#in addition blackening armor was just a thing people did for ages

[the-punforgiven]

Idk where I remember reading it but I remember reading somewhere that black knights were a specific class of knight who'd paint over their armor and coat of arms to signify they no longer served a king or lord and while I cannot find any evidence of that being actually true, I'd be lying if I said that idea didn't kind of fuck tbh

[realityhelixcreates]

Dance of The Spheres Chapter 1: Terran Tarantella

Chapters: 1/?

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, implied murder

Characters: Loki(Marvel), Heimdall(Marvel)

Additional Tags:  Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:   

“I see a bad moon a-rising

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today”

                       Creedence Clearwater Revival

A small group of men, and one woman gathered in a small room; the kind that seemed like a storage closet from the outside, the kind that had cameras installed, but not functioning. Beyond this room, the basic hustle of running a government rushed on, but within it, all heads were turned to a handful of hand written documents scattered over the table.

“And you're absolutely sure this translation is correct?” One of them asked.

“Yes.” The woman said. “Well, as much as I can be. Old Norse is a contentious language, but this is written so much more clearly than most of our primary sources.” She gestured to the letter in question, written in gold ink on purple parchment. It was a museum quality piece of work, and it would likely never see the inside of one. Its contents were just too incriminating. Especially since the President seemed to be seriously considering it.

“Hm. Well then, we should probably chose someone shouldn't we?” He said.

“Mister President?” The translator asked. “Are you sure? I've been quite plain about what this says. What is being asked of us. It's...reprehensible. And frankly, I am surprised that King Thor would even allow it.”

“Ma'am, this is a culture that is old beyond reckoning.” Another man-one of the generals? She couldn't keep them straight-piped in. “An alien race on top of that. It's only to be expected that they would have customs that are unfamiliar, even repugnant to us. We should keep an open mind.”

It was ridiculous. She knew for a fact that many of the people in this room and beyond held virulent hatred for several cultures that existed on Earth. There was no reason they should be showing this kind of cultural sensitivity to a bunch of aliens who just showed up and started making demands. Especially that one...

“I ask you to understand that sometimes we make hard sacrifices for the good of all.” The President said. “Asgard is a galactic superpower.”

“Was.” She pointed out. “Now they're a bunch of refugees.”

The President gave her an annoyed glance. “They will no doubt regain their power shortly. Their technology is wildly advanced. And if we go along with the occasional weird little whim they have, they will be grateful. So America gains access to Asgardian tech. Imagine how many people could have their lives bettered by Asgardian friendship.”

The translator couldn't help but wonder since when this man gave a shit about bettering the lives of others. It was disgusting, that this was probably just another path to money and power for him. Even moreso that no one else in the room was questioning this, even a little bit. They were all known for eating scraps from his table anyway, and likely looking to grab some of those benefits for themselves. At what expense?

She decided to start looking for another job.

“Asgardian friendship would certainly be a boon for our country.” She said. “Do you have further need of me?” She wanted out of here badly now. She didn't want to be in the room while they made this awful choice.

“No.” The president said. He tapped one of his men on the arm. “Escort her out, would you?”

With relief, she followed the man out of the room.

She never made it to her car.

                                                                               ******

Loki wandered through the dark and cramped byways, to the furthest reaches of their new settlement, past the places where the rest of his people felt safe, past where even he felt safe. These outside places were no longer the haunts of petty criminals or undesirables exactly, not that he feared such unsavories. No, these rough walls were now the lair of the most notorious and hidden Asgardian of all. So mythical was she, that almost no one knew she still lived.

Gullveig the witch. If stories were to be believed, she was the first witch. If stories were to be believed, she had been killed three times, and returned each time. If stories were to be believed, that meant she was now beyond death.

If stories were to be believed, that meant he was as well.

But that was not why he was here.

In all the whispers, in all the screamed confessions, all the gibbering of those who had visited her, her power was very real. Real and terrible, for she could grant any wish, any wish at all, and sometimes that was far more than the wisher actually wanted. Word a wish poorly, and it would be granted. Fail to think through the consequences of a wish, and it would still be granted. It was why she had been killed so many times in the first place. But that was the fault of the wishers, not Gullveig herself.

And Loki had thought through this wish, and knew what it would cost him. But the gains...if he had calculated correctly, predicted correctly, the gains for Asgard could be immense. Steeling himself, he found the one area that appeared to be lit, and entered.

