#it’s Celtic so you can tell it’s meant for someone else

[in-memory-of-mnemosyne]

I’ve finally found a statue I like for lady Mnemosyne but it’s of a god from a different pantheon, so it doesn’t look very Greek

I’ll probably get it anyway and just apologise but I’m not sure

[resowrites]

Special Brew - oneshot.

Summary: Henry’s interview gets gatecrashed…

Pairings: AU!Henry Cavill x Reader/Wife!OC, Interviewer

Warnings: fluff, banter/British humour, fake interview, language, dialogue heavy, nondescript reader/OC body type/appearance, hastily written/lightly proofread.

WC: 2221

A/N: Hi folks I know it’s been a while, work’s nuts these days. This is very rushed and was meant to be longer (I wanted to base it on something I’d written previously) but for the sake of just getting something uploaded I decided to post as is. Sorry I can’t post regularly anymore but I hope you enjoy all the same - R x

Remember, this is pure fiction (as in completely made up), and not in any way meant to reflect reality. My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Gifs/pics not my own. Thanks for visiting!

Special Brew - oneshot.

The following is an excerpt from an article that can be read in full here.

— It's at about the halfway mark in my interview with the 41-year-old Hollywood actor, Henry Cavill, when I notice his attention is caught by something offscreen. 

"Where did you get that?" I think I hear 'the fridge, you dickhead,' in reply. He grins. But instead of resuming our discussion about his upcoming role in the rebooted 80's classic, Highlander, he starts gesturing for someone to join him. It fails. So seconds later his partner is pulled onto his lap despite some very loud protestations. He tells her it's her fault for taking his last tin of lager. She tells him she needs it more. What then follows is an almost a four-and-a-half minute squabble - yes I actually timed it - which ends with Henry relinquishing the can on the proviso that if he has to be interviewed, she does as well. I don't take offense but soon wondered if that was premature: 

"Who's interviewing you? The Telegraph?"

"No, The Guardian--"

"Wouldn't the Telegraph be more interested?" He gestures in my direction.

"Well, I assume Mark is all the same!"

"And how long have you been keeping this poor bastard?"

"We've not even been chatting half an hour!" 

"Oh… have you got a second question for him?" I smile. The 35-year-old financier first met the actor in 2015 and they were rumoured to have married in 2022. Not that either of them, his publicist, or even various social media accounts provide much in the way of confirmation. This seems to stem more from a desire for privacy where possible than anything else. Though it must be said, at first glance they make for an incongruous pair. She catches me peering at her still towel-wrapped hair, Celtic jersey, and joggers combo and wastes no time striking first:

"That's a nice shirt--"

"Don't be cheeky, just 'cos you could have made more of an effort--"

"It's my day off! At least I don't look like an undercover policeman." Is she referring to Henry or myself?

"I don't know, stand up," I laugh but he just rolls his eyes. "Has he apologised for Aryglle yet? To be fair that was actually my fault, I wanted a new kitchen." This lays the ground for what is arguably one of the most chaotic interviews I've experienced in a while.

"Do you see what I mean, Mark? It's not that she wouldn't be media trained, it's that she couldn't." Now she rolls her eyes.

"See, he thinks he's being slick by making me look bad--"

"I'm the one who does that?!"

"So he looks better by comparison--"

"Is that right? And what was wrong with Aryglle?!"

"Nothing! It's the best thing you've ever done. Even if you didn't mean for it to be." She coughs to try and cover a laugh. I ask for her thoughts on his most recent box office offering (Guy Ritchie's spy action comedy, The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare) but for a split second, the title escapes me.

"You mean The Manly Ministry of Something?" Henry tuts and grabs back the can. I dare to question if she has a low opinion of the profession in general. "No, it's more to do with the actors themselves." How so? "Well, considering they're usually the biggest gobshites you'd think it'd be great craic hanging out with them--" he quickly interjects.

"Who are you calling a gobshite?!"

'What do you mean?"

"You know fine well what I mean!" Henry turns back towards me and continues. "Even her own mother took me aside a couple of weeks after we started dating to try and warn me--"

"She never! What did she say?"

"Do you really want to discuss that right now?!" It can't be that bad then, I respond. He shakes his head, despairingly. "Oh no, just that she once walked on stage at a school assembly and instead of graciously accepting an award, pretended to trip so she could drag every single trophy off the display table!"

"… Can you tell he went to a private school?" I almost spit my drink out.   

"What do you mean?"

"Do you not realise how tame that sounds?!"

"But that was just the first month you were there!"

"Then I deserved an award--"

"Hang on, she also told me that when you had an after-school detention on your birthday, you climbed out the window of the room you were being supervised in--"

"Normally I'd just get on the bus and go home so that time they gave me a personal escort--"

"And then refused to come down from the roof unless they gave her a birthday cake!" Laughter rings out between our two screens. "In the end, they had to call the fire brigade and she became the reason why their school couldn't properly open their windows any more--"

"I also got a ride home in a fire engine so, hands down one of my best birthdays." Henry sighs. I wonder aloud how this contrasts with his own experiences of school. 

"Er, I mean I was a bit of a goody-two-shoes, so I felt a bit intimidated by that sort of thing." 

"He still is." He now chokes on his drink. Does this mean they wouldn't have crossed paths as kids?

"Nah, she'd have bullied me then as well." They both laugh. So she hasn't mellowed at all in the intervening years?

"I would say I have, yeah… you do as you get older." Henry's eyebrows hit the ceiling.

"Oh right, so I just hallucinated that night at the Bafta’s then?" She clears her throat and takes a large swig from the can. Is this why she doesn't typically attend red carpets with him?

"Ugh, I'd rather shit in my hands and clap--"

"That and the fact you're a fucking liability!" She shrugs as he explains. "A few years ago, I made the mistake of dragging her along to the after-party--"

"Well, that explains why I didn't fucking remember. Why did I have to come? You didn't win anything you were just presenting--"

"Oh fuck off! I even promised to take her on holiday for a couple of weeks if she at least tried to behave herself--"

"'Cos that's a good incentive--"

"And Jesus Christ, never again. If I wasn't blackballed in this industry before, I was that fucking night--"

"No, it's 'cos you won't take acting lessons." Henry smirks and tries to cover her mouth this time.

"At least I didn't go up to a circle containing Judi Dench, Helen Mirren--"

"Look at him dropping names! And it's Dame Judi…"

"And last but not least, the Meryl Streep--"

"You know, of Mama Mia…" A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. 

“Only to ask them where their cauldron was!" 

"But that's the great thing about being a nobody, you can say whatever want--"

"You're not a nobody--"

"No, I'm your plus one…" They howl with laughter. "The best thing is to underdress slightly as well so they think you're staff, the reactions are even better." And what was the response? "None of them heard me." He snorts.

"Judi just burst out laughing--"

"Judi! Like they're friends! Yeah, well she saw us arrive together so I think she was onto me."

"Luckily she's got a robust sense of humour…"

"Not like that other one. Oh, what's his name? You know… the one that says he'd rather be making shoes?" Sir Daniel Day-Lewis?

"Yeah, she asked him if he wanted her to go look for his top hat." I can feel my own jaw drop.

"That's how he reacted! Oh God, I'd give my left tit to relive it…" I ask where Henry is when these interactions go down. "Usually trying to find the nearest exit--"

"Is it any wonder!" 

"But we were only there twenty minutes--" 

"And he wasn't even the first Daniel you managed to piss off!" And who was that?

"Dan Snow." The broadcaster? Henry glances heavenward, exasperated.

"No, Jon Snow - and she means Kit Harrington. She got talking to him and somehow things managed to go south even quicker than usual." I can see how referring to him instead as the 50-year-old historian might have that effect. "No, it wasn't that, it was when he asked whether she was enjoying Game of Thrones--"

"Which is presumptuous isn't it?" For once even I'm at a loss for words. 

"And so she asked him if that's the show with dragons and when he said 'yes,'" he starts cracking up, "she went 'then, no.'" I don't think I've ever seen a man look so crestfallen - not even when you accosted Sam." Mr. Rockwell? I'm assuming that took place while Henry was still on the Argylle press tour?

"Oh yeah that was a gas, I waited until we were a bit better acquainted--"

"So the poor sod had his guard down--"

"And on the last day, I asked if he'd sign a picture for me. I think he assumed it was for a friend or something so he wasn't expecting me to thank him for gifting Henry his picture to put above the toilet--"

"What's worse is that it was that still from The Green Mile, you know? Literally, the first one that pops up on Google!" This anecdote puts me in mind of a similar story I heard on the grapevine during the first season of Netflix's The Witcher. Against my better judgment, I ask him if knows what I'm talking about and immediately his eyes flash in recognition.  

"Yeah, and it pains me to say that's also true."

"What is?"

"Your stunt at the Witcher premiere…" For a moment she looks genuinely confused. "Don't pretend you can't remember!"

"Remember what? I wasn't even there!"

"And even that didn't spare me!" 

"Oh I can't fucking win Mark, all I did was try and bring a smile to his face 'cos I knew he was sad about me having to work that night--"

"So naturally you had an 8x10 still printed of me with Orlando Bloom's head (as Legolas), photoshopped on top? Which, by the way, you could have just messaged me. But what did you do instead? You made dozens of copies and had my bodyguard hand them out to fans for me to sign." She waits for a beat.

"But how long did it take for you to notice?" Gentle reader, when I tell you this is one of only a handful of occasions I've ever laughed so hard in an interview, it's because I want you to know how rare that's actually been over a 35-year career in entertainment journalism. Still, I imagine that if she was brazen enough to taunt some of Hollywood's most influential stars, far worse shots have since been fired.

"Oh yeah, why don't you tell Mark how you recently mouthed off to Aaron Taylor Johnson?" Even she begins to look sheepish. 

"Yeah, but I was only trying to make conversation." Henry's head falls into his hand. She snickers. What on earth happened? "Honestly, nothing. I just said I hoped he really was being considered for Bond ‘cos he looks great in a suit." I hardly know how to respond. "Now that I think about it, he probably just thought I got you two mixed up--"

"Stop it right now!"

"What? You bought me in on this interview!" This of course is true and seems to serve a more serious purpose the longer our conversation continues. That he adores her is plain - his eyes never leave her. But it's the fact she can keep making him laugh, even under the scrutiny of being interviewed, that seems to make all the difference. Is that the key to the success of their relationship? "Well, that and the fact he's gone for six months out of any twelve--"

"So all the messages saying you miss me is just lip service?"

"Oh alright, it's cos he's got a huge… heart. Almost as big as his bank balance." Henry's legs are suddenly thrown in the air. At first, it seems he lost his balance, but judging from how quickly he then chases her from the room, I assume it was she who pulled the lever on his office chair that sent him hurtling to the floor. 

A couple of days later, I received a brief email from her which apologised for them both having 'christened more than a couple of ships' that day and explained how she was grateful that even though she 'had a lot of baggage' before they met, Henry refused to give up on her. She signed off with the following; 'His biggest problem is his limited self-belief. But seriously, he's admired because, in a professional and personal life full of arseholes, he's still, as Virginia Woolf said of her husband right before she died by suicide, 'entirely patient and incredibly good'. I'll never be drunk enough to say that to his face so I've cc'd him in.' I double-checked and saw that she had indeed emailed him as well. It's an oddly moving, albeit characteristically funny postscript and one that underlines her devotion to him no matter what. We should all be so lucky.

The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare is on Amazon Prime Video.

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

@fanfictionaddiction99 @luclittlepond @caffeinatedfestivalsheep @summersong69 @ushijimbo @livesinfantasyland @jackjanira @thearcana-moonlight

[twilightguardian]

New review from Lilith Fairen where I really begin to wonder if she has reading comprehension so poor that I should feel guilty for being harsh to someone with a mental disability. The lack of fundamental comprehension is that bad.

Either that or she does this on purpose because like CanonSeeker, she thinks that "criticizing the critics" aka bullying, is a sane thing to do.

But of course Lilith doesn't comprehend the first thing about criticism because it has to come from some sort of intellectual place. But she doesn't do that. She's just hating because she hates Celtic Phoenix/Raymond, and not for anything that he's done, but because he's a fan of a show she dislikes: Madoka Magica. She is peak petty and childish.

Where as most so-called "capital C Critics" and "RWDE" are genuine fans of RWBY and look at it through this lens of being a fan, Lilith is not a fan of FRWBY. She doesn't understand the point of it, doesn't comprehend it. It's rather sad considering she's a writer and should know how writing works, and that it can involve editing. Someone who is more artistically inclined takes their criticism to an artistic level, but she doesn't understand this.

Anyway, by now it's clear that I'm not really responding to Lilith or any of her pathetic ilk because they're going to keep doing this no matter what. My goal isn't to communicate with those who have gouged out their ears in order to keep hating. My goal is to make sure anyone who talks about Fixing RWBY and becomes curious about it will see how Lilith and people like her twist things around to lie about a fan project done out of passion, telling people its done out of spite because people like her cannot stand it when people are more successful and popular than her. Especially if it's a man, doubly so a Madoka Magica fan.

You have an illness. You are mentally obligated to make yourself unhappy. Dislike FRWBY all you want, but no one is holding a gun to your head and forcing you to watch a fan video. Having gone through all the saved logs of your previous tumblr, I know for a fact that you have a visceral need to be unhappy. You can't help yourself. Seek therapy or at the very least unplug your internet. Go outside, breathe some fresh air. The internet has obviously not been good for you.

Mistral is canonically meant to be based on Asia. How dare the worldbuilding actually reflect that. No, it should be more Western or else you're fetishizing. Because erasing other cultures from existence for no reason is totally a logical route to take, right? Absolutely bonkers insane fucking logic. This woman is stupid or racist. Pick your poison.

Also keep in mind the only fandom Lilith regularly partakes in is still a Japanese anime. It's fundamentally Asian. All the characters are Japanese and they likely partake in Japanese culture. You write stories based on these characters I guess you're automatically "fetishizing" Asian culture. That is Lilith's twisted ass logic.

Lilith wouldn't know what a good reason was if it slapped her in the face and stole all of her possessions.

Plot isn't the only important thing to the story, and as a writer I'd HOPE that Lilith knows this, but unfortunately it seems not. That doesn't bode well for her story, which I've been struggling to get past the first twenty or so paragraphs.

Essentially what she's complaining about is the fact that characters take some time to actually be people. We get time for the characters to breathe, but more importantly for character relationships and dynamics to be established, enforced, reinforced and enhanced. But no, it's not plot, so it's not important. No wonder she likes the canon show, which neglects this. If she does this with Glints Saga as well, I can't see many people actually caring about the characters or the romance she's so interested in writing for in the first story. Then again, I'm sure she's perfectly fine with it if it's in something like Precure. Though she only seems to like a la mode.

Look at how the logic here doesn't follow. The girls are aided a little bit by their companions which means they aren't protagonists.

Apparently according to Lilith a protagonist is someone who doesn't get assistance from anyone ever, who doesn't interact with anyone. Effectively what Lilith wants is a mary sue protagonist, which canon RWBY never was nor will Fixing RWBY Team RWBY ever be. Plus the girls in canon get help from other characters all the time, and rarely do anything for themselves unless Jaune brings up an idea first and if they do it's after sitting around a whole lot and the only thing they manage to accomplish is getting a lot of things destroyed and people killed.

Raymond also hates the female protagonists so much that he makes them more active characters in their own story than canon. Because he hates them. Makes perfect sense.

Lilith once again showing she knows nothing about anything. Changing the location of a scene from a train station to a festival and expanding upon it isn't padding. Unless Lilith is actually a critic after all. She's using Fixing RWBY as a way to critique the canon show but hide it behind the guise of hating on a "critic" so she doesn't lose her friend group. Because heck knows she doesn't have friends anywhere else from the look of it.

