#lampe colette

[cowboykissing]

there will never be another show like supernatural because they wouldn't get away with all that now

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 40: The Maestro's Mark

Prev > Masterlist > Next

June 1905

TW: mind control, body control, captivity, human auction, abuse, burning, branding, mouth whump, forced self-harm, dissociation, this one's kind of a doozy isn't it

"Sir -- " Fitz's voice had returned to him, and he was dismayed to find it shaky and weak, much like his knees. Beside him, Miss Lily was gripping his chain so hard he thought she might crumble it to dust. "Sir -- who was -- "

"The Maestro, an old and powerful vampire lord. My sire, and Alexander's sire as well. The one responsible for turning us into vampires," Miss Lily said, picking him up into a princess carry. "I wasn't expecting him to be here. He normally does not purchase his thralls."

"Is he --" Fitz faltered with the amount of questions he wanted to ask, before settling on the most important one. "Is he cruel, sir?"

She hesitated to answer as she carried him backstage and out into the hallway. "...Yes," she finally said. "Yes, he is cruel. I'm sorry."

She sounded like she meant the apology, and Fitz's too-short life flashed before his eyes.

"What should I do, sir?"

"There's nothing you can do now. Nothing you can do but be obedient. Try to find the private places in your mind to retreat to, places where he can't reach. Eat whatever you're offered when you can. Sleep as much as possible. And never be defiant, even for the smallest matter. The price will never be worth it."

"...You seem as though you know what you're talking about, sir."

"I was his thrall, once."

It was a colorful and loud nightmare as Fitz was carried through the bustling hallway filled with vampires and their newly purchased thralls, talking and laughing and showing off their fashions. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he would open them, he'd be somewhere else. The lumpy couch in his drafty, shared apartment. His dressing room backstage. Even the opulent prison of his bedroom back at his family's home.

He'd found that unbearably oppressive at the time. Perhaps he'd been a fool to leave, after all.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a small room primarily occupied by a desk and a few chairs. A vampire in a fashionable black dress, her neck and ears dripping with jewels, entered the room. "Oh my, Lily, your expression is better suited for a funeral. You've sold your little project for an extravagant amount of cash. Whatever could be the problem?"

Miss Lily's face was sour as a lemon. "You know very well how I feel about my sire, Colette."

"His money will spend as good as everyone else's. If you ask me, you were a little too attached to this thrall."

"I don't care one iota about this thrall," she said, her grip tightening on Fitz's shoulders. "I just think that no one, not even a thrall, deserves the displeasure of serving my sire."

"And yet, I assume you'll want your share of the earnings."

"And yet."

The door opened, and Fitz's new owner entered the room. Perhaps it was Fitz's fevered imagination, but even the gas lamps seemed to flicker in response to the foreboding aura. He gave Miss Lily a small nod, and Fitz felt her fingers dig in tighter, painful.

"It's truly an honor to do business with you, Maestro, sir,"  said Miss Colette, settling behind the desk. "Now, then, sir, you'll owe eleven thousand dollars, unless you require any additional services..."

"No, thank you." He was staring at Fitz now, and it felt like icicles sliding down his back. Fitz couldn't help the impulse to look away -- and realized that he couldn't. He was caught hopelessly in the web of power once more.

His master, as soon as the money was handed over. His master forever. There would be no escaping a man like this.

Never be defiant. The price will never be worth it.

Never be himself ever again.

No, he had to snap out of it. There had to be a way out of this. Some way to charm him, to appeal, to get them both on the same side. There had to be. Weaseling out of bad situations was one of his specialties.

The Maestro was reaching into his coat and pulling out a pouch of what looked to be actual golden coins, as if he were some kind of royalty. Miss Colette didn't seem to regard this as strange, taking the coins from the pouch and weighing them on a small scale. Satisfied with the amount, she handed him a contract to sign.

"Now, if the transaction is complete," he said, "please leave so I can discipline my spawn and my thrall."

"Of course, sir." Miss Colette filed out of the room immediately.

Fitz's protests and his screams died in his throat, along with his desperate impulses to flee anywhere. He was under his new master's power again, frozen in time. He'd never escape, of course, but it still hurt to not even be allowed to try first, to be trapped in a treacherous body that wouldn't obey even his smallest commands.

"Lily," he said, approaching her, and Fitz realized that Miss Lily was holding him in front of her as though Fitz could shield her from her sire. "This thrall has an excellent bloodline and potential. Why did you train him improperly and allow him to make an embarrassment of you?"

"He's a performer by nature, sire, as I'm sure you can see," said Miss Lily, and she sounded as subdued and fearful as Fitz was, a far cry from her confident nature when enthralling him. "He is fully trained and obedient. I simply thought it was amusing to allow him to continue to perform, sire. Plenty of vampires would desire a thrall for entertainment. I don't think he's an embarrassment. It took skill to render him obedient while keeping his personality intact."

If Fitz could move, he would be nodding vigorously, appreciative of Miss Lily's defense.

"Yes. Performance is his nature, that much is true just by looking at him. But you need to be in better control of the thralls in your care, not allow them to preen and pose on the auction block." He reached past Fitz to touch Lily's hair, tucking loose strands of her hair into her bun. Fitz could feel her hands tremble. "Oh, child, I worry that I am too lenient on your soft heart. I don't understand what I did to be cursed with two spawn so gifted and yet so foolish."

"Thank you for your patience with us, sire."

"Indeed. And because you do often delight me, I will allow the punishment to be light."

"Yes, sire. Thank you, sire."

"Here. Take my knife." The Maestro held out a silver knife in a white-gloved hand, and Lily let go of Fitz's arm to take it. "You will find an unoccupied bathroom. You will remove your dress so that you do not bloody it. You will cut out your tongue. You will clean yourself and your surroundings thoroughly. You will then put your dress back on and join my other wayward spawn in the parlor."

Fitz's eyes widened at the description of the punishment, the only movement he could manage. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He couldn't do either. Miss Lily let go of his arms, and as she exited the room, head bowed low, he had the desperate, irrational impulse to stop her. True to her advice, she showed no sign of defiance, even when her sire was asking her to do the unthinkable -- as a "light" punishment. From the hard look in her eyes, he had no doubt that she was going to do it.

The door clicked shut. And Fitz was alone with his master.

The strange power forced Fitz's head up to look into the Maestro's eyes as he drew near, like a puppet on strings. With a surprisingly gentle touch, a gloved hand reached out and ruffled his hair, then hooked a finger under his chin and inspected his face from each angle. A soft finger traced down his neck and exposed collarbone, but there was no indication from his heavy aura that the vampire wanted to feed. There was no indication of any desire at all. Just control. Pure control.

What could he do to sway a man like this? He recognized his look, the man who was used to being the most powerful in the room, the kind who couldn't spare a scrap of tolerance for anyone else. No humor, no imagination. The kind of person Fitz usually avoided, or brought up on stage only to tease and get a response from the audience. On stage, Fitz held the power.

His new owner was center stage, now, and not one to relinquish the spotlight easily.

"Fitzwilliam de Hastings," said the Maestro in that musical voice. "You will answer my questions honestly. First -- do you fear me?"

Fitz felt his tongue loosen. This, at least, was an easy question. "Yes, Master."

"You are correct to. At least you are not that sort of fool. Now, tell me -- did you wish for my spawn Alexander to purchase you?"

He recalled the pathetic, fleeting hope he'd had when he'd flirted with Mr. Alexander in the showroom. Yes, yes he had, but he suspected that was the wrong answer. What had worked on Mr. Alexander wouldn't work here -- he needed to work a new angle. "I did think that at first, Master, but then you made that impeccable entrance. You're clearly the vampire all other vampires respect -- it's an honor to have been purchased by you."

The Maestro nodded, then removed one of his gloves.

A percussive crack rang through Fitz's ears, and it took his brain a moment to catch up and realize that he had been slapped hard across the face.

"Do not ever lie to me, child, and do not insult me with your cheap flattery. This is your only warning," his master said, in precisely the same tone as before, not betraying anger or disappointment or any emotion at all. "Try again. Did you wish for my spawn Alexander to purchase you?"

"Yes, Master," said Fitz immediately, praying that he wouldn't incur any further punishment. His tongue. He'd ordered Miss Lily to cut out her own tongue. And if his master wanted to do the same to him, there'd be nothing he could do about it, his very body out of his control.The thought of being permanently rendered mute, unable to joke and flirt and tease and perform --

It hadn't settled in before, had it? What it truly meant to be in thrall to a vampire. Between Miss Lily's mesmerism and his own hubris, he'd imagined himself getting out of this by charming the vampire, carving himself a better life through wit and charisma, as he'd always managed. But these vampires were so much more powerful than him and always would be. What good is wit against a creature who can control your body on a whim, or take your mind away with a word?

He couldn't save himself. No one was coming to save him. There was only him and his cruel new master, and he was unable even to express the despair bubbling up within him. A fate so much worse than death, inescapable.

The re-gloved hand stroked Fitz's cheek gently in the place that was still stinging from the slap. "Despite your ill manners, you have potential, Fitzwilliam. My darling Lily saw that in you, no doubt. A born performer with a compelling presence. Sharp minded. And so, so beautiful. A pity about your headstrong nature," he said. "But you needn't concern yourself. I only need to patiently carve away your imperfections. And I am a very patient vampire."

"Thank you, Master," said Fitz, who had never been more frightened of so-called praise in his life.

"More importantly, I believe you are the key to finally breaking my Alexander's will."

"...I don't understand, sir."

"Thralls aren't meant to understand, child. Thralls are meant to obey. And I have decided what young Alexander's lesson will be." He drew his hand away. "I will give you to Alexander."

Fitz couldn't help but furrow his brow, confused. That couldn't be right. 

"It will be a test for him. One that he will fail."

The Maestro pulled a small metal cylinder from his coat. He carefully lifted the glass from the lamp sitting on Miss Colette's desk, beckoning Fitz forward. Fitz felt himself sleepwalking towards his master, even as the Maestro dipped the metal object in the lamp's flame, even as Fitz realized with growing dread what was about to happen.

"He will forget you belong to me. He will desire to possess you, cherish you, perhaps even love you. He will believe he can rescue you from me. He will be incorrect. I will allow him to believe this, then I will take you from him, and I will break you, and suffering will be a teacher to you both."

Fitz's heart pounded.

"Kneel."

His puppeted body gracefully knelt upon the carpet, the crushed red velvet of his dress cushioning his legs, as he looked up in terror.

With a calm, unreadable expression, the Maestro pulled down the neckline of his ball gown and pressed the burning metal to Fitz's flesh, just below his collarbone.

He couldn't scream. He couldn't flinch. He couldn't fight or back away. He couldn't do anything but feel his eyes filling with tears as the white hot pain seared through his body.

Fitz barely even noticed when the brand was pulled away, because the pain hardly lessened. His master was examining his handiwork, and, seemingly satisfied, made Fitz's body stand.

There was no way Fitz could be standing through the shock and the pain, but the puppet strings controlling his every move made it so, forcing him to walk on weak and shaky legs.

"Now show your gratitude for my precious gift."

Fitz's body curtsied low. 

