#musings from the orchestra pit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yohohonabottle · 19 hours ago

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It's been years since they first met... When did time fly away? It's like it was just yesterday when them two began exchanging letters.... And Whiteridge's youngest son sent him the first mini painting. The first letter, a tasteful poem and a bold, cleverly woven declaration of love. Then that one letter grew into gifts picked with diligent care.

A miffed huff slips from the false magister, claws raking on the wooden floor of the Mystical house. A click of teeth, the wary pits of Berial's eyes following his stiff, agitated circling and slow lashing of tail.

And then Earl Ludovic presented a gorgeous arrangement of blooms with a gleam of... determination but also that same love. The flowers themselves symbolized devotion, deeply reverent respect, love, desire.. and playfulness. Willing to commit.

— "You should find someone better than me. Maybe a fair maiden your age range?" – It was a joke with serious undertone as he'd tentatively accepted the flowers. It didn't deter the Graveborn. Of course Vic knew the reason why he's holding back while gradually having been melting. So... He backed off. Only to return next day with a body that properly reflected his true age– Taller, still lean build but got bit more muscle rather than that awkward gangly form of a teen prior. And a voice still soft silk, yet somehow had much more mature cadence, older– As foreign as familiar.

A stunningly handsome, elegant young man whom wore a very similar attire to the boy 'Merlin' knew.. Save for the bows being gone, bowtie traded for a pristine white cravat and low ponytail more on the side.

And then that young man spoke in that charming, velvety voice of his, words of playful challenge:

— "Let us face off in a dance duel, my dear Muse. Should you triumph, I shall cease my attempts at courting you." With matching humor, the 'Wilder' smiled wryly as he warned the Graveborn:

— "Careful, Vic. You might loose."

— "We shall see."

Under the notes of quiet ghostly orchestra, two duelists fought, weaving through dances of a culture forgotten in time's sands. Peoples known as being of fiery blood and spirit, wild and rather persistent once having made up their mind. Not ones to know what 'Impossible' means. Not ones to bow their head, rather charge forth in defiance. The apprentice and mentor, dancing with vigor and unruly grace, light and nimble on their feet, matching each other step for step and beat for beat... Until one tired out, no longer able to keep up despite his stubborn refusal to yield. Not so easily. Not so swiftly, twenty dances having been woven through by that point, the opponent still showing no signs of relenting even as his legs burnt. The young man still held his head high, following the music's rhythm expertly. His footwork was magnificent– Nobody would've known he's not a native, should they not know his name nor surname.

Lungs burning and legs protesting, feet tingling– Pirin lost his battle against exhaustion. Tripping over his own feet and falling out of sync, the night nymph swayed, fell forth — Two hands catch his trim waist, turning to arms envelopping his slim form into an embrace to both hold and steady.

A heartbeat thundering, two, yet the grin of triumph was clear. Stranja had lost, been outplayed. There was no backing out. A promise is a promise.

That's how he'd given Ludovic of Whiteridge his hand.

—"Well, damn – Who would've thought you're such a devil?" Dry remark of larking is met with an amused chuckle, the man caught his breath. Replied back in turn, a flirty wink in his tone:

—"I was taught by the best."

How long has it been now? Two months? Three since they'd been separated? Bantus and duty called, begrudgingly Ludovic had to leave- so to avoid rousing the Fallen king's suspicions. And with a heavy, bleeding heart, the nobleman offered branches of lovely lilies – His tribute, promise of return and reunion permanent. A most sacred, solemn vow left unsaid. Before doning on a spell of illusion to assume his younger appearance, farewell with a kiss, and left.

How many days and nights has it been? Since the last letter and gift?

Correspondence turned into near radio-silence, all to remain undercover. All so that wretched old fart wouldn’t catch the tiniest hint of what is brewing underneath the surface, trace back the thread. For three months, all I could do, was re-read every single letter we’ve shared over and over, sigh and pray to the stars for his safety.

—"And I have another damn crisis to solve, like always. I'm Merlin, aren't I? Apparently people can't fix their messes." How much longer do I have to wait? How much more do I have to play nice? Merlin and his stupid, spoilt-rotten brats aren’t helpful in the slightest, always with the condescending attitude. Always having some grand task to carelessly drop on the shoulders, as if that contract isn’t enough, wasn’t enough to begin with. Laughing and grimacing in revulsion at the mere sight of him whenever they’d run into each other in the main lounge. Disdain.

—“Of all people, you just had to choose a literal Graveborn, m? Viperian has more restraint in experiments. And what? A half-Graveborn, half-Nymph?” The chief of the Arcane council had laughed, a grating sneer, looking down his nose with mocking grin. “Ha! You might as well be having a still-born amalgamation!”

That afternoon, the jester Hypogean had to wrap around his friend, limbs like rubber bands. Lest the insolent bastard gets mangled beyond recognition along with the Acorn-knight and mage. The screeches of breathless, shrill and rattling war-cries echoed far throughout the spire lounging area… Guests on the upper-floor could hear, blood running cold. Even Silvina, the Silver Reaper, didn’t have courage to step out of her ‘hiding spot’. Utterly shaken by those howls of raw, unbridled rage. Had to cover her ears tight while the Sinister clown dragged a viciously thrashing bat with considerable effort. Hell! Lucca, Soren, and Harak needed to step in and help him! ….Even they had trouble with the roaring, snarling, snapping Nymph.

In the end, Sinbad dashed to fetch Tasi, so that the fairy can put the false dragon to sleep.

Since, everyone collectively agreed it would be for the best to keep Merlin as far away from Pirin has possible. More so for the latter’s sake than for Merlin’s if truth be told. As much as majority of the guests would've loved watching that pitiful excuse of a magister get flung around and dragged like ragdoll, this wouldn’t reflect well on Vanya.

General Hogan and the Arcane council, for one, wouldn’t take kindly to it all. Even though the general had been devastated with the truth of what his old comrade has twisted into and his atrocities. He still couldn’t fully accept it, just as Mirael and Cassadee could not bear.

And the court of Celestials strongly favors the Arch-magus, wouldn’t hesitate to smite. If anything, they’re simply ever so patiently waiting for exactly that: ‘Proof’ of their prejudiced beliefs, proof of the Temple’s words to be true. One slip-up, a perfect excuse to act. Terminate and ruthlessly drag the Night Nymph through the mud in supposedly retribution for justice’s sake. Everyone across the six factions is well aware of how a Plague is brought into existence. Along with the sheer destruction such a wraith can inflict.

It’s for the best that this never comes to pass, for the day Vanya does— Esperia would witness true Apocalypse. For the Horsemen know no guilty nor innocent in their annihilation.

—"That's it– I'm going. I don't give two flying fucks, I'm getting to Cedartown, to Whiteridge, and find my princeling." It’s been a week since having entirely moved out of the Mystical House, and back into the lone, well-hidden hut on the far outskirts of Wheatshire. During that week, along with the following days afterward, it’s been a constant back and forth, packing up what was left in a hurry. Whirling on his heels, the bristled snowy ‘Wilder’ makes a move to charge out the dorm’s doorway— Just then vertigo strikes, vision swimming and ravenous appetite flares. It had grown to bloodlust. This incessant need for blood, as if starved.

When in truth, a new life was coming to fruition. A child half-Graveborn and half-Night nymph, of Eclipse descent... and Esperian nobility.

A portal opens in front of the vexed nymph, and Ioan Hestios finds himself lying face-first on the bed.

You know it's not a good idea to charge in blindly.

A low, guttural growl rumbles in the false Wilder's fur-obscured throat, sharply turning onto his side to glare at the inky Hypogean, tail tip giving a harsh flick. One of his tufted ears twitches and the fluffy tip of the long tail gives a harsh thump once more after a second’s pause.

—"You're one to yap."

—"You'll see your Graveborn, calm down, 'cat'. You don't want Bantus to get any ideas, do you? I'm sure your favored–" At a slight flashing of teeth in light snarl, the clown holds up his hands placatingly. "-Whoops, Bonded, is probably bullshitting your way out as we speak. Y'know? Pull the wool over their eyes?"

Lips falling back into a thin line, a miffed, tired huff is the only thing in answer. The 'magister' flops onto the mattress, restraining himself from curling into a tight ball. From leaping and barreling out the door in search of his life-partner as instincts screech. Have been endlessly shrieking ever since that day of separation. Anger melts away to melancholy, pained longing, blood-red eyes flickering over to the small square canvas with a life-like painting—A boy with bone-white skin, hooded pale green eyes and curly hair of chalk or moonlight, hugging a firebird. There’s bright grin of pure, warm, joyful laugh on the teen’s face. Friends, loyal to each other with the ferocity of a thousand suns…

A young, freckled child with eyes clear as pearls or moonlit mirrors, breaths short and quick gasps. The short, messy, snowy hair and fur of the ‘Mauler’ or ‘Wilder’ boy matted with blood and dirt, body marred by bruises and scrapes from countless tumbles.

Standing frozen in place amidst a lovely vast garden, so rich in variety of gorgeous flowers. A pair of compassionate, concerned eyes gazing back into his own teary and horrified. A boy, dressed in fancy attire, no older than fifteen, approaching in careful strides. Hazy… something falls out his mouth, words in tender tone, soothing somehow. What exactly is being said eludes entirely, too caught up watching his every step closer. Body language proves no intent to harm or intimidate.. Could be a trick..

Too close.

With a yelp intelligible, the albino Wilder child staggers back in haste to flee but trips over his own claws and tail, collapses harshly onto his rear. Lips pulled back into a defensive snarl and teeth bared as the thick disheveled fur on his neck stands on end, large and sharp tufted ears pinned back. A clear bluff of aggression, scrambling and failing to get up while staring at the approaching noble lad without blinking-- Warning. Terror. Raw, bordering on primitive and blind. Warm hands rest on his scraped knees, a warmth flowing over the injuries as that distant voice carries on. ..Questions? Not sure. A name:

“Whiteridge.”

A faint smell familiar – Blood. Sickness. The magic keeps on flowing, guided to the other most glaring of unsightly wounds with care and a wince subdued. Apologies… can’t tell why, for what. Barking of hounds, the Wilder child’s ears immediately perk in alarm, fear returning in full, and the freckled boy in scraps leaps onto his feet. A stray lightning tearing through, jumps over the manor grounds’ gates and far away without looking back… Yet those sympathetic, disheartened eyes still followed mournfully...

---

Sat down on the cold grass of the still forest, the flow of magic drifts between them. The briefest deja vu. The stars are most beautiful tonight. Most clearly visible. And next to the snowy-haired young man, sits a Graveborn, looking just as when he died. Disheveled hairs, ruffled clothes and out of breath. Both of their bodies are covered in scrapes, bruises, cuts and slashes, nicks of claws and blades. Both are bloodied….The boy much more so than his dearest companion. Graceful face clouded by a miffed frown of frustration as he wraps his arm in bandages. ..And winces slightly at the dull throb of pain in his left side from having been slamed onto his side. Clicks his tongue in discontent at it, stealing a glance over at the spirit.

Pearly white meet pale green. A small smirk from the former.

—“Still hissy about it, huh?” —“Yes.”

A quiet snort, looking down at his slightly huched form as he bandages his ankle next. There’s quiet, fond affection, and mirth twinkling in the night nymph’s gaze. And a clawed hand lightly pats the Graveborn’s back sympathetically. Turning into a wing pulling him into a tight side-hug.

—“D’aww.” Rubbing circles on his boney shoulder as pitying, playful consolation. Which earns the faux Wilder a faint raise of a light brow in questioning, unamused deadpan from the painter. —“What?” Still. Despite himself, the ‘boy’ found himself having a subtle smile of his own. Which very quickly fell at his friend’s larking quip. “Your punches are slow and weak, though. Same as your reactions, reflexes, Lud.” A sour scowl, mildly indignant.

—“Pardon me for lacking extensive combat experience.” Only to get his curls ruffled and lightly slap the clawed hand on the wrist with a displeased, hissed whine of ‘Vanya!’; swat the hand away. And smooth down the utterly messy strands back in place to something more presentable, muttering surly under his breath. “Look what you have done. An utter mess.” Ridiculous. Meanwhile Pirin simply shrugged his sharp, speckled shoulders.

—“Eh, don’t see anything wrong with it. Kinda suits you to be honest.” The glance his best friend shoots him in return begs to disagree. ..And then a cold hand quickly ruffles his hair. Payback, oh swift retribution. There. Now we’re both a bird’s nest.

Peering down at the prone form with a blink, signature grin missing, Berial folds his wings upon settling onto the bed's foot headboard. Balancing on it like a gargoyle, the clown sighs then ruffles the fluffy tail-tip with a hand in sympathy— Only to get swatted across the face.

—"Okay, if you're going to be huffy all day then at least rest better!" A roll of eyes and a click of jaws. Hands on hips and a chiding pout, Berial poofs. His head reappears right in front of his friend's face, a staredown of two displeased beings.

—"Vanyusha. Sleep-time, now. I'm not dragging a corpse to Whiteridge, you hear old bat?" Swatting with a wing, the head vanishes, dodging the hit and reappears again in its spot.

The jester's stern scowl hasn't wavered, challenging him to talk back.

—"....." How do you know I need to sleep more? That I'll whither if I keep up my streak?

—"...." Vanyo, I'm a clown –Not a blind idiot. You're not the first Burning star I've seen. So I know a thing or two about your lot.

—"How much do you know, uh?"

—"Enough to stress you need to rest, you hormonal work-addict." And you needed it in general, before getting yourself knocked up. Now you need double as regularly.

The large ears atop his head twitch and pin back, red-hued eyes narrowed. It's been so long since sleep had last graced him... First being too busy staying alive and constantly on-guard lest a hunter or hound jumps out of nowhere, net and harpoon to be fired. Then too preoccupied with running all over Esperia, solving one crisis after another and helping the people… There never was a single second to so much as blink, let alone sleep.

There never is.

