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retroyousei · 3 years ago

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Female characters in retro shojo [70s edition, part 2]

In this series, the female characters in 70s shojo are being analysed. In part one, three of the most common types were examined; the “average” protagonists, the villains and the tomboys. In this article, other three very common types are being discussed.

The westerners innocent blondies

They are either orphans who just want to find a place to belong, princesses who dream about falling in love, or normal girls who always knew that they weren’t where they meant to be and they somehow discover that they are royalty or from a noble family. Either way, they are lively, innocent, but naive, so sometimes they may be betrayed or belittled, but they have a kind heart that knows how to forgive and have faith on people, so they make friends easily. Many times they are portrayed as Tomboys who love the nature and sometimes they get into trouble accidentally. They may seem helpless and dense sometimes, but despite all of this, they are actually very independent, as they may travel to the other side of the world all alone if they have to (they will make new friends wherever they go anyway) and if they need to, they can kick some serious ass too. But their most precious weapon is their inner strength to move forward, no matter what.

In “Candy Candy” Candy, is an orphan girl who goes through so many hardships. At first, her best friend Annie gets adopted, leaving her behind, but her troubles had just begun. She gets adopted by a rich family to keep company to their daughter, named Elisa who is the one who, along with her brother will constantly try to make her life miserable, firstly when she was staying at their house, then in the private school in England and afterwards when she was working as a nurse. But Candy makes many friends and has many allies and with her inner strength and lust for life, she overcomes all the obstacles that she faces. But that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t lose some of her dearest friends along the way. As she grows up she learns the hardships of life, but all those obstacles makes her only stronger and she never loses her hope for a better tomorrow.

In “the Rose of Versailles” we see Marie Antoinette evolving from an innocent and silly girl, to an irresponsible young woman, to a sorrowful, regretful, but determined queen. In the first volumes, she was still a child who just wanted to have fun and didn’t care about homework, traditions and preparations for being a queen. Later, during her first years as a queen she was portrayed as a naive person who didn’t make the right choices. Also, her friendship with Countess de polignag was a bad influence for her as she goaded her into gambling. But she was also well intensioned and just wanted her loved ones to be happy. Oscar always tried to be her voice of reason, but it wasn’t enough. Later it was more and more clear that she was spending her country’s money in clothes, gardening and building the petit Trianon to be with her inner circle, because she wanted to fill the void of being a woman who cannot be with her beloved. In the end, during the time that she was captured, before her decapitation, she surprisingly matured, realised what she had done all those years and wanted to make things right, but it was too late. Her final thoughts was about her family, Fersen and Oscar and she was proud and composured until her last breath. Throughout the story she was portrayed as an innocent woman who was sacrificed for the sake of politics.

In “Alpen Rose” Jeudi is an amnesiac girl who lives in Alpes with a boy named Lundi. She works as a nurse and has a quiet life, until a French nobleman captures her. Luckily she is very clever and with Lundi’s help they get away. And that’s how their journey towards finding Jeudi’s parents start. Along the way, Jeudi befriends many people, like a little girl with his brother and his girlfriend, a journalist who helps her a lot, a young couple and a mysterious musician named Leonard Aschenbach. Jeudi is different from other characters in this particular category because of her wit and courage. She also has a strong sense of justice and in matters of life and death, such as hiding from the nazis in the trains, planning traps for them and solving mysteries with the information that she gathers with the help of her friends, she succeeds. She also cares about the others and tries to see the good side in everyone. When she finally found her mother, she was asked from her grandparents to pretend that she wasn’t her daughter, because she was blind and in a fragile state, besides there was another girl who resembled Alicia (Jeudi’s real name) a lot. She had patience and it was repaid in the end.

Rosalie from “Rose of Versailles” was a poor girl who lived with her mother and her sister Joanne and she just wanted for others to be healthy and was happy with the simplest of things, like being able to buy bread and helping other children in the neighborhood who can’t afford to eat anything. When her mother is killed by Polignag who was in fact her birth mother, she is devastated and swears that she is going to get revenge from the nobles who don’t care about anyone else. When she befriends Oscar and Andre and stays at Jerjeyes household, she learns fencing, manners, horseriding and and history, to make her debut in Versailles. There, she meets the woman who killed her mother, her sister who suicides because of Polignag and managed to get away from her. She also felt disappointed with her other sister, Jeanne who betrayed her, but she was sad when she was killed. Later she meets and falls in love with Bernard, a friend of Oscar and they get married. As the years passed by, she evolved from a stereotypical nice girl, into an accomplished woman who can protect herself and the others. By the end of the story she was pretty much the only one from the main characters who stayed alive.

There are many other characters who fit this image, such as Georgie from “Lady Georgie”, who lived in Australia with a family that wasn’t hers and after meeting an English noble young man, Lowel, they fall in love, so she decides to follow him in England where she makes new friends, faces many enemies and also finds out about her real family. Lynn from “Lady Lady” travels to England to live with her father and her step sister and there she faces her evil step mother and her children, but she also finds many allies too.

Note: “Anne of green gables” was and still is popular in Japan, because of Anne’s passion for freedom and expression, the book’s “pastel” aesthetic, so Anne’s imagination and strength despite being an orphan, might have inspired those characters.

The worthy rivals

Those ladies tend to have what the main heroine lacks and they serve as her opposite. They tend to be considered prettier than the main characters and that circumstances are easier for them, something that isn’t true. They also appear to be elegant and refined, on oppose to the heroine who is more clumsy and tomboyish. They are usually more practical, down to earth and skilful than the main heroine, causing her to feel inferior to them. They may start off as the snobbish girls who look down on her and don’t take her seriously, due to her clumsiness and her easy going attitude towards work, but as the time goes by, they realise her real talent and her worth, causing them to consider her as a worthy opponent and expect great things from her. They may appear as almost perfect at everything they do, but the truth is that they are also insecure and they are having other types of problems, such as finding it very difficult to make friends, due to their cold nature, as they always appear antagonistic and determined to win. But as time goes by they may change their attitude with the help of the heroine, or better, with their own realisation.

Ayumi from “Glass Mask” is the greatest example of this. She is the daughter of a famous actress and a famous director and she was always on spotlight ever since she was a kid. She is beautiful, refined, elegant and admired by everyone, also considered to be a genius, as she excels at acting techniques, dancing and reciting. Her family environment helped her to pursue a successful career as an actress. But that doesn’t mean that she is rest assured as she always seeks to exceed her parents’ talent, so that people will see her as her and not as a daughter of famous parents. She also stated that no one truly knows how hard she worked in order to reach her current level. And that hard work was something that she succeeded on her own. When she encountered Maya for the first time and faced her on the stage, even though she (Ayumi) was better than her, she felt as though she was defeated. From that moment, even though it seemed like Ayumi had everything and Maya had nothing, Ayumi always thought that Maya had something that she lacked; a deep understanding of the characters that she portrays. Ayumi may excel at the techniques of acting, but she never manages to portray the true depth of emotion of each character. Her portraits of characters are accurate and true to the play, but Maya’s are refreshing and original. Even when it’s clear that she is way ahead of Maya, she always walks off stage with the feeling that she was defeated. As a rival, she is also very fair and she likes to unlimitedly challenge Maya in many ways. Of course, as the story progresses, Ayumi’s talent evolves and she becomes more open as a person.

In “Candy Candy”, Flanny is a girl who works as a nurse in the same hospital with Candy. She is the best of the nurses there, as she’s always on time, always knows what to do, is very practical and smart, yet she is rather cold and distant towards others. She only cares to get things done, that’s why she is often annoyed by Candy’s bubbly nature. What’s more, as soon as she learns that Candy is an Ardley, she assumes that she only works out of boredom, contrary to her, who she has to support her poor family. She even goes at the front, to work as a nurse and support the soldiers there. Candy respects her for that this and she visits Flanny’s family to inform them about her decision, as her own relationship with them is bad, as she only sends them her monthly allowance and they never seem to appreciate her hard work. Her and Candy make an interesting dynamic and many stated that both of them make the perfect nurse, with Candy’s gentle and caring personality and Flanny’s practical skills. At the end, both of them learned from one another.

In “Swan”, Sayoko is a refined woman who loved ballet ever since she was a child. But when she meets Masumi for the first time, she starts being insecure about herself and afraid that she will overshadow her, as she’s younger than her with a bright future, whereas she had a night of glory as a prima ballerina, but after an accident she needs to learn how to dance again. But she still feels sympathy for her, besides they both shared their love for ballet, thus a rivalry begins.

In “Aim For The Ace” Reika is the best player on the tennis team and so her nickname is “Madame Butterfly”, due to her grace in the field. Hiromi is fascinated by her and even though at first Reika isn’t impressed by her, later she appreciates her skills and thus a friendship begins.

The “damsel in distress” love antagonists

They are fragile, sweet and pretty, that’s for sure. They are either the daughters of an important family which aspires to marry them with the love interest, thus expand their power, or they are someone who because of some circumstances, grew closer to the love interest, before the main character even could or when she was separated from him for various reasons. Nevertheless, they are in a better social situation from the heroine. Their character arc usually begins at some crucial point of the plot, which is halfway through the story, when the main character and the love interest’s relationship have had already developed, but had not quite bloomed yet. They are considered to be innocent and kind, contradictory to the main character who is much more spontaneous, causing trouble to other sometimes. As expected, they slowly fall in love with the main love interest, in some cases before the main character even realises that she loves him. Either way, those characters add an extra dose of melodrama and constitute to the story, sometimes a little bit, some others a lot to a point of changing it.

Shiori from “Glass Mask” is an interesting case. She is a lady from a wealthy family, so she’s elegant and accomplished. She’s also very pretty, but fragile, as she suffers from anemia and many times she passes out. At first, she’s sympathetic, as she goes out with Masumi and starts falling for him, even though Masumi loves Maya. But as the story progresses, looking at the way Masumi talks to her (Maya), she starts to suspect that he likes her. Slowly but steadily, she evolves into a manipulative woman, who uses her weak health to keep him close. She sees Maya as a threat and she goes out of her way to make her seem like a bad person in front of Masumi. When he learns about all of this, he breaks up with her, but afterwards, Shiori attempts suicide and passes out. When she recovers, she loses almost all of her sense and she goes mad. She’s hospitalised in her room, where she barely speaks and sometimes she growls Maya’s name, rips apart her pictures in magazines and orders bouquets of purple roses to rip them too. At this point of the story, her parents don’t allow him to break their engagement, until their daughter recovers, leaving him responsible for her. In conclusion, Shiori evolves from a sympathetic woman, to a pathetic creature who’s adrift to its feelings.

Susanna from “Candy Candy” is a young talented actress, with a good heart, who works at the same theater company with Terry. During the time of their troupe’s performances in Chicago, she starts falling for him. Seeing that Terry’s heart is set on elsewhere she tries to keep him distant from Candy. Later on, in New York, during a rehearsal, the spotlight that was above of Terry, was ready to fall, so Susanna ran and pushed him away to save him, but the spotlight fell down before she could walk away from it. In the hospital, the troupe learns that she’s alive and healthy, but unfortunately the doctors were unable to save her legs and were forced to amputate them, meaning that her career as an actress was over. Terry took the responsibility, having a strong sense of duty and being pressured by Susanna’s mother. When Candy arrived to New York and see his play, she learned about it soon. Before she even fathom the news, she ran to catch up to Susanna, to save her from a balcony, before she could jump, trying to suicide, to free Terry and let him be with the one he loved. Candy manages to save her and decides to leave them be. So Terry chose to stay with Susanna to take care of her.

Lalissa from “Haikara-San Ga Toru” is a character that appears in the second half of the story. She’s a Russian noble, who arrived to Tokyo with her husband, who is in fact not her real one, but he’s Shinobu who suffers from amnesia after the war and believes that he’s married to her. Lalissa is elegant and quiet, but sad and the truth is that she had lost her real husband, that’s why she wants Shinobu near her, due to his resemblance to him. Benio, who’s Shinobu’s sweetheart, believing that he was dead, was shocked when she saw them together. But due to the circumstances and the fact that Lalissa suffers from tuberculosis, Benio decides to give up on him. But when the Kanto earthquake stroke, Lalissa was severely injured and ready to die, whereas Shinobu regained his memory and she told him to marry Benio and be happy.

Another mention, is Marie from “Alpen Rose” who liked Lundi and that was the reason that she miraculously stood up from her wheelchair to help him, although it’s clear that he likes Jeudi.

#retro shojo #shojo manga #Rose of Versailles #Candy Candy #Alpen Rose #Lady Georgie #Lady Lynn #Glass Mask #Swan #haikara san ga tooru #aim for the ace #character types #70s manga #80s manga

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wellpresseddaisy · 2 years ago

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The Poshest Bedstead in Islington

Part 6

Sirius, reclining on his couch, wondered when Kreacher might believe him no longer an invalid. He had so much to do, so many things to accomplish, and he couldn't very well do them from a sofa. He would admit he felt a great deal stronger than he had in days, weeks even, but he really needed to be up.

He chewed meditatively on a biscuit—really Kreacher was a jem but they desperately needed a proper cook—and went over what he needed to do. Apologize to Snape, for one, and make certain Molly knew how the visit would go, for two. That ought to keep him busy for quite some time, especially thinking of what he ought say to Snape.

Molly would be easier the more sofa-bound he seemed, most likely. He'd have to make certain she knew that she and the children would be guests. He'd no doubt someone had carried a tale of Grimmauld to her already, so she likely had plans to bring her cleaning supplies and the children as free labor. But it wouldn't have to be that way at all. He should, probably, consider relocating to the actual Black House, but he loved this old pile so much. He couldn't repay her care by deserting her.

She'd probably find his mother's portrait again if he did.

And he preferred to leave Black House, the one by Hyde Park, to the House Prime for whenever he decided to pry himself off his Welsh mountain.

But what could he ask Molly to do to keep her busy? She wasn't a woman who tolerated idleness, at all. She liked to be busy as much as possible. Perhaps she could take a look at the gardens? And…well…she might agree to superintend the making of new wardrobes for the children. Kreacher would want them dressed for dinner each night and that meant new clothes. If they used some of the things put away in the attics with only a few new bits of fabric and trim, she might not cut up rough about it.

He understood not wanting to be beholden to anyone, especially with the start of her marriage, but she'd have to see sense. In any case, she would have proper clothing and so would Arthur. She might be more amenable to him providing the means to contrive proper wardrobes for her children and Hermione.

And to give him Hermione's home address so he might write her parents. He'd like to meet them.

Oh, he was going to be the universe's most embarrassing guardian, wasn't he? Most likely. He never expected he, Sirius Black, would harbor a streak of traditionalism stamped through him like a stick of Blackpool Rock. He wanted to see Harry dressed as his mum wanted him dressed. She'd mentioned often enough that she thought it would be…nice to dress him in the medieval style. Jamie had rejected all that for jeans and the like and dragged him along for the ride, but Lily had a yearning for that connection to the past. Not in the same way as his own mother, no one could be that obsessive.

She'd developed a nice interest in Potter history, as the older members of Society said it. Jamie took it for granted, but Lily, who'd always wanted the rootedness of knowing where her people came from, loved it. She loved the traditions and the festivals and the steady march through the year. And the clothes. She'd loved the clothes.

He hoped they buried her in her favorite kirtle—the deep green one with golden embroidery round the collar—and surcoat. Probably not, if Petunia had a say in it. He put taking Harry to see their graves on his list. Merlin knew Petunia would never have done that either.

He found, though, since he'd accepted the responsibility of heading up the family, that he wanted things just so. He wanted to dress properly for dinner or riding in the park or shopping or whatever his day held. He wanted Harry with him, so he could guide his godson to a happy future (to protect him as much as possible). He wanted a library smelling richly of wood and leather covers and a drawing room and a morning room and a muniment room for all the family records and papers and letters and all of it.

He ached for the tradition and the Black way of doing things that stretched back centuries. He wanted to ride the fields in early spring and summer, watch everything green and growing under warm sun, and help harvest in the crisp autumn. He wanted to take Harry all over Black Keep and ride out with him to visit the tenant farmers and talk things over with the bailiff and all of it. He'd taken it on and it settled over his shoulders like a mantle.

So everyone who wished to stay could simply accept how it would be.

His knees still shook slightly thinking of confronting Molly, though.

------

Molly smoothed her skirt as she descended from the hired hack, thankful she'd been able to afford a cab from the station. She paid her fare and turned to look at the imposing front of Black House. It was a comfort, she reflected, knowing that the deep blue-green linen she wore, with its square neckline, three tucks in the skirt, and her own delicate crochet lace dyed to match exactly edging the collar, became her so well. She'd crocheted a less delicate band in the same lace pattern for her straw hat, perhaps a bit worn now, but still serviceable.

Meeting Sirius was one thing. Meeting Sirius who was the Black Duke was quite another. She remembered a scrapegrace young man with a charming smile. Circe only knew what Azkaban had done to him.

Since she couldn't dither in the street all day, she mounted the step and pulled the bell cord. A few moments later, the door opened silently and a small, wizened house elf stared her out of countenance.

"I'm Mrs. Weasley, here to see His Grace. I brought his note, if you need to see it." She spoke politely, all the lessons her mother drilled into her coming back in a rush.

"There is no need. Come with Kreacher." Ah, so he was Kreacher.

"Thank you." Feeling as if she'd passed some kind of test, Molly followed Kreacher into the entry hall.

He led her up two flights to an airy drawing room at the front of the house. She'd expected a dismal house with rising damp, mouldering skirting boards, crumbling plaster, regular damp, and leaking ceilings. This, though, this was…beautiful. Light streamed into the drawing room through the front bay window, highlighting the delicate tint of the walls and the inviting furniture arrangement. A sofa stood before the bay window with its back to the room.

"His Grace is not to get up." Kreacher ordered firmly and led Molly over to the sofa.

Sirius lay back against a pile of cushions, gaunt and pale but probably better than he had been in quite some time. It did her heart good to see him clean and cared for.

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley." He smiled in his old way and extended a hand. "I'd get up but Kreacher has threatened a sticking charm."

"Oh, please call me Molly. How are you?" Molly settled into the chair Kreacher floated into place. "Thank you."

"Only if you'll call me Sirius. I think I'm as well as can be expected. Better than I was a fortnight ago, that much is certain."

Kreacher interrupted their small talk to serve afternoon tea. It was a treat to have something made by someone else, Molly wouldn't deny it. She stared at the spread. How one could fit quite that much food onto a piecrust table (and a tilt-top one at that!) she had no idea. Elf magic, it had to be.

"Kreacher is convinced I'll waste away." Sirius grinned. "Please have something or his ears will droop."

Molly ignored Sirius and turned to the old elf. "Kreacher, I want to promise you right now that I'll try very hard not to be too exciting or taxing for His Grace. I know you must be terribly worried over him."

Kreacher shot a look of triumph at Sirius and went away, muttering that at least one person had some sense.

"Well, now that you've made Kreacher completely insufferable," Sirius started, grinning. "Perhaps we could talk about your plans for moving in?"

"I thought…that is, Albus assured me that…honestly I thought I'd have more to do here. They way it was described…" she trailed off.

"He tripped the security measures on the non-magical side of things. She was stuck on intruder status until just a few hours ago."

"Well, she's beautiful." Molly patted the edge of her seat. "But…what will I do while we're here? If you needed help with cleaning or restoration or cooking, I would be happy to help, but it's obvious she's in excellent condition."

"I had thought of that. I know you like to be busy. Would you act as hostess for me? Kreacher will want things just so, including dressing for dinner, and it would be such a help if you would be the one to teach the children what that means."

The sincere request melted her resistance. And…well, it would be fun to act as hostess for a grand house, for a little while, at least, and to teach the twins and Ron and Ginny and Hermione what that meant. She hoped Harry wouldn't be kept away from them for long.

"I would be delighted. Would you mind if I took a look at that garden?" She asked casually, hoping for a yes. She did love being out in the green and growing things, and the garden she saw through the side gate certainly needed help.

"Please!" Sirius laughed. "Before it eats someone! And, er, the orangerie, as well? And I would greatly appreciate it if you would go through the attics with Kreacher at some point to see what clothing is in storage. We have generations of if just sitting, and it would be just the thing for your boys and Ginny and Hermione to go shopping in. Of course, any fabrics or trims or patterns needed to make things over would come out of the household budget. I'm certain there's a line item in there for just that."

Molly raised an eyebrow at him, bristling. "Are you suggesting that you would bear the cost of outfitting the children?"

"Yes, I am. I'm asking them to dress in a way they wouldn't normally while living under my roof. It's only sensible that I bear that cost, not you and Arthur. You would, of course, be doing me a favor by inventorying the attics. You wouldn't believe what's been stuffed in there. They used this place as a sort of holding pen, I think, until Grandfather wanted my mother out of the more fashionable areas of London." He furrowed his brow a moment. "Has Islington ever been fashionable?"

"I might concede on my own children once I talk to Arthur, because I can see some sense in what you've said and I can see to the gardens and attics for you, but I don't think it appropriate for you to outfit Hermione. When you're cleared, what will people say? You buying clothing for a sixteen year old girl with no protection in our world? Arthur and I try, but we only still receive vouchers because I'm a Prewett." Because they would talk. She knew just how nasty society could be, how they waited to pounce on the least little thing.

She also knew that everyone knew that saying she'd speak to Arthur was a tacit yes. Sirius tried to smother a grin.

"I hope they say that she's a dear friend of Harry's and is being sponsored by House Black. It's a perfectly normal thing to do, isn't it? We used to sponsor people all the time and Hermione's more intelligent than most of them." Sirius waved his teacup as he spoke.

"Sponsor her? Oh, Sirius, how wonderful! Most stopped, you know, when your grandfather passed." She wished she could be there when he spoke to Hermione. This…this would grant her access everywhere. No door would be closed to her with House Black at her back.

"Nip-cheeses, the lot of them." Sirius declared. "So you'll take responsibility for outfitting the children, then?"

"Yes, I will. If Arthur agrees." She paused, considering a moment. "I'll confess that I might be a bit excited thinking about all that sewing, and what the boys and Ginny and Hermione might like. They only just tolerate mum's jumpers, you know."

Sirius reached over and patted her hand. "They're lucky to have you as a mum."

"Well, you might not be saying that when I have the lot of them digging out planting beds." She returned with some asperity. "And clearing the orangerie and planting and weeding."

"Molly, are you capable of having a holiday?" Sirius asked, honest bemusement in his voice.

"Oh, that's just the sort of holiday I've always wanted. Pretty things to sew and a pleasure garden to plant—though I will add a kitchen garden as well—and someone else to do the cooking and cleaning up for a bit." She laughed at the peculiar face he pulled and added drily. "Not everyone likes to be bone-idle, Sirius."

He choked on a mouthful of tea and turned an outraged face to her.

"Now," she ignored his outraged spluttering. "What gossip would you like to hear first? You've ten years, well, maybe nine, years of it to catch up on."

#the poshest bedstead in islington #hp society/the ton #hp the season au #hp the season/the ton au #sirius black #molly weasley

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heybeybey · 3 years ago

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Ready, Set, Don't Go

Words: 1,833

Genre: Angst/Family

Rating: G Summary: Levi may have resigned from the military, but he'd underestimated how much his daughter is as much of a fighter as him and Petra. (Set almost 2 decades after canon events)

Happy Father's Day, folks!

I'm sorry for contributing slight angst today but don't worry, nobody dies. 👍 Also here, have some wheelchair Levi and a teenage Ackerbaby.

And thank you to @levis-petras for being my beta for this fic 💖

- - - -

Levi wasn't much for celebrations ever since he was young. In fact, he only recognizes five dates that are worth commemorating:

His wife's birthday.

His daughter's birthday.

His twins' birthday.

His and Petra's wedding anniversary.

And Mother's Day, but that one wasn't just for Petra. Truthfully, it was also the only way he gets to celebrate his late mother. He barely remembers her birthday, and he wasn't even sure he knew in the first place.

So, you see, he only celebrates when it's all about the people he holds dear. He doesn't really see the point in All Hearts Day or even his birthday. A more cost-efficient option too.

However, it still hurts that he's spending Father's Day this way.

The day started off normally. He woke up to Petra peppering kisses down his neck, greeting him a Happy Father's Day. The twins—Luke and Philip—then came bouncing in, both boys eager to show him the cards they drew for him.

He came down to Izzy brewing tea—a blend his daughter bought for him as a gift—and greeting him with a hug. He'd have to admit that it's been nice to be coddled by his family.

Then came dinner time.

He noticed that Izzy had been uneasy the past few days, and all those nerves seemed to have culminated during dinner. The brat had been on edge the whole day that he had to snap at her to just spill it.

