#oc: ivory sea pearl

[b0nb0nni]

[tapewormzz]

EXCLAMATION: YAPPING !!!!

Hi. This is where i start being cringe and do ocposting. ^_^

Ok so let me introduce U all (the three of you! Wow! 3 follower milestone! Im popular!) to my oc realm. It is called The Divinity but the planet is called Hicothea.

Created and ruled by the Divine Three (managed by little sets of demi-gods, servants of the Divinities, and their kingdoms and whatnot), Hicothea is a vast planet, with many different species inhabiting it. (It is also pangea-like...)

Ermmmm... So. I do have a whole thing written out for the beginning. So read it. Or dont:

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The beginning was as vapid as the winter snow was cold and as the deserts ran parched and dry. Solitude was a cage of His own design, each of His crevices plump with skill of constituent birth uncomfortably squirming and seeping through the bars of the prison. He had both the key and yet He fastened the lock and gulped it down into the pit of His stomach. His Divinity would sit there unused, tortured, rattling the confinement of His predicament. It burned a hole through His chest and soul, the matter curling inwards as were His capillaries and veins and messy barely-human guts. He drowned in the nothingness of the black sea before Him, He could only breathe and fill the silence with meaningless echoes of His thoughts. The biology seeped into the fissures of the cage, dark matter engulfing Him entirely, His gracious palms worthlessly grasping at the bars He had grown used to, pulled and stretched into something He was meant to be. He was unafraid of creating life but afraid of living. The idea of a singular divine being was chewing the sockets of His eyes and the gums of that jewel-filled mouth.

Marbled floors appeared before Him, decorated to His liking; the very way He imagined temples of His soldiers for their upheld worship of Him, pillars sprouting from the nestled cracks in the polished stone, taking root against the dark. It stuck out against the bruised space, a saviour's humble palace, awaiting His return as He swam through the violent sludge. Grasping at the marble, He observed His tainted palms, sanguine light sparking before Him and eating away at the revered flesh. The smell filled the empty silence as it spattered honey-magma against the rock below, growing in fury; the blaze growing in size equal to Him, the spur of heat taking form of another Divinity, feeding on the First's energy until it was His counterpart.

The First stared as the Second burst in laughter, ringing the ears of His holiness, choking His throat and burning His chest. The scorched God-meat took its rightful place against the ivory bone, skin writhing over the raw flesh until it was returned to its originating state. The laughing reverberated in the Second's lungs, His creation choked the First, squeezing metallic fluid through His tear-ducts, through His gaping mouth, through His ears; the liquid-metal bit away at His flesh and tore its way through His veins. He cupped the elegant chaos into His hands, letting it drip onto the floor as the steady stream continued from His innards. It gorged on the Second's light and the First's power, the unbalanced darkness beckoning to become part of It. As It spilled against the floor, It rose, shadowing both the First and the Second. Their holy body took footing and sprouted as did the pillars, silence radiating once more. The First sputtered out a cough as the final drops of mercury made its way to its God.

The First rejoiced. He was no longer alone; tortured into creation.

All three rejoiced. They were meant to be Creators.

The gleeful cheer suddenly spit itself onto the floor, violent water crashing against the three as it pulled their Divinties and swallowed them whole. The fluid stripped all three until it gained its rightful power, seafoam congealing into the gentle figure of the Fourth, throwing all three back to their feet as tears traced Her cheeks, solidifying into valuably fresh pearls, knocking against each other atop the marbled floor. Her creation was an overwhelming crest of emotion.

Then, there were four.

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Ok to boil this down.

The First - ???

The Second - Solis Arevik (God of the Enlightened) all prns but most frequently uses HE/HIM

The Third - Lune Speculiy (God of the Shadowed) THEY/THEM

The Fourth - Opthalina Vudya (Goddess of the Drowned) SHE/HER

Will make a more clear post on each of these buggers later ^

Solis, Lune and Opthalina were all created by The First.... From his own power. It is not like he birthed them, they are not related. They are kind of like... If u took every aspect of the First and tore it from him to create personas of these aspects, they no longer belong to the First and the First cannot wield their power anymore.

Lune, Solis & Opthalina were craving to create. They knew The First would suggest they split their power until they created something marvelous, but why ruin oneself just to create? Why make something marvelous if you will not be there to marvel at it? This sparks controversy.

They live among the dark matter - rot, energy, whatever you call it. It is living, breathing, but not really human or god or otherwise. Just matter, that is controlled by the interactions between Gods. It is able to destroy anything created by the Gods (including them).

Lune suggests killing the First.

Solis agrees.

Opthalina eventually does as well.

And so i wrote a little poem. To explain it. Look at me being studious. This is really old btw

————

Waltz of the Divine

sweet song rang through rot,

lungs full with sweet air,

they sang their songs and drunk their drinks

the sweet nectar of creation seeping through

their fat, their skin, their muscle, their meat.

'twere the centuries of jest,

their laughter spread, from tooth to tooth,

but jesting grew tiresome when you were the one they called 'king'.

the ubiquity was not nearly enough to chew,

there was nothing to gorge on. No feast to be celebrated.

the placenta of creation was denied,

their birthright.

exclamation struck at the air,

the whip leaving deep fermented gashes,

as the rot began to pull them apart, it feasted so lavishly it could almost grow teeth.

it did not leave any bit untouched, not even the worms in their hearts and heads.

and so, as their last act, to please the rot,

they performed, each foot after the other.

once more they jested,

this time with sour tongue and playful song.

the room of dance, lively and colorful,

sparked anew, until their entertainment was satisfactory.

now, wings free from clipping,

they placed the fertile seed of army,

their followers - playthings - concoctions, experiments,

it all grew on one soil, one body.

but to grow was to sacrifice power,

their bodies were far too holy to split for barbarians, their servants.

fuel was needed and fuel there would be.

So, then, there were three.

————

Ummm so ya. And bc of this the entire planet celebrates the yearly solar waltz where those three dance n celebrate. If it goes well the planet bodes well. If it doesnt wellll... Not so much

Also i have to mention that every person is created using souldust. Erm. It is like . Idk. A soul. Gods have the most, demi-gods after that, then normal ppl and animals and what not. Souldust has a fate and is created by the person's respective patron god. And so on.

