#my heart is a harpsichord

[avoskorm]

Jovus was summoned into Thedas with literally nothing, so had to make money somehow.

Odd jobs to start, while he learned the language. Occasionally backing Neve up on a case, and eventually playing the Dock Town circuit.

Usually to fill a time slot, or to stand in for someone else dropping out, but he does eventually start to make something of a name for himself as a musician.

His primary instrument is the violin, but he's an excellent pianist, and generally picks up strings pretty quickly.

Eventually, with contacts in the Lords and tagging along for dragon hunts, he doesn't have to do that stuff anymore, but he'll still play whenever he gets the opportunity.

[weejoker]

one thing they're always saying about me. is. that i don't got the pinkie length for traditional piano fingering

[supercantaloupe]

anyway nobody asked but here's what instruments i'm assigning the don giovanni characters

the don: violin, mandolin, pianoforte. and voice obviously

leporello: viola da gamba. cello too

anna: harp or flute? also pianoforte and voice

ottavio: violin but he kinda sucks at it. voice.

elvira: oboe, pianoforte, voice

masetto: some kind of small lute or early guitar like the cittern or similar

zerlina: if anything i think she can do some percussive things like tambourine and castanets but i don't think she plays anything melodic. she can sing though

[inctumbls]

I think more modern music should use harpsichords actually

[lavellaned]

I still see some people upset about the Mythal/Solas/Lavellan content in veilguard, so let me point out something that healed my little solavellan heart:

Solas doesn’t just create murals, he does frescos. The very nature of a fresco is meant to be permanent and last the test of time. He destroyed every fresco memory of Mythal. They are even described as things he wants to forget.

Solas also has an entire room covered wall to wall in inquisition frescos, left completely untouched and in a position that they are in his direct eyesight when he sits at the harpsichord. Not to mention he has a painting of the inquisitor’s throne and helmet in his meditation room.

Do with that what you will.

[lillotte17]

The Music Room

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS‼- Do Not Read unless you have completed the Dread Wolf's Regrets quest!!!!

AN: I have not finished the game, so I don't know if this will actually be part of my canon yet, but the world is currently awful and I...needed to be making something. But as I said: I have NOT finished the game yet, so if you leave a comment (pls and thank) do NOT write anything with spoilers in it!!!

Okay, on with the show!

~

Rill finds Inquisitor Lavellan sitting at the harpsichord in the music room. All of the other rooms at the Lighthouse had seemed barren when they had first started using it as their base, and even this one had apparently been used as some sort of storage space -there was an alarming amount of cheese for some reason- but the quiet here feels different in a way that is hard to quantify. Peaceful, as opposed to desolate. The light pouring through the windows is always bright in here. Always warm. The murals on the walls were still vivid when they came. Colorful and new. The most prominent one bears the symbol of the Inquisition flanked by howling wolves.

The woman contemplating it does not look like the fearsome hero who closed a hole in the sky and stopped the southern half of the world from falling into chaos, though. She looks small. And tired. And sad.

Rill clears her throat, feeling awkward.

“So. Not trying to complain or anything, but when you asked to come here, you did say that you could help by giving us insight into Solas’ history and his way of thinking and… Well. You were pretty quiet in there while we watched those memories.”

“I know,” Aili sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I knew some of it. Bits of things he told me himself. Things I figured out…afterwards. And I knew there would be more. More I didn’t know. He’s thousands of years old, so I knew that the story of his life would be more than what he had told me, but…”

“It’s a lot.” Rill hums in agreement.

“Bit of an understatement,” Aili snorts. Her gaze drifts down, and she runs her fingers over the instrument in front of her. “…I didn’t even know he played.”

“So, tell me what you do know,” Rill says, casually plopping down onto a nearby crate, “It’s probably more helpful than you think.”

“I know… I know that he hates tea.”

“Right. Noted. Probably shouldn’t offer him any of Lucanis’ coffee either, then.” Rill grins, folding her arms across her chest.

“Probably not,” Aili agrees, returning the smile faintly. “He has a sweet tooth, though. He loves books. Loves learning. And teaching, too. He was always happy to share stories about places he had been, or spirits he had talked to. He paints beautifully. And he sketches, too. He doesn’t laugh very often, but when he does, it’s…”

She trails off, her face creased with grief and faint traces of longing.

“I’m sorry.”  She says again.

Rill shakes her head at the apology but gives her a curious look afterwards.

“You said that Solas was important to you; I’m guessing you didn’t mean that you were just really good friends?”

Aili shrugs.

“I thought that we were…something.” She glances around the room again, eyes landing on the mural of the slain dragon and the mourning wolf above it. “Now I’m not sure if even that was true.”

“Is that something he would lie about?” Rill wonders, her eyebrows ticking upwards, “Because that would be some valuable insight. He doesn’t strike me as the sort to use seduction as a manipulation tactic, but he seems comfortable twisting the truth about everything else, so…”

Aili sits for a moment in silence, frowning in consideration before finally shaking her he in the negative.

“It’s… No.” She fumbles briefly. “I know that given…given everything we’ve seen, it might be hard to believe, but… He has a kind heart. Truly. He wants to do the right thing. He believes in justice, and he wants things to be fair. He wants to help people when he sees them suffering. And he blames himself when he can’t. He just…comes to the wrong conclusions, sometimes, and he struggles to ask for help when he needs it. He… There would be no reason to -no point- in lying about his feelings for me. I was already his friend, and I took his advice seriously. He had my ear and my protection. He wouldn’t get anything out of it unless his intention was to be needlessly cruel, and…he’s not like that. He isn’t.”

“Then why were you doubting that you had something?”

“It’s…complicated.” Aili sighs. “It’s about time, I think. Or at least, part of it is. He feels things deeply. Passionately. Even if you can’t tell which words he’s telling you are true, you can always tell when something matters to him. And this place… Mythal is everywhere. In every mural. In every room. Statues. Paintings. Symbols. Everything is about her. For her. Even now. Even after taking Flemeth’s power and essentially killing her himself. His love for her, whatever shape or form it might have had, has colored every aspect of his life since the beginning of the world. And compared to that…”

She taps a single key on the harpsichord, letting out a high clear note.

“Mythal is the All-Mother. The Protecter. The bright and beguiling moon. And I…I am barely a candle flame.”

“You’re the Inquisitor. The Savior of the South. People still call you the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ You disbanded the Inquisition, and still managed to bring enough people together to hold back the darkspawn hordes while I fight the gods up here in the North. I think you might be selling yourself a bit short.” Rill says with a curl of her lips, trying to be kind.

“There will always be heroes, just as there will always be despots. I’m hardly unique in that respect.” Aili replies, striking another key. “A puny mortal striking back at false gods probably reminded him of his own past. His own struggles. Maybe that was it. Maybe there’s even something about me that made him think of Mythal. I don’t know. I don’t know what he saw in me. Or thought he saw. But look around. There are a few Inquisition symbols in this room, but beyond that… There is no trace of me in this place. Nothing he held onto. Nothing he felt was worth keeping.” 