It first started with an off-hand comment about how there will be a ceremony the next day for new military recruits. He sees his wife give Izzy an encouraging look from the corner of his eyes as she stumbles through her words.

Izzy, who's not much of a great liar to begin with, quickly muttered 'I signed up for the military.' and refused to meet his eyes.

"What?"

"I know that you might not agree now and that you and mom had been through a lot," Izzy starts to explain in a rush. "But I know this is what I'm meant for dad! I think there's not going to be a lot of battles to fight and it's more just—"

"No," he cuts off.

Her squeaking words quickly turned into a hiss, and it only got worse when he demanded that he drop her spot.

Soon, Petra was ushering their twins up to the second floor, knowing how arguments between father and daughter can get nasty.

"This is not fair!"

"The answer is no, Izzy," he said, matching his teenage daughter's tone. He rolls his wheelchair to follow her all the way to their house's front door, hearing her rage around the house. "Oi brat, what did I say about banging on the fucking furniture?"

He distinctly hears Petra scold, "Language, Levi!" from upstairs, but both father and daughter ignores her.

"I'm 16 now, dad," she snaps back, ignoring his last comment. "You can't tell me what to do."

Izzy finally turns around to face him, never one to back down. She's looking at him now with fury in her eyes and a retort ready on her lips.

Definitely her father's daughter.

"Do you even know what you're doing, Izzy?" He said, voice finally softening as he takes in the loaded backpack on her back. He feels the weight of her decision then.

"I wouldn't have signed if I didn't."

He'd always had a hunch that Izzy was fond of the military. Too fond for his taste, if he's going to be honest about it.

Guilt pinches him a bit whenever he thinks back to his promise that he would stand by his children no matter the choices they make. Even at the age of 56, he remains steadfast to his belief to live a life with no regrets.

But he'd be damned before he even allows any of his children to enlist.

So the first time she daydreamed of becoming a soldier at the tender age of eight, he had quickly shut down the idea.

"Here, girls like dolls right?" he had said as he pushed the plushie to her arms. He doesn't really give a damn whether she likes toys that are meant more for girls or boys. He'd buy her anything she asks for, budget permitting. But for some reason, that moment had settled uneasily in his gut. "I bought this for you today."

"But I want that one!" she'd screech, pointing at the display of two toy dual broadswords.

Petra had reprimanded him, telling him that he shouldn't discourage their child just because of their experiences. He could only give his wife a worried look in return.

Izzy was 11 the next time she approached the topic, asking him about his time as Captain Levi Ackerman. While he and Petra had moved out of Paradis since the Battle of Heaven and Earth, never even thinking of looking back, Petra was able to keep a few portraits of their team and the other Scout veterans.

Izzy, the curious young teen that she was, found them.

"See, it says here that you were a captain!" Izzy exclaims, eyes sparkling with excitement and reverence. She'd been bouncing to and from the box with the portraits and other memorabilia during his and Petra's time in the Scouts. She then settled down, looking from the portrait of a younger version of Levi with Erwin to her father's scarred face now. Levi feels his hands clenching on the armrests of his wheelchair, his vision starting to blur the more he looks at his former commander's face.

"It's so cool that you were in the military. And that you even had a high position! Do you think I'll also become a captain in the future? Maybe you can train me so I can reach that level! Please dad, can you tell me more? Is that why you have that badass scar? Mom won't tell me anything—"

Brat didn't know that he was there until the end. He doesn't know what they teach in history classes to children nowadays, but he and Petra had agreed that there's no sense in mentioning their time as soldiers and the literal hell they've been through to any of their children.

Not really a good bedtime story for kids.

The thought of his own child witnessing the same shit he and Petra went through was enough to give him a new set of nightmares every night.

"She's young, Levi," Petra consoles him after he sat up sweating from a nightmare. Tears were also streaming down her cheeks as she clings on to his bare shoulder. "She might still change her mind."

The last time Izzy mentioned it, she was 14. Everything was starting to pick up again during that time. Paradis' military, unsurprisingly, was the strongest.

Armin came over to tell them that a new order will be established—a neutral party from different nations that they all hope would promote and retain the fragile facade of peace they all had before one side goes batshit crazy. Arlert had been the same level-headed young man that he was since Levi had to revive his charred ass back in Shiganshina as he explained everything to the former captain.

With this change came a new branch of military for implementation.

Izzy had been starry eyed since then.

"This might be the world's chance to truly fix things," she babbled on that whole day—a mixture of rants about the current state and how everything is being handled, and reverence at the possible future this change might bring.

"Imagine... Imagine being a part of that..." Izzy had trailed off then, eyes faraway but lit up with optimism.

All Levi can hear and see is another Isabel from years past.

Back then, he'd chalked it all up to the fanciful thinking of a child who doesn't know any better. Now, Levi desperately wants to believe that maybe this is just a rebellious teenage phase. He'd been around a lot of teenagers during his time and he'd witnessed how crazy they can get.

Like Eren and—

He tears himself away from the memory before his mind fucks him up further. He and Petra already deals with it on an almost nightly basis, and it's a thought he'd rather not dwell on during his waking hours.

The living room was quiet for a moment as both father and daughter stare each other down. Levi looks at his first-born now—committed and kind like Petra, blunt and fearless like him. The best of his and his wife's qualities mixed together.

But who knows when shit will go down again? Things were shaky enough in this damned world as it is. While he and Petra were able to find their own safe spot to raise their children in, one can never be too complacent.

He'd already lost too much, and most days he wakes up thinking that even his family is temporary. There one day, gone the next.

"I can do my part this way, dad," Izzy finally replies, drawing her father back to the present. She sighs, dropping down her bag and kneels on one side of his wheelchair so they'd be at the same level. "Like what you did. Like what you and mom did."

He remains quiet as he takes in the determination in her eyes. It's the same look Petra would have more than two decades ago when she saves another soldier from being titan shit. The same look his daughter would have whenever she refuses to let go of a toy before bath time back when she was a toddler.

He knows then that there's no swaying her from her decision.

"You're too much like your mother," Levi says, resigned. They even have the same strawberry-blonde bob, he notes. Izzy gives him a sad smile then.

"You're just too old to 'deal with my teenage bullshit', dad," Izzy retorts to lighten the mood, doing her best to imitate her father's previous rants.

He doesn't tell her that maybe what he's too old for is the possibility of losing another person he holds dear.

- - - -

When he sees her off the next morning, already in the uniform issued by the military, he decides that he'd rest easier at night knowing that Izzy believes he's there to support her. He fought for Paradis' freedom for half his life. Why would he rob his daughter from her freedom to choose the path she wants?

"I'm proud of you, Izzy," Levi whispers against her ear as she hugs him tightly, fighting against his desire to beg her to not to go. It may be uncharacteristic of him to want to sob out and cling further to her but damn it, this is his daughter.

But Izzy's breath hitches at his words, and tears soon started to fall. His own arm encircles tightly around her while he supports himself with a crutch. She looks at him gratefully, true joy in her eyes, and that was enough to stop him from forbidding her further.

"You're not allowed to die," he mutters instead—so similar to the 'encouraging words' he gave the young recruits he guided before.

Izzy laughs through her sobs and teases him, "Is that an order, 'captain'?"

"Damn right it is, brat," he replies, fondly ruffling her hair.

#rivetra #levi ackerman x petra ral #wheelchair levi #ACKERBABY #TEENAGE ACKERBABY #levi x petra #rivetra fic #rivetra au

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chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

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Amoureux - The Children’s Character Profiles

A/N Six children are a lot to keep track of so I made one-page summaries for each of them so we can familiarize ourselves with each of their personalities and hobbies!

Henry is the eldest of his siblings and who is known to his parents (and to this blog) as our little prince. His five siblings are just as royal as he is but he is the one who really brought together his family and started his parents on the road to the rest of their lives. Born on the 6th of August 1821, Henry is the only American born child but his nationality is definitely 100% British regardless. He was given two strong regal names, Henry and Alexander both appearing through history as English and French rulers. He was born into poverty but was named to be destined for greatness to seventeen-year-old Daniel and Louisa who had more love than money after fleeing Europe for the sake of their romance. Henry introduced them into the responsibility that parenthood was and forced them to grow up far quicker than they had anticipated. Even still, he is their little prince and they always seemed to have him on a bit of a pedestal.

Moving back to England to the Royal Family and growing up in a palace meant that Henry could get away with quite a bit. He was a naughty little boy like his father had been as a child but he never met much reprimanding from his parents, especially once they started to have more children and their attention was focused elsewhere. Young Henry wasn’t much of a jealous child per se but his younger brother was born the same year his Uncle Christian became King so the little prince who was once the focus of everything, seemed to be pushed back a few steps. This only made him act up a bit more, hiding around the palace and running everywhere instead of walking and putting up fits when it really wasn’t necessary. He just liked being the centre of attention.

After the havoc that young Daniel and Louisa caused across the country, they were determined to make up for it through perfectly properly behaved children…starting with Henry. It took a few years for his uncle to have children which meant, if God forbid his uncle died, he would take the throne (Daniel couldn’t because of his criminal record from being banished before he was born…having a ‘criminal’ on the throne wouldn’t look good to the public). Henry was young and he didn’t understand this too well and his fiery personality was perfect proof of it but he smartened up as he grew up, especially as he learned his place as eldest child. He took his ‘job’ as oldest child very seriously and took charge of his five younger siblings in every way from teaching them French to sneaking them into the kitchen for extra pastries.

It’s safe to say Henry was an active little prince and from a young age he took up horseback riding and eventually started playing polo when he was old enough. Henry was the perfect handsome mix of his uncle and his father with their soft brown hair and shining blue eyes (and his uncle’s dimples) and caught the eyes of young ladies from the moment he was school age. He basked in it too because he loved being the centre of attention – especially if the attention was from girls. There was nothing that the aristocrats’ daughters loved more than watching Prince Henry playing polo or accompanying him on rides around the garden.

Henry never had to become King but he was certainly up to the challenge if the situation arose. He was the pride of his parents and the eye-candy of his country and the key to his family’s entire stability, honestly. Our little prince.

Philip was the first British born child of Daniel and Louisa. He was conceived nearly as soon as the young parents moved back to England and was born into regality from his very first breath. He was born on the 19th of March 1823 at Highgrove where his family resided. He was named after both his British and French regal heritage, his middle name in particular stemming from his mother’s name and the most common name of prior French Kings. He had deep brown hair like his older brother but was the only on of two of the Seavey children to have their mother’s green eyes.

In fact, he was a lot like Louisa in many ways and it was safe to say he was a bit of Mama’s boy from the start. French came easiest to Philip and he often chose to speak it as much as he could – even though he kept having to be reminded by father, siblings, and staff to speak English please. But he could always speak French with Louisa at teatime. Philip was the most perfect little gentleman both with his manners, his dress, and the way he always cared for his mother and his younger siblings the best he could. If Daniel wasn’t around, it would be Philip at Louisa’s side, holding her hand as a boy and offering his arm as a young man. He had a soft spot in his mother’s heart that was for sure.

He was much gentler compared to his hyperactive older brother; but the boys, being quite close in age, got along well regardless. Henry was always one to help coax Philip out of his comfort zone and usually was the one who ended up getting Philip in trouble. The younger brother was more of the reasonable child and was best known to question Henry’s antics. Philip much preferred quiet hobbies like painting or piano – although painting was his favourite. He could paint portraits and landscapes alike and often helped himself to Highgrove’s grounds to get lost in the trees for an entire afternoon with his easel and canvas.

Daniel tried to get his second son into music since his first could hardly sit still at the bench long enough to set his fingers on the keys. Philip humoured his father enough to learn the basics of piano but as he grew up, he kept rushing off to paint or to sit quietly with Louisa in the drawing room. He much preferred the gentle romantic aesthetic of the world and he found his comfort in the green of the grass and the colours of the flowers and even scribbled little poems in the pages of his lesson books – only in French though so none of the staff could ever read them and laugh. He was a shy tender little boy and his mother saw the world in his green eyes and kind soul.

He was gentle but fair in his status as second-eldest and made sure to be the sensible one when his older brother might not have thought something through. Philip was there to ground his family and his siblings and to be the mediator if things got rough. His tame nature was enticing to many and his natural calm aesthetic and the way he saw the world was of nothing but the sweetest of souls.

Margret was the first of three daughters and the third of six children. She was born closest in age to Philip, being born at Highgrove House on the 25th of May 1824. She was the perfect mix of her parents after an eldest boy who took after the English side of the family and a second-eldest boy who took after the French side of the family. With her mother’s light strawberry blonde hair and her father’s bright blue eyes, Margo was the most perfect little princess. At least in her parents’ eyes. She was named after her father’s maternal grandmother and her mother’s maternal grandmother, respectively, making for the perfect combination of British and French.

She was a perfect mix of her parents by looks and a perfect mix of her brothers by personality. She was active like Henry and was just as sneaky as he was – but was better at getting away with it – and yet she was gentle and compassionate like Philip and admired the grace in the world. She tended to turn to French when she was emotional, ever since she was a little girl even having a nightmare in the middle of the night she would crawl into her parents’ room and whimper to her father about her “cauchemar”. Daniel could only really offer her comfort in English but his attempt was nice enough and she always fell right back to sleep in his presence.

Margret’s active side came out from a young age, always getting up to dance around the room when Daniel would be playing piano and it wasn’t long before she got her own ballet instructor. As a dancer, she knew a little bit about music too so she had just enough piano lessons to get by but her focus was on ballet. It wasn’t odd to find her practicing her grande jete’s down the hallways at Highgrove, nearly knocking over candelabras and unaware servants in the process.

Margo was graceful as a ballerina and she could use that to her advantage in her adventures with her siblings, especially when it came to sneaking into the kitchen for extra pastries – a Seavey original antic. As a young tot she was used to pouting her way out of trouble – those blonde curls and big blue eyes always melting any adult’s heart – but once she was older, she was able to cross the entire palace without making a single sound (made for sneaking out a bit easier as a teenager). She seemed to be so stealthy she could walk up behind any member of her family and startle them with a sweet “qu'est-ce que tu fais?” (what are you doing) over their shoulder. Daniel swore he was going to die of a heart attack by the hands of his eldest daughter because of this.

In terms of studies, Margret preferred the languages to the arithmetic or sciences; spending her time practicing French and Latin and keeping her nose in a book as she spun a row of ballet chaînés down the hallways. There honestly wasn’t a time Margret wasn’t dancing. She danced more than she walked truly. Music came easily to her father and dancing came easily to her; both of them constantly hearing music in their heads in their own ways.

Princess Margret was the idealized concept of graceful princess in and out of the palace and made her own appearances at the Royal Ballet as she got older. But she knew her place in her family well and was a gentle and persistent eldest sister.

Fredrick was the youngest surviving son of Daniel and Louisa. He was born in Highgrove on the 27th of February 1826 in the middle of a winter storm. His middle name was a strong English name often passed down from British royalty and his first name was the English form of the Germanic name meaning ‘peaceful ruler’. He was similar to his elder sister with his appearance with their mother’s strawberry blonde hair and their father’s blue eyes and from the moment he was born, his sister took quite the liking to him. The not-even-two-year-old Margret was captivated by her new baby brother and constantly asked to play with him as soon as she possibly could.

Most likely because of this, Fredrick grew up close with his elder sister and tended to copy more of her activities than his elder brothers. Daniel was a little worried he was going to have a second son that preferred tea over solid hobbies but Fredrick’s interests didn’t stop at the garden table. Up to this point, much to Daniel’s glee, Fredrick was his only diligent music student but he took more to the cello than piano which was quite unique. As a young boy, Fredrick was very close to his father because of his interest in the cello and they had lessons together almost every day.

Their slight hostility only began when Fredrick started his studies. Arithmetic didn’t come easily to him and reading and languages were boring and it took him a long time to finally learn how to read in either English or French. He never learned to read Latin. Daniel, once a young boy who detested his own lessons, grew up to understand the importance of an education in his children and Fredrick’s constant dismission of his studies drove Daniel crazy. He saw too much of himself in his youngest son in that case. They argued quite a bit about Fredrick’s studies and Daniel couldn’t understand why he just couldn’t learn the bloody lessons. It was often that Daniel took away his son’s cello to force him to get his work done. Fredrick learned how to swear in French just to curse off his father when he didn’t know what he was saying. Fredrick was a graceful child like his elder sister – and the meaning behind his name – but he could really swear like a sailor when it got down to it.

He never really cared for horseback riding too much but he found his outlet in archery. He was oddly good at it too and Daniel used that to his advantage to help Fredrick with his studies. He would write words on pieces of paper and stick them to the target and every time Fredrick hit one, he would have to read the word to teach himself to read. Any incentive that worked was good enough – especially after his tutor was deemed unfit after he was caught punishing the young prince with a ruler on his palm. Ever seen Louisa yell? You probably haven’t until that day. Fredrick stayed as the least studious of his siblings through most of his youth, much preferring to spend his time in the music conservatory or with a bow and arrow in hand.

Being the youngest boy, Fredrick had to sort of keep on his toes to keep up with his older siblings but he also had more of a gentle nature to support his younger sisters as well. For a middle child, he was a good mix of everything before him and, at the same time, almost fiercely independent.

Adelaide – sweet little Delia – was born on the 3rd of September 1828 right around teatime. It was a warm and sunny afternoon and she was delivered at her family home of Highgrove like her three elder siblings. Her name is Germanic for ‘nobility’ which was quite fitting for her family’s societal standing but her middle name is both a perfect mix of her French and British backgrounds. She was the prettiest of the Royal babies – at least that’s what the staff whispered, and what Margret decreed at her first look at her baby sister – and donned her father’s brown hair and her mother’s green eyes.

From a young age, Adelaide was charming and clever yet sensitive and she saw the world in more of an analytical sense. She asked “why” to everything (both in English and French) and lessons came easily to her from languages to sciences and arithmetic. She knew her multiplication tables at an impressive age and her constant shining colours often made her elder brother Fredrick envious. The likes of his younger sister was something that Fredrick hated to be compared to. Delia was Daniel’s little shining star because of her intelligence and her talent for music and her caring personality. For a girl in the 19th century, Adelaide was taking the world by storm and often questioned her tutors and her family about the ways of the world in terms of politics, sciences, and mathematics. She was a girl ahead of her time.

Adelaide could have been seen as ‘one of the boys’ but there was nothing she loved more than the femininity of life. Teatime with her family or going dress shopping or, especially, where she found her calling in singing. Adelaide had a set of lungs on her and that was apparent ever since she was a baby and could cry loud enough to wake up the servants in the basement. When she was a child, she could scream at the top of her lungs if one of her older siblings tried to play a trick on her – and she always got the pity. This only led her to discovering her gift of singing as a pre-teen, especially when she accompanied her family to the opera and the show brought her to tears. From then on, you could hear her practicing her scales all through the palace – and breaking a few glasses if she really tried. She even sang a few songs for her family and guests when she was older as the entertainer of the house.

Sure, she was arguably the prettiest of the children, but Adelaide was more focused on her studies and her singing than getting married and she was often blind to the callers that would come by the palace for her. Even during balls, she would bore her dance partners with talk of mathematics or sciences until they would up and leave her. Daniel was approached plenty of times by fathers of aristocratic young men who were appalled by Adelaide’s intelligence and scolded him for “not raising a nice young lady”. It never phased him, Daniel (and Louisa) were incredibly proud of their young scholar, especially within the fact that she was a woman, and if no boys wanted to dance with her, Daniel would always gladly take their place.

Henry was her protector since she was so blind to her callers that someone had to ward off the boys. Adelaide was a well-rounded princess and the envy of her siblings but – although she might have used her intelligence to pick on them as a child – she always treated them fairly and with nothing but love.

Victoria was Daniel and Louisa’s rainbow baby (in modern day terms). The Duke and Duchess expected not to have any more children after their son, Alfred, was stillborn in 1829. His death caused much grief in the young parents so they weren’t willing to risk that ever again. But Louisa fell pregnant again and gave birth to a healthy baby girl in the early morning of the 30th of April 1831. The relief that followed a safe birth only had Daniel and Louisa falling more in love with each other and with their new baby. She was named Victoria meaning victory; from overcoming and shining through a great loss. Her middle name was, of course, taken from Daniel’s younger sister. In fact, Victoria even looked like her aunt with light brown hair and those blue Seavey eyes and button nose. She truly looked like a little princess.

Victoria was in love with the idea of royalty and her family’s standing in society. She asked often when it was to be her time to be queen, always hoping for another answer than her mother or father’s usual “you’re a princess, not a queen”. If she asked enough times, they would let her be queen, right? She enjoyed spending time with her Uncle Christian who was king and hearing all the responsibilities he had and she especially liked travelling with him in the Royal Carriage (even after there was an assassination attempt that nearly took young Victoria with it). But she could relate a lot more to her Aunt Anna as youngest child and royal princess and they often went horseback riding around the palace grounds whenever they could.

With five elder siblings, Victoria grew up a little spoiled but also a little tormented. She always tried to keep up with everyone as best as she could and was willing to get up to just as much mischief as her brothers and sisters. She caught up with Henry on horseback and Philip with lingering afternoons in the gardens and clashed most with Fredrick in regard to music. Fredrick was a diligent cello student but Victoria was the only one of her family members to pick up the violin and the two often got into silent arguments with their bows in hand and trying to out play the other. Their usual bickering – as youngest son and youngest daughter – was expected to the other siblings and Daniel and Louisa often had to nearly force them to make up over whatever silly argument they were having.

Victoria could give or take her studies. She did well – especially in the languages where she even took up a little bit of German on top of French, English, and Latin – but would have much rather been with her violin or out with her horse. She could often be seen joined by her more musically inclined brothers and sisters putting on a little band performance for the family and/or guests. Victoria took her royal duties quite seriously – expected from someone who grew up begging to be queen – and she loved traveling into London to visit the public shops and, as she got older, helped to give speeches at various events. She was responsible and respectable and was determined to keep a good public appearance no matter what, not only through hos she carried herself but also within who she chose to spend her time around.

Of course, in the comfort of her own home was where Victoria’s spunky personality could flourish. Afterall, how else was she supposed to keep up with five older siblings?

#👑#character profile #writing #oc #why dont we #daniel seavey fanfic

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n-ctarinenga · 4 years ago

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Flower Boy [ boxer!calum ]

flower boy series | pt.1 | word count: 5,659 | masterlist

"Thank you so much! I'll have these to you as soon as possible. Goodbye!"

Talia grins, as she farewells the family whos portraits she had just finished shooting.

As much as she loves photography, there were only so many matching outfits and unhappy children a person could handle in a day, and with the family that had just left her studio, Talia had reached her limit.

Draining days were something she had gotten used to, business booming lately thanks to the kind words of a handful of past clients. With doors only opening just under a year ago, Valentine Studios didn't exactly have the longest history in town, but Talia liked to believe her dedication and skill made up for lack of experience.

Her mother hadn't really approved of the move, her ideals for her daughter being stuck a few decades in the past.

With the thought of her mother flashing through her mind, Talia couldn't help but sigh as she moved to pack up her camera for the night.

After the great disbandment of the Alisley family, it was nearly impossible for either of the Alisley children to communicate with their mother, but that didn't stop Yvonne from making her annual call to her kids, mostly about the percentage paid out to them every couple weeks from their father's estate royalties, which in Talia's case, was this morning.

From that point onward, it felt like the universe had decided to torment Talia today.

Starting off with the phone call, and most recently manifesting as a set of twins who refused to do any form of posing with their parents, Talia couldn't wait to go home and sleep so she could start the next day fresh and away from the negative vibes of the current day.

Once her backdrops had been rolled up, and her camera was safely stored in its bag, Talia finally had time to let down her dark brown hair, the two bright streaks of red framing her face. She took great pleasure in turning all the lights off, and locking the door of the studio behind her.

Taking a second to relax in her car, Talia looks at her phone, scrolling through til she reaches the contact of her brother, Brandon.

The Alisley family were estranged from each other these days, but that didn't mean that Talia and Brandon had stopped being lifelong best friends.

The two had always been close, only a couple years between the siblings. Growing up in a world surrounded by adults until they themselves were well into their teens, they were practically a package deal until they had both moved into their own apartments a few years ago.

As of late, while Talia was diving head first into Valentine, Brandon was knee deep in The Vault, the gym he had started not long before Talia opened her own business.

Sitting in her car, Talia contemplated calling him for a moment, her finger hovering over the call button as she thought.

With both of them being so busy, they had barely had time to catch up over the last couple months, and after the day she had had today, Talia needed a bit of chill time with the only other person in the world who could understand her situation.

