#music from the northeast

[eriong]

i absolutely LOVED listening to this when it aired live!! if you missed it, you can check out the entire show here.

This mix showcases the music from a small tribe living in the foothills of the Himalayas. Their genesis begins from a great boulder called Sinlung, possibly in the present Tailing or Silung of Yunan Province of today’s China. Starting off as a semi nomadic group of hunter/cultivators moving through Myanmar, and various pockets of the northeast India and a majority of the settlers in Tuithaphai, Manipur- The Hmar tribe is a group whose entire history has been a constant state of diaspora. Their music is heavily dictated by the lack of a script- passing down their stories through oral sounds. Almost every circumstance within the community has a story in songs to back it up. The mix starts off with the hunters call- a special song given to each Hunter, a victory hymn (Sikpui Hla) and some snippets of the melodious intonations of our spoken language. Throughout the mix- we see the contrasts between pre and post colonial Hmar Tribe, and how the eventual conversion into Christianity brings change in their sounds with nods to hymnody, protest folk, gospel, rockabilly, new wave, and 90's pop. Songs from the Hmar/Mizo heartlands that people from almost every generation can recall, despite its diminished stature in context of mainland India the musical prowess stands ingenously tall. Presently with the civil war that has been brewing in Manipur since May 2023 which almost all media outlets have refused to cover or amplify. I hope this mix serves as a vessel to remind us of a more peaceful time for the tribals before the threat of uprootment and forced displacement from the one place we thought we could call our home. Mixed by: Ruhail Qaisar @iakksakkath Mastered by: Julien Racine @racine.corporation

[bijoumikhawal]

does anyone have any papers that discuss the idea that the Greek oracle tradition came from Egypt, specifically the trance-possession oracles like Pythia or analyzing Herotodus's claims in Euterpe 55

[wavernot4love]

gloomtown tour coming to not one, but two venues in my immediate area ..... the idkhow Tour De Upstate Ny has been a running gag since... 2018? '19? and i am very stoked 2 see said gag remains ongoing

[sillimancer]

realistically the difference is probably not THAT vast but as someone with like negative skill points in music composition the difference between the chrome music lab song maker and beepbox feels like the difference between a little tikes cozy coupe and the apollo 11 rocket

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

141 as your drug dealer boyfriend

Ghost- Let's be real with ourselves, Ghost is not a good man. He doesn't care who he hurts, as long as he gets his. He will do anything to get what he wants and there is no stopping him. It's what made him a great soldier, and it's what makes him a great kingpin. He moves weight to put it lightly. There isn't a moment where an uncut key is unmoving; from a warehouse, to a plane (or car, or train), to a distributor, to a pusher, to up someone's nose. He'll try to do some damage control, make sure things aren't cut with fent, but that's only to make sure customers keep coming back. He likes to keep his hands clean, in the sense that he'll never be the one to pull the trigger on anyone that's out of line. Living up to his name, no one knows what he looks like. Hell, a lot of people don't even think he's real.

But when it comes to you, Simon's a different man. No talk about work, just you and him. Other than the multiple hidden guns around the house and Glock he sleeps with, life is normal with you. Holiday homes in the French countryside and Bahamas. Designer everything. Sports cars in all your favorite colors. You want for nothing. It's the life he wanted for you. After all those years of crying and hurt when he was away for weeks or months, you deserved the world. Want the new Hermès bag? You got it. Can't choose between the black or white louboutins? Get both. Stop eating you out because you can't feel your toes anymore? Sorry love, only thing he can't do for you.

Soap- Johnny is a small business owner. Weighs everything out by his own hand. Presses his own pills. Let's you help baggie everything up. A social butterfly, this man is at every concert, rave, or music festival. Sometimes he has a friend help push his stuff when he just wants to stay home with you, but for the most part he's his own salesman. And a damn good one. Never has overstock. No matter how much he brings with him, he'll always sellout.

Has a supernatural sense of being shorted. Can tell if a bag is even a few grams off just by holding it.

"Ye'r an idiot if ye think ye kin short me."

And when the other party denies, he always keeps a pocket scale on him, setting the parcel on it. And sure enough, he's always right.

He'll come home with a few grand, the only job you have is to sit there and look pretty. And roll his spliffs. Sitting in his lap, tucking the rolling paper into itself and licking it closed while he counts out a fat wad of cash. He hands you a fat stack,

"A've never bin good wi' money. Ye know how to spend it better than me."

He never touches the stuff he sells, no need to when all the dopamine he needs is right between your legs.

"Ten times better than any o tha' shite, anyways."

He pants in your ear while folding you in half, firm grip on your throat.

Gaz- When it comes to psychedelics, Kyle is your go-to man. He's a fucking genius, synthesizes his own DMT and LSD in a lab. It's a state of the art facility, clean with the latest and greatest equipment available. He supplies the whole Northeast. If it's a hallucinogen, it's most likely Gaz's product. And if it's good, it's definitely his. He has a cozy set up with some "organization" that he cooks for. Steers clear of actually selling to people, no need to when his clients line his pockets so well. Never brings work home, he even wears different clothes when he's in the lab.

He has a set schedule he has to adhere to but sometimes he's able to take vacations with you. And that's how you ended up bent over a balcony watching the sunset in Punta Cana,

"I work so hard to make you happy, now it's my turn yeah?"

A breeze sends a shiver up your spine while he kisses your shoulder,

"I know a private beach where you can even out those tan lines,"

Of course he doesn't give a shit about that, he just wants to fuck you silly on the seaside (and show off to anyone who might be watching.)

Price- Caring and nurturing, the man naturally has a green thumb. And alongside his prized heirloom tomatoes, he grows really, really good weed. Has a whole growroom in his basement, decked out with proper ventilation, ACs, UV lights, the works. The man grows medical grade weed that private clinics buy from him. He's legit. And of course he serves the public as well under the table, sells only to people he knows and established clients can refer others to him. He treats his plants like his babies, even going as far as to play music for them (according to him classical music helps them grow better???). You don't know where he finds the time, but he also made you rose garden for your anniversary. He brings up the idea of a family every so often. He'll finish as deep inside of you as possible,

"Let's replace that plant nursery for a real one, yeah love?"

Gonna write actual stories for each one if y'all like this ( . * 3 * . )/`

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 24

Azriel x third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader

a/n: As an extra warning: by my own standards this got very dark in the second part, and was very draining to write. You may find this a walk in the park, but if you feel like anything in this chapter is getting to you please obviously feel free to take a break, or put on some happy instrumental music :)

Also, this was written as one part—Tumblr forced me to split it into two, hence the posting of two chapters in one night

warnings (mostly for part two): angst, death, some blood/gore unfortunately, slight hurt/comfort but it’s complicated, prison-related plot, general misery for reader

word count for part one: 9,448

total word count: 19,262

The plan, as far as you understand it, is to winnow up northeast to the coastal town, Bornemere, then to fly the rest of the way to locate the few traders willing to barter for Illyrian steel, among other things only accessibly through specific trade routes. Like the oxen hide Azriel had mentioned. 

You can’t lie, the idea of having a dagger strapped to your body or tied to an inner pocket has your insides twisting. It seems overkill, to give you a blade when you’d imagine Azriel to have an abundance of his own hidden away. He needs you to navigate the jungle and differentiate between lethal and harmless invertebrate, while you need him to handle any creatures with antagonistic or aggressive tendencies. In other words, you can’t imagine one of you leaving the other’s side. 

It could easily be your imagination that convinces you of the salt in the air, that tangles itself into the roots of your tied-back hair and makes it stiff and sticky, but when the sea comes into view and the screech of marine birds cleave along through the winds, you’re reassured. The town seems large, expanding lengthwise along the coastline rather than seeping back inland that’s filled with dry fields and brown crops where small spots of white graze atop the hills, a few taking shelter in the steep cover of the valleys that seem to zigzag. Although your eyes aren’t quite strong enough to pick it out from such a height, you know streams will be running through their centres, fresh-water springs babbling up from holes in the ground before eventually making their way outwards toward the sea, joining forces until they accumulate into creek, gathering into streams before feeding into rivers. Casting your eyes further along the land you can spot an estuary splitting Bornemere in two, where the river opens into the sea, rock scattering the opening. 

Your ears pop as Azriel begins to descend through the air, keeping his wings spread wide to smooth the long glide down. Air rushes past your cheeks, a single strand of hair stinging your eye as the wind whips it about and you yield half your grip on Azriel’s shoulders to tuck it beneath the scarf wrapped around your head. It had been Elain’s idea, and now, with the wintery coastal air trying to slip its way up your sleeves and beneath the neckline of your dress, or even wrap its way up your legs beneath your skirts, you’re glad you bundled up a little more to combat the harsh winds. 

The plan, that you’d been trying to revise in your head before you’d become distracted by your senses, is to fly by Bornemere, pick up a couple of supplies for yourself—and maybe Azriel, but he hasn’t mentioned anything so you can only suppose—then return to Velaris to gather up the cotton canvas backpacks that will see you through the Summer Court jungles. At the though alone a ray of excitement splits through the grey cold of your mood. You wonder how many of the creatures you’ve read about, vertebrate and invertebrate alike, that you’ll get to see with your own eyes while traveling. The birds and insects are what you’re most looking forward to, having spent considerable time admiring the clean watercoloured illustrations of vibrant feathers, the iridescent shine of beetle shells with the flared sensors on tiny feet. The trip itself should take between two to four days to reach the centre, depending on variables like weather, the safety of the old paths, and whether the map that dates back two centuries is still accurate. 

Likely the two of you will also be making a subtle stop at one or two of the villages on the outskirts of the jungle, finding appropriate clothing as well as canisters for water and more long-lasting food. A small part of you worries over the attire for the journey. It’s no secret that Summer’s climate mostly consists of hot, open-skied days, and you imagine the jungle will be testing the line between  natural humidity and the inside of a birchin. With the insects around it wouldn’t be a good idea to venture in bare-skinned, but the muggy air might quickly change your mind on the compromise. The idea alone has unease settling in the pit of your stomach. You hope the long-sleeved clothing they’ll have will prove breathable enough for suffocation to not be a problem you’ll have to struggle with. 

Azriel drops a few inches down through the air, the circles now not as wide as they once were as his hazel eyes seek out the perfect landing spot to accommodate him. Your stomach lurches with the abrupt decrease in height and your hand that had been tucking hair beneath your scarf quickly shoots back to its original placement around his neck. You do try not let your nails dig into his shoulders, but you’re still so uncomfortable with flying, and the occasional far drop doesn’t help with your nerves. 

His hair ruffles in the wind, like she’s running her fingers through it though he seems unbothered by the cold, features cool and set as always. Dark brows dip together in the middle of his forehead though you can only see his profile, swirling hazel eyes hidden in the private hollow beneath, cast in partial shadow. Lowering incrementally further, you follow the line of his nose, tipping over the curve and falling to his lips. They’re sealed shut against the billowing wind but he looks the same as he always does. Calm, collected, and completely unbothered by the harsh elements. Until you reach his eyes, that is. They’re far too still to be anything other than focused. 

Azriel’s eyes don’t move like you suspect your own do—flitting about the place as you spy more and more colours and things to name. Where your eyes skitter, his hazel set cut. Slicing to wherever he needs them to be with the directive and aim of what you suppose must be a warrior. 

If his eyes are weapons, then his mouth…

Pupils cut into your own and you momentarily fumble, enough of a start that Azriel readjusts the grip of his fingers around your ribs, flexing over the slope of your thigh. Beneath your back and legs his arms recalibrate their tension and he inclines the angle to which you’re falling toward him by a fraction—to make up for the angle of the descent. 

“Once we land I want you to stay close,” Azriel instructs, not minding to acknowledge that he’d probably caught you staring. “Bornemere is a coastal town; the sailor’s here are known to have wandering hands so make sure to keep aware of your surroundings.” You dip your head, breaking the eye contact as you nod once. Even if he hadn’t offered the words of caution you’d have stuck tight to his side anyway, unless a special something had caught your eye, but you’ll certainly feel more at ease now he’s laid the offer down himself. You won’t have to feel like an intruder when walking beneath his shadow. 

“Have you encountered this trader before?” You ask once Azriel’s attention has returned to his mental checkpoint, curiosity perking in your chest. Azriel had mentioned before leaving that you would both be visiting someone in particular he knew dealt with Illyrian goods. In your periphery, he nods. “A few times. When I haven’t wanted to deal with the Illyrians,” he glances down to you and again you quickly look elsewhere. “In that regard, he’s been incredibly valuable.” 

“You don’t like Illyria?” You ask, though it’s quiet enough you worry the words will be swept away by the wind before they get a chance to reach his achingly familiarly curved ears. 

Azriel’s expression hardly shifts, but the features that do contort tell you a story of cruel barbarity, and a hate that runs deeper than the pure icy waters that carve stone in two, far below the earth’s surface. 

“No,” he tells you, “I do not.” 

You swallow, sensing you’ve approached a conversation he isn’t welcoming you to. So instead you nod your head vaguely, trying to create a noise of mild understanding in your chest, “It is quite cold up there. The wind blows right through you.” Your eyes flitter about, eventually settling on a warm part of his chest that you’re held against. “I bet the snow is pretty, though,” you murmur, not fully committing to speaking the words aloud, leaving it up to chance to bring your voice to him or whip it away. 

Hazel eyes cut toward you again but it takes a few moments for his mouth to make the reply, pausing in a way that makes you believe it wasn’t his first choice of comment. “Hold tighter. We’re going to drop.” 

You blink. “Drop…?” 