Rill frowns. Fidgeting with her hands. Itching to pull out a blade to play with, but uncertain if the move would been seen as a threat.

“Sorry.” She offers after a few moments of silence. “I try not to talk to him very often, for obvious reasons. It’s still a bit creepy, if I’m being honest. Even if I did, though, I don’t think his romantic life would be something he’d be keen to tell me about.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aili assures her with a smile that does not reach her eyes, “He wasn’t keen to tell me either.”

“The Fade’s a funny place, though,” Rill says, gesturing at their surroundings, “I’m not always sure which bits of the things we’ve found here are from Solas, and which things we brought along ourselves. Lucanis found a book he used to read as a kid. Harding says she can smell her mom’s cooking sometimes. Neve said she can hear the sea when she wakes up in the mornings. Things like that, you know?”

The Inquisitor nods.

“Not surprising, given the nature of this place and the person who built it.” Aili says. “This was a refuge. For spirits and slaves fleeing tyranny. And for Solas himself, too. It wants to be welcoming. It wants you to feel safe.”

“It was different when we got here, though.” Rill tells her. “Bit empty. Bit sad. Lonely, almost.”

“Sounds like Solas,” Aili sighs, something close to exasperated fondness.

“This room though…” Rill sits up straighter, turning her head to glance at the sunlight painting patterns on the already painted walls. “It was always like this. It may be small and tucked away, but it’s honestly one of my favorite places in the Lighthouse. It’s always a little warmer in here. The sun’s always shining through the windows. The quiet in here feels like…comfort. Like home.”

“I feel like you’re trying to lead me somewhere, but I’m not sure where it is,” Aili chuckles.

“Well, you said it yourself, didn’t you?” Rill grins back at her, “This is the only room with Inquisition symbols in it.”

Aili blinks. Makes a face.

“There are also murals of Mythal in here. Because she’s everywhere.”

It is Rill’s turn to sigh.

“Maybe she is. Maybe he couldn’t escape from her. Maybe he never will. What she did. What she made him do. What was done to her. But the library with all his memories of her is big and dark and gloomy. And the statues of her are stiff and aloof and cold. And the little room upstairs he shoved a cot into to sleep is…just depressing, really.”

 She catches the older woman’s gaze. Holds it.

“It’s called the Lighthouse, but the beacon at the top isn’t where the light is. It’s not in some huge memorial room dedicated to Mythal. It’s here. There’s a chair with your seal on it, almost waiting for you to sit and watch him play. There’s the paintings on the walls. There’s… Look, when did this become me telling you about the Dread Wolf’s heart?”

“I have no idea,” Aili laughs in earnest this time.

“Really though, this is a good room. I like to sit and read by the windows in here sometimes. The light in here always makes be think of summer afternoons. The air has a sweetness to it, too. Something flowery. Heather, maybe. Or Lavender.”

Aili starts, her eyes going wide.

“What’s wrong?” Rill asks.

“You said it smells like lavender in here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s…the soap I use. For my hair. I always have.”

“Well, there you have it!” Rill grins in triumph. “He kept your memory here. Away from his regrets. Somewhere bright and happy. Well…as happy as Solas gets, anyway. Not too bad for a candle flame, eh?”

Aili laughs again.

“Thank you, Rook.”

[attapullman]

Step Into Christmas | Robert "Bob" Floyd

POV: It’s the first Christmas with your husband Bob in your new (to you) home. He pulls out all the stops to make it special.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings & Notes: gn! reader. no warnings except mentions of food and excessive Christmas fluffiness! Happy December 1st! I was thrilled when @lewmagoo announced their Christmas celebration because Christmas is the best time of year! Tried something different with a little mood board and then doing clips of scenes paired with the song (listen to it here). And then basically indulged myself in imagining living in an old house with Bob at Christmas where he made me dinner (I wish!) I hope you enjoy and happy holidays!

Welcome to my Christmas song I'd like to thank you for the year So I'm sending you this Christmas card To say it's nice to have you here

The whistling creaks of this old house echo. Its charm and unique coziness you both fell in love with disappears without the lamp normally in the corner of the living room. And now a tall tree looms over the furniture, grim.

There's a rustle, and Bob’s smiling earnest face peaks out from behind a few branches, eager to see your expression at what he does next. He slots the plug into the outlet and bundles of warm lights come to life, filling the room with seasonal delight. The house is suddenly so alive, not a relic at all! He is delighted by the wide grin that splits your face in two. 

As he bends over the ornament boxes - matte, glitter, pendants, glossy, oversized, metallic, his broad shoulders shrugging as he decides which ornaments deserve top spot - he is bathed in the tree lights like a bespectacled angel, frames glimmering in the light as his forehead scrunches. The slightly scratchy sweater his great aunt knit him during his first deployment sits a little lopsided on his collarbone. His hair messy from crawling under the branches. A Christmas angel in your midst.

Your husband - husband, you were still adjusting to that - comes to stand beside you, hips kissing with the perfect ornament in hand. His lips brush your cheek discreetly. “Would you like to put on the first ornament?”

Together, you string on the first ornament to a prime spot - in the center, a little higher than the middle. Just Married sits among the pine needles, and it brings a fresh joy to your heart. You glance at your husband again, and smile. Celebrating your first Christmas freshly married in your new home. It’s so good to be here.

I'd like to sing about all the things Your eyes and mind can see So hop aboard the turntable Oh step into Christmas with me

The house casts a cheery glow, the decorated tree lighting up even the most desolate of corners. The star on top twinkles with its shimmering surface. The Christmas spirit is alive and well in this room and will quickly flood the rest of the Floyd homestead.

Behind you, Bob puts on a record, the upbeat sounds of his favorite Christmas tunes creating the playlist for the beautiful night. He catches your eye across the room, blue eyes sparkling in the low light. 

He holds out his hand to you, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth. You haven’t danced together since your wedding. Enveloped in his grasp, he immediately begins twirling you around the room giddily. The air is light, frivolity directing your movements. He dips you slightly during the downbeats, and wiggles your hips at the crescendos. Giggles escape as he brings you to his chest, softly swaying one beat off. 

A slower song rounds out the side, sweet harpsichord ringing out. Eyes close as your foreheads connect, grounding you to each other. Small puffs of air against your lips as he softly sings the lyrics to you. The universe existing only in this song you share.

Let's join together We can watch the snow fall forever and ever

Coats scrape against hooks. Boots thump against the hardwood. Laughter fills the mudroom as you watch Bob wrap his scarf a few too many times. From the window, fat, lazy snowflakes swim down from the inky sky. Bob rests himself against your back, watching the flakes float down softly onto the ground. Fluffy and inviting. 

Before either of you can brace yourselves, the door is swung open and the cold air attacks your uncovered cheeks. You’re dragging him out into the snow, endearingly watching how his breath fogs his glasses as he finds his footing. He sticks out his tongue as you mimic him trying not to slip on the icy pavement.

Neither of you are sure who started it, but soon you’re both ducking behind trees in the neighborhood, packed snow in your mittened hands. Bob’s gotten you once - on the shoulder - and you’ve done nothing but grow his ego with how quick he is. 