“You have returned again.” She said in her cracked and watery voice. Her back was to him, and she appeared to be warming her hands over a tiny fire in a glowing crucible. Fires-real fires-were strictly forbidden within the confines of Asgard right now, but it was debatable whether those embers counted as a real fire, debatable whether she lived within Asgard. On the edge of things, always as she liked it. “So you are truly committed?”

“I am.” Loki said. “I have made my decision.”

The old witch cackled in amusement. “It may be your last! After this, you will be different. You know this, yes? This person who stands in my doorway? He will no longer exist.”

“That is by design.” Loki said.

She turned to face him. She was, by far, the oldest Asgardian he had ever seen; bent, wizened, wrinkled and scraggly. She didn't look the part of a witch. She wasn't horrifying to look at, simply old, frail, wrapped in a pale shawl. She wasn't frightening at all, except that he knew her to be older than his father's father, and that she had one, single-minded focus in life that transcended any morality or ethics she might have ever had.

“Did you bring me what I want?” she asked.

“Yes.” He offered up a sizable sack, filled with every last scrap of gold that he owned. He had pried it from his armor, stripped it from his jewelry, and pricked out every last shimmering thread from his royal wardrobe. His, and only his: she would not accept any that he had taken from someone else. This had to be his sacrifice to make-the first of several.

Gold was all she ever wanted. Anyone could buy her services, if only they offered gold. Sometimes she didn't care where they got it, but as a ruler, he was a special case. No one knew what she did with it. Surely, she had collected enough over the millennia to build a palace out of it, but it was never anywhere to be seen.

She smiled at the sight of it, seemed to stand straighter, move more spryly.

“Now, for yours.” She plunged her claw-like fingers into the crucible, stirring the embers and ashes with rapidly blackening talons. She plucked forth a glowing ring, strewn with runes, and shook it, blowing ashes from the darkening metal. Using her tattered apron, she polished the ring until it shone even in the weak light of her tiny hovel.

It was not gold, which she would never have parted with, but platinum, a metal that just happened to be fairly abundant in their new settlement. He did not know if the powers of Midgard were aware of the riches to be found in the place they had allotted to Asgard, but he would certainly see that Asgard got to claim them.

The glow and runes had thoroughly faded from the ring before she set it on his palm, with the instruction 'not to put it on until you mean it'. But he knew exactly what he was going to do with it. He had taken the opportunity while Thor slept the long and powerful sleep of an Asgardian ruler, to send a message to the country of most of his brother's friends. The country he had tried to conquer. It was a message that promised things, as in days of old. A promise of power, of friendship, of mutual benefit, in exchange for a life. The simplest and most common of agreements.

Perhaps that might make up for his earlier...indiscretion.

He vanished the ring to his magical hiding place, and exited Gullveig's home. While Thor slept, Loki ruled, and it wouldn't do for him to be missed. Winding along through long, rough corridors, until he returned to the well-lit and finished walls of Asgard's new buildings, he found Heimdall and his advisors waiting. Perfect. He needed to tell them to expect a visitor soon.

                                                                            ******

“There. I think that's everybody within the parameters.” One worker said, pushing back from his computer.

“Let me check.” His partner leaned over the keyboard. “Lessee...age range, yeah...unmarried, yeah...less than twelve thousand a year, yeah...anti-Party sentiments on social media...arrest record, yeah...'other undesirable'? That's pretty cold.”

“This whole thing is cold.” He agreed. “But the projected benefits are worth it. Whoever's chosen will be contributing more than their current life is worth.”

“Cold as ice. Well, let's do this.” His partner hit the sort command, the program sifting through millions of names before settling on one at random.

“Well, there's our unlucky lady.” He said, pulling up all the personal information the computer had. “Sorry about this, miss, but maybe you should've made better life choices. Either way, your sacrifice will usher in a new age of prosperity for us.”

“Well, when do we get her?”

“We've got people in her town. We'll just send them a message tomorrow. Well, sleep tight, miss. There's no telling what that freak is going to do to you.”

“Fucking frigid, man.”

                                                                             ******

With a groan, you pulled yourself out of bed. Another day, another dollar. Never quite enough dollars for the amount of days you spent though.