My Next post is about territories Ok ok. Ok ^_^

I will b using the tag #DivinityTpwrm to tag whatever I post about my ocs just because im soooooooooY Organised *_*

If u steal any od this I will find you... And i will ... Do unspeakable things. Yeah. But i hope this is unlikely. I am a bit of a jittery cat when it comes to sharing my thoughts but I hope tumblr is nice to me about it

[awlwren-writes]

10 & 21 for Helen and Maria from the OC asks, please!

10. if they wear jewelry, what kind? do they prefer silver or gold? do they have a favorite gem?

Helen: Helen has a charm on a necklace that she wears tucked under all of her armor. She figures if they can grab that, they could have grabbed her collar, so it's not too much of a risk. The charm was given to her by her family when she came of age, and is meant to last until she gets married, at which point she would get a different charm from her spouse's family and save her current charm for her eldest daughter. The chain and clasp are both a sterling silver alloy, as silver is more valued in Insomnia as a general rule. The charm itself is probably something to do with Leviathan, but the details are a secret, not to be shared outside the family. Just seeing the hint of a disk under her shirt and the chain around her neck is enough to show to most Insomnians that she is a proper woman, though.

Back in Insomnia, Helen will wear the occasional bracelet or anklet, but doesn't wear much other jewelry, and each one is a gift. She tends toward silver and black abstract knotwork designs, and if it does have a gem, it's usually a diamond or glass imitation of diamond.

Maria: Maria doesn't wear fine jewelry as a general rule, other than the focus gem of her uniform, which she is very proud of, and a silver ring with a small blue gem that she swears has protective properties. If she does get dressed up she tends toward pearls, if she can, or sculptural pieces of flowers in anything from ivory to platinum to plastic.

In everyday life, though, she wears leather bracelets with whatever her favorite slogans of the day on them, and sometimes spikes.

21. their favorite place to be?

Helen: Helen truly loves her hometown, and loves going into museums of the local history of all the different districts. She thought she died when she got to explore the Royal Libraries, and had to be dragged out. That said, she also enjoys the Royal Gardens, and perching on top of the wall, where she can see both inside and outside of the city. Nyx is the one who helped her find the way up there, and she feels a little guilty when she goes up there as she probably shouldn't be there, but it is very peaceful, and a good place to clear her head when she needs to be alone.

Maria: Maria loves exploring new places, finding the little shops tucked away in back alleys that no one but the locals know. She has a couple of favorite hole-in-the-wall bars and restaurants she likes to rotate through. She also very much enjoys the ocean, and has been known to just ride the ferries around to hear people talking and smell the breeze from far out to sea.

But more often then not, you'll find the two of them pulled up in a break room in the bowels of the Perry that they campaigned to be named the game room, playing board games with whatever glaives they can rope in or reading together or both. And occasionally getting up to solve arguments in the games by physical sparring or another quick game. It's the perfect mix of social with a purpose and also with a chance to be alone to suit both of their needs.

[queen-rainy-love]

Alright. I'm just gonna list out the names and briefly talk about them. Let's see...

There's of course Bubble Pearl. Daughter of Oyster and stepdaughter of Captain Caviar. She's the OC I used the most, even getting an arc to herself. I'll probably make a sequel to that arc in the future.

Next is her enemy, Braised Abalone. Grandson of the worst Cookie out there, Abalone. He will be an interesting character to write in future stories.

Next are three minor characters that I had originally planned to have bigger roles but was cut due to time: Magenta Jellyfish, Mauve Jellyfish, and Ivory Jellyfish. I really want to use them more.

I pretty much threw this one in the void: Cream Scone. He's my version of that Cookie stranded in the Duskgloom Sea and he's Light Cream's older brother. Maybe I'll write more about him again.

I haven't written much about this one since she was only made her recently: French Vanilla. She's Pure Vanilla's mom, making her the grandmother of the Pure Lily kids. Still working on her.

Finally, these four are future characters that actually have made a minor appearance in the AO3 story: Coffee Cake, Blue Velvet, Berry Custard, and Pineberry. All I can say about them: next generation.

So funny thing...I didn't realize how many CRK OCs I technically have. I'm just as surprised. I have a total of 11 OCs. I don't know how I got this many but I would love to talk about them. Some are background characters. Some are supporting characters. And some are future characters for the AU. It'll be fun.

[punkandsnacks]

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.

 ~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

[saint-kore]

When We Were Young. [Frank N’ Furter/OC] (Chapter 1)

♡ A/N: Hi everyone! I'm back with more writing. How exciting! Now this is a bit more drawn out because it's multi-chaptered! I actually started writing this back in October but I only posted it on AO3. I just wanted to write a really romantic story with a character that is the least bit romantic lol. I was inspired whenever I was reading through the script for Revenge of The Old Queen and I enjoyed the gothic aesthetic of Transylvania, the idea of Frank actually being a Prince and other tidbits and soon brainstormed a few HC's and suddenly a original character appeared (like always lol.) I have so much more to say but I'll save it for the next chapter notes. I’ll more than likely post the next chapter tomorrow. Please read and enjoy! -Persie♡

♡ Story Synopsis: RHPS A/U. In order to keep the royal Transylvanian bloodline intact, Prince Frank is betrothed to the daughter of a Transylvanian socialite on his 13th birthday. However, when she comes to see visit him during his mission on Earth after three years, she found that everything is not as it seems. This story is an exploration into the memories of young romance, passion, betrayal, jealousy and forgiveness. Some events have been changed for the sake of storytelling. ♡

♡ Chapter Word Count: 1,216 ♡

♡ Contains: No warnings really. Just Kid Frank being well, being Kid Frank♡

Chapter 1: under the ivory moon.