....And on the rare off-chance his eyelids did fall, head dropping like chopped by guillotine— Nightmares lashed out with their putrid grasping hands. M̶̾͐͜e̷̼̦̒̄͜m̵̙̥͋̾ơ̵͎͍̑̾ͅr̶̬̦̼͑̐i̴̢̼̬̿ę̵͈̐s̸͇̳͛̉̌ ̴̧̈́̇͆o̷̹̗̠̍͘͝f̷͎̺̦͝ ̸͈̯͆͋̀å̷̳͉̭̌̓ ̸̡̭̖͆̅͠s̶͚̽̔̚o̵̩̿͋ṅ̸̛̼̯g̷̙͌̂ ̵̢̘̐c̸̡̹͐ō̷̗̭͚̌̌l̵͙̔̋l̵͖̿e̴̩̒c̵͚̓͌t̴̟̊̊í̴̤̭͂̕v̴̞̫͙̈́̎̊e̸͉̒̈́͠l̵̢͇̇̈́͜ỹ̵̜̈́̕ ̴̱̔̏h̸̢̫͈͑̓u̵̩͛͋͑m̴͔̤̒m̵̗͗e̵̦̎͜d̶̨̩̉͠ ̸͖̬͂̇́f̸̝̠̽͝ō̶̘̝͎̔̏r̶̭͗̌ ̸̖͖́͝ẗ̴̫͕͍́h̴͎̥̄͜e̶̩̠̪̿̔̃ ̴̦̻͐̈́l̸̻̈́̀a̴̞̔s̵̘̜̏̌̓t̴̳̿͘ ̸̳̄ṫ̴̼̤̮͝i̷̢̗̬̚m̷̯͉͗̈e̶̢̪̋̆͜,̴̲͓̌̕ ̴̢̺͗͒͜͠a̶̭͑̔̌s̷̲̝̩͋ ̸̻̯̮̐f̵̥̹̈l̶̳͔̈́ẹ̷̜͒̄̑s̴̢̛̲͉̍h̵̝̣̾͑̆ ̸̮̞̖͝-̶̹̞̐̚b̷̛̰̄ỏ̸̡̫͚d̴̢̼̄́i̷͉̓̔ẹ̸̈́̋s̷̻̍͜-̷̻͍̳͂̇ ̵̣̝̙́̕b̴͖̄u̷̮͎̤͝r̷̦̤̂͝n̸̨̐̓̿t̸̢͕̆̿͜ ̴̤̭͓̊̐a̵̪͓̬͛̂́n̴͉̔d̸̛̞͐͂ ̵̛̯͚̅m̷͈̘͝͠e̸̒̾̚͜l̷̤̀̊̒t̴͎̞́͑e̵͖͈̞̎ḍ̴̛̒͜ ̸̙̥͒̿ǫ̸̩̫̀͒f̷͕̞̋͝f̷͔̀̔ ̵̩̟̥̓c̴͙̿̐͝h̵͖̉̅a̶̳̅̂r̴͓̬͔̒r̶̯̺̀e̶͎͒̕d̶͓̊̉̓͜ ̵̝͚̇͘b̴̼̰͈̃ơ̴̧̘̂͝ͅn̵̪͆ȩ̴̭̤̕ŝ̷̹̥.̶̞̳̈́̆ ̶̼̣̓̐̚A̸̧̫̹͆̾͂l̵͉̤̽͂̑ì̶͖̉͠v̴̢̥̙̏e̴̯̠̽.̶̲͍̭͆̑ ̵̛̗̲̔͝

̵̬̠̈́͒̎͜

̶̬̆͊͊T̶̢̈́ḩ̷̛̰̤̚e̴͎̐̕͠ ̴̘̕s̷̝͚̈́̂̃h̶͓̮̍̅u̵̘̲͌̃t̴̖̅͝ṱ̶̨̫͆̾͌ē̷̬̋͗r̵̗̹̣̋ ̸͉̈o̴̖͑̓f̴̻̙̎́̄͜ ̸̰̹̀'̸̢̠̳͆͌l̶̞̼̈́́͝ȩ̸̏͂͜n̶̘̪̻̈́s̸͎̏'̸̱̹̠̾̈̊ ̵̡̡̀s̴̤̜͆h̶̲��̉i̶̜̮̭͋͝͝f̸̫̌̽t̷̛͈̙́͌ḯ̴̲̇́ń̸̺̯͗g̴͕̮̫̈̕ ̵̝̋t̴̬̋o̸̭͊͗̄ ̷̖̱͐͘͘å̴̰̥̦͌ ̷̬̣́͊̕m̷̹̍͘a̷͖̐͒̀n̷̬̑͝g̶͕̓̑̓͜l̵̗̠͂ẽ̷͈͆̕d̷̰̹̐ ̴̰̿͜t̸̝̭̹͊̓o̴̝̖̭̅ř̷̦̱̫̆͠s̸̘̩͛͝͝o̵̠̯̒͆ ̴̪͓͑̐͛o̸̲͓̬͆̔͘f̶̪̤͐̐̋ͅ ̴̩͚͓̒͊a̷̝͑ ̶̝͘ḿ̴̯̣͝o̷̭̗͒̇̑s̶͍̘̀̀t̷̳̝̰̿̈ ̴͓̈́̑͝ḇ̵͓̊e̵̯̫͋͑͝l̵̻͙͑ǫ̴̡̰̉v̵̻͉̓̂͛è̴͎͆d̷̜̜̐̈́͛.̸̥̱̔͑ ̸͖̜́͑́P̵͔̟͎̆a̶͎͈̮͋̕l̸͈̞̗̐e̶̟̦͗ ̵̘̃̇͐͜ģ̸̈̄̌r̴͈̄e̶͈̞̊͂̍͜e̷̝̠̓̏n̷̼̠̈́͌̿͜ ̵̢̲̥̋̑̆e̵͔̜̅̾̍y̴̜̻͑e̵̟͎͉͆̊s̵̬̻͖̍̓ ̷̮͒̄ṿ̶͖̅a̴̼͎̙͌̏c̸̪̃̓͊a̸͕̯̍n̷̖̐ẗ̷͙͈,̷͎͚͈̒ ̶͖̞͐͆b̶̛̰̜͒͝l̵̨̬̑̉ͅó̷͕̺̒̃ó̵̠̜͠d̷̫̼͊̓̓ ̷̺̟̜̑̉ṣ̴̨͈̒t̴̥͒́å̸̮i̷̦͈̩͊̇ň̴̻í̵̯̹̻̓̈́ń̵͇̾̀g̵̣̦͇̔͂ ̴̣͉̍̀ͅt̶̤͌͐ͅh̸̲̓̑͝e̸͓̘̲͆̉̆ ̶̯̻̲̉̉n̸͚̓̃͝e̶̜̜͇̔c̷̼͇̋͠k̶̯͘͠-̵̱̲͔̍͑̓ȧ̷͍̹ċ̴͚̺͗͒c̴̪̳̓͂e̶̥͎͇̒̍s̶͙̙̘͑͂s̶̕͜ö̸̱̳́̚r̶͈̐̾y̸̠͚̔͛̾-̴̢̍t̴̩͝h̷̘̱̆ḙ̵͔̏ ̴̡͍͌͌͜b̵͈̫̓̆o̸̳͇͂̅̏ͅw̴̥͕̿ṱ̷͔̲́i̴͈̹̖͑ę̸̄̊͋-̸̯́͠ ̸̢̨̈́̚ä̸̬͙ ̴̧̅t̶͉̣͝h̴̛̫̊̏o̸̦͂u̸̯͚͇͌̓͝ș̴̺͐a̷̩̍n̸̰̎͗d̸̦̂̕ ̷͓̱̃̆ͅå̸͔r̵͓͂̑r̷̄͂̈͜o̶̡͔̼͆͑̔w̷̹͇̒s̸̮͖̈́ ̴̥̜̪̈̈́̎á̷̢ṇ̶̖̩̆d̴͉̞̮̔ ̸̡̢̥̎̏͑s̵̝̰̊w̴̻͕̘̉̾ô̷̙ṛ̵̱̿͆͘͜d̷̏̉͜s̸̥̣̚ ̴̥͉̗̓͝e̴̬̲͘m̶͍̜̖̂͝b̸̖̜͙͌͠ȩ̵̻͛d̵̡̠͔̅d̷̢̟̹́̿è̷͙̤̈́͒ḍ̶͝͝͝ ̴̝͓̀̓ï̶̖̓́n̴̋͗͜t̴͍̱͉̅͠ó̶̗̝͝ ̸̝̞̉͜h̸̙͖͎̀̍ȉ̸̭͚̉̕s̵̳̈̆ ̷͙̱͙̃b̴̜̩͍̈́o̵̼͎̽͘ͅd̵̢͚̓͗̓y̷̛̜͍ ̴̨̣̭͋l̷̹̑͜ì̵͕ḳ̶͕͙̔̚ẽ̶̠̙̖ ̴͇̙̬̀̃͝s̷̨͆̇e̵̱͌̿͂w̸͕̓į̷̛̼̼n̸̰͔̈́͜͝g̷̰͝ ̸̜̉̽n̴̲̭̽͘e̸̺͈͑̿͠ȩ̵͕̺̀̀͘d̴̳̓͝l̷͚͐͂́͜è̸̛̩̯͛s̵͖̗̓.̵͈̠́.̶͍͉̅͝.̶̳͌̈́.̴̼͇̈̒͋.̵̳̇̃ ̵̯̕A̶̟̔̆s̷͕̤͐̚ ̴̥̀͋͝t̷̟̗͍̀̀ḣ̵̘̫̍e̴̫̎̏͜͝ ̷͔̀G̷̘͑̊ř̵̖͈̊͌ả̵̝͔͘v̴̲̞͉̑̆e̶̩͈͊̈́͋b̷̯̺̙̔͝͠o̴͖͐̉͒r̵̡͖̳̓n̵̝̉̕͠ ̸̧́d̸͎͇̫͝i̶̦̤̔̊́s̵͕̳͗͛͜į̶̛͇̈́ṋ̴̆t̶̝̀͐͝è̶̮̠̳̓̉g̸̛̙͙̯͒ṟ̵͆͒͗a̶͈̠͕̓t̴̖͐ē̵̢̈́s̵̮̤̔̀ ̷̺̗̰̀̈͝l̷̰͈͖̅̚͝ḯ̷̛̩̎ͅk̶̬̫̔e̸̦͉͒̃ ̵̝͛̾̀b̵̛͎̆͗ṷ̵̼̀͊͠ͅr̸̨̟͑̇̎ṉ̴̬̰̔̇ṭ̴̱̽̓͜ ̶͇̩̗͒p̵̘͖̘̂̓͛â̶̭͇͖̓r̸̲̳͔͐̒͠c̵̟̩̈́̓̇h̵͔̩̾͝m̷̮̅͒́ͅë̵̟̩̻n̶͉͠t̵͇̻̆͒͝,̸͙͛̽ ̸̦͝t̵̳͎͛̿ḧ̸̢́̓͝ä̶͔t̷̨͔̲̐͐͊ ̷̲̓̋l̷̟̜͐ì̷̬f̶͍̥̾͘̕ę̵̾l̸̫͌̉͘ḛ̷̗̈͒̒s̶̺̊s̸̱̎̉̏ ̵̝͋s̵̢͂̐t̵͉̻̹̾ä̵̲̦͇́͂͝r̷̜͈̰̎͑̆e̶̪̰̓̃͠ ̶̗͎̓̕͜͝f̴̥͈̹͂̂͠í̴͔͚͌x̶̣̻̯̂̊à̵̯̀t̴̛̯͆̉e̶͎͒d̷͍͐ ̵̪̜͋͆ọ̶́ṉ̶̖̂͂̅ ̷̬͆h̷̳͔̪̔i̶̲͗̈́́m̴̼̹̒̒.̷̰͛.̸̠̫̔͝.̶̝̫̚ ̶̼̞̔s̴̮̩̀̅͛ͅo̵̡̮̪̐̐ŕ̴͈̓̎r̷̯͎͑̈̀o̴̲͎͂w̵̨͋̒̓,̸̭̀̽̉ ̸̨̞͐͂̅d̴̖̎i̸̛̦͚̙̍s̴̞̻̞͗͆g̵̭̲͊͂͝ǘ̶ͅs̵͇̞͘͠ț̷̓͜,̶͓̯̜͆ ̸̢̹́̽l̵̨̘͐ó̵͖͊̊ͅv̸̠̄͊e̵̤̒̔,̵̛͕͗̎ ̴̩͈̕a̶̟̯̒ĉ̵̰̤͆͐c̴̲͇͂u̴̞͙̤̒s̷̝̥̖̋̈ă̸̡͘͘ţ̵́ͅḭ̵̀͑̏͜ȍ̸͉̙͒ṅ̸̨̗̟̈͝,̸͈͗͗ ̸̢̤̈́̂́j̵̣̫̍̀ư̶̰͒̎d̴̬̒̔g̴̥̦͙͠e̴͙̮͍͒m̷͙͚͛ē̵̙̗ņ̷͙̄̔t̵͖̑͐,̵̰̆̆ ̸̫̣͆̆͠p̵͔͗̓i̴̡̡̽t̶̽̊͋͜y̷̆́͜͝,̸͓̮̮͛̈́ ̶̻̂͂l̵̖̝̊͠o̷͎̯͛͐̉n̶̰̕g̸̭̋͊̂ì̸͔n̵̼̫̅̚͜ģ̵̊̎̃.̵̟̺́

̷̡̄B̷̘͋͌ẽ̷͕͚c̶̫̿͘ǎ̴̤͎͖̎̚ụ̸̺͋̇͜ś̷͍̆e̸̺̤͆̽ ̷̜̞͍̈̚̚ȧ̵̮͇͐͠t̵̞̻͂͗ ̷͚̮̌̏ͅt̵̖̎͗͝i̶̪͇̲̅m̵̤͓͔̒ȅ̸͓͓̳ś̴̻,̴̤̯̐̋̈ ̸̠͎͖̓͐͝t̴̯̮̩̾́ḩ̶̲̋̈́ọ̵͉̈́ş̶̰͍̐̍̄ė̵̝̫͐ ̶̟̲̈́a̷̲̪̩͊͊r̴͎̝̞͛̈́̚ṟ̷̡̬̿̉o̸͓̣̿́w̵̼̟̉̉s̶̢̭͍͑̇ ̷̄͂̿͜ȃ̵͈̥̈́n̸̦͔͗d̸̜̓͘ ̵͕̈́̚͜b̸̛̈́̏͜l̶̲̔͝ä̷̦͐̕d̵̳̉̋e̶̟͐s̴̪̦͈̽͒̄.̸̡̰̼̆̀.̵̗͕͚̿.̶̢̔ ̶̧̤͂͑a̶̺̗̾ȓ̷̥ͅḙ̴͆̍̄ ̶̢̲̤̕͝͝ḫ̸̠̘̓i̵̩͈̇͛͝š̵͚͖̫ ̴̱͙̅͝ṽ̴̩̩̹͝e̶̬̘̕r̵̻̄ẏ̵̳̊̈ ̸̤̈o̷̧͐̓ẁ̶̤̾ǹ̶̡͉̇̚ ̵̧͉͠t̴̼͑ẹ̵̮̆́e̴̼̝̐t̵͓̠͊̕h̴̘̀̃̚ ̷̧͍̓a̶̳̼̿̚ͅǹ̶͔̝̂d̴̢͉̗̈́̃ ̶̠͎̌c̸̱͊l̶͚͑̔̚a̵̭̟͗̃͠w̸̧̖̅̿s̷̡̪͔̉̽.̶̨̪̥̀́

