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skysplinter · 7 years ago

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3. Long Haul

First chapter here.

Previous chapter here.

Next chapter here.

Cyril Turner wasn’t just a cargo hauler. He never had been, even back when he and Ol’ Wheelie had been working for Forsyth’s, the biggest distributor in the sector. No, even when they had both been carting refined Rigelian oxen manure from one system to the next, he knew he was more than just your average run-of-the-mill delivery driver.

Cyril Turner was an entrepreneur. He was going places. And now that he and Ol’ Wheelie had branched out on their own, it only made them more deserving of respect. They were running a well-established business here! The tagline slapped on the side of their ship summed it up well enough. “Turner & Wheeler Delivery Company”, it said, in happy yellow letters across both sides of the hauler, “no complaints filed for four whole years”. Four whole years! Out of the nine years they had been up and running, that was pretty good going.

It was just a shame, he thought, when he had to deal with customers that clearly didn’t respect his line of business. It really made him sad to think that, in this modern galaxy they lived in, there were still people out there willing to step all over the guys who were doing all the hard work behind the scenes.

Taking these Lodestar folks as a prime example - he was sure they were good people if you got to know them. Most of the ones he had met seemed reasonable enough, and as he and Ol’ Wheelie watched them working with their fancy tools and their hi-tech doodads, he recognized that they were probably all pretty smart cookies.

Problem was, none of them had a clue how business worked. When someone drops off a delivery at your ship, you’re supposed to pay them. Surely that wasn’t too hard a concept to understand, or so Cyril thought. But these scholarly types had a different way of thinking of things, it seemed, and apparently that way of thinking didn’t involve giving money to the guys who busted their butts carrying very delicate cargo halfway across the galaxy.

He really hoped their commander would see reason and be able to solve their problem before things got ugly. Otherwise, he and Ol’ Wheelie would be forced to take legal action, and he really didn’t want to even look inside another courtroom for as long as he lived - not after the hell he’d been put through with his last divorce.

This Commander Thorn character still took her sweet time to see to them. Poor Ol’ Wheelie was halfway through a nap, slumped on top of their cargo, when the sharp-looking lady with the crewcut finally walked in, her sweet little second-in-command in tow. Cyril woke up his partner with a sharp nudge in the side, and she snorted herself back to life.

‘Whassup, T…?’ Wheelie gave him a dazed look and wiped the drool from her chin.

‘The commander, you dummy,’ Cyril hissed. He turned to face the Thorn lady, who looked at him like he’d just been scraped off the bottom of her boot. Somehow he got the feeling that business negotiations weren’t going to go as well as he had hoped. ‘Yo, Thorn,’ he said, flashing her his most professional smile, his hand shooting out to meet hers. ‘Nice to finally meet the proprietor of this fine vessel. Sorry for, uh, you know… pulling you from your duties. Good to see you though, really. Hopefully you can, uh, you know… sort this mess out for us.’

The Thorn Lady, however, just gave him a look that reminded him of eerily of his first wife. ‘I suppose you could put it like that,’ she said. ‘I heard there were two idiots refusing to leave my ship, so I came down to find out what was going on before I kicked you off.’

‘Nice to meet you too, lady,’ Wheelie muttered under her breath.

Hoping to save this little transaction from tanking before it even started, Cyril leapt forward, wrapped one bandy arm around the commander’s shoulders and shoved Wheelie out of the way of the merchandise. ‘Don’t mind my associate here, she’s a little, uh, you know… uncouth at times,’ he said, beaming. ‘What I’m sure she meant to say was that it’s pretty clear we got off on the wrong foot here. There’s been a pretty, ah, a pretty big misunderstanding on one side of this exchange; looks like whoever buys in your stock here forgot to register this particular delivery on your system.

‘And, uh, you know… No bother, no bother at all. We’re used to these little mix-ups every now and then,’ he continued. ‘All part of our line of business, eh, Wheelie?’

‘Oh,’ Wheelie yawned, clearly still a few sandwiches short of a picnic after her nap. ‘Yeah, all part of our business.’

‘But, uh… unfortunately, we can’t exactly, ah, deliver this stuff without going through the proper procedures, if you know what I mean,’ said Cyril. ‘Namely, uh, you know… payment.’

The Thorn lady shrugged his arm off her shoulders and gave him a look that could cut through steel before turning her attention to the large, rectangular storage unit which housed their cargo. ‘Tell me what you’ve brought onto my ship,’ she snapped.

‘Your delivery,’ Cyril explained helpfully. Turning on his heels, he spread his arms out towards the storage unit and flashed her another winning smile. ‘No damage, no tampering, no questions asked. Exactly what you ordered, lady.’

‘We didn’t order anything,’ said the commander. She was glaring at the cargo like he’d just fished it out of the toilet. ‘Now tell me what you’ve brought onto my ship.’

Cyril sighed. ‘Lady, if you didn’t order nothing, then that’s we would have brought you. You know, uhh… nothing.’ He slapped the side of the unit with a satisfying “klong”. ‘Clearly this ain’t nothing.’

Before her commanding officer bust a blood vessel, the cute little lady behind her chimed in. ‘I think the commander wishes to know what that storage crate actually contains,’ said Durant, smiling sweetly. ‘For clarification, so we can actually get to solving the problem. If you could show her what’s inside, like you showed me before…?’

Clearly, the brains of the outfit here wasn’t the commander, Cyril realized. This Durant lady was the only one who made even a lick of sense on the whole ship. He found himself sucking in his gut as he talked to her. ‘Oh, of course,’ he cooed. ‘Right away. Anything for you, ma’am.’ He turned and nudged Wheelie sharply in the ribs. ‘Just pop it open again, wouldja? For our nice lady friends here.’

Ol’ Wheelie grumbled as she stumbled to the back of the unit. Cyril could hear the manual locks springing open, and after Wheelie had disabled the security countermeasures, the front panel of the storage crate finally rose up to reveal the cargo.

It was still in pretty good condition, Cyril thought. Especially considering how old the thing apparently was. Sure, there was a bit of a ding on the underside of it from him and Ol’ Wheelie carrying it from the warehouse to the ship, but that was just a minor detail; nothing the customers would really notice. All the stuff that mattered was still in the same place - all the gold detail, the fancy jewels, the big creepy face slapped on the front of it - it was all there, and clearly it was well worth the credit they were asking for. Perhaps now that the Thorn lady could see it in all its glory, this silly little misunderstanding would blow over.

Unfortunately, as Cyril turned to the commander, he saw that she looked anything but pleased.

‘It’s a coffin,’ she said.

‘Uhh,’ Cyril raised a hand. ‘Technically, it’s a, uhh, you know… a sarcophagus.’

‘My apologies. It’s a really fancy coffin,’ the commander corrected herself, no less disapproving of it. ‘Why have you brought me a coffin?’

From behind the crate, Wheelie cleared her throat. ‘Excuse you,’ she said. ‘It ain’t like we just brought the box and forgot about the stiff inside it.’

Apparently, that wasn’t the right thing to say. ‘Oh joy,’ Thorn seethed. ‘You brought a coffin and a dead body onto my ship. Well, I guess that just completes the whole damned set, doesn’t it? Makes it a lot more useful to me, I’m sure. I can’t imagine why I would want to order a coffin without a shrivelled up corpse to put in it first.’

Something about her reaction felt a little off to Cyril. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but she wasn’t acting like someone who had ordered a sarcophagus. In fact, he was tempted to think that, in fact, she might not have ordered it at all.

But that wasn’t right. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way, because letting such thoughts cloud his better judgement was all but resigning himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get paid for his work. Not getting paid simply wasn’t an option. He started feeling that horrible itchy feeling all over himself again, just like the time his landlord had called him up and told him his last check had bounced.

‘Lady,’ he said smoothly, hands on his hips to stop his fingers from clenching up. ‘I’m not trying to be rude or nothing, but, uhh, you know… I don’t exactly care what crawled up your ass. We did our part of the job, we need paying.’

The commander was having none of it. She was still looking at the sarcophagus. ‘Durant.’ The cutie next to her nodded. ‘Is there any logs on our system documenting any incoming deliveries of a coffin? Or for that matter, a dead body?’

Durant swiped her pretty little fingers across a datapad for a few seconds. ‘Nothing here, commander,’ she said.

‘Then how about a delivery from Turner and Wheeler? Anything?’

Another few long seconds ticked by. Cyril’s palms started getting sweaty, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Lieutenant Commander Hotstuff shook her head. ‘Nothing again.’

‘Well then,’ said Thorn. Her lips flattened into a horrible little line. ‘There you have it. No records.’

‘But -’ Cyril began.

‘We don’t want it,’ she told him. ‘We didn’t order it. It isn’t ours. We’re not keeping it. Take it off my ship.’

‘But -’

‘But. Nothing.’ Thorn turned and pinned him in place with those eyes of hers before stalking away. ‘You will take that thing off my ship. We’re not paying for it. I’m giving you an hour. If you’re still here by then, I will personally throw you out the airlock.’

‘But -’

‘Nothing.’

And then, just as quickly as Thorn and her hot assistant had arrived, they were gone.

Cyril started chewing on his knuckles. His head felt like it was slowly filling up with cottage cheese.

From behind the storage crate, he could hear Wheelie chuckling to herself. ‘Didn’t sound like our negotiations went too well, huh?’ She emerged, smiling vacantly, like she hadn’t been present for the last ten minutes. Knowing her, maybe that wasn’t too far away from the truth. ‘So, uh, what are we gonna do, T?’