Your insides clench as his wings fold in, arms strangling themselves around his broad shoulders as his body lowers. Azriel’s wings flap twice more—firm, powerful strokes that send the surrounding grass whipping outward in a circle before his boots touch down. Your legs nearly buckle when he sets you down, adrenaline from having been so high in the sky making them weak and custard-like. It takes a few minutes before you’re confident enough in your strength to tuck your arms inward and nestle them deep in the warm pockets of your dress, concealed beneath a heavy cloak now you’re more certain you won’t need to catch yourself in case you trip over your own feet. 

The walk to the centre of the town isn’t too long, affording you the pleasant chance to take in the streets as their own beauty. Granted, some of the paint is peeling, but more than a couple of houses have been painted happy, uplifting colours, surprisingly fitting for the coast: a pale coral pink; starfish yellow with window sills the colour of crab legs; a house with a roof as dark as the sea beneath a new moon, its door painted an aquamarine blue with a knocker in the shape of a Gold-Gilled Lobster. A few homes have pointed, swirling shells scattered about their front steps and you imagine they must be the homes with children inside. 

For a town Azriel has warned you contains sailors with greedy fingers, you’re surprised by how many homes seem to leave such pretty treasures out. A particularly beautiful shell catches your eye, its spines covered in mother of pearl, the edges turning an oxidised blue-green before giving way to the prawn-pink of the rest of the carapace.

“Up here.” Azriel nods to a narrow alley that cuts between two houses—suspiciously out of the way—but before you can make the turn, Azriel pauses. You peer up at him, curious. 

“He might seem intimidating to you, at first,” Azriel begins. “He isn’t one for small talk, or talk at all, for that matter.” You shift on your feet, nerves beginning to squirm in your thighs and arms, making your body restless and anxious. You nod your head. Azriel nods, but pauses again. Then seems to think better, and turns, letting you quietly follow him down between the houses to a new street and through the darkened door of a low-ceilinged shop. 

The inside smells of leather and a kind of polish or preservative that makes your nostrils sting for the first moments after entering. Tunics and boots and hats and gloves are categorised on separate displays within the wide room, a table in the centre containing the leather pre-craft, and discomfort slithers through your gut as you wrap the skinned leather back up around the animal it once was. 

Azriel turns to you, “Wait here.” Then he’s silently moving behind the desk and through the doorway behind it. Disappearing from view.

With little to do until he returns, you take your time to peer more closely around the shop. More specifically following Azriel’s footsteps to the desk but pausing before passing the invisible threshold where you’re allowed to tread. Mounted on the wall are rows and rows of blades. Most possess only one honed edge of steel but a few are duel pronged and you have to wonder what they could be used for. The blades vary in size, some as long as your little finger, others the length of your leg. One in particular catches your eye, leaned up against one corner of the wall behind the desk, though at first you hadn’t realised it was a blade due to its size. The steel edge has to be at least the height of your body, if not more, and the handle seems like it might be as thick as both your forearms bound together. You allow your gaze to curiously wander over the clean edge, the small notches made along the hilt before returning the selection on the wall. 

It’s strange, when you think about it. Maybe it’s because creatures in Prythian are inherently intertwined with magic, but weight and mass seem to have no affect on them, unlike humans. You’d be able to hear someone walking up behind you, even if they were trying to be quiet. Fae, or rather faeries, seem to be able to silence even their heartbeat if they wish to as you don’t even hear the door go or the creak of floorboards until a gruff voice asks from behind you, “Can I help?” 

You jump, spinning around as your heart pounds, only to be forced to yield enough steps to have the ledge of the desk digging into your shoulder blades so you can crane your neck high enough to find the top of the creature before you. The Ogre’s skin is a dark, forest green mixed with traces of grey over the powerful circles of his shoulders, the soft curls of hair that crawl across the two halves of his upper chest cut off by the linen shirt. His brows are thick and heavy above yellow eyes that are sliced through with horizontal-laying pupils—not unlike the eyes of a goat, or sheep. Long, thick tusks jut out from his lower jaw, pressing into the soft flesh of his upper lip, revealing the slightest hint of pink beneath. Forearms thicker than your thighs are folded over a wide chest, his brows carved downwards in unmistakeable displeasure that borders on aggression. 

Your lips part, his large silhouette entirely eclipsing the limited light, his shadows swallowing your body completely as he looms before you, removing the possibility of escape. You thought the Illyrian’s were built like nature’s supreme beasts, but the Ogre before you would make even Cassian appear the size of an average human man. Frighteningly large for a shop so small. 

“I-…” You stammer, trying quickly to get your bearings. “Are you- You’re the trader?” The Ogre’s brows narrow further and his response comes in the form of a single, rough-edged grunt. You swallow—Azriel should have given you more warnings. Intimidating doesn’t do the mountain of a male before you even an ounce of justice. “My- friend,” you manage, “he brought me here…” You swallow again, finding your lips sticky from the sea air and crisp. “I believe we’re looking for leather coverings? For myself.” Yellow eyes don’t so much as shift before he answers, “You’ll find nothing here.” 

“Nothing…?” You repeat, trying now to lean less of your weight on the desk, its ledge uncomfortably digging into your shoulders—the height makes sense now. “Then, a blade?” 

“Do you know how to hold one?” 

You blink at his harsh reply, then frown. “I require one, and wish to purchase one.” Then you push a little away from the counter, straightening your spine. “Do you have one?” 

The Ogre’s eyes narrow and you try to fight the urge to cower and crawl behind the desk. He tilts his head, “Where’s your friend?” It takes you a few seconds to remember you’d given Azriel that title, but by the time you remember the Ogre’s speaking again. “Are you making the purchase yourself?” 

“I-…I don’t think so…” That was something you hadn’t discussed with him. It’s a logical assumption to guess Azriel will be paying for whatever you need, since he’s the one insisting on a weapon for your person, but it feels wrong to jump to that conclusion. 

The Ogre’s eyes don’t stray from yours, and the need to crawl away beneath the table increases, his gaze piercing into you, “I don’t see your friend anywhere.” An embarrassed flush creeps up your neck—he thinks you’re lying. “He went upstairs. I think to look for you.” 

“Customers aren’t allowed upstairs.” The Ogre’s tone has shifted away from displeasure, having dived deep now into blatant aggression, violence simmering in his eyes. Gleaming too eagerly, despite the glacial fury twisting his mouth. He walks past you, gripping the hilt of the blade that had been leant up against the wall. It looks almost small in his hands. 

“He wouldn’t-” You fumble when the Ogre effortlessly lifts the blade from its standing, palms wrapping comfortably around the thick hilt. You swallow, heart jumping. “I’m sure he wouldn’t go up without reason. He said he’d met you before? Illyrian.” 

The Ogre pauses, ire doused though not entirely—not enough for the pulse of your heart to calm. “His name?” 

You wring your hands. “Azriel…? He said he’d visited you before, so…” The Ogre blows out a sharp huff of breath, the blade returning to its place in the corner—unused. “You should have said so to begin with,” he growls, his glare piercing straight through your flesh right down to the marrow of your bones. 

Your brows narrow uncharacteristically, lip curling faintly. “Quite a temper,” you mutter under your breath, scowl forming above your eyes as you pick out the faint footfalls descending the staircase, a beat quicker than their usual pace. Azriel really should have made it clear just how foul this male’s mood could be.

A heavy growl rumbles through the Ogre’s chest, hairs at the nape of your neck prickling as those yellow eyes glare ire into your skull. Your features twist in the slightest twitch of a snarl, before swiftly mellowing out once Azriel returns from the upper floor, hazel eyes sweeping once across the room, leaving only a second of pause to adjust his surprise before continuing forward to keep at your side. 

“Malachite. It’s good to see you again,” Azriel greets, each male grasping the others’ hand firmly. Azriel’s palm looks the size of your own in the Ogre’s grip who grunts his reply, moving to stand behind the counter while you equally move opposite, circling Azriel who’s left between the two of you. “What can I get for you?” Asks Malachite, attention abandoning you completely, shifting instead to the Shadowsinger who will be putting in the request. 

But Azriel’s attention cuts sidewards to you, and you falter. Shifting beneath his gaze. 

“Do you have anything in her size?” Azriel asks, eyes scanning over your body in a way that makes warmth flow to your cheeks, toes tensing in your shoes, head dipping a dozen degrees. You want him to like what he sees, but that’s probably not even the last thing on his mind. 

Malachite turns his attention back to you, yellow eyes glaring into your own set and you stiffen, bristling beneath the look. Heavy brows narrow over his gaze, casting his irises partially in shadow. “Nothing that wouldn’t hang off her. She has no muscle.” Azriel nods, apparently having thought the same. “Then how long will it take for you to make something?” 

The Ogre grunts, folding thick arms over his full chest. “That depends.”

Hazel eyes narrow by a fraction of an increment. “Twenty. Gold. Thirty if it fits perfectly.” 

“Done.” 

You blink, having expected it to go on for longer. Yellow eyes pin you to the floor, and Malachite nods his head to the back room he’d gotten so aggressive about earlier. “Back there.” 

Azriel goes first, and you hurry yourself to keep close behind him, sharing a glare as you pass by the Ogre, who grunts. 

Passing through another low-ceilinged corridor, Azriel leads you to a room on the right that opens up to reveal a scene you would not have expected an Ogre to enjoy. Threads are displayed neatly on one portion of the far wall, a large pin cushion with bauble-ended needles prickling out. Fabrics and leathers are rolled carefully on the far right side of the room, beneath a window, and on the left is a large mirror. A spinning wheel sits in a darkened corner, made larger specially to handle Malachite’s size. You can’t keep the surprise from your mouth. 

“Over here,” Azriel murmurs to you, pausing in front of the large mirror. You come to a stop just shy of his side, a little more at ease now the room is less cramped. And because Malachite seems to have gone elsewhere for a while. 

You shift on your feet, arms folding around your waist, one hand holding your side while the other sets itself just above your elbow. “The…bartering went quickly,” you say, peering around the floor—it’s surprisingly clean. Save for a few threads scattered between the floorboards. A single sequin glittering up at you. A nail not too far off from that. 

“Illyrian leather is high quality,” Azriel tells you, watching the door patiently, “We both know that.” Teeth squeeze the curve of your lower lip, eyes darting about the room as you once more shift on your feet. “So…you come here when you don’t want to go to Illyria?” You ask, wondering if you’re pushing too far. You can’t help wanting to know, though. You crave education about the world around you instinctively, searching avidly for every drop of information available, sinking into the wonders of an unfamiliar world with insatiable ferocity. It’s undoubtedly what’s helped keep you sane and relatively grounded.

But the way you want to know about the world is different from the way you want to know about Azriel. 

You read everything you can about Prythian because it’s there, and available. Flora, fauna, fashion, and history—there are plenty of tomes to read detailing the recent eras, the fluctuations in Court distinctions. You can’t recall ever desiring knowledge on something so unavailable and you try not to think about it too much. 

How intensely you crave him. 

It’s not good to dwell on. 

“It’s closer,” Azriel reasons, “and time is dwindling.” You shift, glancing sidewards at him, though not lifting you gaze high enough to meet his eyes. “Have you decided on a route for Summer?” You ask, pulling the map into mind. Despite not looking at him directly, you know his eyes are studying you now, turned away from the empty hallway. “I’ve been considering,” he relents, with a slowness that has you guessing at his internal indecision. Until his choice is made. “What do you think?” 

You blink, unable to help from staring at him questioningly. 

“Me?” You blurt out, confused. But Azriel nods as if it makes complete sense. Waiting expectantly. You swallow; lick your lips; swallow again. “I…well, I suppose in the interest of saving time it might better to enter the rainforest via the Winter Court…” You look up at him for approval. 

As if he’s ever given you any for yourself. 

Azriel’s expression is unreadable, and you look away, peering at the floor again. “From the looks of it though, the climb would be much steeper, and I’m not sure…” You trail off, wringing your hands together. You’re not sure you would even be able to cope with a hike like that at full health. Even with the safety of someone competent accompanying you. You clear your throat, “it might honestly take longer… I suppose unless we flew down to the peek of a mountain, then walked the distance to the Temple from above…but with the altitude, and thunderstorms, it probably wouldn’t be safe…” You look at him, “—Can siphons protect from lightening strikes?” 

Azriel nods. 

“Then…would the temperature be a problem? I imagine even packing lightly will still overall be heavy, and you’ll be carrying me, too, plus potentially a few flasks of water, which will swiftly increase the weight…” You pause, thinking. “That plus how thin the air might get, storms, lightening, heat, creatures….” You sigh to yourself. “I don’t think descending from above is a good plan…” 

Your shoulders slope, disgruntled. It had seemed a promising plan at first—a way to halve the time and avoid significant risk.

“Keep going,” Azriel tells you, making you peer at him. “Flying would be impossible, so what next?” 

“Well, we could either pass through Winter, which would be steeper and therefore have a heightened risk, but would probably be faster…” 

“Or?” 

“Or we could start at the foot of the mountains, right on the outskirts of the rainforest, and enter that way? But it would take much longer.” 

“How much longer, do you think?” 

You contemplate, recalling the geography, what the terrain had looked like according to that centuries out-of-date map. “If everything goes smoothly…maybe a day and a half through Winter?” 

“And through Summer?” You nip at your lower lip. Pulling the uppermost layer of skin from your tongue. “Closer to three days. Maybe four. But that would be if everything goes smoothly, which it undoubtedly won’t.” 

Azriel’s brow furrows. “What makes you think that.” 

You peer up at him, surprised. A little caught off guard by the question. 

“Well…” you begin, soft and hesitant. “That’s just how things go, don’t they?” 