̴̧̧̢͓͎̜͚̯̫͖͓̱̫̥͚̥̰̘̗̻͖͕̦̖̥̫͔̬̥͇̫̗͍͔̦̪͕͉̱̈͊̃̃̓́͒̓̐͜͝͝'̵̡̨̨̧̧̡̳̮̞͉̗̰̮̹̰̟͕̟̣͚͎̹̤̠̣͈̰̟̖̠̗̗̹͓͈͎͙̔̆̆͛́̀̽̃̀̔̄̆̒͋̏͊͘̕͝͝͝M̴̙̋̈̓̏̅̆̒̒̅̄̓̿̋̐̑̿̽̽̂̓̆̓̇͒͆̕͝͝͝͠ǔ̷̠̘͕͕͕̟͇͖̝͓̙͔̖͓̪̮̹͉̖̱̉͐̿̀͑́̎̌͊͝ř̵̨̢͖̜͈͓̹̭̞̝̺͔̘͇͕̺͖͙͈͉͕̺̦̫̗͚̻̟̙͗͜d̷̡̨̨̛̞͙̳͓̲̗̥̖̠̮̅̀͆͂͆͂̎̀̄̊́̈̀̿̌͒̿́̇̋̈́͒̈́͗͑̏̚͠͝͠ȩ̸̼͇̻̳̤̣̜̃̋̿̾͛̀͆̔̎̂̔̐͐̄̉̑͗́̚͜͠ŗ̶̡̙̖̝̹̝̜͉̘͍͔̲̞̣̥̞̝̝̦̇͐̇̓̽͐̀̈́̆͗͒͊̌̾̑̓͛̋͑̒̍͂̓͘̕͘̚͠͠ͅͅͅe̵̛͉̦͙̖̙̗̔͆̈̽̀̽̊̏͗̀̽̓̐͛͋̌̅͗͂́̓̃͘͝͝͝r̵̟̟͖̳̬͛̔͗̒͆̒͋͗͋͌̿̌͑̃̆̀̋͆̎̿̆́̀͆̓̊͘̚.̷̡͕̮̝̗͍̞̗̹̻̪̱̩͕͉̼̻̣̘͌̑͋̍͝.̴̧̡̡̨̨̢̨̪̞̞̫̥̬̥̦͖̭̱̰̗̞̟̝͉͍̤̫̙̱̞̭͕͓̬͙̻̥̮̭͙̤̆̓͋͆͂̂̿̋̉͐̀͌̏̐̀͑̍̓̆̃͒̐̿́̓̓͆̉̉̋.̸̧̢̡̧̛̛̬̲̼̜̳̘̯̮͓̠̤̹̩͕̱̠̱͔͉̦͔̲͚͍̯͖̠̱͖̬̩̬͕̄́̆̈̎͗̓̈́̾̈͆̓̓̓̍̀̔͌̽̈̒̌̚͘͘͠͝ͅ ̸̛̛̛̖̦͇̓́̈͋̓͊̃͒̃̂̋̍̂̀͆̀̇̈́͊̈́͊͋͘͝͝R̵̢̧̢̡̟̮̹̭̰̼̬͚̳̠͓̣̮̹̣͍͔̠̟̘̳̩̤̯̯̳͎͓̙̳̹̅̍͛͛̔̆̕͝͠ą̵̢̛̱̳̲̭͇̯̫̣͎͕͈̼̒̐̆͂̓͗̆́͜͜͝͠t̸̢̛̟̟̠͔̹̪̩̺͖̞̐̀̓͂̀͂̒̀̽̂̽̌̓̿̆̈͘͝͝͠.̸̧̣̬̲̲̈̾͒́͊̏͗͝.̴̡̢̨̨͔͚̜̩̘͈̦̟̤̙͚̜̺̜͈̪̬̝̾̾̊͋͊̈̐̏͊͑̍̓̀̓̃͜ͅͅ'̷̨̨̛͈͖͇͈̟͇͇̯͙̯̗̾̓̃̿́̄̆͗͐͑̈́̓̔̓̄̈͋͆́̃͊̎̚ͅ ̴̡̨̢̨̢̨̜̦̩̺̬̟̠̞̭͓̭̲͚̻̖͕̻̯̜̣͈̯̭̹̀͐̀̎̐̆̓̄͌̀̉̇̒̃͑͝

-̴̟̕ ̶͍̂Ț̵̉h̸͖̿e̸̜̓ ̶̎͜c̶̗͛ó̴͓r̶͇̈́p̸̧̂s̷̭̐ě̸̝ ̵̘̎w̴̧̽ơ̷̹u̶̪͘l̶͉̎d̷͔́ ̸̯̓ș̵͆ą̷̌y̵̗͐ ̶̡͝i̷͚͝n̴̫͆ ̸͗͜ǵ̷̳â̸̢r̷̼̒b̶͉̕ļ̶̊ẻ̶͓ḑ̸̈́,̵͎̊ ̸̠͋ǵ̴̖ǘ̶̘r̸̤͝g̴͖͋l̵͚̍i̵̱̒n̷͔̿g̸̱͠ ̵̗̌r̵̠̽a̸̜͘s̷̘̐p̴̜̏.̷͔́ ̷̡͠R̸̩̅e̸͈̅g̴̼̀r̴͖̈́e̵̳͊t̴͈̕.̴̹͠

̷̱͆T̷̹͝h̵̹͊ȃ̷̼ẗ̵̟ ̴̯́c̶͙̽o̸͚̓r̴͉̀p̷͎͋s̸̺̆ẹ̷̚ ̷̤̓t̶̠̐u̵̺͋ř̵̥n̸͈̍ ̸̱̔t̵͉̆ȍ̸̞ ̴̳̄c̴̺̉ǫ̴̃u̷͔͆n̴̠̂t̴̺́l̸̦͘e̵̗͒s̸̗̉s̸͉͌,̵̛̘ ̴͍̚o̷̠͒f̶͔̋ ̵̠̈́p̶̹̀e̴͍̿o̴̞̐p̴̀͜l̵̪̈́e̸͚͛ ̶̫͝ẁ̷͎h̶͔͂ỏ̴̰s̴͖̓e̸̤̋ ̶̗̍b̷̢̅l̵̩̊o̴̡̔o̶̘̍ď̷̼ ̷͇̕ṡ̸̨ț̸̓a̸̘͗ȉ̴̝n̴̗̾s̸͎̃ ̵̺̀h̴̿͜i̸̲̽m̷̗̀–̷̧̛ ̶͙̇H̶̨̑a̵͉͛n̶̹̎d̸̺̈́ś̶̭,̶̩̅ ̶͎̎j̶̪̎à̶̙w̴͍͘s̷̖̓,̶̫͝ ̴̱̚č̴̙l̴̙͊a̴̗͌ẃ̵̟s̵̳̈́,̴̥̃ ̵̭̎ḅ̶́l̶̖̒a̶̝̎d̸͂ͅe̷̟̓s̷̻̆.̷͍͝.̸̝́ ̴̥͠T̷͎̆h̴͎̅ḛ̸́ ̴̢͠ì̸̫n̴͈̄ș̸͌t̸̯̋i̷̯͊g̸̬̔a̷̠̎ẗ̸͈o̶͎̐r̶̪̅s̶̗͝ ̵̙͘o̴͈͋f̸͚̐ ̶̨̿t̶̳̅ḧ̴̹e̴̤͂ ̶̗̀C̶̮̔ṙ̶̲u̵͈̐s̶̺̽a̵̺̓d̶͉̀e̴̤͊s̴͇͝,̸̛̰ ̵̒ͅt̸̮̑ḫ̶̉e̸̲͛ ̸͖̈́a̴̰͂c̵̛͈c̷̲̋o̵̲̓m̷̳̊p̸̣͝ľ̵̟i̶̛͙c̴̗͝ē̷̯ş̷́.̸̥̃.̵̧̓.̶͖̀ ̸̙̕A̵̟̒n̵̜̾d̶̥̈́ ̷͓͆t̴̩̀h̷̋ͅẹ̵̓ ̵͈͝ȉ̴̮ṅ̷̨n̶̠̓ơ̵̻c̵̺͠e̶̼̐n̵͚̓t̸̮̾s̷̰̑ ̵̹̄ẇ̷̠h̸̰͆o̴̪̓ ̵̞̽w̶̥͐ë̵̬r̴̈͜è̵͈ ̴͖̋ç̵̐a̵̮͋ü̵͍g̴͍̓h̴̼̄t̷͕̎ ̷̫̋i̷͖̔n̶̘͋ ̷͚͂t̸̝͝h̵̪̓ẽ̸̜ ̸̺̆l̸̻͂ï̸͍ñ̷͚ḛ̸͋ ̸͕̕o̷̡͌f̷̜́ ̵̝̌f̴͈̊ḯ̸͈r̴͉̊ĕ̷̜,̶̼͝ ̴͚̄b̵͔̚l̵̻͗ỉ̶͈n̷̛̳d̴̥̋i̶̭̿n̵̹͆ǧ̴̟ ̴͈͒g̵͚̀r̸̠̕í̶͚ẽ̷̖f̸̗̂-̷̙̾b̵̼͊ọ̵̿r̷͕̓ṇ̸̌ę̵͆ ̴̦̅w̶̨͒r̴̳͝a̵̛͇t̵̞̎h̵͔͘f̸̗̎ǔ̴̻l̸͕̊ ̸͕́t̸̞̔h̵̼͛i̴̼͘ŗ̷̅s̶̞̓ṯ̸͊ ̷̯͛f̴̗̓ő̴̡r̸̝̍ ̷͔̀r̸̮̓e̶͇̐v̷̫͐e̷̛̱n̶̺̄g̵̝̏e̸̖͑.̸̙̉ ̶͚̈́Ḫ̵̈́ä̶͎́n̵̝̾d̴̮̈́s̵̺̋ ̶͚̿r̸̻̚e̸͉͌a̴͖͌c̷̳̓h̶̟͋i̸̬͌n̸̜͗ģ̶̀,̷̤̾ ̴̪̇ĝ̸̘ȓ̴̠a̶̤͆p̸̯͐p̷̰̎l̵̳̓i̸͉͆ņ̶̈g̸͉̈́–̸̬̏ ̶͉͌C̵̺̈́l̴͍̾a̶̜̅w̸͙͝í̸͉ǹ̵͈g̶͓̕ ̶̰̔à̷̱n̷͍̒d̴̺̽ ̵̟̑p̵̢̊u̸̦͛l̸̊͜l̴̥̆ị̵̀n̶̩̋g̸̖͝ ̴̦̈́à̷̬t̴̪͘ ̴̞͝h̶̳̿i̵̼̇s̵̡̈́ ̵̞͠b̵͎͛ó̷͉d̵̠̐y̵̲̎ ̷̱͝a̴̯̋n̸̘͠ď̵̡ ̵̫͗l̷̰̏i̴̧̐m̷͔̒b̶̰̊ş̴͊,̵̳͒ ̸̮̌t̵̪̓e̷̝̔à̶̮r̶̠͘i̷̯̾n̵͎̽g̸̜̈́ ̸̻̕a̶͙̅p̵̼̽a̸̬̍r̵̰͘t̴̼͒,̴̞͊ ̸͌͜r̸̢̊i̷̖̕ṗ̵͈p̷̓͜i̴̳̔ň̶͈g̴͖̏ ̴͖̐ȍ̴͓f̷̱͒f̴̦̓.̵͍̈́.̵͇͝.̸̖̈́ ̵̛͓s̵̖̈́ẗ̴͍́r̸̻̊à̴͜n̶͓̒ġ̸̼l̸̠̄i̸̺͠n̸͇̂ḡ̷̫.̶̙͗ ̸̛͔W̴̚͜i̸̲͆t̸͍̒h̴̗̀ ̶̜͌t̵̗̂h̴̟͘è̷̖m̸͍̂,̴̹̕ ̵̝͒t̵͕̀h̴͎̑e̷̽ͅ ̴͖̿f̵͍͗á̵͖c̷̲̍e̴̝̋ ̵̤͝ő̸̘f̴̣̾ ̵̼͂a̷͈̿ ̷̣͆M̴̫͐ḁ̵̾u̵͎͆l̴̫̾e̵̯̕r̶͙̚–̶͈͊ ̷͉̇S̷̳̊ô̸͎r̶̞͌e̷̿ͅn̴̬͝'̷̖̂s̵̱̽.̸͉̽ ̵̩̓Ȏ̷̢n̷̻͘e̵̡͂ ̸͔̽m̴̳͘o̸̼̅r̷̯̀ë̴̗ ̴̳̒a̵̹̓ď̶̺d̷͍̔ẽ̴̦d̵̠̆ ̴̳̕t̸͚̊o̷̧̚ ̷̮̂t̷̺̽h̴̦̀ë̴̝́ ̷̜̅c̷̡̈́ǫ̵̎ủ̸͍n̸̞̓t̶̲͐.̷͓̒.̷̙͌ ̵̜̐Ạ̶̋ń̵̹d̷̼̋ ̸̭̿ḧ̶̭i̶̦̿s̶̪̓ ̵̛̜č̶̢l̷̒ͅa̶̱͠n̵̦̅.̸̢͆

—"Would you be better if I emulate him?" A hand on his shoulder, the winged Hypogean now sitting cross-legged and slightly hunched over. Worried, sympathetic, understanding.... As much a being of negativity can feel such emotions anyways. Or mimic.

“...yes.”

“Alright.”