Pulling the skin of his hand with his teeth, he turned back to his associate. He wrinkled his nose in something that only vaguely resembled a smile. A brief flash of energy had frazzled its way through his brain, the shock of the commander’s bull-headedness and the fear of losing money on yet another job sparking a sudden wealth of panicked thoughts.

Thankfully, Cyril Turner was smart enough to ignore all of them. You didn’t get anywhere in business by giving into thinking. He swaggered over to Ol’ Wheelie and threw an arm around her. ‘Don’t you worry about it, Wheelie,’ he grinned smarmily. ‘She’s just blowing off some hot air, that’s all. You know these types in uniform. We’ll, uhh, you know… we’ll give her that hour to calm down. She’ll come to her senses, you’ll see.’

Wheelie smacked her lips and yawned. ‘Does that mean I can get back to my nap?’

‘You do what you want to, pal,’ said Cyril. He patted her backside as she started closing up the storage unit again, and tried to hide his fading smile. ‘You’ll see, that Thorn lady’ll come round to our way of thinking. You’ll see.’

‘If you say so, T,’ said Wheelie.

‘Yeah,’ Cyril mumbled. ‘If I say so.’

#fiction #writing #my ocs #oc: caroline thorn #oc: roseanna durant #oc: cyril turner #oc: wheelie #man this is such a piece of fluff

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leftsidebonfire · 3 years ago

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Someone let me know if this changed the way you pronounced my characters names 😂😂😂

Ziona: Zy-ON-ah

Jocasta: Jo-CAH-sta

Unaek Seveer: OOH-nake Sev-EER (said like Severe)

Eleni Santiana: Uh-LAY-nee San-tee-AH-nah (She was named after a sea shanty, Santiana)

Amaryllis: a-muh-RILL-iss (short a. Also unintentionally named after a song. Amaryllis by Shinedown)

Vassia: VAH-see-uh

Xavier: ZAY-vee-er

Herias: Her-EYE-iss

Jett: Literally just Jet.

Avidia Zeppeli: Uh-VID-e-uh (yall know how to say Zeppeli by now)

Caroline: Say it like you're singing Sweet Caroline. Care-uh-line

Kallias: Kuh-LIE-iss

Rose Thorn: Uh... Rose Thorn

Yorick: YORE-ick

How do you pronounce your OC's names?

#Ziona #Jocasta #Unaek Seveer #Eleni Santiana #Jett #Amaryllis #Vassia #Xavier #Herias #Avidia Zeppeli #Caroline #Kallias #Rose Thorn #Yorick #Oc tag #Oc pronunciation

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twst-the-night-away · 2 years ago

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How does Caroline deal with Leona's travel schedule as a pro Spelldrive player? Does she go to all the games, or just the home ones for the Hex?

[ Heyyy, I know who you are. Mostly because you're the only one I've discussed Future Lore with. ;3 ]

Caroline's a pretty busy lady, too. I haven't picked a single career for her yet, but she's likely to be either heavily involved in charity work or event planning, so it's not like she'll be moping around at home missing Leona too much. (There's still time to mope, but ya know.)

Sometimes, if the travel won't take too long and she has the time to spare, she'll pop into an away game, and she might catch up with him afterwards for a bit if he has the time. She never lets him know beforehand if she's going to be there, though. The only time she did, the Hex got beaten pretty soundly by the Queendom Thorns. Caroline's not about to mess with superstition.

Caroline never, ever misses a home game, though. She has the face paint and the team gear and the pompoms and everything. The LaPerles have been big fans of the Hex for a long time, so they go to most home games anyway, but now Caroline has an extra special reason to go :3

OC x Canon ship questions

#thank you <3 #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc x canon

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waterloggedsoliloquy · 2 years ago

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29, 36, 47 🥺

29. Which one of your OCs would go investigate an abandoned house at night without telling anyone they’re going?

ARI FOR SURE LOL. Carousel waltz spoilers but she became a dancer bc she broke a fuckin hole in reality with her math and found the garden of sorrow on PURPOSE

36. Do you have OC pairs where the other part belongs to someone else (siblings, lovers, friends etc)?

Oh for sure!!! Cheesecake has been shipped with a lotta my friends' ocs: Tsuchinoko and Nadeshiko (@/wretched--abyss), Z'uni (@/purblethinkin), xue gao (@/rolaldistrict) and is the cousin of Taavet (@/k1spiegel). Manatsu is also one half of a pair with Tacita (@/wretched--abyss again) who is like a weird adoptive aunt to them. Sicely is also part of a set with Cheron (@/noisyrobots). Caroline is the best friend/taskmaster of Anne (@/xarvox), and Tsubaki is the thorn in the side/hategirlfriend of Poppy (also @/xarvox). If you have an OC chances are i want to intrinsically tie them to one of mine.

47. Has anyone ever (friendly) claimed any of your OCs as their child?

U KNOW THE ANSWER 😭 Miranda is everyones dotter/niece/what have you. Adopt this fucked up kid TODAY with only a 49.99gil down payment!!!!!

#TY MY LOVE

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leftsidebonfire · 2 years ago

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My OCs based on how likely I would be to let them handle a confetti cannon.

Ranked from most responsible with it to "I would never let them within 5 miles of a confetti cannon."

Amaryllis. I would trust her with a confetti cannon and my life

Vassia. Same deal with her, except she couldn't hear the pop so she might have it be a little too close to somebody.

Trygve Seveer. Just kinda holds the thing.

Caroline. Also just kinda holds it. Likely to just put it down and walk away but that means someone else can pick it up.

Kallias. Doesnt know what a confetti cannon is.

Virginia Campbell. She's a good girl. It might startle her and she'd drop it

Unaek Seveer. I would trust her with my life but she would get scared when it pops and accidentally point it the wrong way and nail someone in the face with confetti. I'm sorry girl.

BG May. Responsible with it, gets spooked by it, pops it at appropriate times and does a cute little disco dance. He's fine.

Avidia Zeppeli. Responsible but also like a 30% chance she'd point it at someone and chase them around with it. Wouldn't pop it at them but would definitely fake them out with it.

Jett. Would definitely chase someone around with it threateningly but wouldn't pop it at them.

Ziona. Chases people with it, and also definitely pops it at someone. Though she's a performer, so she'd make it stylish.

Jocasta. At least it's not on fire but she would be extremely obnoxious and set off the confetti cannon at the worst possible moments just to be funny.

Rose Thorn. Chases people with it, shoots people with it, throws the empty cannon at them afterwards.

Eleni. Aims for the head. Shoots you in the head. (With confetti.)

Phaedra. Don't ever fucking let her near it.

#Oc tag #Confetti cannon

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jellyfishxxi · 2 years ago

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Parents of my listener ocs:

Ari Diamond (Freelancer) - Madeline 'Maddie' Diamond and Benjamin Diamond Sr

Madeline was born a freelancer, but after injecting herself with shade essence, she went insane. She would give birth to three children before being arrested by D.U.M.P:

Kaylee Diamond, Wolf shifter

Ari Diamond, Freelancer

Benjamin Diamond Jr, Shade Hybrid

Ben Sr was born a wolf shifter, and is the beta of the Montriguez pack. He is a sociopath, who encouraged Maddie's experiments, and even pushed her to experiment on Ben Jr before being arrested alongside his wife.

Ben Jr has never been to school before, and was taken in by an inchoate daemon named Chara. He is currently being homeschooled by his adoptive father.

Aiko Yurihime (Angel) - Takara Yurihime and Kokoro Yurihime

Takara was born an unempowered human in Japan. She got a job as an assistant to a modelling company and lived a fairly normal life until she met Kokoro. She was immediately smitten and hooked up with him, having two children:

Aiko Yurihime, Unempowered human

Hikari Yurihime, Fox shifter

Kokoro was born a fox shifter in Japan, and had a glamorous upbringing. By the time he was in his 20s, he was rich, famous, handsome and a supermodel. After Takara told him she had gotten pregnant, he married her in order to not only support her, but to be in his children's life. This was a bad idea, and after a lot of fighting, they'd divorce.

Aiko and Hikari were split in the divorce. Aiko went with Takara and Hikari stayed with Kokoro. Aiko is taking after his father more than his mother.

Briar Forrest (Baaabe) - Caroline Forrest and Cedar Forrest

Caroline was born in New York, being an unempowered human. She had dreams to be a teacher, but put that on hold because a fling with Cedar got her pregnant. While Caroline never blamed Cedar for her having to give up on her dreams, she did blame her children, despite the fact she had 10 of them:

Briar Forrest, Unempowered human

Sage Forrest, Unempowered human

Rosie Forrest, Unempowered human

Daisy Forrest, Unempowered human

Pine Forrest, Unempowered human

Hemlock Forrest, Unempowered human

Ivy Forrest, Unempowered human

Marigold Forrest, Unempowered human

Thorn Forrest, Unempowered human

Rowan Forrest, Unempowered human

Cedar was also born in New York, being an unempowered human as well. He has an enhanced connection to plants, something he passed down to his oldest daughter, Briar. Like Caroline, he also blames the children for him not being able to achieve his own dreams, and left them in Briar's care.

When Briar left, Sage began working many different jobs in order to buy a place where he and his siblings could live without their parents. So far, he's half way there.

Olethros Nyxium (Sweetheart) - Persephone Nyxium and Erebos Nyxium

Persephone was born in Greece, although the exact date is unknown due to her family being so closed off. She was named after the goddess of fertility and queen of the underworld, as a way of paying tribute to Persephone. She was arranged to marry Erebos, and gave birth to 25 sets of twins, although only two have left their families home:

Olethros Nyxium, Stealth

Artemis Nyxium, ???