But Fitz's mind, flooded with pain and endorphins and magic, was traveling far away. Away from here, anywhere but here, anything but this. Anything but an inescapable descent into hell.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Well, wasn't that fun.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot @cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps

[pinknatural]

if you are on the outside looking in it probably looks like spnblrinas are running in circles asking why lamp or why colette or why confessional scene or why directing choices in s4 framing cas and dean together in weird intimate ways or why purgatory or why purgatory 2 electric boogaloo and the truth is. we are running in circles asking these questions. because why the fuck did they give us colette

[candycryptids]

Quick! Your OCs are being dragged to the dancefloor by a friend - how do they react? Does the amount of people around influence that reaction? Or the kind of music played maybe?

GHFNFJDJFHB!? What a fun question omfg

Chuu has a vice grip on the sofa she’s sitting on if there’s more than 5 people at a party lmao. She’s not gettin up. N o p e. (Can sometimes be lured out onto the dance floor with a Waltzing number, but will rarely stay for longer than 2 songs before she’s found a way to slither out of being an active party participant. She’d rather chill and eat snacks and watch OTHER people look silly on the dance floor.)

Tuesday is ecstatic to be invited to the dance floor- but he only really knows how to do the stuffy Ishgardian Ball Dance when he first gets invited out to a party lmfao. The amount of people present doesn’t really impact his willingness to come out to the dance floor, but once he learns more ways to dance or even how to just, ‘feel it’ and make it up as he goes he gets much more excited about dancing to upbeat or quicker songs. He is Very good at not stepping on Toes :) (almost as if somebody didn’t want to deal with smushed toes…. 🤔)

Tangy is so zazzed to dance. She is…. Not the best at ballroom dancing or like, whatever you wanna call a couples dance, so. Watch your toes! It doesn’t matter how many people are there but being the center of attention can be kinda daunting :’> she’d rather dance to more upbeat music than slow dances so she’ll probs bow out for drinks and a snack during those to take a breather sjfjdkfs … pls also imagine her doing classic ‘dad’ dance moves or something from the Peanuts x3 [cut cos it’s Long 🫢]

….. 🤔 Ishi will gladly dance with a friend (or friends!) at smaller gatherings- and even invite others out to the floor x3 but at bigger more official events? She’s probably grateful for the excuse to step away from whatever Politically Charged Chat she’s been roped into regarding allied tribes or intercity relations. (She isn’t trained in dance, but will readily learn and follow somebody else’s lead •v•)

Mochiie is someone who’s reluctant to take an invite to the dance floor no matter how many people are present if there’s already people dancing and there’s not much space. He’s uh… conscious of his tail. (Poor guy sent a lalafellin couple sprawling once when he got tangled up in his feet, so he tries to be Overly Cautious now)

😂 Colette will indulge a friend in a dance, and relies more on being able to lift/twirl/dip her dance partner for flair - it’s an All-Eyes-On-Them situation. If Eorzean weapons didn’t have a habit of cracking under the pressure she’d probably be a tank. She prefers music with dramatic flair, to match her flashy dancing style. She laughs a lot more when it’s a Smaller group, there’s less performance pressures 🤧 (I should REALLY pose her dancing with Setsuna at some point… I’ll have to bug my partner for some files x3)

🤔🤔🤔 Levraut was the hardest for me to figure out. He’s classically trained in Ishgardian Dance? But he hates it. He thinks the whole thing looks silly, and he’s not so into huge parties (since they’re usually hosted by The Rich And Influential And Expect A Certain Class Of People yk) … he’d be a hilarious ‘sexy lamp’ for someone to dance with though… I think it would take him some time to feel comfortable dancing in the center of everything but he wouldn’t mind kinda grooving in place around the edges.

Until he’s 5 cups in. And then you have to haul him off the dance floor before he makes more of a fool of himself than he currently is, and tries to start a fight with the Violinist, because it quote ‘sounds like you’re killing the cat what made the strings all over again’ (regardless of if that’s true or not; a drunken Lev craves Rowdy Brawling and will Incite It)

… 🤨 I think that’s everyone if only because I don’t have a solid idea what the Trio would be like in a Party situation

[artiekraft]

today i am asking Why. why barn why lamp why pizza man. why colette why no abel? why bert and ernie? why thelma and louise? why handprint? why keeping the trenchcoat? why there’s things, feelings i want to experience differently or maybe even for the first time? why my devastatingly handsome friend? why mixtape? why profound bond? why does this sound like a goodbye?

[darkhymns-fic]

To Sow the Seeds of Love and Adoration

Tabatha knew that a doll that failed in her purpose must be discarded. She was flawed, with a voice that continued to halt and assess every syllable, with a body that refused to house the soul of the woman she was made in the image of. But Master Altessa, who smoothed over her skin and threaded her hair, had always favored broken things.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters/Pairing: Tabatha, Altessa, Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel, Mithos Yggdrasill Rating: G Word Count: 8051 Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: Written for @tosrcountdown​ in a collab with @frayed-symphony​ who made the wonderful art! A Tabatha-centric fic exploring her origins and her relationship with her dwarven creator.

1

.

.

.

When Tabatha finally came to be, it was in waves, rising and falling.

There was no singular moment for her. Instead, fragments came together, pieces that would fit, that would meld until they were uniform. The first she ever knew was the very motion of her fingers. It had been stiff at first. Unyielding. It took the hands of another to set her own just right.

Calloused hands. Hands larger than her own. A voice that was so rough that it was like the grating of boulders against one another.

“The small joints are always the most difficult,” she heard, and she understood. Even with the voice’s grumbles, its half-whispers, its coarseness that could strain the ears—she knew. For the very runes of his language were carved into her body, invisible, but fully in existence. The dwarven artes were still a well-kept secret, along with the materials that were used to make her flesh, used to make her eyes, her nails, and her hair that streamed past her shoulders. This she knew over everything.

She was named Tabatha. This was not told to her. She woke, and found the name resting within her chest, as if it were her own makeshift heart.

It came in waves. She heard the tools that would correct her knuckles to bend the right way, heard focused breathing, so careful, it would barely disturb a thin coating of dust. Then she drifted far away, back into a space that was her own.

The wave pulled back, and finally she could open her eyes. It was an effort, for the light from a window would blind her, until she would only see spots of gray and black, touched with violet.

“Sensitive, it seems… The glass needs to be refined.” The callused hand once more, now over her eyes, to shield her from the light. She felt relief for the first time.

And she read such hands to be kind.

Time passed, but she could not grasp it just yet. She only knew that the sun had long set, leaving her with pitch black. The only light was from a gas lamp, hooked from a wooden pillar next to her. She finally saw who the rough voice belonged to; the firelight danced across his great beard, motes of silver swimming in deeper gray. So long it was that the end of it reached past his chest, held together in two separate bands. She could barely see his own eyes, sunken within a thick moustache and even thicker eyebrows.

He was affixing something to her wrist.

“Sight is good?” he asked her, or half-asked her. He raised his face to her, then nodded, going back to his work. She caught marks of lines down his cheeks, perhaps the brief glint of an eye. But he bent further down so that all she was met with was with the top of his head, shaved of all hair. “The glass should not have as much glare. Just needed the right tint.”

Tabatha said nothing, for she couldn’t at all. Just a slow blink, a soft understanding, followed by the bending of her fingers. The skin had not been fully molded onto her just yet. But what she saw was not bone in the exact sense of the word. It was hard and unyielding; it would only be broken by the greatest force.

The dwarf beside her continued to work. Every miniscule detail was manipulated to his liking. She could bend her fingers more inward now.

It came in waves. She fell back into a sleep that wasn’t sleep at all. Just a soft coating of black over her, like blankets tucked around her, to keep her out of sight.

She floated, but she didn’t dream. A being like her did not know how to dream.

The wave receded. Her eyes focused in front of her, for she was not sure she ever closed them in the first place. It was the workspace where she would see the dwarf bend his head to, scattered with tools she had seen before—and trinkets that she had never known.

It’s all in pieces, Tabatha thought.

There were metal bits, curled from ironwork, as bright as gold foil. They captured the firelight on their surfaces, gleaming over the woodwork like captured stars. She was curious, so she reached out her hand to hold one fragment. She could not feel it. Some of the metal gewgaws slipped between her incomplete fingers to clatter to the wood.

His gruff voice filtered through the warm summer heat. "Those key crests are worthless things," he muttered. "Prototypes. I’ve already used what little of the ore I had left."

She blinked, but she could not tear her eyes away from such sights. Some of the metal seemed to form certain shapes, but some were also twisted. As if a hammer had come down and warped it beyond recognition.

"Wondering about those, are you?" The dwarf walked up to her, a new tool in his right hand. She remained seated, (and she was only aware now that she was seated, aware she was more than just arms and eyes, but of legs and feet as well) her body limp as he held up her arm to his eye level. "Your voice box still needs some adjusting. We'll work on that next."

She opened her mouth. No sound came out, even though the words to form them echoed inside her. What you’ve made is beautiful, even when broken, she wanted to say, looking back to the desk. There were also remnants of other tools, of mold sets, of long threads of red, green, and blue, their ends frayed with bronze. You don’t toss them away.

The dwarf took a long breath, moving her fingers, assessing their motor control. “It will still be some time before this is all finished… I don’t have all the necessary materials, but this will do.” His forehead wrinkled, those great bushy brows lowering, nearly hiding his entire face once more. But she saw the twisting of his lips, heard the barely audible catch of his breath. “Your next few power cycles will happen more frequently. You may be up at odd times, but it will be alright. A part of the process.”

Yet still, even as she felt herself sink away, she wanted to speak about those wonderful things he made.

It came again in waves. It pulled her down, carried her across unseen miles. She let herself, for the one who made her had instilled such currents. He foresaw the moments of rest she would need, to not let her be overwhelmed at all she knew, at all she was beginning to learn.

Tabatha woke in the middle of the night, a soft, azure light gleaming just at her collar bone.

Her fingers brushed against it, but only after the ordeal of lifting her arm, wrestling with the angle and weight of it. She was rewarded with a cold touch, and a soft, isolating sadness that she could not place.

Is this what loneliness is?

The feeling came to her, intimately. It was all-engulfing. The vast stretch of that loneliness was almost too much to bear. How could anyone stand such an emotion? It nearly made her want to close her eyes once more and drift away, her fingers still pressed over that stone within her skin—

Light illuminated the room. She was laying on one of the worktables, propped up by pillows and blankets. The dwarf slowly walked toward her, setting the gas lantern down to the side, the metal handle clinking as it fell.

Without even looking at her, he carefully reached out, gently taking her hand away from that sad, crying stone.

“Do not look into it too deeply, or you will only fall with it.” The dwarf pulled up a wooden stool to the worktable, seating himself in it as he took a chisel in his hand, the wood squeaking from the weight. “It was a necessary thing to keep your body stable and working.”

Even if Tabatha’s voice worked, she would not know what to say. The loneliness had nearly immobilized her.

A wave. Was it this that was pulling her away, dragging her down to sleep alongside it?

She wished she could grant its wish—somehow.

--

Exspheres, they were called.

“It should not affect you the same way it would to a living being,” her Master said. “This one has already awoken. It is there to help you move your hands and feet, to talk, and to think.” A sigh. “Still, there are always risks using them. Now, try to stand.”