You found your cane and hobbled to the shower, wasting precious morning moments under the warm spray. You probably wouldn't get a chance to bathe this evening. You would be going to a protest-you had finished your sign last night, and it should be dry by now.

You didn't bother to turn on the lights; the sun was peeking through your window, and it wasn't like your studio apartment had much clutter to trip over anyway.

Getting your leg attached, and grabbing a slice of buttered bread, you just barely caught the bus to work.

It was simple data entry, but it-barely-paid the bills. And it didn't require you to stand for hours, or be constantly walking back and forth, or talking directly to customers, so you were thankful to have it.

You'd still be voting for better conditions though, and surreptitiously trying to unionize. You, and everyone there were still being exploited, and it wouldn't do to just accept that, simply because it could be worse.

Now if only Betty had called in...Nope, she hadn't. It was practically every day lately, that you prayed for your ultra-conservative coworker to just stay home, but she never did. She bragged to you-or within earshot of you-very often about her perfect attendance. You could never prove that she was doing it as a jab to your occasional medical related absences, but you wouldn't put it past her.

She noticed you slipping your sign under your desk.

“That's inappropriate.” She said with unconcealed disgust. Ugh, the twit would hate protesters. She somehow thought she was closer to those power-hungry hangers-on that the regime seemed to draw out of the woodwork. She had much more in common with the people crawling in the streets than she ever would with the so-called 'president' and his cronies, and she would actually benefit from the changes you were all marching for, but her pointy, oyster-white nose was so far in the air that she would never see it.

“It's none of your business.” You grumbled, slipping into your chair, and setting your cane aside. You wouldn't be getting up from there for the next few hours.

“It is my business to know whether I share a cubicle wall with a violent thug!” She trilled sanctimoniously.

“Okay, first of all, that kind of accusation is inappropriate, and prohibited by company policy. Second of all, what am I gonna do? Limp at you?”

“If you decide to get aggressive with me, I can't escape. I have to run down the stairs, but you can beat me to any floor, just by using the elevator!”

“This again? Give it a rest!” You were this close to reporting her. Again. Maybe if you did it enough times, somebody would actually do something about it.

Betty held a genuine grudge over the fact that you were the only employee on this floor who got to use the janky old service elevator. Everybody else had to use the stairs. Never mind that it was literally the only way for you to even get to your desk. No, if there was something that some people were allowed to do, but Betty wasn't, it was clearly incontestable proof of oppression against Betty herself. Also, if the 'wrong sort' of people were allowed to do the same things Betty was, well that was also anti-Betty oppression. She just wanted so badly to be able to claim oppression, that she didn't realize that she actually was being oppressed by the people she wanted just as desperately to emulate.

She was exhausting.

“Good morning you two! Hey Betty, you got those numbers for me yet?” Saved by the boss. Well, not really. He didn't like you, but he didn't like Betty either. He didn't hate either of you. He was just the boss-make believe friendly, but distant, concerned with other things. However, he disliked when employees wasted time, and Betty did. A lot. That's what happened when someone was an incorrigible gossip.

Betty slunk back to her desk, cowed for at least a few minutes. He handed you a bit more work to do, then meandered down the aisle, greeting other employees, and handing out more work on his way to his own tiny office. He wasn't all that important either, in the scheme of things. It was really amazing how many people kept their gaze so fixed on the people in power that they couldn't see them pouring quicksand around their feet.

But you would lend your voice to the march on their behalf anyway. They deserved better too. Maybe they'd see it someday, instead of continuing to fight against their own interests.

For now, though, you would concentrate on your work.

The morning came and went, your little lunch alarm signaling its death. You grabbed your cane and walked slowly and carefully to the break room. You kept a week's worth of small lunches in baggies in the fridge here. Salami, little cheese slices, crackers, cherry tomatoes, baby carrots, and grapes. Not much, but tasty and filling, and you got all the food groups. There was an unspoken rule about not messing with other people's food that, thankfully, nobody in the office had ever broken; at least not while you'd been here.

You could see into the tidy lines of cubicles from the break room, and while you crunched away at your carrots, you noticed something worrying. There were two men in matching suits and shades talking to Betty. She spoke to them animatedly, gesturing at your cubicle. One of the men peeked inside.

Oh, you didn't like that at all.