Heavy foot thuds draw you from conversation, and your lips dip down at the edges as Malachite pushes into the room, carrying a small crate that proportionally would be the size of three stacked square pillows in your arms. 

He walks to the centre of the room, pausing in front of the mirror, and sets the box down with a rumbling thud, a gust of wind teasing your ankles, the crate hitting the floor with enough weight your foot would have surely been crushed had it been caught underneath. Though the Ogre doesn’t appear the least bit bothered by the heavy weight. He isn’t even breathless. 

“Up on here.” Malachite orders, nodding to the crate he’s placed in the centre of the room. Examining it now, in the context of the room and not his arms, it’s about half your height—not something you can easily step onto. You blink, sizing up the crate. You could crawl onto it, if you got your knee up first, but… You flush, glancing down at the length of your dress. You’ll have to hike it up, to make sure you don’t trip on the fabric. You clear your throat, a touch awkwardly. “Will you look away, while I climb up?”

Malachite’s piercing yellow eyes narrow, ire igniting once more and you can almost see the aggravated huff of breath he exhales from those round nostrils, thick brows furrowing. Azriel steps forward from your right, palms open as he reaches for you. “I can lift you up,” he tells you gently. But your own brows furrow, stepping out of his reach. “What? No. All I’m asking is for you to look elsewhere for a bit.” You say, turning back to Malachite.

His lips curl, teeth flashing. “Get up there or I’ll put you there myself,” he growls. 

It’s been a long time since ire has taken a hold of you so thoroughly. 

“Try.” You hiss, features twisting in a snarl. “See what happens.” 

The room is completely silent. Golden eyes locked with your own, the third presence holding his breath, likely preparing to cool whatever outburst next ignites. 

You know your hands are glowing. Can feel that tingle glistening at your fingertips. 

Malachite grinds his jaw, then sighs roughly. “Quickly.” He growls, boots thumping as he turns his back. 

You swallow, tension releasing from your spine and shoulders, muscles softening as you hesitantly turn back to Azriel, glancing up to him quietly. His brows are raised by a fraction, a pause of something passing through the air, but then he’s turning away too. 

You don’t waste any time in lifting your skirts and climbing onto the crate, Malachite already having turned back by the time the hem brushes your ankles again. 

“Hold still,” the Ogre orders, unrolling a measuring tape from one of his leather pockets. He takes down the length of your spine, the distance of your nape to your ankles; wrist to your shoulder; one hip to the other; the circumference of your upper- and fore-arm. You tense instinctively when he reaches round your middle, his large forearms brushing your ribcage, forcing you to raise your arms just so he has enough space. The measuring tape constricts sharply around your waist, making you jolt, already prepared to snap something else at him. 

“Careful.” Azriel mutters from the side, so quiet you nearly miss it. “She’s a fraction of your size, Malachite.”

“She can handle it,” the Ogre returns, tone disagreeable and stern, but the bite around your waist loosens, allowing you space to breathe properly as he takes down that last measurement. 

————

Malachite had said your custom clothing would be finished by the end of the day—much to your surprise. You suppose Azriel is paying him well. And the two did seem relatively friendly. Or as friendly as either could get with another like them. And Malachite had seemed a competent craftsmale. 

But now you have a day to spend in this coastal town, and little idea what to do. 

Little more than wanting to make the most of it, if it’s to be spent conveniently close to Azriel’s side.

“Do you…have anything else to do?” You ask, once you’re back out into the salty air, walking leisurely down a main street with the grey-blue sea occasionally visible between coloured houses. You’ve never had a chance to see the sea before. It’s slightly frightening, even from a distance. Azriel shakes his head, and you glance somewhere away, teeth pulling at your lower lip while in thought. 

“Can we see the sea, then?” You ask, looking at him hesitantly. 

Azriel nods, and steers you down an alley, leading between a wooden-made shack with netting strung along its exterior, and a cream-painted house with weathered window panes and a small back garden. You gaze across the flat horizon line, greyish skies meeting blue-grey water, thick and heavy. Bluer than the rivers you’d grown up by, and certainly cleaner looking than the brown-black lakes and ponds of your childhood. 

Stepping foot on the pebbled beach, a gust of wind blows briny air up your nostrils, smelling of something damp and stagnant, and distinctly salty. With the uneven ground beneath your feet, you’re forced to remove your arms from their warm huddle at your sides, stepping further into the beach as you make your way cautiously over to a cluster of black rocks, rich green algae sleeked across the seastone. 

The rock is jagged beneath your fingers, piercing even through your gloves and numbed flesh, but the mild discomfort is worth the treasure of the small pools gathered in smoothed-out hollows. Your lips part, an exited huff of breath puffing from your lungs and you clamber a little higher, careful of your footing. At the beds of the miniature pools is a thick layer of sand and softened shell fragments, spots of brown-pink and orange smudging the pale crusts. In the corner of your chosen pool sits an intact shell, and your lips curve into an exhilarated smile, fingers dipping into the icy water to trace the scalloped edge, grazing the ridges with your nail. 

A startled gasp escapes your mouth as little, armoured legs shoot out from the openings, tiny red pincers cautiously extended as legs scuttle sidewards into the sand, swiftly burying itself deeper and safer. A young crab. You’ve never seen one alive before. Or one so small. 

Gazing further about you recognise all kinds of shapes and globs—a dark maroon jelly clinging to the rock face, a smattering of barnacles with flecks of pearly white glazing their rough exteriors, slimy looking folds that appear like a long-forgotten cousin of landmoss. Even the algae finds ways to be intriguing, coming apart like cotton-based yarn on your fingers, sinewy and stringy. Pale yellow and lush green. It looks soft and cloud-like underwater, but limp and clutching once taken into the open air. 

You decide to leave the remaining creatures unbothered, and tentatively lift yourself from the chosen perch, not too bothered by the darkened hem of fabric that’s become damp and sodden in places. Azriel waits patiently at the foot of the seastone formation, hazel eyes tracking your footing as you descend the jagged rocks, leaving once you’ve reached the small pebbles again. 

Instead of asking, as soon as your eyes land on a flat outcropping of rock, where the pebbles doze away, your feet are moving. Dazedly walking over to peer down into the gatherings of water in the dips and crevices, spotting pops of coloured shells, small creatures skittering about from hollow to hollow. A wave froths over the lower portion of the vast rock surface, and even so far away the water ripples upward. Your curiosity flows with the departing wave, pulled nearer to the sea itself, until you’re forced to pause in order to keep dry. 

Although the sheer mass of water in incomprehensible to your mind, what’s obvious to your eyes alone is enough to have your breath deepening. Mind quietening as the waves spill onto the beach, hushing and shushing as foam clushes over pebbles and stones. You wonder what it might be like to be a creature of the sea. Whether the tides in the deep ocean are at all similar to roads across the country, or currents in the air. Whether the sea-life knows what pull to follow in accordance with the space around them. 

Time must be so different below the surface. 

Pebbles shuffle somewhere in the background of your mind, thousands of tiny stones rinsed with water rubbing against one another as a pressure steps onto them, yielding space to slot together better to accommodate the added weight. A wind roars across the beach, trying to whip the scarf free from your hair, luring strands free to sting and slice when they cut against your cheeks. 

“We should go inland to the market,” Azriel says, pausing at your side. You stand upright, but he’s still taller despite being on a lower plane of the beach. His dark head tips toward the open sea, where the horizon line has come blurred, the sky and water mixing as swollen clouds lethargically glide forward, peppering the smooth water surface with miniature raindrops, hitting the sea like stones. “There’ll be shelter further in, and it will be warmer.” 

You look out to the sea again, lips parting at how swiftly the storm is approaching. How thick the rainfall seems, even from such a far distance. Dense and near-opaque. Your pulse spikes. 

To feel all those raindrops hitting your skin…soaking your clothes and hair…trickling down your spine, behind the curve of your ears, crying down your cheeks and hanging from your lashes like teardrops… 

“Can we stay…?” 

The question comes out of its own accord, but you’re too busy feeling to retract it.

Azriel pauses, hesitance being an interesting texture on him.

“Sure.” 

————

He had been wary when she asked to remain on the beach, not sure she grasped how uncomfortable she would become with rain-drenched clothes paired with ice-cold winds, but the expression that had been on her face had been…compelling. A refusal had been on the tip of his tongue, but when he had looked at her she had been looking back, with her full attention. 

Azriel hasn’t ever seen her look at him completely—likely because a part of her mind has always been straying over him to fully gather her focus in one place. To look at him without another thought in her head. 

When the rain had come he had been able to hear her heart racing. Could pick out the rise and fall of her throat, chin tilted upright to watch the clouds fill the skies. Could see the gradient of her clothes darken, and the pattern of her hair where the thin, pale scarf was suctioned to it. 

He had waited at the beach’s top while she meandered down to the shoreline again, moving over the pebbles like the floor was made of springy moss. Once more scaling the jagged rocks and dipping her then-bare fingers into the filling pools, stirring up sand and life, having left her gloves behind. And this time, keeping dry hadn’t been a worry on her mind. 

Azriel’s stomach had tensed when she’d waded into the water until it was lapping at her calves, had been prepared to help her upright when she inevitably was tipped over by a wave she hadn’t anticipated, or had her footing undermined when stepping on a rock she hadn’t realised was there. And when she reaches down into the water, he’s certain the wind will carry across a yelp when the glacial water touches her stomach, startled enough by the cold that she will tip, or fall, or splash, or become submerged entirely. 

Instead her eyes become wide enough his attention on her narrows, both her arms elbow-deep in the waters, cupping something beneath the waves. Even through the thick curtains of rain she finds him, brows risen as she tips her head toward the sea. Come over here!

With a sigh, Azriel lifts himself from the cobbled wall he’d been stood before, separating the beach from the street, and walks down to the edge of the shore, the bottoms of his leather-bound boots inching into the shallows. Her back is hunched, sea up to her thighs, and when she sees he’s near enough, she lifts her cupped palms from the water. 

Laying flat across her hands is a grey seastone, but gripping to the stone is a dark purple starfish. 

Her eyes sparkle, already having left him to return to the sea creature. 

That’s right—she’s never seen these things before. 

And then he spots the darkness shooting just below the water’s surface. Concealed by the storm. 

————

A series of steadily increasing sizes of bumps run up the starfish’s five limbs, its skin littered in tiny speckles of mauve, blue, and maroon. They’re like the scales on a snake, with threads of soft, grey-pink flesh visible between them. Beautiful, and magical, in their own way. You have to wonder if the fish and animals in the upper parts of Prythian are especially designed, or whether some life is just more beautiful than others, magic having little to do with it. 

Just the luck of the draw. 

Azriel moves suddenly in your periphery, but his shout is muffled by the thundering rain. You startle as the clouds rumble overhead, starfish falling from your palms and splashing into the icy sea, hitting the bed and stirring up sediment.

You know it splashes, because something snatches at your ankle, and water sprays as you’re tipped over. 

You know it’s icy, because the breath is shocked from your lungs the second it snares around your throat. 

You know once it’s in the sea, it hits the ground, because your skull pounds with pain as you hit the rocky bed. 

Searing scratches bleed their way up your calf, claws crawling up your body. Salt water stings at your eyes and nostrils, burning your nose and the back of your throat as it’s swallowed down in a panicked gulp for air. The sea fizzes with tight air bubbles, sound muffled and thick, arms encased in freezing syrup as you try to find something to take hold of, feet thrashing as the bones around your ankle tighten, rocks grazing at your back as you’re dragged along the sea bed, hauled further out to sea, further from the shore. Pressure squeezing your already pounding skull as you go deeper, deeper, deeper. 

You lash out, nails catching on something and more water fills your lungs as you scream, something coming away cold and soft beneath your nails. Clumpy and flesh-like. 

Whatever’s grabbing you recoils briefly, before surging forward with threefold its original strength, claws digging into the flesh of your thighs, scratching at your hips as it climbs higher, a single nail running down the centre of your throat before strong arms are hooking beneath your own, a sudden searing heat blazing just in front of you, and you swear a flash like lightening hits the water. Cold, and blue, despite the brief burn of the water as it came to a boil. 

Water shoots from your nostrils, gurgling in your throat as you try to gasp for air, wind roaring and whipping, rain lashing down into your eyes as you’re hauled back to the surface, Azriel’s arms keeping you clutched tight to his body, wading through the sea to return to the safety of the shore. Your arms spasm, lungs coughing as your stomach clenches and roils, retching as water spills from your lips, spat out upon the slick pebbles of the beach. 

Your eyes are burning, panting and gasping and crying as stinging pain bleeds across your body, able to smell the copper even in the rain-soaked air. 

Through the blinking blur of your vision, you can see Azriel crouched beside you but the wind is too loud to hear what he’s saying. Thunder rumbles through the skies and you try to dig your knuckles into the spongey hollows of your eye sockets, desperate to see, to dry away the salt. 

A hot palm burns your cheek, warm fingers guiding away your pestering hands, pressing dry fabric gently to the inner parts of your eyes. You sniffle, lungs heaving, chest trembling, but slowly the blur subsides, enough for you to pick out the dry finger of a glove trailing carefully beneath your lash-line. 

Your arms tighten themselves on your ribcage, squeezing your sides as you keep your knees close to your chest, shaking violently. 

The raging storm is blotted away as a dark panel slides across the smudged horizon, a hand curving on your shoulder to bring you closer, and terror has paralysed your capacity for shame. 