Black eyes stared out at the oily black liquid hitting the shore, black shoes burying deep into the iron sand. The sound of muffled rejoicing and shouts of joy filled the air, cries of hedonistic delight and mania was nothing new to the little girl’s ears. It was fairly common in Transylvania but today was a special event. It was the Prince’s 12th birthday today and a fairly raucous celebration was ongoing in the palace and on every sprawling road of the planet. She had decided to wander away after eating most of the candy hors d’oeuvres from one of the platters so she would not get reprimanded. The young girl tugged at her glove, carefully climbing to perch herself on a tombstone shaped rock. She delicately played with a jagged piece of a blood red ruby that she found upon the rock. It glistened in the moonlight, reflecting the twinkling into her dark eyes. She smiled as she tucked into her pocket, feeling her pocket immediately become heavy from the weight of it. She looked down and let out a small gasp when the brightness of a diamond caught her eyes, the oily sea brushing over it before revealing the glimmering jewel once more. She carefully climbed down from the rock, her Transylvanian black heeled shoes scraping against the rock. She reached her hand out to pick up the lovely little gem from the sand. She brushed the ebony specks from its glittering face with a smile. The viscous black liquid of the shore wrapped around the top of her shoes, making her lift her foot out of the dripping goo. She sneered lightly, shaking her leg to try to get the rest of the sludge off. “That’s not yours…,” a voice sounded, making the girl look up in surprise. She held the gem to her chest as she studied the boy curiously, gently flipping against her throbbing heart. She immediately recognized the boy as Prince Frank, who had wandered away from his party as well. He was a few inches taller than her, his unruly hair rising from his head like a curly halo, striking green eyes and a wide mouth that was always set with an arrogant smile. She immediately bowed, still holding tight the diamond that she had found. The boy watched her bow, studying her with an almost blank gaze. Her curtain of glossy black waves covering her face as she lowered her head. He reached out to poke the top of her head, making her wide almond eyes look up at him in attention. “Your Highness…,” she spoke quietly, shifting on her feet as she stared at him meekly.

“Commoners aren’t supposed to have diamonds…,” he said, reaching out to snatch the diamond from the girl’s small palms. The girl instinctively reached for it again, much to Frank’s surprise only for him to tuck it in his back pocket. His velvet roquelaure cloak waving slightly with his movement, giving her a mischievous smile. The young girl was slightly was surprised at how wide his mouth was, his whole face seeming to turn up with his grin. Frank giggled when she let out a little sigh of defeat, knowing that she could not fight him for it. Frank pondered if he should give it back to her or not, studying her closely. She seemed to be near his age, a little younger. Her eyes were as black as the Transylvanian sea, mute and beautiful. To his surprise, her clothes radiated with funereal opulence with the black lace ruffle blouse with puffed shoulders and sheer sleeves with a leather belt looped into her waist high pants. The silver buckle of her belt glistening with the Transylvanian emblem in the moonlight. Silk mid arm-length gloves gracing her small, doll hands that nervously moved to straighten the wrinkles in her pants, her small heels digging into the sand. “What’s your name?” Frank asked after a beat, making the girl give him a soft, polite smile.

“Lovenza Lise,” she replied, making Frank giggle again. Lovenza frowned slightly at the sound of it, tucking a thick tress of hair behind her ear. “That’s such a boring name! I mean, really did your parents even try?” he remarked, making Lovenza frown even more. Her heels dug into the sand as if she were trying to root herself, the ruby in her pocket seemed to weigh her down even more.

“It is not!” she blurted before she could stop herself, making the prince regard her in playful amusement and wonder. A big grin spread across his small face in recognition as he studied her face, snickering at the pout on her face.

“I know you. You are the daughter of the Count Lise, aren’t you? He is always at the palace, having tea with Mother,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Mother speaks highly of him all of the time…,” he trailed off, untucking the diamond from his pocket to hold in his gloved hand.

Lovenza was immediately reminded of the image of her father; tall and stately of a slim frame dressed in thigh-high boots, dark gloves, and a form-fitted tuxedo. Lovenza gave a short nod in confirmation, clasping her hands behind her.

“May I have the gem back, Your Highness?” she asked, changing the subject to the diamond that he was holding gently in his hand. “Why? You know it is against Transylvanian law for the subjects to have diamonds and pearls,” he stated, his pompous accent lacing his words. Lovenza began to silently wonder why he was there, so far away from his own birthday celebration but before she could ask him why, he interrupted her thoughts.

“I’ll give it back to you if you really want them. I have no use for them, honestly,” he drawled lazily, as he held the diamond in his hand. “But you’ll have to kiss me first…,” Lovenza drew back in surprise, watching an impish smile form on Frank’s face followed by a giggle. She studied his expression, waiting for him to say that he was joking about what he said only for him to remain wordless and patient waiting for his request to be fulfilled.

“Like…a kiss on the lips?” she asked innocently, glancing around almost nervously and Frank nodded urgently, a glitter sparking in his green eyes. Lovenza hesitated, wringing her gloved hands together. Was she even allowed to do something like this? He was the prince; he had not been betrothed as of yet, but she knew that it would be announced on his next birthday for sure. Frank waited patiently; his eyes become half-lidded as he watched her space out in thought. He finally decided to lean in to give her a peck on the lips, catching her in surprise. She kissed him back automatically, her face becoming hot from embarrassment.

Frank gave a satisfied giggle, tossing the sparkling diamond up for her to catch. Lovenza cupped her hands out to catch the precious gem in her hands and immediately shoved it into her pocket.

“After you, my lady,” he said with a theatrical bow, gesturing for them to go back to the festivities. Lovenza eyed him for a moment with a blush before walking towards the joyous noises of the celebration with a beaming Frank following behind.

[thegoblinwitchqueen]

In This Eden

Chapter: 7

Dutch Van der Linde X OC

18+

AO3

”Florence, your face is unflattering at that… angle. Keep your chin elevated and your shoulders back. Mr. Barlowe does not want to marry a girl with a hunchback.“

With a hand held fan made of ivory colored silk imported from the ancient land of China, Grace Dryden scowled with disgust as she fervently cooled the sweat glistened and pink colored skin of her flushed neck and chest. The soft fabric of her massive dress spilled over and filled the entirety of what little available and empty space present like mustard colored clouds as she sat across from her young daughter in the confines of a small, yet vastly ornate, passenger carriage headed to Annesburg.  

