#minting coins and bars

[auriz12]

Invest in timeless elegance with our Gold Bar, featuring the iconic Dubai Frame design.💰 Secure your wealth with a symbol of luxury and prosperity. Perfect for both investment and gifting, it's a golden opportunity you won't want to miss!

[bairdmint0]

Secure Your Wealth: Purchase Silver Bars Today!

In an ever-changing economic landscape, investing in precious metals like silver has proven to be a reliable way to preserve and grow wealth. For those seeking a secure and tangible asset, purchase silver bars from Baird & Co., the UK’s largest independent gold trader and a trusted LBMA-approved member, is a smart choice.

Why Silver Bars Are a Smart Investment

1. A Hedge Against Inflation

Silver has been a time-tested hedge against inflation, maintaining its value even during economic downturns. Investing in silver bars allows you to protect your purchasing power as traditional currencies fluctuate.

2. High Liquidity and Global Recognition

Silver bars are widely recognized and accepted globally. They can easily be converted into cash or traded in markets around the world, making them a flexible investment.

3. Tangible Wealth You Can Hold

Unlike digital assets, silver bars offer a physical form of wealth. Holding a tangible asset provides a sense of security and control over your investment.

Why Choose Baird & Co. for Your Silver Purchase?

1. LBMA-Approved Member

Baird & Co. is an esteemed member of the London Bullion Market Association (LBMA), ensuring the highest standards of quality and ethical trading.

2. Complete Refining Process Under One Roof

As a leading independent gold and silver trader in the UK, Baird & Co. manages the entire refining process. From raw material to finished product, every step is handled with precision and expertise.

3. Diverse Range of Products

Whether you’re looking to purchase silver bars or legal tender bullion coins, Baird & Co. offers a wide selection to cater to every investor’s needs.

How to Purchase Silver Bars from Baird & Co.

Step 1: Visit Their Official Website

Start by browsing the extensive collection of silver bars and bullion coins on Baird & Co.'s official website.

Step 2: Choose Your Product

Select the silver bar size that suits your investment goals. Options range from small 1-ounce bars to large kilogram bars.

Step 3: Secure Your Purchase

Complete your purchase with confidence, knowing that every product meets the highest standards of purity and authenticity.

Benefits of Owning Silver Bars

1. Diversification

Silver bars provide an excellent way to diversify your investment portfolio. Unlike stocks and bonds, silver is a tangible asset with a value that is not directly tied to market trends.

2. Affordable Entry Point

Compared to gold, silver offers a more affordable entry point for investors, allowing you to accumulate wealth without a significant upfront cost.

3. Growing Industrial Demand

Silver is a key material in industries like electronics, solar energy, and healthcare. This growing demand ensures its continued value and potential for appreciation.

Tips for First-Time Silver Investors

1. Start Small

If you’re new to silver investing, start with smaller bars to familiarize yourself with the market.

2. Understand Market Trends

Keep an eye on silver prices and market trends to make informed decisions about buying and selling.

3. Choose a Trusted Dealer

Always purchase silver bars from reputable dealers like Baird & Co. to ensure authenticity and quality.

The Future of Silver Investment

With the world moving towards renewable energy and advanced technology, the demand for silver is expected to rise. Investing in silver bars today positions you to benefit from this growing trend while safeguarding your wealth.

Conclusion

Investing in silver bars is a powerful way to secure your financial future. With its timeless value, industrial demand, and tangible form, silver remains a top choice for investors worldwide. Trust Baird & Co., the UK’s largest independent gold trader, to provide you with premium quality silver bars. Start your investment journey today and experience the confidence of owning a truly valuable asset.

For more details and to purchase silver bars, visit Baird & Co..

[au-bullion]

Invest in Precious Metals - Silver Rounds

Silver rounds are beneficial to buy when you invest in precious metals. This is due to their lower premium over the spot price of silver, Making it economical for investors

[colekinnie-4life]

Food related Ninjago headcanons because I stayed up too late last night (not elaborating any more than that)

Kai has a really, really low spice tolerance, despite being the Master of Fire. He's like me where, if he has a single atom of chili powder, he goes into cardiac arrest.

He still tries eating spicy food sometimes, but ends up with his mouth literally on fire.

He's also lactose intolerant.

Jay is extremely allergic to peanuts. If he smells the slightest dust fragment of a peanut, he blows up like a balloon. He always has an EpiPen on him.

Cole doesn't eat pork.

He also still sucks at cooking and once even managed to burn water. Nobody volunteers him to do dinner, unless he makes that punch he made during season one that quote, "wasn't that bad".

Nya is ironically allergic to shellfish, but she doesn't eat fish in general since she can talk to them and stuff. She's the opposite of pescatarian.

Lloyd is still a candy addict. He likes chocolate bars and pillow mints the most, but when he was younger, he really liked chocolate coins and lollipops.

Zane makes dinner every night and packs everyone lunches for their side jobs (in my au the ninja have jobs besides being ninjas). He also bakes cookies with Lloyd every once in a while, since he teaches him how to cook and stuff.

Pixal is also very good at cooking, but she lets Zane do it most of the time since he enjoys it more than her.

[wildemaven]

saturdays with javier : unconditional | javier peña

-> pairing: javier peña x f!reader

-> word count: 1744

-> content warnings: 18+ blog; soft smut, kissing, coffee consumption, lots of fluff, baby cows, mentions reader wears a necklace, zero descriptive features of reader, established relationship

-> notes: what was once known as Coffee, Cows & Cock. The final title nowhere close to that lol This was just another random thought and another excuse to write in some cute baby cows. Big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey who not only coined the CCC title, but helped cheer me on and beta this as well!!

series masterlist / main masterlist

“Amor, it’s time to get up.” His voice is low and warm against your ear, mindful of the early hour and the way sleep is still so firmly wrapped around your listless self. 

“Mmm, Javi. It’s too early, let’s stay in bed a little longer.” You manage to say, turning your body towards Javier, where he is laying next to you on top of the disheveled bed sheets.

You’re not a morning person per say. At least not if you don’t have to be. Sleep is a sacred function, especially when your husband delivers mind blowing evenings night after night. Sleep is needed. You rise with the sun and start your mornings together. But on a rare occasion, you will wake while the moon is still shining dutifully, bidding it a farewell as you begin your day at an ungodly hour. 

“Against my better judgment, I’m ignoring your plea for more sleep, so time to get moving if we want to beat the sun. The minute we get back, you can crawl back under these covers— I might even join you.” His alluring words murmured against your bare shoulder, the softest kisses in their wake. 

You hold him close. Fingers tangling in his freshly washed hair, smelling of the citrusy mint shampoo you recently bought him— finally running out of his all-in-one bar of soap. He pulls back to look down where you’re still lying comfortably among the heap of pillows. Your hand settles on Javier’s cheek, the coarse stubble is rough and resistant as your palm rests against his cheek— he must have opted out of shaving at this early hour. 

“Promise you’ll join me when we get back and you have yourself a deal, Javi.” 

“Te promeso, mi amor.” His lips mold over yours, sealing his promise with the softest kiss. A promise he’s sure to keep, but he has other plans for the time being. 

Javier works well under pressure. Years and years of elaborate training and risky operations requiring quick thinking on the ground, has made him proficient in his ability to do things in a timely manner with exquisite detail and stunning results. 

Instincts thrum through you. Your body is well versed in the way your husband is capable of pulling you apart— even when sleep is still within reach. Giving yourself fully to his control and allowing yourself to feel every single breath, kiss and graze of his mouth over every curve of you. 

Bedsheets thrown from your body, the cool air of your bedroom is like ice on your skin— a devastating paired with the warmth of Javier’s body over yours. Your legs fall open, welcoming him, a silent plea for him to give you all of him— fully and completely. 

It’s astounding how Javier has the ability to bring you to life. His voice, all smoky and smooth, dances across your dewy skin. His nose pressed to your cheek. Praise pouring from him as he continues to worship you. Beautiful. Perfect. Amazing. 

Javier is all consuming. From the way he makes your toes curl to the way your leg muscles tense as he hits that heavenly spot within you, every bit of him is intoxicating. All you can think about is him— Javier, your everything. 

Before you’re even able to realize it, he has you both free falling. Bodies brimming with a satiated bliss. I love you’s exchanged silently as he kisses you breathless. His body vibrating and warm under your fingertips. 

“Mmm, that was just what I needed to wake up.” You humm against his plush lips. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling more awake.” He kisses you gently. “Time to get up and get this cute ass moving now. I’ve got coffee waiting for us in a thermos. Go get dressed, Amor, so we can get on the road.” 

*

Minutes after Javier has left to warm up the truck, you’ve managed to extricate yourself from bed. You quickly brush your teeth and wash your face, you’re throwing on a comfy pair of Levi’s, a Sherpa lined denim jacket over your thick thermal shirt, some wool socks and your well-worn brown boots. You make sure to grab your camera and a few rolls of film before you’re heading out the door. 

As promised, there’s a thermos of coffee waiting for you in the cup holder when you slide onto the bench seat of Javier’s old pickup truck. Javier is sipping from his own coffee as you settle in, then places it in the holder next to yours. “You’re too far away, Querida. Scooch over here.” He pats at the open leathered space between you. A gentle kiss to your temple as he pulls the lever down to drive, once you’ve reached the spot right next to him. His right hand settles between the warmth of your thighs and rests there as he heads in the direction of the ranch. 

There’s a comfortable silence in the cab of the truck. Your head finds a spot against Javier’s shoulder as you gaze out the windshield. The familiar road is still recognizable even under the dark morning sky. 

There’s a slight jostle, and the truck rolls to a stop. “Baby, wake up. We’re here.” Javier whispers, the arm you had been sleeping on coming up to wrap around your shoulder. 