A branch of familiar lilies is placed on the mattress, before him. And the inky form shifts, becoming familiar, as the pungent stench of kerosine, wood, banana and ink dulls to change into softer floral scent. Familiar.

Calming.

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Cold, yet warm arms drape around his tense figure. A hand gliding through his strands and fur, stroking soothingly. As a soft, velvety tranquil and serene voice hums a lullaby. A melody, softly whistled in tender low tone. Song most adored– The tune taking form more vividly as his eyelids at last drift shut. Of sweet cheerful memories, an albino night nymph and a noble 'boy', swaying to romantic songs at the Mythic tavern, singing in duet, standing out in the Winter's snowy chill and gazing at the stars dotting the skies... Constellations the painter traces, maps out on his back with fond feathery touches.

Leaving kisses on each and every freckle, every scar, every wound -old, new, partially healed, or fully. Foreheads resting together... Mornings spent cuddling, days and nights spent in travels across the map to nooks and crannies less known. Sparring together..

—“Would it be so terribe for me to say that I love you, with my very being..? A sin to confess you are the light in my eternity, have brought me alive, a reason to continue drawing breath still..?” Cold hands cupping his face, a cold forehead pressed against his own and a serene smile playing on the lips so mournful normally. A feather-light kiss is pressed, lingering for a moment—Benediction. Prayer and expression of unfaltering devotion in one. In the twilight between friendship...And something far more deeper, more profound than fickle romance or passion.

"Sleep well, my Muse."

The hasty pattering of little booted feet, and obnoxiously loud clanking of shield and sword soon enough shatters the peace. Curled onto his side and huddled with his friend, head propped on the knuckles of one hand, the soft look of calm neutrality jag into a scoff. Oh great. Right as I finally got him to sleep. Slowly the regal appearance dissipates away to reveal the Sinister jester, pale purple pits glaring up at the doorway in a mildly discontent deadpan while keeping his scent from reverting. —“Ma-!” A zipper materializes on the knightly-dressed ginger and white-furred loudmouth, effectively shutting him up before his nails-on-chalkboard squeaky-toy voice wakes up the slumbering figure. And the furball has the gal to gape at him in shocked surprise. Pressing a finger to his downturned jagged mouth, the Hypogean’s voice flits into the rodent’s head just as he hisses ‘Shh!’. Tone down your trap, fat-rat. You blind or need your eyeballs checked? What? The brat’s thoughts are a complete mess, but one thing stands out: Hogan. Need Pirin. Urgent. ..Riight. Sure. Rolling his eyes, in a blink of an eye Berial is gone, poofing away. Only to emerge from the ground in front of the Arcane chief’s familiar, hands on his hips and slowly bend to be on eye-level with a tilt of the head. Just as the zipper peels back to let Chippy talk.

—“Magister Merlin wants to talk to Pirin. Chippy was going to say that General Hogan has sent a letter for him...uhm.. It’s an invitation to Whiteridge for the festival, but Merlin redirected it to Pirin….” Not impressive news. Or anything new, it’s a staple at this point.

—“Uh-Huh.” Straightening up with a snap, the clown’s dismissive sneer of disdain remains- “Yeah, just tell your owner we’re going to set off later when Pirin wakes up.” And then promptly turns his back to the pip-squeak, eyes closed and chin help up- looking down his pointed nose as he flicks his wrist. “Ooff you go, shoo-todaloo.” With that—Berial snaps his fingers, opening a portal right underneath the hamster’s feet through which Chippy falls.

…

‘hhmmh…’ -Two eyes blink open blearily, mind still muddled by vestiges of sleep clinging. Out the tall mosaic window the skies are painted in hues of black and speckled with stars, an owl hoot in the distance, or another nightly critter. At the foot of the bed, like a gargoyle of a cathedral, perches Berial. Did you watch me sleep? Nope~! Just was keeping an eye. ….And the difference is..?

—“That you’d have nightmares if the former~! And have gone with the latter!”

—“...Mhm, yep. Checks about right.” Come on now, Little finch~! I chase your bad dreams away, and this is what I get?? Rude, hmph.

—“Well you did sleep well!” You want an applause? I wouldn’t mind it!

Sitting up on the bed with huffed effort, Pirin’s face scrunches in a wincing scowl, ears pinning back low against his skull; Vertigo, nausea and voracity warring just as a burn rises up from the chest, spills to the throat like volcano that he swallows back. Two bottomless pits closely follow, grin gone. “At least nothing is visible...Nobody would know..” Pushing off from the soft but stiff mattress, the Mauler-appearing spirit harshly clicks his teeth, long tail flickering to keep balance.

It’s like my legs had been frozen or cast in fuc- goddamn cement. Fur bristled and puffed out, a hissing snarl slips out the cleft lips, leaf-like nose flaring sharply. This will be just lovely. Better than being cooped up and doing nothing at any rate. Ever so slowly a hum brews up, low thrilling and drawn-out chirp… to spite the throbbing that relentlessly pounds on his skull, has been for two months, three now, same as that pesky exhaustion draped onto his back like a mountain. As if the ache in the chest and acid aren’t enough. ...How did mamma stay calm the whole time..? And to deal with this five times no less! How?? I’m over here loosing half my mind!

—“If it will make you feel better, I have good.. and bad news. Which one?” —“Whichever. Shoot.” Claws rake against wood in clipped, measured stalk, the curly hair of ink spinning ‘round to continue staring after his back. In a flash, the tufted ears, fur, wings and tail retract to give rise to much more humanoid appearance. Just as the sharp claws revert to feet, disheveled bangs falling back into place like a curtain. In moments the soft rustling of fabric fills the silence, the figure mechanically pulling the white shirt over his head and torso then slipping on the deep scarlet-red tailcoat lined with embroidery in black. At nothing being said, the short man pauses after tensely straightening out the wrinkles of the garments. Berial.

—“We’re going to Whiteridge—Hogan wants to talk to you before we set off to raze the duchy. Merlin’s lil tin rat barged in to deliver the message about it.” Snowy owl-esque eyebrows furrow, haggard and coldly miffed eyes of the reflection in the mirror meeting his own.

—“Hogan? You sure it’s not at Merlin? Since they’re buddies and what-have-you.”

—“Best guess is the twat redirected the invite to you, no doubt to dodge whatever bullet the crisis going on there.” It’s always snafu, ever since day one of this shitshow. So nothing surprising.

—“Tch, can’t tell if poor man’s genuinely terrible at recommending tourism destinations, or if he’s in cahoots with Mr. Legend to off me and call it an accident.” The shuffling of fabric resumes, followed up by the tump of boots striking wood. “First time didn’t work, guess second’s the charm.”

—“M, to be fair—Hogan didn’t know you’ll get yanked into another adventure in Rustport. Loony-mage is a different story.”

—“..You really have grown soft, ha Berial? Playing mortal’s advocate?”

—“Har-Har. I’m simply stating facts on the table, not playing defense.” The fake magister merely snorts with a smugly mirthful glance over his shoulder, silky hair pulled up in his gloved hands. Tying it into a low ponytail, the ghostly-white man rolls it up into a tight bun at his nape and pins it with a hairpin from unravelling. A small lantern which emits a soft, warm glow dangling from it like a tassel, a delicate golden tassel chain attached to the hair stick, framing the bun from below.

“Why are you putting on another coat.?”

—“Let’s call it a precautionary measure. I’m having a bad feeling about this whole story. Ever since the first trip when the general passed the letter… I could’ve been paranoid, still be. Not a first.” But an Eclipse’s intuition tells no lies, does it? Never did. It exposes them, and where there’s rot- The source isn’t far behind.

One last glance at back the clear surface of the glass, wooden mask held in hand and blue bandana in the other, the man dons them on. The translucent black piece of cloth he had affixed to the woodmask falling over his lower face. A pelt is wound around his neck in coils, the fur-coat buttoned up snug and hood drawn up, Pirin makes his way out the dorm. The walk down the endlessly winding corridor and descent on the spiraling staircase passes in a faceless blur, raising a gloved hand in affable brief hello to Dolly per body’s reflex.

What grips the magister’s perpetually preoccupied mind, is the invitation.

It was from Whiteridge, anonymous beyond that. Back then it had caused excitement to spike, even if with a prod of puzzlement—had assumed it was from his utmost beloved. The silence at long last broken… until a more thorough examining later in private. The penmanship and very style of it wasn’t anything like Ludovic’s. The letter had teetered on informal, tone far too cheerful and elated to the point of bordering on… manic or desperate. And what more was swift to grab his attention, was the scent the very parchment held. A perfume, rather than cologne or the scent of lilies so familiar. But the last clue, the biggest dead giveaway, was the lack of signature in the very bottom right of the letter where a tiny ‘accidental’ ink-splotch would be. Or ‘Owl’ would be written.

If in immense rush, the letters are signed with a circled dot.

Frowing at the script, Pirin’s hands shake while gripping the letter, nearly ripping the parchment. A cold chill darts down his spine, heart thundering under his ribcage, built-up anxiety hissing loud. What if he’d been found out? Needs help? Bolting out of the chair, it thuds behind the Wilder's back as he seizes the device the dwarven craftsman had given him all those months ago. Letters take too long. Hastily dialing up a contact and almost dropping the gadget, pearl eyes stare at it, circling around the dorm room restless. A pause much too long.

—“Vanya…?” -The Graveborn’s familiar dulcet voice comes from the other end, the image of the disguised man peering up in puzzlement. Merlindabest wasn’t always good at long distances, even now, the image still flickers as static buzzes at times. Better than nothing. The confusion turns to mild worry at the lack of response. “Vanya, what is happening?”

—“...’Vic.. Where are you?” Shaky. —“At my manor. You worry me-” —“Please tell me you’re not injured,‘Vic.” Quiet. —“No, Love. I am alright. The Fallen king nor his followers suspect a thing.” A weak, quivering sigh of relief. The frail-appearing figure on the other side sliding down onto the floor kneeling.

—“I got a letter from Whiteridge as an anonymous invitation, and assumed it was from you initially.” Concern dissipates a notch, the light scowl going back to mystified as he listens intently. Shuffling of paper, a letter being held up in front of the jittery hologram. Pale green eyes squint a little in concentration at the script scrawled onto the page, scanning the content. “Then the thought that it’s a disress signal crossed, until reading it over again.. I..I needed to check in with you.”

—“I’m afraid I cannot recognize the sender… However from the penmanship, I suspect it is possible to be a distant relative of mine. I am not fully certain.”

—“Understandable, you’ve lost contact long ago since withdrawing to the Everstill manor.” Wiping away the welled-up tears at the corner of his eyes with a strained smile, the letter is folded up neatly and slid back into its envelope and pocketed.

“Still, better than nothing. Thanks, my Cloud.” A small, graceful smile of fond affection plays on the boy’s pale face.

—“Of course. It is of no trouble.”

—“-And ‘Vic.?” —“Yes?”

—“Do you- Have time?” Moment of thought, green eyes flickering to the side, smile faltering.

—“Not a lot, I fear. But I can spare an hour..?” The faux Mauler’s smile stretches to a grin, settling to sit more comfortably on the floor with tail draped in his lap.

—“Should do. At least ‘til we meet again in person. You know how it is with your truly~.”

—“I know. I confess, I am not better in this regard.”

—“Heh.”

Guess I’m about to find out who tis mysterious relative is.

Already scheming, ‘Magister’ Pirin steps through the doorway of the Mystical House, head held high. And not far behind, the jester hops into portals randomly, pausing midair after jumping out of the ground, wide gleeful smirk back.

—“And Berial? Can you go fetch our dear squad-mates? I’ve sent them their invites week in advance to ensure they have time to mull it over and prepare.” Ohohoho! This is going to be so fun! With a dramatic bow which results in a somersault. Sonja and Sinbad couldn’t accept due to being swamped with work, Soren sent back that he’ll be with his clan and take a rain check on this adventure and very stern warning of ‘Don’t do something stupid and get yourself killed.’ and Carolina responded back to the letter with great delay.

‘My apologies for responding this late, my friend! I will be sure to accompany you later, however! ...If your adventures have not reached their conclusion by that point. And..if so, I will be with you on the next for certain! Be careful in the snow, Stranja, please. Looking forward to meeting once more!

Warm hugs,

C.’

Watching Berial sink into the ground, a gleam of fire dances in the figure’s eyes, daring smirk of pure determined defiance under the black veil. Craziness is my game, so bring it. Stepping out onto beach of Ryeham, the mage closes the door behind his back and begins striding ahead.

Not once looking back.