Tightly laced and tightly lipped, the woman was well into her fiftieth year and finally felt the god awful symptoms of her long anticipated menopause. However, while donned with an array of expensive pearls, a heavily painted face, and layered petticoats that put even the most wealthy of Saint Dennis gentry to shame, the woman looked no more than thirty. Her many years of gentle life and comfortability allowed her to maintain her skin and full figure in ways that many women had only dreamed of. 

The carriage swayed and bumped over every root and rock of the barely beaten path that Grace hated with a passion like a ship at sea. Her stomach churned, and her heartbeat quickened as nausea made her mouth fill with saliva. She desperately missed the smoothly paved roads that traveled calmly throughout the high rise buildings of Richmond. 

Florence, on the other hand, ignored the way her mother hissed at every minor inconvenience she caused herself, and took in the fresh air as though it was the first time she had ever truly breathed. 

Having never left the chaotic city life, Florence felt drawn to the wilderness of New Hanover despite the unfortunate circumstances that brought her to the heavily wooded and uncharted territory dressed in an insufferable gown of pink ruffles.

Florence was on her way to meet her new… fiancé. 

Although, by the way her mother had dressed and acted for the entirety of their lengthy trip, it seemed to Florence as though Grace was the one about to meet her future husband, and not her reluctant daughter just shy of her eighteenth birthday.

“Then I should make sure I hunch even more. By the time we get there, I should be as hunched and deformed as Quasimodo.” Florence scoffed lightly under her breath as she kept her eyes focused on the passing trees and fresh foliage of the mountainside trail. 

With anxiety at the forefront of her mind, the gloved hands of the young woman pulled at the lace lining of her ornate petticoat as the frustration festered further each moment the carriage neared the bustling train town. Her mother, Grace, rolled her eyes and scoffed, suddenly closing the fan with a loud rap to grab her daughter’s reluctant attention.

“I heard that.” The woman seethed as she tucked a loose curl from her pompadour style behind her ear. She continued, and clicked her tongue despite the way her shoulders tensed at the sight of Florence’s eyes as they rolled to the back of her skull. “You should be grateful that your father arranged this immaculate marriage. Clifford Barlowe is a highly desirable man! In fact, he turned down twenty beautiful young women just to be married to an average looking…thing.” 

Florence rolled her eyes once more, and mouthed the words that left her mothers thin lips as though she had heard the speech a million times. Which, she truthfully, had. Grace’s brows furrowed and, In frustration, Grace swatted the defiant girl's knuckles with her fan—-hard. Hard enough for the thin yet sturdy bamboo to break the fair skin underneath the satin fabric. Florence jumped in pain, and sucked air through her teeth as she fought through the sting of her delicate flesh.

“Enough of this awful attitude of yours! My god, you’re so difficult! Your sister would have been more…suited for this I will admit. However, since Francis passed, we are stuck with you.” The woman pressed the top of her fan against her rouge painted lips and scowled once again as her piercing eyes inspected the scrawny girl up and down. Florence was a late bloomer, unlike her deceased sister, and the touch of womanhood barely laid a finger against her soft face. 

A bead of sweat exposed Grace’s flesh by way of a line that cut through her thick face powder like a knife to a cake  as it rolled from her thinly lined brow down to her extremely bound bodice. 

Florence seethed and held her mothers face with an intense stare.

Suddenly, Another heave from the carriage caused the older woman to rush to steady herself as she felt a cold wave of nausea throughout her being, and gagged. Once the fear of vomiting subsided, Grace pounded with heavy fists against the roof of the carriage in anger at their young footman.

“George, you useless fool! Be more careful or I will ruin my dress before we arrive at the Barlowe residence and if I do—-you can guarantee no meals for a week!” 

“You shouldn’t talk to George like that.” Florence snapped as she watched the red of her knuckles bleed through the white satin of her glove. The stain was a dark and vibrant red similar to the color her mother forced her to smear thickly on her lips. “He works very hard to take care of us.” 

Grace smirked, and scoffed as she desperately fanned herself to fight the motion sickness that plagued her. 

“Always the noble one, Effie. George is nothing more than a servant. An undesirable.” 

“That doesn’t make him any less of a person—“

WAP

Like the cold sting of winter, her mothers fan collided with the soft flesh of Florence’s cheek. With a seething anger behind her eyes, her mother used the remaining bit of strength she had to silence her disobedient child one last time before she became another man’s problem. Stunned, Florence touched her hand to her cheek.

“Don’t start with me! I let your little romance go on long enough!” The woman pulled forth a forceful yell from deep within her lungs as she watched her daughter, wide eyed as a young doe, wipe the blood from her cheek. “Did you really expect us to allow you to live amongst squalor with a...footman? Really, Florence, you are a foolish girl. Francis would have not defied me the way you do. Honestly, god chose the wrong daughter to strike down with consumption. You are a Dryden, and as such you are required to keep our wealth and impeccable status secure through this marriage! And this is the last we will speak of!”

The sting from the name of her dead sister hurt Florence more than the tender bruise that began to turn purple and welt through the flesh of her rouge painted face. 

“I never asked for this…” Effie hissed like a viper cornered. She felt the tears of anger and grief form like hot droplets in the inner corners of her eyes despite her attempt to squash the sign of weakness. “I didn’t ask for Frankie to die!”

 Florence smeared her own powered face to wipe the hot tears. Her mother only watched with an empathetic expression—-genuine or not. 

Grace's eyes softened, and she reached to hold her distraught daughter's chin within her gloved grasp. She cooed, and soothed the girl's pain with gentle kisses as she  did when Effie was just a babe who had only scraped her knee while playing amongst the flowers. Florence bit her lip to keep herself from releasing the scream of pure hatred that bubbled in her gut as she stared into her mothers cold eyes.

“Effie…the first impression created between the initial meeting of two arranged lovers is… everything.” Grace spoke softly and wiped a tear from Florence’s scowl. “You know, experts in Austria say that it takes seven seconds for you to know if it’s love at first sight. Your daddy and I…we knew even before that. If you’re lucky then you and Mr. Barlowe will also feel that spark. And if you don’t fall in love, this marriage will at least lead to a comfortable life. Trust me, love is overrated and God forbid you ever knew what it was like to be poor..”