“Sorry, Javi. I didn’t even realize I fell asleep.” Your eyes slowly open, your shoulders scrunching up to ease the ache in your back from the awkward sleeping position. 

“It’s a good thing you’re my favorite sleepy passenger.” His hand tilts your face towards him, his lips softly molding over yours briefly. “I’ve got to get the gate. Save my spot?” 

“Always.” You beam at him, watching as he climbs out and opens the large metal gate and entrance to the Peña Ranch. 

It’s not long before he’s back and the truck is heading down the dirt road. The headlights guide the truck to its final resting spot for the morning. Beneath the giant old tree that still sits on the back side of the ranch. The tree where you had exchanged your vows, now a regular visiting spot for the both of you.

It’s not nearly as dark as it was when you left your house. The sky now a light blue as the sun slowly starts drifting up over the hills. The light fog slowly burns off, making the pasture a bit more visible.

“How many are there now?” You ask in between another round of sips of your warm coffee. 

“Pops and I counted 10 yesterday. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a few more this morning.” He grabs for your thermos, having drunk the entirety of his while you were sleeping, you hand it over as you continue to watch the herd of cows in front of you. 

The newest calves joined the Peña ranch over the last few days and you had been begging Javier to bring you this weekend. In the distance you notice a few little heads pop up above the brush line, awake and ready for their morning milk. Their little legs still not quite acclimated to being earth side as they try to make their way to their mamas, who were enjoying tuffs of the dry grass as they waited for their young to join them. 

Pulling out your camera, you start snapping a few pictures through the window. The tree’s canopy perfectly framing above and the heard off in the distance with a wash of pinks and yellows as the sun finally crests the hilltop. Javier watches you take it all in, his elbow propped against the window of the driver's door, nursing the rest of your coffee. 

“This was worth it. Thank you for the early morning wake up and bringing me to see them.” You settle back into the seat. 

“There might be something else for you in the glovebox.” You sit up, turning to look fully at Javier who's got a handsome smirk on his face. 

“Javier. What do you mean there’s something else in the glovebox for me? I thought we agreed on no gifts this year.” You should have known he wouldn’t adhere to the agreement the moment he agreed to it. 

He gives you a nonchalant shrug and smile that makes you feel like you won the lottery with him— sometimes you can’t believe he’s yours. His arm draped casually over the back of the seat, his chin slightly raised and pointing in the direction of the glovebox.”

You open the small metal door on the truck dashboard. There, sitting on top of the truck's registration and insurance papers, is a small box. You grab it and sit back against Javier, before opening it. You look back at him again, his brown eyes filled with pure adoration and love for you. 

When you lift the lid, you find a small gold pendant and chain. 

“It’s a locket— it belonged to my Mamá.” He says, watching as you delicately remove it from the box. 

It’s a heart shaped locket, etched with intricate details of a flower. You turn it over in your hand, admiring it entirely. When it hinges open, you find a tiny picture of you and Javier on your wedding day already nestled into one of the slots. 

“It’s beautiful, Javi.” Wiping the few tears that have littered your cheeks. 

“I know how much you like that picture. I left the other one open for you to choose.” His hand rests at the base of your neck, thumb gently kneading over your skin. 

“Thank you. I love it so much.” You hand it to him so he can secure it around your neck. You tuck it into your thermal, where it perfectly rests next to your heart. 

You turn in the seat, your hand cupping the side of his face, you pull him to you for a kiss. His hand cradles the back of your head as the kiss lingers for a few minutes. 

“Happy Anniversary, Javi. Now take me home. I think someone promised to crawl back in bed with me.” He kisses you one last time as he turns the key and the engine comes to life. His hand settles back on your thighs, close just how he likes you. 

You don’t know what you did to deserve this life with Javier, to be loved so unconditionally by him, but you’re grateful for another year together and looking forward to many more. 

[supremechancellorrex]

I wonder how long Rex took to pick up this little number with the contrast sleeve trim.

After a lifetime in armour, I like how the Imperial Era is finally allowing Rex to explore his fashion. This man is stylish and I don't even think he knows it.

Look at that little pocket. I bet he puts everything he needs in there. He's got all his pennies and coins in there, some mints, a little toothbrush, and a ration bar!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 4: Temporary Fix]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, crepes, mental health struggles, the Cookie Monster pajama pants are removed...😏

Selected Chapter Quote: “I will push you off the Eiffel Tower.”

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ 

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

“Our father never cared about us,” Aegon says at the rooftop bar in Kansas City, a full year before you meet Aemond, a full year before you know him as anything other than a face to be printed on t-shirts and keychains like profiles stamped into coins at a mint, things to be acquired, traded, hoarded, lost. Aegon is swirling the ice cubes in his Salty Dog with a green plastic stirrer shaped like a pirate’s sword. He’s glowing from his sunburn, but he glows from within too; you have the sudden and distinct impression that he’s made of weightless luminance, slice a vein and he’d bleed daylight. A year later, you’ll find yourself thinking that if you cut Aemond, storms and rogue waves would come pouring out.

“I’m so sorry,” you offer, knowing it will not help. But it can’t hurt either, unlike those platitudes that well-meaning but ignorant people like to besiege him with: Of course your parents love you. I’m sure they did their best. You’ll understand how hard it is when you’re a dad someday.

“I figured it out pretty early on. How much he preferred Rhaenyra. How I was the antithesis of everything he could have wanted in a son.” Aegon shrugs; it can’t be changed, it’s like trying to stop the rain. He sips his Salty Dog. Ice clinks; he licks his lips. “It took Aemond a little longer. Helaena was always with Grandpa and Daeron was mother’s favorite, but I remember Aemond trailing after our father like a duckling, asking him about history and books and whatever else, just desperate with this need to be noticed, to be loved. If my father was leafing through a biography at the kitchen table, Aemond would spend hours on Google trying to come up with a fact he hadn’t read yet. If my father mentioned a movie, Aemond would watch it over and over again until he had the lines memorized. I remember one Christmas, Aemond wanted the Helm’s Deep Lego set because my father liked the Lord of the Rings. Then he kept asking Dad to help him put it together. ‘We’ll do it this weekend.’ ‘We’ll do it after I get off this conference call.’ ‘We’ll do it tomorrow.’ ‘We’ll do it for your birthday.’ Never happened. Well summer rolled around and I guess Aemond figured he might as well just do it himself. So he stayed up all night putting that fucking Lego castle together and left it on the kitchen table where my father couldn’t miss it. So the old man comes downstairs the next morning for breakfast and we’re all sitting there with our waffles and orange juice, and Aemond is trying not to act too proud but he is, he’s literally shaking with impatience for Dad’s praise, even a crumb, even just a few words, the maple syrup bottle was trembling in his hands. And my father strolls into the kitchen, glances at this meticulously constructed replica of Helm’s Deep—I mean it’s like a sculpture in a museum, it’s goddamn perfect—and he gives this little snort of a laugh. He says: ‘Wow, look at that.’ And then he sits down at the table, opens his biography of King George V, and never mentions it again.”

This moment is real but it isn’t. Sitting outside in the warm, windswept Missouri midnight with a popstar you’ll never see again (an incorrect assumption) and stories you have no right to hear (so you believe).

Aegon takes another sip of his Salty Dog. “Not me,” he says with a puckish, sad half-smile. “I was never going to beg for someone to want me. I go wherever, I’m with whoever. No strings. No anchors. Nothing stays the same except the band, and that’s what bought me my freedom to begin with, so I don’t mind it so much. Me father is disgusted by me. But this is who I am. And I’d rather force him to watch me torch his legacy than break my back trying to earn love that was given away long before I was born.”

“Do you think that’s a part of why you have no interest in settling down?” you say. “I mean, commitment is a two-way street. And if you commit to someone, you have to trust that they’ll commit to you back. That they love you now, sure, but also that they’ll keep loving you. Maybe that’s something that’s difficult for you to accept. That someone could love you for more than an hour, a night, a day.”

He taps his Salty Dog against the tabletop, considering you, perhaps even marveling: wind in his blond hair, blood in his cheeks. At last he asks, teasing: “What are you, some kind of therapist?”

“Well, actually…in a year from now…” You feel uneasy assigning such significance to yourself—it feels inevitably pretentious, over-confident, unearned—but you can’t help returning his smile. “I sort of will be.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re laying in your bed with the French doors that lead out onto the balcony wide open. The breeze—sunny and warm and smelling of the bakery next to the hotel, croissants and baguettes and half a million different sorts of pastries—breathes in through the semi-transparent linen curtains, a great inhale, a sighing exhale. You can hear footsteps and laughing on the sidewalk outside. The tourists are a cross-section of humanity, with languages from across the globe: a sprinkling of Portuguese here, Arabic there, Mandarin and Hindi and Russian. When the wind flutters the curtains aside, you can see the Eiffel Tower across the Seine. You should be out exploring Paris, but you’re not. You can’t seem to get out of bed. It’s been almost one week since the fight in Reykjavik. You don’t speak to Aemond and he doesn’t speak to you, and everyone knows this but they don’t know why. Not the whole story, anyway. They caught snippets through the sliding glass door, but they didn’t hear what Aemond said to you.

You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.

And now Aegon’s words come back to you too:  Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

You pinch your eyes shut and roll onto your side away from the open balcony doors. Earlier you had gotten up, showered, deliberated leaving your room…and then immediately put back on your pajamas and crawled into bed. You have no idea where Aemond is now. He mopes around, he avoids you, he disappears on his 1960 Gold Star for hours, he takes notes in white ink, he takes calls on his iPhone.

There is the sound of a key—not a card, but a real, brass key, old and worthy of preservation just like the hotel—jangling in the lock of your door. Aegon steps inside. He’s FaceTiming someone in extremely poor Spanish.