She doesn't understand what padding is in a story. Padding is useless fluff that adds nothing to a story. If there are important character dynamics going on, and worldbuilding being shown through the setting, it's not padding. Simple as.

Raymond's writing of Madoka fanfiction has nothing to do with this. Lilith is trying to label Raymond a pedophile, I suppose, which is incredibly cunty behaviour. Salem is canonically 16 during the setting of The Lost Fables and yet her design makes her look like she'd fit in with the cast of Grease. Making a 16 year old actually LOOK like a 16 year old isn't gross, Lilith. Grow the fuck up, I implore you.

This is what happens when you only scroll through the video. Neo, Ruby, Yang, Weiss, Roman and Qrow are all framing devices. Neo just happened to be the first one, followed by Yang. But she wouldn't know that because she doesn't pay attention. Her goal, despite calling Fixing RWBY a "spitefic" is to act spiteful and to lie and be a massive bitch in service of defending a show that she barely cares about and likely wouldn't if it hadn't been for hearing through the grapevine that RWBY had a massive "hatedom".

Also really telling how obsessed Lilith is with the idea of subservience. I'd think she's projecting quite a bit. Just like how obsessed she is with complaining about Fixing's Shiloh or Roman. Raymond lives in her head rent free.

Ahh. So she does know that Neo isn't the only framing device used. Love that she implied that but then had to admit that's not true. It didn't even take her a full paragraph to admit she lied.

You can dislike the framing device all you want, but it's more engaging than what canon did. It also wasn't pointless, and her saying that it was doesn't make it true. The point of it was to show that these are stories that the girls know, possibly modified over the millennia, to show that these stories are all interconnected. These are fairy tales of Remnant, but also those fairy tales weren't the whole truth. Lilith can't comprehend anything unless it's directly spelled out to her, and she admits it by calling it confusing. If it requires her to rev up a braincell, it's too confusing. Just sit back and consume product, that's how you watch RWBY, this is bad because it makes you think!

She doesn't want to summarize the rest of it because it's actually good and that ruins her narrative lol

Yes, I repeat, a child didn't look like a child. It's like those really cheap 80's movies where a 14 year old is played by a 38 year old. Yes, I totally believe you're a high school student, sir.

It's apparently wrong to want Salem to look as old as Ruby was during volume 1. Because she looks like she's 30. She looks no different than she is now when you take off the special effects. She looked no different in age than when she had children, which is unfortunate.

lmao she's mad

Like what does she want? This isn't an AU or a full rewrite. It's a reconstruction project with the goal in mind to show how RWBY could be a lot better with a couple of little tweaks and changes. Like I said earlier, what Raymond is doing is essentially developmental editing. He's not the author so he's not going to do any major changes to the story. Ozpin still has a host at the end of the day. Vernal was still a little servant of Raven and died. These preserve the overall plot beats of the stories while being different, but there's nothing that fundamentally changes by design. That's on purpose.

There's a difference between hating or being frustrated with aspects of a show and hating the entire thing. Raymond falls into the former camp. He likes RWBY. Doesn't mean he can't have problems with it. That's too much for some people's little pea brains to understand and that's very unfortunate. It creates unnecessary division and toxicity in the fandom than there should or really needs to be.

Some people have this revulsion to others actually wanting to engage with their fandoms in ways those people don't like and have this sense of entitlement to the fandom and what goes on in them. It's a disturbing trend, especially with those that have a problem with discourse and critique. Some think that any kind of fandom engagement that isn't wholly, unquestioningly positive is automatically hate and that's disturbing.

It's really not. Raymond has only watched the first episode and he disliked it, though couldn't put his finger on why. This has nothing to do with that spinoff, and I have no idea why Lilith would think that. The episode was recontextualizing a bunch of fairy tales in Remnant's world that everyone would have known.

Raymond has said a few times that he doesn't want to touch Fairy Tales of Remnant because he has no interest in it at all, so there would be no sense for him to do it in episodes 6&7 of all things.

It's commendable that Lilith is trying very hard to use that dusty old thing in her head, but she's still got a ways to go. Her logic doesn't follow, the speculation that she has doesn't come from anywhere and has no follow through.

She loves repeating herself, doesn't she? Girl, this isn't twitter. Saying things over and over and over doesn't make it more true.

Just because you can't comprehend why something was done doesn't necessarily make it bad lol

Also can't say that I've really come across anyone except for Lilith who says it's disorienting, which leads me to the conclusion that until further evidence of someone who isn't an "anti-Critic" says the framing device was confusing, that it's said deliberately to have something to complain about, because otherwise, there would be nothing to complain about. She's already struggling so much with this review because she knows it wasn't that bad so she has to look for things. I am so happy that Lilith is so boringly predictable that I said hours before her 'review' came out that she was going to focus on Neo being the first in line for the framing of the story.

What's telling about it, Lilith? The point of words is to actually have meaning behind what is being said.

She says the emphasis isn't on Team RWBY, but they take up the majority of the transitions.

Neo to Young Yang, Adult Yang to Young Blake to Adult Blake, Young Weiss to Adult Weiss, Young Ruby to Adult Ruby to Teen Qrow to Adult Qrow then finally to Young Roman. So she's not even correct that Qrow ends the section. Neo and Roman bookend the segment, but the meat of the segment is taken up by Team RWBY+Q.

Now, could he have started with a member of Team RWBY? Sure, definitely. But if you look at the bolded names you'll notice a pattern.

1 2 2 3 3 4 4 5 5 6

The bookends get the first and last, but the middle portions get double focus. It balances out.

Only Ruby's weapon is damaged, but it's presumed to still be able to fight in gun form. She just cannot transform it into a scythe. He said nothing about Blake's weapon, Yang's weapon, Weiss' weapon or any other weapon. Not only are none of the other characters are impacted due to their weapons. Yang and Neo are injured. Blake, Weiss and even Ruby are still readying to fight.

Also really ironic she's so bent out of shape that she thinks FRWBY doesn't have the main characters do anything when canon doesn't allow them to do much, either. Why aren't you complaining about that, Lil? Could it be that she doesn't actually care? She just has such a hateboner for Raymond because he likes Madoka.

Raymond has never insisted that everything about RWBY is 'horrible and terrible'. It's heavily flawed, and frustratingly so. Raymond has consistently been the more positive person of his reaction friend group over the years, often saying he likes many things of the show. But Lilith doesn't know this because unlike me, who tried to understand Lilith before speaking about her, she's only seen his skits and videos specifically for Fixing RWBY. She knows nothing about him, and thinks nothing of trying to pin every terrible thing she can think of onto him, from pedophile to racist.

Lilith doesn't understand the concept of deep editing. Not anything beyond the basics of spelling, grammar and maybe attempting to change a few minor points around. Comparing the beginning to her older draft of Glints Saga: Papillon to her newer version, she doesn't do much significant to change it.

Don't get me wrong, it's BETTER than the older version, but that's not saying much. Lilith is too precious with her story to do something like what Raymond is doing: a developmental edit, a large edit that might change a lot of things but make the overall story better.

And Matrixdragon decided to chime in as well.

Yang is trying to stave off hypothermia with Neo. She can probably move, but it wouldn't be the best thing for her. But like I said above, Yang's weapons are not damaged.

I think this is actually a fair criticism, and one I've seen a little bit with other people. To each their own, really. It's not like RWBY didn't try and do the same thing with Volume 1 and the whole background NPCs, keeping the events isolated to a small group of important characters. What Raymond is doing here is cutting out background characters that don't need to be there and can be filled with other ones, ones that can lead to better character dynamics and interactions than if they were strangers. Some people are going to like that, and some people won't, and that's fine. It's certainly not unique to FRWBY and no one else complains when coincidences for story happen in any other franchise, though. So it's a little eyerolling when it's suddenly a problem because a fan did it for a fixit fic.

Do old ladies have a stereotype of being curious? Maria didn't wander into the middle of a battle zone during her first introduction in canon, either, so what's your point? The whole train was being attacked so it wouldn't matter where she'd go she'd still be in the middle of a battle zone. We know from context that she's a former huntress but it makes no sense otherwise why she'd wander in other than to have a contrivance that she's there, which makes the contrivance more noticeable. We don't even learn that she can still fight until late into the Atlas arc.

At least with Fixing RWBY's new introduction of Maria, she is shown off the bat to be a capable fighter and we know right away that she likely came to the area to help fight. That makes the contrivance more understandable as a reason why she'd be there. She's a character that got a lot of focus in canon even if she just walked past the camera because she has a highly unique character design, so it's not a secret she's going to be important, and some people even rightly pointed out she was likely a silver-eyed warrior due to how they framed the opening to the anime.

The characters don't trust Roman. Blake certainly doesn't. But they acknowledge he's in this with them for better or worse and now they're all stranded together, so there wouldn't be any point in lying to everyone.

Yang is not someone I would call 'mature' in canon. Being an angry little sourpuss when things don't go her way or someone challenges them is not what anyone would consider mature.

It's also not that Yang is unwilling to give Blake a chance, either. She hasn't completely forgiven Blake for what she'd done, and Yang is under no obligations to forgive her, either. Forgiving someone has nothing to do with maturity, and the fact that this seems to imply you think so is unsettling. It means that someone cannot have feelings about something traumatic that happened, and the more 'adult' thing to do would be to just get over it. Things like this don't resolve overnight. They take time, and before Yang and Blake can become a proper couple, they need to properly work things out, not sidestep the issue and pretend like nothing's wrong until there might be, then step on eggshells around each other, wondering if the other is mad at them for no reason.

I don't think Adam gave a shit about being detected. It's not like he was trying to ninja his way through the train car. It also wasn't just Cardin he had to deal with, but Qrow and Russel at the same time. I honestly don't remember whether Cardin was a competent fighter in canon, but we know he was at least tactical and not an idiot. So 'the likes of Cardin' only means someone thinks he's an incompetent fighter because he's a bully. But Cardin in Fixing isn't like Cardin in canon. He was more competent in the scenes where he fought and he likely became stronger during aftermath of Beacon.

The only ones being spiteful around here are you two. It's seriously pathetic.

[northwest-cryptid]

apologies if it's mot entirely the same thing but I get you with the native stereotype stuff, I'm aware I definitely don't got it as bad as you but just.

damn I'd really love to see someone go into celtic myth and do it justice for literally anything other than just druids, Arthur, and stonehenge. and even then a good number of people forget Arthur was pre-saxon and not actually biblical because they can't fathom "celt" as anything other than tree hugging primitives.

there's so much shit that they could go over, even if they don't do a good job I'd rather not have a whole fucking heritage boiled down to one single trait.

You bringing up Celtic myth actually reminds me if you are ever up for trying out an MMO, Mabinogi is literally a Celtic MMO by a Korean company that has at least somewhat done their research. For example the first main story quest is being contacted by the Goddess Morrigan warning that glas gaibhnenn (who isn't exactly a cow in this game but never the less bears the name) is being reborn into the world basically to destroy the entirety of Erinn (literally the name of the world the game takes place in). The player is a "milletian" (or Milesian if you will). The list goes on, they do still have druids and such sure; but the game does a lot to include much else, almost entirely focusing on Gaelic language for it's dungeon names, and drawing strong inspiration from Celtic naming and culture for it's characters and design. Honestly, I'm very curious how well they got things and as someone who also loves celtic myth I would love to know how accurate they got some things. As someone who didn't grow up around celtic culture (but has a very strong appreciation for it since my mother, and by proxy I myself am part Irish) I'd love to know if anything in Mabinogi happens to be offensive since I've played for literally half my life and am a big fan of the game it would be a relief to know it's not somehow offensive in a way I'm not aware of. Though I think outside of some generally harmless weird naming of characters it's fine? Obviously even if the game is great rep, only having one arguably niche game represent a heritage is sad; and it doesn't mean that others aren't just twisting the culture into whatever best fits their story to create a fantasy world. Trust me, I cannot tell you how many times I've been told that as a Native I would "probably be a druid" only for me to sit there and think "you stupid motherfucker, sure I happen to be a little Irish but not nearly enough to claim it; Druids are celtic." However people literally just jump from "you're native" to "connection with nature uwu" to "druid" and I lose my shit every time, that's not even bringing always being magical because people can't imagine Natives who aren't fantasy characters. I was once told that Nightwolf from Mortal Kombat must be "good Native American rep" and I genuinely have no idea what they even meant by that. Nightwolf is the most stereo-typically "white man Native" in that he's a shaman who can shapeshift into animals. He was not created by, nor voiced by Native Americans. How is he remotely good rep!?

So yea no I feel you on that, for me it's "my culture is more than thunderbirds and tomahawks thanks."

[voxxyboxxy]

Beginners in Need | Types of Witchcraft

This won’t be a complete list of different types of witchcraft. I see a lot of questions regarding what type of witch someone is, what they should label their practice, how to label their practice, etc. While I personally believe you don’t have to label your practice, I understand that this can be important to others. So I wanted to expand on some key things so you all have that stepping stone to move forward! There’s also different types of paganism, such as Hellenic, Norse, or Celtic! But this post won’t be talking about that side of things and focus on the Witchcraft Labels as I’ve noticed there’s much more confusion on that end.

Table of Contents

I.Introduction

II.Examples of Types of Witchcraft

III.Why Some People Use Titles and Others Do Not

Introduction

Hello! You’ve probably seen people label their witchcraft in different ways! You may even start to wonder… what type of witch are you then? First things first-you don’t have to have a label, unless you actually want it. Always remember that! Now, if you do what to label your witchcraft… how do you do so?

Theres some main branches that label broad concepts, then you can always get a little more in depth but there’s no inherent need to go to far into it unless you want to.

Examples of Types of Witchcraft

These are going to sound very broad, and very basic. But they are only meant to serve as examples and not a teaching point of what they are in full, nor a full list of the different types you may see.

Secular-Secular witches don’t use religion in their workings. They may have a religion, but it is separate from their workings.

Solitary-Solitary is just that! Someone who prefers to stay to themselves and not participate in anything like covens or group rituals/spells.

Green-Exactly as it sounds, Green Witches have a focus on using natural items in their craft. A few related practices may be things like herbs, and natural medicines.

Kitchen-The use of food and flavor in their workings! Kitchen Witchery is focused on what goes down with the pots, pans, and mixing bowls!

Death-You’ll see terms like Death Doula, or Psychopomp here, as well as general necromancy and the like. (No-not that kind of necromancy.)

Chaos-We all know that Chaos is… well chaotic! Imagine a little bit of everything and nothing at the same time. There’s no real rule set, but also so many things! All of the things!

Traditional/Folk-Traditional and Folk practices heavily depend on location! Think of an old woman in the woods of Appalachia, Vs a weathered man in the deserts of North America. They will have very different folk or traditional practices as it’s based of folk tales, wives tales, and tradition of the area. My grandmother liked to refer to herself as a “backwoods witch” when really, she was just an Appalachian Folk practitioner.

Why Some People Use Titles and Others Do Not

You’ll see a lot of discourse on if you need a title or not. Often times when someone asks where they’d fall in different subcategories, there’s at least one person to tell them that it does not matter. While to some it does not, I usually urge people not to tell others that something that may matter a lot to them does not matter.

I don’t have a good title for my path. It’s an amalgamation, and I always refer to it as such. Titles do not matter to me in this sense… but to someone else, especially someone finding their footing, it could mean the world to have an idea of where they can look for more information from people like themselves.