Effie pulled her face from her mothers tight grasp, and turned her focus out the window once more and onto the Smokey clouds that emitted high into the sky from the coal mines. Grace allowed her thin brows to furrow once more. A few moments of heavy silence passed between them with nothing but the sounds of the horses' hooves reverberating through the carriage. Florence bit at the corner of her lip until she found the strength to say the words that desperately clawed at her tongue. The girl parted her lips slightly.

“I’d rather live a life of poverty where I spent every night on a thin bedroll under the stars if it meant being with the man I loved.”

“Florence Dryden, you are a fool.”

__________________________________

The wanted posters did not give the man justice.

Though taller than expected, and with a set of muscular shoulders broad just enough so that the fabric of his softly worn button up pulled tightly against his frame from underneath a red, satin and paisley patterned vest he meticulously secured around his torso—-The infamous Dutch Van der Linde was not the mythical being from the legends spun by Pinkertons who had managed to survive their encounters with the enigma, but rather, he was just like his counterpart Hosea Matthews: just a man.

The muscles of her clenched jaw ached from the vast amount of tension that radiated through her body. Effie stood silently with her fists tightly balled which trembled as if she was freezing though her body burned hot as the campfire that crackled as it brewed their morning coffee. Her dark eyes never wavered, and watched with seething hatred as the wanted outlaw dismounted the horse that belonged to her murdered lover in one swift and solid motion. 

Her hands stung as a result of fresh blood that weeped from underneath her fingernails as they pressed firmly into the soft flesh of her palm. The pain was the only sensation she felt as she observed, with a blank expression, the subtle light that flickered off of the metallic clasps that dangled from the vest of Dutch Van der Linde. 

Dutch removed his black stalker hat, sighed, and ran his palm slowly along the length of his jet black hair to tame any unruly pieces that had escaped their pomade hold during his ride with Effie’s mighty mount. A cloud of hot steam rose from Perses body like the morning summer mists of Saint Denis, and his breath escaped his nostrils like a dragon blowing smoke. 

It appeared that Dutch had pushed the horse hard during their ride, and despite her frustration with the animal, Effie felt sorry for the creature for he was trained to withstand long distance rides chasing bounties across state lines and not sudden bursts of speed to escape the law.

 With a single motion of his Hand that wore a good number of, most likely stolen, gold rings, Dutch gave the exhausted beast a sturdy pat against the Bretons thick neck and turned to face the woman he had saved from Death's lingering gasp. 

For just a moment, Effie felt a static sensation rush through her body, and the blood behind her ears pounded as the two held each other’s dark eyes in an intense stare. However, Dutch quickly broke their gaze to greet a few young men riding their own mounts as they emerged from the woods, and dismounted to hitch their horses.

Effie blinked away the dryness that blurred her vision, and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat…hard. 

“Your horse is quite the monster!” Dutch exclaimed as though he did not acknowledge the strange sensation they shared.

Perhaps he had not felt it as she did.

Still, the tone of his voice reminded Effie of a glass of hard whiskey, deep and smooth against his palate as he spoke. “He’s not terribly fast, but I struggled to keep him under control when turning or stopping. As well, he ain’t very nice.”

The young woman’s lip twitched and Dutch, pleased with himself, released a chuckle deep from his lungs as he approached Hosea and Effie with a gait slightly altered by many years of lengthy horse rides across the vast American West. However, Dutch Van der Linde never once faltered and his body radiated an aura of unadulterated ambition. 

As he reached an arms length from Florence, he smiled and extended his hand to greet her. Reluctantly, Effie returned his greeting and Dutch took hold of her palm  to gently kiss her knuckles.  

His eyes flicked up to meet hers again, and she could see an inkling of his well known charm that he hid behind dark brown windows to his soul. The very charm that could convince even the devil himself to release Dutch Van der Linde from even hell's own eternal damnation. 

However, Effie was not so easily swayed by meaningless gestures…especially from a man she wished dead. Without a word, she removed her hand from his calloused fingers and wished that she could wipe the kiss from her palm.

 The feeling of his lips against her skin lingered.

“Perses doesn’t care for intense or strenuous activities,” Effie snapped, though she tried her best to compose herself as the sickening burn of bitter rage bubbled and boiled like slick black tar from deep within the confines of her abdomen. She forced a slight smile through the pain of her swollen face, and continued to ignore the occasional flick of harsh words that desperately wanted to escape their locked cage of clenched teeth.

Had she not been surrounded by Dutch’s boys, she would have attacked him and scratched his charming eyes free from his face.

“…nor does he care for strange men.” 

The subtle hint of harshness that lingered on her words caused the dark brows of the outlaws face to raise in amusement and intrigue.  Simultaneously, Hosea chuckled and lit a fresh cigarette for himself before he offered his companion one.

“Well, I will make sure to introduce myself to the titan next time so that I won’t be a stranger.” Dutch laughed as he placed the tobacco between his lips. Effie allowed a huff of... laughter? Maybe—to escape her lungs.

She couldn’t help but observe the man’s features, and hated to admit that he was a bit more attractive than she had anticipated. Had they met in different circumstances, she would not deny that his appearance would have incited a lingering glance at a saloon or party. But, there they were—-hidden on an overlook.

Dutch was a man who took pride in his appearance. His facial hair consisted of a well groomed mustache and a small patch underneath his bottom lip, and Effie knew Dutch took meticulous care over his appearance, and commended him on his ability to do so while living a life of harshness. however, she averted her gaze with a slight flush to her cheeks when she caught the man observing her face as well. At least, what he could see past her broken nose and blackened eyes.

“Perses…are you a fan of Greek mythology?” Dutch chuckled, shifting his weight onto one leg as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Should I expect your own name to be either Persephone or Hera?” 

Florence felt her eyes as they narrowed while they searched, for she had not expected him to know much of things such as ancient mythology. From all her records, Dutch had not received an education past his childhood years and yet…he spoke in a way that made him appear as knowledgeable as a scholar. He must have spent what little free time he had between his constant moving to escape capture by reading whatever books he could find. 