“Adiós mi amor! Sí, te extraño. Claro que sí. Te extraño mucho. Vale, adiós. Hablamos pronto.” He hangs up and slips his iPhone into the pocket of his neon yellow cargo shorts. He’s wearing matching Crocs and a black Comet Donati band tank top. He pushes his aviator sunglasses up into his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey. Who were you talking to?”

“Camila Cabello. But she can wait.” He kicks off his Crocs and walks over to the bed, looking down at you quizzically. He tosses the brass key back and forth between his hands; Criston keeps the second copy of each one, so Aegon must have borrowed it from him. More likely, he thieved it. “You okay, Stargirl? You look stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

He grins, an eyebrow raised, sunburn on his shoulders. “Anything I can do to help with that?”

And you remember what he said to you back in Kansas City last June, a lifetime ago: I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either.

Aegon would never call you a slut. And even if he said it, he wouldn’t mean it in the way Aemond did. It wouldn’t be an insult, a belittlement, a curse. You watch him as he stands in the golden afternoon light, caring for you, wanting you in a way that is pure but not innocent. Do you want him too? Sure; Aegon’s beautiful, and you already know you have chemistry, and more than either of those things he is safe. But he’s not the one who keeps you up at night. He’s not the reason you thought, fleetingly and poisonously as you swallowed your birth control pill this morning: What a goddamn waste.

“Actually,” you say, peering up at him, your lips curling into a drowsy smile. “There might be.”

“Yeah?” He’s a little surprised but very enthused.

“Yeah.”

He whips his sunglasses out of his hair and sets them on the nightstand next to your souvenirs: the Colosseum pencil sharpener, the alabaster Apollo, the fighting bull refrigerator magnet, Portuguese soap and Austrian chocolate, the moose snow globe, the silica mud mask, the stuffed comet, the Eiffel Tower keychain you bought yesterday here in Paris, and if that’s cliché then so be it. The mattress shifts when Aegon climbs over to you, pushing up your oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt. He touches his lips to the softness of your belly, bites lightly and playfully, gazing up at you through his shaggy hair as he works his way down to the waistline of your Cookie Monster pajama pants. And suddenly, you’re back in Kansas City a year ago, feeling the comforting, harmless heat of him in the downstairs bathroom of a rooftop bar, drenched in glowing florescence like moonlight, your back to a red wall and his mouth all over you, first above and then below, coaxing the darkness out of your veins like a shot of penicillin cures sepsis. He’s antivenom, he’s white magic, he’s a spell.

“You sure?” Aegon asks now, pausing as his fingers unravel the blue drawstring on your pajama pants like the bow of a Christmas present.

You reach down to knot a hand in his hair, wanting to be closer to him, and he smiles, knowing what you’re going to say before you say it. “I am so fucking sure.”

A resistless tug and your pajama pants have vanished. Aegon positions himself between your thighs and buries his face in the thin strip of fabric that still separates you, black lace you didn’t buy while thinking of him. Aegon inhales deep and slow. “Oh God,” he moans. “You smell just as incredible as I remember.”

His thumbs slip beneath the lace and whisk it away: the coolness of sudden air, the warmth of his tongue. You gasp, drowning in the best kind of sea, waves that cover splintering piers and razor-sharp barnacles, currents that erase memory. It’s exactly like it was before. It will always be this way with him, you know, you feel in your blood that carries all the same elements as his: iron, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen that builds DNA, hydrogen that ignites and burns. And just like that red-walled night in Kansas City, you are amazed by how quickly the ecstasy blooms in you, wispy and yet unbearably powerful, clearing thoughts and uncoiling muscles.

“Good girl,” Aegon murmurs with your wetness dripping from his lips, watching your face as he slides two fingers into you; his own eyes—murky blue puddles that hold few secrets—are entranced, rapturous. “Now come in my mouth, baby. I want to taste all of you again. I want to drown in it. Come in my mouth, can you do that for me?”

You can, and almost immediately: he plunges his fingers into you as he strokes you with his tongue and the rush is bliss yet superficial somehow, sunbeams on wave crests, without the kind of miles-deep tragedy, pining, promises that poets like to write about. Aegon notices the towel you’d draped over the desk chair after your shower and reaches for it to wipe his face with, but you stop him, drawing him to you by his tank top; and you drag your tongue up his chin and over his lips, tasting yourself on him, licking him clean. Then you take his fingers into your mouth and suck them until he looks like he’s going to pass out, like he’s going to forget how to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, and he kisses you just like he did a year ago, with an intense sort of need and his hand against your face, his flesh and blood hot and pressed to yours, palm lines on your cheekbone. He wants you in a way that is unburdened by pasts or futures; and who is anyone to condemn that? Perhaps that is the most painless form love can take.

And as the high dissipates, fog burned away at noon only to creep back in the next morning, Aemond returns to you: his words, his wrath, his flawed yet flawless face. You feel unexpectedly, overwhelmingly low. But this is not the time or place for tears; Aegon is still here.

Now I have to get him off too. Now I have to repay him. That’s fair, right?

“Just do it.” You fling one arm across your face as you look towards the balcony, breathing in Paris and daylight, spreading your thighs wider for him, anticipating the faint pressure-pain that will blossom into pleasure as his body melds with yours. “It’s fine. Go ahead. Just fuck me.”

But when your eyes drift back to him, Aegon still has his clothes on. He sits upright and traces the line of your jaw with his fingertips, studying you with uncommon quietness. “No,” he says softly. “No, I don’t think so. You look sad.”

You nod, unable to trust yourself to speak without your voice breaking.

Aegon sighs and flops down beside you on the bed, pulling you against him, whispering as his fingers twist in your hair: “Come here. Shh, shh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

“You helped, Aegon.” Just not quite enough.

He kisses your forehead, and then your cheek, and then he looks at you expectantly. “Are you finally going to tell me what he said? That night in Reykjavik? I heard you screaming something about Missouri, but I don’t think that’s what fucked you up so bad.”

You hesitate as you lie together in the sunlit stillness threaded with distant footsteps and passing cars, Aegon twirling strands of your hair, fondness and familiarity and longing that he is politely trying to ignore. Beneath his neon yellow shorts, he is rock hard.

“Now I’m really curious,” Aegon says, smiling has he kisses your forehead again, entangled with you like tendrils of grapevines, morning glory, ivy. “Aemond’s fucked up too. He’s been lying on his bedroom floor and listening to The Script. He hasn’t done that since he and Shelby split.”

Shelby, you think desolately, flinching. “You warned me about Aemond. You told me he was full of demons.”

“Yup. I’m glad I can’t read minds. It’s gotta be like Poltergeist in there.”

But everyone has a few skeletons in their closet, don’t they? Bones that won’t stop rattling. Teeth that gnash and crave. “He called me a slut.”

Aegon pulls back, brow furrowed. He looks at you, trying to decipher which nerve Aemond hit. It is not a word that Aegon considers to be derogatory.

“But it wasn’t really what he said, it was how he said it, like…like…like because of what I’d done with you a year ago, I didn’t matter anymore. Nothing about me mattered. That he could never respect someone like me. That I had deceived him into thinking I was someone worth wanting.”

Abruptly, Aegon leaves the bed. He grabs his sunglasses off the nightstand and pads across the hardwood floor in his bare feet, steps into his Crocs, slides his sunglasses over his eyes, fluffs his blond hair that hangs in chaotic waves.

“Aegon…?”

“Come with me,” he says, nodding towards the door. He pulls a piece of cotton candy flavored Bubble Yum out of his cargo shorts and tosses it into his mouth. “Right now. Put some clothes on and let’s go.”

“Go where?”

Aegon does not elaborate. He only repeats while chomping noisily on his gum: “Let’s go.”

You rush to the bathroom and are ready in five minutes: flip flops, tousled hair, a flowing turquoise sundress you bought yesterday while shopping at Hermès with Baela and Rhaena. “Okay, seriously, where are we going?”

“Out,” Aegon says simply. You follow him through the doorway and down the corridor; like a bloodhound after evidence, Aegon tracks laughter that drifts through the hallway to Daeron’s room. The youngest Targaryen brother is playing Uno with Jace and Baela; Daeron has just made Jace draw four.

Aegon smacks Daeron’s shoulder and demands: “Where is he?”

Daeron is startled. “Huh? What? Who?”

“Aemond. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Aegon smacks Daeron again. “Where is he?!”

“I don’t know!” Daeron wails.

Mercifully, Baela intervenes. “Luke and Rhaena said they were going to the Eiffel Tower. Maybe Aemond went too…?”

“Cool,” Aegon replies. And when he sails out of the room, it’s not just you that goes with him; Baela, Jace, and Daeron file after Aegon as well, chattering conspiratorially. Aegon doesn’t wait for the elevator. He races down the grand staircase to the lobby: white marble floors and Oriental rugs, velvet armchairs and chandeliers, butlers scuttling and women hauling poodles around on taut leashes. Aegon strides past all of it without any interest. You follow him into the street outside and then across it, dodging taxis and limousines. Aegon believes crosswalks are optional. Next he locates the closest bridge over the Siene and traverses it.

“Are they gonna fight?” Jace asks Daeron excitedly. “You think they’re really gonna fight?!”

You plead as you hurry across the bridge, riverboats and swans gliding by below: “Aegon, I don’t want you to say anything to him.”

“I’m not going to say anything.”

“I don’t want you to shout anything either.”

Aegon peeks back at you, smirking wickedly. You know him too well. His pace picks up as he exits the bridge; next comes the vast stretch of gardens that surround the Eiffel Tower, strewn with picnicking tourists, fountains, ferns, lilies, roses, shrubs and trees and waddling ducks.

Jace gasps, euphoric: “Oh my God, they’re gonna fight!”