Erebos was born in Greece as well, and the exact date is unknown. He was named after the primordial god of Tartarus, as a way of paying tribute to him. Erebos would be in an arranged marriage with Persephone, and would father 50 children with her.

Olethros carried out a number of whirlwind romances before meeting Milo, although the only one he wanted to last was with his oldest friend.

Artemis Surcorrose (Lovely) Elizabeth Surcorrose and Andrew Surcorrose

Elizabeth was born in America, but she moved to Greece as a child. She felt alone and isolated, but she then met Andrew, and they become close friends. When they grew up, they were married and adopted 3 children, as Elizabeth was infertile:

Daiyu Surcorrose, Dragon shifter

Isadora Surcorrose, Contra-fire energetic

Artemis Surcorrose, Electro energetic

Andrew grew up in Greece, and was a very lively child. He quickly made friends with other kids, including Elizabeth, who he grew up to marry. He was a very strict father towards his children, believing that tough love would make them strong.

Artemis moved to Dahlia as a young adult, and dyed her hair purple as a fit of rebellion. She developed an interest in paranormal places right away, which led to her exploring Wonderworld.

Oliver Montcroix (Darlin') - Charlotte Montcroix and Duncan Montcroix

Charlotte was born in Oxford, England. She was a wolf shifter, and enjoyed running with her pack. She met Duncan when she was 17, and was immediately smitten with the Direwolf shifter. They got married and had 4 children together:

Oscar Montcroix, Wolf shifter

Noah Montcroix, Wolf shifter

George Montcroix, Wolf shifter

Ophelia Montcroix, Direwolf shifter

Duncan was born in London, England. He was a Direwolf shifter, which was rare among wolf shifters. He was made alpha of his pack at 22, when his 3rd son was on the way. After George was born, he moved the family to Dahlia for diplomatic purposes.

Charlotte, Duncan, Oscar, Noah and George were killed by wolf hunters, leaving only 3 year old Ophelia. She grew up and transitioned to male, becoming Oliver Montcroix. He doesn't remember much about his birth family.

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- Kit

#redacted asmr #redacted freelancer #redacted angel #redacted babe #redacted sweetheart #redacted lovely #redacted darlin

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punkandsnacks · 4 years ago

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Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Two; Outsider.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Implied violence, sexual thoughts and some emotional abuse.

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Night falls dark and still over the landscape brushed with snow. Westwell’s gardens seemed crushed under the icy weight.

It seemed the heavy blanketing of it muffled and blotted out all sound. But it’s a peaceful intrusion.

The huge square windows of Westwell Manor are flaked with frost and each square of glass glimmers gold with the tall candle holder placed in each one. A stick of fire and gold warding off that indigo night that shrouded heavy and deep in the sky above. Trying to spill into the window.

Iris is sat in her small bedroom. A tomb or a cell, really, was how it felt to her some days. Wall to wall draped in pretty Morris flowered wallpaper of white sprawling flowers with navy and blue birds and country vines.

Her double bed with twisting pillars of dark mahogany twine up to the wheat thick canopy that is draped over it. The mattress is layered in a fluffy champagne coloured eiderdown and white embroidered scalloped-lace pillows. The floors are dark walnut wood, and they creak wildly. Groaning. Cold and heat seeps easily through the cracks between them in winter. Chilling her toes. And in summer the warmth of the creaking cracking house bleeds upwards.

The walls of her bedroom are sparse but some have photo frames of embroidery or pressed flowers she’s collected over the years held neatly in small wooden frames. She has a small stool by her bed with the tapered candle lit on a brass holder. Apricot flame coming off the long drip of the Chantilly candle. Casting pools of orange up the warm-ivory-bone of the walls. A jug of dried wildflowers sat on that little stool spices up the air. Dried lavender and clary sage, wild shasta daisies and a green-pink hydrangea bulb. Her little stack of modestly worn books lay piled neatly on the floor next to her bed.

Iris is sat at her dresser, pulled near the window. With the roaring fireplace just to her left. Above the mantel hung a gilded mirror on the chain. Candlesticks alight, set on the dresser and on the alcove of the sash window. Two candles flank the oval of the mirror she’s sat looking into.

Mother is behind her, dressed and ready in her purple muslin gown and her white fichu. Stabbing pins into her daughters hair. Every time she sticks in another pin, Iris winces. Blinks through the stinging pain of it. She was attempting a more fashionable colonial coiffure. Easier to produce.

“Your hair is much too thick to curl properly.” Her mother addresses her idly. Snappily. Tugging back a section back behind her ear.

“Posy and Flora have much finer hair.” She offers.

As ever. Iris doesn’t know what to say to that. Should she offer an apology? Should she agree? Disagree? She fails to know how to be.

So she remains silent and watches her mother’s reflection in the looking glass as she almost crossly dresses her hair.

Caroline Ashton was maturely beautiful woman. With skin as clear as fine porcelain - like smooth cream. Even if sporting wrinkles by her mouth and eyes belying her later age. She had hair exactly the same as Iris’s. Except her mother’s was such an opulent shade of cinnamon-black. Stroked with streaks of silver like lightning bolts had struck through. Her eyes were clear silver. Two discs of shining moonstone. Very mysterious eyes, Iris had always thought.

Lately those eyes seemed permanently hardened over like rainstorms. Clouded over with disappointment at her eldest.

Always wishing she could do more to see more of the love that used to linger there. Nowadays it seemed like Caroline could only look at her and see the blemishes. Only see the wrongs.

The frown lines seemed deeper. The cutting remarks appeared more frequent. She was always telling her to sit up straighter, correcting her posture. Smoothing out the wrinkles in her dresses. Always picking. Forever finding something lacking.

Iris likes to think she was doing it out of an abundance of love. But it’s becoming clearer and clearer to her that it’s really about the opposite. It’s not about her wanting to provide for Posy or Flora or Father.

It’s purely selfish. It’s all about her ensuring they don’t lose any respect in the ever omnipotent eyes of society.

If her mother thought less about their image; perhaps Iris could love her more.

As it is. Coldness and distance lay weighty between them. Thicker and frostier than the snow outside. The ground between their geniality and affection lay strewn and twined with thick vines of barbed thorns. No way to tread such hallowed ground without drawing blood.

“Posy and Flora have had their hair in bows all day.” She points out. She shuts her eyes and grits her teeth as another pin slams into her skull. Yanking her hair right at the roots.

“And they’ve taken all week to fret over choosing their dresses.” Iris adds.

She looks up to see those steel swords of mama’s eyes cutting into her in the reflection. Mouth was a grim line.

“You should know by know what’s expected of you, Iris. And not take the matter so lightheartedly.” She warns.

“They can take balls seriously, as real chances of finding matrimony. Why can’t you?” She asks with a cruel tone.

“Mama. Flora and Posy haven’t taken anything seriously since they day they were born.” Iris insults plainly. Speaking truth.

“You know they only delight in attending ball’s and assemblies because they wish to make greater spectacles of themselves in front of soldiers from the militia, and get flirted with, by any creature sporting breeches.” She adds.

“Atleast they try.” Caroline cuts in.

“And I do not?” Iris asks. Flatly exasperated. She huffs.

“You only danced with three men at last months assembly. It’s simply not good enough. You must try harder. Your sisters may have prettiness and confidence in unholy abundance. And they apply it. You wither away and that will never gain you a husband. For heavens sake- What upstanding man wants to marry the silent wallflower?” She declares gruffly.

She fiddles with her new satin gloves sloped in her lap. Her dress was ivory silk printed with frail gold flowers and embroidered scalloping on the hem.

There’s Van Dyke pointed lacing around her neckline and the same embroidered trim on the three-quarter sleeves. White helped ‘lift’ her ash eyes apparantly. It was fresh out it’s box from the dressmakers, Madame Larousse, on Pembleton high street. Indian printed silk and Italian lace. The most expensive fabric in stock.

Their maid, Julia, had earlier laced her stays so tightly over her cotton chemise, Iris worried she broke several ribs. Her nails stung into the wood of her bed post.

Mother was stood getting her gown ready on the other side of the room. Watching her eldest have the breath thumped right out of her lungs. “Tighter.” She ordered. Iris clutched a hand at her stomach.

“A man could go a long way without seeing a bust like yours Iris. We must take advantage of it.” She comments wryly. Julia tugs tighter on the strings. Iris’s jaw clenched all the more.

By the time she’s finished her waist is tucked right in and her breasts clasped high on her chest, almost so high they hit her chin and there’s scant space between her cleavage and her areole tumbling free, this gown is so low cut.

She tugs it up higher when mother isn’t looking. Spectacles of her fertility not quite on such prominent display now.

She fancied this silk of it was so fine and thin - and clung so tight to her body, one breath of wind would closely reveal her wide hips. And doubtless her chemise and garters could be glimpsed through the thin sheer sheen of it.

And here she was now, submitting to her mothers inspection and brutal torture. Laced up in her silken gown. With her best stockings, and slippers. Earlobes dropping pearls, and a head full of silver decorative pins and an ivory comb.

Speaking of which, the latter is just being wrestled into the weave of her coiffured braided bun, at the back.

“There...” Her mother says. Fussing with a few strays. Tucking them in where they should belong. As she picks at Iris’s mud hued hair. She idly asks her questions.

“Will you be dancing with Armitage tonight?” She asks. Insinuated, more likely.

Iris averts her eyes and pats the back of her hair. Checking it in the glass.