“Florence.” Effie responded flatly, her smile no longer present across her bruised features. Dutch only continued to chuckle, and did not seem to mind her combativeness by the way his lip curled into a smirk that exposed his canine which...almost seemed to beg her to continue. In fact, it seemed as though he thoroughly enjoyed it. The outlaw took another long drag of his cigarette, and silence fell between the two as they unconsciously sized each other up. 

“Florence… flower.” Dutch released the smoke slowly. “So, Miss Flower , what brings you to our humble abode?”

Their dark eyes did not break contact. Effie licked her lips as she danced around the various excuses she struggled to retrieve from her brain. Though, it did not truly matter for Hosea had already caught her in a lie. She knew the name of Dutch Van der Linde, and Hosea knew that. Effie parted her lips slightly to speak, but was stopped.

“Miss Florence, this is Dutch Van der Linde.” Hosea slightly coughed as he cut in to break the heavy tension that had unknowingly permeated the air around the two. Florence eyed Hosea with confusion, surprise, and finally, suspicion.

 Still, the man was sure to avoid her gaze and maintained his focus on his  friend..

“I was talking to Miss Florence about our gang before you arrived. She’s a performer, and It appeared that she was on her way here from Valentine hoping to join us when the storm caused her horse to spook. Sadly, she was told by the locals that we were a traveling band, and did not realize exactly what we were. Still, she has nowhere to go. I offered for her to stay for a while. Only, if that is alright with you?”

Join them? Performer?!

At that moment, Effie was thoroughly perplexed, her jaw hung open as though she was going to speak…and yet she could not find the words. Hosea was protecting her…but why? 

“A performer?” Dutch raised an eyebrow. “What is your specialty?”

“Horse acrobatics.” Hosea laughed as he finally caught the eyes of the baffled woman. A deep and hearty laughter burst from Dutch’s core and, for some odd reason, Effie felt embarrassed and defensive.

“What’s so funny? I’ll have you know I’m a very talented performer.” Florence exclaimed, and Hosea too couldn’t help but laugh. Dutch composed himself, and wiped a tear from his eye while the brows across Effie’s forehead furrowed furiously.

“I apologize, Miss.” Dutch tossed the butt of his cigarette on the dirt and stomped it out. “I'm sure you are. However, we don’t really need a horse performer. ”

Suddenly, and as if she was hit with the branch that broke her nose, Florence realized just what Hosea had done for her. She quickly jerked her head to look at the older gentleman. Hosea stood with his arms crossed and awaited the next words to leave the young woman’s lips.

This was it. 

This was the reason.

Hosea had given her a once in a lifetime chance to plead ignorance with no harm or foul. The man wanted her to take this opportunity to leave with her life. However, Effie felt her tongue dry as though her mouth was filled with cotton. 

If she was a smarter woman, Effie would have decided to end her lust for revenge and take the opportunity Hosea laid out for her to move on. With a heavy heart, She would return home to Annesburg to Cliff, and normalcy would eventually return as she processed Buck's death. Maybe…the asylum in Virginia would be kind to her. 

After all, she had nothing. Buck was dead, and as a result, so was Ike. Her empire of bounty hunting had burned to the ground when Buck bled out on the grass of the upper Montana. Her hopes and dreams of a better life…children… 

She had nothing to live for.

“I know a lot about horses. I can cook, clean, sew…” Effie’s voice, though weak, grew as she thought of Buck. She thought of the way his hands used to caress her back as they slept in their tiny bounty wagon. She thought of his eyes and smile…and suddenly, the rage that kept her alive in the woods returned and ignited. She would have her revenge.

 Hosea furrowed his brow as he realized what was about to happen. Effie smiled, and straightened her posture. “Please, Mr. Van der Linde. Let me stay.” 

“Call me Dutch.”

[transinklingboy]

...I've had the biggest urge to talk about my splatoon ocs.

Ivory: he/him, very gay, loves being green. Is my agent 3. He's the one in my icon. The oldest of the three at 22 he's in a loving relationship with Agent 8 (Roy, and not pictured). They met through the octo expansion and he needs an art update. Mainly a roller main but got better at guns through having to be an agent. Has a little cowlick tentacle that never comes down. His beak is actually a little crooked on the bottom. Has brown stripes from his dads side. Still plays turf war and ranked and usually goes on salmon run jobs to keep his and Roy's apartment since being an agent doesn't pay the big bucks.

Cello: Rhymes with Jello, Agent "4.5" friends with Agent 4, followed after him into octo canyon and got recruited by Sheldon to test those pesky agent weapons. So she basically ended up repeating "levels" 4 went through, replacing run out zapfish toys so the octolings don't realize they've been stolen (and also why theres toys they generate about as much power as the zap fish so the society doesn't collaspe. Completely a headcanon, the toys themselves can run out of power and it takes every single try of every weapon to finally have the perfected toy in place for the octolings that don't run out of power)

Was caught on agent radio talking about how she doesn't like the Squid Sisters music. Marie wasn't impressed but Sheldon salvaged it saying 4.5 was needed for the possible future agent 5's weapons to be the best. She's 21, absolutely loves girls, has a celebrity crush on Pearl. Is jealous of agent 8 and 4 having met Off the Hook.

Sheer: Agent 8.5, 18, and nonbinary. Their in my header. They don't remember how they ended up in Deep Sea Metro. More then half of their memories are still locked away behind tests. They met Agent 8 when he was exploring the subway and found Sheer. They talked and agreed upon leaving together. Sheer never met Cap'n or Padre as he hid far away from everyone, too nervous to talk. He completed some of Agent 8's tests in exchange for being able to leave with him. Sadly the events of "leaving" didn't go exactly as planned. Sheer escaped out the hole Agent 3 made but took the same back tunnels Agent 3 had to make it to the surface. They're learning to deal with their lost memories but do hope to head back down there one day to retrieve them.

