#pomegranate as a symbol of turning to the dark side...

[lexia-solve-e]

🧠 a sentient canvas

[ivystoryweaver]

Happy New Year, Jake

Happy Rosh Hashanah to the Moon Knight system

Pairing: Jake Lockley x gn!reader

Word Count: 820

Content: Fluff, slight feelings of unworthiness, mentions of food, alters mentioned, brief reference to past trauma, mentions of religion and religious practices, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You asked Marc and Steven if you could do this.

Celebrate something with Jake.

Marc had some happy memories of holidays - Passover meals - finding the afikomen and getting a few dollars for it. The food, the wine, the prayers, the traditions.

Hanukkah wasn't quite as big of a holiday, but there were presents and dreidel to play and latkes to eat.

There were candles to light and services to attend.

Then, one day, there was no more happiness.

Steven's memories were spotty at best, but they were happy. His heart was rooted in the traditions of those before him.

But Jake had none of this. He was a shadow - a creature of the night. He had only been in your life for less than a year.

Jake was a difficult man to get to know. He preferred to keep to himself, but he was soft for you - that, he could not fight.

You didn't want to ambush him, or even surprise him. You asked his permission.

"Could...do you think we could have a little dinner for New Year's?" You asked him one night, moonlight spilling across the bed as you drew circles on his bare chest with your fingertips.

"New Year's?" He gruffed out, confused. "In September?"

"Rosh Hashanah," you supplied. "You know...the new year. If you want. I wanted to make you dinner - just something nice."

Jake's calloused hands scratched lightly down the curve of your back. "Not sure, mi vida. Better ask - "

"I did," you interrupted. "Marc's not ready yet and Steven is okay skipping this year - at least the dinner so you and I can share it. Only if that's okay with you. It doesn't have to be anything you're uncomfortable with."

The stubble of his chin tickled the skin of your cheek as he whispered back and forth with you.

"Okay. Yeah. I...I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do, but...sure."

You were excited, having hoped Jake wouldn't turn you down.

You prepared a savory meal - doing most of the work the night before. You set an elegant yet simple table, with your best dishes, a tablecloth and your grandmother's silver.

A round challah loaf sat on her silver serving platter. You prepared apples and honey to symbolize the hope for a sweet year. You also served pomegranates and some vegetables. You made some brisket for Marc to eat later. Wine glasses and water glasses were set appropriately. You were ready.

You put the finishing touches on the table just as Jake emerged from your bedroom, straightening his tie. Jake was no stranger to wearing a tie or looking absolutely dashing at any given moment.

But this was something else. Instead of his typical leather jacket, he wore a dark suit jacket. Noticing your blatant stare, he ran a hand over the stubble of his jaw.

"I think this is like a...proper dinner," he attempted, sounding a little like Steven. "This too much?"

"Jake," you breathed, floating toward him. "You look incredible." Placing your hands on his muscled chest, you leaned in and brushed your lips tenderly over his.

"Shana Tovah," you wished him, motioning for him to have a seat at the table. But he pulled you back to his side, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

As you sat down to enjoy your holiday meal, your heart burned within your chest each time Jake seemed uncertain about what exactly to do. The last thing you wanted was make him uncomfortable, or make him somehow feel less...Jewish? Than Steven or Marc.

You only desired for him to be who he was. But you wanted him to feel a part of his history too, if he was comfortable.

"You okay?" You quietly asked, watching as he dipped his apple slice into the honey.

He paused, his warm brown eyes going wide. "Did I do something wrong? Is there like a prayer?"

"Jake, you can't do anything wrong. This is for you. Just...be with me." You reached across the table and squeezed his hand, watching as his shoulders relaxed.

"This is nice, baby," he spoke up after a few minutes. Leaning in, he made sure to catch your eye. "It's really nice. Thank you...for thinking of me."

You smiled warmly. "Of course, I'm always thinking of you."

You shared your special meal and some traditions together, feeling so warm inside and so grateful for this man of yours. When you got up from the table, he pulled you close and told you how amazing you looked.