“Will he be in attendance?” She asks offhand. As if she had no clue.

“Of course he will. Brendol knows the Hearst’s very intimately.” Her mother shrilled.

“You will dance the first minuet with him and I’ll hear no more fuss about the matter.” She orders. Cold eyes finding her daughters in the mirror.

Armitage Hux was the son of a strict local army colonel. Tall, dashing, hair as brilliant as copper and eyes as cool as teal sea-foam in contrast. He was lean and willowy in stature. Always bedecked finely in his uniform. Buttons gleaming, blushing blood of a red coat brushed and pressed to within an inch of it’s life.

He’s not a bad man - he doesn’t drink or laugh at her. Or try and fondle her in a darkened corner.

He just strikes Iris as being incredibly vain and undeniably haughty. He thinks all the world should be owed to him.

He only wanted to talk medals and glory and rank. How he was a model soldier. And so admired the bravery of gunfire and glory in battle. He’d never even seen battle - his father bought him a conscription and shook hands and pulled favours to get him a high rank in the military. Sergeant Hux, he now was.

He didn’t seem to be able to equate soldiers and uniforms and weapons with actual war or combat. But liked to boast about how deadly he was. His sharp reflexes. His skill as a swordsman and marksman. Iris felt like stuffing cotton in her ears - or sticking her eyes with pins all night - anything but listen to Armitage spew out his toy soldier reveries.

“He is a very agreeable man. You would do well to land him, Iris. He would make a most affable husband and a good match.”

“I barely know him, Mama.” Iris pointed out.

“You don’t need to know him. That is no hindrance to a proposal of marriage.” She says crossly. “You need not know your husband. You merely have to do your wifely duties by him.” She reminds.

My duty of keeping my mouth shut and my legs and womb wide open, Iris thinks.

“I thought I heard he was courting Mary Simpson?” Iris pipes up. Uncurling two tendrils of delicate hair from in front of her ears.

“She has barely a thousand pounds a year. Brendol would never stand for him marrying such a girl.” Caroline declares mightily. Speaking in derision of the girl who was beneath them in every sense.

“Besides. Lord Hearst says there will apparently be a very rich gentleman from the continent in attendance tonight too. A Lord Ren, from Bavaria. It would do well to seek him out.”

“Every matronly mama worth her salt will be throwing their daughters in his path. I do hope he doesn’t trip on the sheer number of them crushed underfoot.” Iris says lightly. Pulling on her gloves.

“And if he is a Lord, why has he deigned in all his lofty power to grace us with his presence, and to come to a small county rather than go to vastly over stocked marriage mart in London?” Iris questions.

“Don’t be so blockish, Iris. Maybe he has business here to attend. Mrs Wilson told me this morning that he’s bought Hellford Park out in its entirety. Now that takes an extraordinary fortune.” She corrects.

Iris looks directly at her mother. She spies the gleam of want in her eyes. The hunger that such a sum she could snatch up in her hands.

“Lord’s marry Heiresses to sugar mills who are poised for ten thousand pounds, or widowed old Duchesses with vast crumbling estates. Why would he in his lofty state and means, lower himself to wed a girl of simple country gentry, with a barely three thousand pound dowry?” Iris sarks.

Mama gives her a pointed look. Like a ream of needles pressing in her skin.

“Then you will make a even better spectacle in front of him. And show him how elegant and courteous country girls can be and see if you can’t win him over that way.” She insists direly. As if she were plotting a serious military offensive.

“If he is a Lord, he will be titled. Titled means landed money and dignity.” Her hair is yanked yet again. “He could well be the answer to all our prayers.”

Your prayers, Iris points out rudely inside her head.

“He could be a hideous old letch.” Iris says, rightly.

Mother stabs one final pin into her head. As if in revenge. “Looks aren’t everything- Money. Station, and respect? That is forever enduring.”

So are things like love, intimacy, friendship and happiness. Those things endure too. But Iris can’t imagine her acerbic mother has ever felt happy or loved a day in her life; she likes to think her marriage, when it comes, shall be different.

She ends the conversation on that dazzling note. Iris’s scalp is on sore-fire by now.

The door opposite them creaks as it’s burst open. Impending footsteps barrelling down the creaking floorboards of the corridor shortly before signalled their arrival. Flora and Posy.

Fully gowned and gloved and perfumed to high heaven, with their hair pulled in elaborate coiffures on their heads. They had perfect curls. Perfect flounces and ruffles on their dresses. Cheeks a healthy pink. Eyes wild bright with excitement.

They look like blooming silk roses in a summer garden. Iris feels more and more like a singed daisy in her own gown.

Flora was dressed in a cobalt muslin, with a roller print of dandelions laid in pinstripes down the fabric. Posy was in a demure blush pink cotton. With lace trim tumbling over the neckline. And Iris sees she wins the honour of wearing the rose silk slippers. Flora is in some ivory ones that have seen more mends and fixes than is earthly possible. For silk slippers didn’t come cheap.

Both her sisters have much lighter colouring; they both still have the chowder grey Ashton eyes.

Flora’s hair however, is darkly mousy brown. Golden like toffee leaves that come off the trees in autumn. Posy is far more chestnut red. Blazing bonfires and russet red embers. Overall more enchanting than that of Iris twigs and sticky-mud hued locks.

They are a barrage of noise and silliness as they barge into Iris’s room. Flora flops onto the end of the well made bed and Posy nosily inspects herself in the looking glass over the fireplace. Preening. Voices overlapping.

“Mama! Did I tell you what Fleur told me earlier today?” Posy insists. Flora speaks louder over her, in order to be heard.

“Mama....Have you seen my pink silk shawl for I’m sure I left it in the drawing room.”

“I haven’t seen your shawl, Flora. You should take better care. And what did Fleur say, my dear?” Caroline asks in a soft voice.

Whilst fixing strayed hairs at Iris’s nape. Pulling and pinching. She had no softness reserved in store for Iris. She rather wants to roll her eyes at that.

“There will be a gentleman of certain lordly magnificence at the ball tonight.” Posy sing-songs. Aiming her teasing words at Iris. Who gives her a cutting look at her bubbly behaviour. Steel daggers made of her grey eyes.

“He’s said to be most handsome, sable haired, and devilishly tall. And he’s single. And Lord Hearst says he’s a recluse who barely leaves his castle, so we’re very honoured he’s coming and he has eighty-thousand a year.” She awards with great enthusiasm. Flora giggles.

“Maybe you should set your cap at him, Iris.” Flora jabs teasingly. “We could all be vastly improved by such a match you know. I could finally stop wearing these hideous thin old slippers.”

Iris wished to point out that she wasn’t being induced into matrimony merely to vastly improve the quality and state of her siblings footwear.

And quite wondered if he sister knew all that she’d have to undertake in making such a match - all she’d have to give up to be some man’s wife. All she’d have to do-

“She won’t. For she’s already got a suitor whose madly in love with her.” Posy insists.

“Hux is not in love with me, Posy. Don’t be ridiculous.” Iris says. For starters she wasn’t his red uniform or his army commission. Those were the things he was resolutely enamoured with.

Standing from the dresser as she speaks, and going to where her new slippers were laid out by the maid on the bed. Flora eyes the silk things with jealous disdain. Iris fixes her satin gloves up over her elbows. Disappearing under her sleeves. Mother is too busy fussing with Posy’s neckline - tugging it up to cover more of her second youngest’s chest. She protested so at the action.

Iris took the opportunity to slide a small pearl hair comb into Flora’s hand. Her favourite one. The one with coral flowers and paste amber gems on it.

Iris flickers a look over the mother and a silent understanding passes between the sisters. ‘Put it in, in the coach in the dark. So she doesn’t see.’

Flora smiles awfully wide up at her sister. Grateful that she shared out her pretty things. Flora was the youngest - the youngest daughter deserved nice trinkets too.

“If you’re all ready we’d best be off soon. The roads are icy. It will take an age. I won’t have us be late.” Mama orders out to all her girls.

She turns her head to Iris “Fetch your things and the velvet cloak. And for heavens sake don’t be long. We don’t have all night.” She frets.

Marching out the room after rearranging some of Posy’s curls. Barking at Flora as she passed to fix the wrinkle in her gloves. The door grated and whines as she shuts it, lock rattling in the frame.

Iris savours the silence - the crackling of the fire. The owl hooting off in the tree tops outside her window. She lets it soothe her. Let’s out the deepest sigh as they’re now left alone.

She crosses to her wooden wardrobe cabinet by the door, and opens the door to search for her blue velvet cloak. She throws it around her shoulders and ties it up. Posy hands her sister her cream silk reticule.

“She just wants you to marry well.” Posy says with some attempt at comforting.

Iris nods, glumly stroking her sisters hand in thanks. Looking into her earnest young face. Still so full of innocence and hope.

Her heart shaped little face so full of impish naivety.

“She might do not to make me feel exclusively like a breeding mare to be sold to the highest bidder for marriage at every conceivable turn.” Iris says wryly.

Angrily shoving a meagre few possessions into her reticule from her dresser. She looks down at her empty dance card that mother would see absolutely filled with names by the end of the night.

She wipes away an angry tear from the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that Flora gives her. Her anger crowded and crackled the room. These two didn’t deserve her ire, after all.

She sighs yet again. Letting the churning anger eating at her bleed out. Frustration filtering away. She plasters on a smile. Posy steps forwards to her exasperated sister.

“Can I borrow your diamond droplet earrings? They’d go very well with my dress...” She asks coyly. With her hands behind her back.