For someone like me, titles just don’t work. I don’t stick to one type of thing to only read one type of thing. But someone who is specifically in the Green Witch category may use that heavily, to find books that are made for them and their path or others like them! If you wanted to find more information on Death Doulas, that’s exactly what you’d look into, the SEO you’d use to find the information. And if you wanted to find books on Demonolatry, you’d look up Demonolatry. So imagine how being able to find people who do the same thing you do to give this information can be a godsend-especially for people who don’t have ready access.

I live in Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania is so known for Witchcraft and the like that one of our state officials is open about their spirituality and they still have their office. I don’t struggle to find resources, and face much less backlash for being open that others. Most people will see my Lilith necklace and Rune tattoos and it’s a knowing smile before it’s questions on if I worship the Devil and sacrifice small animals for fun. Not everyone has that! Even in the same state, more rural areas may face much different circumstances to myself, because I live next to one of our major cities.

When you live in an area that’s much less accepting, being able to use these titles can help a lot to find resources, because they may not have anything else. In an hours drive I have 6 metaphysical shops. Someone else may need to go out of state for their closest one.

For me, a title does not help me, nor does it even describe me. For someone else, a title may be the world in finding resources, and a way for them to find likeminded people. So, while some like me do not use titles as it can almost hinder us-to some it boosts them in a way we could not imagine.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

The way everyone is so friendly with Karna and not Arjuna is weird to me because lore-wise wasn't it Arjuna who was loved by everyone and Karna everyone was weary of cause he was this weird piebald burnt guy who was always being rude? (I know he didn't mean it it was just no social skills but still he's known for saying things people aren't happy to hear! It's literally a skill!)

yeah its definitely strange. especially because arjuna's whole 'dark side' thing is meant to be...more of a secret? like in his bond profile it mentions he loved his brothers, parents, and people and was loved in return, 'and yet...' which implies that a lot of his problems were something that he did/does his best to conceal from others. so like why do so many of his interactions have this undercurrent of hostility from the other side? like do they know? like he's definitely standoffish, don't get me wrong, but that doesn't explain why other servants don't seem to like him. i feel like i read somewhere that masters can find his personality to be tension inducing despite how passive and butler-like he can be, but i can't find it now, although im sure some of that is due to his reticence to being understood.

AT THE SAME TIME

he's literally never followed through with this stated declaration of killing people who have seen his true face?

we've seen him with two masters- hakuno and ritsuka, and while he sort of just keeps hakuno at arms length the entire time ritsuka basically sees everything and he literally is just like ':( sorry you had to see that' and they work it out. like for as much as they keep harping on about how he'd kill someone who'd try to find out his true nature or DID find out his true nature he's never even threatened us. like. its a defense mechanism.

and then in comparison we have karna, who is SUPPOSED to suffer from foot-in-mouth syndrome, but someone who's supposed to be this sarcastic, snippy warrior who while having people's best interests at heart isn't usually able to express that and usually creates more misunderstandings than he can clear up doesnt often DO that...like why couldn't we have gotten an interlude where we cleared up some issue that he created by accident and couldn't figure out what went wrong? why can't we have him be a bitch now and then? and why does EVERYONE sans arjuna like him, there should be SOME people who are at the very least more hooked up on etiquette or something who feel like he insulted them or something, or are just 'eh' about him. at the very least it seems very strange to tell us arjuna is loved more than karna and then show us the complete opposite.

and ik that some people have said the nezha line is like, they admire arjuna but it really feels like it could go either way? i can see why you'd say that but when you see what they say for karna in comparison it feels much less starstruck. arjuna makes them nervous and they feel (sympathy most likely) for karna like.... :/ ok well why dont u go marry him then.

scathach's comment in e pluribus unum is something else i wanted to bring up and am using this as an excuse to, bc i saw someone mention it was probably more a combination of her teacherly tendencies+ the fact his heart wasn't in what he was doing in america, and I do actually agree with that! its just...we don't ever really get anything to refute her/show IN TEXT that that's what's going on. he does destroy 29 demon pillars at once (SEXY AS HELL I MIGHT ADD) but that's with pashupata, and scahatch is built up as this incredibly big badass who's basically the top dog when it comes to fighting, and her comment does come off as a bit... eh... dismissive? of a guy who's supposed to be one of the best archers in the world? who's been practicing archery since he was a small child? at the very least it would've been nice if we'd gotten a scene later where she DID acknowledge him once he left the celtic side, but i guess that would've been asking too much

TLDR: give me the aeaean sea event NOW dw i want arjuna friend time

[finnlongman]

Very random question fueled by the hype about your incoming Laeg paper (also other random question but... Pacific Rim/Iron Widow style reimagining of Laeg and Cu Chulainn when??) but do you have any tips/templates on writing an academic article for publication?

I have never actually seen Pacific Rim, though the concept appeals to me greatly; I have however read Iron Widow and... yes, I am 100% here for this concept. Would love to see someone write that fic.

And... honestly, I don't have too much advice to give on that front. I guess a few generic tips:

Read recently published articles in your field to get a sense of length, style, tone etc. These may vary by journal, so look for one that seems to suit the kind of thing you'd be going for.

It might help to seek out other postgraduate articles, eg in the proceedings of student-run conferences, to get a sense of what other scholars at a similar level are doing. It's hard to always be comparing yourself to the big names in the field – give yourself a break!

An article needs to contribute knowledge to the field, whereas a student essay can just evaluate the knowledge that's already there. So if you're adapting work that you did as a student, consider whether it has something to add that nobody's said yet.

For me, in recent years this has meant working with texts and characters nobody cares about. Before, when I was working more on Cú Chulainn, it was about introducing theoretical frameworks that are under-utilised in my field. You can pick a big topic in the field and go argue with somebody famous, but that's a tough way to start; better to choose a small corner that nobody's looked at in a while and say, "Hey, actually this is interesting." You might even convince them.

In Celtic Studies, editions and translations are useful, so this can be a good place to start, if you have skills in that area: they serve a purpose to other scholars and provide a foundation for future work, which means they're worth publishing. In other fields, there are probably other things that are useful. If you don't already have an article in mind, figure out what would be useful to yourself and others in your field, as it might help you get a foot in the door.

As far as I can tell: Undergrad is when you think, "Huh, odd how nobody's done that." Masters is when you think, "Okay but somebody really needs to do that." PhD is when you go, "Ugh, FINE, I guess I'm doing that." Articles can be this, but on a smaller scale. What is it that you wish somebody else had done or pointed out or emphasised before? That sounds like a niche that needs filling.

Pick your journals carefully. I have very little experience of How To Pick The Right Journal, but you might want to think about things like "is it published online/open access?" or "how complicated are the submission guidelines?" or even "do I get a good vibe from the editor or are they kind of a creep at conferences?"

Conference proceedings are a less intimidating way to tackle a first publication, because you're invited to submit after presenting at the conference, so you already know they're interested. This does mean presenting at a conference, though, but postgrad conferences especially can be very friendly, so it doesn't have to be a huge intimidating big deal.

A well structured article is more convincing than an article that talks in circles for eight pages before getting to the point. Topic sentences are your friend. Make sure the reader knows where each paragraph is going and how one related to the next. Include translations of quotations because no one likes That Guy who randomly sticks bits of Latin in the middle.

"Witty pun or quote: a well-used article title structure" is a legitimate approach to titling.

If you're currently a student, ask your supervisor if they'll read over your article. They might have suggestions for where you could send it, and they'll probably have useful comments.

I don't know if any of that's at all useful. I would say I'm very far from an expert on this front! My articles so far have been:

Adapted from a section of my undergraduate dissertation, but substantially expanded with new theoretical approaches and extra monsters; presented first in greatly abbreviated form at a conference (trans Cú Chulainn article)

More or less directly lifted from a chapter of my MA thesis, just with added introductory material and a few tweaks to make it stand alone; presented first at a conference (L��eg article)

An expanded version of a coursework project consisting of an edition, translation and commentary on a fragmentary text (7 Maines article)

All of them, as you can see, were adapted from work I'd done before, and two were given as conference papers to start with. So I don't have a lot of experience with starting from scratch.

A couple of years back I was googling and I did find a PDF designed for postgrad students that was all about adapting coursework into publications – I think it was from the University of Glasgow. I wouldn't have it to hand and I'm on mobile at present, but perhaps if you Google, you might be able to find something similar, and it might have more helpful advice than me!

[gigilberry-wips]

ROTBTD DnD AU

Technically I promised to get this out a lot earlier than now, but then college happened soooo here we are! Yay! (～￣▽￣)～

I’ve been meaning to write this AU for SO LONG and it wasn’t until I saw @sboochi‘s fan arts for this very same thing - which you can find here: (Rapunzel) (Merida) (Hiccup) (Jack) (All Together) (Short Comic) - that I decided this was the universe’s way of telling me I could no longer run from it.

Thanks to that the classes for these four are directly based off of sboochi's designs. Also shout out to this fan art by @melodramaticmelon for a Celtic-inspired Jack Frost and this fan art by @celialowenthal for Hiccup’s appearance.

What originally inspired this AU was the webseries Quincy’s tavern - he’s there on tiktok but I found him through youtube and I just couldn’t stop thinking of what would happen if these four met Quincy so that’s what this is! There’ll be a glossary in the end notes about the different foods and things mentioned here and also some headcanons my imagination decided to make while I wasn't paying attention.

Enjoy! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

AO3 copy-paste link bc the algorithm is a mess (just make sure to remove the spaces) :

https:// archiveofourown.org/ works/32338186

*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ :*

*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ :*

In a realm of magic and mayhem, there was never a lack of interesting happenings. Live long enough, or go wandering far enough, and there would always be a guaranteed chance of stumbling upon the strangest characters reality had to offer.

Or one could simply walk into a decent tavern. Amazing the kinds of powers at work wherever there were many things going on in a busy place.

It was exactly why anyone who owned a tavern was never one to be messed with. Ever. Didn’t matter how friendly they were, if they could keep a tavern running come famine or war or occurrences not meant for mortal knowledge, then they could handle anything.

The owner of one particular tavern wasn’t someone who often thought of himself as such. True, by the time he’d set up the place he’d survived more than what most would consider a “reasonable amount of adventure”. Lost a few fingers for it, gained a few friends, faced death and worse more times than he cared to remember—but really, what was all that when he’d finally built up a thriving business to run and a charming clientele to entertain, and had a nice, comfortable abode to carry on with his cooking and tinkering in peace? It was all about the little things in life.

At first glance, the girl sitting at the bar didn’t appear anything beyond ordinary.

Just a starry-eyed slip of a thing in a faded, homespun dress, very obviously trying to gaze out at the entire tavern at once. The jumpy, curious energy of her showed itself in her idly swinging feet, her fluttering hands, even in the ends of her brown-blonde hair as she turned this way and that.

But then, the hair was…long. Exceedingly so.

So long, in fact, that merely calling it “long” would be like calling The Fiery Pits Of Death Eternal a little bit toasty. Even as a thick braid it near brushed the floor. The flowers that bloomed in it twitched at the slightest movement of her head. Out of the corner of the eye, they even seemed to glow.

…Well. This should be interesting.

Slinging a rag over his shoulder, the owner ambled up to his newest customer and tacked on a well-worn grin. “Hello there, love. Welcome to Quincy’s Tavern, my name is Quincy. What can I get for you?”

She whipped around faster than it took him to finish his sentence. Wide, green eyes met his. A second later the words seemed to register and she went from surprised to panicked.

“Oh—no no no! I’m fine, I’m fine, really! Just, um…waiting for a friend. Friends. They should be here soon. But if you think—if I’m causing you any trouble or you want me to sit somewhere else or if I’m getting in the way or, wait, no, actually I think I am getting in the way, oh dear I’m so sorry I’d better go to the corner there or maybe wait outside I’ll just be leaving now—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted, before she could edge further off her stool. “There’s no rush going on right now, and I see no reason why you shouldn’t be here. You are a customer, correct?”

She nodded.

“And when your friends arrive, you do wish to buy or trade something?”

She nodded again.

“Then please stay where you are. I insist.”

The nervousness slowly faded out of her. She sheepishly brushed a stray bit of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. I’m a little bit…new to all of this. Sometimes I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

“Oh? Have you not been to a tavern before?”

“I’ve never been to a city like this before.” She gestured out the window, to the just-big-enough-to-call-itself-a-town outside, the bells on her wrist jangling erratically. “Everything is so big! And new and strange and wonderful and interesting! And the people—they’re so nice here! They’ll say hello and wish me a good day, or some of them will stop to give me flowers, or these little children will run up to me and ask if I’m a flower princess, and isn’t that the sweetest? I think it’s all perfectly lovely and I’m so happy to be here!”

She bounced in her seat, hands clasped happily together, and…yes, some of the flowers were indeed glowing. To the untrained eye she looked the picture of a forest nymph. With the town itself beholden to the local forest and the people celebrating holidays for it, was it any wonder why the locals treated her kindly?

Not that they were terrible to everyone else, per se. Hardy? Yes. Self-sufficient? Also yes. Having a healthy distrust for outsiders thanks to the neverending power struggles happening on a nearby mountain where one overlord upstart tried to overthrow the next while pillaging and plundering along the way? At that point it was anyone’s guess how trade hadn’t died off entirely.

(It wasn’t. Not really. Considering his tavern was where it happened to be.)

But all that aside, her joy was contagious. Even he wasn’t immune, and he found himself pulling out a stool across from her.

“I’m very glad you’re enjoying your time here. Would you like to tell me more, if you don’t mind my asking? I’m more than happy to listen.”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work. That would be terribly rude—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re not keeping me from anything. Why, look around,” he waved to encompass the rest of the tavern. It was the time of day where it was too late to call it afternoon and too early to call it evening. Aside from them, the only stragglers left kept themselves near the walls and away from wandering eyes.

“With everyone here, I could get any work I have done in five minutes and be done with it. But what’s the fun in that? Most of my usual entertainment comes with lots of running around, filling out orders, mixing up potions, sticking the occasional boot up a rowdy ogre’s nose—which, by the way, highly do not recommend, the boogies don’t wash out. Nearly lost one of my favourite boots like that.” That earned him a giggle. His smile grew a touch more genuine. “So you see, you’d be doing me a service. Or—how about this?”

From seemingly thin air, he flicked out a deck of cards. “Want to play a round of cards with me? If you win then you might just earn yourself a prize.”

She giggled again. “You’re very nice, thank you. And it’s very kind of you to want to stay here, although…” The way she looked at the cards, head tilted to one side, it made something in her face go sly and knowing. “…I get the feeling you might be better at the game than me.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But if you insist.” Another flick and the cards disappeared. “In that case, how about…you tell me something interesting?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, anything you’ve come across. Something you saw while travelling, something you’ve heard of, or something you experienced, or even a story, fiction or no. There’s plenty I’ve heard but I’m always on the look-out for more to learn. Never hurts to be knowing things, you know?”

“…Something interesting…?” She rocked back on the stool. Her eyes wandered around the room, until they alighted upon a point over his shoulder. “Oh! I know!” She clapped her hands. “Pickled onions.”

“…Pickled onions?”

“Yes. Pickled onions. Brownies are good with them.”

Quincy raised an eyebrow. “Are they now?”

“Well, yes—or, the ones I've met are. There’s this village, about two days away by road I think, and you’ll know it because they have this old shrine to Father Winter out on the edge of it. There are these little, itty bitty onions that grow in the forest but you can’t grow them in any garden, and if you try they won’t live. But if you do find any then you’ll likely get them from a brownie, and they’ll be pickled. They’re very good, so make sure you don’t argue with them about it. Brownies are very serious about their onions. Not so much bush berries, I think, but they are partial to root vegetables.”