Her body was no longer as stiff, and so she followed his orders easily. Even so, she paused as she balanced herself, her knees trembling with the weight of her torso. Her flesh was now fully molded over her joints. The knuckles on her hands were fashioned perfectly. Her fingers were now able to stretch, to curl, to grab.

There was a mirror on the worktable. A small one, for when her Master needed to examine a trinket from a certain angle. She caught her reflection, that of pale skin and hair that streamed from her head in verdant waves. It matched with the green dress that was draped over her frame, covering up her Exsphere, away from the light. The dress seemed to be old-fashioned from what she could assess, with flowing sleeves and the hem reaching to the floor. It was a dress that was made to be perfectly suited to her.

Or, for the one who she was supposed to be.

Her Master held out his hand, and she laid her own in his like a bird finding a place to rest. He walked with her, careful to count her steps, up the small stairs that led out of his workshop to the living area of his home. The sunshine streamed in through that one circular window to warm her synthetic skin.

“Thank you,” she told him, her words halting, stranding on each syllable as if she were hopping on stones across a river. “Master Altessa.”

The dwarf’s eyebrows fidgeted slightly. Perhaps it was because her voice, for all the work he had done, was still a disappointment. But even so, she could not find the rhythm that those living spoke with.

Or perhaps it was because she addressed him by name.

Altessa walked with her some more, teaching her the right number of steps, examining wherever a fault in her stance occurred. Eventually, he let her walk on her own until she could do so as naturally as her body would allow.

“Very good. Now, just do the same when we meet with Lord Yggdrasill.”

The knowledge was in her, writ upon her data, into the runic structures that Master Altessa had imparted on her. The creation of the doll that would house the spirit of Martel, all on the orders of Yggdrasill. A doll that could move, that could speak, albeit poorly, and could mimic the very features of someone who had lived and died so long ago.

And through all this knowledge, she was still named Tabatha. It was unconnected to everything else. An error. But she kept it within her like the greatest of secrets.

“Master,” she began to ask. A pause. Her voice struggled to keep in time with her thoughts that rushed through. It was slow and plodding in comparison. “What will happen if I do not meet with Lord Yggdrasill’s approval?”

Altessa did not answer. But the concern in his face was apparent, his brows furrowed once more. She gazed at his hands, seeing it riddled with scars from his work, from other injuries that perhaps he dared not name.

“Then he will have no need of you,” he finally answered matter-of-factly. “And perhaps he will have no need of me.”

In his voice, she heard the hope rise, just so slightly.

A craftsman, she will later soon know, always puts a bit of his own soul in each thing that he creates. Perhaps that was why she knew to walk back to his workshop despite his puzzled expression. His tools lay scattered; from those that had threaded her hair onto her head, to those that fixed her joints, to those that had painted her eyes over with that familiar shade of green.

She knew these well, for the runes inscribed onto the insides of her wrists, along her spine, and around her Exsphere, where it lay cradled within her Key Crest, gave her all such data and information. A spell cannot be done without giving oneself over. Altessa’s hopes laid there, along with the name he had long ago given her.

She was a doll created to fail, and she was content in that fact.

Tabatha carefully held his tools to place them back in their proper spots, some within wooden compartments, and others that hung onto the walls. As she worked, she heard her Master stand beside her, then give a great sigh.

“It is because I gave you a name,” Altessa whispered. “I should not have done so.”

Tongs fashioned for handling hot metal were hung on a wooden column. They were well-worn with use, but sturdy as when first made. “But I like my name,” she protested. “For you gave it to me.”

It is what, for now, felt right to her.

Master Altessa’s expressions were hard to read, hidden within his beard. Yet, she suspected that she saw something lift, something like a smile.

She was happy to be home.

--

2

.

.

.

Tabatha knew that a doll that failed in her purpose must be discarded. She was flawed, with a voice that continued to halt and assess every syllable, with a body that refused to house the soul of the woman she was made in the image of.

But Altessa had always favored broken things; from the ruined Key Crests that he kept within a glove box on his desk, to his own rickety stool that continued to creak every time he sat in it. Even so, he still repaired what was needed. Sometimes Tabatha’s joints rusted over from use, or her vocal chords struggled from dust. Things that could be fixed, if only to break down again.

Though when all was said and done, he was an isolated dwarf, his home as secluded as the neighboring Ozette that slept within the giant boughs of its trees. Tabatha would walk outside after her chores, watching as the sunset coated the front side of the mountain, rock dust turning gold underneath the light. So calm and serene.

It was an adjustment for her Master to accompany so many new and lively voices.

“Please deal with them,” he would ask of her, his own voice a little hoarse, his tanned skin turning pale from exhaustion. She knew it was partly her own doing, unable to turn such people away despite his first requests.

And then one day, she noticed how Lloyd’s eyes kept straying to the flowerpots.

It was early afternoon, the sun hidden beneath the clouds to give the sky a grayish tint. Perhaps rain would fall soon, which would be troublesome for her body. Still, she stepped out. The dress she now wore was fitted over her loosely, dyed black with the hem no longer dragging at the ground, and with a cap that held in some of her now braided hair. Out on the doorstep, she turned to see the young man kneeling by the flowerpots that had been placed underneath the small, sole window of her Master’s abode.

“Is there something wrong, Lloyd?”

Lloyd started, immediately rising to his feet. He had distracted, a hand reaching out to touch the flower petals before he pulled it back. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to like, poke my head into your stuff.”

“Not at all. Your head was at a reasonable distance.” Though she saw Lloyd blink at her words, she also strayed a gaze to the flowers; one with orange petals, and another with white. “But you looked concerned.”

Lloyd let a nervous chuckle slip out of him. “Well, it was just something I noticed… It doesn’t look like these guys have been watered for a while. Especially those daylilies. They kinda need it a lot.”

Tabatha stared at Lloyd, the wind shifting his hair. She assessed his words, stored them in her head, extracting all she needed. “Oh.” She paused, considered. “They need water? I was not aware. The Master did not inform me.”

Confusion was made plain on Lloyd’s face—whether by her admission of her lack of knowledge, or if he was still adjusting to her strange voice, she couldn’t say—before he spoke again. “Uh, yeah! It’s kinda like food for them? I just noticed because the soil seemed dry and the petals are a bit wilted.”

Tabatha felt a strange emotion she had never felt before. Was it…embarrassment? For not knowing such a basic task? She bowed her head. “I apologize, I neglected that flowers are living beings… They were given to me by a merchant. The Master said they could stay outside, but I was unaware they needed nourishment as well. Do they also like rice?”

“Well, no… I mean, I don’t think they do.” Lloyd put a hand on his chin before shaking it off. “No, they definitely don’t!”

The door to Altessa’s home was still shut, but Tabatha could hear the rest of the group moving around inside. The soft metal clinks of Regal’s handcuffs, a clumsy trip from Colette as she fell against the dining table, the worried tones of Genis afterwards. But no loud gruffness from her Master; perhaps he was finally getting used to them.

“Have you ever grown plants before?” Lloyd asked her. “Like those vegetables you have to make the food here?”

Tabatha shook her head. “No. I do not grow vegetables. I just purchase what we need from Ozette or traveling merchants, like potatoes and grain. I know food can deteriorate from oxidation, so they are kept sealed in barrels.”

“…Ox…Oxen?” Lloyd struggled. “Um, you just mean they can rot, right? Well, flowers can be the same way! You have to give them the right amount of sun and water, and make sure the soil is healthy enough for them too.”

Tabatha absorbed what Lloyd spoke of, the way she would when Master Altessa spoke of the different ores used for crafting, the way some metals could be shaped at a certain temperature. The elements, all of it coalescing to nurture something to being. But her Master could coax the lifeless, could shape them into different forms, as he had done with her.

But she had so little experience in living things.

“Can we still help them?” she asked Lloyd. “I do not want them to wither because of my failings.”

“Yeah, of course! We just gotta get them some water for now at least. I’ll show you.”

And when he grinned at her, there was something about his expression that reminded him of her Master. Both were as contrasting as day and night; a secluded dwarf who bent his nose to the worktable to fashion his designs, to the young man whose loud voice penetrated the walls of their home. But in both of their smiles, there was an honest kindness. She hoped she could smile as such one day.

--

“Petunias; a garden plant of the nightshade family. Brightly colored and funnel-shaped. Requires full sun for at least six hours of the day. Plant in the springtime for it to bloom in the summer. Light and fertile soil, pH levels 6 to 6.5.”

A turning of the page. The shadow of a butterfly shaded the words for a moment, flickering the sunlight.

“Sunflowers; a tall plant of the daisy family. Giant varieties can grow up to 16 feet tall. Requires full sun for at least six hours of the day. Sow seeds two to three feet apart. Plant in the springtime for it to bloom in summer and into fall. Any soil, including clay or silt.”

“…ey! Tabatha!”

“Daffodils; a bulbous plant of the amaryllis family. Bright-yellow flowers with a long trumpet-shaped center. Needs full sun, and can grow from 6 to 30 inches. In cold locations, plant in autumn after the first frost. Prefers well-drained soil.”

“Heeeey!”

“Lilies; a perennial—Oh. The writing has faded. How unfortunate.”

“…Uh, can you hear me?” Footsteps crunched on the grass, accompanied with a small exhalation of breath. “I can’t really…yell anymore after carrying this around…”

Perhaps this was the first time Tabatha could say she felt startled. How curious it was for her to be so engrossed in reading, but she finally was able to turn her eyes from the frayed pages to Lloyd. She was greeted to red, to hair sticking up in every direction (from his flight on his Rheaird?), to the giant sack he had been carrying over his shoulder with a bit of a wobble in his step.

His eyes strayed to the thin book she held, a blink soon following after.

Ah, of course he would wonder. She held it up. “Raine leant me this, so that I may learn about gardening.”

Lloyd made a face—the same kind of face he had made when he discovered tomatoes in his supper the other night. “Is that why you were saying a bunch of weird words? I’ve been planting stuff since I was a kid and I haven’t heard half of these!”

Tabatha tilted her head. “Is that so? I thought it was informative.” Tabatha shifted on her knees, still facing the grassy patch she and Lloyd had chosen earlier. It was a bit aways from Altessa’s home, the grass growing more freely than the rock by the hard cliffside.

“Eh, we don’t need books.” Lloyd said with a shake of his head. “My dad says it’s always best to learn through experience!”

She watched as Lloyd finally hefted down the great sack he had slung across his shoulder. Catching his breath, he loosened the drawstring on top. “I got the soil from Ozette’s forests. With all the trees there, I think this should be plenty healthy for the garden!”

Tabatha heard the word pass his lips. For a moment, she had nearly forgotten.

That’s right. She had suddenly wanted to plant a garden. That was why she was here. That was why she was reading a book about flowers.

But with the dark soil in front of her now, she had to put the book aside, leaning her head nearly inside the sack. “Why use this soil when we already have soil here?”

“Because some plants need better soil, you know? Kinda like…” Lloyd scrunched his head for a comparison until he snapped his fingers on realization. “Like when people need better food! A meat stew would fill me up way more over a plain sandwich. So, this is like the meat stew for plants!”

The comparison jumbled in her head. “Plants eat meat? Should I have made stew?”