#afk journey #afk journey fanfic #fanfic #The (mis)adventures of 'Merlin' fanfic series #Arc four - the (mis)adventures of 'Merlin'#The (mis)adventures of 'Merlin'#Youtube

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valorums · 11 months ago

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GET TO KNOW THE MUN.

respond to the prompts out of character!

what made you pick up the current muse(s) you have? So uh … sweats nervously … bit of a funny story here. Shi��al Valorum first came to be in February of 2020, when I was in my final year of high school and playing the violin in the orchestra pit for the theatre department’s Phantom of the Opera production. A single thought of “okay but consider this … imagine a character who is a renowned opera star like Christine Daaè but in ✨space✨” led to me developing the basic elements of Shi’al’s prequel trilogy storyline, and over the next few years, she crystallized into more than just a Christine Daaè knockoff. Somehow, I’ve (or at least, I think that I’ve) managed to flesh her out into a multi-dimensional original character. But yeah — there’s Shi’al’s very embarrassing origins as what amounts to a Phantom of the Opera alternate universe. 😭

is there anything you don’t like to write? Naturally, the minute that I sit down to respond to this question, everything that I don’t like writing just vanishes from my head. Genres wise, the first that comes to mind are fandomless modern timeline threads and modern alternate universes in general. I do not mind writing my muses into fandoms with a modern setting such as Percy Jackson or Red, White, and Royal Blue — but I hail from the historical fiction writing community, so modern settings without fandom ties are difficult for me to invest in. I go to roleplay for escape into different worlds and exploration of intriguing themes, neither of which (in my opinion) modern timelines really allow. I am also not that fond of writing angst with no purpose or resolution as well as what I call its “cousin”, hurt with no comfort. If I put my characters through hell and back, it has to be for a specific narrative purpose; I cannot just torture them mercilessly with no intent of giving a reason for that torture, even if it is as simple as enabling another muse to rescue them later on. First meeting threads are also difficult for me to write — I prefer pre-establishing dynamics in our plotting conversations and then “filling in the blanks”, so to speak, of those dynamics by writing their key developmental moments out in threads.

is there anything you really enjoy writing? Absolutely! The first thing that comes to mind is threads which involve the hurt / comfort trope — I enjoy a perfect balance of angst and fluff, and the fluff oftentimes serves as the reward for putting my characters through the pain required by the angst. Threads like these allow me to explore the full emotional depth of my muses in a way that most other broad tropes cannot allow. Alternate timelines also come to mind as a possible answer to this question; yes, Star Wars is a tragedy that ultimately nothing could prevent, but I enjoy playing in the sandbox of this universe far too much to adhere to canon all the time. I LOVE straying from Shi’al’s established narrative to explore the various storylines I’ve created for her, such as her Force Sensitive universe and the fix-it timeline that I’m still in the process of developing where she becomes Chancellor like her father before her.

how do you come up with headcanons? It’s difficult for me to pin down my exact process, but if I had to trace the sources of my headcanons — they’re either inspired by outside sources (movies, tv, music, books, things that I learn in my university classes), conversations with mutuals, or ideas I’ve gotten from ruminating on my own general vibes and emotions.

do you write in silence or do you play music? The easy answer to this question is both, but the more complex response is that I do everything in my power to avoid writing in silence. Writing my replies in a space wherein I can listen to music or the ambiance of surrounding dialogue (such as the classroom 🤭 or the university cafeteria) is crucial to my productivity, and it also stimulates my creativity. Sometimes, though, writing in silent spaces is unavoidable if the inspiration to do so strikes at a crappy time.

do you plan your replies or wing them? For me, it honestly depends on what precisely I’m replying to in the first place. I always go into “reply mode” with at least some idea of what I want to write, but my askbox meme replies tend to be more spontaneous than actual thread replies or starters.

do you enjoy shipping? Yes yes yes YES! A thousand times YES! As I stated in my rules and as multiple PSA’S I’ve reblogged indicate, I enjoy all forms of shipping, whether it is romantic or even platonic. No matter how long we’ve been interacting for, if you detect a possible ship between our muses, TELL ME! Chances are, I probably ship it already.

what’s your alias/name? Callie.

age? 21 years old.

birthday? May 16th.

favorite color? Blue, Purple, Red.

favorite song? Aw come on; you’re really making me pick? Anything listed on my character playlists is fair game and a valid answer for this question, but if I had to select one song … I’d say that my current answer would be Sarah Cothran’s Poor Marionette simply because of the fact that the Shi’al vibes it gives me are immaculate.

last movie you watched? I watched the 2005 Pride and Prejudice on the plane ride back home from spring break!

last show you watched? Bridgerton Season 2 Episode 2. I’m watching the entire franchise for the first time as part of a project in my Jane Austen seminar course about Austen adaptations because apparently it’s Austen fanfiction?? Before y’all ask I’m LOVING it so far!

last song you listened to? Don’t Blame Me — Taylor Swift.

favorite food? Uhh … pizza? Ice cream? Idk

favorite season? Springtime.

do you have a tumblr best friend? This is honestly kinda sad, but I’m not sure. I have multiple mutuals who I think I’m really close to; however, I’m nervous to voice those thoughts out loud just in case they don’t feel the same way about me lololoool

TAGGED BY no one. I stole it from @prcspcr LOL and I’m going to tag a BUNCH of old and new mutuals across various fandoms because I am very curious about these prompts.

TAGGING @jaigalorad, @k4ssa, @alootus, @tapalslegacy, @sorehsu, @unwaivering, @pilothearted, @shexopt, @deficd, @reiignonme, @menaceborn, @nieithryn, @misfittcd, @debelltio, @strcngered, @oflightsbeam, @stars-written, @lostwcrlds, @shadowedlights, @spokewar, @vendettavalor, @frxncaise, @ncmad, @adversitybloomed, AND YOU.

#⠇ dashboard game ⠇ ━━━ the latest gossip in coruscant

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ohc-and-the-music-tapes-archive · 2 years ago

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Article about Elephant 6 collective (with a big part regarding the Music Tapes) in Flagpole, 31 March 1999, by John Britt and Melissa Link.

transcript:

ELEPHANT 6: THE MUSE GROWS UP THAT LOOSE GROUP OF TREEHOUSE POP FANTASTICS IS MATURING. ITS CIRCLE IS WIDENING. AND ITS NEW MUSIC IS PRIMED TO INVADE THE ORCHESTRA PIT, THE PROPS CLOSET, AND THE FAR REACHES GF OUTER SPACE. It started as a bedroom daydream, but the dream leaked out into the waking world. Now it’s spreading. The musical collective Elephant 6 — that sprawling, somewhat amorphous umbrella group of young pop bands, the one whose imprimatur ensures a taste of sweet aural psychedelia, the one in all the national magazines, the one that has made Athens, Georgia, its de facto headquarters — was once just a name for the four-track fantasies of four kids messing around in Ruston, Louisianna.

Back in the early 1980s, Rustonians Will Hart, Bill Doss, Robert Schneider and Jeff Mangum invented Elephant 6 as a fictitious label for the tapes they made for each other. The product wasn't necessarily intended to merge with the real wor|d — few imaginative children actually grow up to be cowboys or astronauts — but eventually the four friends amassed enough good material to warrant public consumption. They started getting serious. Schneider moved to Denver and formed the core of The Apples In Stereo. In Athens, Mangum established Neutral Milk Hotel, while Doss and Hart eventually formed The Olivia Tremor Control.

Over the last four or five years these three bands, the heart of Elephant 6, have recorded albums that have drawn worldwide critical acclaim. At the same time, Elephant 6 has expanded to include a difficult-to-count array of friends and compatriots who share in one way or another the original Ruston vision — to put out, as early E6 propaganda put it, “innovative, quality pop music” that hews to a prescribed set of values. “We believe in four-tracks, and beautiful sounds and ideas,” the old motto went. “And most of all we believe in SONGS.”

This spring sees the release of CDs from four Athens-based Elephant 6 groups: the sophomore effort from The Olivia Tremor Control, as well as new albums from Elf Power, Of Montreal, and, in a few weeks, the performance project Music Tapes. This new wave of music shows major strides forward in E6’s thematic, conceptual and sonic evolution, yet much of it remains true to the original vision.

With real record deals, these bands have been able to flesh out the limited lo-fi palette of the first E6 recordings: four-track operating methods are now augmented with digital 16-tracks and studio mixing, and while some of the inspiration still comes from home, much recording now takes place in professional studios. This new freedom has allowed these bands to explore a wider range of composition and arrangement while still remaining true to their aesthetic roots. And while the music style broadens, the E6 gestalt continues to expand beyond music itself: though there's always been a multimedia component to the collective, a group like Julian Koster’s Music Tapes is pushing beyond notebook artwork and into the far teaches of experimental theater.

THE SKY IS A HARPSICHORD CARVAS

As these boundaries expand, the shambling experimental ensemble The Olivia Tremor Control remains at the center of the chaotic Elephant 6 enterprise. The band’s debut album, Dusk at Cubist Castle, toyed with both classically structured pop songs and experimental ambient noise, with fairly distinct lines drawn between order and chaos. The Olivias decided to mesh both halves of their creative instincts into one seamless whole on their latest release, Black Foliage: Animation Music, a 70-minute pop freakout that recalls everything from The Beach Boys to Karlheinz Stockhausen.

Black Foliage is unmistakably in step with everything OTC worked towards years ago. The tweaked out, psychedelic pattern shifts — from melodically grounded pop classics to cacophonous clusters of sounds — harken back to Doss, Hart, and bassist John Fernandes’ early days DJ-ing at the Louisiana Tech college radio station. There, according to Fernandes, the friends would cue up sound-effects albums and play them simultaneously with the records in the station's rotation, then step out to listen to the results on someone else's radio.

“Our idea on the new album was to weave patterns and ask the question ‘What is a pop song?” explains Doss. “We wanted to go beyond things like verse/chorus/verse and do things like bridge/bridge/bridge/bridge/verse/verse/verse, then into some sound excursion or the chorus or a barbershop quartet.”

Looking at some of The Olivia Tremor Control's more blatant influences — most notably the Beatles and the Beach Boys — it’s obvious that the band sees no fault in perfect pop. And in the memorable melodies of Foliage’s “Hideaway” and “A New Day,” it is readily apparent that the band can deliver such goods.

The goal then, it seems, is to create new atmospheres and environments for that music to inhabit. Black Foliage sometimes sounds like a pop record playing through a street-comer boom box while the sounds of the street invade and intermingle. With its nonstop flow of sonic and thematic concepts, Foliage tends to lend itself towards individual visual interpretation, individual fantasy. “Every time I listen to that album, it’s like a series of dreams,” describes Raleigh Hatfield, a peripheral member of a number of Elephant 6 related bands. “But with each listen, it evokes a completely different series of images.”

Hart agrees, citing the album’s subtitle as an important clue to the music within. “All the sounds in there to us are animation. I see pictures for everything in it, and so will our audience, hopefully.”

NEAT LITTLE DOMESTIC LIFE

Whereas The Olivia Tremor Control attempt to create an ambiguous aural fantasy world on Black Foliage, comrades Of Montreal have fashioned a far more specific world on their new album, The Gay Parade. The material on the telease steps away from songwriter Kevin Bames’ earlier, more personal work, and dives headfirst into a purely imaginary environment. The Gay Parade is a pageant of whimsical characters: “The Autobiographical Grandpa,” “The Miniature Philosopher,” and “A Man’s Life Flashing Before His Eyes While He and His Wife Drive Off a Cliff Into the Ocean.”

And while the album‘s concept — especially its Yellow Submarine-cum-grade school cover depicting every single character in the record — seems to express a calculated naiveté, Of Montreal's members insist that there are layers of conceptual complexities beneath the surface.

“It’s much smarter than a children’s book,” contends drummer Derek Almstead. “It's like The Canterbury Tales; it's whimsical, smart, deep and funny. It’s not cutesy-poo.”

“In no way do I want to compare us to Brian Wilson,” adds keyboardist and bassist Dottie Alexander, “but someone could say the same thing about Smile. On the surface it may seem that Brian Wilson is singing about nothing, but if you look deeper into the songs. you find many complex layers, musically.”

Songwriter Barnes’ Tin Pan Alley influences often give The Gay Parade a pre-rock vibe: it feels like it could've been written by someone raised in the age of radio melodramas, rather than a mop-topped guy living some 40-plus years after the birth of rock and roll. At the same time, Barnes’ character sketches — though often steeped in fantasy — owe much to mid-“60s British rock songwriters like the Kinks’ Ray Davies, who was known for penning bourgeois studies like “David Watts.”

“There definitely is a pervasive Kinks influence in everything we do,” agrees Alexander. “It's a slice of life look at this world we have created.”

That world is rendered in fantastic pastels and neons thanks to the CD's highly inventive arrangements — a major sonic step forward for both £6 and indie pop in general. The album is filled with waved-out guitar lines, crystalline piano notes, five-part harmonies, and a variety of novel instrumentation. Nineteen people are credited in the liner notes with everything from penny whistle to “woo-wooing while jumping on the furnace.”

Of Montreal plan to take their characters out of fantasyland and on the road — literally. Kevin Barnes’ brother, David, the group's chief visual artist, is working on a stage representation of the cover art he designed and created.

“There's not much room in our van for even a large suitcase, so the visual aspect will have to be limited,” Almstead says. “But we'll have a backdrop similar to the album cover, and perhaps some cardboard cutouts of the characters on stage with us.”

A DREAM REIFIED

Elf Power's A Dream in Sound is, without a doubt, the most mature offering from the latest batch of Elephant 6 albums. Combining the sonic experimentation of The Olivia Tremor Control with the fantastical storytelling of The Gay Parade, A Dream in Sound is a brief, yet powerful, collection of songs. In a way, it’s that perfect 40-minute pop album that Black Foliage dumps an extra 30 minutes of insanity upon. At once timeless and immediate, it’s Elf Power's most fully realized work, and a major improvement upon the band’s previous outing, When the Red King Comes.

“Our last album was recorded over a six month period,” explains chief songwriter Andrew Rieger. “A Dream in Sound was recorded in two weeks, and I think that had a big effect on the final product.”

The album continues down the path Elf Power has been taking since their first EP, Vainly Clutching at Phantom Limbs. While not as blatantly conceptual as the fantasy novel-like Red King, A Dream in Sound still focuses lyrically on otherworldly characters and confused wishes to live as other life forms. Rieger seems to have permanently turned his back on material such as Vainly Clutching's “Circular Malevolence.” That song was an angry acoustic account of an ego-tripping, status climbing acquaintance: “You can write it all down and just send it in your precious letter/Tell me of all the people you know and which ones you think you like better/You self-righteous motherfucker/You think I give a shit what you had for supper?” Such work has given way to more imaginative and surreal numbers with titles like “Simon (The Bird with the Candy Bar Head).”

“I always kind of regretted the mean-spiritedness of that song,” Rieger says of “Circular Malevolence.” “I wouldn't want to write those kind of hateful songs anymore.”

But don’t those kinds of personal experiences fuel powerful songwriting? “Well, yeah, sure,” Rieger says. “But I think you can do that in more productive ways. You don’t have to be mean about it.”

STATIC, THE TV, IS A KIND OF FRIEND

Flash to the 40 Watt Club: multi-instrumentalist Julian Koster is on stage with his band Music Tapes, sporting headgear he calls “The Mechanized Organ-Playing Helmet.” The helmet has a hand protruding from it, and the hand plays a faux keyboard. Koster stands amid a working seven-foot metronome, a wooden box sprouting a pair of mechanical clapping hands and an animated television set named “Static”.

Static, the television, will sing half of the songs tonight. Koster — augmented by the likes of Elf Power's Laura Carter and Neutral Milk/Gerbils member Scott Spillane — will buoyantly strum a banjo while the blissed-out, pixilated Static disseminates propaganda about the alien race of TV sets who control our world.

The audience at this Music Tapes performance is a cozy mix of friends, fellow musicians, and curious onlookers. Most stand in contemplative awe, while a few people cuddle the stage, clapping and convulsing ecclesiastical joy. This unique stage show is the ultimate in Elephant 6 fantasia: the line between reality and artifice is sufficiently blurred to give the appearance that even if the human performers left the stage, the mechanical ones would continue the show.

