less work to do.

Thus far, her efforts in Summerglen had been few - she’d ordered work to begin on the repairs to the manse of Hallowhearth, which would one day be her home, and presently she was grappling with where else to spend the funds allotted to her province. To her, the issues Summerglen faced seemed small compared to the problems of the Sunguard; the stakes were not so high, not perched precariously on the precipice between life and death. Simple province, simple problems; but to the people of Summerglen, those simple problems were their world. The wealth of the harvest or the lay of the street, every aspect of their village and the lands belonging to them affected the other an affected them in turn.

Summerglen was a lesson in practicality; something the young Dame lacked, for all her ideals and endless elysian dreams. It would have been easier to decide, she knew, were she more a part of their community, but she had no desire to rush the repairs to the great estate house, not when Shallowbrook was home. Midway through a response to a Request for Aid written to the Dawnmenders, Caeliri paused, her pen hovering just above the surface of her parchment. Hallowhearth had all the opulence of the Evergrove, it’s design inspired by the open, columned walls and sheer curtains of the Dreaming Gardens, it’s stained glass windows - now shattered - once bearing landmarks of the not-so-distant land. It was beautiful and grand in it’s own right, smaller than Shallowbrook, than Shael’thas Lair, than even Embertree Court, but it was neither its size nor it’s grandeur that failed to make it feel like home.

Home was where her heart was, and her heart was --

Wrists aching, she rubbed the bony bulge as she set the response aside in favor of something that did not require writing. Below the request sat her Last Will and Testament, already written, only in need of review. Sea-green eyes swept across the script penned on the paper before her, one of many; the Archon commanded the Sunguard to have their affairs in order, and while Caeliri had no fortune - that was in her hands, her inheritance remained with Cere’thien, untouchable save by request, until her first century - to her name, she had many personal effects, and each now had a home at the time of her demise. It needed notarizing still, and soon - come the end of the week she’d lead the Dawnmenders down into the Fal’dorei tunnels, and though they went with escort, there was always the fear that they would not return.

Night’s ago, the Ranger-Captain had shown the same apprehension - she remembered the tightness of his smile, all false and festering with fear in the arcane lights of Dalaran’s dark night. No matter how much she’d fiddled with his fingers and assured him she’d never be laid low again, they both knew the truth - neither of them could make that promise, not with any honesty.

Reaching forward, Caeliri seized the handle of the enchanted tea cup that sat beside the letter, a gift from the Greenseer months ago, filled with coffee - not tea. She hated tea. Nose crinkling against the waft of strong scent, she sipped, and sipped, and sipped again, hoping the cinnamon and hazelnut drink would drive off the hungry hold of sleep.

Drawing in a deep breath, she cast her eyes across the room, to where Grace sat perched on the gilded gift Lirelle had given her. Preening, the phoenix paid Caeliri little mind, ignorant to the fact she’d been promised away to a person she might have considered the wrong one - long before the Archon’s command, she’d promised Grace would return to Cere’thien at the time of her death. Caeliri was sure Grace would have protest, would think her light and warmth was better served with the Captain who occupied the suite beside hers, and in some regards Caeliri was sure it would have been better, but… she was bound to her promises; even if that promise was not to fall in combat.

Shuffling through the responses, an envelope, still sealed shut, slipped out from amongst the opened letters, and Caeliri’s throat vibrated with a plaintive groan. A letter from Summerglen, another problem, no doubt; she drew the letter opener to her, gripping it’s filigreed hilt in hand and slipped it beneath the the seal of her Captain of the Guard, popping the letter open for perusal;

Dame Dawnsworn,

I fear if I write you with more foul news you’ll soon see me fired; for that, I am eternally sorry. This letter comes to make you aware that all work on repairs to the manse of Hallowhearth has been paused, yet again. As before, the workers cite the spirits that dwell within as the cause of their discomfort and unwillingness to work, though I’m afraid the situation has escalated since last you came to Summerglen.

One of the workers was assaulted by the spectres that dwell within the halls of your future home, and remains, at present, on bedrest at The Hungry Hound, being tended by my wife, Haela Heartblossom. He is recovery well, his wounds overall minor in the end - by the account of the workers sent to repair the stonework within, they fell under siege from dinner ware. Whether their memories are sound or strained by terror, on truth remains; whatever struck the craftsman barely missed his temple, and had it been a few inches further forward, I would be penning a request for recompense for his family.

My update does not end here; with how small our province is, news travels fast, as I’m sure you can imagine, and after this last occurrence I can find no one else willing to work on the repairs to Hallowhearth, not until the haunting has been handled. It seems your stay abroad will continue until the halls can be purged of these poltergeists.

There is one other matter I wish to address. Though I’ve taken the steps to enact your plan and open the issue of where funds should be spent in your first act as Dame - either in arming the troops that Summerglen has to offer, or disrupting their dailies lives by repaving the many, many ruined roads in an out of the province - to vote amongst the residents, I implore you, once more, to reconsider. While your wish to glean the want of those who, at present, call Summerglen home is noble-hearted, I believe it unwise. Your first act as Dame will set the tone for the remainder of your governance, and though you may wish to err on the side of democracy, know that to carry forth along this avenue may cause your allies, enemies, and even those you seek to lead to view you as weak-willed and pliable.