“Do you really see that ending well?!” Baela hisses back. “Aegon has to be on stage tonight! That’s not going to happen if Aemond snaps him in half like a KitKat!”

“Aegon, you can’t fight him,” you say, petrified. Aemond would win. Easily. Everyone knows that.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aegon, please!”

“What the hell happened?!” Baela puffs as she jogs up beside you, clutching your arm, bewildered and alarmed. You shake your head. Too long a story, not one you wish to share, not one you entirely feel you have a right to disclose. You’ve only told Aegon, and how is that going to turn out? You don’t want people to hate Aemond. You don’t want to alienate him from the band any further. That might seem contradictory given his recent disregard for your own wellbeing, but it’s—however regrettably—true.

“This is going to be so fucking epic,” Jace says. “Wait, do I have time to get popcorn? I think I should grab some popcorn. Wait, wait, there’s a crepe stand right over there, just give me five minutes. Aegon? Aegon?! Man, please, just postpone the beatdown for five minutes!”

“I hope you can sing Aegon’s parts too,” Daeron tells Jace. “I don’t have them memorized.”

“Cregan can do it.”

“Cregan is going to flay you alive if he sees you encouraging this.”

“He can’t sing all our parts,” Jace replies sensibly.

Aegon battles his way to the front of the long line of people waiting to purchase tickets to go up into the Eiffel Tower. They grimace and jeer at him, hurling swears in a myriad of languages. When he reaches the ticket counter, an aghast employee begins to implore Aegon—“S'il vous plait, Monsieur, vous devez attendre votre tour!”—until she gets a better look at him. Her mouth pops open; her sky blue eyes go impossibly wide. “Oh mon Dieu…”

“You know who I am, right?” Aegon says impatiently. “Yeah, you recognize me. Okay. I need to get up there right now. Me and my friends. What can I do to make that happen? I have lots of credit cards. I can also sign your arm or tits or whatever. What do you want?”

The employee settles for a selfie with Aegon, Jace, and Daeron. Daeron smiles dazzlingly and poses with two thumbs up. Jace gives Aegon bunny ears. Then the five of you receive your tickets. This time, Aegon is willing to wait for the elevator; it’s over 600 steps to the second floor alone, and you’re all already winded from the walk here. Aegon gets off at the first level, does a lap around the tower—tall glass barriers and metal cages around the balcony, a café and a gift shop—and then reboards the elevator to ascend to the next floor. The second level is more open. There is a railing around the edge of the walkway of course, but it only comes up to your waist. Next to one of the tower viewers is who Aegon is searching for: Luke, Rhaena, Cregan, Criston…and Aemond. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black Calvin Klein t-shirt, vintage Adidas sneakers like the ones Freddie Mercury had at Live Aid, sunglasses to shield his damaged eye from photographers, and a fanny pack. He’s biting into a Golden Delicious, round and shiny; juice glistens on his lips. None of them have spotted you yet.

You hear Luke ask Aemond: “Bruh, this is really embarrassing. You’re worth like $100 million. Why are you eating apples and pecans out of a fanny pack?”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find vegan food in Paris?”

Criston spies Aegon just as he’s closing in. He reads the fury on his face, his outstretched hand. “Don’t—!”

Aegon thrusts his palms against Aemond’s chest, hard, hard enough to force him back a couple of steps towards the railing. “Apologize,” he orders.

Aemond looks at you—for a moment, only a moment—and then back at Aegon. “For what?”

“You know what you did. Apologize.”

Everyone has gathered around. Criston’s dark eyes dart between Aemond and Aegon. He has a grip on Aegon’s shoulder, but he hasn’t dragged him away yet. He doesn’t know what this is about, and though he would never admit it…he’s intrigued. Cregan hovers close by; he lights a cigarette, taking advantage of Criston’s momentary preoccupation. Baela and Rhaena are gossiping in hushed voices. From behind his black sunglasses, Aemond stares at his brother, the wheels in his mind spinning. He doesn’t hit him, though he easily could. He doesn’t seem to have the spirit for it.

“Whoo!” Jace shouts, pumping his fist in the air. “Fight, fight, fight!”

Daeron mutters to Luke: “Are we taking bets?”

“Um, no?!”

“Right now,” Aegon tells Aemond, and shoves him again. “I mean it. I will push you off the Eiffel Tower.”

“Whoa, illegal!” Jace hoots. Cregan hooks a hand into the collar of Jace’s polo and yanks him back. “Hey, referee abuse over here—!”

“I will break your fucking arm,” Cregan growls.

“Okay,” Jace says. “Got it. No problem. I’m done now.”

“Apologize,” Aegon commands again, as if you’re the only people here: him, you, Aemond.

You are mortified. “Aegon, please don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. He’s looking at you again, and this time he doesn’t turn away. You wish you could see his eyes: windows to the soul, however clouded they might be. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since Reykjavik. The gravity of it—his voice, his steady gaze, the gut-punch realization of how much you still want him—knocks all the words out of your skull. You sweep them up like a child collecting spilled coins in cupped hands.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Aemond’s tone is benign, calm, like he’s already rehearsed this and has just been waiting for the opportune moment. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was speaking out of anger. It was impulsive of me, it was indecorous.”

What the fuck? Indecorous…? Who uses words like that in casual conversation? Incurably pretentious Aemond Targaryen, that’s who. “Thanks, I guess. You must spend a lot of time with your thesaurus.”

“Well, I write lyrics, so.”

“Yeah.” You wait for Aemond to add the most important part: that he was wrong about what he said, that it wasn’t true. But he doesn’t go there. He only apologizes for speaking it into existence, for vibrating the air with its treacherous molecules. “Okay,” you tell Aegon. “I think you got what you wanted. Can we go now?”

“Sure.” Aegon slaps Aemond across the back and gives him one final glare, swift but cutting.

“What’s a thesaurus?” Daeron whispers to Luke, who shrugs.

“Some kind of dinosaur…?”

“That’s alright, boys!” Jace says, clapping his hands. “Walk it off! Take a breather! Plenty of time for Round 2 later!” Cregan bends one arm behind his back. “Ow—!”

“No smoking,” Criston snaps, ripping the cigarette out of Cregan’s mouth and stomping it into ash.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, after soundcheck, eating dinner in the gardens under the lengthening shadow of the Eiffel Tower, dark stripes that swallow up daylight like bathwater sucked down a drain. Everyone has a crepe that’s rolled up in wax paper, as Europeans serve it…everyone except Aemond, of course. He’s sitting by himself under a 200-year-old sycamore tree and gnawing morosely on a plain baguette that’s as long as his own forearm. His iPhone rings; he checks who it is and then silences the call. Luke goes over to sit with him, dripping whipped cream from his banana and Nutella crepe all over his white shorts speckled with sailboats. You keep trying not to look at Aemond. Each time you see him is like poking a bruise; it’s nothing but pain, but you can’t seem to stop.

“Oh wow!” Baela cries, beaming as she scrolls through her phone. “The Paris Opera Ballet is performing Romeo and Juliette this season!”

“Neat!” Rhaena says. “Like right now?”

“Yeah. We could catch a show before we leave next week.” She turns to Jace. “Baby?” And when he ignores her, she rubs his shoulder, her voice honeyed. “Jace?”

He groans. “Really? Ballet?”

Baela frowns. “I think it would be fun.”

“I think you can go without me.” Jace points to Aemond, grinning. “Take him, he likes archaic things. Hell, he is one now.” New lines appear in Aemond’s brow, but he gives no other indication that he’s heard this.

“You can’t spare one afternoon for me?” Baela says; and her words have turned from honey to battery acid. “Are you fucking serious? Do you know what I’ve given up for you?”

Jace sighs heavily. “I knew you were going to make this into a thing.”

“Me?! You’re the person who’s being unfair here, I’m asking for one afternoon—!”

“There’s literally no reason why you can’t go with someone who won’t feel like they’re being tortured for three hours.”

“Torture? That’s what my life’s work is to you? Torture?!”

“Well now I definitely don’t want to go anywhere with you if you’re going to act like this—”

“Act like what, like I want my boyfriend to occasionally show even a vague interest in something I care about—?!”

As they go back and forth, everyone else stares down at their dinner, actively dissociating.

Baela asks you: “You want to weigh in on this?” It’s not really a question.

You take a cagy bite of your baked apple crepe. “Um, honestly, I don’t really have much experience with couples counseling.”

“Great. Now’s your chance to acquire some.”

“Uh…” You eat some more of your crepe, slurp your citron pressé, a sort of do-it-yourself lemonade. Baela waits. Jace smirks at you, attentive but not for the right reasons. “Well. I guess what I can say is that it’s important for both people to have their interests valued and their needs met. So for every activity that Jace chooses, there should be roughly the same amount of time spent on something that Baela wants to do.”

“Yeah but I have a lot less free time,” Jace says. “Since…you know…I happen to be in a world-famous boy band in the midst of their third global tour.”

Baela pitches back: “Exactly, which has completely taken over my life, so I think if I could get just one fucking afternoon where you show me some minuscule amount of appreciation then that might be kind of nice, you know?”

“Jace,” you say gently. You can see on the periphery of your vision that Aemond is watching you, once again hidden behind sunglasses that you know he wishes he didn’t feel the need to wear. “It sounds like this is really important to Baela.”

He sighs again. “Baela, Baela, ballerina,” Jace muses, somewhat affectionately but without respect. “Okay. We’ll see. We might have time tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Baela agrees; but already she looks defeated. And she is not a woman who defeat comes naturally to. She’s been worn down by weeks, months, years of the same rote disappointment. She glances at a street vendor who’s selling falafel. “Hey,” she says to Rhaena. “Go get us some wraps.”