“…I see. And I’m guessing they trade them for some milk?”

“Oh, they might, I’m sure. But a round of candied cheese and a liberated horse also works.”

“I'm sorry, what—?”

At that moment the girl sat up. There was nothing to visibly suggest why. But then she looked behind, gave a shout, and leapt from her perch.

Quick as a blink, she was across the room and running full tilt at a figure who’d just walked in through the doors and looked up in time for her to tackle them.

Miraculously, they didn't fall to the floor. It was a near miss. The sheer volume of delighted squealing and gushing she was doing was enough to send curious—but not irritated, oddly enough—looks their way, and which her companion must have noticed because they started making their way to the bar.

The new guest resolved itself into the shape of a boy with a mop of shaggy brown hair and a face more freckle than skin. And also red to the ears. Not that that seemed to stop the girl happily clinging to him and chattering away.

“—and did you see the town square? They’ve done it up so nicely, wouldn’t it be splendid if we could—?”

“No,” he interrupted. Low as it was, his voice carried the remnants of left-over puberty. Mid-twenties, then, same as his friend. “We’ve already stayed too long. We need to be packed up and heading out soon.”

“But why?”

“Because there are things that need doing. Like, you know…” he tugged on his bag. It was bulky, but not much out of the ordinary, save for the few bobs and ends that poked out and identified it as an artificer’s bag, “…that thing.”

“What do mean—” she blinked. Then she looked between him and the bag and something clicked. “—Oh. Oh, okay. That. That thing. Yes, that’s, um, wow. But wait, how did you—?”

The two seemed to notice Quincy at the same time.

The girl reacted first. “Right! Introductions! Quincy, this is—oh wait. Oh no. Did I forgot to introduce myself? I did, didn’t I? Oh goodness, I’m so sorry, I always do that.” Bobbing a quick curtsy, she stood up beaming. “Hello! My name is Rapunzel Wellspring. It’s nice to meet you.”

Quincy matched her smile. “It’s nice to meet you as well.”

When the two looked at the boy, he gave an awkward shrug. “…You can call me Hiccup, I guess.”

Something about what he said made Rapunzel frown. She turned to him, hands going to her hips like she intended to tell him off, when Quincy stood.

“Hiccup it is, then.” He nodded, gesturing to the stools. “Make yourself comfortable. If you give your orders now, I can have them out when your friends arrive.”

“No, no, we’ll wait for them. It’ll be better that way,” said Rapunzel, even as Hiccup started shaking his head.

“Are you sure? Remember what happened last time?”

She waved his question aside. “Details, details. It’s not like we blew things up too much—”

“Famous last words.”

“—but even then, I’m sure it’ll be fine this time. They can handle themselves if they want to. By the way, where are they?”

“Oh, you know how it is with them. One gets an idea, the other one follows. But like you said, I’m sure they can handle—”

A crash sounded outside. It was followed immediately after by shouting, shrieking, more crashing, and at least one person laughing over it all.

The doors burst open and two figures tumbled inside, both of them tripping over each other while they caught their breath between giggly wheezes.

“…And there they are. Wonderful.”

By then Rapunzel had gone bounding over to them. The first to notice met her half way and caught her up in a spinning hug. The hood fell back and brilliantly red hair came tumbling out. With her green attire, the quiver of arrows at her hip, and her light-weight boots, it was easy to see that this one was a hunter or ranger of some sort.

While the other figure received their own hug, the ranger/hunter skipped up to the bar and slung an arm around Hiccup. “Hel-lo, look at you! Can’t believe most of your bits are still on you, lad. How’d you survived so long without me?”

“Well, to be honest the last few days were pretty peaceful now that you ask, Mer—oww, ouchouchouch,” Hiccup tugged at her wrist, from where her hand held a firm grip on his hair as she pulled him down to her height.

“Need I remind you that the first time we met you were half drowned and clinging to driftwood? I wouldn’t call that such a fun, peaceful time, now, would you?” she asked sweetly, a strong, northern brogue thick in her words.

“Alright, alright, fine, ow. Yes, I’m very glad to see you and I missed you too. Happy?”

“Better.” She pecked his cheek. Ignoring the face he made, she gave the cheek a pat and flung herself onto a stool. “G’dafternoon, sir! Could I get two pints of ale over here?”

Quincy went to do just that. “Of course. What kind would you like?”

“What do you recommend?”

“Well, we have a fresh batch of apple ale, brought it out just yesterday.”

“That’d do nicely. And could you make mine extra sweet?”

Suddenly, Rapunzel popped up behind her. “Sweet? What sweet? What’s this about sweet? I want sweet.”

Hiccup tugged her down, so that she sat between her friend and his pack. “It’s ale, don’t worry. Ask for something sweet later. Or see if there’s something you like on the menu.”

He nodded towards a wooden board hung up on the back wall, between the shelves of odds and ends. Smooth, curling lines graced its edges, the neat writing carefully etched out in the common tongue.

Rapunzel glowed with delight. “Oooooh, that looks so nice! Mer, look, look, there’s a menu, Merid—”

“It’s Meredith. Remember? And yes, I see it,” she said, through gritted teeth.

“See what?” A pale arm wrapped around Meredith’s shoulder. It belonged to a boy with hair so white it near hurt to stare at. The point of his ears were just visible underneath, and with the way his curling staff showed patches of frost growing on it, in the height of summer…well. There was another story.

His sharp features took on an air of mischief as he read over the menu. “Oho, that looks fun. Would you look at that list of magical goods? Wow.” He tossed a grin at Quincy. “Nice selection you have here. Any items I could get a discount on?”

Quincy set down two tankards and tossed it back. “Win a round of cards with me and you just might.”

“Get off me, Jack.” Meredith whined, the puff of her hair crushed under the weight of his arm. Her trying to wriggle out did nothing but make him lean down even more.

“Aww, don’t be like that Fluff! Did my confession of love mean nothing to you? I cannot bear to be parted from you for long, my dearest of conspirers, my partner in crime—”

“Your ‘confession of love’ happened when you were stealing my knives!”

“It’s the spirit of the thing that counts, doesn’t i—oomph!” Her elbow met his gut. Meredith shoved him off.

Jack fell limply onto the stool next to her, clutching his side like a puncture wound. “She rejected me again, oh, the pain! The agony! I’ll never recover—”

“Drink your ale and suffer, toothpick.”

Rapunzel sniggered, and nearly fell against the bar when Hiccup’s elbow met her back as he tried to manoeuvre himself and his bag with the stool without upending all three.

Clearly, there wasn’t a rogue amongst them.

Then again, there were many things any one of them could be, from what Quincy could see of it, most likely depending on who asked. He wouldn’t ask—a large part being that it was fun to guess—but it was a rather lively, dissimilar bunch that made up this party. And a party was never hurt from too much variety.

He set down a small box and flipped open the lid.

Rapunzel visibly perked up. “Are those…?”

“Cookies? Why, yes. Quite a few of them magic, in fact.” He tapped one of them, a small, round one which had a thin plate of chocolate embedded on it, the surface covered in intricate carvings. “I believe I said I’d give you something in exchange for earlier, didn’t I?”

“Earlier?” Hiccup asked.

Rapunzel quickly interjected. “A story! He asked for a story, so I gave him one. And didn’t you promise that for winning a game? I don’t think you said anything about this.”

Quincy shrugged. “This lot’s been sitting in the back for a few days now—not as popular as usual, for some reason. They’re still good, of course, and it’s not as if it makes any difference to me. And depending on what you pick, you might even get a surprise.” He picked up the chocolate one. “Take this, for example. If you eat it then it will allow you to cast fireball once.”

“Fireball!” Meredith burst in, mid-conversation with Jack. “I want that! Can I buy it?”

“Careful, red, you look like you’re trying too hard.”

“You’re just scared I’ll beat you again.”

“That was one time and you snuck up on me—!”

They got into a bout of bickering, which their two friends ignored.

“It seems like fun, doesn’t it?” Rapunzel poked at the box, while Hiccup gave it a quizzical frown.

“I don’t know about that. I mean, wouldn’t it be a bit overkill? With, you know,” he gestured to Rapunzel's general vicinity, “you being a cleric and all.”

“Well, true. But I mainly use what I have for healing.”

“And for blinding enemies,” added Jack.

For some reason this had Rapunzel grinning. “And deflecting weapons.”

“And making weapons.”

“And carrying a horse!”

The two of them high fived over Meredith, who went into a fit of giggles. Hiccup shook his head at them.

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I have never seen anything more terrifying than you and Rapunzel teaming up and for everyone’s sake I hope you two are never, ever put together again. Also everyone here is messed in the head.”

“Bold words coming from the Fire In The Mountain society, I see,” said Rapunzel. At Hiccup’s betrayed look, she donned a winning smile.

“Speaking of that—what’re you doing sitting there like you don’t have anything to do with it? Admit the obvious already and come join us! One of us! One of us!”

“Already here. What else you want?”

Apparently, Jack had an answer for that, too. “More snow-globes.”

“Exploding arrows.”

“Another singing sugar jar?”

“That weird, tubey metal thing from when we counter-pranked those hob-goblins, but bigger.”

“Pointy spear but with spice.”

“Okay, fine. I get it. I've learnt my lesson. I take back everything I've ever said in my life.”

Quincy didn’t catch what they said after that, but when he emerged from his shelves it was with a thick book cased in a peeling cover. He set it down in front of Hiccup and dusted off his hands.

“There! I just remembered I had that.” At Hiccup’s hesitant pause, Quincy nudged it towards him. “Go on, give it a read, see what you think.”

The book was one of his older journals. It held plenty of knowledge about tinkering, but much of it covered other subjects as well, from simple potion making to detailed descriptions on different lunar-powered insect species to the shapes and signs of unnatural storms. With the way Hiccup leafed through it, the contents could’ve been the recipe for gold.

“I’ve always told myself, after I’d finished about half a dozen of these, that I’d make sure to lend them out to other artificers, inventors, or those who like to learn like myself. To spread the knowledge around, you know? Lots of good tips in there, whether you’re just starting up or not. If you want you can take it with you.”

He jerked up from where he’d been leaning over the pages. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to just take it—I should at least pay before I—”

“The only price I put on borrowed books is returning them and that’s not changing today. If you like it then use it, and keep it as long as you need. Sound good?”

“I—…yes. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Hiccup made as if to put the book in his bag but then paused. Instead of trying to fit it into one of his pockets—he had plenty on him, one of them should’ve worked—he did a strange, awkward wiggle that sent him and his bag slithering out of sight. The only thing visible over the bar was the top of his hair.

Jack leaned back on his stool, craning his head to see around the others. He squinted. “What are you doing down there?”

“Just trying to get this new book in. It’s a tight fit.”

“Why do you have to be down there to do that?”

“Because this'll all spill out everywhere if I don’t. You know this already. I could be sitting on solid ground not touching anything and something will happen anyways.”

“Yes, but you’re taking too long. Do you want me to help y—?”

“So!” Hiccup popped up. “I’m hungry! Is anyone else hungry?”

Meredith slowly turned to him. “…Hiccup. What are you hiding. Because I swear if it’s another—”

“Boy, all of this looks so good I don’t know if I could choose!” he continued over her, his voice an octave higher than before. “But since I have to make a choice, then no time to dally—”

“You are the worst liar alive and this is pathetic. My wee brothers could do better than you when they were still growing their teeth in.”

“—so for me it’ll have to be the copper meal, please and thanks!”

Hiccup smacked a copper onto the bar and stared at Quincy like he held the answer to all his problems. Before Quincy could react either way, someone else did.

“I’ve got it!”

A pause. All eyes turned to Rapunzel. She blinked at them. Then she lowered her hands, which had been raised mid-cheer, and ducked her head.

“Um, it’s just, I was wondering what to do about the cookies. A cookie would be nice, but, well, I don’t know, I feel like I was more in the soft kind of sweet mood and not a crunchy sweet one. So…I was thinking…maybe I could exchange it for something else instead? If that’s okay?”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Quincy, if for nothing else than to break the silence.

“Well, the menu says there’s something called lost bread and that seems nice. Is it a sweet?”

“It is. It’s sweet, fried, and filling, goes well with amethyst syrup. But if you order that then it would likely count as a meal, since you’ll get a few stacks of it.”

The sound of that sent joy to her face. But instead of saying yes, she turned to Hiccup. “Hiccup? What do you think?”

He folded his arms. “You tell me. Do you think you could hike for a couple more hours after eating a stack of fried sugar?” The joy fled as fast as it had come and Rapunzel drooped. “There’s your answer.”

She looked so melancholy about the matter that it nearly drew a chuckle. At least the problem was an easy fix.

A quick mental inventory, and the smells coming from the kitchen, gave an answer. “…How about this? I have a fresh batch of honey-nut rolls in the back, made them an hour ago. Normally two of them go for a copper, but for you I could give one for free, and then you can order whatever else you want.”

Rapunzel brightened immediately. “That sounds good. In that case…could I have one honey-nut roll, a miso soup, and some of that amethyst syrup drink?”

“Done.” Quincy swept up the copper from before and the money she put down. “And you two?” he asked Meredith and Jack.

Jack answered first. “I’ll have the biscuits and dragon gravy, if you wouldn’t mind!”

He got a smack over the head from Meredith. “You’re going to burn your mouth, regret your entire life, and then come crying to me. Just save yourself the trouble and tell me you want to steal my food.” Digging out a handful of coins, she counted them up and placed them on the bar. “One King Mulligan’s stew for me, please, and a glass of bottled sunshine for both of us. That should be enough to cover that, the gravy for the genius here, and the apple ales, yes?”

Quincy added the numbers and found there to be more than the prices listed. The coins were also those well known for belonging to the coastal clans, and very good quality. On closer inspection, the metal fastenings on her cloak carried a distinct pattern to them.

He made no comment, pocketing the coins and nodding his thanks. “They do. I’ll have everything brought out right away. If you’ll excuse me.”

It was good that they’d come well after the rush hour. Most of what they’d ordered were common enough items that there were left overs, still hot enough for his assistant to simply plate and deliver. Whatever cooking he had to do was done in minutes and he quickly ladled them up and brought them outside.

He stepped out just in time for Jack to go into a coughing fit. And for the front doors to burst open.

A group of black-clad soldiers trooped in. They were tall, all sharp edges and sleek lines, and moved with a deliberate precision that didn’t look anywhere near as human as it should have. They could have been human, but it was hard to tell with their faces covered.

One of the soldiers in the front of the group marched forward. He—or it, probably; anyone’s guess either way—held up a wide scroll of parchment and let it unfurl.

“By order of his noble majesty King Draconius, ruler of these lands, the ranger Meredith “Green Arrow” Lightfoot and ice sorcerer Jack Frost are hereby summoned to present themselves before his majesty on grounds of vandalism, injury and assault, damage to property, contempt of authority, and theft. They are ordered also to return the following: two chests of seafoam jewels, three chests of gold bars, five crates of seeds, a herd of Yaknogs, and seven barrels of mead. Failure to comply will result in immediate execution.”

The soldier rolled up the scroll. They waited.

And that was the first definite hint that they couldn’t have been human. Local or no, anyone with good sense would know that when it came to brawls with the law, the tavern was left well out of it because the only laws the tavern followed were its own.

The fact that the tavern at that moment held half a decent travelling party on one end, a group of hammer-wielding miners on the other, a tiefling interrupted from trying to flirt with what may or may not have been an assassin, something under a hood that had slime trailing out from under it, and, of course, the tavern owner himself, should’ve been enough for anything with a pulse to run in the other direction. But clearly this lot didn’t have a pulse.