"Gotta dress up like this again so I can take you out," he roughly whispered against your ear while holding you against him.

Easing back, you brushed your fingers along his jaw. "You mean 'take me out' a date, right? And not...your nighttime job?" You teased.

"Very funny," he mocked, scooping you up into a hug, where you stayed for a while, content in his arms.

"Happy new year, baby," he whispered, feeling like he belonged.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Moon Knight Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[bardic-tales]

Tender Tuesday: Issue 2: Halloween Edition.

In the celebration of Halloween, here are 10 Halloween-themes headcanons for Bianca Moore and Sephiroth.

This would in a modern!Au. It could be set on Gaia, as she is known to share her holidays with him. There is a poll beneath to help get into the Halloween Spirit.

Bianca likes to dress up as a dark queen. This ensemble is complete with a crown. Sephiroth lets her dress him up as her kind rather reluctantly. He finds the entire thing a bit theatrical, but he tends to give her that trademark smirk when he sees her admiring him.

Every Halloween, they carve pumpkins. While Bianca carefully crafts designs, he tries to carve his with the Masamune and creates angular shapes. They always end up competing with each other, but Bianca secretly votes his the best.

Bianca like to decorate their space with dark purple and silver fairy lights. She arranges them so they cast shadows resembling ghostly forms. Sephiroth is indifferent but adjusts the lights to fit their dark, cozy space. After Bianca is a sleep, of course.

On Halloween night, the veil between realms is thinner. Their soul bond gives them more intense shared emotions and sensations. They like to sit and hold hands most of the night and just 'feel' each other.

Each year, they gift each other 'cursed' objects, as a playful twist on Halloween. Once Bia gave him a locket containing her hair, while Sephiroth gave her an obsidian dagger rumored to grant dreams of the past.

Inspired by her celestial side, Bianca fills their space with dark lilies and midnight roses. Sephiroth, who isn't usually drawn to flowers outside of enhancing Bianca's beauty and reminders of the Celestial Realm for her, makes sure that one of her roses is always by his bedside.

Each Halloween, Bianca and Sephiroth likes to visit the Haunted Hotel in the Gold Saucer, exploring its dimly lit corridors and eerie decor. Sephiroth will occasionally vanish into the shadows and appear behind Bianca to startle her. Although he keeps an unreadable expression, he loves how she clings to his arm or slaps his arm, pretending to be annoyed but clearly thrilled by his playful mischief. The staff usually play along with the haunted effects since this is Sephiroth, the poster-boy for SOLDIER.

Using a candlelit room, Bianca and Sephiroth make shadow puppets on the wall, turning it into a playful battle between light and dark. Sephiroth usually casts monstrous shapes while Bianca casts celestial shapes. They tend to joke and laugh.

Each Halloween, Bianca preforms a small ritual to commune with the spirits that are lost, such as Mordecai. Though initially skeptical, Sephiroth sits with her in silence and respects her connection to the dead. He tends to place his hand on her shoulder, to tell her that she is not alone.

They typically have a private picnic in the Grasslands. They share dark wine and pomegranates to symbolize their bond and connection with life and death.

tagging some fellow mutuals: @asirensrage @themaradwrites @littleshopofchaos @serenofroses @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@nightingaleflow @seastarblue @prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen

@chickensarentcheap

[the-foolish-scholar]

The High Priestess

The High Priestess sits in front of a thin veil decorated with pomegranates, though for some reason the imagery has always reminded me of peaches split open with the pit showing... The veil represents the separation between the conscious and subconscious realms, that which can be seen and that which cannot be seen. The veil’s overall purpose is served, keeping casual onlookers out. Only the initiated may enter. The pomegranates symbolize abundance, fertility and the divine feminine. They evoke the memory of Persephone, who ate a pomegranate seed in the underworld and was forced to return to the underworld for months at a time for the rest of her life. On both sides of The High Priestess stand two pillars, marking the entrance to this sacred, mystical temple. One pillar is black with the letter B (Boaz, meaning ‘in his strength’) and the other is white with the letter J (Jachin, meaning ‘he will establish’). The black and white colors of the pillars symbolize duality, between the masculine and feminine or darkness and light, proposing that knowledge and acceptance of duality are required to exist within this sacred space. The High Priestess wears a blue robe with a cross on her chest, as well as a horned diadem (a pretentious way of saying a crown), all serve as symbols of her divine knowledge and status as a divine ruler. In her lap, she holds a scroll with the letter TORA, signifying the Greater Law. It is partly covered, signifying that this knowledge she possesses is sacred knowledge. This depiction in the card demonstrates to viewers that the knowledge that The High Priestess has will only be revealed when one is ready to look beyond the material realm. In addition, the crescent moon at her feet symbolizes her connection with her feminine side, which provide her with her intuition.