“Me?” Rhaena peers nervously at the falafel cart. “What if he only speaks French? Or some other language I don’t know?”

“Then point to the sign, you’ll figure it out,” Baela replies testily.

“I’ll go too, Rhaena,” you offer. “And you can order but I’ll stand there with you and help if any charades need to be done. Will that make it easier?”

“Sure,” Rhaena says. “Okay. Deal.”

And when you return ten minutes later, along with all the other food you have one order of plain falafel: no yogurt sauce, no wrap. You bring it to Aemond, who is stunned. “What’s this?”

“It’s vegan. Falafel is vegan. So here, your dinner just got a little more exciting.”

“Well…thanks.” He takes it with tentative hands.

“That’s so thoughtful of you!” Luke says cheerfully. “Do they have falafel in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct. “And not really. But I ate a lot of it when I was at UChicago.”

This captures Aemond’s interest. “You went to UChicago?”

“Yes, Aemond. Shockingly, liking sex does not make women stupid.”

His iPhone rings: Mr. Brightside. Less than ideal timing. He rejects the call.

“Who was that?” Criston yells over.

“No one,” Aemond responds irritably.

“Your mom?”

“No, Criston.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She wasn’t the one calling, Criston!”

“Okay but I’m just asking, how is she doing like in general…?”

Back at the hotel, Comet Donati is getting ready for their first show in Paris: drinks in glasses, white lines on tables, hair and makeup, cigarettes and pills. You soak in your massive jacuzzi tub and stare up at the ceiling wondering: What am I doing here? What the hell am I still doing here?

But the thought of actually boarding a plane back to Kansas City is terrifying. Never seeing Aegon again? Never seeing Aemond again? Never seeing any of them except on YouTube or Spotify? You don’t want to leave their orbit. You don’t want to zoom off to the other end of the solar system just yet.

You wrap a towel around yourself and mosey out into the bedroom to get dressed. He’s there inspecting the souvenirs on your nightstand, chuckling and pushing them around with his knuckles, wearing a sequined blazer and skin full of ink: not Aegon, not Aemond, not Cregan, but Jace. You squeal, startled, and clutch your towel tighter around yourself. Unfortunately, it’s a very small towel. A very very small towel.

“These are neat,” Jace says. “So I collect tattoos and you collect souvenirs. We have so much in common.”

“We have exceptionally little in common. What do you want?”

He smiles, but never quite kindly. “What do you want?”

“I want you to take Baela to the ballet,” you say. “And I want you to get out of my room now.”

He turns all the way around to face you. He flings your moose snow globe from Stockholm into the air and then catches it, again, again. “Do you really?”

“Yes, Jace.”

And for a minute, or two, or what feels like forever, he doesn’t move. He just stands there staring at you, not moving any closer but not leaving either. Not listening to you. Not hearing you because he doesn’t want to. And you think, your heart hammering in your chest: At what point should I scream for Aegon or Criston? Will they hear me? Will they help me?

“Alright,” Jace says at last. He sets your moose snow globe back down on the nightstand, roughly, with a loud clunk. Then he walks across your room; but before he disappears through the doorway, he throws you a brass room key. Instinctively, you move to catch it, almost dropping your towel in the process. You snatch it back into place just in time. Jace is amused. Perhaps he planned it that way. “Aegon left that lying around,” Jace says, meaning the key. “Maybe you should be more discriminating when choosing who you give it to.”

“I didn’t give it to him. He took it from Criston.”

“Sure he did.” And finally, Jace leaves, as unwelcome as a funnel cloud or a hailstorm.

Aemond spends the concert in the shadows: pacing, taking his notes, ruminating over his many grudges. You spend it in the front row with Baela and Rhaena, wearing the neon yellow gown you found in Reykjavik. You try not to scan the arena for glimpses of Aemond. You fail miserably. Comet opens their concert with an interesting choice, an upbeat cover of Third Eye Blind’s How’s It Going To Be. When you ask Rhaena about it, she says it was Luke’s idea, which in your experience means it was almost certainly Aemond’s, or at least one that he enthusiastically endorsed. Daeron begins, peppy and animated, strutting across the stage:

“I’m only pretty sure that I can’t take anymore

Before you take a swing

I wonder, what are we fighting for?”

Aegon is next, characteristically a little sloppy, a little shaky, yet getting colossal cheers:

“When I say out loud

I want to get out of this

I wonder is there anything

I’m going to miss?”

Cregan’s voice is deep, sensuous, inviting yet with an edge like a blade:

“I wonder how it’s going to be

When you don’t know me?

How’s it going to be

When you’re sure I’m not there?”

Jace is technically the best singer, rich and smooth and nearly always pitch-perfect:

“How’s it going to be

When there’s no one there to talk to?

Between you and me

‘Cause I don’t care…”

And Luke leads the harmony as guitar notes pluck out of the monstrous speakers:

“How’s it going to be?

How’s it going to be?”

Aside from the cover, the setlist is the same as it’s always been since you joined the tour in Rome…but you’re experiencing it in a new way. You are needled by jealously every time you wonder what woman, moment, day, night inspired one of Aemond’s songs; you are nauseous with envy for everyone who’s ever been able to touch him. When they perform A Girl Named After A Car—which had previously always struck you as fun, light, unserious, perhaps satirical—you are consumed by a specific conspiracy theory. After fighting it for half of the song, you Google two words with your iPhone: Shelby car. Sure enough, there’s a vintage Mustang model called a Shelby. It’s gorgeous. It’s perfect for Aemond.

“Great,” you mutter to yourself.

“You okay?” Rhaena asks.

“Yeah,” you reply, slamming your phone back into your purse. “I’m awesome. I’ve literally never been better.”

“You don’t look awesome,” Baela says, smiling. “That’s okay. I’m not so awesome either at the moment.” She takes your hands and starts spinning you around the floor. “We can be hot bitter bitches together.”

It’s tradition for everyone to hang out after the concert, but you’re in no hurry to get to Jace’s suite; you certainly don’t want to be one of the first people to arrive. You don’t want to be alone with him. You walk very slowly, taking a detour to touch up your hair and makeup. As you are wandering a quiet section of the hallway, you observe that Aemond’s door has been left ever so slightly ajar. You peer inside to find it empty…but his notebook is on his nightstand.

No way, you tell yourself. No no no. Huge violation of privacy and respect.

“Oh yeah?” you object, barely audible. “And what would you call what he said to me?”

You go to the notebook and flip it open. Matte black pages slip beneath your fingertips.

“Just the first page,” you swear to yourself. “That’s all. Then I’m leaving.”

There’s a song written there; or, rather, partially written. He’s only worked out a verse and the chorus so far. Your eyes skim over it with lightning-flash quickness, cognizant that you cannot allow yourself to be caught. At the top of the page is one word in pale gleaming ink like pearls, opal, moonstone: Magic.

(Ver1) You walk into the room and I think:

How am I going to get you out of me?

Are you an infection, a lethal connection,

Or are you a fire to burn me clean?

“Nice,” you breathe, with hushed awe you wish you didn’t have.

(Chorus) Are you a witch or are you a spell,

Is loving you gonna be heaven or hell?

Black cats and white salt, ladders and doorframes

I think of magic every time you look my way

There are drunken, giggling voices and the sound of doors opening and closing in the hallway. You scurry out of Aemond’s suite and proceed to Jace’s before anyone thinks to come searching for you.

The room is thick with label executives and hangers-on, smoke and music; Watch by Maisie Peters is playing. She’s a friend of the band. You’re reasonably sure Aegon has hooked up with her, or at least aspires to. Speaking of Aegon, he is currently flitting around with Cregan. He stops briefly to say hi to you, a chilled emerald bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 in one hand, white powder on the other. He’s there and then he’s gone again. He might as well have been slingshotted to the other end of the galaxy. Criston is standing by the open balcony doors and talking to Daeron. Jace is at the bar laughing loudly—obnoxiously, hyena-like—with some mid-twenties guys you don’t recognize. Baela is glaring at him from one of the couches, seated next to Rhaena and Luke. But when she sees you, the rage vanishes from her face. She waves you over rather frantically.

“Look, I know this probably isn’t going to help your situation, but I just wanted to let you know that I am really, really hoping you’ll be willing to stay with us a little longer—”

“Yes! Totally!” Luke seconds, nodding.

“—And it’s not like we’re going to forget about you or prefer her over you or anything—”

“No, definitely not,” Luke says.

“What are you talking about?” you ask them. “Prefer who?”

Rhaena grabs your hand and squeezes it. You follow her eyeline across the room to the opposite couch, a mirage through warm smoke and icy dread. And you think: I should have known. I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course it would be here—in this city of Instagram models and Hallmark-card romance—that she would reappear like the moon growing large again after fading to a sliver, everything back in its rightful place, nature restored to harmony.

Sitting beside Aemond—on his good side, his unscarred side—is Shelby.

[blueiscoool]

A Hoard of 122 Anglo-Saxon Coins Sells at Auction

A hoard of more than 100 Anglo-Saxon coins discovered by two metal detectorists in a field near Braintree, Essex, has been sold auction at Noonans Mayfair on February 21. Believed to have been buried in 1066 and owned by an individual who died during the Battle of Hastings. The collection of Anglo-Saxon pennies found by two metal detectorists have been sold for £325,560 ($411,000) at auction.

The coins were each worth 12 shillings, a considerable sum back in 11th century, leading Noonans’s coin expert Bradley Hopper to hypothesize that the reason they were abandoned was due “some great personal misfortune” such as the death of their owner in the conflict. Hopper added, though, that “it was perhaps quite common for people who had access neither to banks nor vaults to conceal their wealth in the ground, even in times of peace.” All bar two of the coins were minted within five years of 1066.