They got shot in the eye and clipped in the ear during Girl Power station and now their right eye appears to be partially saniatized. They wear contacts and glasses to make up for the fact that eye has a lot of trouble focusing. Usually their main color is octoling pink. They hate being green, reminds them too much of the fact they could have been sanatized.

[gyanyognet-blog]

Rome To Tamilakam Trade Route Description. 12000 Years Ago

New Post has been published on https://gyanyog.net/rome-to-tamilakam-trade-route-description-12000-years-ago/

Rome To Tamilakam Trade Route Description. 12000 Years Ago

It is often assumed that Indian and Relations with Europe,especially with Italy, Greece began with the arrival of Alexander in India.

This is incorrect.

Trade relations between Greece and Vedic India are found during Vedic times, as evidenced in Vedas,Purans,Ranayana and Mahabharata.

Ionians were called as Yavanas.

Tamil Kings, Chera,Chola and Pandyas carried on trade relationship with Europe , the latest date being 87 BC.

This date has been arrived at by referring Western Sources Pliny , The Elder, Arrian and Strabo, Grrek Historians.

The point to be noted is that they declare that trade continued with Tamilakam during the Period of Augustus and not ‘it began from the time of Augustus’.

Fact that Tamilakam was described extensively in Greek literature,that Sanskrit and Tamil texts belonging to period earlier to 87 BC, more specifically by Silappadikaram.

Now Poompuhar which has been excavated in Tanil Nadu, which is referred to by ancient western writers, has been dated around 12000 years ago, , it is reasonable to propose that trade between Tamilakam / India and Rome/ West existed 12000 years ago, conservatively.

‘The trade route taken by ships from Rome to Tamilakam has been described in detail by the writers, such as Strabo and Pliny the Elder. Roman and Arab sailors were aware of the existence of the monsoon winds that blew across the Indian Ocean on a seasonal basis. A Roman captain named Hippalus first sailed a direct route from Rome to India, using the monsoon winds. His method was later improved upon by merchants who shortened the voyage by sailing due east from the port of Cana or Cape Guardafui, finding that by this way it was possible to go directly from Rome to Tamilakam. Strabo writes that every year, about the time of the summer solstice, a fleet of one hundred and twenty vessels sailed from Myos Hormos, a port of Egypt on the Red Sea, and headed toward India. With assistance from the monsoons, the voyage took forty days to reach the ports of Tamilakam or Ceylon. Pliny writes that if the monsoons were blowing regularly, it was a forty-day trip to Muziris[39] from Ocelis located at the entrance to the Red Sea from the south. He writes that the passengers preferred to embark at Bacare (Vaikkarai) in Pandya country, rather than Muziris, which was infested with pirates.

The ships returned from Tamilakam carrying rich cargo which was transported in camel trains from the Red Sea to the Nile, then up the river to Alexandria, finally reaching the capital of the Roman empire. Evidence of Tamil trading presence in Egypt is seen in the form of Tamil inscriptions on pottery in Red Sea ports. Imports and exports

Fine muslins and jewels, especially beryls (vaiduriyam) and pearls were exported from Tamilakam for personal adornment. Drugs, spices and condiments as well as crape ginger and other cosmetics fetched high prices. Even greater was the demand for pepper which, according to Pliny, sold at the price of 15 denarii (silver pieces) a pound. Sapphire, called kurundham in Tamil, and a variety of ruby were also exported. The other articles exported from Tamilakam were ivory, spikenard, betel, diamonds, amethysts and tortoiseshell. The Greek and Arabic names for rice (Oryza and urz), ginger(Gingibar and zanjabil) and cinnamon (Karpion and quarfa) are almost identical with their Tamil names, arisi, inchiver and karuva.[41] The imports were mostly luxury items such as glass, gold and wine. Horses were imported from Arabia.

Reference and citation.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economy_of_ancient_Tamil_country#Foreign_trade

53.805339 -1.539615

[strq-trash]

RWBY OC NAMES AND TEAM NAMES

Once upon a time I got seriously into the idea of creating a RWBY OC...Then I lost the momentum and didn’t really do much with her...The only thing for certain was I wanted her to be called Tawny and i wanted her to be owl faunus...but NOT a tawny owl and she’d get really annoyed if you assumed she was a tawny owl from her name. But anywho, long story short i did a crap ton of looking up names and creating team names I thought sounded cool when coming up with this character and I thought I’d share my little ‘database’ of names and team names for anyone making RWBY OC’s so my time gathering all this wasn’t a complete waste. ****NOTE - If anyone wanted to suggest more names I’d be happy to add em to the list.