Koster’s former outfit, Chocolate USA — which featured Doss, Olivias drummer Eric Harris and others — bowed out of its acclaimed, albeit brief, limelight with a Bar/None CD Smoke Machine — more or less a rock opera about a cow. Music Tapes take Koster’s peculiar vision — not only of music and performance, but of the human condition as well — to rather head-scratching new levels.

“To me it’s like I look at human history: the Tin Man is as real to me as Abraham Lincoln,” Koster says, possibly describing the impetus behind Music Tapes. “The truth is that what I know of the Tin Man, even though he came out of someone's imagination — and Abraham Lincoln really lived — doesn’t make a difference, because I have vivid pictures of both and in the end what I know now of Abraham Lincoln probably came out of somebody's imagination as well.”

Music Tapes’ debut CD is due out soon, and though you'd think that this is a band best experienced live. Koster’s E6 compatriots say the cordings stand on their own. “Julian's stuck in a Dr. Seuss movie,” says the Olivia's Hart. “That's going to be my favorite record when it comes out. I wish I could write more Dr. Seussy stuff like that.”

“Julian is incredible,” John Fernandes adds. “He's a great home recorder. He takes account of the nuances of low fidelity and uses the disadvantages to his advantage. He's been using an old wire recorder and ribbon microphone just like what was used in old radio plays, and he gets a really genuine 78 rpm type sound.”

Koster says Music Tapes were born 10 years ago, when the musician was in his mid-teens. It began as a way to spend time with his friends, as he wasn't able to be with them as often as he would have liked.

“I kind of had to stay in the house a lot,” Koster says. “I started making tapes almost to make little worlds. Whatever I could imagine, I tried to make a sort of little place that I could visit whenever I was making it and then I'd be able to give the tapes to my friends when I saw them at school and they could visit that place. So the time that they spent there was kind of like common time spent together.”

As Koster grew up, Music Tapes became a sort of revenge project against the world, in the way that creativity became the means subtly to upend the powers that be. Julian fully lives up to Rieger's idea that anger can best be focused into positive, creative energy.

“In youth, it’s about being powerless or dependent on those around you,” Koster says. “You feel unable to take control of your world, and all of a sudden you kind of go over this divide and you realize that you are powerful, that you do have power. You begin to take control of your own existence — you can leave a bad thing and you can begin to create things.”

So Koster invented his own world, a deviant musical amalgam of Pee Wee's Playhouse and 2001: A Space Odyssey. The fantasy is farther out than anything previously in the minds of the Elephant 6 collective. It’s one thing to be in a pretend band; it’s another to be in a band with pretend bandmates, especially at the age of 26. When Koster says of his talking TV, “Static the Television is a band member, and a kind of a friend in a lot of ways,” - it is seemingly without a trace of irony.

That overriding Elephant 6 impulse — to create indie rock that’s irony-free — is offering one way out of the rut the genre has found itself in over the last few years. Like it or not, it’s difficult to deny that it’s an escape hatch that works. “A lot of people who think that this music is childish or cute are coming from this whole school of distorted, ‘80s indie rock,” Of Montreal's Derek Almstead says. “And we're not coming from that point at all. We're coming from somewhere else.”

John Britt Staff writer Melissa Link also contributed to story

#articles #1999 #Elephant 6 #the Music Tapes #Of Montreal #Olivia Tremor Control #Elf Power #Julian Koster #John Fernandes #Bill Doss #Derek Almstead #Dottie Alexander #Kevin Barnes #David Barnes #Andrew Rieger

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aurorxaeternitatis · 1 year ago

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Nestled within the very fabric of the city's heart, the grand opera house stood as a symphony of architectural marvel. Its exterior offered a harmonious blend of neoclassical elegance and intricate detailing, a mere prelude to the enchanting world that unfolded within its embrace.

Upon crossing the threshold of its arched entrance, one was swiftly transported into a realm where the whispers of history echoed along the corridors. Gilded chandeliers, resembling celestial constellations, hung suspended from the ceiling, their brilliance dancing upon frescoes that adorned the expanse—depictions of muses and melodies that seemed to capture the essence of creative inspiration itself. A faint scent, reminiscent of aged wood and anticipation, lingered in the air, casting an aura that was both nostalgic and exhilarating.

A cascade of plush velvet seats curved in ascending tiers, embracing the stage in a symmetrical ballet of opulence and comfort. Each seat held the promise of an unparalleled view. The stage, a canvas upon which dreams and narratives were painted, lay framed by luxurious curtains that flowed like ethereal veils. This boundary separated the realm of the audience from the world of the performers, a tantalizing divide between reality and the universe of the imagination. And at the base of the stage lay the orchestra pit, a haven where harmonies soared and crescendos ignited; an aural heartbeat that underscored every emotion that was to be unveiled.

As attendees took their places, a symphony of hushed conversations and rustling fabrics filled the air. The anticipation, almost palpable, reverberated like a cadence yet unplayed; a prelude to the melodies that awaited. And then, as the lights gracefully dimmed and the first notes wafted through the air, the opera house transformed into a timeless sanctuary where the bounds of time seemed to waver.

The tendrils of the opera's melodies wrapped around the space, yet it was the gilded atmosphere in the booths that seemed to clothe the audience in an intimacy that defied the grandeur of the surroundings. A moment suspended in the cadence of the music, Domínico's gaze turned toward the lady beside him; a calculated curiosity glistening within his eyes. A smile graced his lips, a deliberate yet unassuming expression that held a charm of its own. The lady before him seemed to catch his gaze. " For me, an opera is a blend of those on the stage and those watching. Sometimes, it's hard to discern which is more enchanting. I couldn't help but notice your eyes lingering on the crowd—did you seek the same sentiments this opus stirs within your heart? "

His words, crafted with a blend of seduction and intrigue, hung between them like a silken thread of invitation, tempting her to share her thoughts while leaving room for the dance of conversation to ensue. He leaned back slightly, the dim lighting casting a play of shadows that added to the mystique of the moment, his eyes holding hers with an intent that was both inviting and enigmatic.

In this shared booth, they were not mere spectators; they were performers in their own symphony. Each word woven into the fabric of their conversation would be a carefully orchestrated note. As Turandot's aria continued its ascent, the opera house would seem to fade, leaving only them; a duet in the darkness, where every pause and inflection held the promise of the unknown. / @vulpesse

#永 the first word on the first page ( starter )#vulpesse #永 you can't stop sunlight with a single shadow ( dominico / interaction )#永 your religion is a lie to keep my mouth shut ( dominico / main v. )#they may now poke at each other's brain your honour #I can't wait for them to dive into their personal philosophies #and can't wait for that power struggle too #if you want me to change anything; hmu!

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twistedcveryway · 2 years ago

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💀 ( I GUESS! )

Send 💀 for my muse to die in your arms

"Anges pure, anges radieux, portez mon âme au sein des cieux!"

It happens so quickly, too quickly for her to think before acting, movement coming from the side of the stage as Christine's final note fades. A flash of black as he appears, and she does not doubt that he has come to take her; and from the orchestra pit, one of the gendarmes standing guard in case of this very situation raises his gun. He is behind Erik, out of his line of sight, but Christine knows what is about to happen and she is horrorstruck, a cry of protest ripping from her golden throat. She has ached to be free, yes, but she does not wish him dead! Perhaps she can pull him out of the line of fire, if she only moves quickly enough---

But she doesn't. Oh, she makes it to his side, just in time for the bullet to find its way into hers.

Christine stumbles and falls against him, red blooming upon her simple white dress, and through the shock and the pain, only distantly aware that Erik's arms are the only things keeping her from collapsing to the ground. Screams from the audience, followed by the sound of people jumping to their feet and hurrying, some towards the exit and some closer to the stage. She thinks she hears Raoul call her name above the chaos, but she hasn't the strength to turn and look for him.

This is my own fault, she thinks, as her fingers curl into Erik's sleeves, seeking stability. If I had left with Raoul when he had asked, if I had not insisted upon singing one last time...

"I-I'm sorry..." she manages, voice hushed and strained, and she isn't even exactly sure what she is apologizing for, but still she feels it necessary. The pain from the bullet is searing, her vision getting spotty. Fingers curl tighter still, even as her strength is fading. "I didn't want you to.."

To die. She cannot bring herself to say it, knowing how close she is to succumbing to that very fate herself. Tears are falling now; for herself, yes, and for the life she could have had if she had only left with Raoul when he had begged her. But also for Erik. Her poor, unhappy Erik. In spite of everything, a part of her has always cared for him, even if not in the way he has wanted. Does he know it? Will she die having left him to believe she despised him? She cannot bear that thought. If she is to leave this world, she hopes she can show him even the smallest bit of kindness as she goes. A glimmer of affection for someone who has never known it.

Using the last of her strength, Christine raises a trembling hand to his mask, gently lifting it just enough for her to press her lips to his cheek. And then her head falls onto his shoulder, her body slumping against his. The chaos in the house comes to a halt, the shouting and pushing and running all cease. Silence settles over the opera as every soul in the room comes to the same realization.

Christine Daaé is with the angels.

#tw death #tw guns #{ WHOOPS i did not set out to write this much but here we are ig! }#♫ Dark Stories of the North — (drabbles)#delanuit

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strixcattus · 3 months ago

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Here we go!

This piece fought me. The Heroine's theme wanted to be created and generally did not put up any resistance in the process, but this one was desperately trying to stop me from making it.

Nevertheless, here it is! STPlay's Chapter I theme!

#why do I continue to put in all the crescendos and decrescendos when I know Noteflight can't render them #maybe it's the principle of the thing #stplay #slay the princess #musings from the orchestra pit

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limenysnocket · 3 years ago

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Salsa Lessons

Summary: Let's take a break... to go on vacation. Since Taika is a snowflake and can't handle the cold, take a trip down south to Puerto Rico!

Pairing: Taika Waititi x Reader

Warnings: SMUT-- oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, dom Taika, a little bit of degradation, swearing, alcohol, (slight) public sex. 18+ ;)

A/N: One last baecation before I disappear again, and I know this'll be good. I KNOW THIS IS LATE. Like... late LATE. Forgive me.

@honorarytenenbaum @olyvoyl @whatwememeintheshadows @mrtommyshelby @dandywaititi

•○●•○●•○●•

"MY FACE IS ON FIRE!" Taika was panting and fanning his burning cheeks. The moms running the stand you both went to were cackling at him.

It had been a day since you both landed in Puerto Rico, and after sleeping off the jet lag and trying some of the fine dining, the first thing to do was explore the city, San Juan, from start to finish. Coincidentally, you both walked right into the outdoor market area, where fresh produce was being bought and sold everywhere. That's when Taika, the jackass, got ballsy and decided to try a pepper from one of the stands. He had been warned.

Oh well... guess you can see how that went.

To make up for the commotion caused, you bought a pineapple and a papaya from the same stand, as well as a couple of exquisitely bottled cokes. Taika was consoled, given a bit of coconut milk, and sent right back down the boardwalk. That was the first and last time he tried a freebie from a pepper stand. He was complaining about how his tongue felt (you would have thought that might make him get a little quieter and talk less), and he didn't stop until half of his bottled soda was gone. He sort of forgot about the pain after that and started looking for souvenirs.

You began your walk with him at eight in the morning, sharp. It was near noon by the time you were finished, and Taika had two big bags of fruits and veggies, exotic jewelry, tour maps, and trinkets. You were starving, and, more than once, tried to steal a kiwi from his bags but he would always manage to catch you and slap your hand away.

"They're for later!" He'd say that or make up a different excuse each time.

Taika wasn't neglectful of your hunger, in the end. He took you to a nearby restaurant after doing some searching on his phone and dropping the bags off back at the hotel room.

The restaurant was quaint, but vibrant at the same time. There were colors, dancers, and live music played on a little wooden stage just meters away. Ordering was fine, but it took some time for Taika.

"I've never seen so many things with pineapple in it! And it's not pizza, so it's bound to be good!" He seemed so excited for the food. It made you happy, but you eventually had to pick for him since the waiter was getting tired of actually having to wait.

"I have something special planned for tonight!" Taika exclaimed, the alcoholic drink of his choice being waved around in his hand. You were already reaching for the napkins, afraid he was going to spill something.

So now he tells you...

"Should I be concerned?" your first question came out with ease.

"Honey, if it's anything with me, you should always be concerned," he was smug, but the look on your face told him he needed to fix his wording. "BUT! Uhm... No, no you shouldn't be concerned about where I'm taking you. It's going to be a blast, I promise!"

"Better not be lying, Taik," you warned, and he just started to grin. That made you nervous, but you put the feeling on hold when the food came out.

Two bowls of Asopao de Pollo were placed in front of you and Taika, and they were devoured briefly in the span of thirty minutes. Extra time was added because Taika decided to add hot sauce to his. 'It's to add a kick,' he said. Yeah, whatever.

The rest of the afternoon was spent snacking, and checking out the more historical side of Puerto Rico. Abandoned forts, old canons, battle fields, you name it. It was truly a blast, even when Taika became cocky around one of the forts you visited.

It was at the Sitio Histórico de San Juan when things got... touchy. You were with a group of people, and you and Taika decided to linger around the back so if something interesting was spotted, you wouldn't have to move immediately. Little did you know, Taika was devising a, "ditch the tour guide and go make out somewhere," kind of plan.

Much to your demise, and to your pleasure, the plan worked. The tour guide hardly noticed the two of you disappear down an unknown corridor and push yourselves deep into a dark corner.

The smell was wet, ancient, and dank. Taika had you pressed up against one of the concrete walls while his hands worked their magic, lifting up the hem of your shirt and immediately grasping for your bra. You let him squeeze and grip through the fabric of it and press his body so close to yours, the waistband of his shorts was rubbing a red line across the skin of your stomach.

Your legs trembled while you completely forgot about the tour itself and your fingers started to run through his curly hair. Taika's thigh was moving to be between both of yours and he started to slowly rub the top of his against your clothed cunt. Slowly. Achingly slow.

Whimpers of his name and the sound of your tongue mixing echoed along the dank walls, and whimpers turned to moans, and moans turned into garbled sentences when his hand sunk into your underwear and sought out your clit. You tried to warn him, this was a bad idea. You could be noticed missing from the group and people could come looking for you. There could be papz right around the corner, needing a good look for a filthy headline. He didn't stop, though. He started rubbing faster, playing with you like you were some toy.