Eyes burning anew; stinging as tears roll away, your forehead falls to Azriel’s shoulder, huddling into his warmth. Legs crossed at the ankle, hands tucked into your armpits, you can feel the pulse of his jugular against your temple, the line of his jaw grazing the crown of your head. His palm squeezes, your stomach spasming as hot blood recoils from your surface, steadily sinking inwards and slowly draining down your legs where that creature raked its claws. 

Lighting flashes overhead, thunder rumbling only a second later, and you curl yourself tighter, uncaring for the heat it’s wringing from your body. Dripping onto the cobbles below. 

“You have magic,” Azriel whispers, exasperated and strained. “Why didn’t you use it?” 

Your lips tremble, tears mixing with the rain, head hanging as you try to press closer to his warmth to keep away the whipping winds. Hot breath puffs along the length of your throat, and his palm settles over your skull, thumb trailing the perimeter of the wound you know is there. You’re grateful he’s holding you tight enough there’s nearly no room to shake and shudder. 

————

Azriel is convinced it’s one of the escaped immortals. 

His features had been strained when he’d carried you back inland to the town, finding a temporary spot for you to rest, indoors and warm, hot food and drink brought out, and given a quiet backroom to huddle in. The temperature is warm, but your left shoulder and hip and cold without Azriel around. Tingling palm-sized pressures on your ribs and thigh. 

Azriel’s jaw is tight, wings laced with tension, and you wrap yourself tighter, shifting closer to the crackling fireplace. It’s common sense you’ll warm up quicker with the removal of your clothes, but you both know that isn’t an option for you. So you settle for one-sided heat of the fire instead, alternating every now and then to give the opposite side of you a chance to dry. The only item of clothing discarded being your head scarf, hair hanging in clumpy strands from the sea salt. A tangling mess, sticky and sodden. 

Azriel glances to the clock on the wall again, and you reach for your tea, sipping tentatively, wary but not really caring about the scalding burn as it streams down your throat, heating your stomach. Your legs sting if the fire faces them for too long, but other than that, the pain is more than bearable. 

“Can you speak with Rhysand from here?” You ask softly, wrapping your fingers around the mug, peering into the sweetened, stirring liquid. Azriel shakes his head. “Too great a distance,” he replies in your same volume. “It will have to wait until we’re back in Velaris.” 

“Would it be good to leave now, then?” You ask, gaze shifting to the fireplace, already mourning its heat. But Azriel shakes his head again. “There’s still your armour to collect from Malachite. We will fly back once it’s collected.”

“You don’t know when it will be done…” You think aloud, shifting your hold on the mug. “Wouldn’t it be better to return now, than to waste more time waiting for something we aren’t sure will be finished?” 

“I know him. He’ll have it done.” 

Azriel sighs, for the first time since you’ve been given this quiet room in the back of a busy store leaning back in the too-small chair. Flames dance in his glowing eyes, and you wonder if he’s even seeing the fire at all, or if he’s learned to block it out. If such things even affect him anymore. 

The warmth leaves them as they cut to you, no longer reflecting the heat, and it takes a second for you to look away, cradling the mug. “Can you walk?” 

You blink, pausing. Mentally feeling down your body. Thinking how your flesh tingles and stings in different areas. The dull throb at the back of your head. “I think so,” you reply, looking to him, “if I’m fine to?” A phantom sting thrums through your thighs as his eyes cut over you, shins flickering with the grazing itch of a needle, threads of starlight glowing where his eyes trace. 

Azriel contemplates for a pause, eyes glazing as you imagine him once more attempting to reach out to Rhysand. “You’ll live,” he settles on, hazel clear again, “but say if you hurt. We’ll find a place to pause, and we can wait in one of Malachite’s rooms if you need space to rest.” 

You swallow but nod, not mentioning your aversion for the male. You’d prefer to walk on openly bleeding legs than willingly rest under the Ogre’s roof. Disagreeable and unpleasant as he was. 

Azriel gets to his feet, nodding to the mug in your lap. “Finish your tea then, and we’ll head out.” Upon noticing the questioning look in your eyes before you can hide it, he elaborates. “You haven’t seen the market yet, and it might take your mind off the events of the day. And it will allow me time to think on what to do next.” He adds at the end. 

Teeth chew your lip. You suppose if it will also help him…you don’t have to feel bad about dragging him around a town he’s probably seen anywhere from a few dozen to a few hundred times. Maybe more. 

So you finish your tea, wrap the now-dry scarf around your neck, and follow behind him as you trail back into the damp streets, thanking the owner sincerely on the way out. Grateful for the cozy shelter. 

————

The storm has passed by the time you return to open air, but has left its mark on the town. 

Cobbles are black and gleaming, puddles accumulated in between; crystal clear drops of water falling from iron lanterns, dripping from rooftops or the oxidised copper of gate rungs. The smell of the sea is temporarily overpowered by the damp scent of rain and wet brick, earthy with a twinge of brine. 

Still, the market itself is lively, tarpaulin strung atop heavily laden tables to protect from lashing rainfall, the slats that could hang down from the tops like curtains now once more rolled and tied, allowing passersby a better chance to browse the wares on sale. 

There are a few stalls that catch your eye, a surprising amount of variety for what you’d thought was just a coastal town, but that appears to be a centre for trading. The keepers of the stalls each gathering their wares then moving further throughout Prythian, carting special items between courts to sell elsewhere, exchanging where they can’t afford stock in gold. 

It’s strange to think about this world, almost similar to your father’s. 

Some tables are laden with thickly padded blankets, sheets with embroidered corners and tasseled edges, pillow coverings with matching floral motifs, outlined in golden thread. Others hold crockery and cutlery, and a smile tingles just beneath the surface of you lips when you spot a set you imagine came from the Winter Court—Bas’ home court. You swallow thickly, pausing to take in the distantly familiar details, blue ink glazed to the white ceramic, small figures that can’t be any larger than a single knuckle from your fifth finger pickaxing at frozen land. It’s both warming and aching to look upon, the faint taste of regret in your mouth. 

When your vision blurs at the edges, you force yourself to swiftly move on, shifting your attention to the next stall while Azriel keeps to himself, just remaining close enough to keep an eye on you without being invasive. It’s just what you need at the moment, space enough to walk on your own while having the comfort of strength within reach. Having the space to subtly dry your prickling eyes without having to feel the discomfort of shame. 

You pass by a few stalls before another takes your interest, smaller tables displaying knitted quilts and jumpers, thick scarves and three sizes of mittens—all too large for yourself. One table displays silverware: from rings, to locks, to hinges and tools. A box the size of your forearm filled with a variety of iron nails, some sharp as stingers while others twist and swirl, as small as a tooth or as long as one of your fingers. 

The male who watches over the stool has a sibling to this display, a table two thirds the size of the first entirely dedicated to jewellery—the silver and iron pieces made by hand while the ones forged in gold are the result of trade. You’re reminded of the blacksmith you’d spoken with in the Autumn market, who’d had the gruff exterior. For a moment your fingers itch to graze the lobes of your ears, but worry Azriel will somehow put all the pieces together, as impossible as that would be. Unfortunately the skill levels drastically differ here, most of the rings merely plain bands of silver, lacking the flourish you’d found so beautiful in Autumn. Much more practical looking, verging on banality, the exception being the pieces the blacksmith had traded for. 

Gazing over the twinkling gold you have to admit you’re clueless to how he managed to get his hands on jewellery like this. Compared to the iron and silver pieces, they’re stunning. More than a few engraved with small patterns, tiny coloured jewels encrusted in the centres of floral designs. You’re fortunate most of them seem made for male hands—there’s no way you could afford or trade your way into having possession of one of them, and you imagine they might now feel strange around your mostly numb digits. 

Azriel had mentioned some of the sailors having wondering hands… 

You cautiously depart form the stool, as beautiful as it had been, content to continue perusing. 

While the sting in your legs is very much present, you find more enjoyment in the exploration of the market, getting to see such a range of craftsmanship displayed all in one place. 

The next table you pause at is one that’s showing off more variety than any of the others, seemingly a collection of bits and bobs spat out in a disorganised pattern across the stretching table. Other fae bustle around in the space between rows, and you manage to slide into a space that will allow you to better look at the intriguing variety. 

After a while observing on your own, Azriel fills the empty slot beside you, receiving a wary glance from the stall-owner who migrates a little further down the table from where he’d been previously conversing with a customer. 

“See anything you like?” Azriel asks. 

Thankfully his proximity is enough to battle the shifting and shuffling of feet; the general bustle of the market. Your gaze roams across the long table, drawn to the splashes of colour gleaming before you. “Those are pretty,” you reply, nodding to the squares of coloured glass displayed upon pillow-stuffing in a tilted wooden crate. They look like they might be tea coasters, or lovely things to hang from the ceiling near a window, so the light refracts and spills beauty across a previously plain room. Your eyes stray to the other glass pieces, that smile again tingling at your lips when you see a few monocles filled with tinted glass, a pair of spectacles with circular, coloured lenses. 

They’re so ridiculously excessive they make your heart hurt. 

Azriel nods to the pair you were looking at, tinted indigo. “Why not try them on?” 

You look to him, lips parted. Brow furrowing, “Is that allowed?” 

Azriel shrugs, glancing to where the stall-owner is obviously eavesdropping. He blushes at having been caught, folding his arms over a puffed up chest, but gives a curt nod. You look back at the glasses, now in reach. With tentative fingers you pluck them from the display, sliding them over the point of your ears, letting them settle delicately on the bridge of your nose. 

They’re a bit large, but they fit. 

Unthinking, you look up at Azriel, curious for an expression to establish your own thoughts upon, and a beat passes. You swallow. “How do they look?” You ask, feeling heat creeping up your neck. Azriel watches you quietly for a few seconds. “Blue.” 

You nod your head, “they’re a bit too large, I think…” Carefully removing them, you fold back the legs, putting the lovely set back where they came from. “Those are pretty, though,” you say, gesturing to the arrangement of wooden goblets and other small carvings further down the table. Everything’s reminding you of him though. 

With a tightened throat, you lift one of the goblets, examining it in closer detail. The lovely colour of burnt wood, smelling smokey and familiar. Miniature circles ring the top, with eight arches etched into the sides topping two rings holding a series of squares inside. Skilled carvings. “Isn’t it nice?” You ask distantly, not sure whether you’re offering the question to Azriel or just thinking aloud. He nods anyway. “Do you like it?” 

You blink, lowering the goblet and looking to him, having not expected a question in return. You blink again, realising you shouldn’t be so surprised, clearing your throat and returning the carving to its place. “I- guess?” You stammer, not wanting to bring up Bas. It’s too ugly a bruise. “My father did things like this, though not-…practical…things…” 

Azriel hums, and you feel your throat closing up. 

Maybe you should have asked to help visit in the Winter Court, even if it would have meant travelling with Mor. You could have tried to patch things up with her, and maybe while you were there you could visit the statue Bas had once told you about. 

Maybe you should have insisted on seeing him once more, before he left. 

Just in case you didn’t live to say goodbye. 

[eliorabunny]

bags

clairo boy no further explanation needed thank u! friend!matt x fem!reader

𐀔⋆✩*｡‧“can you see me / i’m waiting for the right time” ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

𖦹 genre: fluff, friends to lovers ʚ♡ɞ

𖦹 warnings: mentions of alcohol, some swearing, suggestive at the end

𖦹 word count: 769 𖧧

𖦹 a/n: c l a i r o ! b o y ! ur telling me that first pic isn’t him. don’t play ‼️ i may do a continuation of this and get a little nsfw but only if u beg💋 ily xoxo🐇 ᵕ̈ ̤̮

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

“i don’t wanna watch tv anymore,” she mumbled.

matt looked over, a confused expression drawing his eyebrows together as he reached for the remote. “is everything okay?”

the two had been enjoying dinner and sitcom reruns, but she was growing tired of the unresolved tension. for the past few months, they would get together and share innocent cozy nights. she had reached out to matt after reconnecting at a high school reunion, and they discovered they had much more in common (mainly, a love of red wine and music on vinyl).

“yeah, i just wanna sit for a sec,” she responded idly, her mind in a rose-colored trance. her goal tonight was to confess her blossoming feelings, but nerves were getting the best of her. “maybe some wine?” matt nodded and smiled sweetly at her. fuck, that smile. her shoulders relaxed slightly and she watched as he grabbed the bottle of cabernet and two glasses.

she pulled a pillow to her stomach and brought her foot onto the couch cushion, resting her cheek on her knee and taking in the sight of matt’s fingers curled around the bottle. he pushed up the sleeves of his cream-colored cable knit sweater, and his forearms flexed as he poured their drinks. something in her stomach flipped. she turned her head away, trying to hide the slight blush forming across her cheeks. matt’s rings clinked softly against the bowls of the glasses, and he took care not to grip too harshly.

“do you want me to put on an album?” matt suggested, placing the drinks down gingerly on the coffee table. she inhaled deeply and nodded. “could you get Blue?”

“good pick,” matt murmured as he skimmed through the record crate. he found the classic indigo cover and pulled the vinyl out of its sleeve, setting it carefully on the turntable.