Iris rolls her eyes. Maybe they did deserve just a little bit of ire after all-

“You are both enormous pests.” She says. Guiding them out her room.

“Come on. Lest we hold mother up and I don’t much fancy our chances then.”

She corrals her pests of sisters downstairs. Makes sure they too are cloaked and ready. They have their gloves and she does uncurl Posy’s palm as they’re heading out the door, dropping the diamond and earrings into them. They sparkle in the moonlight.

“Lose them and mother will have your head.” She whispers to her in caution as they alight the warmth of the house into the cold sting of the night air.

Snow crushed under their slippers as they make for the coach. Slipping to step up inside the cold wooden enclave of it. Rubbing their cold hands together to create some heat.

It was just the Ashton ladies in attendance tonight. Father cared little for balls. Something mother sniped at him for regularly. Ernest Ashton would far rather stay home of a night with his ledgers and his books and his brandy than subject himself to the silly gossip and frivolity of idiotic society people present at balls.

Her father was a tall, quiet man. Sturdy and aged as an old oak. Strong and strapping figure even in his later years. He quietly took interest in the world where her mothers inclination was to devour it.

He had an open broad face. With tame blue eyes and thick greying hair. He was a studious man. Often kept to his study or the gardens. He enjoyed his ornithology and his Entomology books. He collected butterflies. All pinned out in cases in his study. Lining the walls.

It was a place she found infinite comfort in. Wandering into her fathers study. His entomology collection like dots of silken colour in their cases. Old leather books and volumes and manuscripts. Edifying proud in their papery silence. The old wood of his desk worn by years and years. The smell of the study. Of old leather and pipe tobacco. And peppermints from the little jar he kept on his desk.

He didn’t press Iris in the same way her mother always prevails to do. But then she sees the frayed gems and worn and mended holes in his clothes. The faded material in his waistcoat. How he hasn’t bought himself new shoes in two years.

That’s how she can put up with every snipe and every cross word that spits out her mothers mouth.

Iris sometimes quite wondered how her parents ever stood each other for any length of time to bear any children. They were entirely separate people whose interests did not align. They agreed on very little. And settled for that.

It’s so cold in the coach they can see their breath as they bump and shift along the icy roads. Trees make terrible dark shapes in the near distance, beyond the frosted glass of the coach door window. Iris sits, peering out. Watching the full bowl of the moon slither white off the silver and black landscape. Off the snowy fields and perched on the roofs of the hamlet of houses they pass by.

The carriage crawls slow up the winding drive of the Hearst’s three acre estate. Horses hooves hitting the hard paved path. Clopping in the night air. Skipping over the frost. They’re but mere minutes from exiting the coach, when mother decides to speak up and issue a few last desperate words of strict orders upon her eldest;

“Take every opportunity Iris. I won’t have it said in the gossip sheets tomorrow that you didn’t even try.” Caroline insists. Fussing with her own thick muslin cloak draped over her lap.

Iris looked at her mother then. Across the dark carriage as she tuts at the specks of lint sullying Flora’s cloak where she’s sat next to her. Picking it away.

She strongly suspected Caroline Ashton could have the whole world in her palm or on a string; and even then she’d find fault in it. Pluck displeasing bits of it out like loose threads.

She has that irate frown darkening her features. Cloudy set in her eyes. Posy’s little gloved hand reached across and held her sisters tight. Squeezing it in comfort sat there in the dark. Iris turns and looks to see Posy’s heart shaped face beaming up at her.

“You should let us introduce you to Captain Clifford’s friends Iris. They really are the most splendid fun. I’ve heard many of them say they quite fancy you, you know.” Posy grins. Whispering hushed to her sister to keep her spirits buoyant.

Iris strokes her hand and she can’t help smiling. More at her always sunny hopes. How bright her outlook on life was. She saw ball’s for the fun they were meant to be.

A dance, a party, a celebration.

Posy wasn’t yet tarnished by the knowledge that her hopes for future happiness depended on her behaving well and taking things seriously. It stopped being fun and became a chore. Iris lost her starry eyed wonder about ball’s years ago.

She hoped she could help Posy keep her gleaming eyed wonder and fun for just that bit longer. She would suffer every second of misery to keep it that way if she must.

She squeezes her hand back. “Thankyou. That’s very sweet. But I fear I shall be otherwise engaged in dances.” She excuses.

Besides, most of the young Militia men she met were very wet behind the ears. And all madly enamoured with exhausting dances and infatuated with every beautiful young lady in attendance. Declaring they fell head over heels with every girl they so much as walk past. She finds their overeagerness and exuberance a little trying.

Before long, they draw up the grand old stone columns abutting the front of the huge house.

An immense hulking beast of a thing. Lit with autumn-blaze torches in the night. The coach lurches to a creaking uneven stop. Jolting. And a helpful gold liveried footman in a powdered wig steps to and opens the door to help the ladies out.

Caroline doesn’t even glance at the man. Looks right through him. Flora flutters a flirty smile. Posy and Iris offer a polite snippet of thanks.

The Ashton ladies make their way up the torch lit steps and into the greatly heaving bustling foyer of the Hearst’s grand house.

Renford Manor was one of the finest houses in the county. The gardens were splendid. There was a maze and a famed marble garden gazebo.

A great split imperial staircase opens into the large cool foyer. All ivory marble. Hues of Eggshell and ice. Imposing, echoing and cold. Footsteps rattle like claps up to the ceiling. Distant notes of the small orchestra float through the air like zipping flapping insects.

Everything glimmers. The chandeliers that drip with gold and crystal. The old pearl and sharp onyx pointed tiles on the floor look like they’ve been scrubbed raw. They gleam almost too brightly.

They hand over their cloaks to more footmen to be put away. Letting their ball gown splendour come forth. Iris is almost crushed by the amount of people there are in attendance here tonight. Lady Hearst was known to stuff her parties to the seams. The whole county, and all of the two neighbouring ones, had most likely been invited.

Mama encourages them all up the staircase. Idly smiling greetings in passing to her matrons of her acquaintance. Iris skims one hand along the smooth cold of the marble banister. Holding her skirts up as her slippered feet hit each step. Steps firm and steady.

They come to one of the big main ballrooms. Looking through the scope of many double doors, leading onto another room and the next and the next furniture pushed aside. There was such a crush of so many ladies and numerous gentlemen packed in. Coats of all colours on the men. The spectrum of silks and cotton dresses so vast, it quite made her head spin.

Flora excitedly giggles and slips away. A flurry of laughter erupts and she joins hands with a little gaggle of her more intimate friends.

Iris raises a brow at her behaviour, not surprised to see that she caught a glimpse of a fair few red coated members of the militia in that particular direction. Mother huffs and gruffly tells Flora, through gritted teeth, not to linger too long.

Iris and Posy linger by mother as they chat to an elderly companion. Mrs Bishop. An ever worrying woman, Who ventured the world was going to end if there was slightly too much rain. She was practically apoplectic about the snow. Iris shares a look of pain with Posy. Who excuses herself with a bob of a curtesy to go find Flora.

“Pest.” Iris smiles at her as she slips away from conversing will dull matrons about the impending end of civilisation and the earth as they knew it. Anymore and Iris will be forced to rush for a vinaigrette of smelling salts to revive the poor dear when she swoons.

Iris stands with her hands folded demurely in front of her. Her eyes wandering over the party in full swing behind her.

The crush of noise, music and heat and bodies. Candies flicker doomed shapes copper and black up the light walls. The tall windows are guarded with heavy emerald draperies. Cascading waterfalls of apple green. Spilling and tumbling like grassy hills.

The windows glimmer like yellow square gemstones from the candles in their stands dotted everywhere. The dark floorboards glow with it too. Patches of orange inbetween the shadows.

The ballrooms, of which there were three, all adjoined by French pocket doors, are kept fairly dark. Lit only by the honey slither of candles reaching apricot slithers of light at every corner. People chatter and laugh to the din of a faint violin chorus of Mozart.

Laughter, Baritone gruff and the sparkling light of ladies chuckling delight flutters up to the ceiling. The room seems to burst at the seams with it all. Like a room full of butterflies. The heat, the noise, the voices and music. It was almost too much. Everything is palpable and it stings and rips at her eyes and ears.

They eventually depart from the hysterical Mrs Bishop. Leaving her fanning herself on a settee. Trying not to succumb to a fit of the vapours.

They make their way through the ballroom. Chatting and conversing and being mangled in the almost too heaving crowds. She loses count of the amount of times her toes get stepped on. Or elbows sharply prodded into the soft of her back as people pass.

Eventually; much to her mother’s delight, Iris is propositioned by a young gentleman from the militia, into a dance. There seemed to be no sight of Hux yet. Much to Mama’s chagrin.

He’s very polite and puppyish, delivers her safely back to her mothers side when the polka dance is through. Kisses her hand, declares her daughter a fine dancer, then is off onto the next partner.

They are lingering on the far side of the dance floor, just idly watching. In full view of the doors and the adjacent ballroom. Through the two sets of double doors either side of a great roaring stone fireplace. It’s light casting copper over every dancer.

“We won’t waste our time on him.” Mother harrumphed when he leaves. Looking with disdain as they watched him ask Primrose Charleston to dance the next.

“Mama. It was merely a dance.” Iris points out with a futile smile. “Don’t tell me you were picking out wedding attire and embroidered initial pillowcases.” Iris mocks.

That earns her a sharp look. She smiles in forbearance right back at her mother.