Their father always joked they could communicate telepathically, and after not seeing him for so long, Talia missed speaking her native tongue.

Deciding to make her way over to the gym, Brandon always telling her he was there any Friday night she would try to make plans with him lately, Talia constructed a plan for what she would do once she finally had convinced her brother to stop throwing himself into his work every Friday night.

With The Vault situated downtown, it was a bit of a drive in Los Angeles traffic, but with the thought of the Thai food just up the street from the gym in her mind, Talia couldn't find it in herself to care about the lengthy journey.

The radio softly played one of the many playlists made on Talia's phone as she drove along, windows down and the breeze lightly whipping her hair around as she did her best to relax while she had the chance.

While most people were finishing their work week, Talia, being the head photographer at Valentine, was still one day away from her own weekend, working every Saturday since the studio opened. This made it easier for families to get together for their shoots, not having to worry about getting back to work and getting the kids back to school, and Talia could tell her clients appreciated it, which made the extra day of work worth it to her.

Propping her head up, with her left elbow resting on the top of the door, Talia can't help the frown that flashes onto her face as she approaches the gym.

Expecting to see only Brandon's car and maybe another employee's, the full parking lot beside the building confuses her. How many people would be at a gym after hours?

The confused frown on Talia's face lingers as she parks her car next one she definitely recognised as Brandon's, climbing out and locking it before pocketing her keys and approaching a man who looked slightly familiar, noticing he was one of Brandon's employees as she got closer.

"Johnny," Talia smiles politely, the man turning to her with wide eyes as he recognizes her, "what's happening here?" She asks.

Johnny stutters for a moment, looking around like he rather be anywhere else in the world at this exact moment.

"Oh, here? Just some regulars here for a get together. Your brother left a few hours back though." He says quickly, tripping over his words slightly, almost like he was making a story up as he went along.

Suspicion courses through Talia at the deflective words of the man much taller than she is, and if she didn't already know him, she probably would have been intimidated by his size alone.

"I just parked next to his car though, and it's kinda odd for Brandon to leave the gym open." Talia laughs awkwardly, not trusting of the excuse she was being given when she knew her brother better than to leave not only his business open, but also his car unlocked outside it.

"I think I'll just check things out for myself thanks Johnny." Talia states, before taking a step forward towards the entrance.

Sensing her disbelief, and his face turning to one of panic, Johnny takes a step sideways, blocking the door from Talia's path.

"Brandon said that you were banned from Friday nights. I'm sorry Talia." He finally says, and Talia can't help the look of surprise that covers her face.

"Me? Banned from the Vault? I hardly think so mate." She laughs, taking advantage of the height difference between them to duck under Johnny's arm, easily pushing the door open into the gym.

Immediately, Talia is met with a wall of noise.

A crowd, some seated, some not, surround the central boxing ring at the center of the building. The usual smell of cleaning supplies and sweat is amplified by the stench of beer radiating through the whole building, but even then, the thing that grabs Talia's attention isn't the crowd or their behavior, but instead, what they're watching.

In the center of the ring, two large, well built men circle each other. Talia watches on in horror for only a moment before one man launches his fist forward towards the others stomach, and it's in this moment she realizes that the men aren't wearing gloves, but thin bloodied wraps.

The crowd roar with a wave of life as the punch connects, the second man doubling over and leaving himself exposed to an onslaught the first delivers without hesitation.

Even with the presence of Johnny behind her, the only thing Talia can see is the pure violence playing out in front of her, realization growing by the second as her eyes finally break away from the ring to where her brother stands at the back of the crowd.

She can't help but think her father might have been right about the telepathy, because almost as if he could sense her eyes on him, Brandon's own find her.

All of the colour drains from Brandon's face as he excuses himself from the black haired man he's talking to, running around the outside of the crowd to reach his sister, who stands frozen in place.

He says nothing as he grabs Talia's hand, pulling her sideways into the office room to the right of the building, easily tugging her past the back of the crowd that still stare focused into the ring.

The clinical white lights above them come to life as Brandon flicks the switch beside the door, shutting it behind him quickly before he turns back to Talia.

"What are you doing here?" He asks quickly, inspecting her as if she was a wounded animal ready to pounce.

Fighting her disbelief at the situation and his question, Talia's eyes go wide as a wave of anger washes over her at his question.

"What am I doing here? What the fuck is that shit, Brandon?!" She throws back at him, her voice louder and stronger than she expected it to come out of her.

Waving his hands panicked, trying to get her to lower her voice, Brandon tries to shush her, which only makes her more ticked off.

"Look you weren't supposed to see that-"

"Answer my fucking question or I'll start screamin' it." She threatens, cutting him off mid sentence.

An angry and frustrated expression settles on his face as Brandon let's out a huff, not knowing how to word his explanation and remaining silent while he tries to find the right words.

"Is this why you've been blowing me off for months? You got some fucking fight club bullshit going on here instead?" She questions further, her voice breaking slightly with stress.

"I can't tell you all the fucking details in one breath, Talia. I wasn't exactly expecting you to find out like this."

Brandon argues, throwing his hand up in annoyance, which only confuses her more.

"What makes you think you have the right to be angry at me when you're the one that has the explaining to do?"

"Fuck! Alright! I get it!" He whisper yells harshly, face twisting in anger and making the siblings look even more alike than usual, Talia taking a step back at his sudden outburst, "look, the money is gonna get cut off one day, I'm thinking about my future, OUR futures here. That's what this shit is about."

"And what exactly is this shit, Brandon?" Talia asks, aggressively pointing towards the door that barely separated them from the crowd.

"It's boxing. Same shit you see on TV, just, not as commercial."

"This isn't the same shit as on TV! Those guys aren't even wearing gloves!" She argues, smacking the back of her hand as she speaks.

"Bare knuckle and wraps get better bets, the guys make their own decisions on if they do it or not." Brandon defends as he crosses his arms.

Talia shakes her head in annoyance, her face twisting. Everything was happening so quickly, meaning she barely had enough time to process all the information being thrown at her.

"You're scared of mommy cutting off the royalties so this is what you do instead?" She asks.

"The money is gonna get cut off and it's gonna be sooner rather than later. Do you expect me to suck up forever? To hide Sam til she dies too? Mom hates both of us now and you know it just as well as I do."

Talia feels her throat tighten at his words. Her stomach felt like it was close to emptying its content as the gut punch of his words hit her at a hundred miles per hour.

"Shut the fuck up. You know I love Sam and you know I don't want to do it just as much as you don't want to. But you're right, it will be sooner if she finds out about this." She spits back.

Taking a step towards him, arms crossed, Talia holds steady eye contact as she looks up to her brother.

"You're not the only one she can fuck over. When she finds out and cuts me off too, what the fuck are we gonna do, huh?" She whispers harshly as the crowd outside the room bursts into life again, the next round starting.

Brandon breaks the eye contact between them as he stares at the ground, fists clenched at his sides as the obvious stress of the situation flashes across his face.

"She won't, not yet."

Talia rolls her eyes as her arms uncross, leaning back against his desk.

"Mom always finds out."

"She won't this ti-"

Brandon is interrupted by the office door swinging open, a tall man with blonde hair and a panicked look on his face ignoring Talia to address Brandon the second his eyes land on him.

"Hood's broken Knight's nose." He says in a rush, causing Brandon to groan, following the man out the door before turning back to Talia.

"Don't leave this office, I'll be back soon."

Talia throws her brother a sarcastic thumbs up before he rushes off, the door clicking shut behind him.

Talia felt like her mind was in the worst spin she'd ever experienced. Finally the late nights, the astronomical bills being excused as gym costs, the secrets, they all made sense.

As angry as she was with her brother, she was more worried about him than anything.

Seeing the crowd, the action in the ring, it was more than just the sparring she would see from time to time as she made the rounds to check in on things. These people were out for blood, and would throw as much money as they needed at it to make it happen. This wasn't the kind of thing she ever expected Brandon to be involved in, and it shocked her that he's involved in that world obviously as more than just a spectator.

Sitting down in the office chair, Talia rests her elbows on the desk in front of her, covering her face with her hands as she tries to take a deep breath to calm her nerves, but jumping as the crowd outside roars again.

This wasn't something she was familiar with, and the uncharted territory this laid out in front of her felt like a minefield. Both her brother's lies, and the violence they were hiding.

With her anxiety peaking as she sits deep in her thoughts, she nearly yelps as the office door flies open, a tall man coming in and looking around for someone, before their eyes finally land on Talia.

If the sharp jawline, dark eyes and deadly look on his face didn't take her breath away, the ripped and bruised skin under his eye sure did.

A seemingly permanent scowl was set on the man's face, and his height and all black outfit just added to the intimidating stance he has as he lets the door swing shut behind him.

Talia couldn't help but notice that the man is attractive, even with blood dripping down his face, noticing his hair closely cropped to his head, apart from the wild bleached curls that fell onto his forehead.

For a brief moment, the angry look on the man's face softens upon seeing the smaller woman sitting behind his boss's desk, but it's instantly replaced by a look of confusion.

"Who the fuck are you?" He asks, his voice deeper than she expected with an unfamiliar accent laced into his words.

Slightly taken back, Talia frowns, withdrawing from the desk and standing up behind it, her defensive nature quickly taking over.

"I'm Talia Alisley, who the fuck are you?"

This time it's the man that's taken back, his eyebrows shooting up as he scoffs, arrogance in spades and tension building by the second as Talia crosses her arms in front of herself.

"I'm Calum Hood," He says, and Talia freezes.

Hood. Was he the Hood that the blonde man was talking about? The one who apparently had broken the nose of the guy Brandon was checking on?

"and I'm guessing you're the precious little sister." He comments, and this time it's Talia that raises her eyebrow. Did Brandon mention her to these guys?

"Too right I am, so don't fuck with me and we should be fine. Brandon said he'd be back soon." She replies, sitting back down with her arms still crossed and the scowl on her face settling in while in his presence.

Deep down, Talia knew it was probably a bad idea to piss off the guy who was not only bleeding, but the cause of a broke nose two rooms over, but her pride and defensive nature was far more powerful than the anxiety swirling in her stomach.

"No need to worry about that, princess." Calum rolls his eyes in annoyance. If Brandon was gonna send him to his office, he could at least show up instead of wasting his time, and give him a warning.

Talia was thankful in that moment for the low light of the room on account of the desk lamp being off, hiding the blush that made her ears burn. Yeah, he might be a dickhead, but he was still an attractive dickhead.

Slumping down into the chair opposite Talia with a huff, Calum shakes his head, while Talia stays stone faced across from him.

"You alright?" She asks after a moment, referring to where blood still sits on his cheekbone.

Calum frowns at her attitude change, not aware of the injury that he sustained from Knight's ringed hand landing a right hook before Calum landed his own.

In his defense, Knight should have known better than to touch his gear.

With the confused look flashing across his face for a longer period this time, Talia can't help but roll her eyes.

"You're bleeding under your eye, bro." She points out.

As Calum reaches up to touch his cheek, the door opens, the blonde man from before walking in with Brandon in toe as Talia thanks her lucky stars.

"Not gonna lie I thought you would have left by now." Brandon says, looking at Talia first while her eyes stay on the actions of the blonde man opening a medical kit on the desk.

"Oh don't worry, I want to." She comments.

"So do I, can I go now?" Calum directs towards Brandon as the blonde man touches an alcohol wipe to his cheek, making his aggressive expression falter slightly.

"Once Luke says you're okay and once I've dealt with you, yes." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Look," Talia says, standing up and holding her hands up in surrender, "obviously you've got a lot of shit going on here right now so we'll deal with this tomorrow." She gestures between them, walking around the desk and past the three men.

Letting out a sigh, Brandon sends her a look of appreciation.

"Thanks T, text me when you get home." He replies, to which she sends him a short nod.

"Luke, can you walk her out?" He asks, turning to the man getting up from kneeling in front of Calum.

"Yeah, no worries." He smiles, taking his gloves off and throwing them in the bin.

Walking out the door with Luke, Talia winces at the loudness of the crowd, thankful for the taller, now calm, man standing between them and herself.

"I'm Luke, by the way." He smiles kindly, holding his hand out for Talia to shake as they make it to the door.

"Talia. Gotta be honest, I wish this was under better circumstances." She smiles tightly back at him, shaking his hand.

"Yeah," he laughs, "me too."

As they make it outside, Talia leads Luke around the building to where her car sits, right next to Brandon's.

"Well, this is me." She says, signalling to her car with the keys in her hand. "Thanks for walking me past all of that."

"No problem. Drive safe." Luke says with a small wave to her, and she gives him an appreciative smile.

"You too. See you 'round, Luke."

Climbing into her car, Talia sighs, relaxing only slightly in the familiar surroundings.

As she pulls away from the curb, Luke sends her a final wave before walking back into the gym.

Driving away, the adrenaline of the situation starts to wear off, and the reality of the situation starts to sink in.

"God, I'm gonna fucking kill him." Talia mutters to herself, turning the radio up and going over the night's events in her head as she drives back to her apartment.

The next morning, Talia awakes with a rock of dread weighing down her stomach.

Her mind immediately flashes back to the events of the night before, and as she showers, gets dressed and locks her apartment door, it almost felt like she wore the dread of the impending conversation she needed to have with her brother as a scarf tied too tightly around her neck.

Instead of heading straight to the studio and editing the photos of the last few days as usual, Talia instead took a deep breath as she started heading back towards Vault, having a couple hours to hopefully get answers before her first clients for the day were set to arrive at eleven.

The parking lot beside Vault sat a lot emptier today. Only a handful of cars sprinkled around, and just like last night, Talia pulls into the space beside Brandon's car.

Taking a moment before walking in, Talia leans back in her seat, closing her eyes.

She was scared. Of Brandon's explanation, of possibly having to accept whatever the fuck she had witnessed last night, of walking out more confused than she was about to walk in.

Her and Brandon had grown up play fighting, and catching an odd round or two when their dad decided to watch Friday Fight Night, but violence had never really been part of their lives in a physical form. Apart from a questionable wrestling phase when she was 14, Talia couldn't even remember the last time she saw two people in a ring together that wasn't casual sparring when she would frequent the gym in its early days.

None of it compared to what she saw last night.

With what happened still fresh in her mind, Talia climbs out of her car, pushing the door shut behind her.

Johnny doesn't stand by the entrance this morning, meaning Talia easily walks into the gym, the door squeaking slightly in protest as she pushes it open.

It's almost like nothing had even happened. All the equipment that was pushed against a wall last night now sits in its normal place, the shelves of alcohol behind the check in desk now stocked with protein powders like less than twelve hours ago the counter wasn't a very convincing bar.

Hearing her come in the door, a couple people look up from what they're doing, sending Talia a polite smile before returning to their work.

Calum Hood is not one of these people.

Almost like the universe had put a glowing neon sign over his head, Talia's eyes instantly wander towards where Calum stands next to the black haired man she recognized as the same person Brandon was talking to last night when she arrived.

Noticing her too, Calum’s encouragement of his best friend is interrupted by his eyes catching a flash of blue hair in his peripheral vision.

While he knew any animosity towards the woman who could probably have him fired with a few fake tears was a bad idea to hold onto, he couldn't help but feel annoyed upon seeing her in what he thought of as his domain.

Face settling into a frown as she looks across the room to the man who easily got on her nerves last night, Talia almost doesn't notice Brandon coming up behind her.

"Hey." He greets quietly, holding a takeaway cup of coffee out to his sister. "Time for that talk, huh?"

"Yeah. Think so." She takes the coffee with a nod of thanks, and hesitantly follows him to his office.

Talia couldn't tell if Brandon was trying to suck up to her with free coffee, but after sitting down at the chair in front of his desk and taking a sip, tasting vanilla latte, she knows he is.

"So, where should we start?" He asks, settling into his seat with a heavy sigh.

Talia scoffs lightly, raising her eyebrow.

"The beginning would be good."

Brandon nods, looking down at his desk to avoid meeting her eyes.

"The fights started around one, maybe two months after we opened, so we've been hosting them for about fourteen months now."

Talia's eyes go wide, disbelief covering her face as she places her cup on his desk forcefully.

"You're telling me you've been hiding this shit for over a year?" She asks, anger already starting to build.

"Yeah, and if you haven't fucking noticed, it's not been the easiest thing to do." He snaps, before holding his hands up, taking a deep breath and rolling his seat back slightly to calm himself, too much tension already in the air.

Talia bites her tongue, looking down at her hands before she signals to him to continue.

"A friend of mine, Ashton, he was part of an illegal boxing league running out of a rundown place up in Hollywood. I saw him fight there a couple times, saw the conditions myself. The guy running the show was a complete asshole to his guys, but they all needed the money, so they stuck around." He explains, voice quieter than before.

"One night we got to talking. I asked Ash if he thought we might be able to make our own ring, give people a safer place to earn their money. Then we figured out how much we could earn from it, and with shit going so wrong with mom, I figured that if she pulled the rug out from under me, I could use the league as a safety net."

Piecing together the timeline in her head, and doing the best to absorb the information given to her, Talia remains silent and slowly nods along when needed.

"Him and I have built this thing from the ground up, and it's working for us. I manage the books, he manages the guys, and we take care of the admin together. With my connections to the rich assholes who have more money than they know what to do with, and with Ashton's connection to the guys who need that money and want to do it, we're doing really, really well, Talia."

This time it's Talia who avoids eye contact, looking down to her shoes as she curses the logical side of her brain for seeing sense in his story.

"How many people do you have fighting for you?" She asks.

Brandon let's out a heavy breath, waving his hand slightly.

"Around twenty, twenty five. We keep the doors open for the more occasional guy who needs the cash that week."

"And how often are the nights like last night happening?"

"Weekly. Every Friday, normally."

Seeing the hesitation on her face, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, Brandon sits forward to bring her attention to him, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

"I know this is a lot, and I don't expect you to be okay with it, but I do want you to know I'm being smart about this."

Talia sighs, taking a sip of her drink before speaking.

"I know you, so I don't doubt it. It's just so dangerous, Brandon. You can't expect me not to be worried about you."

Brandon laughs lightly, trying to lift the mood slightly.

"I would never expect you not to worry. It's not in your nature."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Talia's lips, and it's enough to ease his mind.

"Anything you want to know about the ring, the business, any of it, I'll answer as best as I can. I trust you more than anyone and I want to do everything I can to make you feel okay with this, and make up for holding it from you."

Talia hazards a look to her brother, seeing on his face that he's been open and honest with her.

"You know I always ask too many questions." She smiles, joking lightly as she referenced something she would hear almost daily from her mother growing up.

Brandon shakes his head as he laughs, taking a sip of his own drink.

"If you get too much for me, I'll just pass you on to Ashton. It's what normally happens around here." He shrugs slightly, before tilting his head.

"Actually, do you want to meet him? He should be around out there." He asks, and Talia mulls the idea over for a moment before agreeing. After all, it would probably be best to know who she would castrate if something happened to Brandon.

"Sure, might as well." She agrees, downing the last of her drink and tossing her cup into the small recycling bin under his desk.

Standing up and following Brandon out of his office, Talia can feel her nerves already starting to act up, and does her best to shove them down as she follows him towards the bench press where the black haired man who she now assumed was Ashton, and Calum stood.

"Hey, guys. I got someone for you to meet." Brandon says, catching their attention as they approach.

Ashton sends her a warm smile as she steps out from behind Brandon, which is a nice contrast from the cold glare Calum sends her way, which she ignores to return the smile instead.

"Ashton, Calum, this is my sister, Talia. Talia, this is the demon on my shoulder Ash, and my blue rock em sock em man Calum."

"We've met." Calum says bluntly, while Ashton raises his eyebrow.

"And we haven't. Nice to meet you, I assure you Brandon's told us nothing but good things." Ashton grins, holding his hand out for her to shake.

Talia takes his hand and can't help but notice how strong his grip is without what looks like any effort, and laughs lightly.

"I'd hope so, but I can't promise my staff have heard the same about him. It's nice to meet you too." She returns, letting her hand drop to her side before she acknowledges the man beside him.

"And yeah, charmed." Talia prods lightly, seeing Calum trying to hide the roll of his eyes from Brandon.

"Talia is gonna be spending more time around, getting to know the workings when she can. I said if she annoys me too much I'm gonna pass her on to you, so fair warning." Brandon informs them, tapping Ashton's arm as he directs his sentence to him.

"Fantastic." Talia hears Calum mutter, not loud enough for the other two to hear it, but just enough that she does.

This time, it's Talia that rolls her eyes at Calum.

As conversation is made, Calum can't help but feel hyper aware of Talia, and the sun shining in from the high windows casting sunbeams through the few red hairs that fell out of her bun and framed her face delicately. He would admit that Talia was pretty, beautiful even, but not audibly, especially not in front of the girl who felt no hesitation in sending him a death glare every few minutes.

The small group spend ten or so minutes talking with each other before Talia's phone rings, letting her know she should start making her way to the studio.

"Looks like I should be getting to work." Talia says, slipping her phone back into her pocket.

"What do you do, if you don't mind me asking?" Ashton inquiries, genuine interest in his tone, making her see why Brandon was such a fan of him.

Talia believed she could read people well, and from her first impression of Ashton, she got nothing but good vibes.

"I'm a photographer, I own my own studio called Valentine." She smiles proudly, and Ashton nods his head in approval.

"My girlfriend works just down the road from you I think! It's not far from Dominion Books, right?"

Pleasant surprise spreads across Talia's face as she nods, happy to have found a common link.

"Yeah! I think I might have seen you there in passing now I think about it." She smiles.

Brandon watches on with joy as he sees both Talia and Ashton getting along, so happy about it in fact that he didn't even notice Calum looking like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

Talia says her goodbyes to the men before turning to leave, her attention being called back before she makes it too far.

"If you ever need a fill in hunk for a photo shoot, you know who to call." Ashton jokes, sending a wink in her direction.

"Yeah, you can get your brother to pass you my number any time." Calum says sarcastically, surprising her but also making her scoff as she takes a few steps backwards before turning around.

"In your dreams, darlin'." She calls over her shoulder.

As the door swings shut behind her, Calum feels like his feet are glued to the floor, the eyes of his best friend burning into him as Brandon excuses himself to mock throw up against the wall.

"What's that all about between you two?" Ashton asks Calum quietly, picking up his water bottle as Calum picks up his own, holding it up and speaking casually before taking a sip.

"No idea what you're talking about mate."

TAGLIST | @spicycal @calmlftv @irwinkitten @mrandleer @candidcal @lukeskisses @wallflowercal @brooklynsninenine @whereveryouares @everyscarisahealingplace

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood imagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer imagine #5 seconds of summer blurb #5sos #5sos fanfic

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fae-redux · 4 years ago

Text

rules of the game: ch. 5 - my kind’s your kind

Story Summary:

The Evergreen and Imagi were never quite in peacetime. Roman’s just trying to figure out how to survive and succeed his mother. Logan wants to live long enough to use his magic however he wants. Patton is coasting while repressing everything, still trying to figure out what feelings are.

Virgil doesn’t want to change the world.

Luckily, it isn’t up to him.

first | ao3 | prev

Chapter Summary: Dee and Virgil are both of the Evergreen. They don’t already know this.

Word count: 2658

Pairings: future lamp, platonic anxceit

~|~

When he finds Dee sitting innocently at his dining table with nothing but a cup of tea and a saucer in front of him, Virgil knows he knows.

“Did you know,” Dee starts, not looking up from his tea (Virgil can feel his barely contained glee from where he stands), “that Queen Valerie received quite the surprise this morning?”

He’s smirking like Virgil should already know. “No,” he attempts to shrug casually because it’s not technically a lie, “What surprise?”

“The queen certainly did not acquire a child,” His eyes light up, “And she really didn't get the twin fae child of the one you just cursed, no, she did not.” He laughs and practically spins out of his seat to get a good look at Virgil, effectively cutting off his path to his room. “Why didn’t you invite me on your hunt? We wouldn’t have had any fun together! There’s always something as good as some classic bonding, cursing unsuspecting humans, stealing children, you know!”

Virgil exhales a long breath through his nose, trying to move around the fae. “You are way too excited about this.”

“Well, it’s only what I haven’t wanted for years,” Dee tilts his head forward facetiously, an arm blocking his exit again, “Horrible of you to give me an early birthday present.”

Virgil gives up trying to get to his room and takes the seat Dee vacated, but then his brain catches up with what Dee just said. “Wait, I didn’t curse the kid, I cursed the queen.”