From her seat, Meredith gazed languidly at the gathering. “…Huh. So that’s who we robbed.”

She made no move to turn to a still quietly coughing Jack, so Quincy wordlessly slid a cup of milk his way.

“Yaknogs?” he asked.

Jack downed the cup and shrugged. “They looked sad.”

“Then I suppose I owe you a favour.”

Quincy made his way out from behind the bar. Clasping his hands together, he stood before the soldiers and allowed a polite smile to cross his face.

“Greetings. As the owner of this tavern, I must demand that you to leave at once. This is your final warning.”

The first soldier who’d spoke took a threatening step forward. “You are under the command of his noble majesty. You are ordered to comply at once.”

“Ah, see, that is unfortunate, because I'm not under his command. I really do not wish to do this to you.”

“Bring forth the accused or you will be punished.”

“No. It is you, I am afraid, who will have to be punished.” His smile grew sharp. “You are breaking the rules. That is not allowed.”

He clapped his hands.

At once, the soldiers vanished. No sound, no bang, no sudden light. Just a sudden lack of someones in a place where they’d just been.

Quincy nodded. He meandered back behind the bar, a whistling tune starting up in his throat. He took the emptied cup and regarded his guests. “Will that be all? Or is there anything else I can get you?”

When all of them still gaped at him, he raised an eyebrow. “What?”

It was Hiccup who spoke first. “…You…you just…” he raised a hand to the doors, then looked back at him, “…but how…?”

“Well, this is Quincy’s Tavern and I am Quincy. What did you expect?”

Hiccup closed his mouth. His face paled.

“…What? What is it?” asked Jack. Hiccup looked at him like he’d just summoned death.

“I am not discussing this here with you!” he hissed.

“But why? First it’s your bag of secrets, now this—” Meredith started to go off, only for Hiccup to interrupt, and the three of them went into a furious bout of whispering. The only one who didn’t join in was Rapunzel, who idly sipped her drink and watched them go back and forth like a kickball match.

It was when they remembered that Quincy was still in hearing range that they quieted. On some unspoken agreement, they set to quickly finishing their meals. Quincy pretended not to notice and carried on with his cleaning.

“By the way, when you’re done you can go out through the back,” he said, after some time. If someone startled behind him, he pointedly didn’t see it.

He fiddled with one of his potion bottles, gave it a good shake, and returned it to its shelf. Then he turned back and nodded to the covered passage behind the bar. “Just go through there, down the hall, first door on the right, can’t miss it. If you want, my assistant can show you.”

“No, no. We’ll be fine.” Hiccup stood. “Thank you for having us. This was a good meal and we appreciate it.”

The rest of them repeated the same. Quincy waved them off. “It was a pleasure. You kids stay safe out there.”

“We will. Thank you again.”

They shuffled behind the bar and filed through. The last to go was Rapunzel. But right before she left, she looked back at Quincy and gave him a cheery wave. An arm reached through the opening, looped around her elbow, and tugged her out of sight.

[alottanothing]

Kismet

Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.

Previous Part: Hope

Word Count: 5707

Warnings: Language

Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.

Jonny did not know how to keep a house.

In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.

Oh, how she wished she had.

Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.

If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.

Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.

For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.

Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.

With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.

"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."

Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.

"I didn't even say yes."

"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.

"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.

"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.

"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.

"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"

"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.

As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.

"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.

Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.

"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."

"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."

"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.

A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.

"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.

The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.

"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.

Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.

“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”

A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.

“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.

“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”

Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.

With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.

“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”

For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.

Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.

“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.

With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.

With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.

Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.

Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.

Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.

Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."

Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.

"Come in."

Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."

He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.

"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."

"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."

There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.

"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."

His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.

"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.

She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.

"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.

"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."

The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.

"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.

"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.

Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.

"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.

"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.

He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.

"How much pasta would you like?"

Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.

"Enough," he grinned.

The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.

Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.

"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"

Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.

"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."

Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.

"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.

He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.

"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.

"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"

All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.

"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."

Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"

"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.

"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."

"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.

"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"

"Does she still work there?"

Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.

"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."

Shit!

Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.

"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"

He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."

"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.

For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.

He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.

A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.

"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.

Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.

"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.

When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.

“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.

When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.

The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.

“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”

A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.

“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”

“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.

“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”

“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”

Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.

“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”

That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.

For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?

No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.

When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.

“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”

Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”

When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.

“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”

Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.

“Alright,“ he smirked.

She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.

Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.

When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.

Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”

Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.

“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”

A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.

She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.

Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.

It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.

She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.

The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.

“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”

Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.

Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”

Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.

"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."

Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.

"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.

Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.

"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."

"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."

Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"

Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.

"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."

"Me too," she murmured.

Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.

[lokeanwelcomingcommittee]

Today I made a post about Fenrir and things that can bring him honor like meat, mead and acts of service like self-care.

However, a girl appeared to tell me that "that's not valid because it doesn't appear in the texts" and it annoyed me too much.

Is that true, that just because it doesn't appear in a text that personal experience is less valid?

Hi,

For the record, I haven't seen the post in question, so I can only speak generally, not comment on that specific conversation.

What you do in your private practice without involving anyone else is between you and the gods. However, when you share that practice with others, even if you're just describing what you do, you take on additional responsibilities. Namely, you have the responsibility not to harm the people you're sharing with, including by misleading them.

There's already a ton of misinformation out there. Some of it is deliberate deception meant to help the writer sell something or look more knowledgeable or push their agenda. Some of it is just personal gnosis presented as fact. Unfortunately, there isn't always much of a material difference in the outcome: people end up taking things as fact that should have been taken as opinion, at best.

Some of it is merely ahistorical and will only hurt the person who based their beliefs on it when they find out it can't possible be true. Edain McCoy's ancient Celtic potato goddess, for example. But even if it’s not something quite so extreme, and even if the belief itself is totally innocuous, finding out that you’ve based a dear, deeply held belief on someone else’s opinion that isn’t really supported by anything, when all this time you were under the impression it was fact, can still hurt a lot. Aside from the sense of betrayal, it can damage your relationship with the gods, make you wary when interacting with the community, or even put you off the religion entirely depending how heavily your practice hinged on the thing in question.  

Other misinformation can hurt people in the community as well. For example, it can lead people to steal things from other cultures that aren't theirs to take, or attribute hateful beliefs to the gods.

This is why at least acknowledging history and the lore is important, even if you choose to reject certain historical beliefs and practices. If anyone can say whatever they want about the gods with no backing whatsoever and face zero criticism, the the person spouting soundly debunked nineteenth century theories is valid, and the white person teaching others how to worship indigenous deities with zero input or oversight from the cultures their sacred to is valid, and the neonazis preaching that the gods are white supremacists are valid.

So basically, if you made a public post and didn't add any type of disclaimer that the post was your own personal beliefs and not taken from the lore, it wasn't necessarily off base for someone to point that out for the sake of others who may be less familiar with the lore. Depending on where it was shared, it may actually have been in the rules of the group or server, as clearly delineating personal belief vs. what's attested is a fairly common community standard in pagan groups across platforms. None of this gives someone a right to be a jerk about it, though, and I'm sorry if they were overly harsh or rude.

If you did have that disclaimer in there, and they called you out for sharing your beliefs at all, then yes, they were just being a jerk. (Unless you were in a group that bans sharing UPG outright. In which case, maybe find a different place to post that stuff.)

- Mod E

[fineillsignup]

Hello! I hope this isn't intrusive, but I've been writing a Chinese OC & recently realized that I might've accidentally played into certain stereotypes e.g., parental expectations/strictness. It wasn't my intention to do this, but since I've realized that it could very well come off that way, I've been nervous about whether or not it's okay for me to write my OC as Chinese or if I should change it. I figured the best way to know for sure would be to ask someone else and see what they think.

Okay buckle up because I started typing this up on the train and it got long and meandering. (Yes I still have to take the train even in this time of plague. I don’t have a car and I have some places that I Must Go Because My People Need Me.)

I’m assuming you’re asking me this because of my guide to Chinese names, and I would say from how you’ve phrased the question that there’s a strong possibility that you’re assuming I’m of a Chinese ethnic background. I am not, not even a little bit. 

I am a North American-born multi-ethnic but all white person, that is, a blend of several different European heritages, mostly Germanic and Celtic. My parents spoke only English. I grew up in a mostly white suburban area. I was raised in a fairly permissive way, and they were always keen to encourage any academic interest I had, but I got to direct it, basically. Most significantly to my future, my parents said “yes” when I asked if I could take Mandarin Chinese lessons as a child and “yes” again when I asked if I could go to China at age 18 with another 18 year old girl (a Chinese girl who had lived in China most of her life and my good friend) to spend the summer doing ???? unspecified things ?????. My parents were like “ok sounds like a good experience.”

Anyway. All of that is just to say I’m not Chinese and I def didn’t have high pressure parents. So my answer to your question won’t come from either of those perspectives.

It’s good to be aware of potentially damaging stereotypes and to be sure not to let them limit your fiction. But I would urge you, above all else, not to let it stop you writing a character as Chinese.

The point of my guide post was not just to be a guide, but it was also an assertion: you don’t need to be of a Chinese ethnicity to choose a good Chinese name, or to write a Chinese character. You just have to put in the work, and the work is achievable! It really is! And if you’re my kind of nerd, it’s even fun!

And part of why I wrote it is the very reason that I think many well-meaning people are so terrified of getting something wrong, that, like you, they wonder if they should just not try. And the end result is less diversity!

Someone once told me that one difference about being appropriative or exploitative is about whether you are trying to tell a story of what it means to be X when you are not X. In that case the story is not yours to tell. Like if you sum up the story as “this is a story of what it means to be a Chinese teenager with parents who are very demanding”. That’s not a story to be told by someone who has no stake in the story.

In contrast, for example, I wrote a fanfiction novel called Queen’s Choice(s). It is about a woman who has a superpower that strengthens other superpowers, and is being hunted down by some bad guys. She joins forces with, and falls in love with, four men who also have superpowers, and in the end they live happily ever after as a fivesome.

Four of the five are Han Chinese, the story largely takes place in alternate universe Shanghai. Them being Chinese matters, the setting matters, even with my own experiences and expertises, I still had to do research, which included consulting with Chinese people. But the story is not anywhere “the story of what it means to be Chinese.”

A big risk in writing anything you aren’t intimately acquainted with—whether that’s a different gender, ethnicity, background, spaceship life, ninjutsu, needlework, royalty, criminal underworlds, 17th century sailing, wild horses, etc—is the unknown unknowns. The stuff you don’t know you don’t know. That’s why it’s important in research to be broad and inquisitive, to interact with a variety of primary and secondary sources that talk on a subject in a general way, rather than limit to a specific question-answer.

What I think you have to think about with regard to this character, is what is their role in the story, their parents role, what plot or character development function does the person play; if someone read your work and was asked “Who is OC? Why does OC matter to the story?” what would that reader answer? I agree that the “Tiger Mother, stressed out child” stereotype can be reductive. If that’s all your OC is, then I don’t think the answer is to make the OC not Chinese. It’s to make sure that the OC and their background is rounded. But that’s hard to guess either way based just on what you’ve written in your question. 

Child rearing is a very cultural thing, and in Chinese culture the emphasis on education is very high; there is also history about the Imperial Examinations and so on for why, for thousands of years, studying and particularly the concept of exams are perhaps more important in the Chinese culture than literally any other culture in the world. The concept of social mobility as being tied to one’s exam performance, and thus that one’s exam performance literally meant one’s entire future, and therefore that it was the most important thing that could possibly be. These are all historical realities. You can get objective numbers of stuff like how much Chinese parents spend on cram schools or educational materials and so on.

But fictional individuals are both individuals and fictional; you write them as individuals and you have choices for how you write them about how typical or atypical you want them to be. I think it can be a mistake to try to lean too hard on making someone atypical/unexpected. Someone having something “assumed true about them” actually be true about them doesn’t mean “aha, the stereotype is always true and is all that X people are!” I think if you ask any individual who is anything, “what is something about you that is stereotypical but true for your race/gender/sex/upbringing/sexuality/career/whatever?” they would have at least one thing about them that is a stereotype but is true. And they would have things about them that is a stereotype that is not true.

I’ve run out of time but I hope you are able to glean some kind of wisdom out of *gestures above vaguely* all that.

[loureadsandreviews]

This is for the lovely Hayley for her 30th Birthday. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: FinanXFemReader You are new to Coccham, and you seemed to have caught Finan’s eye. 

Warnings: Fluff, Sex, Smut, parental death

Word count:  4230

“Ya new here now, ain’t you.”

You look up from where you knelt on the bank, your knees resting on the cold wet earth as you’re bent over washing a dress in the river.  You had been lucky to be taken in by Lord Uhtred’s household after your hamlet was burned by Danes.  Only you and your Sister survived, but she had decided she wanted to fight the Danes, and had asked to join the Dane Slayer himself.  She was an inspiration, but you had seen enough killing now to last a lifetime.

“Yes, Lord, I am.”  You offer him a small smile, admiring the width of his shoulders and the way his armour always fit him so very well.  Your Sister knew you liked his dark eyes and irish accent, and she liked to tease you about it.  She kept telling you to make yourself known to him, but how were you to do that?  He was Lord Uhtred’s second in command, his right hand man and seemed to be his closest friend.  He was not the kind of man you just wandered up to and tried to flirt with.  Or maybe he was, but that did not mean that she was the type to wander up and just flirt openly with someone.  There were names for girls like that after all.

“You’re Naira’s Sister, right? She has a wicked temper.”  He chuckled and rubbed a large hand over his beard.  You had not moved, your hands still rubbing the material of the dress together.  You still had a pile of washing to go, but you were trying not to just sit and stare up at him.  Was he not already snapped up by someone?  He was so handsome.

“Yes Lord, she can be a little on the fiery side. It’s our Da’s temper, or um was our Da’s temper.”  You look down at your hands, already pruned in the water, and at the blue dress there.  Your Da had been all you and your Sister had, after your Ma had passed away trying to give birth to your Brother, though he had then passed on two days later after.  Your Da had raised you right though, and he tried to protect you and Naira when the Danes had come, but they had killed him as he stood with his log axe in hand in the doorway.  You and Naira had managed to hide up in the rafters, he had given you the time to do that safely.  And he had died for it.

“Ah, yeah, I am sorry to hear about that.”  His accent had seemed to get a little thicker as he looked serious, and you could not help but actually pull your hands up out of the water and rub your cheeks, at least then if he noticed your face was wet, he would think river water and not tears.  After all no man wanted a girl who would cry all the time.

“Thank you Lord.”  Your voice was soft, hardly above a whisper as you managed to look away from him.

“Hey now Y/N, don’t be calling me Lord. I work for my silver.”  She looked up and couldn't help but giggle to the smile (and the quip) he had aimed at you.  He did not wear arm rings like the Danes who worked for Lord Uhtred, but you did notice his gold rings, as he tucked his fingers into the leather chest piece of his armour, at his neck.  

“Sorry, um… what should I call you then?”  You are looking up into his dark eyes, one damp hand brushing back your hair, the wispy bits that always escaped from the simple tie back. As you were unmarried you were not expected to braid it down your back like most of the women here.  She had noticed that even most of the Saxon women were doing it now, though you had no idea if you would.  Not that you had to worry about it anytime soon.

“Finan, just Finan.”  

“Then I shall, Just Finan.”  You can not help giving him a cheeky smile, the kind of smile that her Sister claimed either meant she had done something wrong, or was thinking about it.

You were rewarded with a bright smile and another one of those deep rumbling chuckles.  The sound of it sent a pearl of pleasure down your back and into your core.  It makes you shiver, and the way he laughed a little more makes you wonder if he noticed it.  He was leaning a little to the side, before he ran his free hand over his beard once again.