Having met you, my Dame, you’ll excuse my impertinence as I assure you are not weak-willed, but there is no doubt you are pliant - but that is not the sort of woman you want to be, if you intend to step into the shadow-steeped dance of politics. As it stands, you may be in the good graces of all you know, but where you stand and whose favor you hold changes as rapidly and viciously as the tides, and for all your charms, there are some things that can not be compelled by a sweet smile and a gentle touch.

Neither choice comes without it’s own difficulties and without it’s own detractors, but I implore you; choose. Do not yield your power so swiftly.

I await your next visit to Summerglen, and am eager to hear your intentions for how to proceed with preparing Hallowhearth for your residency. I doubt I need remind you that a province is best governed from the ground it’s built upon. Make haste, my Dame - do not let desire pull you from your duties.

Your faithful servant, Liadove Winterthorn

The last made her lip curl in a way unbefitting her gentle face; what did he know of her desires, or her commitment to duty? You know what he knows, her thought proclaimed, and she found them true; she felt only relief that the repairs were stalled once more. It meant more days, more weeks, more months in Shallowbrook, with her best friend, who needed her as much as she needed him. Drawing the letter to her lips, she held it firm, an almost-kiss, an thankful act. The rest, she would not sway on - whether the roads would be ripped down to their roots and repaved with fresh stones, interrupting the daily lives of those beneath her charge until their completion, or their near hundred standing soldiers would be better armed and stood at the ready for the Archon’s - no, Lord Truefeather, in all non-Sunguard matters - eventual command would be up to the citizens of Summerglen. For this, their fate lay in their hands; as it should have been. Who was she, to know better than them, where their futures should lay?

A thought occurred to her, and Caeliri threw herself against the back of her chair so fiercely it rocked onto it’s hind legs; the room was filled with the sound of her long, loud, fluttering groan. There were supplies needed for the Dawnmenders who would follow her down into the tunnels of Falanaar - special gloves and bags made for collecting sticky webs, and enchanted to keep them safe from the wild, sparking energies that lay latent in their lengths. Special supplies required special requisition forms, which required both more paperwork and for her to waltz her perky ass through the city to actually purchase what was needed. Silence settled into her room, and for a moment, the ever energetic mender felt utterly spent, that effervescent glow that kept her going against all odds at last relenting to inertia. Head hung over the back of her chair, Caeliri stared at the ceiling, eyes set on the blue-white light of an arcane fixture above, until it’s light blurred into a perfect halo across the flat expanse and made her eyes ache.

Rising from her desk, Caeliri moved through the ever open double doors to her bedroom into her sitting room, to the door where her boots and bag lay at the ready. Shoving her feet into her boots, she bounced on one foot - then the other - then slung her bag up over her shoulder and out the door she went.

So much for having nowhere to be today; a Dame and Dawnward did not know the meaning of ‘a day off’.

@felthier | @thesunguardmg | @lissanaria | @forever-afk

[dippedanddripped]

Since childhood, fashion has always given me joy. It has allowed me to present myself to the world as the person I am and strive to be, irrespective of the physical limitations of my disability. But in the five years since severe illness forced me to use a mobility scooter to get around, online retailers have become my primary access to new trends, owing to poor accessibility on my local high street. Recently, I heard about a disability charity’s campaign to improve shop access and wondered whether navigating luxury fashion stores on four wheels would be any less challenging. It seemed logical that designer labels, which often shell out millions to create opulent showrooms, would invest in basic equipment for access. So I ventured into Mayfair – one of London’s most expensive areas to shop – to explore the AW17 collections up close.

From the moment I rode out on to New Bond Street, I was beset by obstacles. It started with attempting to enter a designer store with a stepped entrance, then performing a red-faced U-turn outside because sales staff couldn’t provide a ramp. As I continued around Mayfair, I discovered boutique after boutique with stepped entrances and no access ramps. Often staff delivered this information with an expression of bewilderment as to why anyone would require one, and nearly half of the shops I visited said they didn’t have lifts to access upper floors.

Outside one store, however, I experienced the other extreme. A trio of sales staff emerged to offer assistance, WhatsApp numbers (“should you need any help in the future”) and a ramp, ceremoniously placed to help me up the vertiginous steps.

Instead of having the freedom to choose where I shopped, these vastly different attitudes predetermined which labels I can and cannot wear.

In July, We Are Purple began its campaign, Help Me Spend My Money, to raise awareness of the obstacles facing disabled shoppers and promote disability awareness training for retail staff. Purple’s Mark Flint explains that the initiative aims to “transform thinking” and “illustrate that becoming disability-friendly is not just morally right, but makes complete business sense”. I ask whether the campaign has had any interest from luxury fashion retailers. Flint stresses that it remains in its early stages and they are “having conversations” with a number of brands. It’s not exactly a resounding yes.