“According to the Seelie that just came from the outskirts, you definitely did not get the kid, and your magic is super stable,” Dee shrugs, moving his cup to the sink, practically fluttering his hands in joy. “The kid’s a bad mark, and if he grows up anything like his mother, you’ll be sorry you did it.”

Virgil looks at Dee, who is still grinning, genuinely ecstatic for the first time since Virgil’s met him, and thinks, maybe this isn’t the worst thing. If the queen does raise the child herself, he doesn’t have that much hope for the kid, and with King Cromwell under her thumb, it’s unlikely the kid will know what life outside the citadel looks like.

“I can see it now,” He says. The deal is composed of a thick cord that holds strong. Even tugging on it now, he feels the prince, crying alone in a nursery, and can’t believe he didn’t feel it before, “I should probably break it.”

“Sure, if you don’t want the death of a child on your hands. Magic doesn’t come with backlash.” Dee raises an eyebrow, and he hastily takes his hand back from the rope. “Besides there have been plenty of instinctive magic curses in fae history. It’s not like we don’t have the theory to even begin going about breaking it without killing you or the kid.”

He shakes his head and resolves to ignore the thing.

Dee is happy. It’s a shame, Virgil thinks. If what Virgil can recall about what he said is right, the young prince has twenty years to live, and nothing he does will affect the curse or change its course. It’s all up to Adelaide.

He doesn’t dwell on the seed of guilt that starts to grow in his stomach.

He doesn’t.

~|~

As much as he likes to focus on his misfortune, Virgil knows that when he can’t fix all his problems, it’s best to start with the ones he can handle.

The thing is, Dee’s right. His magic is unstable in that he doesn’t know what he already did with it or how to use it, and if he can’t learn to put some sort of a leash on it, he’ll be reliant on Dee forever, which isn’t ideal.

On the bright side, Dee seems delighted by the turn of events that is Virgil asking for magic lessons. They’ve started to learn to live with each other in the past couple weeks, Dee accommodating Virgil and teaching him how to do things around the estate, and Virgil carefully staying out of the way of Dee’s clients. This really is an extension of their preexisting lessons.

Dee starts them off by trying to figure out what sort of fae Virgil is. It would be going better if the only things he could talk about weren’t the way the plants lead him to Dee’s hide-away home in the Evergreen and the whole “curse” incident.

“How did you get away from a full ballroom of knights and iron? The queen wouldn’t have been extra careful with the presence of a child,” Dee has about seven books open trying to figure out what Virgil’s fae history is made of.

He shrugs, letting his shoulders slump in a little more, taking another bite of his food and ducking behind his bowl a little as Dee tosses another book to the side. “I heard the sound of breaking glass behind me? It sounded like your illusion breaking that first night we met, so I assume it was some kind of illusion magic. I just remember thinking I didn’t want them to see me leave. Illusions and plant-based magic are two very different things, though, so I don’t really understand how I would have both.”

Dee snorts, putting his own bowl down. “Even for a novice, you’ve got a horrible understanding of magic.” He brushes through his history of plant fae grimoire while frequently glancing from Virgil to the book. He turns the book so Virgil can see, “Match?”

Virgil looks at the portrait in the book of a fae with a wide face and a stubby nose and shakes his head. “I read a lot in the castle so I know a lot about magic. My mother’s collection told me about fae magic, but Adelaide’s collections taught me other kinds of magic. I moved most of her spellbooks and grimoires to my room, so even if the queen decides to go book burning, those would probably be safe. She probably doesn’t remember that I used to live in the west tower.”

The ache that comes with thinking about his old home isn’t new but he almost wishes the bittersweet feeling would go away. The castle always used to have the best view of the sunset and the most wonderful view of the full moon in the sky. Jam tarts were always a bonus too, especially when they got the ones with the special red jam. Those were things that made it really feel like home.

Dee turns the book around again. “This one?”

Virgil stops thinking about the castle.

The portrait shows an eager lady with sharp ears and elongated incisors and long silver blonde hair, about to pounce off the page. Her grin looks the same as his mother’s did before she hatched a plan to get them both in trouble. The manor staff used to hate that smile.

“That one,” he swallows down and clenches his fists to hold back the tremors he feels coming on, but it just sends sharp stings of pain through his palms. No one had told him about being part fae. No one even suggested it before Dee. If the queen knew, she surely wouldn’t have allowed Romulus to take him in. “Well, we know why about the plants now, though I’m not really sure how diluted my ancestry is,” He fiddles with the sleeves of his hoodie, and the hollow feeling in his chest persists. Enough fae blood to be fully realized by a deal gone awry, but not enough to affect him for the first 17 years of his human lived life.

Dee waves a hand and begins to put books away. “The real problem is that we know exactly why you have illusion powers like me,” The muttering increases as Virgil just sits at the table, head leaning against his palm watching as Dee pulls random books out at will, only to look through two or three pages and return them to the shelf. “Your existence as a fae makes complete sense.”

Today has already been too much, but at the very least they have a hint. “Thanks,” he replies dryly. “It’s not as though anyone told me there was a fae in my family tree somewhere. I would go back and look for the documentation if it didn’t mean getting captured and tortured for eternity for daring Adelaide.”

The scowl on Dee’s face makes him use an arm to cover the lower half of his face and stifle his snicker.

“Yes, you could go back, and all my hard work, gone, just like that?” The sarcasm is evident in his voice, as he shoots his judgmental gaze towards Virgil, “Stunning idea.”

“Nah, I think you like me too much to let me do that anyways,” Virgil openly smiles at the fae as he huffs and returns his attention to the shelves. “You do.”

“If the universe had not given you to me as a gift,” The light from the window glances off his yellow scales, making them glow, “You wouldn’t be dead right now. You would do well not to remember that.”

“Yeah,” Virgil rounds the table and plucks Dee’s bowl from where it sits, heading to the sink, “You like me.”

He doesn’t interrupt him, lets the grumbles fill the air, the only noises Dee can make without outright lying or telling the truth in the way he does.

Dee is a lot easier to understand than whatever the queen had going on, and they got on fairly well. Virgil doesn’t think it would be the worst thing to stick around for a while.

~|~

Watching Dee set up his tools for their first illusions lessons shouldn’t be as funny as it is. He left early that morning after breakfast with a cementing potion, tubes of sticking potion, and a basket of things he hadn’t let Virgil peak at.

When he’s finally allowed outside, he sees the monstrosities that Dee made in all their glory. There are trinkets of every sort pulled together from various places in the house that appear to be fashioned together into odd amalgamations. One is made up completely of porcelain doll legs in the shape of a duck and another is made up of small duck statues that have been organized into the shape of a person.

Ridiculous sculptures aside, Dee’s efforts come with a long lecture that Virgil only manages to absorb parts of.

“These won’t do for now, but the basis of this is you needn’t be able to maintain the same image in your head as the one you want to project as an illusion. It’s not like making the image in your head and turning it out of your brain to appear in the real world. Make sense?” Dee is looking very intently at the ducks while Julep watches amused from the sidelines.

Virgil frowns. “Is the correct answer yes?” He stares at the sculptures as if they will help him figure it out. “Because no.”

Sighing, Dee points at one of the ruinous creations, “When you look at that, what are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how weird it is that you own enough dolls to make a large duck out of their legs and how fucking weird you are for doing this. Why, what’s the point?”

He looks like he’s going to facepalm in a very undignified way for a moment. “Can you think of anything else besides the thing you’re looking at?”

Blinking at the creation, he thinks for a moment. How could anyone who had that in front of them not think about it? Then it hits him. That’s why he made these insane things. “You’re trying to improve my concentration on what I want the actual illusion to be.”

“You mustn't hold your concentration, or this won’t work. Try to focus on the statues, not an open field with flowers. Anything not like that.”

From where he sits with his eyes closed, he can feel the grass pulling up between his fingers and in the breeze. Imagining an empty field, he tries to picture what he thought of being in front of him. After a full minute of intense focus, he peeks one eye open, and Dee just waits, not saying anything. Nothing happened.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing,” He huffs, frustrated. He picks the dirt and grass out from under his nails, a wrinkle in his brow. “Turn the image, what does that even mean?”

“Don’t picture it in your head first,” Dee sits next to him and puts down the dangling chicken bone mobile he created. His back is straight and he rests his palms facing up on his knees. “Don’t take a deep breath, and forget to concentrate.” He moves his hands to the ground in front of him, “Now, don’t shift the image, like it's on a wheel from your mind, in front of your eyes.”

Virgil watches as between blinks, the things vanish from sight. He raises a hand to tap the illusion, then hesitates and looks to Dee for permission.

“Please don’t touch, it’s just so fragile,” Dee smirks and examines his nails.

The tap sounds exactly like tapping a glass of water or on a window. A bright sound rings out, but the illusion doesn’t break. More confident now, Virgil knocks on the glass, and the prairie scene stays playing in front of him.

“Honey, you’re gonna have to try softer than that to break it,” Dee picks up the shovel he brought with him to build his structures. “Watch and don’t learn a thing!” The fae laughs as he swings it full force at the illusion, spinning with the momentum of the turn.

The sound of breaking glass echoes through the field with his laughter, and Virgil can’t help his flinch, looking away so his eyes don't get hit with any of the glass. Nothing that comes his way feels like it hits him. In fact, the bits that do appear to hit him just vanish on impact. Curious, he runs his fingers along the edge of a piece that landed near him and startles as it melts into nothing the second he would have made contact with it.

Behind the illusion, a single duck falls off its structure from the hit of the shovel, but otherwise, the creations are unharmed by Dee’s magic.

“Illusions are weak until they are broken. You won’t learn in your own time,” Dee looks disappointed at the duck that fell off and tucks it in his pocket, though what for Virgil doesn’t know. “Not your turn!”

Virgil looks at the spot Dee had put his hand down and takes a deep breath, just like Dee told him. It’s hard not thinking about the statues in the yard, but he manages to make some sort of image in his head of an empty field. The wheel behind his eyes pulls the image over the image of the current field.

The turn feels strange but there’s something there. It leaks into his arms as he tries to put the image in front of him, and it feels like water running over his arms, uncomfortably smooth. He blinks his eyes open, and he’s completely dry, but he’s looking at an empty field. Well, a version of an empty field, anyways.

Dee clicks his tongue happily. The illusion is clearly the wrong time of day, the black of a night sky curling at the edges with sunlight, and as Dee flicks it with two fingers, it shatters. “For a first try, terrible.” It’s silly, but Dee grins just like Thomas would when he scored well on his chemistry assessments. “Now don’t do it again.”

Virgil puts his hands to the ground more confidently. He can do this however many times it takes to get it right.

#sanders sides #ts virgil #ts janus #virgil sanders #janus sanders #i thought we could take a break from adelaide to focus on whats really important #and thats developing virgil and dees family vibes #because i want some fluff thats why #we can get back to in universe politics later ok #sanders sides fanfiction #awen writes #rules of the game au

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shanastoryteller · 5 years ago

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Saw your post mentioning reading your favorite poems and I was wondering what they were? I've never really liked poems but I really liked that one by Emily Dickson you put in the front of that teen wolf fic so you probably have really good taste in poems, and I've been trying to find some to like.

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.Life is short, and I’ve shortened minein a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,a thousand deliciously ill-advised waysI’ll keep from my children. The world is at leastfifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservativeestimate, though I keep this from my children.For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,sunk in a lake. Life is short and the worldis at least half terrible, and for every kindstranger, there is one who would break you,though I keep this from my children. I am tryingto sell them the world. Any decent realtor,walking you through a real shithole, chirps onabout good bones: This place could be beautiful,right? You could make this place beautiful.

Because I could not stop for Death (479)

Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ HeadsWere toward Eternity –

this one is an old nursery rhyme:

One bright day in the middle of the night, Two dead boys got up to fight. They turned their backs and faced each other, Drew their swords and shot the other. One was blind and the other couldn’t see, So they chose a fool for their referee. A mute eyewitness screamed with fright.A cripple danced to see the sight. A deaf policeman heard the noise.He came and shot the two dead boys.A paralyzed donkey passing by,Kicked the copper in the eye, And knocked him through a rubber wall, Into a ditch and drowned them all.If you don’t believe this lie is true,Ask the blind man. He saw it too.

She swearsshe will nevergive birthto a daughter.Won’t evenplant a garden.— Adira Bennett

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in here.

— Andrea Gibson

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weepI am not there; I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow,I am the diamond glints on snow,I am the sun on ripened grain,I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awaken in the morning’s hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

Never regret thy fall,O Icarus of the fearless flightFor the greatest tragedy of them allIs never to feel the burning light

— Oscar Wilde

Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POEIt was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

self-parodies & psalms for shit-scared twenty-somethings by gyzm

is perhaps my favorite poem and just gut punches me whenever i read it but they are a tumblr person who’s poem deserves more attention so please reblog/comment on their poem directly :)

most of what i’ve learned in the first half of my twenties is to embrace statistics i’m not smart enough to verify; theones about black holes and how much of the universe is justempty space: between atoms and from one planet to another.it makes it easier, to stare at my overcrowded sink and thinkthat to get from the floor of this filthy kitchen to the neareststar would take more lifetimes than i could borrow or steal.maybe there is a single withered raspberry molding beneath every single plate i own but in the scheme of things that’s insignificant, a non-event in the life of a non-event, and so canwait until tomorrow, when this hangover is gone.

please, god, don’t let me die before i turn thirty. i’ve heardthat that’s when it all comes together, and i know those’re allfish stories, probably, the lies of those who need to pretend justlike me, but hell, i choose to believe. because the thing is, god, if idie tomorrow, a few years from now, i can pretty much guarantee it’ll be in torn underpants, on a bad hair day, in a bra that doesn’t fitthe way i’d like it to; please, god, don’t let me die before i work outhow to drag myself out of bed in time to dry my hair every morning. i’vebeen promising myself for years i’d learn to get off the couch on monday nights and do laundry, god, okay, i don’t mind living in dirty jeans but i don’t want to die in them, i’m begging, i thank you, i’m sorry, amen.

there should be a page at the back of every baby book thatsays “baby’s first moment of cold realization that they are an gigantic shitheaded asshole.” it’s important, as milestones go. iknow it’s not as glamorous as a first word or a graduation but i’dargue that developmentally, it means at least as much — god knows i put more thought into the bleak portrait of myself at two a.m., staring haggard out from the filmy surface of my mirror, than i did in my ham-fisted infant attempts to say my father’s name. it would benice, is all, to have a warning, to flip through pages of childhood accomplishments and see that placeholder, at the end; to know that the future was coming, inevitably, to make dipshits of us all.

don’t put liquid soap in the dishwasher. don’t put your vibrator in the dishwasher. don’t forget that your mother is coming over until fifteen minutes before she shows up and put every scrap ofevidence that you are a disaster zone living underneath a veneerof overdone eye makeup and slapdash dreams of better tomorrowsin the dishwasher. don’t put your grandmother’s china, that vase you bought at the flea market, a bowl half-full of aged guacamole,in the dishwasher. on the mornings that will keep coming — when the shower does not seem like enough, when you can feel your long history of mistakes pockmarking your face and oozing out from beneath your armpits — don’t put yourself in the dishwasher.

the human body replaces skin cells so quickly that two weeks from now, every part of me will be brand new, and i will still feel as though i have spent my first quarter-century on this planet touching both too much and not enough. that feels profound atthis moment but the human body replaces humiliations fastereven than skin; two weeks from now i will remember saying this,stare at the ceiling above my bed and think: no one has ever been as big of an asshole as you are. there are billions of stars in our galaxy and billions of galaxies in our universe and my ceiling is the only clean part of my apartment. i know it’s a fish story, but c’mon, god, okay — i’m just asking to believe i’ll make it to thirty better dressed; less selfish.

#poem #a poem is just an undirected prayer #you know i read a short book of poems in middle school written from god's pov and one of them was about him/her being pissed that everyone #assumed they were a guy #and i've been thinking of it for 13 years but i have no idea what it was called or what the book was called #anon #asks

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moretreasurewithinarchive · 4 years ago

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👫 {because I'd love to see what you got!}

Send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship

@accursedlight

HOOO BOY HERE WE GO. I’m doing more than 4 because I can.

Once their relationship turns for the better, they spend their days walking outside and maybe doing gardening, and nights reading poems and plays.

Belle paints Adam a portrait of how she sees him; how he is without the Entity. AND HE CRIES BECAUSE HE LOVES IT AND WANTS TO BE THAT MAN.

Belle is the one who proposes to him.

Belle wears a dress similar in style/color/pattern to these.

Belle plants a lot of magical related flowers and herbs once she discovers and better connects to her fae powers.

Belle’s powers totally counteract and overrule the ones of the Entity, and the castle becomes a much lighter, happier, cleaner place to be in.

Belle braids his hair, and you can’t convince me otherwise.

Adam is the most devoted and dedicated hubby & father.

Belle and Adam have like 4 or 5 kids? 👀👀

Adam is probably terrified and traumatized by her first pregnancy, considering it was a rough one. So there’s probably a decent age gap between their first and second children. But from the second on, the whole thing is a little easier, though she always has troubles.

Belle writes a play based on their story and it actually becomes pretty famous? Honestly, let’s be real, it was probably a version of BATB xDD

Their deaths aren’t too far apart tbh. Though I can sort of see both Belle’s powers and the encounter with the Entity somehow extending their life to a certain degree. Like they probably live past the normal life expectancy.

When Belle’s betrothed comes to the castle or finds her, I can see the Entity feeding off both Adam and her when it finds him? Like... His fate is kind of influenced by both of their unvoiced thoughts and feelings toward him, if that makes sense?

The rose Belle took from her mother’s garden and gave to him is obviously magical, and doesn’t die until after they do.

I can see Adam actually being kind of fascinated by her powers, as opposed to terrified of the Entity’s? And he likes watching her do it?

Once the the Entity is defeated, the wolves disappear and aren’t seen again, but white, ethereal animals like deer, rabbits, birds, and maybe bears are often seen on the castle grounds. They’re not exactly fae, but like the wolves were an extension of the Entity, the white ones are extensions of Belle’s powers?

I can almost see Belle going into the land of the fae at least once to learn more about her history and her connection there. And maybe she has living relatives yet, and she brings Adam to see them?

ONE OF THE FAE COMES TO HEAL HER AFTER SHE DEFEATS THE ENTITY. If not the spirit of her mother, than it’s one of her relatives.

I can see Adam buying these like... gorgeous leather and jeweled books for her.

Belle brings a lot of art, warmth, music, and others things the castle was sorely lacking in general.

OK BUT TRAVELING EXTENSIVELY FOR THE HONEYMOON.

I can see them getting each other like... musicboxes and mechanical things like this.

#My Heart's Far Far Away {Headcanons}#It Is You {Adam}#Carry With Us Always {Ships}#Well It’s My Favorite {Likes}#accursedlight #All just ideas of course~

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crazedtmnt · 5 years ago

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TMNT Kids Names

I’ve noticed a trend in the TMNT fandom where almost everybody gives the turtles’ children (especially Leo’s) Japanese names. Now, I’m not saying this is bad or wrong in anyway. It’s your headcanon--go wild. But for my personal tastes, I do find it a little awkward.

Besides certain series like 2012, I don’t see any of the guys having a strong enough connection to Japanese culture to name their children in this way. They were “born” in America and don’t even have Japanese names themselves (excluding the last name Hamato, which is only canon in the 2012 series, hence why I singled that one out). Heck, I see this trend with the Bayverse turtles the most, but that Splinter isn’t even from Japan as Hamato Yoshi or his pet--he was just a lab rat with no memory before then.

Now, that is not to say they don’t have a connection to Japan (and obviously Splinter in most of the other series is from Japan, whether man or rat), but there is a difference between appreciating Japanese culture and using Japanese names for children with potentially no Japanese heritage. Most of their connection to the culture is solely them training as ninja. If their kids’ mother is Japanese in your headcanon (or you just prefer these names) then again, don’t listen to me. Do your thing. XD

But I feel we are missing out on another naming theme that has a much better connection with the turtles: Italian Renaissance painters. Because where do the guys’ names come from?

So, to cut this short, none of the guys have Japanese names, but they do have a naming scheme that they feel proud of... most likely. So instead of giving their kids names from Japan, why not give them names like their father?

I actually have a few suggestions that I like, so if you want, read more below. These are some really cool artists too!

Okay, so starting off with girl names, since female Renaissance artists are hard to find (to the point I included some Baroque artists too), I have a few ideas:

Artemisia - Let’s start with the technically Baroque artist, Artemisia Gentileschi. She was Italian, so at least that follows the name scheme, and had some of the harshest art at the time. Most of her art depicted women in non-traditional roles, often powerful and violent. Her art was shaped by a horrible tragedy in her past--being taken advantage of by one of her father’s partners--so she wanted to depict women as not subservient creatures, but people with their own minds and strength. Her art was specialized in women of myth who had suffered. Personally, I feel like Raph or Leo would like this name because of how powerful it sounds. It is derived from a masculine version of Artemis, after all. Name your daughter after a goddess! Example of her art (title - Jael and Sisera):

Marietta - Next, we have Marietta Robusti, another Italian painter from an artistic family. She is the eldest daughter of Tintoretto, another famous Italian painter. In fact, she earned the nickname la Tintoretta because of her father. She had such a close relationship with her father that she would even dress like a boy to go with him everywhere. In fact, she had offers to become the court painter for Emperor Maximilian and King Philip II of Spain, but her father refused them because he wanted to stay close to her. Sounds like the perfect name for a daddy’s girl. XD Marietta does not have much art attributed to her, due to being a woman, but it is said she assisted her father with his paintings. Her art was described to be very elegant and just as skilled as her father’s. For some reason, I feel like Mikey would really like this name. Example of her art (self-portrait):

Last for the girls (this could go on forever, if you let me):

Lavinia - After the Italian painter, Lavinia Fontana, best known for doing portraits and being one of the first female career artists--her family actually relied on her income as a painter rather than her husband’s, who served as her agent and raised their eleven children. She was also one of the first women to paint female nudes, but that’s a bit controversial. XD At the time she became famous, there was a high demand for portraits, so Lavinia had many clients. She was especially good with female clients, many of whom became namesakes and godmothers to her children. In regard to her female nudes, it was actually socially unacceptable for women at the time to be exposed to nudity--to the point that if anyone found out she used live models her entire reputation would be tarnished. It is theorized that she used family members as models to get around this, as her art was extremely accurate at depicting disproportionate bodies like they naturally are. Example of her (clean) art (title - Portrait of a Lady with a Lap Dog):

So now we move onto the guys, though these are much easier to find (and I’m getting tired =_=), so I’ll be a bit shorter here. Now, if I’m being honest, the guy names sound weirder than the girls’, but then again the turtles’ name would sound weird if we weren’t used to them too:

Lorenzo - Coming from Lorenzo Costa, Italian painter. Not much is known about him (or at least I couldn’t find much), but I like the name! Example of his art (title - Holy Family):

Antonello - I could see Donnie using this because it sounds like his name. Anyway, this is from the painter Antonello de Messina. He was known for his unison of Italian simplicity and Flemish attention to detail. He even influenced artists from northern Italy, despite being from southern Italy himself. Example of his art (title - The Virgin Annunciate):

This is getting a bit long, so I’m gonna stop it here. I’m not even an art history buff, what am I doing writing so much? XD

Anyway, I hope anyone who actually read through this liked what I had to share. I found this name theme much more fun than just slapping Japanese names on the turtles’ kids. Though, if I’m being honest, I feel like only Leo and Donnie might go for this theme (Leo for family tradition and interest, and Donnie solely for interest). I see Raph and Mikey as the types to use more regular names for their kids.

Thank you for reading!

#tmnt #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2007 #tmnt leo #tmnt raph #tmnt donnie #tmnt mikey #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt leonardo #tmnt raphael #tmnt donatello #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt kids #just some ramblings

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benscursedkid · 5 years ago

Text

Rebekah Roberts Profile

hope i’m not late :)

template by the genius @hogwartsmysterystory

Identity

Name: Rebekah Marielle Roberts

Gender: Female

Age: 16 (in game)

Birth Date: December 12th, 1972

Species: Human

Blood Status: Half-Blood

Sexuality: Open

Alignment: Neutral Good

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Nationality: British

Residence: London, England

MBTI: ENFP ~ The Campaigner

The Mage

Wand: Beech Wood, Unicorn Hair Core, 11”, Swishy Flexibility

Animagus: White Owl (not registered)

Misc. Magical Abilities: slight Occlumens, Legilimens

Boggart Form: varies throughout the years, as of sixth year though, Jacob’s research journals— a lot of it is his research but closer to the end of Everything, things became illegible and crowded and she tried to ignore it before, but after all that went down in the Portrait Vault, she doesn’t really think she can anymore. Or if she even wants to.