“You can’t catch me, sweetheart!” He jokingly taunts, wiggling his fingers at you. Your quiet, reserved man dissolved into giggles and childish gestures the second snow falls. Your breathless laughs disrupt the night air as you trudge after him. A second look at a new car on the street distracts him, and you catch up to him, finally in better firing range. The densely packed snowball makes contact with the side of his chest and he turns to you, all wide cobalt eyes. Big hands snap up to clutch the lapels of his jacket. He mimics a slow, dramatic death silently in the snow, clutching at where your snowball has annihilated him. 

As you stand over his still form, he blinks open one eyes. “Best two out of three?”

By the end of the afternoon you are both soaked in melted snow, cheeks drenched in deep pink. Your husband takes your hand, threading your mittened hands together, and you watch the fresh powder fall as he walks you home.

Eat, drink and be merry Come along with me

There’s a tinkling in the kitchen. You follow the sounds of Elton John and the scent of alfredo sauce. Pushing open the door, there’s Bob humming along as he stirs this and salts that. Not wanting to disturb him, you slip onto one of the stools at the counter, leaning on your elbows as you watch him nod his head along to the beat. 

He glances over his shoulder to check the recipe and jumps at your unexpected, but welcome, company. “Didn’t hear you come in, sweets. You want something to drink?”

You shrug a shoulder and stretch your neck to see what he’s making. But your husband shakes his head and shields your view with his broad frame. He’s been excited to surprise you all day. Leaning over the counter to place a short peck to your lips, he busies himself with pouring you both a beverage, cheersing over the salad bowl. 

“Thank you for making dinner.” You’re still trying to steal peeks over his shoulder, where he’s putting on the finishing touches. He glances back at you grinning, acts of service his love language. Those metal frames gleaming in the stovetop light. 

After making sure you’re fully settled at the counter - albeit impatiently - he finally brings the pot over to serve up.

“Christmas fettuccine!” The glossy off-white noodles freckled with bits of pepper shine as he twirls the fork above your plate. The nests of noodles on your plates are stunning as he garnishes with a bit of parsley, asking if you’d like extra parmesan. The joyous grin on your face makes his surprise worth every moment over that hot stove. 

Taking the stool beside you, elbows just inches from each other, Bob tips his glass to yours. “Merry Christmas, my darling.”

And keep smiling through the days If we can help to entertain you Oh we will find the ways

Bob stokes the fireplace and adds a new log, keeping up the cozy atmosphere. The sound of crackling fire soothing over the natural creaks of the ancient house. He hands you a mug of cocoa and leads you to the sofa, resting your backs against the soft fabric as you sit on the floor, legs tangled. He grabs the new Boeing manual he’s been working his way through and flips it open, semi-reading aloud as he explains trajectory and basic mechanics. 

His voice is soothing, the soft vibrations of his chest against your back making your eyes sleepy.

“Am I boring you?” His voice is worried. “Sorry, sweets, not doing a good job entertaining you, am I?”

You shake your head, assuring him you are fine looking through the manual. But he’s already tucking it into the magazine rack on the side, his fingers going through what else is available. He huffs that it’s mostly old copies of Consumer Digest and a random Skymall catalog. But your husband refuses to let the moment go to waste and pulls out his phone, internet searching with the screen tilted away from you.

When he finally settles, his temple pressed to yours, one hand caressing your skin caringly, you see he’s looked up Christmas stories for children. You watch familiar characters taking over the screen, a round-headed boy and his canine friend finding the real meaning of Christmas. Bob’s voice crackles like the fire, and you are safe.

So merry Christmas one and all There's no place I'd rather be Than asking you if you'd oblige Stepping into Christmas with me

Cocoa is brewing and the record player is alive with another festive record. The jaunty Santa hat on Bob’s head threatens to fall off as he perfectly arranges the presents in the order he would like you to open them. The scents of the room fight to be noticed - rosemary, peppermint, and the cinnamon-y sugar of the rolls you just put in the oven. 

You join your husband by the tree, letting him wrap his arms around you like a big human bow. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Claus.”

He laugh is infectious, and quickly you’re both giggling as he walks you through his gift madness. He’s spoiled you as usual, always thoughtfully selecting a gift only to find something even better after he’s arrived home. With a flourish, Bob places a package into your waiting hands, instantly eager to see your reaction.

“Thank you, Santa,” you tease. As your fingers untwine the bow, you look up at him. “Thank you for making this holiday so special.”

His cheeks match his hat as he accepts your gratitude. His hand strokes your knee as he praises you. “Thanks for stepping into Christmas with me, honey, I wanted it to be big. First year in the house and all.”

Your smile conveys all your thanks, gooey warmth inside your chest. He impatiently gestures to the gift in your lap again, he’s ready to see your reaction!

Step into Christmas The admission's free

The late afternoon sun streams through the aging windows, bright light bouncing off the freshly fallen snow. A quieter record plays and Bob is snoozing on your shoulder, a little cinnamon sugar still on his lip. This first Christmas in this old house with the big windows that show off the tree is perfect. Your husband is perfect from where he wraps his arm around your waist, curling into you sleepily with his floppy red hat.

And this memory? This memory will be like stepping into Christmas every time it passes your mind.

[nerdanel01]

for love is strong as death

Chp. 5 - Pawn of the Dread Wolf

“I see you’ve discovered the music room.” 

Agnes nearly jumped out of her skin, her body leaping so fiercely that the harpsichord bench clattered underneath her.

“What the fuck, you rude asshole,” she snapped, fumbling for her misplaced pride and composure, hoping she didn’t sound too breathless with shock and fear. “Most people start with ‘hello.’”

Then she twisted on the bench to face Solas, a scowl on her face. 

It was strange to see him here—unsettling, really, to see him anywhere outside of the prison in the Fade she’d trapped him in. 

“Have you managed to escape the Fade somehow?” she asked him, eyes narrowed. “Or is this some fun new symptom of the blood magic, that I’m going to start hallucinating you everywhere I go? Because—and I cannot stress this enough—I would very much not enjoy that.” 

“You are not hallucinating,” Solas said, taking a few loping steps across the room, closer to the harpsichord. His feet on the stone floor did not make a sound. “You are dreaming… and so, my presence here simply means my link to you is as robust as ever.” 

Dreaming? Still dreaming? Agnes forced her face to freeze in a look of suspicion, so that the sudden fear that had gripped her did not parade itself across her face, announcing itself for Solas to see and take advantage of. But she could not help but wonder if he had not caught some glimpse of the nightmare she’d just stepped out of, her transition from one dream into another.

Willing her heart to still, Agnes quipped back, “What a relief.”

“I would imagine so,” Solas answered, dryly, “since you would have little hope of defeating Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain without my aid.” 

He looked from Agnes to the harpsichord, then back at her, curiously. 

“I am surprised to find you here, of all places. Do you play?”

“Oh, no. Not remotely,” Agnes answered, eking out a few more sad, discordant notes. “My younger sisters were given lessons, to help them court husbands, but as I was not expected to marry—or at least, certainly not to marry well—I was not afforded such tutelage.” Bitterness softened by a warm smile, she added, “But I’ve always loved the sound of it.” 