A small selection of coins from the hoard were bought by Colchester Museum and the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, following the protocol of the 1996 Treasure Act. The purchased coins include two 11th-century Byzantine coins.

The metal detectorists found the majority of the coins in 2019 over the course of a few days, all within a 100-foot radius, some just inches beneath ground’s surface. A further 70 coins were found when the site was revisited in 2020. The coins were minted in various southern English towns and cities, including London, Cambridge, Canterbury, and Hastings.

The coins date from the reigns of Edward the Confessor and Harold II, the last two Anglo-Saxon kings of England. Harold was killed during the 1066 Battle of Hastings, seen on the Bayeux Tapestry receiving a fatal arrow through the eye. His death marked the victory of William the Conqueror, the first Norman king of England.

The detectorists have kept several coins, with 122 of the remaining relics headed to Noonans. The proceeds will be shared between the finders and the owner of the land on which the coins were discovered. Some coins included in the sale are exceedingly rare and could fetch £6,000 ($7,600) individually.

Hopper said that Noonans is “particularly fortunate that the auction catalogue contains not only the rarest and most academically interesting English coins from the Braintree Hoard, but also those pieces in the finest state of preservation.” He hopes that the auction will “promote further research into this wonderful coinage.”

By Verity Babbs.

[linka-from-captain-planet]

WIP I'll Probably Never Finish Wednesday

sometime in October, I posted a list of kinktober concepts I'd write if my brain weren't soup. I picked at a couple here and there, but none really went anywhere except "Neve and Rana once got sex pollened while working a case together and that's why they act so weird about each other." I wrote the fun part (the lead-up and Neve in full ಠ_ಠ dying mad mode over her lack of control over the situation) and don't feel like writing the boring part (actually banging) or adapting it to suit canon better (re: Brom and such; I wrote most of this pre-release) but I had fun writing it, so I'm posting what I have for funsies

Fun fact: one of Neve's codex entries about the wisps mentions they avoid her notes on "the Opal Rose case" for an unknown reason and I thought that sounded juicy, so I stole it for this fic

Somehow this managed to be a rambling and barely edited 2800 words and I would issue a warning about dubious consent because of the nature of the trope and Neve finding the arousal variably unwelcome, but there is no sex below the cut

The Opal Rose. Western fringe between Docktown and the lower market district. Well past midnight.

The reputation is good enough—but also bad enough that the rumors already seemed credible even before she began her investigation and found a few people willing to speak up. 

Unusually urgent arousal. Erratic behavior. Reckless spending, of course, in desperation to scratch the itch. Someone—something—has Docktown bewitched, and Neve is no prude, but who or whatever is taking advantage of her neighbors won’t get away with it.

Of course, she’s too well-recognized as a gumshoe to simply waltz in the front door; she wouldn’t make it past the bar before the perp wiped all the evidence. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to track down a disgruntled former employee, who was more than happy to lead them to the back entrance of a back entrance in exchange for a little coin. 

Them, being herself and Templar Rana Savas.

She doesn’t quite buy that this place is harboring a desire demon, as the most dramatic version of the rumor holds… but she doesn’t quite not buy it, and in that case, it’d be risky for anyone to try and face it alone, let alone a mage. She needed backup, someone she could trust—and specifically, someone she could trust possessed enough self-control to resist enthrallment. 

Tightly wound as she is, as contained and orderly as her pristine braid, Rana fit the bill.

Rana left her heavy Templar plate in the barracks and instead donned her lighter—quieter—leather set; fortunately so, as the back passage of this place is so tight that her well-built shoulders already nearly scrape the walls, and she has to hold onto her sword to keep it from bouncing off her shapely ass and clattering against—

Neve stops short, abruptly aware of a sweet, heady humidity and an unnatural warmth wafting down the corridor.

Magic.

Suddenly close enough for Neve to smell the beeswax and mint of her lip balm, Rana leans in and whispers, “What’s wrong?” In the low red lamplight, the full apples of her cheeks are dusted in a far-too-pretty faux flush, and her lips look plump and rosy, as if freshly bitten and sucked by an eager lover.

Tearing herself away, Neve signals for Rana to be quiet so she can re-focus. With each step she guides them closer to the other end, the hallway only grows warmer and the air within it, more charged.

And, with each step, a small shock reverberates up Neve’s legs and settles between them, setting her lightly abuzz and her teeth on edge.

There have been few times in her life when Neve really resented being a mage, but she’ll surely chalk this up as one before it’s all over. Being attuned to the subtle thrum of magic in the air means she can feel it thrumming, all too well, while Rana remains oblivious and collected just an arm’s length away.

If there’s any luck left in her, they’ll finish soon. 

With the investigation. With luck, they’ll be finished soon, with the investigation.

Teeth grit, Neve continues to lead them forward. It’s hardly a minute before they come to a triple-padlocked door, but by the time they reach it, Neve is almost panting and definitely sweating underneath her ascot and coat.

Whatever this is, whatever’s doing this to her—it’s behind that door.

She nods at Rana, who in turn touches her gently on the waist—despite herself, Neve’s skin screams for the contact even through her thick layers—and guides her aside. She listens through the door for a few moments, then fishes a Templar skeleton key from her pocket. Enchanted to open any lock in Minrathous so long as it’s pursuant to orders, it makes quick work of it.

Rana then wraps one long-fingered, dextrous hand around the doorhandle, and the other around the hilt of her sword; her strong shoulder, she braces against the door, preparing to break through if need be. Neve blinks and readies her staff as well as she can with shaking fingers. But when the door swings in, the hardly-more-than-a-closet room is empty save for a workbench laden with jars, boxes, scales, and distillery equipment.

Alchemy, then.

“Love potions” may be the stuff of fairytale, but aphrodisiacs? Feel-good stuff that keeps the hips pumping and the inhibitions lowered far longer than the flesh—and purse—would ordinarily permit? Certainly not unheard of, and needless to say, an illegal use of magic. Neve knows no such brew offhand, but a handy sheet of paper pinned to the wall illuminates the simplicity of the scheme: the active ingredient is some kind of pollen that can be distilled into a spray. Spritz a bit into a room before the client enters, and it’s practically money in a bottle.

Neve would have preferred the demon. Now they’ll have to track down the suppliers, too.

At least they’ll probably be done here soon, and she’ll be able to abscond to her apartment and, well, blow off some steam.

Sighing, Neve steels her nerves and begins to look for a ledger while Rana barricades the door behind them.

The small room is stuffy and over-warm, far worse than the hallway with its proximity to the cookstation and lack of airflow. Dried bits of caked-on gunk on the workbench reveal the cook to be an amateur or at least a slob, and Neve internally curses their clumsy hand. Within minutes, her clothing comes to feel far too heavy and her skin, far too tight; she longs desperately to shed at least her outer layer and accessories, but she has more than a hunch that if she were to start to undress, it’d be difficult to stop at just one layer.

She resents Rana's freedom from the effect again; finished with the door, she joins Neve at the bench completely unawares, yet her close presence makes the effect even more pronounced. She reaches to examine the supplies, and Neve shivers and curses under her breath as a crystal-clear image of those sword-callused but meticulously-manicured hands gliding over her slick skin flashes across her mind’s eye.

It’s not—entirely new. It’s not that Rana isn’t attractive and Neve has never idly entertained the thought of them, well. But—she shakes her head, turning away, but catches another glimpse of Rana in the reflection of a glass flask, and her whole body shudders—there’s a big difference between checking someone out from time to time, and imagining one of their strong hands holding her down—she’d play at resisting, of course, but Rana is simply so much stronger—while the other—

As if on cue, Rana pulls a fist-sized drawstring pouch from a small chest and rolls it between her hands, hefting its fullness curiously before slipping two fingers into its tight velvet opening, stretching it wide open and—

Far too late, the alchemical symbol for volatile stamped all over the pouch registers through the haze in Neve’s mind. She doesn’t even have time to cover her mouth and nose before Rana, recoiling from the puff of fine pollen that surges out of the pouch and hits her in the face, drops it onto the bench with an ominous thunk and a white-hot, shimmering cloud overtakes the small room.

The wash of it is so intense that Neve reflexively touches her eyebrows and lashes to make sure they hadn’t been burnt off; to her relief, they’re intact, as is her skin even though it feels like it’s prickling with heat like a sunburn. 

But the heat is internal, and Neve swiftly realizes that she’s flushing intensely, and then the effects she’d already been bothered by slam over her like a wave: her skin tingles, her stomach flutters, her skin blooms over with sweat, her heart races…

And a pang of desire hits her like a brick to the gut, so hard it staggers her. 

She scrambles to catch the edge of the workbench to keep from crumpling to the floor, but a jittering hand grabs her by the elbow and steadies her first. Even through layers of leather and silk, the touch is searing; and even though it’s hardly an erogenous zone, the sheer pleasure of being touched at all when she needs so badly makes a humiliating squeak of a moan tumble through her lips before Neve can clap a hand over her mouth and stifle it.

Rana snatches her own hand back like she’d been bitten, the pupils of her wide eyes dilating so fast that they turn her cool green irises nearly black. She may not be brushed up on her alchemical symbols, but she at least seems to understand what she’s done; despite her deep flush—real this time, not a trick of light—she looks absolutely ashen, and scrambles away into the corner farthest as possible from Neve to hastily blow her nose into her sleeve and spit on the floor. 

That’s how Neve knows this job has really, truly gone shit-sideways. In anything even close to resembling her right mind, Templar Rana Savas would absolutely never. 

“It’s well into your system already, I’m afraid,” Neve warns through grit teeth, her grip on the bench white-knuckled. Nothing she’d gleaned from perusing the documentation strewn about indicates this stuff is harmful—nor would it make sense to maim the clientele, anyway—but, in its concentrated and unprocessed state… this experience is guaranteed to be unpleasant, to put it delicately, but precisely how or how much remains to be seen.