“Uh, never mind. The point is!” Lloyd bent to the sack and cupped the soil with both hands, holding it up proudly to show off. “This will make your plants grow really big!”

As Lloyd said, one always learned best through experience. And it wasn’t until Tabatha placed her own hands in the soil did she understand.

The Ozette soil was rich in nutrients. She could assess this on the tips of her fingers, the nerves built there by her Master. A good pH level (as Raine’s book emphasized it should be), and enough moisture to last for the next two weeks. She understood now just how careless she had been to neglect this for her flowerpots.

She cradled the soil, her palms turning dark from the touch. It felt so alive to her. It was alive. Different from the Exspheres, from herself—yet so familiar.

Lloyd was already going to the garden patch, rolling up his sleeves and using a trowel to dig a small inlet in the ground. “So, since we already cleared away the weeds, we need to loosen some stuff up for the soil. It’ll help grow better that way. Dad always said, ‘Ya don’t want it to be too firm that the leaves struggle to find that sunshine!’”

When he spoke, he had lowered his voice, taking on a raspy tone that she instantly recognized in her Master’s own voice. Tabatha marveled. Perhaps Lloyd had a bit of dwarven blood in him after all?

Afterwards, Lloyd cleared his throat, a soft chuckle leaving him. “A-Anyway! You have the seeds, right?”

She had momentarily forgotten once more. Quickly, she deposited the soil back into the sack, reaching for the small assortment of seeds in a small pouch she retrieved from her pockets. “Yes. However, I still do not know what flower will sprout from these.”

Another purchase from that same traveling merchant, yet she had neglected such basic information. She presented it to Lloyd who looked at it eagerly, the small, almond-shaped seeds nestled together in its small home.

“Hmm…” Lloyd looked at it thoughtfully, then nodded, and then scrunched his forehead. “Huh. I…have no idea either actually?” He scratched his cheek, dirt staining it immediately. “It kinda looks like zinnia seeds…but I don’t think that’s it.”

Tabatha looked once more at the pouch, an unassuming thing made from burlap. “Are these not the correct seeds then?”

“No. I mean, they’re still seeds…Hey, this just means it’ll be a surprise to see what grows from them!” With fervor, Lloyd gently picked up the pouch, depositing a few seeds in his palm. “Wanna start planting?”

Even when Lloyd didn’t know, he continued with their task in full confidence. Tabatha admired it, so she smiled, feeling a brief spark light within her chest. Perhaps this was excitement?

“Yes. Thank you for teaching me, Lloyd.”

--

“Dwarven vow #41,” Lloyd had recited to Tabatha. “It’s better to begin in the evening than not at all!”

Yet she sometimes found herself kneeling before the garden patch she and Lloyd had created together, wishing she’d started sooner. Beds of the Ozette soil were laid horizontally across the ground, in separate mounds and with enough space between them. Sunlight fell fully over the planted seeds, free from the shade of overhanging trees, the earth as dark as her Master’s tools.

Still, a week had passed with nothing so much as a sprout.

“Tabatha, did you need any help?”

Again, she had been caught off guard. But the voice that called out to her was gentle and warm, much like Lloyd’s. Much like her Master’s.

“Greetings, Colette,” she answered, halting on every syllable, including the girl’s name. “I am just watching the garden.” Watching, and waiting.

The footsteps of the girl were so quiet that Tabatha at first wondered if she was using her wings. But a brief turn showed no such violet shapes behind Colette. Instead, she walked along the grass carefully as she held up a giant metal watering can in her arms, greeting Tabatha with a smile.

“Sorry,” she instantly apologized. “I’m trying not to drop it again. It’s already cracked a little on its side…”

The closest thing to laughter nearly bubbled to Tabatha’s lips. The sound didn’t leave, for she could not form a breath to do so, but she smiled back in return. It was a marvel that the girl could somehow make metal crack just from a fall. “The Master can fix it if it should break. So please, do not worry.”

Even so, she watched Colette keep her careful steps—and still have her foot turn in an odd direction. The result was her landing on her knees in the dirt next to Tabatha, but still clutching the still intact watering can. “Oh, I didn’t know the ground dipped there!”

From what Tabatha could see, the ground didn’t dip at all. It was perfectly flat. But Lloyd had often told her that Colette’s trips were miraculous.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

Colette still held the watering can, the water gently sloshing inside. “Lloyd told me some plants get really thirsty, some more than others.” She then held out the can to Tabatha. “So, maybe we just need to water it more! Because…you’re worried why they’re not growing, aren’t you?”

Tabatha had no capacity in her to lie or hide her feelings very well. Still, she tried to change the focus. “The Master has told me some plants take longer to sprout than others. Perhaps that is all it is.” And it was truly something he said, patting her hand when he saw her worries plainly on her face. Even so, she accepted the watering can from Colette. Her Master had also fashioned this once he heard of the garden, and she could feel the care of his hands in each of its curves. “Was it difficult to get the water from the well?”

“Oh, not at all!” Colette clasped her hands together. “I almost fell in but Sheena caught me just in time! …But that was also when I dropped the can…”

Again, that feeling of laughter bubbled within her. Was it just Colette’s presence that instilled such warmth? “Colette, thank you for your concern. But please value your own safety. These plants…they are my responsibility.”

And if she can’t grow such plants, then perhaps that was just another failing of hers. Yet this time, she had wanted to succeed.

“Even if you are growing them, it’s fine to ask for help.” Colette bent her head slightly towards the patch, the dark soil absorbing the sunlight in its depths. “Lloyd was happy to help you. I’d like to do the same, even if I don’t know much about growing plants like he does.”

Tabatha heard the note in her voice—a kind note, but one that wanted to be useful. How familiar that was. She shifted the watering can in her grip, pouring one end of it over the patch. Water drops spilled out like rain, darkening the soil even further.

“You are right, Colette. It has been a rather dry week. Perhaps more water is needed.”

From Colette’s expression, she had done something to make the girl happy. Also, there was something truly invigorating about tending to the plants this way. Surely, at least giving them water was better than simply watching, waiting, and wishing for the plants to sprout.

While moving further into the patch to water another soil bed, she heard Colette gasp out a name in eagerness. “Oh! Hi, Lloyd! You’re back already?”

Looking back, Tabatha saw Lloyd rush to them. Once again, he held another sack in his arms, this time bigger than the last. “I got…I got more soil!” Lloyd huffed loudly, struggling with his burden, nearly losing his balance as he ran towards them. “It just…probably needs more! I think? More food always helps! And then we can—uh oh.”

Lloyd wobbled on his feet. His white neck ribbons fluttered in the breeze as he tried keep his balance. But seeing his predicament, Colette rushed to him quickly, her wings sprouting from her back in an array of violet.

“I got you, Lloyd!” she said, quickly hefting up the sack from his arms in her own grip. She held it up high over her head with ease. “There!”

And the result? The open end of the sack now facing Lloyd from above, so that an avalanche of dark soil poured right over his head. “Waaammff!”

“…Oops!”

Tabatha watched as Lloyd spat out the dirt, laughing as he did so while Colette fervently apologized, her wings flapping so quickly that it seemed she would have flown away at such speed. Yet after a while, she joined in his laughter too, a mix of high and low tones, complementing each other like two parts of a whole.

Tabatha could still not laugh—laughter was not natural to a non-living being. But hearing Lloyd and Colette’s laughter was enough, making her feel so oddly light on her feet.

--

3

.

.

.

It took several weeks for the first seed to sprout.

By then, Lloyd, Colette, and the others had already left Altessa’s home. They would come by with the occasional visit, but always quickly, and always with an urgency now in their movements. Barely could they stay for dinner, let alone a trip towards her now sprouting garden.

Soon, it was just her, her Master who was always diligently working at his bench, and the young half-elf named Mithos.

“It looks so frail,” he had commented once seeing it. He had helped carry along a sack of the mulch she requested, so that the weeds could keep from invading the soil beds. “And it doesn’t look like any flower I’ve seen. There are no petals at all.”

Tabatha gazed at the new growing plant. It certainly lacked the colorful petals she had seen from the those in the flowerpots. Yet even so, she found herself content as she knelt beside it, carefully sifting the soil so as not to uproot the small seedling. Green leaves extending from a growing stem, catching the color of the sun, painting it a vibrant green.

“But it is healthy,” she said. “And with enough care, it should grow.”

Mithos was silent. Still, he went about to help her prepare the soil, sifting in the mulch where needed, watering the soil just enough, eyes glancing towards the other sprouts that had also just begun to finally peek through the earth.

“But it’s not food, or even medicine,” Mithos said as he now sat by her on the ground, watching Tabatha adjust the leaves to fully catch the sun. “What purpose is there in growing it if it won’t help at all?”

Tabatha, surprisingly, didn’t have to take long with her answer.

“Because I want to see it survive,” she told him. “Do you not want the same, Mithos?”

Silence again. He could barely even look at her, his eyes fixated on the watering can, lips pressed firm. Tabatha felt she had done something truly grievous then.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t, it’s…it’s fine.” Mithos finally faced her, his smile back on his face. Yet such a smile didn’t match the lines around his eyes, or the nearly rigid motions of his hand as he helped pack in the new soil. “I was just remembering my sister. She liked planting, too.”

There are certain notes in a living being’s voice that Tabatha could detect, like a tiny vibration or a barely heard hitch. She knew how Mithos’ voice tightened as he spoke, and even more so when he looked at her. It was hard for him to be around her, she realized.

And yet, he always followed her into the kitchen when she prepared their meals, or into the workshop as she watched her Master at work, and even out into the garden, like a shadow that trailed at her heels.

“She used to grow her own gardens back at our home,” Mithos continued. His eyes were fixated on that seedling, the wind shifting his hair against his cheek. “Flowers, but also fruits and vegetables. Then we had to leave, but…as we traveled, she liked to nurture the flowers we found along the way, to try and keep them alive.”

“Your sister sounds like she was a very kind person.” She smiled. “That is why Mithos is very kind too.”

Silence again. Sometimes, such moments would stretch for hours. She did not wholly mind, for she was never truly adept at conversation. But something simmered underneath the quiet, making even her synthetic limbs feel a bit tense.

Instead, Mithos chuckled softly. “She was the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

They stayed within the garden for a while, until Tabatha finally relented, knowing other chores needed her attention. Still, she kept her gaze on the seedling, Mithos’ words floating within her head. If it was frail, would it survive the night? If it was useless, would her devotion to it simply mean nothing in the end?

“How did you get the idea to start growing a garden?” he asked her then. He gathered the gardening tools in his arms, the trowels and gloves that he had used himself, stained with dirt. “Someone told you about it, didn’t they?”

She knew just how she would answer his question would be important. And yet, she could not lie. Besides, Mithos was only curious.

“Lloyd taught me. But my Master gave me the idea.”

Mithos made a small noise, one she could not place. But as he moved, she saw a slight tremble from him, and rushed over to carry one of the tools.

“Are you still hurt from your injuries?”

“I’m fine. I promise.” He shook his head, his smile up once more. “Let’s just go back.”

Perhaps she felt a debt was to be owed after he had saved her from her own carelessness, but she also still felt a certain sadness from him. Familiar. Overwhelming, even. It reminded her of the loneliness of the Exspheres.