“I’ll let you get back to your fun task.”  He tells you, with another smile and a wink this time.  This has to be the Finan charm you had heard about.  Of course there were rumours that he had been with half the women in Coccham, but then he was a man, and that was what they did.  And if he had, none of the women here spoke ill of him, so that had to mean something right?

“I’ll let you get back and hold Lord Uhtred’s hand.”  You tell him, your voice a little high, a flirty tone, before you look back down at the dress that luckily was still there in the water.  You would have caught hell if Stiorra’s dress had drifted off down stream.

You did not look up again until the sound of his footsteps had drifted off, along with the chuckle.  When you did look in his direction again he was heading through the gate, both thumbs tucked into his leather armour at the sleeve holes.  He looked back at you, caught you looking at him, and then paused to give you grin (or what you thought of as a grin, it is hard to tell from his distance) before he vanished inside the palisade gates, leaving you to wonder if you would catch him later some time, or if this had been your one and only chance and you had blown it.

========================

A week later, and you had bumped into Finan more often than you had thought you would.  He would just seem to appear whenever you were doing some of the more mundane tasks around the estate, you would share in some witty banter, and then one of you would head off and usually with a backward glance.  Naira had been teasing you about him, saying that he kept mentioning your name at the most strange times and asking her what sort of things you liked.  And apparently even Sihtric and Osferth had even started to tease Finan, bringing up your name in the middle of practise to trip him up or beat him in sword moves.  And that seemed to drive him crazy, and made you smile as it meant that he may well really like you.

But you had no idea how to take that next step and show him you liked him too. After all, you did not want to be hurt. You had lost the strongest and only male figure in your life not long before, and while you were not looking for Finan to fill that particular role for you, you did not want to be just another hump in the hay, cause if you were then he could continue to look around for someone else. Your Da always said that you and your Sister were worth more than that. 

There was to be a celebration that night, as one of the girls in the village was marrying one of Lord Uhtred’s men. He was throwing the feast, to show how happy he was for the couple, and everyone was invited. You had been working on your dress all week in your spare time, which there wasn't much of as it was harvest time, and that meant all hands on deck, as it were. Your dress was a deep blue, you had dyed it yourself, again and again until you had gotten the colour just right. You had also dyed Niara a tunic to match, as you knew she would not wear a dress now. You then had embroidered small yellow and white daisies around the neckline and cuffs, and in amongst the flowers you had placed some celtic love knots. They were not obvious, the thread was a dark grey colour, but if someone were to look closely, then he would see. You wore a light blue under dress, and then your newly embroidered dress over the top. Niars claimed you looked beautiful with your hair all brushed out until it gleamed, and coming from your beautiful sister, that meant the world. 

You attended the feast with your Sister, though it soon became clear that she wanted to go and be with her warrior friends. You tell her to go, that you have your own friends to go sit with but it's a lie. You haven't made any friends here yet, but you knew that if Niara knew that then she would not leave your side. And you want her to have a night of fun. 

One of you had to, right.

You did notice that Finan kept looking your way during the feast, but he is seated on the main table with Lord Uhtred, and the happy couple. And the two newly weds do look so happy that you feel overcome with emotions and a sudden sting of loneliness. You excuse yourself from the table, not that anyone around you is paying attention to you, and you take your cup of wine out of the main hall and into the cool evening air. 

As the sun is setting, it has painted the sky in purples, pinks, oranges and reds, colours that had no business being together all blended in like that. It was striking, and you find yourself absorbed by the sight, it being one of the most beautiful sunsets you had ever seen. 

"Breathtaking," a voice behind you makes you jump, a hand going to your chest as if that would calm your racing heart as you turn to see Finan with a semi serious look on his face.  "Sorry, did I make ya jump?”

“No, well yes actually Just Finan, you scared me. But it is fine, your apology is accepted." You look back over your shoulder at the sunset and smile wistfully. "Yes, it is breathtaking."

"Yeah, the sunsets alright though when you've seen one then you've seen them all." He gave you a smile that seemed to be mischievous in nature but also shy at the same time. "I was talking about the view I had." He was still smiling, but there was something in his dark eyes that seemed to be serious too. 

He walked towards you, and joined you where you leaned against the handrail that led into the main hall.  You were blushing after his compliment, and you did not miss the fact that he was standing close enough to you that you could feel the heat from his body against your arm.  His large arms were folded over his chest, and for once he was not in his armour, but just a green tunic with a striped pattern on it.  It suited him, browns and greens did seem to suit him, and she could hardly imagine him in blue.  That would just look weird.

“What are you doing out here anyway, you are missing the festivities.”  You ask him, trying to make small talk, but you know you are terrible at such things.

“Oh, I know, but I saw this vision of loveliness slip out the hall, and I thought I would come out and see if they were well. Have you seen her, the vision of loveliness I followed out? I'm sure she is around here somewhere."  

His tease made you laugh out as you knocked your elbow into his ribs, which then made him let out a small yelp, a sound that was so unlike him that you stopped and just stared at him in that moment. He was chuckling to himself, shaking his head at you. 

"What on earth was that? Did someone sit on a mouse? Or maybe spill ale down Osferths back again? Surely the great Finan, Dane-Slayer, did not just yelp like a small child?" You tried to sound serious as you spoke, but your words were interspersed by the giggles that were bubbling up from your chest. You also realised at some point that he had taken a step towards you, and you had taken a step back. And again and again. 

"Come now, Y/N, I think you know it wasn't nae like that." He was still grinning, taking his slow large steps towards you, as he ran a hand back through his hair. Your eyes watched his hand, and you found you wanted to know if his hair was as soft as it looked. 

"Oh, I think you'll find it was." You tell him, still grinning and only them feeling the wooden wall behind your back. And yet he still kept coming. "Maybe I should send word to the Danes, that the way to bring you down is by tickling your ribs, or maybe the King can use you as a distraction, make you squeal and while the Danes are laughing he can slaughter them all." 

"Oh lass, I'm going to make you squeal." He was still an arms length away, though when he moved to you, you never saw him coming. You had never seen someone move as fast as him, Finan the Agile indeed. His hands went to your own ribs, teasing out where you were ticklish. Which was everywhere. You try to stop him, but alas he was too quick, and far too strong to be put off. You laugh, and beg, and threaten, and then went back to begging, as tears of laughter rolled down your cheeks. 

And by the time you were breathless, leaning up against the wall, with Finan standing almost against you, his hands on your waist, his head angled down towards yours, it was then that you knew you were going to kiss him. You could see it coming, as clear as day follows night, and while you were trembling to feel his lips on yours, you wanted to prolong the moment, the build up, something to remember him by when he moved on to someone else. 

"I wonder where else you are tickl--" 

That was as far as he got before you grabbed the font of his tunic and pulled his mouth down to yours.  If he was taken by surprise he didn't show it with how his hands moved from your hips around your back though neither moved lower than your lower back you realised, as his lips moved against your own. His beard tickled your cheek and upper lip, making you smile into the kiss. You had no idea how long it lasted but when he drew back from your mouth you were almost panting for breath. A reaction that he both shared and seemed to like. 

"Ya just full o'surprises, ain't ya."

"Why don't you see if you're good enough to find out?" You just can't help the banter with him, and before you can wonder what else he is going to say, his mouth was on yours again, though this time you opened your lips to him, and he deepened the kiss enough to make your toes curl. His tongue began to dominate your mouth, tasting, exploring, licking, you find it hard to keep up, though he was very alert for when you moaned in pleasure at a certain touch, especially when his hands finally slid down your hips to cup your buttocks in his strong hands. 

When his mouth finally tore itself from your own and began kissing down your cheek to your jaw, you moaned against him, a hand moving up into his hair. It was as soft as you thought it would be, and you run your nails over his scalp and smile as he moans, though then you feel his teeth at your throat, and in the midst of the stinging pleasure you know he has left a mark there for all to see. 

"So tempted to take you back to me rooms, just to see if you taste this good all over." His voice had dropped lower, and you can't help but shiver in pleasure. 

"Take me there."

Finan paused and looked up at you from where he had been trailing kisses and bites down your neck. "Y/N, ya Ben drinkin, and I don't need ya Sister coming for me balls cause I took advantage of her drunk sister."

"Firstly, she is not my keeper, I do what I want. Secondly, I had one ale, too bored to drink more. And lastly, I'm not a maid, so you wont be doing nothing to me that wasn't done before."  

There had been a boy in your town, Alresford, and the two of you had decided in the spring that if the Danes attacked you would rather not die virgins. It had been quick, awkward and fumbly, but you know from other women it got better with practise. Your sister didn't know, she would have killed Alresford if she did, though the Danes had already done that deed when they had taken your village. 

You could see the surprise and no little amount of delight on Finans face at the news. "As long as ya protect my balls from your Sister, Y/N, then it seems I am in for a night of exploring and tasting…" His words died off as his lips found yours again, and with his hands still on your bottom, he picked you up as if you weighed nothing at all. It made you cry out in surprise, which just made Finan laugh as he kissed your breasts through your dress, before moving to carrying you in his arms as he moved quickly around the hall and towards his house. 

You remember little of the journey there, other than you made use of the time to kiss and nip at his throat and side of his neck.  The little hitches of breath and the following moans told you he seemed to like what you were doing, and it also added to the pleasure that was making its way straight down to your core.  You were feeling a need to have him buried deeply inside of you, and you hoped it would happen sooner rather than later.  

Arriving at his house, you felt him kick the door open, then closed, and a hand moved from your side to flick a latch, before it was back on you, and he moved through to his bedchamber.  The waiting bed was large, covered in fine cotton sheets, and rolled up furs you would assume would be for winter.  He placed you on your feet, and then began to kiss you once more.  You were kissing him back, your hands going the hem of his tunic as his hands went for your dress ties.  And your hands just seemed to get in the way of one another.  You both laughed, before he drew back and pulled his shirt off, while toeing his boots off before sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Undress for me.”  It was a request and an order, and you smiled as you turned your back to him, and began to unlace your dress, so it fell to the ground, and your underdress soon after joining it.  You took off your shoes, then looked over your shoulder, naked, and looked at him.  The look of pure arousal you were greeted with was almost your undoing, turning to him you wondered if he could smell your own arousal building.  “Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph, but you are a sight.”  His hands moved to your hips, and pulled you to stand between his legs as his mouth went to one of your breasts, kissing, caressing with his mouth, and nibbling the sensitive underside.  His hands kneaded your buttocks, before he spun you around to leave a teasing bite on one of them.

“Sit down and hook your legs over mine.”  Again, not quite a request and not quite an order.  But you do, and he moved his legs wider, opening you up.  “Now I want to hear you moan.”  He told you, as one arm hooked around you, his hand moving down to start teasing your damp folds with his fingers as they searched out your most sensitive of places.  His other hand seemed content to tease your hard nipples, cupping your breasts as his mouth started at your ear and began to kiss and nipple its way down to where your neck and shoulder joined.  His fingers began to play you like a harp, each twitch and movement bringing you closer to your pleasure, that heated pressure that was building inside of you.  His thumb began to rub the sensitive nub hidden in your folds, as his first two fingers teased at your entrance, sliding in to you, but only slightly.  

That was enough to send you over the first time, and you cried out to god, to the gods, to Finan, and really anyone else who was listening about how good that felt.  He chuckled in your ear, though did not stop until he had his fingers all the way inside of you, and then wiggled them just slightly until they found the place they seemed to have been searching for, and that touch alone sent another shocking wave of pleasure through your body, as you trembled in his lap, head laid back on his shoulder, sweat slicking your body as you tried to fight for breath.

“Now that was a chorus for God.”  He whispered in your ear as he withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling horribly empty.  You watched as he raised those fingers passed your head and heard him suck them clean with a hum and a groan that made your inner muscles clench all over again.  “Sweet Jesus you taste like heaven. Or maybe the nectre of the gods.”  He teased, before his hands were scooping you up and laying you on the bed.  She smiled up to him, and watched as he pressed off his breeches, exposing his length, more impressive than you would have dreamed, and giggled as he began to crawl up your body, his hands tickling your sides as he did.

“Are you sure, Y/N? This is what ya wont?”

“Yes, this is what I have wanted since I first came here.”  You told him in a whisper, and could not help but smile as he was fully above you now, and your legs were open for him.

“Then why, by all the holy saints, did you not say so before now?”  There was humour in his voice, and as he leaned down to press his mouth to yours once again, you felt his tip at your entrance.  And with his tongue sliding into your mouth, his length pressed into your depths.

Your hands gripped his biceps hard, your nails biting skin, as Finan began to move inside of you, still kissing one another as he did.  Your moans mixed with his, the small noises that escaped your mouths as the kisses became something harder, all teeth and tongue, as his hips began to pick up a steady rhythm, one you both could work to.  It had been nothing like this with Alresford, but then neither of you had known what to do then.  All you knew was that with each hard thrust into you, you felt more full, more pleasure and it was becoming too much.

“Oh Y/N, you feel wondrous,” he whispered against you as you felt your climax building once again, almost painfully fast as his hips moved in a different way, faster, making you whimper out.  “Come undone for me again, Y/N, please.”  He whispered, and you could almost hear the strain in his voice now.  It only took a couple more thrusts and you arched under him, your breath lost as you cried out once more as that red hot heat filled out, seemingly exploding from your core outwards through your body.

You were almost too far out of it to feel Finan pull out of you, but you caught him spending his seed into his hand as he lay on his side next to you.  You met his eye once he was done, and once you could both breath normally again.  “I did no ask ya if I could spend myself into ya.”  He explained, and you knew it was a lordly thing to do, not to assume, and you watched as he wiped his hand with a rag from the side of the bed.

“You are a good man.”

Then he was pulling you into his arm, so your head was on his chest, his hand ran through your hair.  You could hear his heartbeat, and you closed your eyes to listen to it’s strong beating under your head.

“I can see ya becoming an addiction.”  He told you, before kissing the top of your head, his eyes closed and a contented look resting on his face. When he spoke next, he sounded half tired, and you were not even sure if he knew what he was saying.

“You said I am a good man,“ he said. "But I am not that good a man. And I am–I think I am falling catastrophically in love with you.”

I hope you enjoyed, and happy birthday!

@waiting4inspiration​ @tephi101​ @fandomfic-galore​ @whenimaunicorn​ @laketaj24​ @simsadventures​ @maggiescarborough​ @saldelys​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @inforapound​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @ucancallmechlo​ @lauwrite1225​ @pokeasleepingsmaug​ @cocchamscrew​ @hecohansen31​

@flowers-in-your-hayr​ @gearhead66​ @naaladareia @geekandbooknerd 

[frogboydan]

Please, some hp links would be so appreciated😭

HELLO YES

these are all drarry bc i dont read any other pairings, sorry abt that !! I am also sorry they are all pretty long, but I only bookmark fics I Really Love and those tend to be the ones. I do have more if you wan’t other recs!! Let me know!

Azoth - 89k

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.

This is my favourite one!! Highly recommend this!! The perfect eight year fic.

Mental - 187k

Harry has had quite enough of sharing his mind with someone else, thankyouverymuch. A miscast Legilimecy spell says otherwise.

Classic trope, incredibe fic.

Reparations - 87k

Harry is about to discover that the steepest learning curve comes after Healer training, and that second chances can be found in unexpected places.

This has a sequel as well called Foundations, and I actually think the sequel is better! Both absolutely amazing.