Britain’s 11.9 million disabled people are acknowledged to have a spending power of £80bn. Known as the purple pound, it represents the largest untapped consumer market. A recent study by the Extra Costs Commission has found that 75% of disabled customers have left a shop because of poor service or access, and that British companies risk losing £420m a week in sales. These challenges are not unique to luxury shopping, and are a daily occurrence on high streets and in shopping centres across the country. “Recently, I was trying to help my little sister buy a dress for a dance,” says Quin, a 19-year-old wheelchair user from Canterbury, “but all the shops had items too close together for me to navigate. I was forced to sit by the door and watch as my sister walked around. It seems as though there’s an attitude that disabled people would never come in. We need and want things just the same as abled people.”

Angie, a 39-year-old with epilepsy and arthritis from Warwickshire, says that sales assistants are rude and unaccommodating towards her when she struggles to move around the shop floor on crutches. “It’s often an anxious experience, as you don’t know how you will be treated by shop staff, and, when people tend to be negative rather than helpful, it’s easier not to go out and shop online [instead]”.

Lily, a 22-year-old from south-east England, doesn’t use any aids such as a wheelchair, so it’s not always clear she has a disability. “When I’m at the till and struggling to get money out because my left hand doesn’t work as well as my right, I feel embarrassed. I usually apologise even if I know I shouldn’t.” She now looks at every shop she visits to check it has adequate provision for disabled customers. If not, she will email the company or speak to them on social media.

My impossible shopping trip underlined the radical disconnect between the real-life experiences of disabled shoppers and the fashion industry’s very visible fascination with inclusion. Diversity is the hashtag du jour in fashion circles, with many designers talking fluently about their respect for a breadth of cultures and life experiences, and using models who do not conform to the tall, slim, white, cisgender, able-bodied archetype.

Edward Enninful, British Vogue’s new editor, has expressed frustration with the industry’s reluctance to create sustainable changes in reflecting the diverse identities of its consumers. His principles on ethnic diversity – “you put one model in a show or in an ad campaign, that doesn’t solve the problem”– also apply to disability representation. Although some designers have embraced disability models – most notably Alexander McQueen in the late 90s – the fact remains that, when disabled customers are prohibited from shopping, due to stairs, lack of seating or insufficient sales support, it is hard not to draw the conclusion that the catwalk trend for disabled models is nothing more than that. It is the metaphorical millennial pink, soon to be consigned to the back of our closets.

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Debate surrounding the use of disabled models was reignited at Teatum Jones’s London fashion week show earlier this year, as Kelly Knox emerged on to the catwalk in a rust-hued dress knotted at the elbow to silhouette her amputated lower arm. The label’s AW17 collection presented disability models as emblems of a backlash against ideas of the perfect form: “Why do we look at ourselves in the mirror and see ugly instead of valuable? What are you looking at?” bellowed the disabled motivational speaker Nick Vujičić on the soundtrack. After reading reports describing the show as a “spectacle” and “attention-grabbing”, I approached Catherine Teatum and Rob Jones to find out whether their interest in the disabled body ran deeper than aesthetics, and found both to have a positive understanding of the practical issues affecting disabled shoppers.

In a joint statement, they say that retail accessibility should be a democratic experience: “Imagine telling a group of people that they were not allowed into your retail space because you hadn’t thought it through in the design stage? Or because you simply forgot about them or didn’t consider their spending power? You’d feel pretty awful, and so would they.” They observed that, although many designers strategically position themselves as radical: “when a fashion audience is actually faced with the reality of physical difference, there is sometimes tendency to feel uncomfortable”.While the designers don’t believe luxury brands are actively disengaging disabled shoppers, they agree that more can be done and see e-commerce as having a wealth of applications for the disabled and able bodied alike: “This should be a conversation about inclusivity, after all.”

Why aren't more big brands designing clothes for people with disabilities?

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One of the most high-profile disabled models, Jillian Mercado, a 28-year-old with spastic muscular dystrophy, has starred in campaigns for Diesel and Beyoncé. Mercado takes a hardline approach to accessibility. She says “excluding a community is unacceptable and should be fixed as soon as possible.” Mercado is all too familiar with the difficulties of negotiating stepped entrances, hard-to-reach clothing rails and cramped changing rooms. She has confronted designers about their shop layouts, with some success – several have redesigned their entrances or provided ramps. “Staying silent on accessibility and inclusion is not something I can live with,” she says.

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Helen Drury was employed by the disability minister as “sector champion for retail” earlier this year to tackle the issues disabled people face as consumers. She says old buildings are part of the problem, with 40% of total UK building stock dating to before 1970, but admits that “if you look at public buildings, museums and theatres, there are opportunities for retro-fitting lifts and ramps”. She lists new initiatives, such as giving shops autism-friendly training, which she hopes will reduce social isolation for the disabled community. However, such schemes remain voluntary, making them difficult to regulate, monitor and implement.

Of all the boutiques I visited in Mayfair, none stated access policies on their websites. Would there be stairs? How many? Was there a lift inside? It was the same on arrival, with no signage indicating access arrangements. Such information would encourage people to visit shops they previously assumed were inaccessible.

For anyone with a disability, resolving access issues before they occur is a part of everyday life. I eventually abandoned my shopping trip and headed on to the rainy street, armed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of AW17 trends but clueless about how to gain physical access to them.