So as they went back to the house, she never minded him trailing after her every step, even long after the sun had set. If it made him happy, then she was happy, too.

--

4

.

.

.

A failure of a doll will eventually break, as all things do.

She could not feel pain the same way a living being could. Many times before had she accidentally cut at her fingers when dicing carrots for her Master’s stew. It would always be a small fix, her hand still as her Master would retrieve his tools and mend her skin, whole again, new again.

Her bones shattered at her spine when she was thrown to the wall. Her skin cracked and spiderwebbed from her eyes, across her knees, trailing down her arms. Pieces of her fell to the ground. She could not move her fingers, and her voice box was stuck in a loop, the force of the impact jarring her data, misaligning vital keys of her moving parts.

She fell into the dark. She remembered Master Altessa falling over in pain. The pain of living things is too much to bear, and could do nothing to stop it. For a broken doll can’t do much of anything.

--

Mithos saved me.

Welcome. How may I help you?

Mithos is kind.

The Master is busy.

Mithos hurt me.

My name is Tabatha.

Mithos. Mithos.

Where is Master Altessa?

…

Lloyd taught me.

Colette is kind.

The Master gave me the name—

“Tabatha.”

When she came to be once again, it was in waves, rising and falling.

She saw the light of the gas lamp above her. It was dirty. The soot in it needed to be cleaned. But she could not raise her arms.

They were still broken. The flesh had come apart in pieces, jagged at her forearm. Yet even as someone called her name, she could not call back. Of course. Her voice box had been shattered as well. Broken. It needed to be replaced. Or thrown out. It would be better to discard her, for she was nothing but waste. She was a failure, was she not?

And yet, callused but gentle hands placed themselves on her ruptured arm. They paid no heed to her jagged ends. They simply molded her flesh over bone, stitched together with care.

Tabatha’s vision blurred. Her eyesight must have deteriorated—how much more broken could she become? She could not be fixed. How many hours had been wasted on her, just to make her function again?

Even so, she didn’t want to be forgotten, to be left alone. She closed her eyes.

The Master taught me.

The Master is kind.

The Master gave me the name Tabatha.

--

Again, it came in waves. But soon enough, Tabatha could rise from it quicker than before. She was not on a worktable like she had expected to be, but on a bed, with a pillow set beneath her head, and with blankets tucked around her frame.

A quick examination of her arms told her that no cracks lined her flesh. No broken fingers. No misshapen limbs. Her spine was shaped back into being, reformed to support her once more. Even her clothes had been mended, catching the light green thread formed by a needle into the hem of her dress.

But where was her Master?

Her memories were hazy and fragmented, but she remembered Altessa’s cry of anguish when he had been attacked. How he had crumpled to the ground, when before it seemed nothing could ever shift him from his stance without his permission. Her beloved Master, who felt pain differently from her.

Something compelled her then to go outside.

The house was empty and quiet, and the spare bedrooms cleared of any occupants. Once, they had been filled with the sounds of so many voices, of Lloyd and Colette, of Raine and Genis, of Master Altessa and Mithos. But the silence was overpowering, and when she left the room, she saw the front door slightly ajar. It was night outside, and it brought back memories of that same night when violence had shattered the calmness of her Master’s home.

But as she went out, there was no one around. The dirt road was undisturbed, and laundry still hung on the clothesline—she never had a chance to retrieve it earlier. But there was a familiar shadow to the far right, out in the grassy area where her garden was made.

A closer look and a steady tread revealed it to be her Master, watering the plant that had now grown into a sapling. A great hand reached out to touch a leaf, gently so. Even from the dark, she could see how the once fragile stem had become a trunk, how the leaves that had been few had grown into multiple.

“It’s growing faster than a typical tree,” Altessa muttered. He placed the watering can on the ground, doing so with a small grunt of exertion. “We may need to move it to a bigger location, or it will grow over the others. But doing so should not be too difficult.”

She saw him shudder, one of his knees giving way that nearly made him fall. Tabatha rushed to him, holding him up with both arms. His great beard tickled at her hands, and she felt his heart beating steadily.

“Master Altessa, you’re still injured.”

It took her a moment to realize then how her voice had changed.

No longer did she halt or sound stilted. The words flowed from her throat and off her tongue, to move along to the rhythms of her breathing. Yes, she was breathing now. To take the air in her makeshift lungs, to give her words cadence, and pitch, and sincerity.

Altessa patted at her hand, the skin around his eyes crinkling with a hidden smile—pride at the success of his own work. “I’m alright. A doctor from Flanoir came to treat me. I needed to get well as soon as I could.”

Tabatha felt the pace of her breathing increase, a sign of worry. Difficult to adapt to this new aspect of her, but she would never reject it. She grabbed at his hand, holding it tightly between hers.

“And it is only by your skill that I am also still alive,” she said. “I am so sorry, Master Altessa. I have been nothing but a burden. We can go home and just go back to how things were before.”

To her surprise, her Master shook his head. “It can never be as it was, Tabatha. You know this.”

She did not understand, but Altessa gently brushed away her hold to once again go to the sapling. It had already grown so tall, nearly as tall as he was. How it had sprouted from such a tiny seed made her marvel at its progress.

“You were made for a purpose,” he said.

Tabatha hesitated. Another human action, one she had never known herself. “But I am a failure.”

“Now, that’s just not true.” He gestured to the sapling, its thin boughs reaching wide, its leaves rustling in the night breeze. “You were never meant to stay here forever. I’ve been selfish. I’ve kept you here because I was a foolish and lonely old man.”

But Tabatha understood loneliness more than anything.

“Lloyd and Colette have already gone to break Origin’s seal, or so I’ve heard. Those strangely-dressed friends of Sheena’s have shared with me what they know. I don’t believe it will be that simple, however. Not when it comes to Yggdrasill…”

Mithos was the name unspoken, but she understood. She remembered the look in his eyes when he faced her. He was still so very lonely.

“There will be more work to be done after. There is always more work.” Altessa heaved another sigh, straying a look to his scarred hands. “Even for my kind, I am getting old. But I will still do what I can. And you will have your own part to play, I am sure. Something more important than taking care of a washed-up dwarf.”

“Master Altessa,” she whispered, reaching for his hand again that had only ever shown her kindness. “I was always happy with you.”

Tears left her eyes. They slid down her cheeks, like the water that nourished the sapling. Another human action, one gifted to her by her Master. She watched as he rubbed his knuckles against his own eyes. “Yer making me sappier than I’ve ever been.”

His grumpy tone bled through, but it was warm, as it always was. She wept quietly as a smile stretched across her newly-repaired face. Perhaps she understood now. The sapling behind her Master grew healthy—but it would not survive long in a world bled dry of mana at every given turn. Change was needed, and was necessary.

Yet still, she told him, “I will miss the name you have given me.”

Perhaps it was a final plea. Even once the sky changed, turning from a soft darkness to a strange and unbecoming violet. It gathered over them like storm clouds that would never dissipate. The presence of it already pulled her towards the very center of the world.

But how she will miss those once calm days.

Altessa squeezed her hand gently and nodded. “It will always be in safe-keeping here.” He tapped the side of his head, a soft rumble of a laugh leaving him, even with Derris-Kharlan looming over them. He already had so much faith in her. “Us dwarves have a good memory.”

And when she left the place that had been her home, mana gathering at her feet to whisk her away to familiar faces, she truly hoped her Master—her dear friend—would keep remembering it in her place.

--

5

.

.

.

It was routine for Altessa then; to note the sun at its zenith, to take the watering can to the tree, to take care of it all in her place.

The afternoon sky was patched with clouds—a true sky now, free of the Tower’s machinations, which had also crumbled to dust. And as the seedlings still took their time to grow, absorbing both mana and sun, Altessa made sure to visit the young tree he had moved to be nearer his home. It cast its shade over his doorway, where birds already perched on its boughs to rest. Stakes were built around it to keep it standing, but it would already no longer need it quite soon.

Taller than him, and would only grow taller still. The dwarf had no green thumb, but one was never too old to learn.

“Strange, but even now, it doesn’t feel quite as lonely anymore,” he said to himself. A small sigh as he sat at a nearby bench that he had fashioned, enjoying the shade, and the way the sun filtered through the leaves. “Is it the same for you, Tabatha?”

The tree’s leaves rustled in the wind, satisfied.

[midnightprelude]

Senseless, Pt. 2

Previous | Next

Finally, three years later, I tested positive for COVID-19. Of course, I couldn't suffer alone, so @oftachancer humored me in inflicting the disease on Dorian so we could write Anders taking care of him (and falling in love). This is a 4-part fic which will post daily! You can follow the #senseless da fic to get updates. Written for @30daysofdorian!

I entered three separate rooms before I found the blasted kitchen. The man had two stoves. Two. Each one probably cost more than my car. And an entire walk-in refrigerator that was nearly empty. I could have fit my entire apartment in that kitchen, not even counting the fridge or the pantries. My little tub of Neapolitan seemed so lonely, sitting on its otherwise empty wide shelf. I stocked the groceries away, placing the various medicines I’d picked up in a line on the counter.

Something for the fever, the cough, the congestion. A veritable panoply of pharmaceuticals. I brought them back up with a large glass of water and a tablespoon, dragging a chair to Dorian’s bedside.

“How’s the patient?” I asked, as cheerfully as I could manage for two in the morning.

Dorian stared at me, bedraggled and somehow glamorous despite his red nose and the dark circles under his eyes. “My throat is staging a rebellion and the reading lamp is now officially too bright. How are you?”

“Tired,” I admitted, offering him pills and measuring out liquids. “But I’ll sleep after you do.”

“You’re welcome to the coffee. There’s a sealed container of a pleasant Antivan roast and a press.”

“Is this your way of asking for some?” I asked, tilting my head.

“It’s my way,” he paused to cough into a washcloth I’d given him earlier, “of offering you coffee.” He closed his eyes. “I’m quite capable of asking for what I want.” 

“Good. Yes. Alright.” I glanced down at my hands. “I might make myself some, then.” I glanced down at the test waiting on the nightstand. Well. There was an answer, at least. “You tested positive, I’m afraid. But that means we know what we’re dealing with.”

“I followed all the protocols,” he sniffed, accepting the spoonful of cough medicine with barely a grimace. “I haven’t seen anyone but delivery drivers since the start of this bloody thing. Delivery drivers and one student, but we masked- Damn it, Colette.” He took the pills I handed him and the cup of water. “I should call and see how she’s getting on.” He peered at the pills. “None of these are the drowsy-making ones, are they?”

“The cough syrup is,” I admitted, “but you need the rest. If you try and work through this, it’ll take you three times as long to get over it.”

“…not work?” Dorian looked up at me perplexed. “What, at all? The virus knows if I’m thinking?”

“You need sleep,” I insisted, lifting my brows. “Much of the body’s repair mechanisms are most active during sleep. You should try to keep from doing anything strenuous, mentally or physically, for at least a week.”

Dorian continued staring at me, as though the sheer force of his personality might change the facts or at least my opinion of them. “…surely some activity is healthy. What am I meant to do? Stare at my ceiling?”