Harry Potter and the American Thief - 51k

At the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Voldemort is defeated, and Sirius not only lives on, but gains his long deserved freedom. Both agreeing that they need a fresh start, far away from the press and the trauma of their entire lives, Sirius and Harry decide to pick up and move to the United States. While his godfather settles down in a Boston, Massachusetts flat, Harry transfers to Ilvermorny to start his 6th year. But the American Wizarding school, as it turns out, isn’t exactly the quiet refuge Harry had been expecting. And what, for the love of Merlin himself, is Malfoy doing here?

This one is very different from other drarry fics I’ve read, but it’s so so well written with a great plot. Draco’s characterisation is also amazing.

Golden Age - 53k

The Celtic druids once made a decision that kept magic in abundance in Britannia, but they couldn’t account for the technological advances Muggles would make centuries later. Now magic is dying on the isles, and this is not a dark lord that Harry can fight. OR: Harry Potter doesn’t save the world this time, but he does get a lot of hugs.

I was actually super hesitant to read this, because drarry are re-sorted into Hufflepuff, but it is very pure. Please do read.

Yours to Keep - 136k

Some people think concepts like fate and destiny are romantic, but for Harry Potter, fate has always meant one thing: a swift kick in the arse. Why else would he cross an ocean to New York and enroll in Muggle university only to find Draco Malfoy living two doors down the hall? The universe and its twisted sense of humor can fuck right off.

A story in which two broken boys try to repair themselves halfway across the world. Too bad trauma doesn't care how far you run.

Ur fav trope, draco in the muggle world

White Lies - 171k

Draco drinks a potion that makes him know if a person is lying, and Harry, apparently at fault that Draco is this way, is forced to 'help' him with the effects of the potion. For the first time, they deal with each other with no lies to hide behind. 

I mean. You can just tell from the description how good this is.

Hope this was useful!!!!!!! Have fun! (oh and update me with ur thoughts) xx

[margridarnauds]

☕️ the mabinogi?

With all due respect to my Welshicist friends, I did NOT like the Mabinogi starting off. I think it was because I’ve ALWYS come at these texts from the perspective of mythology, I always liked, to some extent, how BROAD the Irish tradition was, liked all the different figures who pop in and out, all the little complexities that you can search out. It’s a bit like running around an endless hamster cage. 

In contrast, the Mabinogi seemed.......flat. Linear. It’s much more a medieval text, in a way that the Irish (with a few noted exceptions, such as a few of the Fenian Cycle texts and Toruigheacht Gruaidhe Griansholus) aren’t. You’re very much in a medieval world with medieval characters, even if I fully believe that there is a mythological underpinning to some of this. The Welsh hid their pre-Christian roots much, much better than the Irish did, presumably because Wales was christianized earlier. And it’s quite confusing, in the sense that there’s a lot that simply isn’t spoken. We don’t KNOW who Lleu’s father is (though quite a few scholars have their guesses). We don’t know WHY he turned into an eagle. He just DOES, and we’re left to go “.......okay.” 

There were aspects of it that I LIKED, overall, but it still seemed a little too dark, weird, and medieval for my tastes. I skimmed it once when I was just getting into the game, then let it accumulate dust for about 6-7 years or so. I could participate in discussions about it, I could listen to my Welshicist friends, but I didn’t really keep UP with it in the way that I keep up with, say, Cath Maige Tuired. 

BUT. But. 

Then I took Middle Welsh. Mainly because it was either that or public speaking, but also because, genuinely, I did want to try something new. I didn’t think I’d get ATTACHED, but I did think it would be worth it to broaden my knowledge and give it another shot, especially since, frankly, I don’t believe that I could really call myself a Celticist if i just knew one of the Celtic languages. A medievalist with a specialty in early Irish literature, maybe, but not a Celticist. (Though note: My definition of the term “Celticist” is going to be different from anyone else’s, not the least because the term “Celticist” is in and of itself controversial.) 

And I kept scoring really, really high marks in Middle Welsh. And then I was the last student standing in my class. 

And my professor gifted me a copy of Buchedd Beuno. 

And then I was volunteering to audit another year of Middle Welsh, because I’d come so far and I didn’t want it to fade in my memory. 

And it’s very, very hard to study a language for nearly two years without developing SOME attachment to it. 

And then I was volunteering for Mabinogi-related fic exchanges because, well, what better way to refresh myself? 

And then I got the Chocolate Box Exchange request for the Mabinogi. And then I was rereading the Fourth Branch to refresh my memory.

And then somehow the new textbook was quoting the Mabinogi. 

And then I was poking at Bláthnait. And that naturally leads to Blodeuedd. 

And then I was rereading all of the Fourth Branch and writing a paper on it. 

And then I was rereading all four branches. 

I genuinely......do LOVE it? All four branches intertwine with one another, but they each have their own distinct FLAVOR. The women tend to be much more proactive and sympathetic than you would really get in Irish literature, the characters in general more rounded. (Look, I can say this, as a Bres Stan: Bres does NOT get the character development, as a villain, that, say, Gwydion does. And I say this as someone who HATES Gwydion. There’s a REASON why I can lay out a point by point analysis for why I hate Gwydion, and it’s because the text BUILDS him. You see how even his arguable best trait, his love for his family, is used to utterly monstrous purposes. Efnysien? Is a MONSTER, but still sacrifices himself to defeat the Irish.) 

Something that me and @cicelythereaper have talked about in our Late Night Mabinogi Discussions is that......the text shows a very keen awareness of women’s vulnerability? To the extent where some scholars have posited, perhaps optimistically, that the Mabinogi was, in fact, written by a woman. I don’t know if I BELIEVE that, but I do think that, whoever it was...they had a keen sympathy for women, even the villainous women in the text. And the relationships in the text tend to be quite lush and built up - You might have characters falling in love at first sight, but then you see how those dynamics grow and change over time, to the point where you can tell whether a couple is meant to be healthy just by whether or not they TALK. 

There’s just. There’s so much to the Mabinogi. So much. Even though it appears really, really flat on the surface, there’s so much depth to it, so much FEELING, and the writing style itself is very, very fine. It doesn’t come across as much in translation, but this IS really the gem of Middle Welsh literature. 

Also: YES, it’s the Mabinogi, not the Mabinogion, the Mabinogion is a late term that wasn’t really in use before the 18th century, arising as the result of a single medieval error. Like, if you’re referring to Charlotte Guest’s Mabinogion, that’s okay (and I wouldn’t correct someone on it anyway, because, like, I know what you mean no matter what and I won’t be pedantic), but....the Mabinogi IS the medieval name for it. 

[assassinscreed-photomode]

softish Spoilers for the final final chapter (Hunting Alfred)

😭

long, sorry. also I have an identity crisis at the end. Fuck england

Gods I hate that final final hunting king Aelfred quest, erasing that from my memory in 3 2 1...nope, everyone was just horribly injured, but survived and they all got everything they wanted, and lived full happy lives until the end of their days! Woo fiction!

Seriously, my delicate heart can’t take the whole trope of bringing in all these wonderful fantastic characters only for them to be used as pawns to sacrifice in the final chapters for the emotions.

I actually ended up skipping through a number of death scenes and similar because I was so desperate to get to the end. I don’t even know for sure how many of the characters died lmao......It really draws you in with those first few chapters, oh look how fun and interesting everyone is, here's a low stakes saga to get you started and then BAM dead dead dead.

I don’t know what it is. 

I think because this game is set in my country, one that I have a complicated relationship with. Many of the regions I know and love, places I have not been able to go to or anywhere this year due to covid,  I found myself feeling deeply emotional in regard to certain visual and regional aspects  of it, and then that high emotional state would transfer onto the characters and story. It mainly manifested in me having deep deep empathy for our Eivor, so much that I felt I was hurting on her behalf. Especially in regards to Sigurd, all those visions, the shit that went down in Norway like girl ARE YOU OK? Someone hug her, please.

There were times I was playing this where I genuinely felt distressed and anxious on behalf of Eivor, mainly in regards to Sigurd’s sudden anger after Suthsexe, but that's a whole other thing. I tried to be perfect around him so he wouldn’t shout at me, which obviously didn’t work. which is literally what I learnt to do as a small child and have been working through now I’m an adult. Did Sigurd fuck with my mental health progress? Omg that’s kinda amazing lol.  (though it did work out with him returning to Ravensthorpe with me because I didnt fck his wife and punch him in the face, so lesson.....learnt???) 

AC games can be stressful because they chronicle somebody’s whole life from start to finish, and that can feel like a lot of pressure when you are playing through the game and growing very found of the character you are using.

It’s also a bittersweet ending because you know that historically.................y’know with Alfred and the Danes, it’s no fairy tale. Its a shitshow, the danes do not conquer england or leave, they slowly lost more and more land over the century and their culture just blurred in with all the others

That SHIT IS NOT OVER.

England’s history is so so ugly. I’m talking England specifically, not Britain. It’s hideous, truly. There has not been one age in England that hasn't be fraught, fractured and rotting. From when the Romans showed up and started killing off and kicking out the indigenous celtic people, to god damn last week.

Like, as an english person who has roots and ancestors deep in these regions from as far back as my family can tell, who am I meant to be rooting for in this story? Who are me? The Saxons? They shot up from germanic regions a few hundred years before, are they my people? The Vikings? Danes the like invaded and took the land, for...reasons? I suppose? I mean, I did grow up in a town names for a viking raid of the monastery there...?

Should I root for the celtic britons? Don’t get me wrong Rhodri was evil, but is he my people?

By the time england became england, where there any celts still there? All kicked out of killed off by invading forces. Should I be rooting for the Picts from Scotland and the Pagans from the West Country? Indigenous Celts, who stick out and stand out in Valhalla’s England but were once the only people there, do they count as me? Or whatever is left of Roman descendants? Am I all of them? Centuries later the French took over, sort of. It was all mixed together at that point, genetically, culturally.

What does it even mean to be english? It’s like an ancient version of america. We all came from somewhere else, or left. What counts as being from somewhere?

I mean, I kind of knew this history before, but this game has really cemented in me just how fucked up the concept of england is. The last 5 years or so, politically, has made me resent and hate england in many ways. Not britain, england. I couldn’t imagine myself loving it ever again. But I think I do, I think I understand what it is now, more than I did before. 

A mish mash of fractured ancient cultures clashing together trying to resemble a country. Its a wound that may never truly heal, but that is what makes it different from its celtic neighbours . NOT BETTER but it just had a different and very ugly start in life. I always joke about needing to move to scotland, to escape. But  I know I never will, I’ve always known. I can’t do it. When Ivarr was talking about Ubba in that drinking scene, saying he disagrees with what Ubba is doing and what his goals are but he CAN’T leave him, he’s his brother. Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel about this stupid ancient busted up land. 

I just want Eivor to be happy. I’m reminded of an amazing post I saw here on tumbler years ago, it went something like: I feel like a lot of people fail to realise that for some,  loving fictional characters is the closest thing they have to loving themselves. Self love, self compassion, it can be so, so hard. So when you see someone else on screen, someone you can relate to, you pour your heart and soul into loving them. You want to protect them and give them all the love you can’t quite convince yourself you deserve. And by doing that, maybe just maybe, they can bring you one step closer to loving yourself.

I feel like I’ve been trampled by a fucking horse. This started out as a joke post about head canons and turned into me delving into my life long relationship with national identity. All I’m going to do in Valhalla now is fish.

Wow, successful therapy session, thanks all

._.

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Halloween Countdown - Dark Night

Summary: For some people, storms are a sign of bad luck coming. For Maven, lonely in her secluded castle, they meant she’d get to see her favourite human. Things change, however, when Johanna shows a longing for change, and Maven has no idea whether this will be good or ruin them. Vampire!librarian AU

Notes: Only two days for Halloween, where are the vampire librarian stans at? This fic was inspired by this post over here! Also I once more threw any historical accuracy out of the window. At first I was going to do a tribal celtic kind of thing, but then I realized it absolutely did not match the whole vampire thing and gave up. It’s probably set by the end of the Renaissance or something

Read it on ao3

Spooky song rec: Ghosting by Mother Mother

The night was dark and cold outside, with a biting wind that couldn’t be stopped even by the warmest of coats. The last thing someone would think about in a night like that was leaving their home to wander in the woods, and that’s what made Maven sure that she’d come. 

The first time Johanna had knocked at the doors of her castle, she’d been lost. Rain had been pouring down violently, making her soaking wet, water dripping from tendrils of hair which stuck to her face.

She hated to intrude, she’d explained, but she’d been picking mushrooms in the woods and the rain caught her unprepared.

Maven had let her in, of course. Not only because she wasn’t cruel enough to lock a seemingly harmless human out in the storm, but also because she had been intrigued. The woman couldn’t have walked too far just to pick mushrooms, meaning she had to live in one of the villages at the base of the hill in which her castle was. That being the case, she’d certainly heard the tales about the monster that inhabited the looming fortress, and if she was there at that very moment, she either didn’t believe them or was brave enough to face what everybody else would tell her not to.

Despite Johanna’s assurances that all she needed was a place to stay for the night, Maven had given her food (no matter what the villagers said, vampires <em>did</em> eat things other than blood) and a warm seat by the fire. Come morning, the woman had been gone, and Maven had assumed this would have been it. But it hadn’t been. 

A week later, Johanna had been at her door again. It hadn’t been raining that time, but the sun had already begun to set, in a way that she wouldn’t have been able to get back to her village before night fell and those parts became dangerous. She’d been invited in once more, seeming more at ease. She accepted the meal Maven had offered her without much deliberation, and gone as far as being curious about the castle. Maven had thought she would have been eager to fall asleep by the fireplace again, to be on her way as soon as morning came. Instead, she’d shown a lot of interest in some of the objects she saw, asking Maven for their stories, which she told gladly. When the birds began to sing, she once again left, and once again Maven thought she’d never come to see the intriguing woman again, and once more she’d been proven wrong.

On the third time she came, she hadn’t been so subtle. Her cover story was the same, that she’d been in the forest and lost track of the time, but that time she’d conveniently brought a pie which she’d baked into the woods, which she said she’d be delighted to share with the lady. Maven hadn’t wanted to flatter herself and think Johanna enjoyed her presence, after all she gave her food and warmth, two things that many villagers often went without, but she was no fool to continue thinking the visits were unintentional.

On that third night, Johanna had politely asked her to show her more of the castle. Though they’d spent most of the night in the last room Maven showed her, the library, the stronger memory they both had of that night was of the ballroom. The ample space was seldom used for its original purpose, of course, due to Maven’s secluded lifestyle, and seeing Johanna walk into it had made her feel like she’d breathed new air into the room, as if she’d brought some of her light inside her castle and made it shine at its core.

Taking Maven by surprise, something which she seemed to have gotten good at, Johanna had extended her hand and asked for a dance. Maven had been helpless to comply, and a group of instruments, which lied forgotten in a corner of the ballroom, sprang to life as if by magic, playing them an elegant tune Maven recognized though she couldn’t point out when it was she’d heard it. Maven interlaced her fingers with Johanna, one of her hands on her waistline, and they waltzed to the tune. That was the closest a human had willingly gotten to her in longer than she cared to remember.

When she left after that night, Maven had hoped she would have come back. Those visits had brought a warmth into her heart that she’d gone many years without even remembering how it felt, to care about someone else. And that time she’d been right, for week after week, Johanna thought it was an amazing idea to leave her house when the weather threatened to change and lost track of time in the woods, being forced to seek shelter at the vampire’s castle.

And she did know Maven was a vampire. Whether that was the case when they first met or not, Johanna had surely noticed at that point. Maven still remembered how her breath had caught in her throat when she had looked at one of the mirrors in the ballroom and only seen herself. Johanna had been shocked, she recalled, but she must have already had suspicions, because her surprise didn’t last long.