Thankfully, Solas did not press too hard on any of these revelations—these sore spots from her past. But as he had already made clear the effort he had undertaken to find out as much as he could about her from the moment Varric had recruited her to the Veilguard, before she and Solas had ever met… perhaps he did not need to. Perhaps he was already well aware of what a special hell her father’s house had been for her. 

He approached the bench, ran his fingers over the keys, not quite touching them. “Would you like me to teach you?” 

Agnes laughed at him—the idea was laughable. “You’re joking.” 

“I am not. What I am, I assure you, is dreadfully bored.” 

Agnes lifted an eyebrow. “The prison you built for your nemeses wants for stimulation, does it?” 

“Planning my next move against Elgar’nan’s and Ghilan'nain is plenty stimulating,” Solas answered, without missing a beat. “And certainly after enduring my own confinement, which lasted millenia, I should have patience enough to suffer through it again. But I’ve become too accustomed to my waking body, and it has made me woeful for its comforts… its distractions.” 

“Like?” 

“Like the way a long walk invigorates the body, flushing it with blood, clearing the mind,” Solas said. “Or the consolation of a tune. Or the warmth of an embrace.” He appended, quickly, “That was not an invitation.”

“Would not have accepted even if it was,” Agnes shot right back—which, frankly, was putting it mildly. 

---

Emmrich/Rook long fic, Chp. 5/?, 43k+ wc [Read from this chapter] [Read from beginning]

[underatreedrinkingtea]

Something Golden, Something Glistening

So I decided to write my first ever fic!! If you want to read on Ao3 there is a link below.

Spite x Rook

Spite wakes, Lucanis finally succumbs to slumber, he needs the rest after their trip to Arlathan Forest. And Spite has a mission of his own, he needs to speak to her. To Rook, her eyes always seem to look his way. Spite needs to know why, how. Nobody other than Lucanis can see him. He is..curious.

He walks to find her, finally he catches a hint of her scent and follows. Smells like vanilla, apricot and tea leaves. He ends up in the Lighthouse’s music room, her back is turned to him sitting by the harpsichord. Candlelight all around fills the space, but Rook is somehow surrounded by complete darkness. There is stillness in the room. She is humming a tune unfamiliar to him, but her emotions are sad. ‘Taste like agony, torment and shame!’, Spite exclaims to himself. Another mystery that needs to be solved for another time. 

“Spite, come to talk?” Rook says gently, not surprised he is here.

Purple eyes narrows. “You know. It is us. How!?” he asks impatiently. Rook turns around to observe him, her gaze feels heavy on him yet gentle, a warmth he’s not used to. Everything is usually sharp edges, harsh words spoken between him and Lucanis. Never a balance, always on pins and needles. She is so aware of him. It feels good. After a while Rook says;

“It’s good that Lucanis finally gets some sleep, I understand why he doesn’t want to but… maybe you and I can work together, speak to him?” Her voice is gentle and friendly.

‘She ignores the question! We want to know!’

Spite takes a few steps towards her. “ Agh! No. Answer us!” he grunts abruptly and fixes her with an aggravated look. Lucanis can wait, now it is his turn to be heard. ‘I matter too!’ He thought she was different when the mage and her dwarf companion rescued them from the Ossuary. Was he wrong?

“I apologise, Spite. Of course you matter. I don’t want you to think otherwise. I’m also curious about you two as well. But you are right, one thing at a time.” Her warm, gentle voice settles him a bit. He perks up, ‘Curious about us?!’

“Yes!” she grinned at him. “It’s funny you know, I can feel you all around, it’s the first thing I notice when you’re present. I see you clearer than most, your aura shines so brightly. It is hard to look away”, a soft smile is on her face. Dimples.

Spite walks closer. If he wanted, he could reach out and touch her. But for now it’s enough to be near and feel her warmth, so golden and fierce.

She pats on the seat beside her, inviting him in. “Come sit with me.” Her tone is still light and gentle.  Not tense, not scared at all. Rook wants him here and he does not know how to feel, unsure now. Once he is sitting down the smell of vanilla, apricots and tea hits him more intensely. He gazes at the half empty cup of tea infront of her. Lucanis would disapprove, he is sure of it. His heart calls out for coffee. He turns to glance at her now, golden hair so bright, a soft and kind face looks back at him. Scars that resemble lighting on the side of her face, rosy flushed cheeks. And her eyes, grey, blurry and cloudy. ‘Pretty.’ Some type of injury as well, Spite wonders?

“My eyes they…I have trouble seeing at a longer distance. Many colours are lost on me. A lot of my world is grey now. But spirits and the Fade are overwhelmingly colourful. I have learned to use the Fade to help me see the world in a new way. People now look more like an..aura at a distance. If that makes sense?”, she tells him calmly.

That explains why her companion were extra observant around her when they fought the Venatori vermin. Rook fought well still, the sight was mesmerising and passionate. Then she tasted like thick smoke, lightning and death. When Rook fights she is like a knife, piercing and quick-witted. Now all he feels is hot golden bliss. It was distracting, he only wanted more.

“I will. Watch over you! No one touches you!” Spite states forcefully.

“ Spite-” she protests.

“No! You fight well. And dangerous. I want to. Help!” He doesn't want to offend her, never her. He needs to make her see. ‘Listen’. Giving her a firm look. ‘Let. Me. Help.’ Spite will not look away until Rook understands. They stare at each other, equally stubborn the both of them. Who will crumble first? Not him, he likes when he gets his way, used to it. He wins, dominates. Despite looking at him so intensely, she is still so..relaxed. Her face perks up and gives him a mischievous look. At last she breaks their eye contact and laughs.

“Okay, you win.”

He grins. ‘Hah! I knew. I win!’ Spite is pleased and ready to leave. He got what he wanted. As he stands back up she takes his hand. Warm, so warm and firm. Purple glow meets a grey cloudiness. She gives him her dimples again and his- Lucanis heart flutters. Her scorching look warms him inside and out, it is almost too much to bear. He needs her to drop his hand. It tingles.             

“Will you make a contract with me? Let Lucanis sleep and not do anything stupid while he rests?”

 “No fun!” Spite objects. 

“Hmm..what do you say about hanging out with me again, here? Still holding his hand, but this time she squeezes it softly.

“And do what? Want to. Explore.” He demands.

“We can do that too, if you want. But I want to come with. Is that okay with you?” Rook suggests. Spite thinks it over, it could not be so terrible. He will ask her more questions and she will answer. He is very good at getting his way, this could work in his and Lucanis favour. Get information, Be useful.

He makes an irritated noise and sighs. “Fine! Contact accepted. And I want. To try. Tea!”

Rook only responds with a laugh and he once again sees her dimples.

[transman-badass]

Which Image - A Chzo Mythos fanfic

Title comes from the song Witch Image by the band Ghost. If there's interest I'll write more and explain to my followers what this game series is.