You knew he wouldn't give you anything but his fingers. Yet. Taika waited and waited, getting you closer on just clit stimulation, but just as you reached your brink, he started to pull his hand away. Dazed and confused, you looked up, your chest shaking from all the heavy breathing you had been doing. Your hands were grasping at his shirt, damn near begging to have just the tiniest bit more, but the look on his face said it all. Even through the darkness of the corridor.

"What the fuck, dude? I was so close!" You hissed at him. All he did was click his tongue and say:

"That's for later too."

The rest of the tour was dreadful to you. It was long, and hot, and dank while you found your way back to the group. Taika was nonchalantly following just a ways behind you while you consistently traveled in circles or down a corridor and through the next. As if he knew you were getting yourself lost, he eventually stepped in, and lead you back towards the entrance of the fort, where your tour group had huddled together for the last destination and for the tour guide to say goodbye. Oh well, at least you got to take in some historical views.

After one more cramped trolley ride back to the hotel later, you were utterly exhausted, but you knew your night wasn't over yet. Taika still had something planned, and it must have been on the spot this morning too. If he had planned it any further back, he would have blabbed it all out to you by now. You laid on your bed while you could, right on your stomach with your face buried into the pillow, trying to let your heavy eyes fall closed for a second, but the moment you did, you felt a large hand smack you right on the ass.

You flipped over, mad as a hornet when you looked up at Taika. You hadn't heard him come out of the bathroom.

He had dressed himself up in all black. Black button up, tucked into his black pants and pressed firm with a black belt. He looked like one of those pit musicians you'd see when you go to really good musicals with live orchestras.

"Dirty Dancing cosplay, ooor?" you nipped at him and he rolled his eyes.

"Ha ha, you're funny," the sarcasm dripped from him. He then threw a piece of (also black) clothing on. "Put that on."

The reluctance was real, but you followed his orders anyway, grumbling and griping your way through. Turns out it was a dress. A short one, at that, only going down to be just half way down your thighs, but it was comfortable enough. Luckily you had a pair of flats with a slight heel in your bag to pair with it. You had no idea where you were going with him, but you were not about to walk there in heels.

Taika was giving you "the eyes" as you walked out of the bathroom, admittedly messing with the hem of your dress to try and bring it down lower. As a result, came more cleavage that you would have liked, but oh well. At least Taika enjoyed the view.

He took the grocery bags in his hands and in the crook of his arms, and like that, it was time to go.

"We'll be late if we don't rush!" he hurried you. You knew that was just a big fat lie, and he was excited to get to wherever you were going, but you played along for as long as you could.

Taika made you go down the boardwalk again, through flourishes of people while the bags in his arms still jostled from side to side. Eventually, you stopped, just outside of a well lit building, and he took you inside.

He stepped up to a desk, signed something, and set all of the groceries down on the desk. While he did those things, you had a look around. To your left, deeper into the building and with dimmer lighting, there were tables and chairs set up. Almost all of the tables were meant for two, or for four. Before you could investigate further, Taika was back to leading you around, through a few more doors, which opened up to a big ballroom.

A few more people were waiting there, dressed almost in the same fashion as you or even a bit more flamboyantly, and obviously coupled up. Taika wrapped his arm around your waist and made you jolt.

"Care to dance?" he mused quietly and you gulped. You've got to be fucking kidding.

"You're joking," you murmured, but he wasn't, because he took you right over to the group of other couples and started conversing with them while you started to freak out quietly.

Honestly, you had never been the greatest dancer on earth. Sure, you could cut a rug from time to time, but that was in the privacy of your own home or at Taika's place if he happened to pick out a really good song worth dancing to. You knew Taika loved to see you dance, he loved to dance with you most of all, but you both never got into anything fancy.

Now was the time.

Soon, your instructors announced themselves, and the room fell mute while they introduced themselves in their very heavy Spanish accents. You stuck to Taika's side most of the time, even as the mood was set and stone. You would be learning to salsa dance. But what did this have to do with the food? You'd find out later.

To put it simply, things got... touchy. Of course, the one and only Waititi was the one touching you, wrapping his big, strong hands around your hips and making them sway back and forth, but it was personal at some point. His hips were pushed against yours most of the time, and that awakened a more primal sense.

Once the dance had been established, the lavish music and the glow of sweat and cologne heightened your senses, and the lights began to dim or flash with lavish pinks, purples, reds, yellows, and greens. You got lost in the feeling as Taika set his hands on your hips again, his warm palms making your legs ache to feel his skin touch yours. Your back was against his chest while the footwork got complicated. Focused, yet mystical.

All the couples around you, doing the same moves as you, turned to blurry blobs, and your breathing got heavier as the pace of the music piece got faster and faster. Taika's breath drew across your ear, and made you shudder. It nearly knocked you out of focus, because you bumped your hips backwards, and pushed your ass against his hips. Like a chain reaction, you felt his hands squeeze your hips a little more than he was supposed to. So, you bumped your hips back against his again, and suddenly you were whipped around by his hands, and pulled flat against his chest.

The bodies around you still writhed and moved with beauty and grace, then there was you and Taika... in the very middle of the dancefloor while a small hard on pressed against the side of your thigh. He was looking down at you, and through the darkness, just like in the corridor, you could see his expression. It was a look of want. Need.

Before anything could be done, however, the lights flashed back on, and the song had finished. Only you and Taika were out of position. The instructors paid no mind. They just clapped, as well as everyone else. Taika removed his hands from you, but made sure you were close enough to hide the little bump in his pants. You hoped there was nothing other than this, because now you really wanted to get back to the hotel room.

The couples started filing out of the room, back to where the tables and chairs were, and Taika kept you in front of him the entire time, pressed almost a little too closely to him.

"Mr. Waititi," a waitress called to him from the kitchen as you met the front desk again. "Your food has been prepared."

Taika looked at the waitress, then to you. He was debating something. You knew what, but you'd let him figure this out for himself. He was the one with the more visible problem.

"Awesome," Taika sighed, then looked down at you. "Join me for a bite real fast?" He said it through almost gritted teeth. Reluctantly... you agreed.

If it was worth it, that's for you to decide. This place had taken the groceries you bought, fruits and veggies, and made a beautiful dinner with mango kiwi sangria. With the time the lessons had taken, the chefs in the kitchen had made the perfect meal. They had even thrown in a few extra elements like chorizo and perfectly cooked rice dishes. As much as you loved the food, you couldn't forget about the need between your legs. And it was obvious Taika couldnt simply forget about his.

You would watch him squirm in his seat while he sipped on his drink, or you would find him staring at you a little more than usual, and little more intensely with each second. His eyes would gloss over, and his breathing would slow, but he'd snap out of it, only when you said something to him, or a server came out of nowhere to check on both of your meals.

Even if the dinner wasn't as romantic (although more sexually charged than you expected), you still had a fantastic time. As soon as Taika finished his dish, he paid the check and was quick to dash out the door with you at his side. Sure, you managed to have enough time to pack up what was left of your food for later, but that hardly deterred Taika's speed and agility.

The walk back to the hotel room went by faster than you thought. The crowds had started to dwindle, and lights began to dim, because all of the shops and side markets had finally closed down after a long day of work. There was just enough darkness to cover the fact that Taika had his hands all over you. All the way to your room.

The moment you touch the door handle, the frenzy began.

He closed the door with his foot, and with both hands, he grabbed your hips and slammed you against the nearest wall he could find. His lips breathed over yours, whispering dirty praises and hot needs, and his hands reached down to pull up your dress to bunch it around your waist. His hand reached between your thighs, and cupped your wet panties, just over your folds. He started to stroke it, while his lips teased over yours, never kissing you, but needing you.

His strong fingers prodded through the fabric, seeking and searching like he had done with you in the corridor of the filthy base. Filthy actions in filthy places.

You moaned for him, but he seemed busy. He continued to bunch up your dress until your stomach was exposed to him. His parched lips drug themselves down your collarbone, again, avoiding your lips, while your hand shot up into his curly hair.

"Fuck, baby," he muttered, opening his dirty mouth just to use his teeth on you. He bit down on your skin, making a hiss seethe from you through your clenched jaw. "You're so fucking beautiful... making my dick so fucking hard."

You watched him kneel, the position making his pants crumple up, but the bulge in his black pants remained as prominent as ever. His nose brushed over your stomach, and you could feel his tongue prop out softly and hover over the hem of your underwear, just as well as his teeth hooking into them. Your thighs spread on their own, and he started to pull your underwear downwards.

He could see the glisten on your clit and the need drip down your thighs. His tongue poked out again, and you felt it slide across your inner thigh. It crept higher and higher,

He placed sloppy kisses along the soft flesh. The kind of kiss that you could hear. The smack and the pop from the wetness and eagerness to taste more of you and take more of you in. He needed that, and he only got more of it as he neared your core.

"Such a wet fuckin pussy, baby," he groaned and placed his tongue along the lips of your folds. His tongue drug itself along the slit, and dipped in to be right on your aching clit. He swiped his tongue back down, pushing it along your hole. Your legs began to tremble, and he began to dig in like the meal you had gotten at the restaurant only whet his appetite.

He took you seriously this time. The rough pads of his finger nimbly drifting along your hips, tracing every mark, every bump, and every hair, because he wanted to memorize this feeling. He also wanted you to remember these exact moments, when he ate your pussy out on the exotic islands of Puerto Rico.

You gripped his hair so tight, but that only pushed him further into your cunt. His nose swiped along, to add flavor to the sensation. His face, most certainly, would be dripping with you by the end of the night.

How long this went on for? You didn't know. You also didn't know it his goal was to disturb your neighbors, because you got pretty fucking for him at some point. He didn't stop until he was satisfied, and you didn't bother keeping track of how many times you had cum on his tongue. You knew he loved the taste. He loved your taste.

Eventually, you both made it back to the bed for once, after one or two earth shattering orgasms. Thighs shaking, breaths colliding, and tongues twisting. His lips touched yours and your mouth was immediately drenched in your own taste, mixed with his.

He got you out of your dress. You stripped him of his clothes. Skin met skin, and it was an instantaneous bon fire of pure, raw sex.

His hand met your throat and he pushed you against the bed while he sat between your legs, unconsciously rubbing his dick through your folds. His lips were on yours again, and he gave your throat a gentle squeeze from time to time.

"Fuck, Taik, just put it in me," you breathed desperately, and the air grew thick. Your eyes never met his. You just watched the way his hips rolled into you, and took the time to feel his scratchy hair rub against your belly each time. You were addicted.

"You're so soft..." His large hands trailed down your stomach, "I'd rather just play with you and see what would happen if I teased you some more." His snickering and plotting drew a whine from you. It sounded so pitiful, he knew you were on the edge already.

"Aw, pretty girl?" He clicked his tongue in a fake sympathetic way, "You don't like to play games, do you? That's such a shame... I thought fuck dolls loved to be played with."

"Taika," you whined again, and you started to wriggle beneath him.

Taika didn't usually mind it when you wiggled about, but something about tonight, it really pissed him off a small bit.

"You want it?" He hissed. "Fucking fine."

You nearly screamed so loud, the hotel walls would have shook, but he shoved himself in, with hardly any warning, and slapped a hand over your mouth.

"You're such a loudmouth... just shut up and take it," he muttered by your ear, and his hips wasted no time making a fool out of you. While one of his hands stayed over your mouth, the other was planted by your head, almost threateningly, and he gripped the bedsheets. If you had just turned your head a little bit, you would have seen the veins popping on his wrist.

Taika pressed his thumb right on the high of your cheekbone, keeping your mouth clamped shut harder as he lost himself in you. Fuck it, you were gone too. High as a kite as he pummeled you and fucked you up something awful.

He was making your sore already, with the intense clap of his hips that never seemed to slow. He was persistent. He was determined.

You let yourself cum for him way too many times that night, and he knew it. He would watch your eyes roll back, and the way your body would weakly tense each time, like you were recieving an electric shock to the brain. And he kept going. He kept going for a long time.

You just let him use you as the night went on, and the look of satisfaction grew more intensely each time you spilled over. It went on and on and on... until he suddenly just couldn't take it anymore.

"Oh my God," he panted, finally letting you speak out and be more vocal, but he had knocked all the breath from your lungs, so there was nothing you could say. "You're so fucking tight... so fuckin pretty, holy shit."

Taika's head rocked back and his eyes watched the ceiling. Shit. He was starting to give out. Shit, shit, shit.

He hunched back over, his thrusts becoming uneven with the ache of anxiousness and lust. It was a blissful, awful, horrible mix. Taika fucking loved it.

A grunt, a groan, and a brand new hickey to get him through it. He finally gave in, burying his face in the same shoulder he marked you on, kissing, lapping and nipping at your skin, as he came, and filled you up.

His body shook and quivered like an earthquake, and soon he felt much heavier on you. Exhaustion kicked in, and you felt like falling asleep right then and there.

You managed a hand to rub up and down his back, comfortingly, and he would let out the occasional groan in response.

"Do you have any more surprises I should be aware of?" you asked, voice hoarse and very very quiet.

"I might," Taika asked after a long pause of silence. "But those are for later..."