⋆

joni mitchell’s velvety voice skimmed across the room and covered the two in a haze, a reflection of the snowy blanket resting on the streets outside. the radiator worked overtime as the bitter northeast cold snuck in through a cracked window. a biting breeze slid along the stripe of skin between her henley and pajama pants, and she shuddered. matt’s eyes widened as she absentmindedly moved closer to him on the couch.

perhaps it was the multiple refills of wine, or the proximity, but he suddenly felt bolder. he had been avoiding his own burgeoning feelings for her, afraid to taint a healthy friendship. tonight felt different somehow. they had fallen asleep together on the couch many a time, dozing off mid-conversation, but this was more delicate. an unnamed purity shattered; some sort of barrier between them had fallen this time around.

wrapping an arm around her shoulders, matt pulled her towards him and grabbed the throw blanket that was draped along the seat back. “are you cold?” he asked pointlessly, taking her fingers in his. “let me warm you up.”

her heart rate quickened at his words. did he mean to say it like that? she giggled nervously, turning to look him in the eyes, and found a sincerity the color of denim. “c’mere,” he hummed, tugging at her shirt childishly and leaning back so his head rested on the arm of the couch. she obliged, blushing from the wine (or so she’d say), and settled on top of him, resting her ear over his heart. he hoped it wasn’t beating too loudly, and she hoped he couldn’t feel her second heartbeat against his thigh.

one by one, matt removed his rings and placed them on the coffee table next to the empty glasses. she could have sworn he let out a quiet hiss when he leaned over, and she adjusted her hips subconsciously. his hands found their way around her waist, fingertips exploring the bottom hem of her shirt. “is this okay?” he whispered as he slid long fingers beneath the fabric, the contact sending tingles across her lower back. she sighed shakily and managed to breathe out a quiet “yes.”

a relieved smile spread across matt’s face, and he was grateful she couldn’t see him in that moment. he pressed gently on her back, pulling her flush to him and creating a treacherous friction. his other hand squeezed the pillowy flesh above her hip, as if kneading dough.

“what was the name you were talking about the other day?” his question caught her off guard. just yesterday, someone had brought up pet names in conversation, and she’d mentioned that her favorite was “bunny.” he pretended to forget it a little longer, before speaking down into her hair.

“you feel so soft, bunny.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[teamchasezwrites]

Second Chance (1/3)

Word Count: 3,724

Characters: Damian Priest/Unnamed OC

Genre: Romance

Tags: Anxiety, Waffling, Creative Licensing on Real Events, Stars Align, Kissing

Summary: Some people are worth a second chance. (A Wrestlemania XL Night Two fic)

Author’s Note: This was initially supposed to be a simple one shot. Then it morphed into a second part in Damian’s POV. Then finally a 3rd part. An error on my part with writing Damian not involved in night 1, but I had already written part 1 and most of part 2 before I realized and liked it too much to change. I did watch Damian’s doc but any errors in his road to WWE timeline are on me and creative licensing. This is written with an unnamed female lead as I tried to make it x reader, but I’m not very good at writing in the first person.

Part II Part III

The atmosphere was electric. Lincoln Financial Field held over sixty seven thousand screaming Eagle fans weekly during the fall. Usually she was one of those Eagle fans screaming herself horse from way up in section 243 at the coach to run the damn ball. She was still smarting over their epic collapse five months later when she thought they were Super Bowl bound finally ready to take the Chiefs down but alas…

She shut down that anger like she had earlier when she felt the need to raise her finger at the stadium as she was walking in. Of course across the parking lot, Citizen’s Bank Park loomed where the Phillies went down with a whimper in the playoffs. In order to save her sanity, she didn’t even look toward the Wells Fargo Center. She did however stop to take a photo with the Nick Foles statue.

Thank God for St Nick.

Or Big Dick Nick.

Tonight wasn’t about sports teams and their ability to continuously raise your hopes only to dash them in the end.

No.

Tonight was about a different hope. Though her heart still had the ability to be broken into pieces like in playoff ball.

With sports, there was always next year.

With love you tried to catch that flame and ride the magic. Hopefully forever. When the magic ended with love, hearts moved on to someone else.

With sports teams you went down with them to the bitter end.

“Jesus Christ I hope it’s warmer tonight.”

She looked to the seat next to her where her sister stood in front of the steel folding chair with the Wrestlemania XL logo. She held her phone in the air, taking a video of the crowd, the music, and the atmosphere.

“If it’s like it was last night, I’m leaving.”

“The fuck you will!” Her sister snapped at her as her fingers tapped over the phone screen. No doubt posting the video to her Instagram. “Do you know how much Bill spent on these tickets?”

Bill, her sister’s second husband. Bill, who was nearly twenty years older than her sister. Bill, who worked in the financial district in New York City and made it his mission to spoil her sister. She was sure her sister loved him in a safe, older man kind of way. He provided for her, gave her security. Random trips to Italy. After her disaster of a marriage to her first husband, she deserved it.

“I nearly lost a toe last night!”

The stadium wasn’t covered like most NFL teams seem to be learning toward when trying to get their cities to foot the bill for a new one. The Linc was open aired as they came. It provided views of beautiful sunsets and planes coming into land at the airport just down 95. Depending on the side you sat on and the time, the sun roasted you alive. It also rained on you if you weren’t lucky enough to have a seat under a cover. It also provided no shelter from the cool temperatures April always brought to the Northeast. Where winter liked to hang on as long as possible before it released its grips to spring and the blistering summer.

“I think I saw some Cody Rhodes socks at the merch tent.”

She side eyed her sister not finding the comment funny. She made sure to bring a pair of gloves and a toboggan. She almost brought a throw as well, but decided not to. If the second night was anything like the previous night, she would be spending more time on her feet than huddled in her chair.

“Probably just as well,” her sister grinned. “You shouldn’t be wearing someone else’s merchandise.”

She was saved at having to reply when the opening festivities started. As the National Anthem was performed, she barely heard the words, mouthing in reflex with her hand over her heart. The crowd cheered at the conclusion as music hit the speakers. Inside the ring, a pretty black woman smiled over the crowd as she announced the special guest, Stephanie McMahon.

Nerves built in her stomach and continued to roll and twist into knots as the first wrestler, Drew McIntyre made his entrance with bagpipe players lining the stage. Their sound echoed through the stadium. It wasn’t until the stage filled with members of the Philadelphia String Association members and their instruments and outlandish outfits did she lean over to her sister.

“I think this was a bad idea.”

She was nearly drowned out by the music on stage and the crowd singing rolling “ohs”. She learned last night it was just what they did with the next wrestler.

“What?” Her sister’s head snapped toward her as she looked away from the stage.

“I said,” she paused as the crowd roared with cheers. Looking up at the big video screen above the ring, she saw Seth Rollins made his appearance. Dressed outlandishly in an outfit that fit right in with the Mummers surrounding him. “This was a bad idea.”

“I heard that. I was just giving you time to change it.” Her sister pursed her lips in annoyance. Or disappointment. She wasn’t sure which. Being ten years younger, she was used to receiving those looks throughout her life from her sister.

“Be real.” She sighed.

“I am.” Her sister turned away from the ramp Seth was currently making his way down. “You were excited when I told you I got tickets.”

“I was. I am…” She insisted.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Look around Sis,” she waved her hand around her acknowledging the thousands of people packed inside the stadium, the cheers, the lights. “You think with all this, he’ll notice me? Let alone recognize me? It’s been so long…”

Ten years.

Ten years since the man she thought she’d marry, create a family with, would love forever, up and left her.

‘This isn’t working anymore.’

The words crumbled her heart and stole her breath. She’d been imagining her future with him and he was leaving her behind.

“You never know.” Her sister shrugged. “You caught his eye before. Who’s to say you won’t catch it again? Besides, I’m tired of listening to you wallow after another failed date with yet another guy who failed to measure up to Luis.”

Well…

She turned away from her sister to stare at the ring where Seth and Drew were currently locked together in their match for the championship belt Seth currently held. From the rumors she read online from various social media sites, Luis – Damian Priest – was going to cash in his Money in the Bank briefcase that assured him a title match.

“It has to work.”

She turned her attention back to her sister. “Why’s that?”

“These tickets were cheaper than getting that tattoo removed.”

Ignoring her smirk, she looked down at her left hand. There, on the inside of her ring finger over the second knuckle toward the third, stood Luis’s name written in a delicate script font. The tail of the s making a small heart.

“Can’t imagine any man wanting to slide a ring over another man’s name,” her sister said dryly.

The tattoo had been part of a drunken night nearly three years after their break up. Her roommate at the time was an aspiring tattoo artist. She wasn’t sure what led to the tattoo – the night remained a black hole in her memory. She woke up the next morning on the living room floor with the kind of hangover she hadn’t experienced since her first year of college. The pain in her head matched that on the pain on her hand where a fresh tattoo sat on redden skin.

Concealer became her friend. She carried it around like chapstick. One in her purse. Another in her car. The desk at her old job. A tube in the drawer of her bedside table. Even one laying on the coffee table in her apartment. All to hide the name of the man she never got over. Even now, the ink was hidden beneath a layer of classic concealer.

Her mind wandered during the match thinking about Luis and how long it’s been since they shared the same space. How different he looked in his appearance now compared to then. The cut of his hair. The trimmed facial hair covering his cheeks. The numerous tattoos covering his arms, chest, and back. His muscles more defined and cut. The added muscle weight making him appear bigger than before.

The ringing of the bell drew her attention back to the match. Drew McIntyre was standing victorious in the ring with the gold championship belt hoisted high in the air with one hand. The crowd roared in celebration. She could see a dejected and limping Seth Rollins making his way back up the ramp sans the belt he wore to the ring not that long ago.

She couldn’t help but feel letdown, a sagging feeling of sorrow eclipsing her body while thousands cheered in happiness around her.

This was supposed to be when Damian cashed that briefcase in. But he never appeared. Did all the articles and tweets she read get it wrong? How could Damian make an appearance now? The match was over. Drew won. In a second or two, Drew would leave the ring and make his own way back up the ramp. The show would continue. The window to see Damian gone.

Her thumb unconsciously rubbed over the inside of her finger, right over Luis’s hidden name.

Disappointment set in. She knew it was a chance nothing would happen. Even if Damian came out, there was no guarantee he would see her anyway. Though she would be terrified standing in the ring with thousands of people staring at her, she imagined for him the people all blurred together. Seeing them but without seeing them.

“Oh Damian is definitely cashing in!”

She tuned an ear to the conversation behind her. It took everything she had to not turn around and pepper the person with questions. How did he know!

“Oh yeah!” Came a laughing response. “He’s spending way too much time fucking with Punk.”

The video screen above the ring showed Drew now standing on the announce table. She couldn’t make out the words, but she bet it was trash talking a guy sitting in the office chair wearing a headset. She didn’t know who he was. Her deep dive into the briefcase and Damian didn’t include other wrestlers and whatever beef they may have with each other.

The Scottish music cut off as Drew was knocked off his feet. The crowd went wild as they stared chanting “CM Punk” as the wrestler continued his beatdown of the new champion.

The lights on the housing area, lining the ramp, and at the top of the ramp switched from green to purple at the same time music blared. The crowd lost their minds and she swore she felt the ground moving.

“I told you!” Her sister grabbed her arm, her fingers squeezing tightly.

A blur of purple and black ran down the ramp in the midst of cheers. She found it hard to see with everyone standing, dancing around, and their arms in the air. She looked up at the screen and her heart stopped.

Damian.

She watched the whole sequence without breathing. Jamming the briefcase into Drew’s head. Handing off the briefcase to the referee. Picking up a beat down Drew from the ringside floor and tossing him into the ring. Him climbing into the ring and the ref ringing the bell.

It felt like it lasted hours.

Damian lifted Drew high above him with one arm and slammed him to the mat before falling over him in a pin.

One.

Two.

Three.

The bell rang and crowd’s roar strengthened once again.

“And here is your winner! And NEEEEEEW world heavyweight champion… Daamienn Preeeist!”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched Damian on the TV high above the ring. Holding the title in one hand with both hands above his head in victory. He then flexed his arms down and let out a roar, the sound buried by the fans cheering.

“I told you!” Her sister shouted again, her hand still gripped her arm and she shook her with excitement. “Get over here!”

She was practically thrown into the fencing that created a barrier between the seats and the ramp. It moved slightly but she was able to regain her footing. Fans around her all stormed to the fence as Damian rolled from the ring. They screamed and shouted his name.

He appeared at the bottom of the ramp and she got her first unobscured view of him. He looked larger than life. The black leather gear he wore molded to his body like a layer of skin. His hair – much fuller than photos she’d seen of him – hung all over his shoulders in thick braided dreads, complete with purple and red scattered throughout.

Her heart thumped wildly but she was frozen. This was different. This was Damian. Not Luis. She didn’t know Damian. How could she expect him to react at seeing her? It’s been ten years… she looked different just like he did. He was a whole new person! He broke up with her for a reason.

This isn’t working out…

“What the fuck…”

She heard her sister mumble, but she was struck mute, she could only watch as he stalked up the ramp. The confidence she never knew he had exuding off him in waves.

“Damian I love you!”

Her eyes widened at the scream next to her. Her face grew warm against the coldness in the air. She could only watch as Damian’s eyes drifted from the top of the ramp toward the side… in her direction.

She could tell he was about to smile or wink in the direction of the proclamation. He’d probably done it hundreds of times. When their eyes met, his face morphed into shock. Recognition dawned in his eyes. She watched as his steps faltered.

“Smile you fucking idiot,” her sister elbowed her sharply.

She smiled.

At least she hoped.

It didn’t appear she had any control over any of her muscles at the moment. Screams grew louder around her and bodies jostled one another. She blinked and Damian was right there in front of her. His chest heaved with heavy breaths from the exertion and complete pandemonium. A slick sheen covered his bare arms. Taller than she remembered. Though his dark eyes – popping from the thin line of eyeliner outlining them – were the same. They stared directly into her eyes and deep into her soul. The crowd noise faded – muted in the background. The people around them blurred. It was just him.

“Luis…” she whispered and she wasn’t sure he heard until his eyes flared.