Her cheeks now pinkened and her eyes bright from the exercise. She likes dancing. When her partner isn’t a clumsy one, or reeks of port or body odour, or wine, or has wandering letching hands. It’s actually rather enjoyable.

“We should be setting our sights rather more higher than some penniless officer.” She insists. Watching the couples twirl and sway in front of them.

“Heaven forfend I dance with a man sheerly for the joy of it.” Iris concludes.

Caroline tuts in exasperation. Mumbles under her breath. “You do so vex me greatly sometimes, Iris. Even worse than your sisters.” She grumps.

Deep down inside, Iris is a little proud of that accomplishment.

A flurry of footsteps and squeaking squeals and suddenly Flora and Posy burst into view where Iris and her mother are stood.

Their voices are high pitched and they’re panting with excitement. Flora slings her hands into Iris’s and twirls her around with elation. Iris stumbles in the circle Flora leads her in. Posy is stood by Caroline grinning up a storm.

“Mama, Iris. He’s here! He’s here and he’s coming this way!” Posy giggles. Iris and her mother remain perplexed.

“Who is, my dear?” Caroline seeks. Frowning a little.

“He is surely the most handsome man I ever seen. And so tall. Did you see him Flora? That chest...” Posy flatters.

“Taller than any man I’ve ever met. And so well built. Such stature.” Flora says back.

“And he has dark eyes, Did you notice?” Posy asks.

“Of course I noticed! Very dark eyes. They are positively enchanting.”

“Bewitching.” Posy giggles.

“And his shoulders in his coat. So large.”

“For goodness sake, lower your voice-“ Iris chides at the both of them, glancing around the ballroom. Trying to decipher who they were so flustered and flapping about.

Her eyes don’t make it past the door-

The room seems to have slowed. The dancers are distracted. People around the fringes of the ballroom chatter louder. Deafening din rising. Gossip flourishing.

For Lord Hearst is at the entrance of one of the double doors, conversing with someone, and that someone walking by his side, is one of the broadest and most strapping men Iris has ever seen in her whole life.

He wasn’t just a man.

He was entirely too much, man.

“That’s Lord Ren. The handsomely rich one all the way from Bavaria.” Flora hisses to them all. “I’ve never seen a gentleman more strongly built, or beautiful.” She giggles loudly.

“I beg of you, lower your voice.” Iris chides. Pearl earrings jitter as she moves her head. Ash eyes governed by lintels of her brows creased up in a light frown.

Everyone’s eyes in this small stale society, is fixed solid upon the sight of this newcomer. Hungrily devouring this unfamiliar brooding man.

Obsidian jacket. Snowy shirt. Scarlet cravat like a bloodied noose around his neck, with a seers eye of a winking diamond pin studded in the knot. He radiates charm and magnificence. And masculine appeal.

“He’s in mourning to be wearing such dark colours.” Mother presumes. “How unusual for a man.”

“Don’t fret, Mama. Lady Hearst assures me he’s most certainly single. Now, Iris might have her chance at him after all...” Posy cackles.

Iris rams an elbow into the bony cradle of her sisters petite hip.

“Do try and endeavour to behave.” She chides to Posy. Whispering harshly.

This mysterious Lord is unfashionably attired in all black. Perhaps he is in a state of mourning? Ink black breeches cling tight to his strong thighs and wide wide hips and shining boots come to his knees - the wrong sort of footwear for a ball but he doesn’t appear to notice. Or even care.

He had an air about him that couldn’t be ignored. The dark clothes. Sable hair. It was long too. Far too long by societal standards. It curled at his neck. Swept in tumbling waves back from his face.

He’s scanning the room like he hates everything and everyone in it. A soured scowl on his face. The softness of his full lips are pursed and there’s a predatory quality to the way his eyes flicker around the crowds. He seems above it all. Distant. Untouchable. He was a Lord - he held himself superior as one as if a different species.

“Fleur told me he’s quite the scandalous man....” Flora begins.

“I heard he was married. Once before, but she turned mad and killed several servants. So he locked her in the dungeons and she’s still here raking her fingers to the bone at the stone walls to get out.”

Iris wants to roll her eyes. Now it’s Posy’s turn for interjection;

“And I heard that his castle is haunted and full of ghosts. And he seduces young noble women and then sacrifices and feeds them to the devil. Maybe he’s prowling for next victim?” She gasps frenziedly.

“You two need to stay clear away from anymore novels.” Iris scoffs.

She lets her eyes slip back over this Lord’s frightening exterior. She focuses on the dark pits that were his eyes. They seemed oddly familiar. As if she’s glimpsed them before. In a fanciful daydream, maybe- or maybe it was a dreadful nightmare.

They’re too far away to make out their true colour. But it must be a truly dark for the way they eat up all the light and glitter like rough cut gemstones lost to shadow.

His arms folded behind his back pulls his coat right across his chest. Exposes the musculature of him: he is big and beastly. There was no denying; his figure is redoubtably masculine. Intimidating and strong- meaty arms, no tapering away at his waist. He was entirely built of great slabs of muscles.

A warriors figure through and through.

Iris thought that such a body frame belonged in a previous age. A more ravening one. A cutthroat one. That stature was suited to a gigantic rampaging viking or a crusading knight in steel armour.

Quite why she thought so she can’t fathom. That big shape of his seemed unsuited to the setting of a dainty English ballroom. It seemed more natural for him to be on a battlefield slicked up and splattered in the blood of his enemy’s.

She watches as he boredly sizes up the room before him. An arcing sweep of his eyes and he’s done with it. Thrown aside all interest. Devouring all pitiful excuses for life. As if he’s looking or searching for something...

Then he looks right at her-

His eyes spear directly into her. See’s her. Meets her grey gaze and keeps it. Steals it away beyond her reckoning.

One side of his lip curls up. His eyes churn to look nearly honey gold in the light. Trick of the mind. All in her head. It was surely just the candles malforming the shade-

But it seemed more than him just seeing her. It was as if he could gaze right through her. Pierce her skin. Puncturing her very soul - she’s sure.

Her whole body feels his looking at her. She thrashes and aches.

If she has one. Some flimsy scrap of quivering human spirit in her, it is quaking and trembling now, and very much intoxicated by this man.

Her cheeks flush and she feels that betraying annoying heat slither down her neck and flourish at her breast. She swallows and blinks and tears her eyes away. She looks at her shoes cause she’s suddenly got a spinning head and her mouth is woolly.

That look and those savage eyes had set a flame blazing right down to her bones. There’s something she feels deep down that almost seems strange. Uncertain yet resolute. A tug on her stomach. An unknown yearning.

She realises quickly that this was the same pair of eyes that stole her breath this very afternoon. The gentleman from the imposing black carriage. Twice now she’s locked eyes with him and stared.

He must think her either a raving simpleton or a gawping lunatic.

“Iris. I do believe he’s staring at you.” Posy hisses with a wide impressed smile.

“Oh he is! He’s definitely staring.” Flora squeals. Tugging and shaking her sisters hand.

“Iris. Stand straight. Stop stooping. Chin up for heavens sake- look decent.“ Mother shrills through a gritted smile. Smiling demurely in the intended direction of Lord Ren. Preening herself like a flustered hen.

Iris dares another look up. Clasping her hands together delicately in front of her. At the front of her skirts. Him and Lord Hearst are mere feet away now.

“He’s coming this way! Mama! He’s coming over...” Posy grins. Flora laughs with her.

By now, Iris’s heart resembles a mad creature clawing at its cage, desperate to be free. Thumping and thudding her neck. Quivering nervous breaths leave her lips. Heartbeat hammering and pulsing in her ears.

He’s looking at Posy or Flora, she thinks. He must be. They always draw men like magnets. He’s not looking at me- he’s not. Really. He’s not-

They are closer now. Lord Hearst and Lord Ren are mere metres away. The entire room seems to be holding its breath. Another dance starts up and she’s glad for that distraction.

Her cheeks remained flushed and she raises her eyes when the air shifts around them. She can scent the brandy and violet water coming off Lord Hearst. There is his stout waistcoat and his perfumed wig. Lord Ren appears unscented. But a fusion of aromas simply pour off his vast body.

Sandalwood oil. Probably used on that thick rakish mane of his. There’s something else too, something earthy darkly rich, that mingles with the musky new wool of his coat. Peppermint or spices. She can’t tell. It’s damnably distracting.

“Praise the lord in heaven. We are saved.” Her mother mumbles gladly under her breath. Smile wide and gentle. Artificial and superficial to hide her truer nature.

Lord Hearst and Lord Ren are right before them now. Right in front of them. “Mrs Ashton.” Lord Hearst begins in greeting. Iris watches her Mama curtesy politely to the old lord.

“Might I have the pleasure of introducing you to Lord Ren. An old acquaintance of mine...”

Iris looks from the doddery old form of the red faced Lord Hearst, up and up up, into the face of the dark stranger. The top of her head would barely come to brush at his collarbones. His eyes are still fixed on her face. A shock jolts through her like she’s been burned.

“Lord Ren, this is Mrs Caroline Ashton. And her daughters. Miss Posy Ashton. And Miss Flora Ashton...” Lord Hearst introduces. Flora and Posy bob demure little curtseys at him. Bowing their heads and smiling prettily like fools.

He barely glances toward them. His eyes were fixed on Iris.

“And this is her eldest daughter, Miss Iris Ashton.” Lord Hearst beckons to her. Stood back behind her two sisters, and almost guarded by her mother.

She curtseys. Chin to her chest and she bows her neck in a manner she hopes comes across as graceful.