Riddikulus Form: A Funny Photo Album or Coloring Book

Amortentia (What do they smell like?): Lavender, Peanut Butter, Parchment Paper

Amortentia (What do they smell?): Calvin, Peanut Butter (again), Freshly Washed Clothes/Laundry Detergent

Patronus: Grey Owl

Patronus Memory: One of her family’s annual Girls v. Boys soccer matches from Before

Mirror of Erised: Her family whole, happy, and all together again

Specialized/Favorite Spells: She really likes domestic spells to make idle things easier and anything to do with color (i.e. Colovaria), Silencio

Appearance

Face Claim: none

Game Appearance:

Height: 5’2 (161 cm)

Weight: 133lbs

Physique: Slim, Average

Eye Color: Light Green

Hair Color: Black

Inventory:

Her brother’s notebooks

Her wand

A random assortment of quills with colored ink

A bag of packaged peanuts

A light reading book

Allegiances

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Ilvermorny House: Pukwudgie

Affiliations/Organizations:

Prefect

Head Girl

Order of the Phoenix (eventually)

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Professions: Curse Breaker

Hogwarts Information

Class Proficiencies:

Astronomy: ★★★★★★★★★★

Charms: ★★★★★★★★★☆

DADA: ★★★★★★★★★★

Flying: ★★★★★★★★☆☆

Herbology: ★★★★★★★★☆☆

History of Magic: ★★★★★★★★★☆

Potions: ★★★★★★★★★☆

Transfiguration: ★★★★★★★★★★

Electives: Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, Study of Ancient Runes

Extra Curriculars: Duelling Club, *Honorary Member [of]* Astronomy Club

Favorite Professors: Flitwick, McGonagall

Least Favorite Professors: Trewlaney

Relationships

Brother: Jacob Kane Elian Roberts

Born: June 6th, 1968

Sign: Gemini

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Wand: Acacia Wood, Thestral Tail Hair Core, 11”, Supple Flexibility

Age wise he’s only 5 years older than Rebekah but because of her late birthday he’s six years ahead of her in school

Actually had a rather light, playful sense of humor

Very sociable while in school and many people liked him

Very inquisitive and bright and his happiness and adoration for fascinating subjects was downright contagious

Very athletic and wanted to try out for the Quidditch team and enjoyed muggle sports like soccer and volleyball

Extremely gifted in Charms and DADA

Quite artistic and could play the piano (taught by his mother) and ukulele and was talented at drawing and painting

Taught to speak Bulgarian by his father and French by his mother

Fascinated by muggle history

Had the biggest sweet tooth imaginable, especially when he was nervous

Had a bit of a mad scientist vibe going for him but in the absolute most endearing way possible somehow

Loved to learn and try new experiences

Never ever without a novel or his sketchbook on hand

His dad got him really into photography

He really appreciated having Duncan and Olivia around, they were his best friends

And now they’re both gone and he can’t help but blame himself

Who else is there to blame?

Tries not to think about it though

Honestly he’s the biggest dork

Is completely enthralled by nearly everything, he’s just learned to tone it down a bit so people don’t notice

Definitely stays up for hours with existential thoughts and queries running through his head like a mantra

Like, really, why are daffodils yellow?

Truly loves learning for the sake of learning, knowledge for the sake of knowledge, wonder is his middle name

Not really but he likes to wish

Logic and reason are just as fascinating to him as things like creativity, imagination, abstract thoughts

Like why are they? How are they?

He needs to know

Everything’s a mystery and he wouldn’t have it any other way

Duncan couldn’t understand it but he tried to pretend he did

And Olivia would love teasing him for it, but truthfully she was much the same way

Also, show him literally any animal and he’s sold, he’ll love it forever

Carried around tons of snacks in case he saw any wandering around the castle

Always

Really good at playing a part, a bit of a social chameleon, he was whoever he needed to be depending on the person he was with

Which is why no one really understood him

It made him really lonely sometimes

Was always plagued by his need to impress his parents

Weighed down by his fears of never being good enough

Got too good at lying

Didn’t mean for things to go this far

Father: Henry Delyan Roberts

Born: July 2nd, 1948

Sign: Cancer

Blood Status: Muggle

Occupation: Veterinarian but considered being a Pediatrician

When he was 13 his mother moved back to Australia for her job and he was put under the custody of his father during the year and would visit her during the summer

Missed her a lot after she moved and for a while thought it was his fault

He wondered if she moved because she needed to get away from him

He’d heard stories about her initial reaction to becoming a parent and wondered if maybe she never really got over it

Thought maybe if he was better she would have stayed

She wouldn’t have wanted to leave

It’s been a while since those thoughts crossed his mind though and he’s glad that didn’t seem to be the case

Ethnically half Bulgarian on his mother’s side and could speak it fluently and even visited his uncles and cousins there occasionally growing up

Didn’t get to seem them as often as he liked though

Being an only child could get rather lonely and though he loved his dad, he wanted someone to bond with over school or friends or literally anything else

Even so, he really appreciated having his father around

Even before his mother moved away he spent most of his time with his dad and was always a little closer with him than his mom

He supposes his dad was his best friend for a while growing up

Promised himself to be half the man he was when he had a child of his own

Very humble and patient, the kind of person you find yourself itching to be around

Always smiling and laughing, but his laugh was feather light and soft

Had an amazing singing voice

His laugh literally sounds like hummingbirds and wind chimes

Really honest and kind and loved helping people

Did a lot of volunteering as a kid, loved helping people and wouldn’t hurt a fly

Unless you hurt someone he cared about in which case you were utterly screwed

Definitely capable of delivering ass beatings but tried to avoid it as much as possible, even when people deserved it

Great listener, the one where you could be telling a story, look over and be taken completely aback by how intently he was still listening, like he was genuinely interested

Loved playing soccer

Says he loves all animals the same but he’s secretly the biggest dog person

Which is weird because he has a cat he would cut someone for but shhh

It’s a secret

Absolutely loved photography, had two polaroids, a long one and a wide one, baby blue and pastel yellow respectively

Took a lot of pictures of/with Delphine when they were traveling together

Made a scrapbook out of it

Also proceeded to take pictures of his children when he had them

Made a scrapbook out of that too

A simple man, mostly, but he craved adventure and really just wanted to make a difference in the world

Didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life after graduating high school, so he decided to take a year off to travel and find himself

Met Delphine before he even left England

Married her a year later at 19

Jacob was born about a month before he turned 21

Closed completely into himself when his son disappeared

Doesn’t really know what to do with himself now

Mother: Delphine Cécile Roberts (née Leon)

Born: January 19th, 1949

Sign: Capricorn

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Wand: Cherry Wood, Werewolf Hair Core, 12”, Rigid Flexibility

Blood Status: Pure-Blood

Occupation: Retired Auror after Jacob was born and became an Employee of the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic

Born into a very pure-blood supremacist family, consisting almost exclusively of Slytherins

Youngest of two daughters

Very close with her sister (Adelaide) growing up, they were nearly inseparable and opposites in almost every way

But her parents found her very problematic

Half French on her mother’s side and could speak the language fluently, often visited family there

Though she kept up the dutiful daughter act around her parents, she couldn’t relate to them at all and never understood why they treated everyone so cruelly

Her sister was her refuge

She felt suffocated in her own house and therefore felt freed whenever returning to Hogwarts

Though kind and respectful, Delphine was very prone to her own brand of subtle mischief when attending school

Having no freedom at her own house, she felt truly free and unrestrained at Hogwarts

Even so, she often spent most of her time alone

At school a lot of non-Slytherin or non-Pure-blooded students were afraid to speak to her but she tried to make it a point to let them know she didn’t subscribe to the same morals or ideals of her parents

Her mother and father knew this and it infuriated them

Unfortunately, most people just couldn’t seem to distinguish between the parent and the child

Once again she had only her sister, but was thankful for her presence nonetheless

It hurt though sometimes when people would cast her aside, thinking there’s nothing inside her worth saving simply because her parents are who they are

Confided this in Adelaide, but the other girl didn’t seem to share the sentiment

Was a 5th and 6th Year prefect and followed in her sister’s footsteps and became Head Girl in her 7th year

Surprised most everyone but they never cared to take the time to look past her heritage and see all her grades and extracurriculars aside from Quidditch

Girl just wanted a friend

Played on the Quidditch team as Slytherin’s star keeper

Was supposed to be married off in an arranged marriage to a Pure-blood she’d never met after graduating but barely managed to convince her sister to lie for her so she could at least take a year to see the world for herself first

Tried to disguise as a muggle so she could slip out of the country unnoticed by her parents and met Henry at the airport on his way to Italy

Spent the year traveling together before getting married

Was then disowned by her parents (and her sister for another year)

Completely fell apart after Jacob disappeared

Hasn’t been the same since

{Rest of Extended Family in Separate Post}

Love Interest: Ben Copper

Best Friend: Rowan Khanna

Rival: Merula Snyde

Enemy: R, Rakepick

Dormmates:

Rowan Khanna

Tulip Karasu

Badeea Ali

[Unnamed Raveclaw Girl]

Pets:

Great Grey Owl named Calvin (Personal)

Black Cat named Sabine (Family)

Closest Canon Friends: All of them, but for sake of question—

Tulip Karasu

Rowan Khanna

Badeea Ali

Bill Weasley

Barnaby Lee

Andre Egwu

Nymphadora Tonks

Talbott Winger

Closest MC Friends:

Aisling Casey (@badeeaswife)

I’m shy but she loves everyone so feel free to hit her (me?) up!

Background/History

Ethnically speaking she is a quarter French and a quarter Bulgarian

Paternal Grandmother lives in Australia so she’s visited her a few times

Actually been to quite a few other countries and really wants to see the rest of them someday

Personality

[Separate Post]

to anyone who read of all this: i am so sorry—

#hphm #harry potter hogwarts mystery #hogwarts mystery #rebekah roberts #jacob roberts #delphine roberts #delphine leon #henry roberts #hphm jacob’s sibling #jacob’s sibling #jacob's sibling x ben copper #hphm jacob #mc #hphm mc #ocs #hphm ocs #character profile

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emperorsfoot · 5 years ago

Link

Adora and Bow make it to Dryl and discover something they did not expect.

Making it up to the Castle of Dryl was way, way easier on flying horse back!

They didn’t have to traverse narrow mountain paths, or risk giving away their position with loud magical transformation, or use First Ones legendary Runeswords to clear away rock slides in their path. No. On the back of Swift Wind, they just flew right on up to the castle. Easy as you please.

They didn’t go directly-directly up to the castle, of course. It was still under Horde control, after all. Not disorganized and confused Horde Remnant control. Cohesive, disciplined, consistent Horde control. The walls held sentries. Regular patrols toured the paths and trails around the castle. Someone would notice a bright, rainbow winged horse land in the courtyard. They were indoctrinated soldiers, they weren’t blind or stupid.

Swift Wind brought them down above the castle. On the slope that hung slightly above its tallest spire. Adora and Bow dismounted and crouched low to the ground. Crawling on their bellies, they slunk up to the edge of the cliff to peer down at the castle.

Sure enough, Dryl was still flying Horde banners. Green on green instead of the usual red on red, or red on black. The sentries on the walls wore full armor, straight postures, alert. There was no slouch in them to indicate a decline in moral. Just looking at the soldiers occupying Dryl, one would think the Horde was never defeated at all.

That was confirmation enough for Adora and Bow that Hordak was, indeed, in residence at Dryl.

After the debacle with the portal, Entrapta brought Hordak back to her own castle to regroup after their defeat.

Adora remembered seeing him just before Catra pulled the switch. She didn’t think it significant at the time, after all, she was trying to stop the end of the world. But he had made some very distinct changes to his costume. The dark Lord that she couldn’t remember changing his look in all the years she’d lived in the Fright Zone had dropped the cape. Replacing it with some kind of armored frame. And front and center on that armored frame was a First Ones crystal. Adora didn’t know if the crystal served some kind of practical purpose in the armor, as a power source, possible, or whatever. But the word in First Ones writing that was inscribed on the crystal was very jarring.

It was entirely possible that Hordak couldn’t read First Ones writing. After all, there were not very many people in Etheria who could. In fact, aside from Adora herself, she’d only met two others capable of reading First Ones interlocking, sigil-like letters. One was Bow’s father, Lance, and… Entrapta. Entrapta had to know what the word inscribed on the collar of Hordak’s new shoulder armor said. She might even have been the one to put it there herself.

‘Luvd’. Loved.

Entrapta and Hordak might very well be lovers.

If they were, it made perfect sense that she would take her lover back to her own Queendom and stronghold after his defeat.

But they still needed to get inside for real confirmation.

For all Adora knew, it was Catra and Scorpia instead. For all Adora knew, after the defeat in the Sanctum, Catra could have staged a coup and taken over what was left of the Horde from Hordak and installed herself as Lady of the Horde. Moving the base of operation to Dryl so that Entrapta –who said Catra was her best friend according to the data- could build more weapons for her.

“I need to get inside.” Adora whispered to Bow and Swift Wind. She had to know. She had to know if it was Catra.

“Don’t forget, it’s a maze in there.” Bow reminded her.

Adora just shook her head. “That doesn’t change the fact that we’ll never know what’s actually going on in there if we just stay out here.”

…

A strap of their overalls slipped down off one shoulder as Dak ran through the dimply lit corridors of the castle. They were trying to keep pace with their quarry.

Imp was making it harder for Dak to catch him. The tiny deamon wasn’t just finding a high perch and waiting for the young hybrid to figure out how to get to him anymore. Now their hunting games had evolved into actual hunting. Hide and Seek. Chase and Tag. Games that developed the small Horde clone’s reflexes and agility. Games that taught the small Horde clone how to think quickly and adaptively, how to solve problems on the fly, and seek solutions around obstacles.

Usually, these lessons were programed into Horde clones during gestation. By the time normal Horde clones were hatched from the tanks, they resembled the physical age of an adult in their early twenties. It was too late by then to use childish hunting games to instill these values and instincts. They were programmed at an early stage of gestation, then reinforced with physical training and conditioning after hatching instead.

Before the degradation that plagued master first manifested, Hordak –Hordak senior- was an excellent hunter and warrior. Who excelled at tracking and cornering prey.

He was an enviable warrior too.

All Horde were trained in all weapons. But Hordak favored the force-pike, and the bow-staff. Melee weapons capable of parrying multiple opponents at once, while also offering a longer range than a more traditional sword –that was the favored weapon of the average soldier, or the more aesthetic and symmetrical shock-batons that Hordwing (another member of the cabinet) favored.

Imp had absolutely no idea how he was going to drill master’s heir in weapons. He was already operating far outside his programed parameters as a deamon-class android indentured to the Imperial Horde cabinet. Deamon were not programmed with archaic childrens games in their databanks and they were not physically designed to teach combat.

But Imp had been Hode’s deamon before he was Hordak’s.

Hode was a member of the Imperial cabinet, and he was eccentric. All members of the Imperial Horde cabinet were a little eccentric. It seemed to be a quirk of high preforming soldiers. Only the best could be elevated to leadership positions directly under the Emperor, and it seemed to be a symptom of the best to also be a little weird. Hode’s weirdness manifested in a strange appreciation for history and art that bordered on fixation.

The Horde, as a species, did not crawl out of the primordial ooze with a cloning tank strapped to its back. There must have been a time before the cloning tanks when the Horde procreated through more natural means. When Horde hatched from eggs instead of tanks. When Horde had to grow slowly over the years, learning with every experience as more natural organisms did. Hode went out of his way to discover the forgotten history of the Horde. Literally, going out of his way, to the planet Revena at the very heart of the Empire.

All that he learned was saved to Imp’s memory banks. The old cabinet Lord had to install surplus memory in Imp to house it all and keep the deamon from crashing. Of all the deamon-class androids in use within the Empire, Imp was probably the most modified and most utilized beyond his original purpose.

Imp never imagined he would actually find a use for any of the data Hode added to him. He always just thought it was the old Lord hoarding information like the information hoarder he was.

Imp turned his attention back to his charge. To master’s heir. A Horde hatched from its cloning tank prior to the age of adulthood. Without any programing or education. They were the closest thing to a ‘naturally hatched’ Horde in several generations. Easily since Revena was deemed inhospitable.

Dak was distracted and no longer running after Imp.

This happened periodically. As much as Dak was master’s clone, they were also the Princess’ clone, and Imp noticed very early on that the Princess’ mind did not think in straight lines. She was easily distracted, her attention shifting focus –complete focus- to whatever new, interesting thing piqued her curiosity.

In this case, it appeared to be a portrait on the wall.

Imp paused in his flying, and fluttered over to perch on top of the painting’s frame. He chittered down at the young Horde clone, demanding they return to the training game. Dak would never become a strong and capable warrior if they neglected lessons that all other Horde clones already came pre-programmed with.

Dak glanced up at him, flashing those eyes that were the wrong color. A luminescent fuchsia instead of the neon glow of primary-red. Then the hybrid went back to studying the painting Imp was perched on. Frustrated, the little deamon fluttered down to land on Dak’s shoulders and see what was so much more important than their training.

It was an image of master’s Princess, Entrapta. Posing with two robots flanking her on either side. Entrapta in the foreground and the bots slightly behind. Imp didn’t see what was so fascinating. It was just Entrapta. Imp had seen Entrapta hundreds of times. Towards the end there, both she and Hordak practically lived in the lab. Cohabitating in a way that deviated from what was average for Horde clones.

“Mother.” Dak informed the deamon, pointing at the picture as if there might be some confusion as to what held their attention.

The hybrid had been expanding their vocabulary by the day, even forming simple sentences. But more than that, Dak was also developing more complicated thought. Becoming curious. About the castle, about the people around them, and about themself. The castle staff that seemed to have appointed themselves additional instructors for master’s heir in the fields of language, manners and etiquette, how to eat, how to dress themselves, and how to comport one’s self as the heir to an Etherian Queendom also spent a great deal of time telling master’s heir about the other half of their genetic template. About their ‘mother’.

‘Mother’ was an Etherian word. Imp couldn’t say that it was an Etherian concept because it was not unique to Etheria. Many races the universe over had a concept of ‘mothers’ and ‘fathers’. Of assigning different names to the genetic templates that formed an individual’s creation. There was no word of equivalent meaning in the Horde language, or if there had been, it was lost to time and disuse through the generations of cloning. Horde did not have parents. They were all siblings. All brothers reproduced from the same model.

All except master’s heir.

“Sc’pya-“ Dak cleared their throat to try again. It had been a couple days since they’d seen Scorpia, but their speaking ability had improved a lot in that time. They did not have to mangle her name anymore. “Scorpia left to find her. Why?”

Imp offered a non-committal shrug. He didn’t care about the actions of beings that didn’t directly affect his master or their goals and mission. The Etherian Force Captain felt somehow responsible for the Princess being sent away, to spite the fact that she was not the one to strike the blow or give the order. Imp would never understand organic beings outside the Horde.

“Baker says I need her.” Dak continued, looking at the painting in the same way one might look at a previously undiscovered creature. With curiosity, a lack of understanding, and a desire to study and become familiar with. Actually, what Baker said was that ‘all children needed their mothers’, and Dak was one of ‘all children’. So, the conclusion was the same even if the words were different. “Do I need a mother?”

Imp searched through his saved auditory files until he found the one syllable negative he needed to answer that question. It was Hordak’s voice that came from his mouth when he opened it to play, “No.”

“Oh.” Did the young clone sound disappointed when they said that? “Okay.”

Imp frowned. Master’s heir seemed to accept the answer, but not believe it. He searched his auditory banks for a larger sound file that might give a better explanation for the young clone. He found an old recoding he didn’t even know was still in his memory drives. “The Horde value strength above all else, Zero-Zero-Three.” A skip in the track. “You are not strong if you require my help to conceal your condition. You cannot rely on other people.” Imp replayed the last line to make sure master’s heir understood the important part. “You cannot rely on other people.”

“Oh.” Dak said again. There was a pregnant pause in which the young clone just stood there, thinking. Processing the information Imp just shared. Then their lips pulled back, white-colored fangs showing in a puckish grin. “Then that means I don’t need you to help me get into the locked room.”

Dak shrugged Imp off their shoulders and dashed off down the corridor in the opposite direction they’d originally come.

Imp was left to flap in frustration.

The Locked Room, was a door in Castle Dryl that no one could open. There was a keypad on the side, presumably that unlocked it and opened the door. But no one knew the combination. There was, however, a small panel at floor level that could be passed through. Dak had seen robots go in and out of it, carrying empty trays on a consistent schedule. Some sort of automated delivery system that no one bothered to turn off. Either that, or there was someone in the Locked Room that needed an empty tray brought to them three times a day. Dak didn’t know, but they wanted to know!

It was only the little hybrid’s second day in the castle when they noticed the phenomenon. They were still getting used to navigating the confusing and maze-like corridors of Dryl when Dak saw a little robot that was smaller than they were carrying an empty tray on its head. Curious, Dak followed it. Through twists and turns, down corridors and up ramps. Until the little bot disappeared through a small panel at floor level sized exactly for it that slid out of the way. The bot exited the hatch a few moments later, still carrying its empty tray. Dak followed it again, this time ending its journey through the castle in the kitchens.

When Dak asked Busgirl about the bot and the Locked Room, all she told them was that the Princess –their mother- never planned to get captured in the Fright Zone and so never turned off her automated serving bots. No one else in the castle knew how, so the bot just kept going through the motions of its programed task.

Which meant that whatever was inside the Locked Room was directly related to Dak’s mother. They wanted inside that room. They wanted to know. It was a desire for answers that went beyond just standard curiosity.

Dak asked Imp to go through the hatch and unlock the room from the inside. The little deamon was about the same size as the bot and should have no problem fitting through the small opening. But Imp flat out refused. So, Dak was left to come up with their own creative solution.

They navigated the corridors of Dryl until they came to an exit that lead outside. Dak was several floors up from their destination, but the height wasn’t much of a barrier for them.

Climbing onto the walkway ledge, Dak leaned forward, wrapping their hair around the flagpole of one of the Horde banners that were raised all over the castle. Using their hair as a rope, the little hybrid swung themself from the walkway to the pole. Hugging it koala-style to keep from falling. Then slid down the pole, using their hair to control the speed of their decent until they reached the courtyard where the soldiers patrolled and practiced daily marching and combat drills.

In the courtyard, off to one side, shoved in a corner, close to where the castled wall joined into the very living rock of the cliffs, was the makeshift hanger where the Horde parked and stored their vehicles. It was also where they stored their tools for repairing and maintaining the vehicles. It was the tools Dak was after.

“Who goes there!?” A soldier snapped, hearing the noise of the little hybrid grabbing whatever looked useful and shoving them in the pockets of their overalls.

“Hi.” Dak straightened and turned around, hands full of tools that were almost too big for their child-sized hands to hold. They curled the tail of their hair to pantomime a thumb and pointed at themself. “I’m Hordak!”

The soldier came up short, recognizing the ‘intruder’ as their Lord’s heir. She lowered her weapon, at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Was the Little Lord allowed to play with real mechanics’ tools? Should she stop them? Or would that be hindering some part of the Lord’s personal projects. The average Horde soldier did not know much about what was and was not appropriate for children.

“Bye.” The little hybrid brushed past the soldier, their pockets and arms full of raided tools. Dak pantomimed waving good-bye with their hair was they exited the hanger.

The poor soldier was left just blinking at the Little Lord’s retreating back.

A few minutes later, when the same soldier hear more noises sneaking through the hanger, she assumed it was Hordak’s heir again and ignored it. Perhaps if she had checked on the second round of noises, she would have recognized the defector former-Force Captain Adora and one of her rebel conspirators, Bow. But the guard did not check, and the intruders were allowed to slip into the castle unnoticed.

Arms and pockets full of tools, Dak marched purposefully through the corridors. As if they were confident in where they were going.

They were confident. But they still got lost twice on the way to the Locked Room. They had gotten very familiar with the labyrinthine twists and turns –for the most part. But every now and again, when they exited out one way, and came back in another, they got confused on which way to take to get to where they wanted to go.

It took a couple tries, but Dak finally found the Locked Room again.

They dumped all the tools in their arms on the floor and took out the tools in their pockets. Keeling down, using both hands and their hair, Dak arranged all the tool carefully next to the panel hatch. Organizing them by shape since they didn’t actually know what half of them did.