Apologies to the people who wanted to be tagged in this, Tumblr isn't recognizing your urls. I'll try to tag in a reblog. Also apologies to the British if my American ass screwed things up. I'll make edits as needed.

London, 2015

In between the crackling thunder, a young man screamed in agony, sweet as the music of a harpsichord.

Footsteps pounded like the rain through the stolen, repurposed corpse of a building. An office, once, now a shell like any other mortal body. Down the many stairs the footsteps carried, sneakers squeaking wet on dirty tile. Down the stairs and through the halls, she ran.

Why the persistence? Too late, far too late, to save her friend. But the young woman resisted the obvious. Dark of hair and pure of heart, he could not harm her yet. He watched the sweat drip down her warm brown skin, how she brushed the strands of hair from her face. Standing, kneeling, struggling, suffering.

He watched and he wondered. Yes, he did wonder.

It'd been a strange choice, to offer up an American for a sacrifice, but Chzo was not a picky god. This young woman could not have looked more different from her light-haired friend. But in her eyes, a desperate fire burned, and looking away proved a challenge.

That fire… She reminded him of someone. How distasteful.

Of course, of course, too late for her friend. She opened the door to strangers standing over the remains. Of course, of course, too late for her. The cult would spare her, when they caught her, he would ensure it…

They did not catch her.

They did not even notice her, too consumed with their own escape. The Ministry agents closed in, fortune smiling upon them once again. She fled, they fled, and it had all gone wrong.

He could've been furious.

He could've been.

Instead, he stood upon the old building, his shadow stretching long in the light flashing overhead. He stood, and he watched her race into the darkness, her parcel, their parcel, clutched to her frail body.

He watched, and yes, yes he wondered.

She reminded him of someone… Cabadath wasn't sure he liked that.

It'd been almost twelve hours before anyone realized the girl was gone. Far too late to save her life. The Order of Blessed Agonies worked fast. But so did Trilby.

The Order must've been desperate to prey on tourists. They had to have known who they were choosing. The accents on these kids weren't subtle. Five of them came overseas on spring holiday, bright eyed and oblivious. Three headed home tonight. The other two would follow in coffins.

“Trilby,” one of his supervisors said, “I know what you're thinking. Don't put yourself at risk to try and save this kid.”

“I'm already at risk,” he'd said. “What's a little more?”

“We need you alive - and so do they.”

And that was the thing, wasn't it? The Order wouldn't keep this girl, this Jillian Taylor Cortez, alive, but he couldn't say they'd do the same with him. Damned prophecies…

Her name was Jillian Taylor Cortez. She just turned 19. Mexican-American mother, British father. Got her middle name because the latter died before she was born, so said her friends.

She looked nothing like Simone Taylor. If she had, Trilby might've lost it again.

Twelve hours, they found the boy, or what was left of him. They'd followed the muddy footprints from the ground floor all the way to the altar. Trilby followed them back up, frowning. Pretended he didn't see the glances between the ones around him.

He had a hunch.

Just a hunch, but he'd been doing this for almost twenty years now. Just a hunch, he'd say later… but he'd been right before.

“Don't you dare!” Someone shouted at his back. “Damn it, Trilby! Get back here! It's not worth it!”

He ignored them, ignored the rain soaking his suit. Wasn't breaking the rules if nobody up top told you not to. Besides, he was just following a hunch. Just giving a quick check around the buildings. No harm in that.

No harm on her, when he caught her dead center in the light of his torch.

He stared at her and she stared right back, her eyes wide and hollow. The rain soaked her right through, plastering clothes to skin and hair to her cheeks. The bow in her hair, half undone. The fear in her eyes, too painful, too real.

Trilby raised a hand.

“Jill-”

She bolted.

“Wait! No!”

Trilby followed.

The kid knew how to run. Ran through the streets like the world was ending. Trilby kept up. He wasn't young anymore, he'd feel it for the next few days, but he kept up. So did the rain.

Only took a few wrong turns. She didn't know anything about the area - neither did he, to be fair. Was only a little bit of a surprise to find themselves in another alley, to come across the fence blocking their way. Was a very big surprise when the girl ran right for it.

“Jillian!” He shouted over the thunder. “Jill!”

Did she even hear him? She didn't stop. Lunged for the fence, one hand grasping the chain link metal. Trilby moved faster than her.

He grabbed her around the waist. She screamed. They both hit the ground, he let her go and she scrambled backwards. He shifted, sat up, looked her in the face again.

Terrified eyes, wide and wild. It wasn't just the rain soaking her cheeks, the spring weather shuddering her shoulders.

Trilby raised his hands.

“Jillian,” he said. “It's alright, Jill. I'm with the Ministry of Occultism. We're here to help you. I can't believe you're still alive…”

She breathed. She held the book in her arms tight. Book? He looked down at it. Heavy, large, leather bound. Some kind of writing on the cover.

Oh my God, he thought. Did she steal that from the Order?

Trilby looked up to her face again. Her eyes locked onto something over his shoulder.

Trilby jerked out of the way. The blade buried into the ground he'd stood moments before. Trilby moved, backed away as far as he could go, the blood draining from his face.

“Oh, hell,” Trilby said.

The featureless face of the Prince of Pain tilted towards him. Cabadath had not changed at all in the last twenty years. Bone chilling, even after all these years and all their meetings. Still ever the same, nine feet tall and dressed in black, the rain coursing down his long coat and leaving the fabric dry. The Prince straightened in slow motions, raising the four pronged scythe and resting it by his side.

Still the Prince stared at him, though he had no eyes to do so. He raised a hand and pointed to the girl.

Jill. She'd gotten out of the way just in time. Trilby couldn't risk looking away from the Prince for longer than an instant, Cabadath moved too fast, but she still breathed, standing against the fence. Her eyes, still wild, locked onto the terror between them.

Had Cabadath been chasing her too? The Prince had powers like no human ever could. Hallucinations were a favorite, Trilby knew that from experience.

The Prince waited.

Trilby took a breath.

“Jillian,” he said. “Give him the book.”

She did not move but her whole body shuddered with her breath.

“He's playing nice right now,” Trilby said, eyes locked on the Prince, “but he doesn't have to. You don't know what he's fully capable of, you've just seen part of it.”

Jillian did not move.

“There's nothing in that book that can help you,” Trilby said. “You don't want to get involved with this more than you have been. I don't know how you got it, but you need to give it back. Before he takes it from you.”

Her body shuddered. Jillian blinked, hard. The Prince did not move. He did not look away.

Her arms unlocked. She took another deep, shuddering breath. Holding the book in careful hands, she laid it upon the ground at her feet, and stepped away. And away. And away.

Trilby watched the Prince. He did not notice where the young woman moved to, until she stopped. Stopped between him and Cabadath, facing the Prince, her arms stretched out as if she could protect Trilby from the monster watching them.

Protect him from Cabadath. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry at the thought.

The Prince tilted his head. His gaze shifted towards the girl. Trilby placed a hand on Jillian’s shoulder. Cabadath’s shoulders shook, as if in silent laughter. But of course, no sound came from the Tall Man. They were not worth the effort.