Then she was in his arms wrapped up tight. The corner of the belt dug into her shoulder where he still clutched it in his hands. The other end brushed against the back of her thigh. She loved being in his arms. His hold so tight offering a sense of security and protection. A feeling of home washed over her. Warmth radiated from him and she pressed her hands against the satiny spandex of the top of his ring gear. With a shuddering sigh, she relaxed into him.

“Fuck…” his deep voice reverberated through her body. She felt him tuck his head down, hiding his face from view. “I gotta go…” the words caused her arms to tighten as if she could keep him there forever. “Please stay. I’ll…fuck…just don’t go.”

She nodded her head and felt the squeeze of his arms one more time before he slowly pulled away. Her eyes met his, swirling with emotions. The dull roar of the crowd around them threatened their bubble.

In a quick movement, his hands cupped her face. His fingers were still curled around the black leather of the belt strap. The back of his fingers pressed into her check. His head lowered and he kissed her firmly and quickly. His lips disappeared in a flash and with a soft caress of his thumb over her cheek, he was gone leaving her breathless.

She watched as he stalked up the stage, the belt in hand to a group of people at the top. She recognized them from photos as part of the group Damian was in. He met them with his arms stretched wide. Two members dressed in black hugged him from either side, while another in bright white shoes jumped up from the front. Finally, a woman joined the foray. They bounced up and down as they all hugged. A moment later they turned to face the crowd, Damian standing tall in the middle. He raised his championship belt up high above him in both hands while the others raised their hands in victory. The crowd roared in celebration.

Then they were gone.

“So…”

She turned her attention from the empty ramp to her sister. Her sister had her arms crossed with a smirk on her face. One eyebrow arched and her head tilted as if to say ‘told you so’.

Her checks flushed with embarrassment as she took in the faces of the people around her. She ducked her head and moved back to her seat stuffing her hands in her coat pocket to hide the shaking. This time it wasn’t from the cold. She wasn’t feeling the low temperatures anymore. A warmness wrapped around her from the moment her eyes met Luis’s. She licked her lips, drawing his taste.

“Here,” a wipe came into view. She looked up to see her sister holding out a white towelette with one hand while the other was pressing the flap down to close the travel package of make-up remover wipes.

“What’s this for?” She stared at it questioningly.

“You’re obviously not gonna be needing that concealer anymore.” Her sister smirked and pressed the towelette in her hand.

She clutched the damp wipe in her hand. Her skin still tingled where he touched. She could still taste him on her lips from even the quick kiss they shared. She tucked the wipe into her coat pocket not making the move to reveal the finger tattoo.

“Chicken,” her sister murmured as the crowd jumped to their feet as the music for the next match started. “What did he say?”

She looked around, but the attention had diverted back to the ring. She still leaned closer to her sister just in case. “He told me to stay. Not to go.”

“Like stay here?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess?”

As the night grew longer, nerves settled in her belly. The voice in her head grew louder.

‘He’s not coming.’

‘He was just being nice.’

‘You caught him off guard.’

‘He doesn’t want you anymore.’

It took everything she had to keep herself planted in her seat. Not to beg her sister to leave. To go back to the hotel and remember how his lips felt against hers. The memory of his arms around her.

“Miss?”

She almost missed the call, zoned out watching Logan Paul, who she recognized from YouTube, wrestle in the ring. Next time she couldn’t sleep, she would Google how a YouTube star not only ended up in a wrestling match, but was a champion.

Her sister nudge her breaking the zone she was in. Catching her eye, she followed the nod toward the barricade where a man stood motioning for her. Dumbfounded she pointed to herself. At the man’s emphatic nod, she stood and slid past her sister to the barricade.

“Yes?”

“You with Damian?”

“Well…I….” She stuttered until a kick to her foot caused her to blurt, “yes!”

“Here.”

The man handed her a folded up piece of paper ripped from a note pad. Before she could question, he was gone. Sneaking along the barricades ducking out of view.

“What is it?”

“A piece of paper.” She answered sitting back in her chair. The paper pressed tightly in her fingers.

“No shit,” her sister rolled her eyes. “What the fuck does it say?”

“I…I don’t know.” She stared at the white paper. Void of anything on the outside. Schrödinger’s cat stared her in the face. The words on the inside of the paper could be everything or nothing at all.

“Want me to read it?” Her sister offered.

“No. Just…” She pulled her closer to her as she turned her body toward her sister. Their knees touched and their bodies hunched to create a makeshift wall to block prying eyes.

She took a breath and slid her finger in between the flap and pressed it open. Slanted chicken scratch she knew so well greeted her.

I can’t get away. Meet me at Embassy Suites tonight??

The note ended with his phone number and was signed with just an L.

“The cost of these tickets were worth it after all.” Her sister elbowed her in a teasing manner.

“You don’t know that.” She read the note again, memorizing the number; different than she remembered. “He might just want to catch up.”

Her sister sent her a look. “Right. The kiss he planted on you was just to catch up.”

She blushed as a smile toyed with her lips. She folded the paper back along the crease and stuffed it in her coat pocket keeping it in her grasp.

“Are you gonna go?”

“How? We’re heading in the opposite direction.”

“I can drop you off.”

“Then I’ll be stuck there.”

“Would that be so bad?” Her sister wiggled her eyebrows.

No. Being stuck with Luis at a hotel wouldn’t be bad. Not at all.

“Who cares about logistics,” her sister continued. “I will drop you off after we leave here or you can take me back to your place and come back down. It doesn’t matter. Text him right now and tell him you’ll be there.”

She mulled over her sister’s words. She was right of course, not that she’d share that tidbit of information with her. Being able to be in the same space as Luis again? She couldn’t turn it down.

As the music hit for the final match of the night, she pulled out her phone.

‘I’ll be there.’

Next Chapter

[qui-gg]

Happy 1st Anniversary, 30th Music Fest!!!

This concert was probably the happiest day of my life, and it’s far too special to me not to show a little love on the anniversary!

Sappy stuff under the cut ⬇️

I remember the anticipation I had felt for months after the event was announced, wondering and speculating what could possibly happen in this concert! I was by far looking forward to music from Star Allies the most, since I’d listened to the 25th Concert/Memorial Arrangements album for years and imagining what songs from that game could sound like in a concert. So i screamed my head off when they opened “Beyond the 25th Anniversary” with the Star Allies theme, and cried my eyes out during the STAR CONQUERING TRAVELER 7 MINUTE LONG SUITE?? It was mind blowing. There were way too many moments I burst into tears and/or screamed actually. I’m pretty sure a lot of us did. Hearing songs like Northeast Frost Street, Candy Mountain, Iceberg, the Knight’s themes, City Trial, Fly Kirby, Soul of Sectonia, Green Tree Memories, WELCOME TO THE NEW WORLD?? WITH THE NEICHEL REVEAL?? It’s still just as amazing to me as the first time I watched it and I’ll keep watching forever probably

What song/moment was your favorite??

[thenaughtyhippie]

[outofangband]

Brief Fëanorians and animal thoughts, updated however some of the original format remains so I apologize for that

Flora, fauna, geography and environment of Arda Masterlist

Environment and Geography of the realms of the Fëanorians

I’m actually planning a longer post about this though so I limited it to creatures that were also personally important to them

As always I love environmental world building and questions like this and relationships with animals both on a personal and society or level is really important to me so please feel free to ask more

Maedhros (Himring and the March of Maedhros, Northeast Beleriand)

I’ve spoken about snow leopards of the March multiple times and these elusive creatures endear themselves to Maedhros over time. They are, rugged, adaptable and vicious, their beauty stark, utilitarian and violent.

Horses are the primary domestic animal in northeastern Beleriand down to Estolad and some are sired from those brought from Valinor while some were tamed from wild horses in Beleriand. Horses of Eastern Beleriand retain their winter coat for more of the year than their kin and this is especially true of the March. Maedhros grows a strong bond with several of the horses

Personally, I enjoy associating Maedhros with foxes as the name Russandol is related to the word for fox.

Maglor (Maglor’s Gap, Northeast Beleriand, South of the March)

Maglor does not take much inspiration from the songs of animals however he does enjoy their music; songbirds especially larks, crickets and tree frogs in Valinor.

Later on he will grow to dislike songbirds altogether. Their voices feel mocking.

In the Gap, he is amused by the long earred hedgehogs that can be seen in the plains

Celegorm and Curufin (Himlad, East Beleriand, Northeast of Doriath)

During prosperous years horses and hounds are both abundant in Himlad. Wolfhounds and thick coated mountain dogs (similar to St. Bernard’s and Burmese Mountain dogs of today) are favorites of Celegorm

Celegorm is fond of many creatures. Hounds and hunting hawks of course, elk and bears.

He also loves the large monitor like lizards he saw in the warmer areas of Western Beleriand.

Curufin is very fond of his own horse. He likes insects with delicate wings. Lacewings and dragonflies for example. These are not as common in Himlad however

I have some ideas about diversity in dogs and horses of Valinor and Beleriand that are probably best left for another day but in short I think there is selective breeding and some diversity in breeds though nowhere near as much as today here.

Caranthir (Thargelion, Northeast Beleriand, slightly South of the March and the Gap, North of Ossiriand)

Caranthir if asked would frequently say he was not a lover of animals. He does develop a fondness for the wading birds of Lake Helevorn as well as the gray wolves he occasionally sees closer to the montane forests. They do not bother him and in turn he leaves them be.

Amras and Amrod (Estolad, East Beleriand, East of Doriath and West of Thargelion and Ossiriand) Both twins have a love of birds of prey that dates back to their first explorations of hunting in Valinor. Falconry is practiced among them and their people. Golden eagles are most valued for this but are rare. Saker falcons and merlins are more common.

As always please feel free to ask more!

[senditcolton]

So Tragic and Rare

"Meet in the Middle" (pt. 13)

a/n: hello again! another fic added to the universe. this one is not as wild and crazy as the last but a nice little look in at where Andrei and Keely's relationship might go.

word count: 5.2k warnings: none! previous part 🧡 next part masterlist

When Andrei’s phone buzzes, he is in the middle of untying his skates after practice, the laces tight in his hands. His eyes glance over, the text message preview shining brightly on the screen and Andrei’s movements stop when he registers the name of his agent. And his heartrate increases when he reads the three-word message.

Mark Call me asap.

Andrei can’t stop his mind from spiraling. There was absolutely no reason his agent should be texting him, especially not with that cryptic message that conveyed a dire sense of urgency. He wasn’t in danger of being traded or put on waivers or anything else that would prompt this text from Mark. Unless, it was something else; an outside source implicating Andrei in something that could be damaging to his career.

The confusion and small hint of fear coursing through him causes Andrei to finish his post-practice routine in record time, racing back to his car before calling Mark back. The nerves do not settle when his agents voice comes through the speakers of his phone.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Andrei?”

The question catches him off-guard even more that his agent’s previous text, something that Andrei expresses with a vocal bewildered ‘what?’

“I received a very interesting phone call today from one Heather Griffith,” Mark explains. “Do you know she is?”

“No,” Andrei answers, the name not pulling any image into his mind, the hesitancy painting the single syllable response.

“She is a publicist, known in music circles. And today, she reached out to our office on behalf of Keely Halloran. Do you know her? She performed at the All-Star Game last month.”

As if Andrei could forget about Keely Halloran. As if he hadn’t spent the last month gathering every scrap of information that he could about the rockstar that had crashed into his life that weekend in Toronto. As if he still didn’t see her face and hear her voice in his dreams and feel her touch in his dreams.

Of course, he doesn’t say any of that to his agent. Instead, he just responds with a small affirmative hum, enough for Mark to continue.

“Well, apparently Halloran was wondering if there was a time that the two of you could get together during the Canes upcoming northeast road trip.”

“The New Jersey, New York, Boston trip?”

“Yep, that’s the one,” Mark responds. Through the speakers, Andrei can hear him flipping through some papers before he speaks again. “She says that she could either have you meet her at her recording studio in New York City or at her apartment in Boston; whatever works best for your schedule.”

There is a beat of silence as Andrei takes in the information. In the month after Toronto and he hadn’t heard anything from Keely. Her social media hadn’t even updated and any news stories that she was involved in had either been rumors or old new. There were moments when he wasn’t even sure that she would ever reach out to him. He had been – still was – willing to wait for her, just like he promised. But the complete radio silence had him wondering how long he was supposed to wait. A month? Six? A year?

That question was clearly irrelevant, now that his agent was telling him that she wanted to see him.

“Andrei, you still there?”

Mark’s voice breaks him out of his reverie and he clears his throat before responding.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Um, New York would be better since the travel between Jersey and the city isn’t as much as New York to Boston. I mean, I could do Boston also but I’m not sure.”

“Let’s just stick with New York. I’ll reach out to her publicist to confirm and we’ll work out details from there.”

Andrei continues to sit in stunned silence, listening to the clack of a keyboard and more flipping pages until Mark sighs again.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Andrei?” he asks, his voice haggard as he repeats the question posed at the very beginning of their phone call.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do I have a rockstar’s publicist on my answering machine? How did this even happen?”

Andrei can understand both his agent’s confusion and his concern. He knows that he should tell Mark everything, give him all the information he could because that was Mark’s job. His agent didn’t only help Andrei navigate contracts but also navigate the world as someone with a spotlight on him. And news like this, his connection with an insanely popular musician, would just draw more eyes to him.

But something stops him from telling Mark exactly what happened – what was happening – between him and Keely. Perhaps he wanted to keep Keely safe, protect her as much as he could. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t exactly sure what he and Keely shared.