You didn't actually have anything to hide, but you knew damn well that didn't matter. If these were cops-or worse-they would find whatever it was they wanted to find, one way or another.

By the time you got back from your lunch break, the men had disappeared, but Betty still had a distressingly smug grin on her face. You checked every drawer and every cranny of your desk: nothing had been taken, and nothing had been left behind. You went back to work, trying to ignore the anxiousness that was creeping up your back.

You had just finished and sent your last spreadsheet when your boss opened his door and called you to his office. You slowly made your way there, trying not to pay attention to the malice sparkling in Betty's face, or how your other coworkers glanced at you with pity or distrust.

The suspicious pair of men were hiding out in your boss' office, and you'd never seen him looking more uncomfortable.

One of the men positioned himself closer to the door behind you, not that you could run anyway.

“Um...Do you know why I called you in here?” Your boss asked.

“I assume it has something to do with your new friends.” You said sourly. This was going bad, you could see it a mile off. You honestly didn't know why they were here, or what they wanted. “Seriously though, no I don't. Why have you called me in here?”

You'd make him say it at least.

“Er, well, unfortunately your employment with us has been, well, terminated. So, if you would just gather up your things-”

“Woah, woah, woah!” You interrupted.  “On what grounds? Because these guys said so?”

'These guys' said nothing.

“No, no, it's, uh...your arrest record...”

“That's ridiculous! Why didn't you fire me two months ago then, when it happened? Because you know it was pure bullcrap, that's why! You saw the footage; I never threw anything at that cop! He tripped over some garbage that was already there, then turned around, knocked me down, and hit me with my own cane. They let me out the same day because they knew they had nothing. Cane's still bent.”

“Look, I'm sorry, but you're fired. I'm sorry. Now go on, get out of here.”

And take them with you seemed to be the unspoken plea. You stormed out of the office with as much dignity as you could, spoke to no one, shoved the meager contents of your desk into your purse, gabbed your sign, and got into the old service elevator for the last time.

You would be reporting this, to anybody who would listen. It was completely unacceptable. And now you would have to go through the ordeal of applying either for unemployment, or disability. You hoped your savings would last long enough for your appeals to go through.

You spotted their reflections in a display window on the way to the bus stop. The two men from the office were following you now. Were they feds? Had Betty and your spineless boss sold you out to the feds? You hadn't even done anything!

You almost expected it when they dragged you into an alley, a pungent-smelling cloth held tight over your face, muffling your voice. It made you cough, but that also made you inhale, and in moments, soft blackness wrapped around you.

[trixcuomo]

4: The Daily Mail Org

Trixany tries to have a normal day out in the city with her pet dragon, but then it ends in an embarrassing disaster of world-boss proportions.

I gave up on my salad about ten minutes in. That’s how long it took Nautistrasz to decide I wasn’t paying enough attention to him and turn my meal into his nest.

I’m trying to be less shocked around my little Nightmare (and I do mean he’s a nightmare) Whelp. I think my getting upset mostly encourages him. So I pretended that I always intended to eat just one strawberry and a forkful of arugula out of the bowl before taking a cigarette break. Nauti nuzzled into the walnuts and berries, trying to use the larger pieces of fruit as a hat, perhaps, while garnishing himself with green on all the other sides of the bowl. The little dragon was just the right size to wallow in a salad bowl and look up at passerby as if he were the cutest thing in the world.

And then it got even worse. People started to fall for it.

Silvermoon, mid-day, can be lovely. People dressed their very best are strolling about taking their breaks. The angle of the sun is just right to make things seem bright and fresh. You can hear the ritual popping of champagne corks if you try, mingled in with the songbirds. Springpaw appetizers are roasting and aromatic… and if you can find Trixany Cuomo trying to scrape some silver together for a decent lunch treat for once, you will also see her pet dragon destroying it with his evil cuteness.

“What’s his name?”

“Aww… he’s covered in strawberries!”

“Is it really okay for your dragon to be eating all this arugula? If he’s anything like a puppy, eating the wrong thing will just give him gas later, you know…”

To all these charming observations, I had one thing to say.

“He bites.” And if they didn’t move on fast enough, “…Or, I will. Through bone.”

So I had my feet up on the café table and put my shades on. Sulking and being as rude as I liked.