Turning away from the mortals, Cabadath stepped toward the book. He knelt, and with one long free hand, picked it up. Turning fully back towards the two humans, he bowed a mocking thanks. Trilby set his teeth, held Jill's shoulder as she flinched.

As the Prince straightened, he vanished. The rain poured down over them and the tension disappeared from Trilby's body. Cabadath truly was gone. For now.

Jillian sobbed.

Trilby's focus snapped to her again. Shit.

“Jill?”

She placed her hand over her mouth as the sobs shook her body.

“Cal,” she whispered the name of her friend. “Cal, I'm sorry.”

He couldn't think of anything to say. Trilby wrapped an arm around her and pulled out his phone with the other. How long had it been ringing?

“Yeah?” He said. “Yeah, I'm alright. Yeah, we're both okay. I found the girl, she's alive. It's… it's a long story. I'll explain everything back at headquarters.”

Trilby held the young woman against his body as he led her back into the light. He glanced uneasy at the roofs above them, expecting a tall shadow staring down, but only the rain waited overhead, the drops falling down between her tears.

[gribbo]

Our sources indicate the Linnackers have recently received windfall payments from their Tethyrian gem mines . . . Abduct Lady Ruth's granddaughter, Fariza Linnacker, and hold her in the Upper City safe house until her grandmother meets our ransom demands. See to this immediately. — Lord Gortash

In the mornings, a guard comes with bread and water on a silver tray. In the evenings, the same. If the prisoner sips the morning's water slowly, it lasts until nightfall, and her lips crack less. She has a window with bars, and a bed with silk sheets, and a silver mirror; she's a Linnacker, after all, Gortash had said. She's entitled to the finer things in life. He'd promised her toiletries, tiny iced cakes, tea—if you and Grandmama behave. He'd smiled. We both know how she cares for you. I'm sure that she and I will come to a swift arrangement, milady, and that your stay will be pleasant and brief.

(After that, she threw the morning tray at the guard. He didn't come back for two days; she'd screamed, sobbed, sat under the leak in the ceiling with her tongue out to catch the drops.)

There's also a harpsichord: battered, incongruous in its damp corner, with a dead mouse wadded in the hammers. It's out of tune. The prisoner pummels it to irk the guard until she pictures her music-tutor's stolid little face crinkling up—you're rushing, Frizz, let's have it again from G—and laughs until she shakes. As a child, she'd begged him to bring her fried cakes; she was a Linnacker, after all, she couldn't be seen at streetside stalls. He'd snuck her long-suffering looks and chips, cups of applesauce, cheesecurd morsels wrapped in the morning broadsheet. He's likely dead somewhere. Gortash had hated him, too. She sips her water—only a mouthful left, she's rushing—and, until the evening tray slides in, falters for him through the fugue she could never get quite right.

By her count, she thinks as the doorbolts click, the perimeter of the room is forty-two steps. She's been in it for twenty-six trays, which is fifteen days. She's been nineteen years old for the past three. The bread is so stale, tonight, that she stuffs it in the water—

"Who's there?" cries the guard in the corridor.

She's never heard him speak. She stills, hunched above the tray with a soggy hunk of mush half to her mouth. The mirror she'd cracked last tenday shows her a lean young woman in a stained shift, crouched to spring, whose braids are fuzzing at the roots.

Footsteps squeak fast past her door. "Who's—"

In the corridor, a scream. A thump. A noise like a breath, but wet.

Fariza Linnacker stares at the doorknob—silver, tarnished, her grandmother's footmen would shake their heads—as it begins to jerk.

For the first time in fifteen days, a choice. She stands, slow and tall, recalling Grandmama's lessons in deportment. Shoulders back. Head high. Imagine a string, Riza, holding you up.

"Come in," she says.

The door crashes down. In the dark, the enormous shape crouching in the splinters resolves into something wrong: fluid, catlike, with too many limbs. Its stingers test the air like striking snakes. When it opens its jaws, the doorknob clatters like a dead thing from its mouth.

Fariza stares at the monster's lolling maw, dripping with strings of blood. She doesn't move. Her heart struggles in her chest like something pinned.

"Good evening," she says, hoarse, and curtsies in her tattered shift.

The displacer-beast stares back at her.

Then, with slow, stiff grace, it stretches into a cat's bow.

"Did"—Fariza swallows something indecorous, a laugh, a scream—"did my lady grandmother send—"

The thing twitches its tail. It hasn't closed its mouth. When it pads back to the gaping doorway and sinks on its haunches, looking hard at her, a gob of red drool slides from its fangs to the floor.

"I—" It's freed her. It could pull her heart out with its teeth. Her legs won't let her walk to it, will barely let her stand. "I, I can't, I—"

The displacer-beast blinks at her like a cat with an empty bowl. With a strange, uncertain shuffle, it rises—then, seeing her flinch, looks around the room as if for help. She watches it peer out the barred window, bare teeth at the silver tray, stare at the harpsichord—

With one of its snaking tendrils, the thing whips the treble keys. When the instrument groans, its ears flick back. It smacks out a staccato scale and recoils at the last off-key note, its snout wrinkling as though it's smelled something sour.

It looks back at Fariza. Ears pricked, clumsy as a trained beast at the fair, it fumbles the first bar of the fugue she could never get quite right.

Whatever string still holds her up draws her across the room. (The length of the room is eleven steps.) The displacer-beast, slimy with blood, stinks like the kitchens when Cook is jointing meat. Its mouth is still open, dripping. She was seven years old, she remembers, when she'd snuck her first flute of wine; she'd sipped it, gagged, spat it into a rosebush. One of Grandmama's garden parties. She hadn't wanted to go.

"I'd like to go," she rasps, then clears her throat. She touches the thing's fetid flank to steady herself. "Let's go, now, please."

It blinks, and they're in the corridor. Fariza stumbles against it with a gasp. With a nudge of its huge head, it shrugs her arms around its neck; then the floor drops out from under her again, like a gallows-hatch. Darkness roars past her ears. For a heartbeat, she's nowhere. Then the world rushes back in an engulfing wave—scrabbling claws, and fur, and far shouts. Her bare feet skid on shingles. Wind numbs her face, clean and dark and smelling of starlight.

The wild laugh she's been swallowing tumbles out. Something slides under her foot; she slips, shrieks, hugs the horrid cat so hard it coughs. "Is this the roof?"

A crossbow bolt whistles past her ear, chips a shingle, rolls into the rain-gutter. Her monster snarls.

"Do it again," Fariza gasps into its fur, breathless with laughter, "quick, quick—"

The thing crouches like a gargoyle and springs into nowhere. Stars streak around Fariza and wink out. The night snaps like a slingshot. She and the cat stumble from the emptiness into grass, then leap again—

—land hard on pavement that peels Fariza's knees—

—blur through a boardwalk, a market-square, a dark room full of shapes—

She slams something that clatters down with her like a stack of cymbals. A bluff, provincial voice roars out over the din. "You damned Harpers!"

The floor is wood, grainy and cool against her hands. She doesn't know how many steps it takes to cross. She stares at it, breathing hard, as though it might rear up and hit her in the face.