Turning their attention back to the hatch, Dak examined the opening. Deciding what they actually had to do in order to get inside the Locked Room. The panel had a seal around it. A metal trim that was fastened on by screws with hexagonal indents. Dak didn’t know the names of everything he’d taken with him, but they could see what fit with what. Selecting an allan wrench and began twisting the bolts. Just loosening them at first, then taking them out all together. Finally, the metal seal was able to be pulled off.

The sliding panel of the hatch fell away almost the moment the seal was off and Dak smiled. Their hair curling and twisting with excitement. They were going to get into the Locked Room, and they didn’t even need Imp’s help after all!

Maybe the deamon was right. Horde didn’t need help!

Dak tried crawling through the space that was made bigger by the removal of the seal and panel.

…And got immediately stuck.

They made a sound of distress. A loud, shrill, feral sound that came from the back of their throat. More like a predator caught in the claw-trap than a startled child struggling in a tight spot they put themselves in.

Maybe Imp was wrong. Maybe Horde did need help.

“Do you hear that?”

Dak’s pointed ears twitched. They paused in their panicked keening to listen. It sounded like other people in the corridor. A guard patrol maybe? Dak rarely saw soldiers actually inside the castle. They were intimidated by the winding maze of corridors. Preferring instead to construct their own field barracks in the courtyard.

“It sounded like a wounded animal.” Replied a second voice.

There was a pause.

“You don’t think… you don’t think Entrapta’s testing on animals, do you?” They sounded so concerned.

Dak could hear footsteps now. Two pairs of boots. They must have just turned a corner.

Then one of them gasped. “Is that a kid!?”

“Are they hurt?” Asked the other.

“Not hurt!” Dak shouted, trying to turn their head but having trouble. “Just stuck!”

“Hang one.” Commanded one of the speakers. A gentle masculine voice, full of soft empathy and soothing sensitive tones. “We’ll get you out.”

“No!” Dak snapped. They were finally getting inside the Locked Room. They were not going to give up and let themself he dragged out by soldiers who didn’t know any better. “I want in!”

There was a silent pause from the two on the corridor side.

Then the one with the gentle masculine voice noted, “This is Entrapta’s lab.”

There was a second silent pause.

Then the second one, female, business-like, more militaristic, asked, “Kid, if we get you in the lab, can you unlock the door and let us in too?”

“Yeah.” Dak promised.

“Okay. Bow, help me push.” The female commanded.

“But what if they get hurt?” Asked the male.

“We need to know.” The other reminded him. “Kid, we’re gonna push you from this side. Let us know if we’re hurting you.”

Dak felt hands on their feet, pushing them from the outside. Lifting their head, Dak cast their eyes around for something close enough to grab to pull themself from the inside.

The Locked Room was not what Dak was expecting. It was dimly lit, dimmer than the rest of the castle which was already fairly dim. But Dak’s eyes adjusted quickly, the bioluminescent fuchsia sclera glowing brighter as the hybrid’s body registered the need to compensate for their environment.

The far wall of the Locked Room was one large computer array. A massive monitor screen in the center, surrounded by several smaller screens. All of them currently asleep, the resting screen saver bouncing around their frames. There were several parts of machines arranged along the walls. Some suspended from the ceiling. Some supported in frames. Some just lying on the floor. The closest one set in a frame that was bolted down firmly was just barely close enough for Dak to grab with their hair.

Craning their neck, Dak stretched their blue mohawk of hair to wrap around a protruding segment of broken cam shaft.

Between the two pushing them on the outside, and Dak pulling themself on the inside, the little hybrid managed to get through the tiny robot hatch. …and the only damage was that their overalls ripped a little bit. That one strap that was slipping down their shoulder earlier breaking entirely. It hung limply down their front, making their appearance asymmetrical and making them look sloppy.

Finally inside the Locked Room, Dak stood. Looking around in all directions. Lifting their head, turning three-hundred and sixty degrees to try and see everything at once.

The tow that were still outside banged on the main door. “Hey, Kid, let us in. Remember. Are you okay in there? Kid?”

It took effort for Dak to pry their eyes away from all the interesting things the Locked Room held. They wanted to snoop through it all. But the two on the other side of the door were so insistent. And Dak had said that they would let them in once inside. Dak reached with their hair to hit the door release button.

The door slid open and Dak actually saw their helpers for the first time. A man and a woman. They were not wearing Horde soldier uniforms, but that could just mean they were off duty. Dak had only been at the castle for a few days and hadn’t met everyone yet. The woman was tall, blond haired, and blue eyed. Wearing a red jacket with big shoulder pads, the golden hilt of a sword just visible over one shoulder. The man was shorter than her, dark skinned, dark haired, and dark eyed. He had an open and friendly face that made Dak think they might be fun to hang out with.

Both of them froze the moment they saw Dak.

Expressions shifting from cautiously hopeful to downright shocked. They both looked down at Dak, their eyes wide and mouths slightly open. What? Was there something on their face? Was the hybrid dirty from squeezing through the hatch? Dak brushed their clothes off, tried righting the ripped strap of their overalls, then gave up when it just fell back down again.

They looked back up at the still shock-faced strangers and smiled. Flashing their sharper-than-sharp white teeth. “Hi. I’m Hordak.”

The two just continued to stare at them.

“Uh- uh- Adora…?” Began the dark, friendly-faced one.

“Yeah, Bow?” Answered the tall blond with the sword.

“Are you… seeing the same thing I’m seeing?” His voice cracked on that last word. As if he were suddenly and inexplicably so nervous his throat was closing from a level of shock that triggered a physiological panic.

A child that looked to be around the age of ten. Pale skinned, pointy eared, glowing-eyed, with a long blue mohawk going all the way down to their feet. Wearing dark navy overalls, over a burgundy t-shirt that looked just a size too large for them.

“Are you seeing a kid-version of Hordak?” Asked the woman –Adora.

“I’m Hordak!” Dak repeated, suddenly becoming frustrated with the pair.

“Okay.” The man –Bow- sounded like he might break down into tears. “Just making sure.”

The two just went back to staring.

Dak became impatient. “Locked Room’s open.” They pointed with the hair. The long tail of blue making a wide sweep of the room. “You wanted in too, right?”

If it was even possible, Bow and Adora’s eyes went even wider upon seeing the child-Hordak’s hair moved and shift more like an extra limb than actual hair. Prehensile hair. Like Entrapta’s.

They each made odd croaking sounds. Mere words not being able to express the sheer mind-freezing shock they felt.

Bow seemed to recover first. Following Dak into the lab, watching as the hybrid’s hair moved as they moved. Not like it was just hanging from their hair, but swinging like a person’s arms swing when they walk. Hordak’s face and Hordak’s body, but with Entrapta’s Princess power. A combination of Hordak and Entrapta.

“How- how old are you?” Bow managed to croak out. The kid looked to be a decade old. Ten years. But that couldn’t be right! There was no way Entrapta and Hordak knew each other back then. Entrapta was only left behind in the Fright Zone barely a year ago.

Hearts in their throats, both Bow and Adora watched the hybrid count on their taloned fingers. Then the child turned to them, holding up six fingers. “This many.”

“Six years?” Adora echoed, disbelieving. “You’re six years old?”

Adora wasn’t sure which part of that seemed more wrong to her. The part where a six-year-old looked like a ten-year-old. Or the part where it implied that Entrapta and Hordak had been lovers since long before she joined the Princess Alliance. Was Entrapta even ever on their side at all? Or had she always been a spy for her lover? Her lover and the father of her child.

The hybrid blinked at them, as if not understanding why they weren’t understanding. “Six days.”

“I’m just gonna sit down…” Bow rested his weight on the closest object in the lab that looked like it could both support him, and wasn’t about to spring to life and attack him for sitting on it.

“You can’t be only days old!” Adora tried to argue. She liked it better when she thought they were six years, it made more sense. “You’re, like, ten!”

They frowned at her. “I’m six days and three quarters.”

Bow drew in a breath, steadying his nerves and regathering his senses. “Now, when you say you’re Hordak…?” He trailed off, not actually sure how he meant to finish that question.

“I’m Hordak.” Repeated the hybrid.

“Okay.” Bow just leaned back against the deactivated console and listing robot he was sitting on. It seemed like the world wasn’t making sense at the moment. He decided to just roll with it and wondered if this was what going mad felt like.

Adora cleared her throat. “Um, how? Exactly. Are you Hordak?”

“Sc’pya said that I’m-“ They were cut off when Imp flew into the room. Finally navigating his way through the castle to the Locked Room and finding the door open.

Imp screeched loudly upon recognizing the defector Adora and the rebel Bow, with master’s heir. The little deamon went instantly on the offensive to protect master’s heir. Sounding an alarm as it attacked.

Teeth bared. Fangs exposed. Hand out with talons extended. Imp went for Adora first. As She-Ra, she was the most dangerous. Wings flapping madly, the little deamon clawed at the former-Force Captain. The whole lab filling with his shrill screeches, almost as loud as the intruder alarm that was now blaring through the halls.

“Imp, no!” Dak shouted at the deamon.

But the creature just screeched in response. These were master’s enemies! He could not allow master’s enemies to get a hold of master’s heir!

“Get it off!” Adora tried batting the deamon away with one arm while the other reached over her shoulder for the Sword of Protection to protect her from the tiny creature.

Bow jumped off the console he had been sitting on. He notched an arrow, then thought better up it since the target was small, moving frantically, and directly in front of Adora. He un-notched the arrow and put his bow away, using the trick arrow to swat at the deamon instead.

Imp turned his face to the archer, caught the swatting arrow in his mouth and bit down and on the thing intending to break it. The trick arrow point burst in the deamon’s mouth, covering the creature’s face in thick, viscous, concussive foam. Imp forgot about Adora and instead started clawing at its face to free itself. Spitting and scraping at the foam to try and free his optic sensors and mouth. The deamon shrieked some more, but it came out in muted gurgles.

The deamon fell to the ground, struggling frantically.

“Imp!” Dak went to their knees next to the deamon, using both hands and hair to help the creature free itself from the trick substance.

Adora and Bow just stood there, watching the child try and help the little winged gremlin as if it were a dear pet, or close friend and companion.

That was about the time the corridor outside filled with soldiers in full armor.

“Don’t move!” Barked one soldier, presumably the leader. “Put your hands up and step away from Lord Hordak!”

It was not the wisest thing to do, but Adora snorted. “Which is it? Do you want us to step away, or do you want us to not move?”

The soldier thumbed the safety off on her weapon. “Don’t get cute with me, rebel.”

Finally succeeding in getting the foam off his face, Imp grabbed Dak by the hand and pulled the little hybrid away from the intruders. Placing the child behind the protection of the ranks of Horde soldiers –whom closed in around the heir.

With few other options, both Bow and Adora put their hands up in defeat.

At least they discovered who the ‘Hordak’ that was rumored have taken up residence in Castle Dryl.

#entrapdak #entrapta/hordak #clone baby au #entrapta and hordak's child #fan fiction #she-ra season 3 #ao3 #RenkonNairu

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alatismeni-theitsa · 5 years ago

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One thing I love about your account is that you challenge all of what I thought being Greek meant. Like growing up, I always felt bad about myself because my skin was pale, and I was always told all Greeks have olive skin. I never liked my nose because I felt it didn’t look like what the media portrays Greek noses to look. Like even looking at my mom and papou’s noses, I just have a different one. I’ve always just been insecure, feeling like I could never look Greek enough.

Ya su! :D Big answer incoming, brace yourselves!

From your question I understand you are a Greek of diaspora and your mother was a second generation Greek immigrant. I have received plenty of messages here from Greeks of diaspora who have told me “I am pale/I have blue eyes/I am blond and I don’t feel like a Greek!” Really, I should make a tag! It’s so strange how foreigners make us feel like we don’t belong in our own ethnicity! North Europeans and Americans make even us, who live in Greece feel like our heritage doesn’t belong to us! “You can’t possibly be the same!” they say. No, we are not the same. However we come from a long continuous line of people who tought the Greek heritage to their children for centuries. We speak the same language, we have many same traditions, we get inspired by the same nature. The antiquity doesn’t exist in a vacuum and it never stopped being a part of us.

That’s why I encourage proper representation of Greeks, especially on American media, so false images stop being circulating. It’s not exactly racist what’s happening but it has resulted in many Greeks straight up being told “you don’t even look Greek, why you speak on Greek issues?” That enrages me EVERY.FUCKING.TIME.

Because to tell you the truth, Greeks couldn’t be further from the stereotype “dark olive skin with curly black hair”! The majority, especially in the north, is pale, many times with big weird ass noses. 99% of us look white with the first guess. Of course there are some occasions where the stereotype is true (I don’t pretend there are no darker Greeks!) but those are rare. An American friend once saw a documentary about modern Athens and she was very surprised about how white we looked and asked herself “is this Germany??”

Even in the ancient art all over Greece we see pale/white people all over the place. I have been to museums all over the country and always seen them (where the colors are preserved) and I have posted some in my tag #ancient greek art as well. The Americans go “oh, those are fake because Greeks idolized white skin”. Sure, Jan, all Greeks all over the country made art with Caucasian white people because they were all in a secret white supremacy pact. Of course figures are beautified sometimes but it’s crazy to assume Greeks did everything in their power not to depict their own people accurately. I have this post (link) where I discuss that ancient Greeks weren’t that different from us today, with sources of studies showing our DNA hasn’t changed much. It’s to debunk the “ancient Greeks were darker than the modern ones”, which is used to depict our ancient gods and people very dark in modern art.

Foreigners also focus on the mixes with other people Greeks had in order to justify how we are dark. “But they are close to Africa sooo...” No. This argument doesn’t make much sense and people who use it know jack shit about our history and demographics and don’t have any common sense. It’s true though that mixes have played a part in our history and our appearance so it’s good to speak about those.

Greeks in the North (Athens and up) have mostly been mixing with Slavs and Germanic people because it’s easier for us to go to each other’s country by foot, and we just are close to each other. Plus, the history of the Balkans is very interesting and full of mixes and immigration! We also have mixed (I don’t know to what extent) with the Turks, who are Mongolic in nature and come north of Greece as well.

People from the Peloponnise can be darker but still they look hella white (as I was told by Peloponnisian friends and as I have noticed myself). People in the south islands are more likely to have some Arab DNA but generally no one has observed that they look different than the rest of Greeks. (I haven’t seen it or heard it ever in my life. Other Greeks, correct me if I am wrong). You can’t tell which person comes from just by looking at them.

Your struggle is understandable and I would like to give some suggestions to overcome it and be more comfortable in your own heritage. Perhaps you do some of these things anyway but there is no harm in listing them!

1) Search historically important Greeks and see their portraits. Seriously, do it! You may find yourself looking a little bit like them. You will surely have one thing common with them since they are usually pale :P Sometimes they may have non Greek names (Karlota, Suzanna, Emilia) but it was a trend for the rich families of the 19th century to give such names to children. I mean if you find a non-Greek name investigate if they are Greek or not because they actually might be. In my tag #Greek people you will find photos and portraits of Greeks from old times!

2) Read the history of Greece. All of it, not just from 300 BC to 100 AC as most foreigners do. Preferably, find works that have someone Greek as a writer or supervisor (because Greeks usually try to depict accuratelly what happened), or writers who truly feel Greece, like Richard Clogg. Read about Greek old allies and old enemies, about who we trade with, about where we immigrated, where we went to study to see what are the most likely mixes. Obviously, every kind of mix can happen but for numbers that matter you got to know the historical trends. It’s gonna be a journey that will help you feel your Greek side more and have answers ready when someone claims you don’t look Greek.

3) Learn more Greek. The Greek language is logical but also stupid and funny, expressing the spirit of the people who made it. Learning Greek means learning how Greeks think. We have 20+ weird phrases to playfully say someone is gay, like “he flogs the dolphin”, “he shakes the pear tree” etc. We have phrases that stem from war and pirate raids and... hating the Turks, our colonizers :P We have many Mediterranean expressions like calling a mole “olive” or saying “I am in an open sea” (”πελάγωσα”) when we feel lost, or saying “he pressed my oil out” when someone tires us. I am very passionate about Greek so you can message me any time with any question about it!

4) Learn where your family comes from. I mean the exact place/town, the geographical compartment. Learn the specific dances and traditional costume of that area from youtube videos or a Greek community in your area! See if the people in your area were great warriors, great merchants, great wine producers. See if there are any Greek heroes of the 1821 revolution coming from your place! Learn the song “Πώς το τρίβουν το πιπέρι” and the weird ass dance that comes with it, which Greek archeologists didn’t even hesitate to dance in a Mycenaic tomb!

5) Meet more Greeks! Through groups on insta or fb, through Tumblr blogs etc. Watch youtubers of Greek diaspora as “Greek in Town” or the comedian Basile! Maybe there is one Greek community near you area and you can pay a visit for festivals!

6) Cook Greek food. If your grandparents and mum know recipes, take them as if they are gold. It’s a great way to get familiar with the local Greek ingredients and the Greek palette. Replace your soul with feta if you can xD

7) Read Greek modern literature, even translated. Elitis, Sahtouris, Seferis, Venezis, Papadiamantis, Mirivilis, Delta, Empirikos, Zei, Kazantzakis are only a few of the literary gems Greeks have to offer. Enjoy good writing, the Greek perspective, and get to know the newer Greek society in a unique and authentic way. Here is a list with more of them (link).

8) Be proud. Be proud of a people who endured earthquakes, wars, genocide, famine, occypation, slaughters and slavery and can still stand. In every anniversary of ww1, ww2 and grecoturkic war, in our schools we sing prideful songs and hang posters with our war heroes, always standing proud. The students and the army parade in the streets, the small childrean wearing traditional costumes. Being proud is one key element of being Greek.

Of course I don’t mean in a nationalistic/facist tone! We also celebrate the fall of the Greek junta of 1967 - which was financed by the US - and we are proud for it! And we fought German nazis. So no such ideology is welcome. Because we have so many things to be proud of (such long history!) foreigners equate our pride with nationalism. That is not the case for a healthy Greek mind who knows Greek history.

Ok, that’s all! Thank you for making it this far and reading what I had to say! I wish you a great cultural journey and I remind you that my DMs and Asks are open if you ever need anything!

#answered #anonymous #greek speaks #greek people #theansweriamlookingfor #recommendation #greek diaspora

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ertrunkenerwassergeist · 5 years ago

Text

Born Into the Wilds - 07. Moot

I just remembered that I didn’t put the latest chapter here on tumblr. So here it is and also a Link to AO3. Thank you @lightsaberwieldingdalek for your help!

In which Nyx parkours aound Little Galahd and old people debate while everybody else watches.

Featuring: hunting reporters, Nyx' recklessnes, politics, old people with agendas, family drama in the background, Ulric clan history, Nyx' lack of self worth, magic, and did I mention politics?

Warnings: mentions of war, flight and death

Foreign words:

sinehär gisdrauht = Elder Storyteller cünaniu = a moot, basically a publilc gathering to debate stuff. Held by selected Elders and has to be an odd number druhm = edible root that looks like a black carrot and tastes a bit like hazelnut and is sweet like beetroot, can be used in teas, be roasted or cooked maneth = mother, stepmother; affectionate term oirkar = chief, clan head; lit.: leading person; a title Galahkari = people of Galahd ahtri = spirit; umbrella term for everything from actual nature spirits to the presence of their ancestors makti-oir = war chief, commander-in-chief, warlord; lit.: leading hunter kohna = swearword; along the lines of shit buhgil = term of endearment for children; lit.: sprout (noun)

Nyx scaled the outer wall of the concrete building with all the grace of a disgruntled cat. Muttering obscene curses under his breath, he swung himself over the railing and landed on the flat roof in a crouch with nary a sound.

The day had started so well. Considering the circumstances, that is.

It had been an absolute disaster.

After being thrown out of bed by Libertus and swinging by Pelna's place to find out what the realms of Pitioss was going on, sinehär gisdrauht Istoria Patientia had come by personally to 'invite' him to a cünaniu that was to happen this afternoon. It had been shortly after lunch, Pelna, Libertus, Luche and Axis had to attend a spontaneous training exercise and so hadn't been there. Nyx himself was still on medical leave and so Tethys had invited him to stay.

Greetings had been exchanged. Istoria sat at the table, a steaming cup of the traditional tea of welcome in front of her. The smell of druhm roots, pepper, cardamom, liquorice and honey made Nyx think back to his sister's first tries that had been overly strong and sweet. Barely eight, she had been so proud of her achievement that neither his mother nor him had uttered anything but compliments. That day had been full of Selena's bright laughter.

Istoria took a sip and hummed in appreciation. “You have a skilled hand for brewing tea, Tethys of Clan Najad.”

“Thank you, Sinehär Patientia. My maneth taught me; her teas were said to be the best,” demurred Tethys, her own cup between her hands and a sad smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

The short exchange startled Nyx out of his childhood reverie. Silently reprimanding himself for his lapse in attention, he forced the image of a smiling and laughing Selena from his mind. The painful stab of regret he felt in his heart every time he thought of her, had never gotten easier to bear over the years.

“For which occasion do you honour my family with your visit, sinehär?” asked the younger woman.

“To my regret it's not a member of your family I came to meet,” Istoria said. Her eyes were firmly set on Nyx who dearly wished he could vanish into the ground at that very moment. “A cünaniu has been called for this afternoon and Oirkar Ulric has been invited to speak among us.”

Her body language, the set of her jaw and the tone of her voice made it clear what kind of invitation it was. Should he not show up at the gathering he would lose what standing he had within the Galahkari of Insomnia. Loathe as he was to admit it, if he didn't have his standing as the head of an old and respected clan, much of the shit he did get himself into wouldn't end as well as it normally did.

Beneath the sharp eyes of both women in the room, Istoria's giving nothing away and Tethys' silently promising to get an explanation out of him, he bowed his head in acceptance.

“I will be there, to speak and to listen,” he said.

“Good,” nodded the old woman. “Now, I don't care how you do it, but get those reporters out of Little Galahd as fast as you can. They're more of a nuisance than evergrow weed.”

“Of course, sinehär,” muttered Nyx, internally wincing. He'd had to turn off his phone after the ninth call from one reporter or other. He knew it wouldn't help any in the long run, but for now he could actually talk to someone without being interrupted every five minutes. Maybe he should invest into a new number. Though he had no idea how to do what the Elder had asked of him.

“The cünaniu will be held by the community fire at exactly 4pm. I trust you know the etiquette of an invited speaker?”

Nyx nodded again. All Clan Heads had to know; they were most likely the ones to be invited, if someone was. Speak clearly and only when prompted. Any other time an invited speaker wanted to say something they had to take a step forward and wait until they were acknowledged. The surrounding crowd, if there was one, wasn't to be addressed ever. Since this was a formal event the proper titles had to be observed.

They drank the rest of their tea largely in silence, only interrupted by the spare bits of small talk Tethys and Istoria engaged in.

This was not going to be any kind of fun. At all.

Now he crept over the flat roof of an apartment complex in the middle of Little Galahd not too far from the courtyard the Galahkari had chosen as their speaking grounds, with little time remaining and on the run from those damned reporters.

Carefully, he crept over the roof between damp bed sheets that had been hung out to dry. They made his way into a labyrinth that his him quite well and made him feel marginally safer. It was childish, but he couldn't quite help it. He still didn't dare to stand up properly.

If he ever found out who had blabbed, he was getting Luche to do a blood eagle for him. And damn the consequences. The longer he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it must have been the lab technician who talked. He doubted that either King Regis, Shield Amicitia or General Leonis would sabotage the situation like that. Nyx had known from the start that it was a bad idea to consent to a private audience.

At the reminder of that private office and that awful portrait he snarled at the bed sheets drying in the warm air and spit out in an impulsive show of disdain. Ozone burned in his nose and when his fingers brushed one of the sheets the spot started to sizzle.

He bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood. No, now was not the time to be upset about a portrait depicting the Conqueror King, as justified as it may be. It was just a portrait for ahtrihn sake. The man himself was long dead. It was a cold comfort.

He reached the other end of the roof and glanced down at the street five storeys below him. Not a reporter in sight. Just a few Galahkari making their way to and fro, easily recognizable by the patterns of their clothes.

Thank Enías for making me lose them.

It would have been so embarrassing, if those reporters had managed to follow him all the way here. Nyx had probably lost them somewhere around the the narrow streets around the marketplace, where they had made such a ruckus that some pedestrians had looked close to causing bodily harm. Well, most Lucians had a talent for that, so it wasn't anything new. The point was he had finally lost them.

Furrowing his brow in consideration he glanced down at the street again. It wasn't far towards the court yard where the community fire was, now. Should he risk it?

Scoffing at himself – he wasn't scared of a few reporters, damn it – he made his way down, jumping from windowsill to windowsill as if they were the branches of a tree made out of concrete.