“Well, what else can we do?” Rana snaps over her shoulder, and Neve shudders as one explicit, tantalizing answer flashes across her mind immediately.

She should not entertain the thought—will only make it worse, surely—but. Standing just beyond her reach, Rana’s breathing is labored, rushing in and out of Neve’s ears just as it does her lungs, stretching her stiff leather jacket tight across her fit back. Neve can imagine the moment when even this trivial restriction becomes overwhelming, and could hardly blame Rana for clawing at it, her deft fingers working feverishly to free herself. Neve can’t actually see them with Rana’s back turned, but she can imagine them, and in turn, her cunt clenches so hard around nothing—empty, excruciating nothing—that it honest-to-the-Maker hurts.

It properly knocks the wind out of her, and for that Neve’s actually grateful, because it keeps her from even the remote possibility of opening her mouth to suggest…

Distress and arousal alike flood her system, raising her heart rate to a sickly, shallow race and filling her mind with static. With her every nerve peeled raw and her every sense aflame, Neve couldn’t miss the discontent rumble from the other side of the room, despite Rana’s apparent attempt to shrink enough to disappear. Neve risks the glance, and finds Rana nearly doubled-over, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her red face pressed against the cool block walls. Her attempts to cool off by removing her jacket, obviously, failed; she’s already sweated through her linen undershirt such that it clings to the muscles underneath and Neve can watch them roll, one by one, with her every breath and fidget.

Unable to bear it any longer—and besides, Rana started it (both, this mess—why did she have to fondle the damn bag!—and the undressing)—Neve finally lets herself whip off her fascinator, ascot, and leather gauntlets. Her overcoat, she wrenches open with such clumsy urgency that one of its studded buttons pops off and plinks across the floor, a tiny tinny sound that may as well have been a gaatlok explosion to her harried senses.

Rana’s nerves must be fried, too, or at least this situation hasn’t dampened her usual level of vigilance; she turns around briskly at the clatter, hand hovering over her sword, in just enough time to watch Neve also yank open her high collar and top buttons, exposing the slick column of her throat, the notch of her collarbone, and the hint of the swell of her breasts clinging to the plane of her chest.

Her stare is so intense that Neve can feel it needling her skin like a tattoo, following the exact path of a drop of sweat that meanders down from her throat to the underside of her breast with a hawk’s focus. Rana’s full lips lull open, panting; and then she grimaces, and her legs seem to tremble with the effort of holding herself up, or… perhaps. Back. 

It’s enough of a foothold for Neve’s overwhelming need to seize control, overriding her better judgment and shattering the remainder of her hope that she may escape this excursion with her dignity intact.

“Rana,” she breathes cautiously, her voice so thick with desire that she hardly recognizes herself. Perhaps that’s for the better. “We—,” she starts, and grimaces through another painful throb, this one even more urgent than the last, “—I think we can make this more… bearable.” 

“You can reverse it?” Rana asks, through great effort tearing her gaze off Neve’s tits to look her in the eye, her voice raspy but hopeful. She looks on the verge of collapse, leaning heavily into the wall. Fidgeting, seemingly desperate to do anything with her hands but what her own addled mind is undoubtedly suggesting, she pushes her sleeves up to the elbow, rubbing absently at her own skin. From the heat, or perhaps from how hard she’d been clutching them, the muscles and veins or her hands and forearms all have popped under her skin, glowing with a light dew of sweat.

After an embarrassingly long pause, during which Neve realizes she’d been leering—and salivating—rather than answering, Neve manages to reply, “No. Sorry.” 

Rana groans, and it’s no different than her usual complaining, but it sounds so good that Neve fears she might actually be going insane. Rushing ahead of her self-consciousness, she continues, “But, I think if we… It might be over with faster, if we… got it out of our systems.”

The roundabout suggestion isn’t lost on Rana; her jaw drops, scandalized, and crosses her arms defensively. “If we—I’m working!” 

As grave and humiliating as the overall situation feels, Neve can’t help but chuckle and, half-horrified to have said it before she’s even finished saying it, teases, “Oh, and you never think about throwing me up against a wall whenever we work together?”

Quick as a whip, Rana retorts, “Sure, Neve, and you spend half the time investigating my ass because you like my pants.”

Judging by the way her eyes widen in disbelief and her ears turn fully red, the quip slipped past her self-control just like Neve’s did hers. In any ordinary circumstance, Neve would be mortified—maybe she slightly undersold ‘checking someone out from time to time’ mentally, but surely she’s not that careless!—but in this bizarre one, she finds the callout… thrilling. 

[What would have happened next: 

Having accidentally acknowledged that they ordinarily are attracted to each other, the energy shifts slightly. 

A pang of arousal staggers Rana, and this time Neve catches her. The contact gives them both such relief + a feeling of light euphoria that becomes clear Neve was right, and that it’s the way to stop the agony.

Rana tries to rationalize everything like “they can still be professional after” and blah blah but Neve pushes her against the wall and kisses her to cut her off (classic)

They finger or grind or whatever

As soon as they’re both done, they feel weird about it but Neve can’t quite find it in her to regret it

They agree to pretend it never happened even though it's clear neither of them are quite satisfied with that conclusion (pro move) 

Back in her apartment, Neve can’t help but write up some notes on “the Opal Rose case” in her journal but tells herself it’s just any other case and pretends she doesn’t feel Some Type of Way about it]

[whencyclopedia]

The Bar-Kochba Revolt

The Bar Kochba Revolt (132–136 CE) was the third and final war between the Jewish people and the Roman Empire. It followed a long period of tension and violence, marked by the first Jewish uprising of 66-70 CE, which ended with the destruction of the Second Temple, and the Kitos War (115-117 CE). In many ways, the Bar Kochba Revolt differed markedly from its predecessors. For the first time, the Jews presented a united front against Roman forces and fought underneath a single charismatic leader, the eponymous Simon Bar Kochba (also given as Shimon Bar-Cochba, Bar Kokhba, Ben-Cozba, Cosiba or Coziba). It was marked as well by strong religious passions, with many apparently believing that Bar Kochba was the promised messiah who would lead the Jewish people to final victory against their enemies.

In its initial stages, the revolt was surprisingly successful and may have resulted in the destruction of an entire Roman legion. It is possible that the rebels regained control of the city of Jerusalem, and they must have held large portions of ancient Judea. The Romans, however, regrouped and adopted a scorched-earth strategy that ultimately extirpated the rebels and laid waste to the country. The war shattered Judean society and led to far-reaching demographic and political changes, with the majority of the Jewish population of the province killed, enslaved, or exiled, and their national hopes definitively crushed. The Jewish people would not regain their political independence until the Zionist era and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948 CE.

The Problem of Sources

Unlike the revolt of 66 CE, the historical sources on the Bar Kochba Revolt are scanty at best. The war had no chronicler such as Josephus Flavius, at least none whose work has survived. The primary non-Jewish sources are an epitome of Cassius Dio's Roman History and a handful of lines by the ecclesiastical historian Eusebius, the bishop of Caesarea. The war is also briefly mentioned by the Church father Jerome. While by no means comprehensive, these sources do provide several important details.

The Jewish sources are not per se historical and, while also scanty, are found throughout the rabbinical literature of the period and after, in particular, in the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds. While they are often clearly legendary and unreliable in nature, they do paint a general picture of the Jewish experience of the war and its aftermath.

In addition, several important archaeological finds have shed light on certain aspects of the revolt. Coins minted while Judea was temporarily freed from Roman rule indicate the existence of an independent Jewish state for a brief period. In the 1960s CE, a cave in the Judean desert was found that likely once housed refugees from the revolt. Called the “Cave of Letters,” it contained a cache of documents that included several letters from Bar Kochba himself, which shed unprecedented light on his personality and style of rule.

Continue reading...

[auriz12]

Get your gold bars customized with Auriz Gold Refinery in the UAE!

Whether it's a special message, an intricate design, or a meaningful symbol, make your gold investment truly unique.

Visit us today to explore endless possibilities and create a treasure that's exclusively yours. Shine bright with Auriz Gold Refinery!

[lunastrophe]

is it ever mentioned that drow have a specific type of currency? if they do, is it the same for every drow city?

As far as I know, the details of the Underdark currency, or maybe even currencies, are a bit of a mystery.

🕷️In games and sourcebooks, drow use standard gold pieces (gp). Drow items - or items in the Underdark in general - are always priced in gp. It makes things less complicated for the players, allowing them to avoid constantly dealing with exchange rates.

Deafult currency in the Realms is a bit more varied and consists of coins (and sometimes also trade bars) made of copper, silver, electrum, gold and platinum. After 1489 DR, standard exchange rates look like this:

1000 copper pieces = 100 silver pieces = 20 electrum pieces = 10 gold pieces = 1 platinum piece

Drow in sourcebooks and novels also use coins as an everyday currency, and it is probably safe to assume that they use similar exchange rates.

🕷️Various nations and city-states in Faerûn mint their own denominations that have their own names. It is probably also a thing in Underdark city-states.

I do not remember drow coins being described anywhere. I imagine, though, that Lolth-oriented cities mint coins and tokens with spider motifs, since they are widely associated with Underdark drow culture. In some city-states, coins may be also decorated with glyphs of ruling houses.

Maybe drow also use coins with center holes that can be tied together, or coin strings? It could also be a spidery inspiration - spiders often use threads to hang their "valuables" (food) in their webs.

Surface coins from various parts of the world are likely also very popular in large drow cities - they come mainly from raids, but they are also transported by merchants. The same goes for coins minted by other denizens of the Underdark.

🕷️I suppose that in the Underdark, many drow prefer to exchange goods rather than coins - especially those who live in small communities, away from trade routes, and struggle with obtaining necessary supplies. Barter is probably very popular among such drow.