This is what happens to washed up Horde B celebrities…

Wait, have I explained that part yet? In Kezan, I was a Kaja’ Cola girl. I can’t do this sort of thing in the Goblin homeland. My stepfather, a Goblin, is in the casino business. I was around exactly the wrong sorts of short green people growing up. Hustlers, card sharks, showgirls (my mother case-in-point), liars, cheats… so I grew up wanted to be a singer-slash-actress-slash-model in the same way that Silvermoon kids grow up wanting to be magisters or Farstriders. I needed in my life, I screamed and complained about it. So, after a few small gigs, by the time I was a young woman, I’d landed a big one. The Kaja’Cola company wanted to go into a new kind of advertising, with spokesmodels of all races hawking their products all over Azeroth. I was local, my stepfather was able to twist some arms, and I was good—pretty good—so I got to be Fiesta Lime Trixany.

That’s right. Trixany Cuomo officially has a flavor.

Well, between my charming shoots and the love of this quality drink, I was a huge success. I can’t rudely put my feet up on a café table in Kezan with a pair of sunglasses on to dissuade conversation. I get mobbed by fans. I’m not bragging—it’s an actual problem.

So, little did Nauti know, I was having a good enough day, despite him. Still, I wanted to do something to make up for the ruined salad. I’d crawled out of my freshly cleaned apartment after all, to celebrate. I thought about taking him on a walk, but he hated those. Murder Row had this funky consignment shop with a treasure trove of Zandalari clothing and jewelry. (I know, sounds impossible for Silvermoon, but that’s the whole point of Jani-Jani. Say “Hekekekek” and get twenty percent off, by the way.) But Nauti would find a way to ruin that too, somehow. I was still kind of nervous about staying out of doors for too long anyway, since Maiev might drop down out of the sky any moment and kick me around for outing her as a hopeless Illidan fangirl.

Well she should actually be grateful. Maybe now, her Illidaddy can finally come back and claim her.

Ha! I should go write for a trashy celebrity mag.

There really aren’t any great spots for shopping in Silvermoon since the war. I hate Arthas for an additional reason other than all the horrific trespasses against Elf-kind when he attacked… he also took my favorite twenty-four hour fashion show, combination night club with it. You could go party and then buy a new outfit off one of the models while they strutted on the giant, dazzling cat walk. They would seriously strip her (or him) on-stage for the right amount of gold at Puss-Puss. Damn that Arthas!

Yeah, I do get that Jani-Jani is trying to be the low-budget, post-bellum version.

The more I lingered, thinking about old times, the more my craving to shop grew. So, I decided to settle for the auction house.

“Come on, we’re going for another walk. Let’s go across to the other side of the Exchange.” I told Nauti. “Don’t you want to fly around some more?”

He glared at me. Faint smoke raised from his tiny nostrils. The day Nauti really starts breathing fire, with that personality of his, is the day I start renting a studio bunker underground.

“We’re going now, Nautistrasz—”

He shouted over me in his nasal juvenile squeak, “I’m purple!”

Ugh. No, he is not a purple dragon, far from it. But he does love irritating me according to the bizarre rules in his weird, baby dragon mind. I seriously doubt Nauti even knows what ‘a purple’ is, at this point.

And, he wouldn’t get out of the salad bowl. I’d had enough. There are a few ways to discipline things smaller than you. He wanted to be a salad rather than a dragon pet today, then fine. I picked up the bowl, and I took him with me. A lot of people laughed at us, which Nauti figured out was a bad thing after a while. Then he sulked.

I gloated at my dragon-like parental skill, “Heh. How’s it feel to not be cute anymore?”

“Like you!”

“Sonofa—you mean little dragon!”

I mean, I am aging, but come on! What a low blow from a creature that you’re supposed to own.

Also. Someone out there, please open a cute boutique in Silvermoon. Please.

Shopping at the auction house for a new outfit is so horrible. You have to wander around stacked crates and overflowing barrels of… stuff. I don’t even know what kind of stuff, because they have everything at auction houses these days, from Sylvanas toenail clippings (times are hard and her fanatics are getting desperate) to goop for junior alchemical experiments, along with newly polished armor pieces. I got tired of carrying my strawberry dragon salad like a baby and eventually just set it down on what I judged to be a clean-ish table while I browsed some blouses.