“Oh, we look so-” Johanna had been saying, one hand on Maven’s shoulder and the other with Maven’s own, when she looked at the mirror by the wall and saw only herself, dancing with emptiness. Her eyes had widened and she had inhaled sharply, but when she looked at Maven again she only smiled. “Beautiful!”

Maven had been too distracted wondering if she’d stop coming after noticing the tales were true to wonder about her comment. But she didn’t, and even if that hadn’t happened, even if Maven had taken care not to take her anywhere with mirrors, then Johanna would have noticed her sharp fangs in one of the many times she’d made her laugh, or the way her nose scrunched when she mentioned her village’s parish. It wasn’t ignorance that made her keep coming back, but they never talked about that. There was an unspoken agreement between the two of them for Johanna to pretend she didn’t know, and for Maven to pretend she hadn’t seen it when she noticed. It was simpler that way.

The visits had become a spot of colour in Maven’s black and white world. Johanna had offered to bring life back into her home, into her soul, and she’d allowed her to. What bad did it cause to talk over a glass of wine and  steal glances at each other while they read? And if when Maven offered Johanna a room for the night, she climbed in bed with so the two women could cuddled together despite the warmth from the fireplace, then the world was none the wiser. 

Something had changed, though. The last time Johanna had been in her castle, saying she’d gotten lost in the woods and couldn’t come back home straightway because of the violent wind outside, she’d said something that had startled Maven before going away.

“Would you like me to bring Hilda the next time I come here?” She’d asked when Maven was about to see her out in the morning. “I think she’d love to meet you.”

Any coherent thoughts had been snatched out of Maven’s mind upon hearing those words. That wasn’t supposed to happen. With that simple question, Johanna had broken their silent accordance, the barrier that kept them at arm’s reach of each other at the same time that it kept them safe. Bring Hilda the next time. It was a spoken confession that she didn’t just happen to get lost in the woods often, even if they knew that already. It was  a sign of  clear desire for Maven to  be a bigger part of her life.

It was the end of their relationship as it had been, and they would never be able to go back to where they’d been.

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. Not… not next time, at least.” She’d answered, even though she would have liked nothing best than to meet young Hilda. The way her mother talked about her made her sound like a fascinating girl, but besides that, meeting her would be one more step inside Johanna’s life, one she realized she desperately wanted to take, but couldn’t.

Johanna had been disappointed, but she hadn't had it show on her face for more than an instant. Didn’t she tire, Maven wondered, to hide her feelings for the sake of keeping the appearances between them?

She probably did tire, because otherwise she wouldn’t be offering the perfect opportunity to reshape their relationship, to start again. And yet, Maven couldn’t accept, though her heart screamed at her to call Johanna back while she’d watched her walk away that morning.

That was what made her decide that she had to tell her to stop. If Johanna wanted a future, wanted commitment and love, she was wasting her time, and possibly even ruining her life by being invested in a monster. It was one thing to flirt and steal touches once a week, when the night was dark and the gloom hid them. It was entirely another to try and make them something <em>more</em>. Already, the people in Johanna’s village must be whispering theories about why she was seen climbing down the vampire’s hill so often.

If Maven didn’t stop herself, she’d ruin her.

Three knocks on her door. Maven had been right, Johanna had come that night.

She opened the door to allow her in and closed it just as quickly, so as to not let the cold in. It wouldn’t affect her if it did, but humans were sensitive to that sort of thing.

“Gosh, I didn’t see this gale coming! There’s no way I can come back home with the weather like this. Could I spend the night here, if it’s not too much of a bother?” She asked, even though she was already unclasping her cloak. Johanna was back to trying to keep appearances, and she didn’t sound too happy about it, avoiding Maven’s eyes for a few moments.

That night, it was apple cider she had taken with herself to the forest, she informed. They had it over dinner, while Johanna talked about her village’s preparations for the third harvest and Maven tried to ignore her growing feelings of despair. If she was to allow herself one last night with Johanna, she couldn’t spend it brooding.

“What do you wish to do now?”  Johanna asked when the meal was over, as her host got up from her chair and walked over to her, to offer her her hand.

“I was wondering if you’d give me a dance?”

Smiling, she accepted, and they walked through the castle’s corridors hand in hand, until they reached the ballroom. It had become another of their little traditions, to waltz at least once a night. They enjoyed the closeness it brought them, and besides, where else would a woman of Johanna’s station have the chance to dance? It wasn’t like she was invited to noble’s parties all the time, but still it was something that she liked to do and Maven was all too happy to provide her with the opportunity.

The tune played by the enchanted instruments was more melancholic than usual, as if the spirits playing them knew what Maven needed to say. The ceiling high windows showed the gloomy night outside as they danced, and the lit chandelier hanging from the red and silver ceiling made their shadows have their own waltz on the floor. Johanna looked normal, completely at ease as usual and seemingly oblivious to Maven nervousness.

It wouldn’t be fair, Maven figured, to wait until sunrise to talk to her. She had thought it might be best to, so as to spare them one awkward night, but as she pressed the human close to herself and guided her around the ballroom, the notion that she might be acting cruelly arose on her mind. Maybe if Johanna knew, she wouldn’t want to dance with her, or be near her, or do anything else they might have done that night. Besides, Maven didn’t think she’d be able to keep a calm act up for much longer.

“You can’t keep doing this.” She said briskly, as if getting the matter out of her way quickly would make it hurt less. Her voice was kept low enough so as not to echo in the room.

Johanna feigned ignorance, quirking up an eyebrow and looking at her with her sweet brown eyes as if she had no idea what Maven was talking about. The spark in them told her otherwise.

“You can’t keep coming up here.” To break their silent underhand vow felt dangerous, like stepping into a rickety bridge, but it was something that had to be done. She was only continuing what Johanna herself had done on her last visit, tearing a hole through whatever artfulness there still was to this scheme of theirs. “Coming all the way to the castle to see me.”

The only answer Maven had for a good few seconds was the sound of the phantoms playing and the wind howling outside. They didn’t stop dancing, but the vampire had to fight the urge to look away from Johanna’s face, to run from what she’d see there. It might have been just an impression, but for a moment it seemed like Johanna had sent her gaze up, as if praying for patience. Either that or she’d just rolled her eyes.

“Alright, then. In that case, I’d be honoured to have you visit me instead.”

Maven missed a step, catching herself before it could break their rhythm.

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know exactly what you meant.” Johanna snapped, not with rudeness, but rather with something urgent and exasperated about the way she spoke. Clearly, Maven had taken the hint that she hoped for a change in their rapport, and clearly she’d taken it the wrong way, overthinking it like she seemed to do with a frequency. But Johanna would not allow her to push her away. “You meant for whatever reason, you don’t want us meeting again. Very well, I won’t impose myself, but seeing as you seemed perfectly happy with our arrangement, it does get me thinking that maybe I’m not the problem.”

The vampire’s brows came closer together, and a sneer lifted her lips in a way that one of her fangs was visible. She didn’t like to be thwarted, especially not since she knew Johanna’s line of thought was close to the truth, and she might have intervened had the woman not been faster.

“There’s something between us, isn’t there? And we enjoy being with each other, or at least I enjoy being with you. So I’m leaving the decision up to you, Maven. Tomorrow night, my village will celebrate Samhain, and I’d love to have you as my guest; in case you don’t show up, I’ll know you don’t want to keep up this thing that we’ve got. if you do come… I suppose we will cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“This isn’t a matter of what I want.” Maven groaned, asking herself if Johanna couldn’t see she was trying to spare her the disappointment that was sure to come when she realized what exactly Maven was. Not that she’d ever hidden anything from her, but the woman couldn't possibly be hoping for a future with her if she saw who she really was and what she would bring with herself. “Johanna, people will begin to talk-”

Johanna huffed, looking partly amused even at the face of Maven’s distress. They had never spoken to each other like this, so truthfully and openly, and it felt freeing to finally do so.

“People have already begun to talk. That’s what people do, after all.”

Stopping her movements, Maven accidently made Johanna bump into her. For a second, their faces were so close that they would kiss if either of them leaned forward.

“Your village knows?”

Johanna shrugged. “They don’t know. But there are those who began to wonder, naturally.”

It had come to Johanna as no surprise when villagers began to whisper behind her back. It would have been shocking if nobody did, since every morning after a storm she could be seen walking down the infamous vampire’s hill, but that hadn’t been affecting her in the least.  Thanks to her daughter’s adventurous spirit, those who were particularly scared of monsters and magic already weren’t close to their little family, so none of her friends had distanced themselves because of Johanna’s unusual behaviour. As for others, Johanna was having no small amounts of fun hearing their absurd theories about what she did when she was away, and it wasn’t like they could affect her livelihood in any way. She was one of the best seamstresses in town, what were they going to do, walk around naked?

Taking a step backwards to restart the slow dance, the vampire sighed as she struggled to come to terms with Johanna’s calm. “Doesn’t that bother you? If you’re not careful, you’ll become the village’s pariah.”

“Not really. I’m not scared of them, it’s not like they’d burn me alive or anything like that.”

Maven had already run away from enough villagers with stakes to doubt the veracity of that statement.

“And aren’t you scared of me?” She asked somberly, hoping this time Jlhanna would think her answer through. She’d never said out loud that she was a monster, so the question, the act of admitting that she <em>was</em> something to be scared off ought to have had some effect on her. Maven hadn’t expected that effect to be laughter, though.

“Of you?” Johanna replied while still chuckling, with the humor of someone who had been vulnerable near the creature in front of her too many times to be able to believe any of the tales she’d heard. Right from the first night, when she’d genuinely had to seek refuge until morning, she’d seen that Maven wasn’t what it was said she was, and as she had walked out of the castle at sunrise she’d become living proof of it. There was something bewitching about her, though, and it made Johanna keep coming back with ridiculous excuses to see her. The time they spent together only served to prove that Maven wasn’t what she herself thought she was either. “I wouldn't really be here if I were, would I? It’s not like you put your fangs to my throat and threatened me should I not come or anything.”

Maven winced almost imperceptibly at the comment, not liking the reminder of the harm she could bring to Johanna if she so wishes and downright disoriented by the fact that she knew it too, and still insisted on not being afraid.

“You talk so much about Hilda’s taste for befriending monsters, yet you seem keen on doing much worse.”

“This time I really don't know what you mean.” Johanna smiled. “I see no monsters here.”

_#_#_#_

The rest of the night was spent as usual. They soon finished their dancing and went to the library, where Johanna picked a poetry book to read while Maven continued on her tome about scientific discoveries that had been made recently in the capital. Though she knew she was probably reading too much into it, Maven thought that Johanna had chosen to begin a new book instead of finishing the one she’d been reading on her last visit in order to send a message. You’re not getting rid of me that easily was what was written in her face when she asked for permission to sit down with her new book on the armchair next to her.

The woman had wanted to go to sleep eventually. Sometimes she would stay awake with Maven all night, but she’d already need to stay up late for the harvest feast. In the room she often took, small enough to keep in the heat of the fire yet bigger than Johanna’s entire living room, she tucked herself under the white covers while Maven stood awkwardly by the side of the bed.

A smirk on her lips, she patted the spot beside her in invitation. Generally, Maven would go away and come back when Johanna was pretending to be asleep, so she could hold her close and Johanna could pretend she wasn’t holding her back. It was a weird game that they played, but it still felt strange to drop it altogether and climb into bed while Johanna looked at her. Maven didn’t need to sleep, of course, but when the sun rose she still was by the human’s side.

“We’ll be near the main bonfire.” Johanna said as she put her cape over her shoulders in the morning, readying herself to leave. “If you can’t spot me, you’ll be able to find Hilda and she can tell you where i am. She’ll probably be running after some spirit, you see.”

Before Maven could answer, Johanna leaned towards her and kissed her cheek, just before lowering her hood over her face and walking out of the castle’s door.

_#_#_#_

The matter of whether or not she’d accept Johanna’s invitations had been gnawing at her soul the whole day, and nothing she did could shake it off. She’d been so resolute about leaving Johanna be, and yet now she couldn’t seem to keep strong in that decision.

It was only when night fell that she set her foot down, quieting the two conflicting parts of her mind. If Johanna was certain of her choice, why should Maven be the one to back away? Maybe she'd turn out to be a better person than she thought she was. Maybe, if given a chance, she could be what Johanna deserved. It hadn’t happened in centuries, but perhaps, if she gave it a try, she’d be surprised.

All that time, Johanna had gone through the trouble of visiting her. It sounded only fair that she was the one to go to her for once.

It was a quick trip on her bat form. She knew Johanna lived on the village by the west base of the hill, and indeed Maven noticed the bonfire at its center. Landing on the outskirts of the town to come back to her usual form, she kept her gaze down as she walked to the crowd. Usually she wouldn’t be afraid of being recognized by anyone who might have known what she looked like, but not bringing Johanna any trouble mattered more than keeping her own pride in that moment.

Looking for Hilda hadn’t been necessary. Even when she got to the main square, where the air was heavy with the scent of cinnamon spice and pumpkin and the torches and bonfires gave everything a yellowish glow, Maven had been able to spot Johanna. She was near an older woman, with short grey hair, talking to her with a cup of something warm on her hand. 

For one last moment, Maven considered turning back and letting the woman forget about her, probably for her best, but then Johanna looked at her and any thoughts of that sort faded away. She smiled and gestured for Maven to get closer, the woman by her side noticing her and looking at her with curiosity as well, which made Maven wonder if Johanna had told her about her.

“I’m so happy you came!” She said, looking at her like Maven had just saved her life. They both knew this was a matter much greater than of just showing up to an event, and the reality of what had been done, along with the new possibilities for the future that had been spread out in front of them dawned on the two women. 

On the border of her vision, Maven saw the other woman smile at them and walk away after wishing Johanna a good night. Johanna grabbed her guest’s hand, pulling her closer. When she realized she should probably answer, Maven cleared her throat.

“I’m very glad to be here too.”

Johanna’s smile widened.

“What would you like to do first? Hilda said she’ll meet us when supper gets served, but there’s still time until that. We can join the group that is getting offerings ready for the faeries, or we could go see the cunning woman! She’s been telling some amazing stories since morning.”

“Johanna, wait.” Squeezing her hand to get her to stay in place, Maven took a deep breath. Though neither options really pleased her, as she knew a cunning woman would know what she was immediately upon setting eyes on her, and she wasn’t about to leave anything to petulant beings such as faeries, the reason why she had halted Johanna was that there was something she needed to get out of the way.

Her head tilted to the side, Johanna blinked at her as she waited for Maven to continue. The golden light from the fire made her thick lashes cast moon shaped shadows on her skin.

“I know you waited very long for me to… do something. I’m sorry about it, and I want to do this right.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You’re here now.”

“Still.” Maven shrugged, trying to hide her anxiety. “May I kiss you?”

There was no answer before Johanna pressed her lips to hers, making Maven inhale sharply. She’d been thinking about something more private, not wanting to expose the woman, but no complaints would be heard from her part. She took control of the kiss, trying to deepen it in a way that her fangs didn’t hurt her, and hard as it was to maneuver it she couldn’t possibly have felt any better.

“I didn’t cut you, did I?” She asked when they drew apart, even though the grin on Johanna’s face should have been enough of an answer.

“Of course you didn’t.” Johanna was sure there was a blush on her face as she answered giddily, feeling like she was in one of her daydreams. “I told you already, there are no monsters here.”

Maven failed to wipe the dreamy smile off of her face as Johanna guided her through the crowd. It wouldn’t matter that Maven was as a creature as dark as the night around them. If Johanna had enough light to insist on her, they’d make it work.