-

Hi all. Long time no talk. Life really swept me away for a while and I had only been able to write bits in pieces of my life down in my diary.

A lot has happened. I’ve discovered a lot; and not just academically.

The apartment that I told you all about last time I wrote is now fully furnished. I’ve got a lovely patio set that I sit out and read on quite often. When I’m lucky enough, I watch the sunrise and the sunset there too. I found this really cool desk off of Facebook Marketplace which is a repurposed vintage window frame. It’s this beautiful sharp shade of blue. I have a comfy yellow desk chair to sit and work in as well. I hate the color combination of blue and yellow for obvious reasons (go green) but it compliments my yellow night stand well. I’ve also got a hammock with shades of purple, pink, green, and white. I like to eat fruit and sway in it. I also installed some colored lights which has made the place feel a lot more vibe-y. Oh, and I’ve got some cool posters from Tabitha Arnold too. Y’all should check her out and support her! She’s a fantastic artist.

Speaking of artists, here are two more collages that I made for the class I'm taking:

My plants are doing well. I’ve resurrected my mint plant back from the dead multiple times. My rosemary, sage, rose, and swiss cheese plants have held up well. I’ve also added a jade plant, a bamboo plant, some orange flowering plant, and an inch plant to the mix. I want to get more but I’m trying to practice self-control…  

I chose the high priestess card though because it’s the card I feel most connected to right now. I feel much better in trusting my own intuition these days. The summer had so many twists and turns to it and boy, did I learn quite a bit. My research-oriented brain forms these hypothesizes and after time passes and data is gathered, I find that I knew things before I ever even had the proof. It’s funny how it works like that.  

Actually, we’re just coming out of the winter and entering summer here, but in my mind, it’s fall. It feels like fall. In the nine months that I’ve been here, I’ve lived through my winter, my spring, my summer, and now I’m beginning my fall.

The winter period of my life here was nice, I got to live high up on the volcano and lived in a still matter until my spring came and I began to thaw. In spring, I dug up my roots and planted seeds elsewhere. My growth was slow and then before I knew it, summer came. It was intense. When it got to be too much to handle, I fled home.

The week I spent back in the states was just as transformative as these past nine months; I really saw things from a different perspective being back after being away for as long as I’d been gone. It felt good to feel the familiar though. It felt good to see people and to be around those that I could trust, not just through a screen like I’d grown accustomed to, but in person. It was such a relief to feel the familiarity of family. I was so happy to eat a Greek salad, made the right way, and to hike around Cranbrook. It had just rained, and it was so misty, quiet, and peaceful. I was so happy to drink palomas at Amici’s and then Diet Coke (none of that Coke Zero bullshit) at 24 with Sam and Clayton. It felt like old times. My train ride to Chicago was rough, but my seatmate was kind. I felt so much joy when I finally got to see everyone in Chicago. Nolan and I got lunch at Nookies and we almost melted in the outdoor seating section. Casey and I had a lovely walk and we went to see a psychic. We celebrated my tether’s 24th which was a blast. Nolan and I also got Indian food and sat out by the fire in the middle of the night before I had to leave to catch my flight. It was so good to be with them and it was so hard to leave. The psychic told me that I’d meet someone very important to my journey named Micheal, and my Uber to the airport ended up being named Micheal, so can we really say psychics are scammers?