Then she presses the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling—something. She won't know until it comes out. Her shoulders shake. Behind her, someone coughs, retches, spits.

"Do you know," snaps the voice, closer now, "what bloody time it—oh."

Fariza turns. The room seems to be a second-hand shopfront—for adventurers, judging by the faulds and cuisses littering the floor. As though someone took a can-opener to some knights, she thinks, and almost cackles again. In the midst of this battlefield, strewn about with bits of burnished plate, kneel two men: a stout one in a nightshirt and a small one, wrapped in a cloak, being very sick into a gilded helmet.

"Blood in my mouth," he croaks, his face spasming with disgust. He wipes his red mouth with a shudder. A redder streak follows his hand across his face. "Entharl—toothbrush. Please."

"You're buying that helmet—"

"Please."

He's cut off his queue. His stolid little face, almost a stranger's—Fariza's never seen it out of makeup, without a mouche under each eye—is wan as a consumptive's, weary, webbed with bruisy veins. When she takes it in her hands and jerks it up, as if lifting a discovery in disbelief, the eyes that glint at her reflect the scant light like a cat's.

"You." Countless repetitions of ti, a drink with jam and bread, and now this. She could shake him. Her sight blurs as though they're leaping out of the world again. "It is you."

"Frizz," rasps her music-tutor, steadying her. Under all the blood, his strained smile hasn't changed. "You've been practicing."

[inlovewithregencyera]

Elmsworth House, July 4th, 1818

After the proposal was made and the friends and family wished their congratulations to the new couple, the party migrated to the drawing room for some entertainment before the evening was concluded. Helena asked Aurelia to enchant their guests with her refined singing and musical talents. She was reluctant at first, mainly because she hadn't sung in front of Frederick in almost two years, but she did it anyway. As Aurelia's fingers gracefully danced on the harpsichord keys, the notes that escaped her lips left Frederick enchanted by the beauty of her angelic voice. It was like a melody had echoed through the chambers of his heart. All he could do was think of was their last summer spent together, as he tried to hold back tears from the bittersweet memories they shared.

♫♫♫!!!!

♪That now lie sleeping, softly, softly, now softly, softly lies sleeping♪

♪Sleep is a reconciling, a rest that peace begets♪

♪Doth not the sun rise smiling, when fair at evening he sets♪

♪Rest you then, rest, sad eyes♪

♪Melt not in weeping, while she lies sleeping♪

♪softly, softly, now softly, softly lies sleeping♪

*Loud applause*

Ashley: Lord Worthington?

Frederick: What, Mr. Ramsbury?

Ashley: I asked if you were alright-

Frederick: *sniffling* Why wouldn't I be?

Ashley: Well m'lord, it's just that your eyes are wateri-

Frederick: *wipes eyes* I have no idea what you were referring to Mr. Ramsbury.

Ashley: ....

Laurence: *whispering to himself* Dearest, sweetest angel, how come you've graced this earth with your talents along with my heart. For I know I can never have you-

As you belong to him.

Peregrine: Oh she's done excellent.

Helena: I know! Our dear niece has a voice that would make the angels in heaven weep.

Peregrine: And Lord Worthington...

Helena: *trying not to laugh* Oh hush old man!

Emma: Oh mama! How I wish I could sing like Lady Aurelia.

Elizabeth: You have other talents to make up for that my dear, do not fret. I'm sure your harp skills will have you married off by the end of May!

John: Don't say that.

Elizabeth: Oh John!

William: You should delight us next with your singing, my sweet Martha.

Martha: But I want to sit here and gaze at you and imagine our future together.

William: We'll have a nice little townhouse in the heart of Willowfax. But during the Summer, we shall move to a country house in Henford where our children can go and visit their grandparents every day.

Martha: Oh, how grand!

Patience: Grand indeed! *finishes wine glass in one gulp*

Ashley: My dear, that is your fifth glass! Shouldn't you retire the wine-

Patience: Only after I play my song!

Peregrine: Patience I'm not sure that is a good idea considering the state you're in. You can barely stand up straight.

Helena: Oh dear, please do listen to Mr. Ramsbury and your husband!

Patience: Oh but ma'am, my song will ease my nerves.

Ashley: Oh dear!

*Frederick starts rising from his seat*

Ashley: Oh dear cousin, please, take my seat. I believe I need to be up waiting for my poor wife in case she needs my assistance!

Frederick: *whispering* You sounded lovely.

Aurelia: *whispering* T-thank you.

Frederick: May I speak with you later tonight?

Aurelia: Yes, yes certainly.

Frederick: Meet me in the woods, behind the house once everyone is asleep. Bring Sarah, just in case someone sees us.

Aurelia: Alright.

This made Aurelia more anxious than usual as recurring memories came to her head once more. She and Frederick used to sneak out late during the Summer of 1816 when he was staying with their family at their summer home in Brindleton. They used to enjoy each other's company and stroll along the beach whilst holding hands. They of course could never be intimate or physical in public, as it was considered scandalous, so when they had time to themselves they would hold, and hug each other as long as they could. She had been craving his touch and embrace for the past two years, and truth be told, she still loved him. She never stopped loving him, and now that he was in her presence again she felt her love for him grow stronger than it had been once he was away.

♪♪♪

♪Did you not hear my lady, go down the garden singing♪

♪Blackbird and thrush were silent to hear the alleys ringing, oh saw YOU, not my lady, out in the garden there♪

♪Shaming the rose and lily, for she is twice as fair♪

William: Well she's slightly drunk, but this song is quite heartfelt! Her voice is exquisite, but nothing compared to your cousins.

Martha: Yes..indeed.

[lforlimbo]

I flora you you fauna me I flesh you I door you and window you you bones me you ocean me you courage me you meteor me I gold key you I extraordinary you you paroxysm me you paroxysm and paradox me I harpsichord you you silently me you mirror me I wristwatch you you mirage me oasis me you bird insect cataract me I lunar you you cumulus me you high tide me I transparent you you twilight me translucent me you empty castle and maze me parallax and parabola me you horizontal and vertical me you oblique me I equinox you I poet you you dance me I particular you you perpendicular and mezzanine me you visible me silhouette me you infinite me indivisible me you irony me I fragile you and ardent you I phonetically you you hieroglyph me you space me and cascade me I cascade you in turn but you you fluid me you comet me you volcanic me we pulverize each other we scandalously each other night and day we each other this very day you tangent me I concentric you you soluble me you insoluble me you asphyxiating and liberating me you heart-beat me you dizzy me ecstasy me you passionately and absolute me I absent you you absurd me I nostril you hair you and hip you you haunt me I breast you I chest your breast then guise you I corset you you odor me you dizzy me you slide I thigh you caress you I quiver you you stride me you unbearable me I amazon you I throat you stomach you skirt you garter you stockings you I Bach you yes I Bach you for harpsichord breast and flute (ii) I trembling you you seduce me absorb me I dispute you I risk you I climb you you skim me I swim you but you, you swirl me you graze me you circle me you flesh leather skin and bite me you black lace me you red slipper me and when you do not heel my senses you crocodile them you whale them you fascinate them you cover me I discover you invent you sometimes you uncover yourself you moist lips me I deliver and delirious you you delirious and passionate me I shoulder you and vertebra you I ankle you eyelash and pupil you and if I do not scapula before my lungs even after you armpit me I breathe you night and day I breathe you I mouth you I palate you I tooth and claw you vulva and eyelid you I breath you groin you blood you neck you I calves you I certain you I cheek and vein you I hands you sweat you tongue you nape you I sail you I shadow you I body and ghost you I retina you in my breath you iris yourself I write you you think me

[trashedork]

Ikemen Prince OC: Violet Bouchard

“Even if I'm hated, I'm still going to do my best.”