Lord Ren smiles. It’s terrifying in its power and beauty.

It moves the corners of his lips. And he comes in a step closer. Advancing.

Posy and Flora flatten back a little. When one hand comes around from his back, Iris could see he had thick leather gloves on. As if entranced she reached out where his hand beckoned to hold hers.

She slipped her satin gloved hand into his big offered dark palm. It sits right in the middle of the wide thing. So dainty in comparison.

He brings her silken hand up. Bows down and lays a kind kiss to the back of it. His eyes hadn’t left her since he entered the room - they didn’t start shying away now.

This is a man who is not shy. Not any bit of him.

He draws her hand down, very slightly. Freeing his lips.

“Enchanting to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He says.

Iris never knew a voice could be so deep. His voice sunk right to the core of her. Right through flesh and bone. Sinking deep. She’d expected a Bavarian accent. Or a continental lilt. But his accent is precise, crystal-cut English.

She blinks. Remembering she had a verbose vocabulary to make use of.

“It’s an honour to make your acquaintance, Lord Ren.” She gasps out with some hint of strength in her voice. When she lets her hand slips from his, her body feels strange. Her whole arm is left tingling.

She finds herself sighing as she pulls her hand back. He straightens his back with ease. She knows her mothers eyes are looking sharply at her so she remembers her politesse.

She feels like the whole world is watching them converse.

“Are you, enjoying... your time in England?” She seeks. “I understand you are recently arrived.”

“Very much.” He looks amused. “I haven’t been on these shores in- quite an age.” He says. She can’t help but feel there is something cryptic to his meaning.

“Do you mean to stay long, in Hampshire, your lordship?” Flora asks. Batting her long lashes up at him so much she could fan out a chandelier of candles if she’s not careful.

His eyes calmly flick across to the smallest Ashton sister. But linger back on Iris.

“Not long. But after tonight I think I’ve found sufficient reason to extend my stay.” His smile twitches smoothly once again.

“Are you enjoying Hellford Park, your lordship? Surely it is the finest house in the county, is it not?” Posy enquires.

Another flicker of those charcoal eyes to the other little Ashton. Really, there were too deuced many of them, Kylo thinks.

“It is an immaculate house. The snowy woods are very pleasant this time of year.” He agrees.

“Of course. The climates in Bavaria are surely similar. I imagine there is much snow on your own estate, your lordship?” Iris asks.

He seems pleased with her interjection. As if she were the only soul whose voice he wished to hear.

When he looked at her, it was like they were the only two people in this room. The only two that mattered. It’s just them, in the candlelight, cast by flame. As if no pairs of eyes are watching - when in reality there are hundreds looking in.

“Indeed. The summers are short, and the winters are long and frigid. I am somewhat familiar with the clime of snow. It falls more gently here than in Bavaria.” His eyes glare warmly across at her. Increasing her blush.

Caroline steps in with a saccharine smile that showed far too much teeth. A leer it could rightly be called.

“You must come and dine with us at Westwell, Lord Ren. We would be honoured to receive you. We can promise you an elegant dinner service, and cards. Why we dine with six and twenty great and fine families around the county. We would be very much favoured with your visit. I wager you won’t get finer, prettier companions or better conversation elsewhere...” Mother boasts.

He smiles right at Iris and it spears into her hot chest like an iron poker stoked too long in the fire. Red hot.

“Indeed. I Thankyou greatly for the invitation. Madam.” Then his eyes grow blacker. “You have very fine daughters. God has blessed you three times over.”

Flora giggles a beaming smile. Posy bats her lashes and grins. Iris fiddles with her hands and examines the floorboards, reddening at his charm.

“I often think so, myself.” Mother preens.

“Of course all my girls are immensely beautiful. But, it is my Iris who is revered around these parts as a local beauty.” She lies.

“Mama.” Iris blushes crimson. Averting her eyes.

“A rumour well circulated indeed.” Kylo’s looking at her. And to her amazement. She bravely looks back.

“And she deserves every such compliment I can bestow.” Kylo adds.

“You are too kind, Lord Ren.” Iris smiles slightly at him. It makes his chest pound harder. Watching her bosom heave at the neckline of her dress.

His mouth waters. That same scent from this afternoon hits him square in the jaw like a rounded fist. He all but moans at the erotic pleasure of it. Of her sweet scent drifting up his nose. Stoking at his eager hunger.

He will tear something apart tonight, rip it limb from limb, and glut himself on that sweet penny-metal flush of blood spilling down his parched throat. And as he does- as he feasts and drinks and crimson drips from his maw, he will think of this moment; of her aroused scent tangled in his nose. Stirring his own lust to boiling point.

He bids the Misses and Mrs Ashton’s a goodnight.

Lord Hearst had more introductions for him to make. More simpering sickening people to meet. All the same. Savagely polite and viciously boring. Their superficial kindness and flattery turns his stomach.

A bevy of swans the lot of them. Preening and pathetic. He could barely hide his disgust at the stench of rotten perfume that beat off each one of their hot pulsing throats. All the vapid girls that desperate Mother’s shoved in his chest to make introductions.

It was like the sheep throwing their own sweet little lambs out into the slobbering wolves.

If this were a less guarded age he might have already slipped away under guise of a romantic tryst in the garden, to drink a few of them dry.

Posy and Flora squeak and shake Iris’s arm after he passes. He is led around the ballroom, that great vast man. Introduced to all the good and the great. They gabble and squawk at their sister about how she’ll be the next Lady of Hellford Park.

She shushes them and sees it makes Lord Ren lock eyes with her from over where he towered loftily across the ballroom crowds.

Her heart starts beating wild again. A demure smile and she takes her eyes away elsewhere. And that heartbeat calls out to him like the pound of a war drum. A bell summoning him to worship.

Oh yes. He thinks. She is the one.

And she’ll do splendidly.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren x oc #vampire!kylo #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#Draegan vibes 🥀#vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #lovestory #angst #smut #slow burn #regency era

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loriane-elmuerto · 3 years ago

Text

— WHAT COLOR ARE YOU

got tagged by @chuckhansen, @jackiesarch, and @preachercuster to do this uquiz for some of my clowns. thank you! 💗💗💗

gonna tag @cryptcombat, @queennymeria, @frankwoods, @prometheas, @pheedraws, @lucky-107, @countessrooster, @jennystahl, @indorilnerevarine, @heroofpenamstan, @shellibisshe, @stevegrants, and @cobb-vanthss

purple character

Purple characters are strong leaders and fierce people with a strong moral compass. They tend to be lost in the background, occupied by characters with louder personalities, but these characters are dependable and wonderful in their own right. They are poised and collected and can remain calm under pressure. They are also charismatic and supportive. They aren’t likely to accept half-assed excuses, but they are still compassionate. In addition to leading, they also often take on mentor roles with the people that they lead. People like following them, and while not particularly witty, they have a good sense of humor and an easy nature to them that causes others to enjoy spending time with them. They can vary between being very uptight and stern, as well as chill and lighthearted. They are affectionate towards the people they care about, but they can come across as intimidating to people who don’t know them. They usually establish themselves as generally friendly, but people know not to seriously upset or cross them. Although they are great and well-rounded people, they can become unsure of themselves if their leadership fails in any aspect. While they are patient, they can also become quite frustrated by people not understanding their perspective. They aren’t necessarily inflammatory, but often prefer fighting first and conversing later. They can jump to conclusions and stick to decisions that the people around them don’t like following, in order to not be seen as pushovers or indecisive. Purple characters need people in their life who allow them not to lead and to just join in the fun like everyone else, while also reassuring them that they are an important part of whatever group or organization they have found themselves in.

dark blue character

Dark Blue characters are kindhearted and responsible, driven to care for others around them. They are good at strategizing in the heat of the moment, but are also quite impulsive and rush into things without a plan when they are fired up. While calm people and patient teachers, they are quite hotheaded and not afraid to stand up for what they believe in. Their sense of morality guides them, both into battle, and into healing. They get along with a wide range of people, but do have a temper that causes them to get into short-lived disagreements. They don’t like to be seen as inferior, as much of their strength comes from the softness inside of them. They like being needed and helpful, and want people to agree that they know what’s best for them, although others can get annoyed at what they perceive as nagging. They take turns being the voice of reason and the reason for the voice. They can hold their own, and believe in respecting everyone as long as everyone is respectful in turn. They often had to grow up fast and mature early, which they both take pride in and resent. They are likely to join a just cause on a whim, and do what it takes to develop the skillset they need to best help the cause, although they prefer to be at the center of the action. If they feel no one is doing anything and it needs to be done, they’ll step in. They are often close to prodigies, having some sort of incredible skill that they can expertly hone. They are inspirational and have a lot of emotional maturity. They can both maneuver people through their hardships and inspire them to rise up. They can often ignore their own feelings and needs in the process of being a sort of martyr for others, however, and can grow resentful when no one pays attention to them like they do for others. Dark blue characters need people in their lives who will encourage and uplift them in whatever cause they choose to support, as well as give them space to talk out their feelings. They also need others who will recognize when they are taking too much responsibility on, and take some time to give them care and support and affirm their willingness to care.

pink character

Pink characters are generally sweet and nice people who care about their friends deeply. They don’t often chose to be a part of the action, but instead get swept up in it almost against their will. They often aren’t fully equipped for the situations that are thrown at them, and can have a lot of feelings of inadequacy as a result. They don’t tend to be fighters, often preferring learning and discovery to anything else. They will go along with risky plans in order to help their group of friends or organization that they’re close to, but they’re generally terrified of whatever they’re doing. They are lighthearted and have a good sense of humor, fun to banter with but finding it hard to be genuinely mean to others. They are pretty emotional and sensitive, which turns out to be one of their greatest strengths. They have a lot of emotional maturity and are good at recognizing others’ needs. They are one of the voices of reason amongst a group of often impulsive people, which manifests itself in ways that others might dismiss as paranoia. (It is in some ways, but their fear of what might go wrong is also a crucial step to making the planning process so sound.) Even around people who care about them, they can tend to be the butt of the joke, and don’t have healthy boundaries to stop it. As they grow, they don’t necessarily become less fearful, but they do have a stronger sense of courage to get through their fears. They are compassionate friends and often do small things to show that they are thinking of the people are around them. They are dependable and trustworthy and a good ally to have. Pink characters need people around them who won’t mock them for being sensitive or having fears, but will validate their feelings and encourage them to overcome their doubts about themselves. They need their boundaries to be encouraged and respected, and for others not to pressure them into doing something they’ve said no to.