“I don’t know,” Andrei replies, choosing to give Mark an abridged version that still had glimmers of the truth. “We connected at the All-Star game and I asked to keep in touch. Now, this.”

“Fine,” Mark says, a defeated sound coming from his chest and Andrei can picture the shake of his head. “Just, whenever you know, please tell me. Might need to high more PR or at least a crisis consultant.”

The last sentence is more muttered than spoken but Andrei hears it all the same before the line goes dead. Mark’s concern digs into Andrei, making him think deeper about his agent’s questions.

He didn’t really know where this – whatever he shared with Keely Halloran – was going. He initially thought it might have ended a month ago. He didn’t know if it would last past this next week. It was tenuous, delicate. And he knew that fragility wouldn’t disappear even if their bond strengthened.

That was just what happened, considering who she was. Who he was.

But he tries to let those concerns roll off him, like water off a duck wing. There was no point worrying about a future when that wasn’t even certain. That mindset made him a good hockey player and he knew that mindset would make him good for Keely.

If she wanted him.

~*~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~*~

The electronic voice of Andrei’s Google Maps directs him to turn off 17th, down Greenwich Ave. His legs may have been a little sore from the morning skate plus the 30-minutes he had been walking but Andrei could easily count the positives.

Like the fact that no one had stopped him since leaving the hotel, or that it was a pleasantly warm day, or that he had almost arrived at the studio, or that he was about to see Keely again.

His app tells him the Electric Lady Studios is coming up on his left and Andrei takes out his headphones. He looks ahead on the sidewalk for a sign or anything other identifiers. He doesn’t expect for his identifier to be the small group of men with cameras lingering outside but Keely did warn him about the possibility.

The sight of them gives Andrei pause, his steps slowing. He’s sure that he is unworthy of getting a phot taken, the men most likely looking for higher list celebrities. But just to be safe, Andrei adjusts his sunglasses and pulls his baseball cap a little lower. With a deep breath, he walks up to the front door and pulls it open with as much casualness as he can muster, hoping that the paparazzi thought he was just another worker or security guard.

The sound clicking camera shutters do not hit his ears and a sigh of relief flows through him. Quickly taking off his meager disguise, smoothing his hair with his hands, he walks up to the front desk where serious woman sits, typing on a computer.

“Hello,” he says, causing the woman’s eyes to look up at him over her horn-rimmed glasses, her eyebrows raising. Andrei tries not to let himself falter under her stare, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I’m here to see Keely Halloran.”

“Name.”

“Andrei Svechnikov,” he replies, waiting to see if any form of recognition crosses over her face. But the receptionist, unfazed, simply picks up the landline, tapping a few numbers before murmuring Andrei’s information to the person on the other end. Andrei watches the small nod of her head before she is placing the phone back down and fixing her eyes on him once again.

“Studio D. Down the hall to the left.”

Andrei leaves her with a polite thank you, receiving only a hum in response. He walks across the plush carpet, following the receptionist’s directions as well the signs hanging on the walls until he arrives at the recording studio labeled with the letter D. After another slow deep breath, he pulls open the door.

It is nearly silent when he steps into the room but he can hear the soft somewhat muffled sound of Keely’s singing. The room is on the smaller size, the main attraction being the giant switchboard facing a huge window. Two men were standing in front of the board, giant headphones on their ears and he could see their fingers moving. Andrei looks past them, through the window, and sees Keely.

After a month of only seeing her through a phone or computer screen, the sight of her in front of him takes his breath away. She was beautiful – no photos could compare seeing her in person. Photographs could never capture the beauty of her entire essence: sitting in the live studio, her own headphones perched on her head as she sings into a microphone, her eyes almost closed, her hands emoting with every word.

Andrei just stands back, not wanting to disturb the moment, content to watch Keely in her element. She pauses, looking back towards the window and it is then do her eyes flit up to Andrei. The skip of his heart is noticeable when her smile grows exponentially at the sight of him. She sends a soft wave in his direction as a silent hello, before her fingers curl to indicate ‘one moment.’ He just nods, patiently waiting as she does a few more takes before she takes off her headphones.

Keely gets up from the chair she was perched in and walks through the connecting door, smiling at Andrei before turning her attention to her producers.

It is fascinating, watching her work. He assumes that this is how people felt watching him skate.

Keely looked so in her element, leaning over the switchboard, her hands holding her headphones in place, her head moving with the beat. He watches how she talks to her producers, humming and singing, brainstorming ideas about the music and lyrics. Her smile never leaves her face, not even when a soft thank you fall from her lips. Her producers get up from their seats, receiving a warm hug from Keely before they depart. And then, finally, she turns her attention to Andrei.

“Hi,” she says, the lingering happiness painting her words.

“Hey.”

It’s one of the only words Andrei can say, still in shock that he was able to see her again. Still surprised that she reached out to him after a month of silence.

“Sorry again about the whole fiasco of setting this up,” Keely laughs, pushing the door open to the other side of the recording studio, holding it in a silent invitation for Andrei to follow behind. “I hope you were able to get here okay.”

“It was fine. New York is beautiful so it’s nice to walk around.”

Andrei’s words slightly trail off as he walks into the live room. He wasn’t able to see the entirety of it until now. It is cozy; the warm paneling, a myriad of couches and chairs, and even plants sitting on many surfaces. But it is also so obviously a recording studio with every different type of instrument placed along almost every wall. He watches Keely sink down onto one of the couches, her blue eyes looking up at him, the excitement of seeing him and having him here, in her world, evident. Andrei returns her smile as he sinks into the cushions opposite her before continuing.

“And don’t apologize. I’m honestly just happy you reached out,” he continues, letting his smile widen ever so slightly. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“Grow tired of waiting for me?”

“Never,” he responds immediately with a sharp sincerity. “Although, if I got your number back in Toronto, it might have been easier to remind you that I was here.”

Keely laughs, her head tilt indicating he made a good point but her laughter fades as she looks back at him with that genuine expression that made the temperature of his body increase.

“I wouldn’t need a reminder,” she softly says. “I never forgot about you.”

This woman. A part of Andrei wondered if she’d ever stop making his heart do flips in his chest.

“Really?” he asks, the question lifted with an air of uncertainty. His shock is once again noticed by Keely who only laughs that bright laugh in response.

“Of course. You think I let any random guy I met once into my recording studio?”

Andrei shares in her laughter, never ceasing to love how confident and carefree she was.

“It is a beautiful studio.”

“Thank you,” Keely replies, looking around the space before training her blue eyes back to Andrei. “I hope this isn’t too weird but I was wondering if you’d be comfortable having lunch with me in here? There’s a mini fridge that I keep stocked with food or we could order in.”

“You have a fully stocked mini-fridge?”

“Never know how long I’ll be working. Don’t want to interrupt the creative process by having to walk outside and grab a bite to eat, y’know?”

Andrei replies with a soft chuckle of understand because he did get it. There were moments in practice where he did not want to leave the ice until he perfected a specific technique or a specific play and then repeated it until it became muscle memory. He could imagine writing a song might operate the same way.

“I’m fine with whatever,” he says, his shoulder shrugging, leaving the decision entirely up to her.

“Cool. I think I’ll order some food then. There’s this Italian place a few blocks away that to die for,” Keely replies, lifting herself up and grabbing her cell-phone before turning to Andrei. “Chicken and pasta, right?”

“Yeah,” Andrei confirms, his smile growing on his face. “How’d you remember?”

“Like I said, it was hard to forget about you.”

Andrei leans back and lets Keely type their order into her phone (although he does offer his own card to pay but she shoos his request away, saying she invited him). She settles back down on the couch and while they wait for the delivery, they talk, catching each other up on what had been happening in their lives.

It was surface level stuff at first: how the season was going for Carolina, how many times Keely had been in the studio. When their food arrives, their conversation turns more intimate, talking about smaller, non-headline items. Keely shows him videos of her dog Gigi and some other photos of Boston from her point of view. Andrei recounts the absolute freak-out that Seth Jarvis had when Andrei sent him the video they shot up in Toronto. He can’t contain his laughter, even going to show the all-capital multi exclamation point text messages that he received, causing Keely to laugh as well.

“Well, if that’s how he reacts to a video, I can only imagine what he’d be like if I ever meet him.”

“Do you want to meet him?”

“Maybe. You think I will?” Keely says, responding with her own question and Andrei can see both the gentle tease in her eyes as well as the sincere hope. The hope that maybe meeting each other’s friends was were this could be heading, growing from a chance meeting to something real.  

“I guess we’ll find out,” he replies, his own eyes surely sparkling with that same hope.  

“Guess we will.”

“You look great by the way. I’m not sure if I’d told you that yet.”

“If you did, I wouldn’t be opposed to hearing it again.”

“Well, you do,” Andrei compliments, his gaze darting down her body.

She always did look fantastic but this felt different. Her outfit matched her demeanor: casual and relaxed. Another monochrome outfit of a tank top, pants, boots, her hair in two braids, that made her seem so effortlessly cool. His eyes trace the lines of her necklaces and down to the bracelets adorning her wrists before noticing the ring on her middle finger. He recognizes it as the same one from her jewelry tray in her hotel bathroom.

“I like your ring,” he says, gesturing. “I saw it… well, that night. It’s very unique.”

Keely’s eyes follow his gesture, her right hand lifting as she takes in the jewelry, a small chuckle falling from her lips.

“It’s actually one of the most common rings you’ll see in Boston. Especially South Boston.”

“Really? What is it?”

“It’s called a Claddagh ring. Old Irish tradition,” she explains.

She holds her hand out and Andrei doesn’t hesitate to take a hold of it. There is a notable shiver that runs through Keely at his touch, a smile appearing on her face – one that Andrei matches, his thumb running over her knuckles. She lets out a small shaky breath before continuing.

“The heart represents love, the crown loyalty, and the hands friendship,” Keely says, pointing to each element of the ring. “Most girls get one when they turn seventeen or eighteen. It’s actually a way to show relationship status. When it’s on the right hand – like mine – and the bottom of the heart is pointing out – like mine – it means that your heart is open to love. If the heart is pointed towards the wearer, it means they’re in a relationship. And then on the left hand, pointed out means engaged, pointed in means married.”

“Sounds complicated,” Andrei laughs, making sure his voice stays light as to not offend.  

“Only if you don’t know the traditions,” she teases back, taking his jest in stride.

“You wore it the other way for a while,” he comments. There is a silence that falls and Andrei’s eyes dart up to see Keely staring at her ring, her eyebrows furrowed.

“Tan line is still there,” Andrei explains, his thumb running over the ring, pulling it slightly to the side to show the – albeit very faint – tan line. Keely’s hand slips from his as she brings it closer to her own eyes, taking in the lighter skin.

“You think it would’ve faded by now,” she sighs, rubbing the finger, the ring twisting as she looks away, her eyes distant.

Andrei just sits there, taking in the sight of the vulnerable woman sitting in front of him. It still hurt him, how much pain that she had obviously gone through. But it also made his heart soft that she was this open and trusting with him after only a few interactions.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m sure you know the story,” she says with a humorless chuckle, her eyes darting over to him.

He didn’t want to tell her that yes, he did. After he left Toronto, he looked up as much as he could about her, trying to understand who Keely Halloran was. There was a lot of noise to dig through: internet trolls, overly critical journalists, people who had nothing to say but still said it as loud as possible. But he did know the story of her recent breakup and the fallout that followed.

“I haven’t heard it from you.”

Her blue eyes dart up to him and he hopes she understands that he wanted to hear about what happened from her perspective; the perspective of the person who lived through it all. Not to satiate some sick hunger to get information from superstar Keely Halloran but because he cared about her.

It seems as if his expression conveys enough because that self-deprecating smile softens. She lets out a small sigh before speaking.

“The short of it… is that he cheated on me. The long of it is that he cheated on me multiple times, in multiple places, in the five years we were together. Told me everything after we broke up. I wrote a song about it, got crucified for writing said song, disappeared for a few months, and now – here I am.”

“Multiple times in multiple places?” he repeats, shocked that there was a guy out there that was just plain stupid. Keely just shrugs.

“The danger of dating someone who travels for their job. It’s pretty easy to hide infidelity when you’re in different cities.”

“But he told you?”

“Yeah,” Keely chuckles, her eyes rolling. “Wrote me a letter, in fact.”

“The Late-Night performance,” Andrei whispers, remembering the messy scrawl that was projected across the soundstage.

“Yep. I don’t know if he was asking for forgiveness or wanted to cleanse his soul or some other bullshit,” she scoffs, shaking her head. “The funny thing is, him doing that is what caused everything else to happen. He could’ve gotten off scot-free if he just kept his mouth shut. But then again, I suppose I didn’t have to write a song attacking him.”

“No,” Andrei says. Keely glances back over at him, her eyebrows furrowed in a silent question. “If he didn’t want you – a singer – to write a song about how he hurt you, he shouldn’t have hurt you.”

 He can see Keely blink a few times, her body shifting, leaning back in surprise at his words and the conviction in his voice. Another sly smile tugs at her lips, her blue eyes fixed on him.

“Where were you a year ago?” she asks, her voice lilting in a gentle tease.

Andrei responds with a chuckle of his own, blushing as his head ducks down, scratching the back of his neck. He glances back up at Keely, her gaze taking him in, that cool casual demeanor thrown over her again like a security blanket.

“What about you, Andrei? Any past relationship drama I should know about?”

“No, not really,” he replies, gently laughing off her question.

“Really? No gossip that I can dig up on social media or through Google,” she says, relaxing him by gently poking fun at herself and her fishbowl life.