I would later discover that my dragon was being bid on across Azeroth as some kind of still-wriggling, blackened Undercity delicacy. But that’s a whole other episode.

The shirts were okay. I felt like I was searching for over an hour for anything unbelievably beautiful or very on sale to give me a high (shopaholics know exactly what I’m talking about), when I came to the novelties section. A few notable scrolls, then some steamy romance novels and the like were going for hundreds of thousands of gold. Ha! What a rip off. And then I circled back to something that looked a little too familiar. Painfully so.

The glass frame was dusty. The auctioneer hissed at me when I tried to touch it, so I feigned interest and rattled some coins in my hand. That got it cleaned off, fast as you like. I wish I hadn’t done it, though.

It was a picture of me. I was on the auction house.

I… explained about the soda modeling days. I probably have not explained (and hoped I never would) about what happened while I was at Tempest Keep and Kael’thas Sunstrider himself heard about my Kaja Cola modeling days.

Okay, so first off—it was the war.

Second of all, getting with Kael’thas back then was actually something to brag about.

Third! It was the war, I was upset, and it was boring at Tempest Keep between raids and he kept saying it was for his research so maybe I did pose for a picture or two!

I’m just saying… In my defense…

Alright, so there is no decent defense. There I was, sipping tea at the edge of a bed with Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider, dressed in some flimsy Murloc costume. It was weird and horrible all at once. And he looked to be smiling a lot harder than I ever remembered, because I swear now that ‘tea’ he served on set was spiked with something… fel… ish.

The worst part? My likeness in a costumed, nude photo shoot with the late prince was going for 300,000 gold.

I also don’t remember autographing anything like that, but it was signed by me somehow. It did look authentic. I screamed up a storm.

“But Miss! This is a very popular item. The bids just keep going up and up…”

“I will KILL whoever put this personal property of mine up for auction. Go explain to them that me taking this back, now, is better than my death sentence!”

But the city guard were walking in by then. I was causing a scene, worse than a scene. I’d even forgotten about my pet dragon by then, if you recall.

“WHO put this up for bid! I wanna know!”

Auctioneer Feynna said something about a privacy clause. Discretion my ass! They’re not doctors or priests. The guards started laughing at me when they actually saw what the fuss was about. I used the distraction to knock Feynna down and give my threat a final time. (Not a nice girl, I used to be a Sunfury, remember? And I’m tall, so I can do this easily to most people, if you also recall. Especially my exes.)

“The Daily Mail Orgrimmar will want damages paid to me and the Royal Exchange itself, if you dare put your hands on me again!”

What.

“The WHAT?!” I shrieked. The guards grabbed me by the arms. “The…? But I don’t understand?”

The Daily Mail Orgrimmar. That’s right. Someone finally outed me.

But one thing I couldn’t get at the time was, who would have access to Sunfury era photos and Kael’thas memorabilia? You’d practically have to root through melted steel girders of Tempest Keep wreckage to locate anything belonging to Kael’thas. Only weird Illidan would be vengeful enough, or care enough. Illidan or one of his cronies still hanging around… And then, what motivation would someone connected with Illidan have, to sell a picture of mine to a trashy celebrity mag? As the guards picked me up off my feet, my mind raced through so many possibilities. Most of my frenemies from that era were dead or imprisoned or… still kinky Demon Hunters. I shuddered at the thought. Few Burning Crusade era bad guys were reformed and walking around as normies again, with fully resuscitated reputations and regular jobs, like me. And whoever the perpetrator was, they also must have had damned good connections. Possibly also famous. Okay, so I’m not really famous, but it would have been someone well in with Team Illidan, let’s say, that The Daily Mail Org would trust to have got their source right.

Wait.

No, it couldn’t be.

“Oh no she didn’t…MAIEV??!”

And then the Silvermoon City Guard dumped me right on my ass, in the middle of the street.

((For fun, I will actually put a Trixany autograph on the WrA auction house, if you care to buy it. Fun fact: there are even a few Trixay autographs floating around in-game. It started when I made a few and gave them away as gag gifts for a party. But it was so funny, I decided to just keep handing them out. At least one person has told me they’ve collected two different ones. There are three to collect so far. Ahem… well, here’s your chance to be officially on Team Trixany! And even if no one buys it, what a great stunt to LOL about later. Muaha.))