Edit: In Drow of the Underdark for 3.5e, there is a short section about drow economy 🙂

[hyperbolicreverie]

🥘🙊🍎

🥘What wip are you most excited about?

I am very excited about almost being done with Crown of Flowers...there's only about three chapters left and the next one will put it over 200k. Other than that, I have a new chaptered work in progress that I'm planning on debuting in January, and while it's definitely less fantastical a story, I'm excited for all the good character moments it promises to let me write.

🙊Your coworkers or classmates stumble across one of your fics, but don't know you're the author. Do you fess up? Or keep quiet?

I am genuinely curious as to what would cause that to happen, as I have no classmates and I work remotely from a different state, but I would most likely fess up. My family has seen and read my fic, so I've already crossed that bar.

🍎What's something you learned while researching for a fic?

I learned a lot about Scandinavian food doing research for It's On the Tip of His Tongue, and while I knew a bunch of the stuff I needed to research regarding coins and minting for Numismatics, I definitely picked up some more while writing that.

[au-bullion]

Sell Your Gold, Silver, and Platinum for the Best Value at AU Bullion

At AU Bullion, we pay top dollar for gold, silver, and platinum in any form—coins, bars, rounds, used jewelry, and ingots. Sell your precious metals to us for the best value. As trusted gold buyers, we make the process easy and offer competitive prices. Contact us today to sell gold and turn your metals into cash.

[arc-misadventures]

So for the dragon faunus fic I have an idea for it:

Dragons like hoarding stuff right whether it be gold or people like princesses. So what does Jaune hoard is it comics gold or something else

The Dragon’s Hoard

Coco: So, I heard you have a hoard of treasure.

Jaune: Like piles of gold coins that I can rest upon?

Coco: Yeah, so do you have a giant pile of gold you sleep on?

Jaune: No, I don’t; Besides, sleeping on a giant pile of gold sounds like it would hurt. I mean, it’s a pile of metal disks.

Coco: Oh, so you don’t have a hoard then?

Jaune: Actually… Now that I think about it, I actually do have a dragons hoard of treasure… I just thought I was a collector, not a hoarder…

Coco: Oh, really? What do you hoard?

Weiss: Money?

Ruby: Comics?!

Nora: Secret pancake recipes?!

Yang: A harem of sexy woman~?

Jaune: Uhh… Technically yes. I do have a large collection of comics, but that’s not my hoard. And, no I don’t have any secret pancake recipes. As for the harem… Well… It’s a work in progress…

Yang: Oh really now~?

Blake: Our odds are ever increasing~!

Velvet: He better hop me good, and hard~!

Coco: You better not…

Jaune: I’m the one who’s gonna get hopped, stop blaming me!

Weiss: Enough with the harem nonsense. What is it that you hoard?

Jaune: Precious gemstones!

Yang: Gemstones?

Coco: Like diamonds?

Jaune: Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, the gems, and sapphires! Likes these!

(Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk!)

Several precious gemstones suddenly fall out of, Jaune’s sleeves. The shock of the ladies at the table at the sights of these precious gemstones was mesmerizing. But, the shear size of these gemstones sent chills of shock, and awe coursing through their spines.

Jaune: See? My, precious, precious gemstones~!

Yang: Uuuuuuuuhhhhh?!!

Ruby: That ruby is as big as an peach?!

Blake: That emerald is bigger than an avacado?!

Coco: That saphire is the size of a lemon…?

Velvet: That diamond is as large as a apple?!

Jaune: Yeah, I have way, way more than this, and many other type of gems as well. But, these four are just my favourites! I like to have them around me because they make me happy!

Weiss: Okay… B-Besides the fact that you somehow had those hidden up your sleeves?!

Jaune: Death will take me before I tell you how I hide my precious’s!

Weiss: But, that diamond… I-Is that the, Translucent Apple…?

Yang: The, Translucent Apple?

Weiss: It’s the worlds largest fine cut diamond the world has ever seen! It’s worth a king’s ransom, and a half!

Jaune: Oh, I would be a surprise, but considering someone of your background it makes sense you would know your precious gemstones. But, yes: Tis indeed the, Translucent Apple!

Weiss: T-Then that, emerald… I-It’s the, Gaia’s Seedling?!

Jaune: Yep!

Yang: Nice name…

Weiss: The sapphire… T-The Tear of the Sea?!

Velvet: Its as blue as his eyes…

Coco: Could rename it the, Dragons Eye now.

Nora: Ohh, nice!

Jaune: Smart cookie dat one is!

Weiss: And, the ruby… I-Its the B-Blood Stone…?!

Ruby: Ohh~! i like that name!

Jaune: Four for four! You win!

Weiss: …

Weiss: You’re the, Lapidary Master… The worlds most skilled gemstone cutter… The owner of Gem Refinery…?! The world’s largest supplier of raw minerals, refined metals, and precious gemstones… One of the richest people in the world…?!

Jaune: Yep, that’s me!

Weiss: Ohh…

(Thud!)

Ruby: Weiss?!

Jaune: Oh… Is she dead?

Blake: No, she just fainted…

Yang: Wait, since you collect precious metals, do you have a stash of gold?

Jaune: Yep!

Yang: So you do have a hoard of gold coins!

Nora: And, you sleep on it!

Jaune: No, I have a hoard of gold bars, not coins.

RYN: Why not?!

Jaune: Well, who uses minted coins for money any more?

RYN: …

Nora: Good point.

Jaune: Besides, its blocks of metal, that doesn’t sound comfortable to sleep on.

Yang: Like sleeping on a plank of wood.

Jaune: Yeah, pretty much.

Ruby: So… Uhh… Can I hold the, Blood Stone, Jaune?

Jaune: Sure you can!

Ruby: Really! Than…?!

Jaune: As soon as I remove it from your arm that is~!

RBYNCV: …

Yang: D-Did you just threaten to remove, Ruby’s hand…?

Jaune: Yes.

Blake: Your kidding, right? I mean, if I touch the emerald…?!

Blake barely had time to remove her hand before, Jaune’s talon hand slammed down on the table, tearing a frightening deep groove in the table as his hands encompassed his gem’s. His eyes shined with a madness that sent chills down their spines, as he glared upon them cautiously, and threateningly.

Jaune: BACK! Back away all of you! Death follows those who dare take my precious’s!

The group of ladies could only keep their hands in the air as they gulped nervously as, Jaune’s personality took such a violent, and deranged shift. Fortunately for them, someone who could manage, Jaune in this derange state finally came forward to save them.

: Jauney dear I heard you had some… fun with, Pyrrha. So, when can I expe…? What’s going on?

Nora: Mom, thank Gods you’re here!

RBYCV: Mom?

Nora: Jaune was showing us his precious stones, now he’s gone mad!

Juniper: Ahh, that explain that. Yeah, Jaune doesn’t like anyone touch his stones.

Coco: You don’t say.

Blake: He nearly cut my hand with his talons!

Ruby: He threatened to cut my hand off if I did!

Juniper: And, worse if you actually took it from him.

Velvet: He would?

Juniper: Oh yeah; When it comes to, Jaune’s gems, he will gut you if he sees you as a threat to his gemstones.

Velvet: S-Seriously…?

Juniper: He’s done it before. Luckily it was a bunch of bandits that attacked one of his supply convoys. He wouldn’t do it to his family, but the snarling fangs, and flames aren’t much better…

Ruby: Oh gods!

Yang: Okay… So, how do we get him to stop?

Juniper: Don’t worry girls, I’ve got this. Jaune Luna Arc!

Jaune: Rahhhh!

Juniper: Don’t you growl at me young man! How dare you treat your friends like this! Who even taught you such terrible manners?

Jaune: …

Jaune: You did.

Juniper: What?! I would never do such a thing!

Jaune: Well, not directly, but you did.

Juniper: I would not! What makes you think I would do that?

Jaune: Mmmm… I believe you said: “Get your filthy hands off my man you skank before I gut you like a fish you bitch.”

Juniper: …

Juniper: Oh…

Nora: Wow… Mom is awesome!

Yang: Okay, how is she your mom?

Jaune: …

Juniper: …

Juniper: So, can I expect grandbabies soon, or…?

Ruby: So she’s just going to ignore all of… That?

Coco: Probably for the best.

Yang: Wait… Pyrrha… Grandchildren… You slept with, Pyrrha didn’t you!

Jaune: Yes.

Nora: Why don’t you think she’s not here; Girl can’t feel her legs after, Jaune was finished with her.

RBYV: …

RBYV: WHAT?!!

Coco: Nice~!

[raayllum]

summary: The prisoners from the coins are freed. Viren confronts a part of his past. a/n: updates will be ongoing post canon s6's actual release. Callum and Kpp'Ar's conversation from Kpp'Ar's POV instead is also available here word count: 5.7k

CHAPTER 14: I Acknowledge Mine

“You must know and own; this thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”

—The Tempest, act 5, scene i, 274-276

Kpp’Ar was very young the first time he saw magic performed. 

There were travelling performers of course, charlatans with charming smiles and sleight of hand, ribbons that went on forever. But magic, real magic, was rarer even this close to Katolis’ Capitol. He lived in a town by the Weeping Bay on the side closer to the Border, full of merchants and fishermen, and, occasionally, mages on their way to collect more ingredients.

His mother and penniless father ran an inn, not wanting to rely on the land his maternal grandmother had close to the Capitol with a big grand house.

“You wouldn’t like it there,” his mother had assured him, touching his face. She’d shuddered. “It’s dark there, suffocating.” 

She’d taken him to the opera house instead, a newly minted piano the star of the show— “Recently brought over from Del Bar,” his father had noted—and they’d bumped into a magician on the street.