Somebody yelped in surprise and Nyx winked at a woman standing by the windowsill he was using as a temporary perch, a wide and playful grin on his face. He jumped the last two storeys down followed by a slew of obscene curses. People turned around to see what was going on, but as soon as they recognized him they nodded in greeting and went back to their own business.

Heh, he still got it.

His grin transformed into a satisfied one as he flounced off towards the community fire.

The spark in his bones rumbled like a giant satisfied cat.

After running all over Little Galahd – technically it was just the market place and a few streets, but there wasn't anybody present to refute his claim, so there – he was nearly late. There were more people present in the courtyard than he had expected. Then again, considering the topic to be discussed it honestly wasn't too surprising.

Nyx saw quite a few friends and closer acquaintances in the mingling crown, but didn't have the time for more than a nod in greeting. Luche, Axis, Pelna, Crowe and Libertus were part of the training exercise the Glaive was scheduled to do today, Tredd and Sonitus were there, however, along with Pelna's eldest niece Ker. Here and there he could see other members of the Glaive that were on leave. Then there were Ariadne and Archyll so close to the fire barrel, it was nearly inappropriate.

Nyx made a face and acted as if he hadn't seen them, a longing tug in his gut. He tried to shake it off. Both of them had made it quite clear when he had joined the Kingsglaive that he wasn't welcome with them any longer.

Straight backed and head held high he stepped into the space the sinehäri had left for him. Right between Istoria and Eriq. The old willowy man stared at him with icy eyes. His remaining hair was carefully braided into a neat braid full of colourful beads, that reached his chest.

Nyx crossed his wrists next to his left hip in greeting deference. He didn't say a word, as it wasn't his place to speak first. The five sinehäri in the circle touched their chests, right over the heart, with the back of their hands in the acknowledgement.

All around them the crowd grew silent.

Istoria was the first to speak, as she was the oldest if the five.

“Welcome to the open fire. May the flames be witness to what is spoken and keep the knowledge until the ashes of the world are washed away.” She spoke the traditional greeting in the oldest tongue they remembered. Then she turned to him. “Be welcome as a guest in our midst, Nyx, Oirkar of Clan Ulric, that you may speak and be heard.”

“May the flames be witness to my words and prove them to be true,” Nyx replied, the old words heavy on his tongue, his accent a heavy drawl.

It didn't happen all too often that one not an elder or a clan head involved in the governing of the Galahkari was invited to speak in a cünaniu.

“We have gathered here today,” Istoria continued in modern Hadnissa, “ to deliberate on the recent development concerning Nyx, Oirkar of Clan Ulric and King Regis of the Lucis Caelum line.”

She used the Lucian word for 'king' since technically Hadnissa didn't have an equivalent word for the title. There were a few that came close, but like all titles in Galahd they had to be earned and the Lucian king most certainly hadn't done that.

“Now tell us in detail what led to the articles this morning and those Lucians crawling all over the place,” commanded Eriq more terse than necessary.

Istoria cast the man a stern glance. Nyx kept his face carefully neutral as all eyes trained on him.

He started his tale with what he could tell of his last mission without going against the King's orders. It was moments like these Nyx hated the careful balancing act he had to practice due to his debt to the man.

The sinehäri kept their silence until his tale ended, even if Eriq and Elenia looked like they dearly wanted to interrupt him more than once. The only thing holding them back was the fact that one wasn't to interrupt a speaking party, if one didn't want to be excluded. After Nyx had finished his recounting, having made it as detailed as he could manage, the silence hung heavily between them for a few heartbeats.

“This is an opportunity we cannot let go to waste.”

All eyes turned towards Leonid. The man was the youngest member of the cünaniu, having reached the appropriate age only three years ago. All other remaining members had been a part of it since before Galahd had fallen.

“What do you propose we do, Sinehär Leonid of the Colophon?” asked Elenia, her voice cold and sharp.

The lower right side of her face looked like the skin had melted and formed into into a misshapen mass. The mark travelled down her throat in sprinkles and vanished under one of the colourful scarves she always wore. Sometimes her right arm twitched without her permission. Those were souvenirs the Nifs had left her with during the initial attack. Since then she was against anything to do with Lucis or Niflheim.

The youngest of the five Elders returned her gaze evenly. “I propose we play into their expectations. Lucis doesn't recognize a country or ethnic group without them having a clear leader to negotiate with. I think we will all agree when I say that's not something we have. We could make Oirkar Ulric our representative, so to speak.”

“So he would be what? Our... king?” Eriq practically spat the Lucian word in front of his feet like it was a curse.

Nyx suppressed a flinch. His fingernails dug painfully into the palms of his hands. He swallowed down the words burning on his tongue and reminded himself not to speak. From where he stood he could see parts of the crowd. It was utterly silent for a crowd this big. He could make out worried faces, angry ones, neutral and confused ones. It was a pretty mixed bag. Ker had moved into the first row of the spectators and grinned at him when she saw him looking.

“I'm saying that, if we were recognized as an autonomous people, we would have rights. Family members of dead Kingsglaives wouldn't lose their homes, we would have the right to open our own schools to educate our children in our ways, just to name a few. Or traditions exist because they saved our lives, now it's time we add to them.”

Elenia stared at Leonid with distaste burning in her eyes. “I won't consent to changing our traditions because Lucis demands it!”

“Traditions have been altered or added to before. Lucians have been the catalyst of that for many times. As a people it is our most sacred duty to remember what others forget. It is a lapse in our duty that it took us so long to realize the true depths of Lucian ignorance.” Here Istoria nodded towards Nyx in reference to his tale about the private audience. “We cannot let ourselves be dragged down into the same pit of forgetfulness. For that we need to teach and to be able to teach, we need the Lucians cooperation while we reside in their city.”

“You want to teach Lucians?” Elenia's scandalized cry caused a wave of silent unrest within the crowd.

“No,” said Istoria decidedly.

Her hard tone took Nyx aback. Eriq snorted and muttered something under his breath Nyx couldn't quite make out.

“You know how difficult it has been to take the children on their First Hunts, Sinehär Elenia of Clan Dala. It will only get even more so as time goes on. Something needs to happen,” intervened Demetri Arra. Until now the man had been silent, listening carefully. “Oirkar Nyx of Clan Ulric, please tell us your opinion on why exactly the Lucians are convinced of you being of higher blood.”

Nyx didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. Hadn't he already done that at the beginning? Nonetheless he he opened his mouth without complaint and told them again.

“It's my ability as a mage, sinehäri. The Lucians are convinced that independent magic is only possible within two family lines in this world. The Lucis Caelums of Lucis and the Fleurets of Tenebrae. Everybody else showing magic that hasn't been gifted by them, must therefore be either of their blood or a line of higher blood blessed by their Astrals.”

All five Elders around him made various faces of distaste. Elenia's looked like a mask made out of wax due to her scar.

“What do you think they expect from you, Oirkar?” asked Demetri before anybody else could say anything. It was probably better that way.

Nyx had to pause for a second. A sense of anticipation built in the air, he didn't want to ponder. He swallowed dryly and started slowly: “I... I think the King doesn't really know, himself. For him it appears to be mainly about family. Beyond that... This has gone into a direction that cannot be predicted in its entirety. If I had to guess, I would at least be a more specific target than a whole ethnic group.”

“I think we should work with that,” reiterated Leonid into the thoughtful silence.

“I won't accept a king!” bellowed Eriq again.

“We are talking in circles,” stated Istoria in a brisk voice that brooked no argument. “The Oirkar has been put into Lucian focus. We cannot do anything about it - it has happened. What we can do, is use the situation to get what we want. Are we all in agreement about that?”

They all nodded, even if Eriq looked like he had swallowed old seaweed and Elenia like she would rather gut herself. Nyx looked at them, resigned about what he knew was the loss of his relative anonymity. He sighed soundlessly and stepped forward, waiting to be acknowledged. In for the meat, in for the kill.

Istoria looked at him, her expression one of careful consideration. She nodded.

“What about the position of makti-oir?”

Demetri made a sound like he had been punched in the gut. Leonid looked vaguely smug and Istoria had a satisfied tilt to her head. It was like that was what she had wanted to happen all along, thought Nyx.

Damn that woman.

The eyes of Elenia looked like they would fall out of her head and Eriq opened his mouth to say something – not polite, no doubt – before shutting it again with a clicking noise. A thoughtful expression made its way onto his face.

“Sinehär gisdrauht, how many members of Clan Ulric have held that position?” he asked, tugging at his beaded braid. His eyes never left Nyx who was silently cursing himself for suggesting this.

The eldest in this circle smiled. “The first was Nikon of Clan Ulric, daughter of Adrastea of Clan Ulric. She became makti-oir in the conflict that drove off the poachers. After her was Oirkar Perses of Clan Ulric, who became makti-oir the day the black sails first clouded the sky. He was the first of three to hold the position during the War of the Black Ships.”

Nyx unwittingly stood a little bit straighter as the woman listed name after name. He could feel hundreds of eyes resting on him. Those were members of his clan. His. For the first time in a long while he could truly appreciate it. His clan. His history. All those stories that had been carefully preserved and told again and again.

Elenia's gaze was still full of that raging fury he had never seen her without, but now there was also a quiet respect. Hers was not the only one.

Demetri nodded thoughtfully after Istoria had ended her impromptu narration. “Does Oirkar Nyx of Clan Ulric fulfil the requirements?”

Nyx dearly wanted to say no, but he knew that wasn't an option he had left. His people had left. If this was his chance to make things right, to atone for his failures, then he would gladly dedicate his life and his death to it. His people deserved nothing less. Selena and his mother would have deserved nothing less. All the people he had failed.

It was Istoria who spoke again: “On his First Hunt Nyx, then of no name, was blessed by the Queen of the Jungle, Lady of Beasts, the Great Coeurl herself, and now he strides in her shadow. He fed four Clans during the last winter before the war came and led twelve hunting parties through it once it was there, the second to last group to leave Galahd was the one he helped protect and since coming here he has fought to regain our homes, never leaving anyone behind, living or dead.”

The subject of such praise could barely bring himself to listen. This wasn't something he wanted to hear. It wasn't him. Where were his failures? All the people he hadn't been able to save? Those that had starved during that horrible long winter, those the Nifs had killed while he had been right there and not being able to do anything. And so many more. Those that had drowned because they had fallen off the boats during their escape, those the daemons had gotten on their miserable track across the mainland. The hunger and the sickness. All the comrades he had lost while fighting for a nation that didn't want to appreciate their sacrifices.

Nyx blinked as he noticed that the old woman had stopped talking. What had he missed. Kohna, why had he spaced out?

Eriq huffed in irritation. “Do you accept the position as makti-oir?”

Steeling himself, Nyx gazed into the crowd. A tension covered the whole courtyard like a smothering blanket. The air was stifling and hot. Hadn't there been less people when he had last looked? He couldn't say for certain.

He tried to read their faces. Would these people accept him in this position? Would his fellow hunters follow him and trust in his decisions? A heaviness settled around him he wasn't sure he could bear. His eyes caught Tredd's. The redhead stood near the edge next to Sonitus, his face an unreadable mask. For barely a heartbeat they stared at each other and then an expression flitted across Tredd's face. It was gone so fast that Nyx couldn't say what it had been, but the other man raised his chin, having come to a decision, and nodded.

Nyx turned his attention back towards the five sinehäri who were waiting for his decision with varying expressions of patience.

“I accept,” he said loud and clear.

Within seconds the tension in the air evaporated. The crowd surged, waiting for the cünaniu to end so that they could celebrate. They had come one step closer towards leaving this city and going home. Everybody knew hit.

But it wasn't over.

“What shall we do about the Lucians?” asked Leonid, looking pleased and exhausted. “I have said it before, we need someone to press for our interests. With Oirkar Nyx of Clan Ulric we have somebody who can do it.”

Elenia looked ready to murder the man. “We will not collaborate with the Lucians! Not after everything they did.”

“We won't collaborate with the Lucians,” Leonid shot back. “Think of it as taking what we're due.”

Elenia huffed but didn't say anything else. Nyx was thankful for it. He had honestly enough of old people arguing. Not that he would ever say that out loud; he didn't want to die that badly.

Demetri sighed tiredly. Even now at age 84 he was nearly a head taller then Nyx. With that and the tattoos and scars he had collected over his life, he cut an formidable figure. He spoke little outside of his duties, but his voice was like a booming bass, loud and imposing. “The Lucians should come to us first, if we do this. We must be prepared for it, but we cannot be the ones to ask for an audience with the Lucian King. It would press us into a weaker position than we already have.”

No one seemed overly happy at his last words. But they were true and everybody in the courtyard knew it.

“Are we all in agreement of this?” asked Istoria looking at her peers.

One after the other nodded. Her gaze settled on Nyx who realized that now that he was makti-oir, his voice had true weight within this circle. He nodded also.

“Then we will leave it here.” She raised her voice so that it echoed loud and clear over the heads of the listening crowd. “Let it be known that after Oizys of Clan Pontos who fell as Niflheim covered our land in death and flames, we name Oirkar Nyx of Clan Ulric as makti-oir. He has been found capable of this responsibility and has accepted it with the fire bearing witness to his words.

We will enter negotiations with the Lucian crown to fight for our tradition and way of life, as we should have done from the beginning. Let this be a lesson for us to not place our pride over our needs. The Astrals couldn't make us bend. A human king won't manage what the false Gods couldn't do. We won't let him.

May the fires bear witness to our words, to what has been said and done today. In the name of the Wooden Throne that seats only Galahd itself, I close this cünaniu.”

For one eternal second the words seemed to fill every space in the courtyard and beyond. The wandering shadows deepened and a cool breeze that carried the sound of rustling leaves and the crashing of the sea against Galahdian shores. A shiver of anticipation travelled down Nyx' spine.

Something was coming.

The fire cracked and sparks flew high, dancing in the air and brining the smell of home. It sounded like the distant roar of a coeurl.

“The hunts are on!”

The cry thundered through the air and broke the spell. The crowd roared, the sound deafening.

Nyx didn't move, too busy trying to come to grips with what had just happened. Then Ker was there, a huge grin on her face. The girl was barely old enough to remember what her home had been like. She hugged him. The force of it pressed the air out of his lungs and teased an airy laugh out of him.

Her face pressed into his shoulder and her body started to shake. She was crying. Worried, he slung his arms around her muscular form and asked: “What's wrong, buhgil?”

Ker shook her head, hiccuped and looked up at him. Her cheeks were covered in tear tracks and a dusty red. She was still smiling, positively brimming with happiness. Nyx barely understood her over the roar of the celebrating crowd.

“Thank you, Nyx. Thank you.”

#ffxv #born into the wilds #nyx ulric #ulric clan #so much worldbuilding in this one #nyx has no idea what he got himself into #people have no idea what they got themselves into #politics #cultural differences #traditions vs the need to change #my fics #the spirit writes #I should probably tone down the language thing...#oh well

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innuendostudios · 7 years ago

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Thoughts on... a few games

[discussion of A Case of Distrust, Gray Skies Dark Waters, and The Lion’s Song below the cut. there won’t be any major spoilers, but I will be at least alluding to some things that you might be better off not having heard allusions to if you want to play the games.]

Thoughts on A Case of Distrust

I heard rumblings about A Case of Distrust on Games Twitter, and, while the pitch sounded enticing, there wasn’t any demo and I didn’t want to buy a game I knew next to nothing about. I put hands on it for a few minutes at PAX East this weekend and immediately bought it from the developer. (I confess the discounted PAX price helped.)

The enticing pitch is as follows: You play PC Malone, the only female private detective in 1924 San Francisco. PC mostly gets adultery gigs - snoop jobs for suspicious wives - but snags her first proper case from a shady rum runner investigating some death threats he’s received. Things get dicier when her client shows up dead the following morning. The art and presentation are killer, the downtempo jazz soundtrack is choice, and I appreciate the way the game leans in to having a female protagonist in a classically male role.

This isn’t some alternate-history 1924, where women are treated with equal respect to men. PC quit the police force after the death of her biggest advocate, her uncle Lewis, knowing that none of the other policemen would let her work real cases. So she struck out as a private dick, and is constantly underestimated by the suspects she interrogates. (Though it wasn’t explicitly mentioned in my playthrough, it’s a safe bet she goes by PC instead of Phyllis so that potential clients won’t know she’s a woman until they meet her in person.) (Also PC is interactive fiction speak for Player Character.)

The whole of the interface is a fairly robust notetaking system, where you can interrogate any suspect about any statement made by any other suspect or any evidence you’ve seen. Getting new bits of information and using them to contradict a suspect’s story is the whole game. It has one thing to do and it does it well: letting you construct a theory of what happened in your head and test every piece before making an accusation. It’s something a lot of mystery games imply while actually doing the hard parts for you, and, while I wouldn’t say A Case of Distrust completely forsakes handholding, it knows what the fun bits are and lets you do them yourself.

What the game is missing is... a plot. A Case of Distrust has a complete first act: it has an inciting incident with the rum runner hiring PC, it sets up its themes about PC’s feelings of failure as she tries to live up to her uncle’s example, it introduces its central characters and hints at its world of seedy speakeasies and businesses that serve as criminal fronts, it has an unexpected (and very artfully directed) dream sequence, and the first act ends with the rum runner’s death.

It also has an ending.

Between them, there’s no real plot. There’s a mystery, for sure, and what hardboiled detective story would work without one? And it opens with an excellent nod to the scene in The Long Goodbye where Philip Marlowe fails to feed his cat. But it doesn’t have the scene where Sam Spade meets with Gutman and then passes out from a spiked drink, or where Jake Gittes sleeps with Evelyn and then tails her car through Los Angeles, or where Brendan Frye gets thrown in Tug’s trunk and driven to meet with The Pin. There’s no rising or falling action, no setups or payoffs, no setbacks or reversals. There’s just the mystery. Every suspect stays right where you left them - one guy sits in a chair waiting for his barber to get back for the entire game - and the only thing that happens between you and any of them is conversation. There’s not even much in the way of red herrings; you can have a bad theory, but there’s never anything that sends you down the wrong path to eventually turn up nothing.

Even the threads about PC trying to be a proper detective in a world that doesn’t take her seriously, though not exactly dropped, are unsatisfactorily resolved. (Frankly, the defiance of gender politics would go down easier if the female suspects weren’t the same old noir tropes, jealous gangster molls with no real agency.) The whole affair ends pretty abruptly, save for an obligatory sequel tease.

The game is worth playing, certainly - more mysteries should have that notetaking system - but I hope the next one recognizes that the mystery itself is the least important part of a noir. It’s what happens around the mystery that makes or breaks it.

Thoughts on Gray Skies, Dark Waters

Another mystery of sorts, though, in this one, the female detective is simply a daughter trying to find out why her mother vanished the year before. There aren’t any interrogations or recovered murder weapons, just a girl wandering her home town and asking her friends and family what they know.

It’s hard to discuss Gray Skies, Dark Waters without addressing its production values. I’ve played a number of microbudget indie games in my day, but even small-scope adventure games have a hard time looking polished without a decent amount of money. Gray Skies, Dark Waters is maybe the roughest-hewn game I’ve ever bought off of Steam. There’s no character animation to speak of: main character Lina has a walk cycle and that’s it. Everyone else has a talk animation and a standing/sitting-in-place idle animation. (This is another game where everyone stays in the same place waiting for you to come talk to them for the entire game; only one character shows up in a second place.) No one’s lips move when they talk. No one moves their hands when ostensibly handing inventory objects to each other. Voice actors are very clearly recorded using different mics, because the audio quality differs wildly from character to character, sometimes from line to line spoken by the same person.

I want to say this up front because I want to get it over with. I came up on TIGSource, I’m used to rough edges. None of this matters if the story is good.

I’m not sure the story is good.

It’s definitely not bad, though it’s hard to talk about without spoiling anything because the game is very short. Lina and her family have been living alone with her dad for the last year, ever since their mom disappeared. Much of the game’s appeal is in the details: Looking for clues means hearing Lina’s musings on her house, and, by extension, her life before and after her mother’s disappearance. Talking to her siblings is one part investigation and several parts painting a picture of different ways children deal with grief. And, frankly, the dialogue and characterizations are quite good. Some of Lina’s poetic commentary is overwrought, and the siblings can be a bit one-note, but foibles of a talented writer who hits the mark more often than she misses.

The game’s biggest setback is that there’s just not much mystery to the mystery. The explanation is not the kind of thing you’d assume from the outset, but you’re going to have it figured out by the midpoint. This makes the gameplay feel less like uncovering a narrative and more going through the motions. It can almost feel like a third-person walking sim, where you’re just moving through the narrative, not really directing yourself through it.

But I like walking sims, so that’s not really a complaint either.

On the whole, I think there’s a lot of value to playing a game like this. I’m not sure I’ve experienced an adventure game that was this comfortable with sadness. Plenty of games have broken my heart before, but not many are about the laborious process of mending one. If it has a failing, it’s that it’s insubstantial. This isn’t a portrait of grief or of family life, it’s a sketch. It has barely enough time or budget to glimpse the big picture before its over. But it’s a big picture worth glimpsing, I suppose, of a subject rarely addressed in games.

I’d call it a worthwhile experience. That’s not quite a recommendation, but it’s not not a recommendation, either.

Thoughts on The Lion’s Song

Of these three games, The Lion’s Song is the most ambitious. It’s a pastiche of pre-war Austria’s art and science culture, viewed through three vignettes and a coda. Each character is devoted to a particular passion and is trying to create their first real masterpiece: Wilma is trying to compose a symphony (the titular Lion’s Song), Franz is trying to break through a person block with his painting, and Em is trying to write a mathematical proof but has to disguise herself as a man to work with other mathematicians.

The gameplay is largely about how each character manages the personal issues that both impede and inform their work. The player helps Wilma tune out the parts of her environment that distract her and focus on things that give her inspiration; helps Franz pick and converse with his portrait subjects to try and locate their essence; and helps Em extrapolate a proof about objects in conflicting states from her own dual existence as both man and woman. This is all done very artfully, with a number of visualization tricks and some gorgeous sepia pixel art.

The writing is also quite lovely across the board.

The weakest link is the final chapter. I’m not the first to say so. Each episode has cameos of the characters from the other chapters, and the episodes are even more tightly related thematically. But I’m not the first to say that the ending, which aims to tie them all together narratively shoots for the moon and lands somewhere short of the stars. What it’s going for is a sobering reality check on what happened to the mini-Renaissance in Europe at the dawning of Modernist thought, and it’s very poignant on paper, but in practice it just comes out of nowhere, to the point where it feels like a cheat. In an episodic story where you rely on the ending to tell you what it was all about, not sticking the landing casts a shadow backwards on the whole series.

The other elephant in the room is the problem with telling stories about genius artists: You have to be a genius to pull it off.

The devs can’t really sell Wilma as a genius composer if we’re going to hear snatches of her symphony, or Franz as a genius painter if they’re going to show us his paintings, or Em as a mathematical prodigy if they’re going to show us her proof, if any of these things are not made by actual geniuses. The music is lovely, but it’s being sold as holding its own with Stravinsky; the art is pretty, but it’s sold as holding its own with early Duchamp; Em’s proof is either based on real math but simplified until it’s unrecognizable, or it’s gobbledygook that’s meant to sound sort of like math.

I never want to be the guy who asks “why is this a game,” but one might pull this off better in a non-audio/visual medium. (Then again, Marc Estrin tried to pull this thing where he’d make up “genius” symphonies and ballets that took pages and pages to describe in Insect Dreams, and that book was insufferable.)

As an analysis of how artists and scientists push through creative blocks, it’s a bit over-simple. But as a kaleidoscope of the artistic culture and the social and political pressures of Vienna at the turn of the century, it’s kind of wonderful. (Or, at least, 3/4 of it is.) The first episode is free and the whole endeavor is worth checking out.

#capsule review #Adventure Games #writings

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truthofherdreams · 7 years ago

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not quite what you pictured (but alright)

soulmate tattoos AU, playing fast and loose with canon (+ao3)

They clean her and feed her and sit her next to the fire, her shivering fingers closing around a burning mug of tea until she can no longer feel her own skin. She blinks against the brightness of the flames, blinks until she’s dizzy and light-headed. Her mind is empty -- empty of memories, thoughts, dreams, empty but for the last few hours when they found her frozen and almost dead by the side of the road, when they brought her to the hospital and saved her. It is the most confusing thing, not even remembering your own name.

One of the nurses settles on ‘Anya’, and she thinks that there are worse names to bear.