“Watch movies. Do a puzzle. Read something light, if it doesn’t make your head hurt.” I frowned. “It will probably only last a week, Dorian. What’s a week to a lifetime of working?”

It was as though I’d told him he would be in traction for months: the sheer horror in his expression. “I can’t be alone doing nothing for days.”

“…you need to rest. Really. It’s crucial.” I lifted my brows, then sighed. “…I don’t have another shift until Tuesday. I’ll need to leave to feed my cats but- I can stay with you if you-“

“Excellent, yes, thank you.” Dorian swallowed the pills and handed the empty glass back to me. “That would be best.”

“You really don’t like being alone, do you?”

Dorian shuddered. “I can’t imagine anyone does. This whole experience has been abhorrent.”

It had been for me, too, but for entirely different reasons. I felt like I’d barely been alone for weeks. I’d been looking forward to my three days off. Maybe I could rescue my poor, neglected herb garden. I simply patted the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s been hard on everyone.”

“Yes, of course it has. People put on brave faces; I don’t see why. It’s miserable being chopped off from the world without so much as a by your leave. I had appointments and events planned. There was a lovely little cruise to the Rivaini islands I’d been planning for months. Then some little beastie comes along and there's panic in the streets and silence. Silence, even when you play as much music as you can muster-” He broke off in a coughing fit. 

I rushed to the bathroom to fill his glass with water again. A pitcher. I should find a pitcher next time I ventured off into the maze. I placed the cool glass into his palm, handing him a tissue to dab at his lips. 

“You’re alright,” I murmured. “Maybe we should save the speeches for another time.”

Dorian nodded, grimacing, and cleared his throat into his fist. “I appreciate your presence,” his usually velvety voice scratched as he spoke. “…if you let me know what you need, I will… place the appropriate orders. Which- ah.” He rolled to the side, opening the drawer of the side table and returned with a crisp stack of cash. “There you are.”

“…should I ask why you have a bundle of money in your nightstand?” I stared at the bills, blinking. Maybe I should make more extracurricular house calls.

“One keeps these things around in case the need arises,” Dorian waved a hand wearily. “Was it more? I can forage.”

“…Dorian, I wasn’t planning on asking you for anything. The groceries were only about forty bucks.” This had to be at least five hundred dollars. “I really don’t need you to pay me for my time; I’m happy to play nurse for a little while-“

“Medicines and the like are quite expensive and I’ve been given to understand people are spending thousands for toilet paper. Take it. I’ll only use it as tissues.” He sighed, cuddling under his blanket. “Could you put another cloth on my head? That was nice.”

“Yeah. I can do that.” I sighed, shaking my head with a chuckle. Sweet, the way he hugged the pillows, his usually immaculate mustache grown in and smushed against the covers. I always tried to keep from having crushes on my patients, but I was only human. Mostly. In this way, at least. “I can even do a step better, if you’d like.”

“Oh yes?”

I nodded, wetting the wash cloth again. “Just scoot down a little bit so I can sit against the headboard. You can rest your head in my lap. Keep your tissues handy.”

Dorian opened his mouth and closed it, hummed slightly, and studied me. “That’s very generous. Although, I should warn you, if you don’t think that counts as a strenuous activity, I’m afraid you’ve been doing it wrong.”

I laughed, surprised, then rolled my eyes. “I was going to massage your sinuses.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that euphemism. I did have a lovely tutor teach me to ‘play the flute’ when I was in secondary school.”

I coughed. That seemed like something to unpack when Dorian wasn’t on six different medications. Or to never mention again. “Oh, yes. Snot. The sexiest of bodily fluids.”

Dorian sniffled, blinking blearily. “It was your suggestion.”

“I meant it in earnest.” I laughed again, unable to help myself. “To help with the congestion. The massage,” I added quickly, “not the euphemism.”

“Ah, well. One easily trips into hope. A massage is also appreciated.” He shifted down the bed and looked up expectantly. “I was wondering what the tissues were for.”

“Dorian?” I asked softly, placing a pillow on my lap and running my fingers through his hair. I knew enough not to expect he’d feel the same after his fever subsided. Sickness could make a three look like a ten. “Ask me again in a week, if you’re still interested?”

He sighed under my hands, his silver eyes peering up at me. “Ask you… what, precisely?”

“On a date. Or a different type of massage altogether.” I smiled slightly, rubbing circles against his temples. “I’ve got a policy against seeing my patients, but since you’re not technically that- When you’re feeling better, if you still want to see me, I’m not saying no forever, just for now.”

Dorian’s brow lifted, his lips curling. “You can’t say no; I haven’t asked you anything.” He dabbed his tongue to his lower lip. “You can ask me, if you like. You’ve already turned me down twice. A third would be too much for my fragile sensibilities.”

“…twice?”

“Hmm. Yes. At Hawke’s Disco Ball and Varric’s reading. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Insulted, but not surprised.”

“What, I-“ I stared at him, bewildered. Then frowned. “You were being- Oh.” Had what he’d taken for drunken jokes been- “You were talking about me?”

He chuckled, closing his eyes. “When I asked if you’d like to get a drink later? Did you imagine I was having a conversation with your shadow?”

“Excuse me, you didn’t use those exact words.” I lifted my brows. Something about how I’d intended to spend my evening? To which, like an idiot, I’d answered honestly: falling asleep to a tacky Wintersend movie with a bowl of ice cream. I had no idea he was even remotely interested in me. Why should he be? All he’d have to do is crook his finger and get anyone he wanted. “…I’m sorry,” I murmured, massaging the sides of his beautiful, beautiful face, feeling the heat rise in my own. “I didn’t realize.”

“Didn’t you?” He opened his eyes just enough that they were like mercurial crescents beneath dark thick lashes. “I’m rarely accused of being subtle.”

“Ah, well,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “I’ve always been a bit of a slow learner.”

“Unlikely.” Dorian watched me drowsily. “If you had realized… would it have changed your answer?”

“If I’d realized you honestly wanted to take me out-“ I met his gaze, as solemn as he’d been when he’d announced his impending doom. “I’d have said yes. I will tell you, though: I don’t really drink alcohol anymore. There are better ways to my heart.”

“Are there?” he asked, yawning into the pillow. “Like what?”

“The fact that I was the person you called when you thought you were on your deathbed.” I hummed, massaging the bridge of his nose, handing him a tissue. “Blow.”

He did, sighing pitifully. “The only other doctor I know is miserable and went into hiding a few years ago.”

“I suppose you’ll need to make do with me, then.” I squeezed his shoulder gently. “How’s your breathing, now?”

“I feel like I swallowed very sour brandy. Very strong, sour brandy. Is that breathing?” Dorian grimaced. “I do dislike medicated drowsiness.”

“It’ll help you sleep through the coughing,” I said, by way of apology.

“You know best.”

“I do.” I watched the furrow in his brow ease over long minutes. “Sleep well, Dorian.”

[mlek13]

Fall, Year 8: Kimbrell/Chun

These two households both rent apartments in the same complex as the Vijayakars and Hanbys.  Rebecca and James are actually peasants and Armando and Pamela are merchants.

Rebecca and James welcome their first baby, Sarah.

Since they both work outside of the home, Rebecca recruits the neighbors to babysit.  Armando looks more than happy to do it.

Unfortunately, while they are away the cleaning bot they bought from the Smith’s goes berserk with no one home to stop it.

Rebecca has to hear all about the smell as soon as she gets home.

The chaos is cleaned up by the time Sarah has her birthday.

Next door, Armando is thinking about the genie lamp in the yard.  (I didn’t know there was one or how long it’s been there.  I had to hunt for it before he could make his wish.)

I’ve been rolling a die to decide what my sims wish for and he got resurrect a sim.  I was trying to think of who would make the most sense for him to resurrect, then I remembered Colette is his cousin and they grew up like siblings, so Leila would make sense.

I thought I was going to have to have Leila stay with them until the end of the season, but then I realized the timing doesn’t matter since vampires don’t age.  Their apartment was not going to be a safe place for her to stay with so much being outdoors.

“Guess who’s back!  I hope you kept up with your studies while I was away.”

Later, Colette and Leila pay Armando a visit to thank him.  He and Colette should really make an effort to see each other more often since they were so close growing up.

Armando and Pamela welcome a second daughter to the family this season.  Her name is Amelia.

And their older daughter, Paulina celebrates her birthday.

[sentinelmania]

The Loft... and we get to see outside of the loft. the Pizza place at the corner, Colette’s Frocks, a lamps shop, 

Jim climbs up the fire escape to the second platform and comes in in his upstairs bedroom, where he soon looses his gun....

No trees there, no green, looks a lot nicer now

From the episode Mirror Image 3.14

[brookston]

Holidays 8.3

Holidays

Airplane Crop Duster Day

American Canoe Association Day

Arbor Day (Niger)

Armed Forces Day (Equatorial Guinea)

Big Forehead Day

Clean Your Floors Day

Cloves Syndrome Awareness Day

El Paso Massacre Anniversary Day

Esther Day

Flag Day (Venezuela)

Golpe de La Libertad (Freedom Day; Equatorial Guinea)

Great Expectations Day

Honey Day (Japan)

International Day of Family Planning

International Friendship Day [Original Date]

International Indigenous Rising Day

Klaatu Day

Marshmallow Day (French Republic)

National Booba Day

National COVID Survivor Day

National Ernie Pyle Day

National Georgia Day

National Guard Day (Venezuela)

National Hair Gloss Day

National Heart Transplantation Day (India)

National Michael Day

National Parks Day

National Ping Pong Day (UK)

National Sales & Marketing Collaboration Day

National Senior Pet Day

National Twins Day

New Brunswick Day (Canada)

Panama Canal Day

Pidjiguiti Day (Guinea-Bissau)

Play Day (UK)

Regatta Day (Canada)

Royal National Eisteddfod (Wales)

Vicki Draves Day

Yazidi Genocide Anniversary Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Cornish Pasty Day

Edible Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Day

Grab Some Nuts Day

Honey Day (Japan)

Maine Lobster Festival (Rockland, Maine)

National Watermelon Day

Watermelon Sugar Day

1st Thursday in August

August Thursday (Anguilla) [1st Thursday]

Brat Days begin (Sheboygan, Wisconsin) [1st Thursday thru Sunday]

Emancipation Day (Bermuda; 1st Day of Cup Match) [Thursday before 1st Monday in August]

Kid Lit Art Postcard Day [1st Thursday]

National Dash Cam Day (UK) [1st Thursday]

National IPA Day (f.k.a. International IPA Day) [1st Thursday]

Satchmo Days begin [Thursday nearest 8.4 thru Sunday]

Independence Days

Niger (from France, 1960)

West Sprinske (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Chokhor Duchen (Four Noble Truths; Buddhism)

Dawg the Dog (Muppetism)

Day of the Dryads (Pagan)

Dymphna Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Feast of Caligo (Mother of Chaos)

Gamaliel (Christian; Saint)

George Freeman Bragg, W.E.B. Du Bois (Episcopal Church)

Henri Cartier-Bresson (Artology)

Kanto Matsuri begins (4-Day celebration to encourage a good harvest; Akita, Japan)

Lydia of Thyatira (a.k.a. Lydia Purpuraria; Christian; Saint)

Myrrhbearers (Lutheran Church)