#oc: caroline kujo #oc: dominique thorne #oc: jamie fell #all of these were lowkey accurate #even jamie's #tagged

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skysplinter · 7 years ago

Text

2. Correspondence

First chapter here.

Next chapter here.

Latest chapter here.

Commander Thorn placed the datapad back down on her desk, the report still open. Her thin upper lip curled. Across from her, C-244 clacked its digits together in anticipation.

She really didn't know how to put this.

'So,' said the commander. 'The prisoner was... cooperative, I see.'

The orb of light where the archivist droid's head should have been dimmed as it flickered slowly from red to blue. 'Cooperative. Yes, commander,' it told her. 'The prisoner provided answers when asked questions. The answers registered as adequate and relevant to the subject at hand, though there were some minor diversions from the primary topic.'

Thorn pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her eyes up tight. She was starting to get a headache, and there was little doubt in her mind as to the cause of it. 'So I noticed in your report, C-2,' she sighed.

'I am detecting a heightened level of stress,' said C-244. Its hinges creaked a little as it leaned over in concern. 'Are you well, commander? Should I notify the medical department?'

'I'm fine, C-2,' said Thorn. She dusted herself down, cleared her throat, and started again. 'It's nothing to worry about. Now, as I was saying - the prisoner was cooperative. This is... progress.'

'Correct. Current statistics register a five-point-two-eight percent survival rate of all interrogators following an encounter with the prisoner aboard our vessel, a marked improvement since our last attempt was logged,' said C-244 calmly, shimmering a cheery shade of yellow. 'I believe I successfully established a rapport with Scourge.'

'Scourge.' Thorn raised an eyebrow.

'They identified themselves as such, commander. I trust I have documented it adequately in my report,' it replied.

She ran her fingers through her short red hair and inhaled through gritted teeth. 'Indeed,' she said. She paused a moment, making a point to look as thoughtful as she could manage. 'At any rate, I do have to admit that simply surviving your little encounter with the prisoner is reason enough for praise. You've done a great job, C-2. Thank you.'

The droid's glow illuminated her office in a bright, brilliant green, well known by C-244's superiors to be its favourite colour. 'Assistance is a primary function of mine, commander,' it said. 'Please request again if you require my aid. On this subject, is there anything else you require of me before I return to my regular duties?'

Her false smile faltered, if only for a moment. 'No,' she said. She rose from her seat to shake C-2 by the hand before gesturing politely to the door. 'No, I think you've done enough for one day. You're dismissed.'

She watched it as it left, still glowing happily to itself as it plodded out into the corridor. Thorn struggled with her smile as it slowly but surely turned into a grimace while she waved her archivist out of sight.

Once she was sure it was gone, she closed the door, returned to her desk, sat down at her chair, and slammed her head face-first into the datapad.

She didn't want C-244 to think that she was mad at it. She hadn't been lying when she told it that it had done a lot of good work, and it certainly was true that it had developed something of a rapport with the prisoner.

The problem was that the interrogation had yielded absolutely nothing of use, and her commanding officers were starting to ask questions to which she simply didn't have the answer. C-244 had successfully eked out the prisoner's personality, which was nice - it was always a good idea to bring a highly dangerous murderer out of their shell - but what she needed was cold hard facts. She needed a planet of origin, a species, a purpose, some kind of explanation as to why the damn thing had been found lurking in the abandoned tunnels beneath Moon Base Two. She needed a name, not some flowery approximation of a monster's justification for ripping humans to pieces.

Of course Thorn recognised that C-2 had done amazing work, because in all honesty? It had. She had expected her resident chief archivist to be returned to her as a twisted metal jigsaw puzzle, but it hadn't; it had walked out of the room with its non-existent head held high, making a bigger breakthrough with their prisoner than anyone else still alive had managed. And it was right to be proud of itself. She was proud of it, even though she was having a hard time convincing herself of that fact.

The problem of the matter was that the heads of the Unified Intergalactic damned Council didn't want a "rapport" with the beast. They wanted statistics. They had allowed her to keep the prisoner because she was the commander of a research vessel, and according to their alleged higher wisdom, the prisoner was a thing that needed researching.

She shouldn't even have reported the life signs when they came up on her scanner. She shouldn't have sent down a team to find the thing, sedate it and bring it on board. If she had been born with any sense, she would have seen it, realized that it was a new and dangerous species that threatened the existence of all life simply by being alive, and left it back on that barren moon where it was. It wasn't harming anyone there, and it wasn't as though it had any way to leave the base it had holed itself up in.

Any other commander in her shoes wouldn't have dreamed of bringing that beast onto their ship - and even if they had, they would have let the stupid thing slip out the airlock "by accident" and log the events "with deep regrets at the loss of potential scientific discovery". She probably could have gotten away with a little bit of praise for that, maybe even the hollow threat of a promotion.

But no, Commander Thorn was too much of a fool to let her prisoner slip out of her grip like that. In her lapse of common sense, she reported the thing to her superiors. Then they had excitedly reported that to their superiors, and those to theirs, and so on and so on. So now she had the secretary of the head of the Council breathing down her neck, buzzing her daily for updates on the situation with "their little discovery", because suddenly this was Important.

She couldn't back out. She couldn't palm the project off to anyone else. She couldn't even shoot the thing out the airlock any more, because of the amount of attention this thing was getting. All she could hope was that one day she would wake up and find the prisoner in a much more forgiving frame of mind, openly offering itself up for a complete dissection in the name of science. The way things were going, however, Thorn wasn't sure whether it was worth putting herself up for dissection instead.

As the commander fumed to herself, a request tone sounded at the door. Her head slumped in her hands. 'Come in,' she said.

The door to her office opened, and she was greeted with a brief smirk by her second in command, Lieutenant Commander Durant. 'Commander,' she nodded. 'You're looking... well.'

'Don't even start,' Thorn murmured. 'There haven't been any more calls from HQ, have there?'

'Only two, unless I'm mistaken.' Durant stifled a chuckle. 'Don't worry, commander. Everything's still being redirected from your private channel. I think you still have eight messages you haven't watched yet. You're going to have to get back to them sooner or later though.'

'Can we not? Can we just forget they ever existed?'

'Of course, commander,' said Durant, an irrepressible grin spreading across her face. 'That is, provided you don't mind being stripped of command of the Lodestar for wilfully ignoring orders given by a superior officer.'

She weighed up her options. 'As much as I may want an extended vacation,' Thorn sighed, 'I suppose you're right. I will review them later, but as for right now - is there a reason for you coming to my office, or is this just a social visit?'

The lieutenant commander approached her desk and handed her another datapad - not a standard Council issue one, Thorn noted. 'Do you want the good news or the bad news first?'

'The good news,' said Thorn. 'I need a little cheering up.'

Durant rolled her eyes. 'As you wish,' she said. 'In that case - the good news. You'll be glad to hear that what I am about to tell you has nothing to do with the prisoner or your superiors whatsoever.'

Thorn nodded. That probably wasn't the best news she could have hoped for, but at least it granted her a momentary reprieve from the usual mess she had been dealing with for the past two weeks. 'And the bad news?'

'The bad news is that we've had an undocumented item transported to our research team by a couple of Earth traders who are being, um, difficult.'

'Define "difficult",' said Thorn, narrowing her eyes.

'They're refusing to leave the ship without payment for their service,' Durant explained. 'I have tried to tell them that payment is handled when registering a delivery, not when deliveries are made, but they don't seem to be fully grasping the concept.'

'You mean to tell me they don't know how delivering cargo works?'

'Apparently not, commander,' said Durant. She leaned over and swiped a hand across the datapad, the image on its surface shifting to a crudely typed note, littered with inexcusable punctuation. Thorn pulled a face as she glanced across it. 'This is their letter of complaint to the commander of this vessel. I thought you should be notified.'

'And they're refusing to leave, you say?' Thorn mused as she read the note. 'These people from the... the "Turner & Wheeler Delivery Company", whatever that might be.'

'Precisely. They're staging a peaceful protest down in R&D Lab Six.' Durant's usually sunny disposition paled a little as she spoke. She wrung her hands together awkwardly. 'They're not being any trouble, commander, but they do need to be dealt with; both of them and their cargo.'

'Ah, yes,' said Thorn. 'Their cargo. What was it?'

Durant looked sheepishly at her. 'Well... that's the thing. It's, um... It's unusual. I... I think you're going to have to take a look for yourself.'

#writing #fiction #my ocs #oc: c-244 #oc: caroline thorn #oc: roseanna durant #i've been watching a lot of star trek lately

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