It is not until hours later, lying in bed, that Anya notices it. How she missed it before, she does know, but it is all she can see now. The moon turns everything silver in the room she shares with other girls, casting shadows on the walls and on her wrist when she holds it above her head. The handwriting is messing and hesitant, and Anya squints to read the Cyrillic letters. Anastasia!, it reads. She frowns some more, wondering. Despite her missing memories, Anya knows that much -- everyone is born with words on their skin. The first words your soulmate says to you. Is she called Anastasia? Has she met her soulmate yet? The handwriting looks like that of a child, but she could be wrong. Not everyone in Russia knows how to perfectly write, after all.

She asks the nurse the following day, but her answers are less than useful. Anastasia is, after all, a popular name among Russian girls of her age, everyone wanting to name their children after the royal family. It is less a clue and more of a new mystery to Anya. She isn’t even sure it is her name. It could be a mistake, after all. She decides not to think about it too much.

…

(“I’m Vlad. What’s your name, dear?”

“I don’t know,” she replies.

Her mark seems to burn her skin.

The way she grabs her wrist above the heavy fabric of her coat makes her look almost demure, and it only succeeds in bringing a smirk on the old man’s face.)

…

Dmitry doesn’t believe in soulmates.

Or, well. Maybe he does. But he doesn’t let it rule his life the way other people do. How could he, after all? Soulmate bonds didn’t save his mother from pneumonia, and it certainly didn’t save his father from the labor camp.

Vlad tells him he has a very cynical view of the world, but then again Vlad often forgets Dmitry has been living on the streets since he was eleven. Not much space for hope and optimism under a bridge. So, bite him, he cares a lot more about getting something in his stomach than he does about his soulmate.

Oh he has one all right. The neat, beautiful sentence wrapped around his bicep is hard to forget, even with how little he undresses these days.

He has a soulmate all right.

Or, at least, he had.

…

(“I’ve been thinking about Anastasia…”

“Oh not you too!” Dmitry groans.

She’s dead, he wants to scream. She’s dead with her entire family and she’s not coming back! Dead! Dead! Dead!

But a Russian street rat needs money and it’s not that bad a plan. It could even work.)

…

She doesn’t look like much.

Honestly Dmitry doesn’t know what Vlad sees in her. She’s skinny and moody and unwilling to learn, with dirty hair and hollowed cheeks. Not even when she stands in front of the massive family portrait can Dmitry see the resemblance. But Vlad assures him she’s the one.

Dmitry bites his tongue not to reply that Vlad would hire a dancing dog if he thought it would do the job. He’s only looking for an excuse to go back to Paris and find Lily again. Stupid soulmates. Stupid reunions. Stupid everything.

Now Dmitry is stuck with this little girl, having her parrot back the entire history of Russia to him until she gets it right. Which she doesn’t, and it makes it all the more infuriating. She can never get it right, fumbling with the names and the dates and the details, until Dmitry has to correct her over and over again. She keeps throwing her book at him when she gets frustrated, and it takes all of Dmitry’s patience not to simply dump her in the Neva and be done with it. Sure would fix a lot of his problems. All the while creating so many more.

Her temper doesn’t help, to be honest. It’s not even amusing, at this point. Dmitry entertains the idea that Anastasia, the real Anastasia, would never act in such a way, too demure and polite for such tantrums. But the thought never really goes that far because… Well, because if he’s honest with himself, Dmitry can’t exactly picture himself having that kind of a soulmate. He’d want someone who can give as good as she gets, who can meet his own temper head on and have no problem yelling at him when he’s being an idiot. He wouldn’t want a pretty, polite lady.

Anya sure isn’t one.

So he’s left glaring at her and snapping back when she gets something wrong and wondering what would happen if he threw himself into the Neva. Sure would put all his ideas back in the right order. A scary thought if there ever was one.

…

(“And I recall his yellow cat!”

Dmitry stomps on the spark in his heart before it ignites.

No time for false hopes.)

…

Catherine Canal has always been Dmitry’s favourite, for as long as he can remember. Only it’s not Catherine Canal anymore -- the Bolsheviks and their obsession with renaming everything. Different name, same view, as he tells Anya of his childhood as a street rat. The Church of the Savior on Blood glows silver and golden against the crimson sunset, its reflexion in the river making Dmitry’s heart sigh. It was hard enough, having to say goodbye to the only place he’s ever known. It’s harder still coming to peace with the fact he may have to stay.

He distracts himself with quizzing Anya about the lapdog of Anastasia’s childhood, only for her to get into one of her moods. Neither Dmitry nor Vlad know what to make of those; the moments where Anya’s eyes have that far-away look to them, where she will give them a detail or a line that will throw them off. Dmitry handwaves it as her reading more book on the side, getting her knowledge from it instead of Vlad. Nothing another girl couldn’t learn too, if she put her mind to it.

The same look in her eyes when he gives the music box to her. It was Vlad’s idea, rewarding her for her efforts like you would a child with a candy. Not that Dmitry would know what that feels like. He’s never had a candy in his life.

That look in her eyes when she manages, by some miracle, to open the box on the first try -- how he never noticed the mechanism at the bottom, Dmitry will never know. That look when she hums the song, her voice rising softly to sing the lyrics. That look; that damn puzzling look.

She gets almost giddy a few seconds later, her voice rushing in her hast to talk about trains, and leaving, and the extra shift for extra money. She’s so eager to go along with their plan, so eager to leave, and of course Dmitry has to be the asshole. Has to tell her there’s no way they can go. He’s counted their money yesterday, down to the last kopek. The conclusions were not as bright as he had expected.

“Close your eyes!”

He argues back, only to get insulted. One thing for sure. She may not be Anastasia, but she masters the snotty arrogance like any royal Vlad has ever talked about. She may not be Anastasia, but she could pass for her all right.

Her fingers brush against his before something sharp and cold drops in his opened palm, and then he’s opening his eyes, and then he’s forgetting all about what a brat Anya is.

A diamond!

A real one!

The anger flares in him -- she had it all along and never said a world? Does she know they could have escaped weeks ago with it? They could already be in Paris? Away from this cold winter and their abandoned theatre and the police as a threat over their head? Dmitry takes a deep breath, but still he snaps at her, and she snaps back.

She didn’t trust them, of course she didn’t. It makes sense as much as it hurts. But Dmitry looks at the diamond again, and. It would be so easy to make a run for it. To abandon her right it and jump on a train and never look back. That diamond is his key out of the country, out of this soviet nightmare, his key to freedom.

But he looks in his eyes and reads trust.

…

(She trusts him to save her, too.

It scares him to death.

He wants to kiss her.

That scares him even more.)

…

They don’t stop, don’t look back, until they reach Germany. It is for the best, Vlad says, but Vlad also shoved a ring around Anya’s finger and forced Dmitry into pretend they’re married so. Vlad doesn’t really get to have an opinion anymore.

It makes sense, technically speaking. It will be easier for them to travel as a couple and their old uncle, instead of three nobodys together. Less eyebrows raised at the sigh of a young, single lady alone with two men.

Still. Dmitry isn’t fond of the idea. And neither is Anya. Her smile is stiff when they stop in some cheap hotel for a night, Dmitry’s arm around her waist when he asks for two rooms. She doesn’t even try to act in love, just standing there and not saying a word, so Dmitry smiles for her and hugs her and puts his nose in her hair, and hates every second of it. He’s a conman, it’s his job to convince people he’s someone else. That is still drawing a line, though.

Dmitry drops his bag in the room before leaving again, with the excuse of finding something to eat and the need to get some fresh air away from her. He’s been alone most of his life and, even if he loves Vlad and tolerates Anya, he needs his own time to be in his head. In silence. Away from people.

He wanders the street of Berlin for two hours, until the sun is setting and he’s afraid he might get lost. When he comes back, with food and drinks, Anya is sitting cross-legged on their bed and reading a volume of poetry. By Pushkin. In French.

She’s bragging now.

“Nice walk?” she asks, looking up from her book. It’s such a simple question, but it takes Dmitry by surprise in how sincere it sounds. Like she actually wants to know. Like she actually cares. He’s so used to being invisible, part of the decor as much as a street lamp is, that Dmitry doesn’t know what to think, what to answer, at first.

“It was all right. Quick, food’s getting cold.”

They eat on the bed, sausages and potato soup and hard bread they swallow down with beer, until their stomachs are full and their fingers greasy. Dmitry smiles a little more easily, and goads Anya into reading for him. She complains and disagrees for a while before her pride gets the best of her and she decides to show off her reading skills.

Dmitry lies on the bed, his head pressed to her thigh, lulled to sleep by the cadence of her voice in French. He doesn’t understand the words, but he doesn’t need to.

…

(“She’ll break your heart.”

Dmitry scoffs. Loud. Ugly. “Don’t be ridiculous. She isn’t even my soulmate.”

Vlad’s eyes are sad and knowing.

“Doesn’t mean she can’t break your heart. Be careful, Dmitry.”)

…

In Belgium, she thrives.

They’ve all be struggling with the languages across Europe until now, but Anya is taking to Brussels like a fish to water. She babbles in French with anyone and everyone, her accent so perfect and refined they think her Parisian at first. How a small street cleaner is bilingual, Dmitry has no idea, but it’s useful. They don’t have to worry about getting weird, undefinable food in restaurants, for starters.

She’s smiling a lot more too, which. It’s nice, he has to admit. She’s less moody these days, more agreeable, and turns out she isn’t so bad to spend time with when she’s not yelling at him. They’re having quite a lot of fun teasing and annoying Vlad, and wandering the city, and discovering museums. It’s like a weight has lifted off Dmitry’s shoulders somewhere between Germany and the Netherlands, like he left his shadows behind in St Petersburg, and it’s doing him good. He can finally breathe, can finally walk without always looking behind his back. This kind of freedom he never thought to dream of is his, now.

There is still that one afternoon spent working on Anya’s wardrobe, too many hours of soft, pastel fabrics and leather shoes and hair bows. So many hair bows. Dmitry feels like dying when Vlad shoves more and more clothes in Anya’s arms for her to try on, the poor girl overwhelmed at the idea of having more than one outfit. He slumps into a chair, and pretends not to appreciate the view every time she gets out of the changing room and asks for their opinion.

Western Europe women sure like to show off their legs.

He swallows hard.

…

(“Oh my god,” she whispers.

Paris stretches in front of them, glowing in the morning light.

Her hand finds his fingers and squeezes.

Dmitry doesn’t push her away.)

…

A scream, sharp and terrified, wakes up him in a startle. The other half of the bed is empty, Vlad still out with Lily. The scream comes from Anya’s room and doesn’t stop, and Dmitry makes a run for it.

She’s standing and shivering in the middle of the room, sheets tangled in her feet, hair falling in her eyes. Tears have made their way down her cheeks, and she coughs a sob when Dmitry grabs her arms. He reassures her that the voices she hears are only that, voices, but still she sobs. Still she begs him to stay by her side. And still he does.

He sits next to her on the bed, panicking and unable to comfort her. Her body is still shaking with sobs and a shiver, her nose red, her eyes puffy. He’s never seen her so vulnerable before, not even on the train when she yelped and hid in his neck. Always so strong and stoic, despite her doubts. Beautiful in her confidence.

“Who do you think I am, Dmitry?”

He swallows hard against the knot in his throat. He knows what she wants to hear -- that he believes her to be the Grand Duchess herself, that she isn’t only pretending. But he can’t lie to her that easily, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, words dying like smoke in his lungs. He doesn’t believe her to be the girl he met and lost all those years again, doesn’t believe her to be the one whose letters are burnt into his skin. And so he won’t lie, won’t pretend. This may be the biggest scam in history, but it stops with lying to Anya. She deserves better than that.

“If I were the Dowager Empress, I would want you to be Anastasia.”

Here. Not a lie. Not exactly the truth either.

“You would?”

“I would want her to be a beautiful, strong, intelligent young woman,” he goes on, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can think of them, or of swallowing them down. Anya turns her head to look at him, surprise replacing fear in her eyes, one brow rising up. Dmitry swallows around the knot in his throat, unable to make sense of his own words. He has no idea where they came from, and the truth of them scares him. How easy it was, for him to say such things.

“Is that who you think I am?”

This, and so much more.

She stills, halfway turned toward him, her hand between their thighs on the mattress, his on her knee. She’s so close her grey eyes look almost navy blue in the darkness of the room, her heavy breathes fanning against his mouth. She’s so close, he almost forgets himself.

“I do.”

She stares back, unblinking.

“Thank you.”

He puts some distance between them. Or maybe she does. His hand curls around the cover of her bed, his thigh tingles at the cold of her absence. He closes his eyes, and curses himself for such a pathetic display of weakness and affection. It shouldn’t have gone so wrong. He shouldn't have grown attached. Tomorrow she will convince the Dowager Empress and he will get his reward, and they will both close the page on this chapter of their lives.

She isn’t even his soulmate, he reminds himself with a scoff. Why should it matter anyway.

As always, Anya has her own way of diffusing the tension, as infuriating as ever. Her “I began to wonder if you ever were going to pay me a compliment” only manages to get a tired sigh out of Dmitry, and he looks away with a shake of the head. That will teach him to be nice to her for once in his life.

Her fingers brush against his knee, delicate, hesitant, when she then asks, “Do you really think I might be her?”

Another sigh. Another lie he refuses to tell.

But when he looks into her eyes again -- big, hopeful, pretty -- there is something else he sees in her. Something new, different. And wouldn’t it be so much easier, if she were who they taught her to be? If she were really the Grand Duchesse, despite the memory lose, the ratty looks, the hollowed cheeks? If she were Anastasia, instead of Anya?

No, of course not. Or, well. It would be easier to convince the Dowager Empress, that’s for certain. But for Dmitry, it would be a new brand of complicated. Of impossible. Of maddening. It is simpler to believe her dead. Heartbreaking, maybe, but simple. Which is why he never let himself believe the rumours, because -- well because if Anastasia were alive, he would need to find her. He would spend an eternity finding her. And he can’t exactly afford it, mentally speaking. Emotionally speaking. He’s all drained of those, has been for a decade now.

And still. Still!

“I want to believe you’re the little girl I saw once many years ago.”

Too late to take those back, too. Too late, when Anya’s face lights up with curiosity, when his own memories come flooding back his mind. How long has it been, since he last let himself remember that day properly instead of only letting it invade his dreams? It’s always there, at the back of his mind, present in a muted way, not exactly on his brain but not exactly silenced either. Just -- there. A part of him.

“I don’t understand,” Anya states.

Dmitry decides to entertain her, just this once. “It was June, I was ten,” he starts.

He remembers that day too vividly -- the cheers of the crowd, everyone pushing each other to get closer, to have a look. Dmitry’s father was at the back, watching, judging, when Dmitry had let go of his hand to sneak between people. His father’s protests fell on deaf ears as he made his way to the front, too small and too fast to be stopped.

“It was one of those parades, before the Revolution started. The carriages full of royals and here she was with her sister in the last one. Barely more than eight, but so regal, so serene. A true Duchesse at heart.”

He smiles to himself as he remembers her, dress heavy with diamonds and blue sash across her chest, a light tiana in her strawberry blonde hair. Dmitry wasn’t that into girls yet, at that time, but even then she was the prettiest he’d ever seen. Still is, in his mind and in his heart.

“Everyone was cheering, but I could only stare at her. She was… something else, really.” She was everything he could never have or be, and yet he had made a run for it in his childish recklessness. “I started to run after her, to call her name. There was no way she could hear me, everyone was so loud but… I had to try. So I dodged between the guards to get closer, and I reached out for her and… She smiled. She smiles at me, only me, in this crowd of thousands.”

His hand is stretched in front of him, as if he could touch her still. Dmitry blinks, fingers curling around air, around nothing but his own memories. “Before I could do anything else, she was gone. I turned my head but the sun was blinding and she was -- gone. Just gone.”

He rubs a hand against his face. Even two decades later, the memory is painful. Heartbreaking. Anya is silent by his side, still. When he looks back at her, she has that far-away look in her eyes, the one that sparkles something dormant and long forgotten in Dmitry’s chest.

“That’s not how it went,” she murmurs. “Not exactly.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

It is less of a question and more of a warning, one she elects to ignore as she stands up and takes a few steps away from the bed. Her hands in her hair, shoulders slouching, she paces in front of him. Wordlessly, at first. Then, “The boy, he called my name and -- he was so skinny, so dirty but -- there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before, like. It was not just respect or reverence but -- curiosity. Awe. And he -- he made me smile. I was not supposed to smile, Mother’s orders was clear, but I couldn’t help myself. He was so different. So not what I was used to. And then… And then he bowed to me.”

She looks back at Dmitry, her eyes widening, filling with tears. He opens his mouth, but no word comes at first, too gobsmacked to answer. “I didn’t tell you that,” he manages to say through the white noise in his ears. This can’t be true.

This can’t be happening.

“You bowed to me!” she confirms once more. “And I laughed, and I said… I was so surprised, and delighted, and I said… ‘Are you bowing to me?’ Nobody had quite done it like that before. Like it was a game.”

Dmitry is on his feet, body reacting before his brain does. Next thing he knows, he is grabbing Anya’s elbows, but it is not enough. It can’t be enough. So he grabs her face instead, fingers curling around her jaw and into her hair, tilting her her head up until he’s staring into her eyes. Hers are blurry with tears -- or maybe it’s his. It is hard to tell.

“Nastya,” he whispers to her. Awe. Reverence. Love.

Her hands grab his wrists, then his elbows, before their curl around his biceps. Dmitry’s entire body shudders when her fingers brush against his tattoo. His tattoo. Her handwriting on his arm, burnt into his skin and his heart. He wonders where hers is, if she will show it willingly or let him discover it. Discover her body in the process, starting with --

His lips are a breath away from her, before he catches himself.

Before he steps back and kneels in front of her. Her, the Grand Duchesse Anastasia. Her, who will reunite with her family tomorrow. Her, he cannot have, does not deserve. Her, the one he only ever bowed to, and is bowing to again, arms crossed at the wrists and head low.

“Your Highness,” he whispers.

And if she hears something else, it is but the sound of his heart shattering once more.

…

Dmitry is a coward.

He gets out of the hotel in the early hours of the morning, before either Vlad or Anya (Nastya!) are awake. Slipping away in the cold sunset, with only a few francs in his pockets and a lot in his mind. He walks and walks until his feet start carrying him wherever they feel like going. He passes the Louvres, Nôtre-Dame, before he stops at the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Nobody but early risers like him wander around. A woman walking her dog. A lone painter setting up his easel. A violinist playing soft music, his case opened in front of him. Dmitry sits on a bench, his long legs stretched in front of him as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. The violin goes well with the fountains in the background, lulling him into a false sense of peace and serenity.

Dmitry doesn’t know how long he sits there, mind wandering, thoughts jumping from one subject to another. When his stomach protests the lack of food, he feels even more confused than a few hours before. Confused and hungry, buying a meal in a café for lunch, then simply confused again.

His feet bring him to the Champ de Mars next, to the Eiffel Tower he and Nastya climbed only two days ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. She had been so excited, giddy with happiness, smiling so much it should have hurt. She was beautiful then, full of hope and dreams. Now he’s staring down the Seine, his own dreams floating away.

When the sun goes down, Dmitry walks his way back to Avenue George V where their hotel is, taking the long way around instead of walking along the riverbank. He can’t stand the sight of Pont Alexandre III, not today. His legs are sore from all the wandering around, his mind heavier still than it was in the morning, and he lets himself be dressed by a groom without too much protest.

Vlad is looking at him like he grew a second head during the night, then comments on Anya’s nerves. Dmitry simply shrugs, then checks his reflexion in the mirror. Yes, it will do, he guesses.

It is only once they make it to the Opera Garnier that Dmitry grabs Vlad’s arm, pulls him closer. “It’s her. She’s really Anastasia,” he whispers.

Vlad pats his arm. “Yes. Yes, of course she is. That was the point all along, Dima.”

“No, Vlad. Listen!” He grows frustrated at Vlad’s obliviousness. “It’s her, Vlad.”

“I heard you, my boy,” Vlad dismisses him. “Now, tie your shoelaces, would you.”

Dmitry swallows back his scream of frustration.

…

(She’s a vision in blue.

The royal colours a painful reminder.

She’s beyond his reach.)

…

Dmitry is a coward.

For the second time that day, he flees. Down Rue de la Paix until he reaches the Louvres, its grey walls shining golden in the street lights. The palace does little more than remind him of the Yusupov Palace, of teaching Anya how to dance and Russian history. It was home, in some cruel and twisted way, more than the streets of Petersburg ever were. In that abandoned theatre, with nothing but scraps and two fellows street rats, Dmitry had found his place.

Dmitry leaves the palace behind, much to his mistake, because ten minutes later he finds himself on her damn stupid bridge. What an idiot he makes. Finding bits and pieces of her everywhere, when all he wants is to put her behind. He knows it to be impossible, of course. She’s his soulmate. And he loves her. He was never meant to put her behind.

Maybe, if anything else, he could put some distance between them. Going back is out of the question, but he could go to London, or to New York. Learn English. Make a life for himself here. He knows a lot of Russians went to live in the USA, so it’s not like he would be alone. Home away from home, whatever that means.

He feels eyes on him before he even notices the person -- years on the street taught him to always be on the lookout -- and then here she is. Blue dress shining like a star. Cheeks red, hair falling from its chignon. She’s a sight for sore eyes, his soulmate. His Duchesse.

“If you ever see me from a carriage again, don’t wave, don’t smile…” The bitterness is like poison on his tongue. He hates himself for the pain he reads in her eyes, the pain he is inflicting her. One more reason why she’s better off without him, quite obviously. He would only bring heartbreak and suffering into her life. “I don’t want to be in love with someone I can’t have.”

The confession escapes him, yet he can’t bring himself to regret it. Not when her words are on his arm and his heart in her hands, not when he knows for certain there will never be anyone else for him. He can’t be in love with her. He can’t live without his love for her.

She doesn’t move, rooted on the spot, and maybe that is all the answer Dmitry needs. No rejection, no hard words; nothing but her silence and her sad eyes. So he offers her his last bow, vows to never do it again, and turns around. London sounds like a good idea, as of right now. Far from her and the memories they created for themselves in the streets of Paris.

“I always dreamt my first kiss would be in Paris with my soulmate,” she calls after him.

Dmitry closes his eyes, sucks some air between his teeth. “I’m not…” he starts, and turns around. One lie, just one lie. But he can’t. “I’m not right for you, Nastya.”

Something sparkles in her eyes before she strides toward him with the kind of determination that has Dmitry take a step back. “The Grand Duchesse Anastasia Romanova would like to differ, Dima!” she all but yells at him, before she yanks him down by his bowtie.

His strangled cry is muffled against her mouth, and then she is kissing him. Strong. Unforgiving. She kisses like she fights, and Dmitry melts against her until his arms wrap around her body and he’s holding her up against him, until her hands are in his hair and her body pressed so tightly against his he can feel the heavy beating of her heart.

He only lets go of her when his lungs scream for air, and even then he keeps her close, keeps his hands on her as if willing her to stay with him. She raises a shaky hand to brush her hair away from her face, and offers him a hesitant smile.

“I wasn’t sure…”

His brain needs oxygen too, because he has no idea what she means. “What?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was you,” she goes on, her hands febrile as she gets rid of her right glove and shows her wrist to him. There, in his terrible handwriting, is her own name. The way he had called her during the parade, just the sound of her name. God, but he hadn’t even thought of that. How confusing it must have been to her, how she didn’t have much of a clue what was going on.

“I am an idiot,” he states, more to himself than to her.

She laughs, soft, joyful. “Yes, that much has always been clear.” Her tongue is stuck between her teeth as she teases him, and Dmitry wonders what exactly he did to deserve such a perfect woman in his life. “I understand what you tried to do. But it was stupid of you. From now on, I forbid you from ever making decisions for me.”

He blinks. Once, twice. “And what do you want to do next, then?”

“I…” She bites her lip and looks away, but even then she moves closer into the circle of his arms. “I don’t know yet, Dima. But I do know one thing, and it is that you are not going anywhere. Not without me, at least.”

He grins despite himself at her commanding tone. Gosh, but he loves her so. “As Her Majesty wishes,” he teases, and chuckles when she rolls her eyes.

But she also rises on her tiptoes and kisses him, kisses the breath out of his lungs and kisses the thoughts out of his mind. Yes, he decides. Yes, he will do anything she wishes or says. How could he not?

…

(Her hands grab his arms, nails leaving half-moon marks where his tattoo is, as she pants into his ear.

That.

That, more than anything else, is his undoing.)

#dimya #dimya fanfiction #anastasia the musical #fanfiction #ff: anastasia

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