Nicodemus (Christian; Saint)

Olaf II of Norway (Christian; Translation of the Relic)

Postmodernism Day (Pastafarian)

Prairie Down (Muppetism)

Stephen (Discovery of his Relics)

Supplica Canum (Ancient Rome)

Walter Scott (Positivist; Saint)

Waltheof of Melrose (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Premieres

The Bourne Ultimatum (Film; 2007)

Chéri, by Colette (Novel; 1920)

Christopher Robin (Film; 2018)

The Cocoanuts (Film; 1929)

Dick (Film; 1999)

Duck Tales the Movie: Treasure of the Lost Lamp (Animated Disney Film; 1990)

Eat Drink Man Woman (Film; 1994)

Fear of Music, by Talking Heads (Album; 1979)

Grandview, U.S.A. (Film; 1984)

Hang ‘Em High (Film; 1968)

Havana, by Camila Cabello (Song; 2017)

Hot Rod (Film; 2007)

Hysteria, by Def Leppard (Album; 1987)

Innervisions, by Stevie Wonder (Album; 1973)

The Iron Giant (Animated Film; 1999)

A Man Called Adam (Film; 1966)

Man on the Flying Trapeze (Film; 1935)

Metropolitan (Film; 1990)

Mine, by Taylor Swift (Song; 2010)

The Ox-Bow Incident, by Walter Van Tilburg Clark (Novel; 1940)

The Philadelphia Experiment (Film; 1984)

The Princess Diaries (Film; 2001)

The Spy Who Dumped Me (Film; 2018)

Surfer Girl, by The Beach Boys (Song; 1963)

Total Recall (Film; 2012)

Underdog (Film; 2007)

Unidentified Flying Oddball (Film; 1979)

William Tell, by Gioachino Rossini (Opera; 1829)

Today’s Name Days

Benno, Lydia (Austria)

Aspern, Augustin, Lidija (Croatia)

Miluše (Czech Republic)

Nikodemus (Denmark)

Kaljo, Kalju (Estonia)

Linnea, Nea, Neea, Vanamo (Finland)

Lydie (France)

August, Lydia, Nikodemus (Germany)

Olimpios, Salomi (Greece)

Hermina (Hungary)

Giovanni, Lidia (Italy)

Augusts, Rets (Latvia)

Augustė, Lengvinė, Mangirdas, Steponas (Lithuania)

Oline, Oliver, Olve (Norway)

August, Augusta, Krzywosąd, Lidia, Nikodem, Symeon, Szczepan (Poland)

Jerguš (Slovakia)

Gustavo, Lidia (Spain)

Tage (Sweden)

Lida, Liddy, Lidia, Loyal, Lydia, Lyle, Lyman (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 215 of 2024; 150 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 4 of week 31 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Tinne (Holly) [Day 24 of 28]

Chinese: Month 6 (Ji-Wei), Day 17 (Gui-Si)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 16 Av 5783

Islamic: 16 Muharram 1445

J Cal: 5 Hasa; Fiveday [5 of 30]

Julian: 21 July 2023

Moon: 94%: Waning Gibbous

Positivist: 19 Dante (8th Month) [Walter Scott]

Runic Half Month: Thorn (Defense) [Day 6 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 44 of 94)

Zodiac: Leo (Day 13 of 31)

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 8.3

Holidays

Airplane Crop Duster Day

American Canoe Association Day

Arbor Day (Niger)

Armed Forces Day (Equatorial Guinea)

Big Forehead Day

Clean Your Floors Day

Cloves Syndrome Awareness Day

El Paso Massacre Anniversary Day

Esther Day

Flag Day (Venezuela)

Golpe de La Libertad (Freedom Day; Equatorial Guinea)

Great Expectations Day

Honey Day (Japan)

International Day of Family Planning

International Friendship Day [Original Date]

International Indigenous Rising Day

Klaatu Day

Marshmallow Day (French Republic)

National Booba Day

National COVID Survivor Day

National Ernie Pyle Day

National Georgia Day

National Guard Day (Venezuela)

National Hair Gloss Day

National Heart Transplantation Day (India)

National Michael Day

National Parks Day

National Ping Pong Day (UK)

National Sales & Marketing Collaboration Day

National Senior Pet Day

National Twins Day

New Brunswick Day (Canada)

Panama Canal Day

Pidjiguiti Day (Guinea-Bissau)

Play Day (UK)

Regatta Day (Canada)

Royal National Eisteddfod (Wales)

Vicki Draves Day

Yazidi Genocide Anniversary Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Cornish Pasty Day

Edible Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Day

Grab Some Nuts Day

Honey Day (Japan)

Maine Lobster Festival (Rockland, Maine)

National Watermelon Day

Watermelon Sugar Day

1st Thursday in August

August Thursday (Anguilla) [1st Thursday]

Brat Days begin (Sheboygan, Wisconsin) [1st Thursday thru Sunday]

Emancipation Day (Bermuda; 1st Day of Cup Match) [Thursday before 1st Monday in August]

Kid Lit Art Postcard Day [1st Thursday]

National Dash Cam Day (UK) [1st Thursday]

National IPA Day (f.k.a. International IPA Day) [1st Thursday]

Satchmo Days begin [Thursday nearest 8.4 thru Sunday]

Independence Days

Niger (from France, 1960)

West Sprinske (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Chokhor Duchen (Four Noble Truths; Buddhism)

Dawg the Dog (Muppetism)

Day of the Dryads (Pagan)

Dymphna Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Feast of Caligo (Mother of Chaos)

Gamaliel (Christian; Saint)

George Freeman Bragg, W.E.B. Du Bois (Episcopal Church)

Henri Cartier-Bresson (Artology)

Kanto Matsuri begins (4-Day celebration to encourage a good harvest; Akita, Japan)

Lydia of Thyatira (a.k.a. Lydia Purpuraria; Christian; Saint)

Myrrhbearers (Lutheran Church)

Nicodemus (Christian; Saint)

Olaf II of Norway (Christian; Translation of the Relic)

Postmodernism Day (Pastafarian)

Prairie Down (Muppetism)

Stephen (Discovery of his Relics)

Supplica Canum (Ancient Rome)

Walter Scott (Positivist; Saint)

Waltheof of Melrose (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Premieres

The Bourne Ultimatum (Film; 2007)

Chéri, by Colette (Novel; 1920)

Christopher Robin (Film; 2018)

The Cocoanuts (Film; 1929)

Dick (Film; 1999)

Duck Tales the Movie: Treasure of the Lost Lamp (Animated Disney Film; 1990)

Eat Drink Man Woman (Film; 1994)

Fear of Music, by Talking Heads (Album; 1979)

Grandview, U.S.A. (Film; 1984)

Hang ‘Em High (Film; 1968)

Havana, by Camila Cabello (Song; 2017)

Hot Rod (Film; 2007)

Hysteria, by Def Leppard (Album; 1987)

Innervisions, by Stevie Wonder (Album; 1973)

The Iron Giant (Animated Film; 1999)

A Man Called Adam (Film; 1966)

Man on the Flying Trapeze (Film; 1935)

Metropolitan (Film; 1990)

Mine, by Taylor Swift (Song; 2010)

The Ox-Bow Incident, by Walter Van Tilburg Clark (Novel; 1940)

The Philadelphia Experiment (Film; 1984)

The Princess Diaries (Film; 2001)

The Spy Who Dumped Me (Film; 2018)

Surfer Girl, by The Beach Boys (Song; 1963)

Total Recall (Film; 2012)

Underdog (Film; 2007)

Unidentified Flying Oddball (Film; 1979)

William Tell, by Gioachino Rossini (Opera; 1829)

Today’s Name Days

Benno, Lydia (Austria)

Aspern, Augustin, Lidija (Croatia)

Miluše (Czech Republic)

Nikodemus (Denmark)

Kaljo, Kalju (Estonia)

Linnea, Nea, Neea, Vanamo (Finland)

Lydie (France)

August, Lydia, Nikodemus (Germany)

Olimpios, Salomi (Greece)

Hermina (Hungary)

Giovanni, Lidia (Italy)

Augusts, Rets (Latvia)

Augustė, Lengvinė, Mangirdas, Steponas (Lithuania)

Oline, Oliver, Olve (Norway)

August, Augusta, Krzywosąd, Lidia, Nikodem, Symeon, Szczepan (Poland)

Jerguš (Slovakia)

Gustavo, Lidia (Spain)

Tage (Sweden)

Lida, Liddy, Lidia, Loyal, Lydia, Lyle, Lyman (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 215 of 2024; 150 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 4 of week 31 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Tinne (Holly) [Day 24 of 28]

Chinese: Month 6 (Ji-Wei), Day 17 (Gui-Si)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 16 Av 5783

Islamic: 16 Muharram 1445

J Cal: 5 Hasa; Fiveday [5 of 30]

Julian: 21 July 2023

Moon: 94%: Waning Gibbous

Positivist: 19 Dante (8th Month) [Walter Scott]

Runic Half Month: Thorn (Defense) [Day 6 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 44 of 94)

Zodiac: Leo (Day 13 of 31)

[blundering-owl]

Annual Fairchild Yule Ball

It was a slow, quiet evening for the lady of the manor.  She and her husband were seated by the fire, listening to their children play nearby and murmuring sweet nothings to each other.  Miss Duchess inclined herself close to Aristotle, with her arms strewn over her husband’s shoulder.  

Creeping up behind her brother, Lark playfully batted at the shorter cat.  Finch, ever the excitable child, gave chase.  Brother and sister scuffled and tumbled around the floor, puffed up and locked in a mock-fight.  Distracted by their play, the two rolled right into Colette, knocking her flat on the floor.  Lark was the first to pipe up.  

“Colette?  Are you alright?”

Huffing, “I’d be just splendid if you hadn’t rudely knocked me off my feet!” the younger girl swiftly turned her head and crossed her arms.  

Finch stuck his tongue out at her.  “It was an accident, I swear!” Came his protest.  

Their friendly squabbles were drowned by the sound of a piano coming from the family room.  Miss Duchess and her husband were watching their daughter intently as she performed O Willow Waly for the first time.  Starling was careful to keep her paws on their keys.  She played as though she knew the keys by heart.  

Starling’s last notes were met with applause from her parents, who drew her into a hug.  The young girl nuzzled against her parents’ thick, warm fur.  

Eventually, after a long squabble that turned into a tussle, Lark joined the others in the family room, Colette and Finch in tow.  Starling stiffened, sniffing around briefly.  Recognizing their scent, she raced to meet her siblings with a chuff.  They bobbed their heads in greeting.  From the couch, their parents discussed something unintelligible.  

“Children, children, come here for a moment,” Duchess called.  Colette and her siblings were quick to sit before them.  

“The ball will begin in a half hour.  Girls, you’ll come with me.  Finch, you’ll go with your father.”

 In the drawing room, a photographer sets up a camera while Madame Duchess gathers her children.  The boxy contraption, a four-lens, wooden bellows tintype camera, stood atop a three-leg stand.  By the sofa, Lord Aristotle joins Madame Duchess for a portrait.  As the camera whirred up to take a photo, Aristotle adjusted his collar and worked up a pose with Miss Duchess.  She settled her hands on Aristotle’s shoulder and laid her head on her hands.  Aristotle placed his hand on the small of his lady’s back, and he even managed a cheeky smile.  