#fineanddandy1kchallenge #fineanddandy #taika waititi #fanfiction #taika waititi x reader #taika waititi imagine #taika waititi imagines #taika waititi/you #taika waititi x you

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leporellian · 3 years ago

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*reserve for when available* pls talk about your rakes progress time loop concept

right so. timeloop rakes progress. the sort of regietheatre we actually need

so looking at the rakes progress's end and beginning, a few parallels become obvious 1) excepting the epilogue, the story starts and ends with tom rakewell musing about venus. 2) excepting the overture, the story starts and ends in the same key. 3) the epilogue is meant to take place outside of the 'reality' that the rest of the opera takes place in. usually you find a lot of productions making this take place in front of the transition curtain (ie hockney but others do it too). 4) rake's is Very Much About theatre and the sort of existential horror that theatre characters exist in. however: this only becomes obvious on repeat viewings.

so. here's the pitch: the rake's progress exists in a timeloop.

tom, anne, and most of the other characters are not aware they're in a timeloop. every so often there's this look on their face of having been there before, but they can't understand it. tom has this inkling that there's something More out there, which he ascribes over and over again to nick's schemes, and anne is realizing, more and more, that the world she exists within fundamentally doesn't make sense. she passes a stagehand when she enters the wedding, she sees how there's something controlling tom that isn't tom and isn't nick either, at one moment she almost sees the orchestra pit. There Is Something Very Not Right Here.

nick and baba, however, KNOW they're all in a timeloop and remember previous incarnations of it. they both have responded to this in different ways: baba ends up enjoying it, because nothing in life matters (positive), while nick hates it because nothing in life matters (negative). baba's 'return to the stage' is simply an acknowledgement that she knows losing her things in the auction doesn't actually matter because by the time the next show starts, she will have them again. the uncle nick came from for all we know could have been another tom rakewell. nick also doesn't realize he's a tool of the narrative just like everyone else- he THINKS his ability to 'change the story' by, say, rewinding time in act 1 means THIS loop he'll finally manage to get the upper hand and his own free will, when in reality he's just as much a puppet as everyone else

that's also why the graveyard scene plays out as it does. nick is trying to get his free will by fundamentally changing the game, which will- hopefully- change the outcome. but tom wins all the same, and nick freaks out so much because tom has essentially just been given a moment of free will in favor of his own. and the insanity nick curses upon tom isn't even nick's own, either- it's tom's escape, not his.

in bedlam, anne realizes the schtick of the whole thing, and that she's in a story that was never actually hers. she soothes tom as his attempt to 'escape' only lends him into another story and his loop naturally ends, and she realizes that there is something more to life than this. that she has her own story to fulfill. it's not her job to constantly be trapped in this loop like everyone else.

and at the epilogue- which is just the stage slowly transitioning to the first scene- we see every character choose what to do now. baba remains, naturally. nick is resigned to the loop and so also remains. tom decides to put his faith in the next loop- this time, he will win, this time, he will find a way to escape. but anne... anne chooses to leave, and she essentially truman show stairway scenes her way out of there.

the last shot of the whole thing is identical to the first- tom has already forgotten the last loop, and he is there, in the garden once more; but with a new anne trulove who's face is, unlike everything else, unfamiliar.

ideally the show would differ every performance in its run, with the anne trulove changing each night (maybe between 2 or 3 performers?) and the way characters are interpreted changing as well (nick growing more and more agitated in each 'loop' for example) but i am aware that would be extra as hell to do LMAO

#the rakes progress #the rake’s progress #opera tag #rambles

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ask-the-crimson-king · 4 years ago

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More Stuff from Betrayer

[While on the topic, I want to show the various humans out there a very interesting scene out of Betrayer.

Two, technically, but one that's a bit longer than the other. Image IDs will be provided at the end of the post, cause there's going to be a LOT.

Some interesting insights into how Lorgar views Chaos and a bit about the Emperor as well. I always find this scene to be fascinating, especially since he's borrowed the astropathic choir of the Conquerer to listen to worlds dying across Ultramar while he muses on this.

And then there's when Angron walks up.

Some interesting, albeit a bit morbid, banter between brothers. I do like how Angron even greets Lorgar on the way in, and Lorgar is just standing there stunned. The insights into how Angron views the Devourers is also neat, and it is to be expected at this point. Lorgar trying to argue for them and trying to get Angron to stop ignoring them outright is another neat touch.

The two begin talking of Ultramar, and Lorgar reveals that Nuceria is going to be the capstone for his ritual. Angron asks why, and the following is said:

I like this passage for a few reasons. Firstly, how Angron "dreams" has always been something of interest to me. Because I doubt he ever really gets much rest and respite. Here we get some insight into this, although this also was already expressed a bit earlier. This passage also leads into Angron's recollection of the Night of the Wolf, but I wanted to focus on this.

Lorgar and Angron's "bond" is something that's always intrigued me. It definitely feels more one-sided, with Lorgar seeking for brotherhood that isn't really there, but there are a few moments to make it feel a bit more genuine. However, there is still something missing from these interactions. I can't really describe it other than a barrier between two primarchs who will never see eye-to-eye. Lorgar does, to his credit, try to be understanding and patient throughout, but I can also definitely feel his annoyance coming through at certain places.

In a way, I can almost feel a similar sort of vibe to how Magnus interacts with some of his brothers. Namely with Perturabo in one of the opening chapters of his primarch novel. However, the bond between those two is still very different from the one Angron has with Lorgar; those two actually do have a deep connection, while these two don't. There's a misunderstanding and underestimation coming from both sides in certain aspects; Lorgar in almost sounding condescending to Angron, and Angron still thinking Lorgar a weakling.

TL;DR, Betrayer good.

Image IDs below the cut:

Image ID 1 & 2: A scene from Betrayer where Lorgar is standing and listening to worlds burn. It reads:

Serving as conductor for an astrological orchestra was more taxing than he’d dreamed, though his blunter, more militant brothers would struggle to grasp the finer points of his efforts. Exhaustion left him wondering, even if only briefly, whether absolute peace would create a stellar song as divinely inspired as absolute war. Fate had played its hand and Chaos was destined to swallow all creation whether or not Horus and Lorgar raged against the Imperial war machine, but if what if they’d stayed loyal to the Emperor? What then? Would the Great Crusade have shaped a serene funeral dirge, to play behind the veil as humanity died in a defenceless harrowing?

Therein lay the fatal flaw. The Emperor’s way was compliance, not peace. The two were as repellent to one another as opposing lodestones. It didn’t matter what enlightenment the Imperium stamped out in its conquering crusade when obedience was all its lords desired. It didn’t matter what wars were fought from now into eternity. The Legiones Astartes would always march, for they were born to do so. There would always be war; even if the Great Crusade had been allowed to reach the galaxy’s every edge, there would never be peace. Discontent would seethe. Populations would rebel. Worlds would rise up. Human nature eventually sent men and women questing for the truth, and tyrants always fell to the truth.

No peace. Only war.

Lorgar felt his blood run cold. Only war. Those were words to echo into eternity.

He didn’t trust the Ten Thousand Futures the way Erebus claimed to. Too many possibilities forked from every decision made by every living thing. What use was prophecy when all it offered was what might happen? Lorgar was not so devoid of imagination that he needed the warp’s twisting guesswork to show him that. Anyone with an iota of vision could imagine what might happen. Genius lay in engineering events according to one’s own goals, not in blindly heeding the laughter of mad gods.

More than that, Lorgar sought to keep one thing in mind above all else. The gods were powerful, without doubt, but they were fickle beings. Each worked against its own kin more often than not, spilling conflicting prophecies into their prophets’ minds. Perhaps they weren’t even sentient in the way a mortal mind could encompass. They seemed as much the manifestations of primal emotion as they did individual essences.

But no, there was a wide gulf between hearing them and heeding them. Gods lied, just like men. Gods deceived and clashed and sought to advance their own dominions over their rivals’. Lorgar trusted none of their prophecies.

Image ID 3-5: A series of screenshots from Betrayer. Angron comes into the scene. It reads:

Angron entered the basilica, armoured in his usual stylised bronze and ceramite and with two oversized chainswords strapped to his back. He even wasted time with a greeting, raising his hand in the first time Lorgar could ever remember such a gesture from his broken brother. The Word Bearer tried not to let his amazement show at his brother’s new consideration.

‘Lotara says you stole her astropathic choir.’ Angron’s lipless smile was a ghastly thing indeed. ‘I see that she may have been correct.’

‘Stole is a strong word. “Appropriated” seems much less ignoble.’ Lorgar spared a glance for the skies above the cathedral, as the Lex ripped onwards towards Nuceria.

‘What do you need them for?’ Angron asked. His wounds from being buried alive had already faded to scrunched scar tissue pebbling his flesh, just another host of scarring to overlay the last.

The Devourers lurked behind him, stomping into the cathedral without the primarch sparing them a glance. To be one of Angron’s bodyguards was no honour, despite how fiercely the World Eaters’ champions had fought for it in the first, optimistic years. Angron ignored them no matter where they went, never once fighting alongside them in battle. In their Terminator plate, they’d never managed to keep up with their liege lord, and they were as prone to losing control as any other World Eater, meaning any hope of them fighting as an organised pack was a forlorn one at best.

Lorgar watched the Devourers – those warriors who’d spent a century learning to swallow their pride and pretend they weren’t ignored – speaking amongst themselves at the basilica’s entrance.

‘Hail,’ he greeted them. They seemed uneasy at being addressed, offering hesitant and wordless bows.

Angron snorted at his brother acknowledging them. ‘Bodyguards,’ he said. ‘Even their name annoys me. “Devourers”, as if I’d named them myself – as if they were the Legion’s finest.’

‘Their intentions are pure,’ Lorgar pointed out. ‘They seek to honour you. It’s not their fault you leave them behind in every battle.’

‘They’re not even the Legion’s fiercest fighters, any more. That rogue Delvarus refuses to challenge for a place in their ranks. Khârn laughed when I asked him if he’d ever considered it. And do you know Bloodspitter?’

‘I know Bloodspitter,’ Lorgar replied. Everyone knew Bloodspitter.

‘He beat one of them in the pits, and carved his name into the poor bastard’s armour with a combat knife.’

Lorgar forced a smile. ‘Yes. Delightful.’

Angron’s face wrenched again, at the mercy of misfiring muscles. ‘What primarch ever needed guarding by lesser men?’

‘Ferrus,’ Lorgar said softly. ‘Vulkan.’

Angron laughed, the sound rich and true, yet harsh as a bitter wind. ‘It’s good to hear you joke about those weaklings. I was getting bored of you mourning them.’

It was no joke, but Lorgar had no desire to shatter his brother’s fragile good humour. ‘I only mourn the dead,’ Lorgar conceded. ‘I don’t mourn Vulkan.’

‘He’s as good as dead.’ The World Eater smiled again. ‘I’m sure he wishes he were. Now, what are you doing with Lotara’s choir?’

‘Listening to them sing of other worlds and other wars.’

Angron stared, unimpressed. ‘Specifics,’ he said, ‘while I have the patience to hear such details.’

‘Just listen,’ Lorgar replied.

Angron did as he was bid. After a minute or more had passed, he nodded once. ‘You’re listening to the Five Hundred Worlds burning.’

‘Something like that. These are the voices of the freshly dead, and those soon to join them. The mortis-moments of random souls, elsewhere in Ultramar, as our fleets ravage their worlds.’

‘Morbid, priest. Even for you.’

‘We’re inflicting this destruction on them. We mustn’t consider ourselves distant from it. It may not be our hands holding the bolters and blades, but we are still the architects of this annihilation. It’s our place to listen to it, to remember the martyred dead, and to meditate on all we’ve wrought.’

‘I wish you well with it,’ said Angron. ‘But why steal Lotara’s choir? What happened to yours?’

‘They died.’

It was Angron’s turn to be surprised. ‘How did they die?’

‘Screaming.’ Lorgar showed no emotion at all. ‘What brings you here, brother?’

Image ID 6 & 7: Two screenshots from later in the previous scene, when Angron asks 'Why Nuceria?'. It reads:

‘The metaphysics are complicated,’ said Lorgar.

That had Angron growling. ‘I may not have wasted days in debate with you and Magnus inside our father’s Palace, but the Nails haven’t left me an absolute fool. I asked the question, Lorgar. You answer it. And do so without lying, if you can manage such a feat.’

The Word Bearer met his brother’s eyes, and the rarely-seen palette of emotions within their depths. Pain was there in abundance, but so was the frustration of living with a misfiring mind, and the savagery that transcended anger itself. Angron was a creature that had come to make his hatred a blade to be used in battle. He’d weaponised his own emotions, where most living beings were slaves to theirs. Lorgar couldn’t help but admire the strength in that.

‘We’re going to Nuceria,’ he said, ‘because of you. Because of the Nails.’

Angron stared, and his silence beckoned for his brother to continue.

‘They’re killing you,’ Lorgar admitted. ‘Faster than I thought. Faster than anyone realised. The rate of degeneration has accelerated even in the last few months. Your implants were never designed for a primarch’s brain matter. Your physiology is trying to heal the damage as the Nails bite deeper, but it’s a game of pushing and pulling, with both sides evenly matched.’

Angron took this with an impassive shrug. ‘Guesswork.’

‘I can see souls and hear the music of creation,’ Lorgar smiled. ‘In comparison, this is nothing. The Twelfth Legion’s archives are comprehensive enough, you know. Your behaviour tells the rest of the tale, along with the pain I sense radiating from you each and every time we meet. Your entire brain is remapped and rewired, slaved to the implants’ impulses. Tell me, when was the last time you dreamed?’

‘I don’t dream.’ The answer was immediate, almost fiercely fast. ‘I’ve never dreamed.’

Lorgar’s gentle eyes caught the warp’s kaleidoscopic light as he tilted his head. ‘Now you’re lying, brother.’

‘It’s no lie.’ Angron’s thick fingers twitched and curled, closing around the ghosts of weapons. ‘The Nails scarcely let me sleep. How would I dream?’

Lorgar didn’t miss the rising tension in his brother’s body language – the veins in his temples rising from scarred skin, the feral hunch of the shoulders, no different from a hunting cat drawing into a crouch before it struck.

‘You once told me the Nails stole your slumber,’ Lorgar conceded, ‘but you also said they let you dream.’

Angron took a step closer. He started to say ‘I meant…’ but Lorgar’s earthy glare stopped him cold.

‘They give you a serenity and peace you can find nowhere else. Humans, legionaries, primarchs… everything alive must sleep, must rest, must allow its brain a period of respite. The remapping of your mind denies you this. You don’t dream with your eyes closed. You dream with your eyes open, chasing the rush of whatever peace the Nails can give you.’ Lorgar met Angron’s eyes again. ‘Don’t insult us both by denying it. You slaver and murmur when you kill, mumbling about chasing serenity and how close it feels. I’ve heard you. I’ve looked into your heart and soul when you’re lost to the Nails. Your sons, with their crude copies of your implants, have their minds rewritten to feel joy only in adrenaline’s kiss. Those lesser implants cause pain because they scrape the nerves raw, thus your World Eaters kill because it gladdens their reforged hearts, and ceases the pain knifing into their muscles. Your Butcher’s Nails are a more sinister and predatory design, ruining all cognition, stealing any peace. They are killing you, gladiator. And you ask why I’m taking you back to Nuceria? Is it not obvious?’

End Image ID.]

#warhammer 30k #word bearers #world eaters #lorgar #angron #enjoy some betrayer folks #long post

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