Biographical Information

Aliases: 

The Diligent Maiden

Nicknames:

Vi

Halfwit (by Chevalier)

Miss Little Sheep (by Gilbert)

Age: 27

Birthday: May 15

Crest: Sheep

Affiliation: Neutral

Birthplace: Rhodolite

Physical Description

Gender: Female

Height: 162 cm (5’3)

Hair Color: Ash Brown

Eye Color: Gold

About Violet

Violet is a gardener who works at Rhodolite Palace. She is shy and kind-hearted. Sometimes, there is a look of pain evident on her face.

Appearance 

Violet has ash brown hair that falls to the middle of her back and golden eyes. She wears her hair in a chignon bun and has a fair complexion. Her outfit consists of a dark blue blouse with a black bow, white placket, and small black ribbons on the sleeves, paired with a high-waisted charcoal gray skirt that transitions into white at the bottom, adorned with white embroidery. She also wears pale purple heeled flats.

Personality

Violet is a kind and shy young woman who struggles to form close relationships with others because of her heritage, leading her to frequently experience a sense of displacement. Despite her best efforts to connect with others, she is met with subtle forms of discrimination and microaggressions that serve as constant reminders of her Obsidianite blood.

This sense of displacement weighs heavily on her, causing her to question her own worth and place in the world. She longs for genuine connections and a sense of belonging, but the rejection and judgment she often receives causes her to retreat into her own solitude.

However, despite these challenges, she remains resilient and does her best to navigate life, hoping to find her place in the world.

Background

CW: Mentions of sexual assault

Violet's origins can be traced back to an Obsidianite nobleman, Nikolaus Schoenberg, and a Rhodolitian woman, Elizabeth Bouchard. Elizabeth, hailing from a village, encountered a feeble Nikolaus who had fled Obsidian to avoid an arranged marriage following the passing of his former wife. She nursed him back to health, leading Nikolaus to fall in love with her instantly. After recovering, he attempted to persuade her to accompany him back to Obsidian, but she declined.

Shortly after, Nikolaus abducted Elizabeth during the night and brought her to his estate in a carriage. Elizabeth was subjected to sexual assault, resulting in her pregnancy. A few months later, she managed to escape with the help of her personal maid and returned to Rhodolite.

Following this, she sought refuge and employment, eventually giving birth to Violet. As Violet grew older, her resemblance to Nikolaus caused her mother great distress. Nevertheless, Elizabeth made every effort to care for her to the best of her abilities.

While growing up, Violet became aware of her heritage and the circumstances surrounding her birth. Gossip spread, leading to bullying and mistreatment from many Rhodolitians, leaving her feeling alone and hopeless.

During her mid-adolescence, she was employed at a flower shop. Later on, she was given the opportunity to work as a gardener at Rhodolite Palace. Wishing to provide financial support for her mother, she agreed to the opportunity.

Trivia

Her crest is a sheep due to her benevolent and timid demeanor.

Violet enjoys reading romance novels.

She keeps a diary hidden in the desk in her room, where she writes down her innermost thoughts and feelings.

Her favorite foods are sandwiches and cheesecake.

She is interested in playing the harpsichord.

[alicent-boleyn]

daemon

word count: 289 words

SUMMARY: Berenice, 196 AC. Who is Daemon to me? Who am I to him?

To the world, he would become Daemon Blackfyre, first of his name, the Black Dragon, the King Who Bore The Sword, the Pretender, the Traitor, but to Berenice, he would forever be her Little Lord Baggage.

It was his mother who called him that originally. For the first few years of his life, there was rarely a moment where he was not in someone's arms - his mother's, his aunt's, even his father's, sometimes.

Most often, though, he could be found with Berenice. It was she who taught him to play the harpsichord, and though he complained about how much he hated music, she heard him practicing every day, and it was she who dried his tears when his mother Daena died, letting him sleep with her in her bed one last night before the funeral.

So when Daemon told her he planned to rebel, the news tore her heart in two. “Oh, how could you?”

“You don't understand, muña. I have just as much a claim to the throne as our dear Daeron does. More, even!”

Muña, that is what he called her. Aunt, yes, but also mother. He began to call her that after Daena died. She didn't know which meaning he intended, and perhaps neither did he. She was his muña, and that was that.

She rose from her seat, and tried to take his cheeks between her hands like she had when he was young. He is still so young, only six and twenty, she thought. Daemon intercepted her fingers, holding them tightly in his hands, like a septon giving a blessing.

“I have made my choice. It is time for you to make yours.”

The only thing Berenice could do was shake her head.

[annaskareninas]

Chapter 7 | Read from start

Chapter summary: Still reeling from Tamlin's departure, Feyre arrives home to find Rhys, Cassian, and Mor waiting for her, with news that she and Rhys must perform their charade in front of the queen.

Snippet below cut!

Rhysand paused beside me. “I did not know you enjoyed art,” he murmured.

Lost as I was in the painting, I could barely nod. His breath brushed my ear as he stepped up beside me, looking over my shoulder at the painting. “This one interests you?”

“It does not interest you?”

I heard his jacket rustle as he shrugged. “It’s just a woman playing a harpsichord,” he said. “Beautiful, but…”

I couldn’t help myself. “No, no, it’s more than that. Look at the interplay between the light and shadows. The artist knows that without one, you cannot have the other. It’s called chiaroscuro. It’s Italian for–”

“Light-dark,” he said. 

“Exactly. Light-dark. The greater the light, the greater the shadow – it generates this dramatic contrast, pulling your eye to where the painter – this is a Vermeer, I think – wanted you to look. It makes it…sing.”

“It makes it seem alive,” Rhysand murmured.

“Yes. Alive. There is chiaroscuro inside each of us, you see – light and dark, tangling together in our souls – and to paint that onto canvas…it lets you see with your heart, not just your eyes.”

I heard Rhysand swallow, shifting forwards slightly so that the fabric of his jacket just grazed the skin above my shoulder, warm with his body heat. “Feyre, I…”

I half-turned, beholding a flash of big violet-blue eyes, wide with unreadable emotions. His full lips parted and closed and parted again as if he searched for the right words – but whatever he was about to say, I never got a chance to hear it. 

For another voice cut in, from the end of the corridor. “That is one of my husband’s favourites,” the voice said, high and haughty. “You have a good eye, Miss Archeron.”