After taking a few photos of the couple, the photographer moved on to their children.  Beneath a lavish chandelier stood Miss Colette Fairchild.  She wore her hair in a bun that flowed into layers of ringlets, decorated with begonias and calla lilies.  The gown itself was a light pink, with pink roses planted sporadically on the sleeves, bodice, and skirt.  For her portrait, Colette faced herself away from the camera, showcasing the intricate styling of her hair, as well as the detailed handiwork on the skirt and bodice.  Following Colette, Starling moved forward to take her own photo.  She stood at an angle, with her face partially obscured from the camera.  A waterfall of tight ringlets flowed over her neck and back.  Starling wore an ice blue brocade gown hemmed with pale blue lace and ribbon.  She also wore a small gold oval-shaped locket.  

Thereafter, it was Finch’s turn to take his own portrait.  He playfully slung his arm over a cloth covered table, dressed with a gold and white beaded lamp.  Finch wore a warm brown blazer and lighter brown pants.  In his left hand, he held a warm brown hat.  

Decorated with ornate, extravagant gold drapes, chandeliers, and lounge chairs was the Fairchild manor ballroom.  Madame Duchess was the first to arrive, with Aristotle in tow.  Later, guests had begun to filter in, starting with a friend of the family, Miss Windsor, who’d arrived accompanied by her husband.  After giving respects to Madame Duchess and exchanging greetings with her family, Miss Windsor and her husband joined them in waiting.  

Following the gradual filtering in of guests, the annual Fairchild Yule Ball had officially begun.  As Aristotle greeted guests, the composers started off with the Bohemia and France in origin dance, the Polka.  Within minutes, everyone began to pair up, whether it was with a partner, or with someone new.  

Miss Lark sat on one of the many lounge chairs conversing with Colette and observing the other guests.  After a while, it had become apparent that Miss Lark had acquired herself a certain.. Admirer.  To the lady’s left stood a woman dressed in a pale green and gold velvet suit.  The woman, Miss Opal walked up to Miss Lark and extended a hand in a proposal.

“Shall I have the honor of dancing this set with you?”

Giggling, Colette nudged Lark encouragingly.  Lark smiles up at Opal and bows deeply, giving the other woman her hand.  

The pair pranced merrily onto the dance floor and began to dance with the crowd.  Holding Lark’s hand with her own, Opal spins Lark in a circle to the right.  They then bounce forward, briefly break apart, and spin towards each other again.  

Clasping hands once more, they turn; to the side and forward, to the side and forward, to the side and forward.  Opal spun Lark to the right and put a hand on her waist.  Lark’s breath quickened at each stolen glance, each fleeting touch.  She fought the urge to get closer to Opal as they danced.  Now both Miss Opal and Miss Lark are bouncing and spinning and twirling around the other couples dancing.

Opal and Lark separate and dance alone for a while before bouncing forward and grabbing each other by the waist, spinning once more.  They resume their prior positions and spin and bounce even faster than before.  Opal kicks out a leg and twirls into the center once again, spinning Lark in a fast, grand way that makes her skirt flare wildly, showing off its magnificently intricate handiwork.  Finally, joining the other guests, they pause with the music and hold their hands for one last dramatic flare.  

When heading back to the lounge, Opal and Lark finally get a chance to talk.  

“You kept up quite well with me,” Opal offered, still holding Miss Lark’s hand.  

“As did you.”  Despite her short response, Lark could do little to hide her great happiness at the chance to finally dance with Opal.  In return for the dance, Mis Lark bowed and gave Opal her most gracious of smiles before returning to talk in quiet tones with her sister.  

Before long, the dance floor began to clear out for Madame Duchess and Aristotle as the composers played “En Reponce.”  

The couple spun rhythmically in a circle around the ballroom.  Aristotle would pick Miss Duchess up and set her down as they twirled.  Aristotle moved behind Madame Duchess and they moved back and forth.  The couple separated and bowed, ending their routine with Aristotle spinning Miss Duchess by the hand, pausing to bow as Aristotle held up their hands, before finally leaving the dance floor to sit with their children.  Madame Duchess and Lord Aristotle left right, arms interlocked.

Across the ballroom, amongst the couples dancing, laid and ancient Oak.  Its weather-worn branches wove their way through the wide, arching windows of Madame Duchess’s ballroom.  The peace was soon disturbed by Finch, in his grand entrance.  He inched his way up the tree and into the ballroom.  Finch had made it in, but not before he missed his footing, sending him for a spill onto the dancefloor.  His blunder was met with gasps and guffaws from the other guests.  A strange hand grabbed Finch and helped him up.  

Snickering, the other tom introduced himself.  “That was some stunt you pulled!  I’m Rune, by the way.”

Finch dusted himself off, biting his lip.  He tried to avoid Rune’s gaze.  “I’m, um– I’m Finch.”

Rune giggled.  “I know.  It’s nice to finally meet you.  You’re a lot clumsier than I imagined.” 

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

Before they could separate, a new song began to play, this time to the tune of gally polka dance.  Rune turned to Finch and held his hand out in a proposal.  

“Since we’re already here, will you honor me with your hand for a quadrille?”

Finch felt his face heat up.  He sucked in a breath and took Rune’s hand.  Rune placed his left hand on Finch’s shoulder and they moved in time with the others.  The pair bunched up, then spread out from the other couples.  They dipped and galloped around the ballroom.  Breathing heavily, Finch finally looked at Rune.  Really looked.  The other tom had light green eyes and long, ginger fur that flowed and bounced as they danced.  Finch’s mouth hung open as he struggled to follow Rune’s lead.  He’d never seen someone so beautiful.  

Finch and Rune were one of eight couples dancing.  When they spun, and Finch could see the glimmer in Rune’s eyes, he knew that their meeting, no matter how clumsy, was fate.  As the song ended, Rune sent Finch an exuberant smile, the kind that sends a warm sensation through your body.  

Finch couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at the crowd.  Would he ever see Rune again?  He found himself wanting to know the interesting tom more.  Sighing, Finch rejoined his family for refreshments.  Starling, ever the conversationalist, pulled him out of his thoughts.  

“Oh, Finch, you’re back!  How has the night treated you?”

“I had a bit of a rough start, but this really nice tom cat helped me up.  We also danced for a while.”

Colette and Lark chimed in, “Ooh.. Looks like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer!” they giggled enthusiastically.  

A gruff voice broke up their shenanigans.  “Now, now, you three.  Don’t tease.”  He laughed good-naturedly.  

A few hours managed to pass, and Colette and Starling each took their turns dancing.  At long last, the guests had taken their leave.  But not before a particular fellow left a note for Finch.  

Miss Duchess had finally wrangled all four of her now thoroughly bone-tired children and got them up to bed.  They’d have a long eleven days ahead of them; the festivities had just begun. 

[infinitcnexus]

The mongoose's barely restrained enthusiasm didn't escape Shrike's attention, but he kept whatever thought he had to himself as he carefully picked the knife up with one hand. He turned it back and forth, examining the weapon with the interest of a scholar well-acquainted with the science and art of death. The obsidian blade reflected the light coming from the fluorescent lamps on the shop's ceiling, and he didn't see his image staring back at him.

Taking a few steps back from Colette and Gunnar, Shrike tossed the knife into the air and caught it by the handle, holding it in an icepick grip with the sharp side of the blade facing outward. He slashed and thrust at the air a few times, taking note of the knife's weight, reach, and ergonomic. It may not replace Haedes completely, but it had everything he wanted from a dagger, the first two being ease of concealment and practicality.

"I still can't believe 90Gs got me somethin' like this," he commented, now holding the knife in a regular grip. "This is incredible."

Shrike returned Hazel's greeting with a modest smile, trying not to give away any indication of envy or disappointment when the teenage koala gave Colette a warm hug. They may be friendly now, but he was technically still a daemon out for the Philadelphia Witch's lifeblood as far as she's concerned.

"Must've been too excited to sleep in once she heard we were swingin' by," Shrike commented. "You said you got the blade ready?"

[mlek13]

Fall, Year 8: Cade

After spending a little too long in the sun on her way home from work left her feeling week, a scare from her late father’s ghost caused Leila to collapse on the bathroom floor.

Like with Lucretia’s close call, I rolled a die to see if anyone could intervene, but unfortunately it landed on 2, so poor Leila did not get a second chance.  :(

Leila Cade was the daughter of Erin Cade and the late Navin Langerak (whose spirit is responsible for her death).  She is survived by her wife Colette Burgos, daughter Naomi, siblings Evan, Aisha, Yasmin, and Amira, and her grandmother Lakshmi Langerak.  Leila was 42.

Leila’s death complicates the line of inheritance in the Cade household.  Leila and Colette were both their household heirs, but Colette gave up her position for Leila’s and it feels like she should go back and reclaim her birthright.  But the Valora household has been taken over by Valerie’s werewolf side of the family.  (I’m also thinking about what to have Cora and Ciara do, but that is something to decide at a later date.)  Even though she’s still a child, Naomi is next in line to be head of household after Erin passes, so I think Colette should stay and support her daughter.

I decided to look at who else is in line to head the Cade household and Erin’s next oldest daughter is Aisha.  I decided to move Aisha and Samira into the household as a backup.  They don’t have any children and so far don’t seem to have any interest in having any, but it would be good to have a couple extra adults in the household and one less separate household for me to play.

They just moved in and Samira looks like she’s having some reservations about this decision.

Things seem more peaceful during the light of day and Samira starts to settle in.

The family receives a genie lamp.   Maybe someone will resurrect Leila . . .

Aisha wants to make a wish.  I roll to see what she wishes for.

She chooses beauty and as a romance sim, I guess that makes sense.

Erin wants to make a wish too and she also chooses beauty.  I guess she thought Aisha’s wish was a good idea.  No one claims the third wish yet. Sorry, Leila.

Erin might have thought she needed the beauty wish since it came after getting rejected by this townie as she pursues her quest for multiple lovers.

Maybe the wish worked, since he (I think his name is Alec) comes by the house unprompted the next day.  He just can’t keep Erin off his mind.

Another random passerby is Elaine.  The two sisters have a nice catch up and share their dread about the upcoming winter weather.

Colette is a single mom now and takes on the duties of helping Naomi with her homework.

Naomi gets a visit from a ghost.  I didn’t catch who it was, but I think it was Navin again.

Leila’s ghost is out looking pretty and spooky.

I built a new lot for graves.  I was going to post about it in the Burgos’ post, since I’ve already moved their graves there, but I couldn’t find pictures of it.  I moved the Cade ghosts there as well, but I think I might miss having them on their home lots in spite of the trouble they sometimes cause.

[nedgis]

Pedrali ou le design innovant à l’italienne !

Pedrali est une entreprise familiale italienne fondée en 1963 à Palazzolo sull’Oglio. Elle cherche à satisfaire les exigences les plus hétérogènes, par des produits qui ont été conçus sous le signe de la fonctionnalité et du design.

Pedrali dessine avec passion des chaises, des tables, des tabourets, des luminaires tout en tenant compte des exigences et des envies en matière de design et de…