“Nah, there’s not much to say. My job and all… it – it keeps me busy. I only have summer really to date. But then hockey starts again and I’m travelling and… yeah,” he explains with a shrug. “Most of my problems have been physical: injuries. Missed last year’s playoffs because of my knee.”

“I’m sorry. I mean, that’s gotta suck.”

“It’s fine. Well, it wasn’t but… I’m all good now.”

“Back and better than ever?” she muses, that bright smile returning to her face.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Something we both can relate to.”

Andrei matches her grin as the two of them sit in that comfortable silence of a deeper understanding. Their worlds, while slightly different, were oddly similar as well. They had outside eyes on them, unsolicited opinions on their careers coming from every direction. But they both loved what they did. It was an intrinsic part of them, something that they couldn’t suppress even if it might be easier for them if they did.

“What were you working on? When I showed up?” Andrei asks, moving the conversation to what he hoped was lighter subject matter. His heart flips when he sees Keely’s eyes light up, the expression so like the joy he expressed on the ice.

“Just a new song. I’m not sure what I’m gonna do with it yet. Might be scrapped, might be on the next album. We’ll see,” she explains.

“Can I hear it?”

“For you? Of course.”

Keely jumps up from the couch, careful not to knock over any of their empty takeout containers. She tells him to wait as she disappears into the control room. Andrei can still see her from the other side of the window fiddling with the control board. The instrumental somewhat startles him when it starts playing through the speakers. He can tell that it is a work in progress, not as completed as the songs that he hears on the radio. But he sits and listens to the snippet played.

Tuck a knife with my heart up my sleeve and fuck like a demon. Do it like nothing, I am disgusting, I’ve been corrupted and by now I don’t need no help to be destructive. I’ve been gone. Yeah, I’ve been on this road too long.

The track stops and Andrei looks back at Keely through the window. She smiles, giving him a questioning thumbs up to which he responds to with one of his own. He watches as she practically bounds back in and sits down in her previous spot.

“Yeah, no idea what it’s going to turn into, if it’s going to be anything. One idea that I had that I’m really attached to is adding this cool skip effect to the word ‘corrupted’ just to emphasize that meaning. But any way… what do you think? Honest opinion.”

“I, um, I don’t know a lot about music. I don’t want to offend,” Andrei slowly replies. Keely just playfully scoffs at his explanation, rolling her eyes in a teasing jest.   

“Please, you know my life. It’ll take a lot to offend me,” she laughs. Andrei replies with a tilt of his head, silently telling her that she made an excellent point.  

“I like the music. I’m not sure about the lyrics. They’re a little… dark?”

“Dark?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t seem like you. But maybe I’m seeing a different side of you that makes me feel like that,” Andrei explains, looking up at Keely with shy brown eyes. This time, it’s Keely that tilts her head in agreement to his statement.

“You might be right. Well, maybe you’ll like these lyrics a little better.”

Keely once again pops up from her sitting position, walking swiftly over to the wall of guitars, and grabs one without hesitation. He watches as she gently sets it down on the couch across from him, before taking one of the smaller amps and bringing it up. With a practiced ease, she connects the instrument, pulling it into her lap and tuning it.

She strums a few notes, making sure everything was correct before she starts playing an upbeat chord progression, her foot tapping to the beat. The melody of the guitar already makes a smile appear on Andrei’s face, one that only widens when she starts singing.

“You should take it as a compliment that I got drunk and made fun of the way you talk. You should think about the consequence of your magnetic field being a little too strong. And I had a boyfriend who’s older than us. I haven’t seen him in a couple of months. I go through phases when it comes to love. I’m nothing that you want but I must say:

You’re so gorgeous, and I ain’t just talking about your face but look at your face. (ah-huh-ah) And I’m so curious. Your mind got me feeling some type of way. What can I say? You’re gorgeous. (huh, huh, ah-huh-ah)”

If there was one thing that was for certain, it was that Keely Halloran would never cease to surprise him. That was the thought repeating in Andrei’s mind as he watched her sing. She was so at ease, the weight that had been so evident on her shoulders seemingly vanished and all that was left was the music. The soft smile on his face remains even as she stops playing, her bright blue eyes looking up at him.

“I’m still not sure how I feel about that one,” she says, shrugging her shoulders as she rests the guitar against the couch cushions. “I think if I figure out the lyrics, I might send it off to another artist.”

“I like that one,” Andrei says, his voice painted with soft admiration.

“Well, I hope so. It’s about you after all.”

Those electric blue eyes seem to sparkle with the intensity of a million stars at the quiet confession. Andrei was slightly taken aback, not fully realizing how much he impacted this woman’s life until now. They only interacted with each other a minimum of three separate times, not including this one. What did she see in him? How had he not messed this up already?

“Well, I love it,” he says.

“I wrote another song about you,” Keely says, dropping the information so casually as if discussing the weather. Andrei wasn’t sure if she was emboldened by his sincerity or just liked to see him flail but whatever the reason, Andrei loved the way that it looked on her.

“Really?”

“Yeah. But I already sent it off to my friend Damiano. The moment I wrote it I knew it would fit perfectly on his band’s new album.”

“Can I still hear it?”

“You’ll have to wait for it to come out, just like everybody else. Besides, you already got enough of a sneak peek.”

The comfortable silence falls again as Andrei watches Keely return the guitar and amp to their homes. It’s almost perfect, a glimpse into what a potential future with her would look like. That is, until the sound of an alert shatters the peace. Andrei recognizes it as his alarm tone and he fishes out his cellphone from his pocket. The alert on his screen makes his heart slightly drop that it was that time already.

“Sorry, it’s an alarm I set,” he explains gently, turning off the noise and shoving the phone back in his pocket before lifting himself off the couch cushions. “I’ve gotta head back to the hotel.”

“Hey, I understand,” Keely says, walking with him out of the recording room, back into the control room and the door to the studio. Andrei stops, turning back to Keely, his hat and sunglasses in his hands.

“Are you coming to the game tomorrow?”

“No. I planned on staying in the city for the rest of the night, have some dinner with my friends, before heading back to Boston. Plus, me, at a Rangers game? Can you imagine?”

“Well, the Bruins game, then.”

“So confident,” she smiles, the words a glimmer of those exchanged in Toronto. “I think that is a definite possibility. I’m planning on going to TD Garden for a friend’s concert the night before the game anyway so, I’ll be in the area.”

“Would you be rooting for me?” he asks, a playful tease painting his words, one that makes Keely’s lips twist in her own mischievous grin.

“I don’t know, Svechnikov. You’ve gotta be pretty amazing for me to forsake a lifetime of hockey loyalty.”

“I’ll make sure to play my best game just for you.”

“Just for me?”

“You’ve written two songs about me. I’ve gotta catch up.”

taglist: @fallinallincurls @laureniray @comphy-and-cozy @smileysvech @pyotrkochetkov @thewintersoldierdisaster @svexhenthusiast

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[cityofmeliora]

Ghost and Southern California

i'm from California, so a lot of the locations in the Ghost lore are familiar to me! i wanna use this post to show / explain Ghost being set in the Los Angeles area.

though it hadn't been explicitly stated yet then, there are actually hints that Ghost is based in Southern California as early as Chapter 4: The Accident. when Sister Imperator is driving, you can see palm trees on the hills along the road. of course, lots of places have palm trees, but the specific combination of palm trees with the rocky cliffs and sparse vegetation feels distinctly Californian to me.

the Dance Macabre music video shows Nihil met Sister Imperator at a mansion in LA (as explained by the intro). don't know the exact location, but if i had to guess, i'd place it maybe somewhere in Beverly Hills, which has a lot of mansions like this.

the Kiss The Go-Goat music video again confirms that they're in Los Angeles. it features the Whisky a Go Go, a real music venue in West Hollywood. the Mary On A Cross animated music video accurately places it on a corner along the Sunset Strip.

the Mary On A Cross lyric video shows Sister Imperator walking through the Ministry building before leaving to see the show at the Whisky a Go Go. this is another indicator the Ministry building is in the LA area since it's within driving distance of the venue. scenes in the Ministry building are filmed at a real mausoleum northeast of LA, but i'm not going to name the location because the Ministry is supposed to be a fictional building. interestingly, the lyric video also gives us the exact time of the concert.

after the events of Kiss The Go-Goat, the Mary On A Cross animated music video starts with Sister Imperator driving to her house, which is in the Hollywood Hills neighborhood near the Hollywood Sign. you can see from the road that they're in the hills looking over the city.

then Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil run from their house to the Hollywood Sign. there are hiking trails that go from the surrounding neighborhoods up to the Hollywood Sign. you can go behind it just like they do in the video.

Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil cross a body of water that is most likely the Hollywood Reservoir, although the video places the Hollywood Sign west of the lake instead of east, as in real life.

Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil make out in a cemetery (which i did not attempt to locate) and then end up at a motel. this is not a real motel, though. it's the Bates Motel movie set at Universal Studios Hollywood. i laughed so hard because recognized it instantly in Rite Here Rite now. (i've been on the same tour that the Nameless Ghouls were on.) Universal Studios Hollywood is both a theme park and an actual film studio. there are people filming when Nihil calls Mr. Psaltarian to come pick him up in the The Future Is A Foreign Land music video.

so to summarize some of the locations in those videos: the Whisky a Go Go, Hollywood Sign, and Universal Studios are highlighted in yellow. the red outline on the map shows the boundary of the Hollywood Hills neighborhood. the Hollywood Reservoir is the body of water in the middle of it.

The Future Is A Foreign Land music video and Chapter 13: The Beach Life feature Mr. Psaltarian's beach house, which is on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. though there are beach houses all along the SoCal coast, Malibu is closest to LA, and is pretty much the only place where houses are that close to the water without some kind of barrier. it's a real house and i've driven past it. i know the exact location but i'm not sharing it, for obvious reasons.

here is Malibu on a map relative to Los Angeles:

as a side note, it appears Cardi now drives Mr. Psaltarian's old car, a 1968 Buick LeSabre convertible. it has California license plates, of course, but the plates must have been replaced at some point, since that California license plate design wasn't in use until 1988.

lastly, Rite Here Rite Now is set at The Forum (now called KIA Forum), which is in Inglewood near the LAX airport. Inglewood is technically its own city, but it's completely surrounded by LA.

when Rite Here Rite Now released, TF said in an interview that it's "common knowledge" that Ghost is based in LA. i found it a bit funny because i've read very few Ghost fanfics that are actually set in LA, so i don't know how 'common' that knowledge really is, LOL. but i hope this post helps!

WHAT WAS BEHIND THE DECISION TO SHOOT THE FILM AT THE FORUM IN L.A.? TOBIAS FORGE: [...] There’s this common knowledge that the HQ of the band seems to be in L.A. So the Forum is not only a classic venue, but it’s sort of their home turf. Had we placed the story someplace else, we would’ve had to justify: Why are they there? Why is this show special? Revolver (June 2024)

[hide-your-bugs-away]

HE IS SO SO SO SO NEAT!!!!!!! 🙏

It makes me sooooo so so happy to know ya love the guy, he really is the whole package, isn't he?? Incredibly charismatic, too... perfectly balancing wit and cynicism with many thoughtful comments about musical genres and social movements and the like. 🙏

AGGGHGHHH "House of the Rising Sun"....... if there was ever a song that's considered "overrated" that I will defend with my life until the end of time, it's the Animals' rendition of that song. So powerful... all done in one take at like 4 am... those lads are absolutely mad!! Eric's voice absolutely makes the song, of course, as well as Alan's keyboard and Hilton's iconic guitar... aGGgh, you really get the sense that they all *know* and can feel the blues deep in their souls, Eric especially so, despite living an ocean away from where that music originated.

Also, if you haven't seen the performance of "Rising Sun" the Animals did on the Ed Sullivan Show, I definitely recommend that one as well!! Since it's performed live, and live Animals sound incredible!

An interest in Eric Burdon, you say? 👀🐾 I just have to warn ya, he's entangled in his own homoerotic-songwriting-duo situation with Alan Price... so tread carefully. 🤭

In all seriousness, so glad to know that you like him!! Especially since, like John, I've seen him subject to a whole lot of body shaming (in articles from the 60's and now) so it makes me happy to see others who legitimately love him for everything - mind, body, and voice!! Just like Alan does 😏

- @hide-your-bugs-away

(thanks, Alan 🙏🏳️‍🌈)

Ma'am I finally gave in an watched the music video for House of the Rising Sun, and woo boy if nobody has given it the time of day

That and considering how important this song and many others by The Animals are to us Americans and our culture, I was shocked to learn this band is British! That these boys are British. Shocked.

Eric Burdon's voice got your girl all shades of fucked up. Like, this young man? Singing like that? 🥴 Y'all.

Oh I love everything about him. I adore his body type, so masculine and stocky and I think he's got a very handsome face... An' his voice is sex, just to be honest.

I just think he's neat 🥔

[rescuebabiesau]

GOTP AU BIT

Mr. Pettypaws lives to be an incredible 20 years old before he finally passes away, but shortly following his death, Mrs. Neederlander vanishes. She is not at her home, nor in her cabin, but a note lies on the door of her cabin when the Burnses go to investigate, telling them not to worry and she'll be fine.

Many whispers and rumors rose up from this event. Some said she wandered off into the woods like an old cat herself to die where nobody would find her, some said she simply moved away from Griffin Rock to be with her remaining living relatives.

Sigma Seventeen, however, knows the truth. For every full moon, they can hear the soft music and singing of the fairies in the deep woods to the northeast of the island, and if you peek through the ferns you will see Mrs. Neederlander, a young girl again, dancing with them before following them back into their own realm by dawn.

'Do not worry about her,' they will tell you, 'she is with friends.'