RWBY character colour names: Tawny (Orange-y brown colour) Ivory (white) Ebony (Black) Carnelian (orange-y reddy precious stone) Garnet (Red-ish brown precious stone) Lapis/Lazuli (Blue precious stone) Malachite (green precious stone) (it’s the twins from Yang trailer last name tho) Peridot  (Green precious stone) Topaz (precious stone - various colours) Beryl (precious stone - various colours) Olive (dirty green colour) Fuchsia (Pink)  Saffron (Orange) Solar (The sun - yellow) Lunar (Moon - white) Rowan (Irish name meaning little red one) Rusty (Name that refers to rust, browny orange red tones) Pembe (Turkish name meaning pink ) Som (Orange in Thai) Sable (Name in old English meaning black) Talutah (Native American Sioux name meaning blood red) Ianthe/Iantha ( Greek name meaning violet flower) Kapila ( Means "reddish brown" in Sanskrit ) Zilar (Meaning Silver in Basque) Amitola ( Native American name meaning rainbow) (was used as Ilia’s last name) Yolanda/Jolanda (Name meaning violet) Finola (Gaelic name meaning white shoulder) Addie (Variant of Adam meaning red earth) Gwyn ( Means white/ fair/blessed in Welsh) Clancy (Irish name meaning son of red warrior) Blaine (From Bláán, which meant "yellow" in Gaelic) Flynn (Irish name derived from flann (red)) Akane (Japanese for deep red) Silver (As in...Silver) Raleigh (English name meaning red meadow) Rory ( Gaelic name meaning red king) Chrome (Metal - silver/grey) Mars (The red planet) Yin (Black counterpart to Yang) Marine (As in the ocean or short for aquamarine) Blaise/Blaze (FIREEEE EQUAL REEEDD or orange or yellow...FIREEEE) Bianco (White in Italian) Goldana (A name that has gold in it so gold.) Verde (Green in Italian) Carmine (Wine red) Cobalt (Blue) Sol (Sounds like soul...reminds me of blinding white light so...white...) Khaki (Beige or green colour) Opal (precious stone - lotsa pretty colours in Opals) Primrose (Flower light yellow) Colby/Kolby ( Name derived from the Old Norse elements kol (coal-black) and byr (settlement)) Cole (Like coal, black) Sangria (Purple-y red) Taupe (Grey brown) Yarrow (Sounds like yellow and is a yellow flower) Coral (That salmony pink that i hate) Iris (Indigo flower) Dwayne/Duane ( From Gaelic Dubhan meaning little and dark/black) Ginger (like...ginger) Azure (Blue) Vanilla (Light yellow, smell good) Lilac (Light purple) Viridian (Greeny blue) Celeste (Sky blue)  Auburn (Reddy brown) Ash (Grey) Amethyst (Precious stone - purple) Neela (Name meaning blue/sea) Nila (In Sanskrit Nila means dark blue ) Citron (Lemon and lime colours) Autumn (The season of red orange and brown) Denim (Blue) Yahto (Native American Sioux name meaning blue)  Vermillion (Red) Jet (Black) Kobi (baby pink - according to wiki anyhow) Robin (Robin egg blue or robin red breast) Pearl (White - pale pink range) Tan/Tanner/Tanya (The colour...Tan...) Volt (Eye bleeder green, like lollipop men jackets) Zaffre (Deep blue) Zinc (Metal - Silver grey) Diamond (Precious stone - white) Nero (Black in Italian) Mauve (Purple) Malva (Purple flower - colour mauve named after french word for this flower) Jasmine/Yasmine (Pale yellow colour + white flower) Fallow (Light brown) Fawn (Light brown) Heather (Lavender flower) Copper (Orange metal) Marigold (Orange yellow flower) (Rich douche Neptune’s last name tho) Sepia (That effect that makes everything look old timey yellowy-browny) Rouge (Red in French) Noir (Black in French) Aurum (Latin for gold) Roseus (Latin for pink) Albus (Latin for white...and...DUMBLEDORE~) Luteus (Latin for yellow or orange) Viridis (Latin for green) Caeruleus (Latin for blue) Jade (Pretty green stone) Luster? (Does...glow/sheen count as a colour?? -  a gentle sheen or soft glow.+  coating that gives an iridescent glaze to ceramics)    Kiiro(Yellow in Japanese) Kuro (Black in Japanese) Cerise (Reddish pink)   Umber (Earthy brown) Navy (Dark blue) Fern (Green) Kieran/Ciaran/Ciara   (Meaning little dark one - From ciar, meaing black in irish) Nerezza (Italian name meaning darkness) Charna (Yiddish name derived from the Slavic word for "dark.") Onyx (Black stone) Russet (Reddish brown) Leila (Arabic and Hebrew word for "night" ) Slate (Grey with blue hint) Muraco (Native american name meaning white moon) Magpie (if we can get away with crows, doves and ravens we can get away with other birds dammit)  Falcon (Birb) Kestrel (Birb) Hawk (Birb) Jay( Birb - Like bluejay) Merle (Name meaning blackbird) Wullun (Australian aboriginal nae meaning sky blue) Yeira (Hebrew name meaning light or illuminate) Thistle (Lavender) Vanta (Vantablack) Altan ( Means "golden" in Mongolian and "red dawn" in Turkic. (Name from Tootherteeth)) Duncan ( Gaelic name meaning brown warrior (Name from Tootherteeth)) Donovan (Gaelic name meaning dark brown or dark-haired (Name from Tootherteeth)) Torsten (Scandinavian name combining Thor and sten "stone".(Name from Tootherteeth)) Hunter (Hunter green (from Tootherteeth))  Caelum (Caelum is Latin for heaven/sky and evokes white and blue (Name from Tootherteeth)) Munir (Munir means bright/shining in Arabic evokes bright colours (Name from Tootherteeth)) RWBY team names: CBLT/KBLT (Cobalt) HTHR (Heather) TWNY (Tawny) TPAZ/TPAS (Topaz) OPLL/OPAL/OPUL (Opal) MLKT (Malachite) PRDT (Peridot) VNLA (Vanilla) RWGE/ROGE(Rouge) CNMN (Cinnamon) AQUA, ACWA, AQWA, ACUA, AKWA (Aqua) VOLT (Volt) ROSE/ROZE/RWZE (Rose) AMBR (Amber) FSHA/FUSA (Fuchsia) DENM/DINM/DNUM (Denim) BLYZ/BLAZ/BLZE/BLZZ (Blaze) BLZR (Blazer?) SLTE/ SLYT (Slate) CRAL/CORL/CROL/CRRL (Coral) TWPE (Taupe) TEEL/TEAL/TEOL? (Teal) MRUN/MRNE (Maroon) SLVR/SIVR (Silver) GOLD/GWLD (Gold) CHRM/KHRM/CROM/KROM (Chrome) BLCK/BLAC/BLAK/BLLK/BLKE (Black) BLUE/BLEU/BLWE/BLLU/BLOO (Blue) RSET/RSST? (Russet) RUST/RRST/ RSST/RSTT (Rust) UMBR/ MMBR? (Umber) FERN/FRNN/FRRN (Fern) SFRN (Saffron) LIME/LYME/LYMM/LYYM/LIYM (Lime) HZEL/HAZL/HZUL/HZAL (Hazel) NAVY/NVVY/ NNVY/NYVY/NVEY (Navy) ONYX/ONKZ/ONKS/ONNX (Onyx) SKYE/SKKY/SKYY/SKII/SKIY (Sky) JSMN/JZMN (Jasmine) DMND (Diamond) IVRY/IVRI (Ivory) KHKI/KAKI/KWKI (Khaki) MDNT (Midnight)