When I got back to El Salvador after being in the states, I hit the ground running. I kept busy and did as much as I could in the name of research.

And before I knew it, Sarah came! Our time together was interrupted by a machista who’s actions were as reckless as his words… Again, the psychic I saw in Chicago ended up being right about another thing… But nonetheless we found joy in the little moments and created memories that will last a lifetime. It was hard to say goodbye to her when she left.

The next day I started substitute teaching AP Comparative Government at a bilingual school. It was quite the experience! I did that for two weeks.

Funnily enough, those two weeks were also extremely transformative. I forced myself to grow up, in a lot of ways. My last day subbing, Evelyn, some girls affiliated with the CIS, and I went to the beach. We had a lot of fun. I made us quite the pasta dish with ingredients that we managed to gather on the trek out.

Since then, I’ve just been doing touristy stuff, doing more research stuff, working on my final paper for my class, and looking for jobs. I went to a networking event held by the embassy, and it was actually a lot of fun. I got to catch up with some other Fulbrighters and laugh about life.

Going back to my metaphor, and how I’m in my Fall Era ™, some of the seeds I planted in the spring have finally begun to bear fruit. I got into the graduate studies program that I applied to at the UCA! For the next three or so years, I’ll be working towards my master’s degree in Theology… Which is… So ironic and crazy given everything… But it’s the path I’ve found myself down and I feel really excited about all that there is to come. I’m also letting go of a lot of things like the trees let go of their leaves this time of the year. It feels so good to just let some things fall away from my life and to cultivate space for new growth in the coming seasons. In the past I’d be more melancholy about it all, but it feels like this weight is being lifted off my shoulders and I’m so thankful to be in this phase of my life.

I think that’s pretty much it? Other than that I’m just getting ready to head back home for the holidays. But I have a flight back down here scheduled for January 7th so I won’t be gone from here long.  I’m excited to see all of you guys back home. And I cannot wait to be cold for once instead of always being hot!

Z

[angel-and-the-serpent]

OKAY SO I KINDA WENT FERAL HERE as you mentioned, Tomatoes = Love apples, So I went and searched the phrase 'tomato cart falling over'' Nothing but gardening tips came up. Then, I remembered the 'love apple part' so, there goes me googling 'apple cart falling over meaning' the phrase *UPSET THE APPLE CART* means 'to cause trouble, to disrupt someone's plan" That is *exactly* what Jimbriel did when he entered Whickber Street, disrupting literally *everyone's plans.* Going onto the now pomegranate in the Job episode. The word pomegranate literally means Seeded apple. ANOTHER APPLE METAPHOR WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED Pomegranates are called the devil fruit Why?

Because Hades lured Persephone down to the underworld with pomegranate seeds. Which, is exactly what Crowley could have been seen trying to do aziraphale in the episode. they are also seen as another forbidden fruit. He gave Azi the Ox ribs among other things in this episode Which could be the pomegranate part/stand for the pomegranate, but then at the end of the episode, all his ways are conquered, with him suddenly turning his ways onto a new path, with the phrase we all know 'your just an angel that goes along with heaven as long as he can' now, I looked at the scene of the angels arriving into jobs now rubble of a house, and there is no fruit symbolism whatsoever. i then went and RELOOKED at the Job episode, and there were also Oranges/mandarins there, so YET AGAIN, I googled mandarins/oranges meaning here we go with another light/dark comparison. Oranges are said to represent good luck and unity, with the round shape said to represent completeness, and the bright colour meaning joy and happiness. Could you look at the position with the fruit though? The oranges, representing the light, are closer to Aziraphale and are higher than the pomegranates. which are slightly closer to crowley, and lower than the oranges, which is a funny cause that could also be symbolism for heaven and hell. there is another box of fruit that you can see, slightly, but I can't seem to work out *what* fruit that is, I assume, if we're going with the whole, fruit symbolising the 2 sides, I'm guessing the last fruit is one that symbolises humanity. So yeah, That's my WAY TOO DEEP meta into fruit symbolism in good omens. I actually loved doing this. My search history is literally filled with fruit meanings tho lmfao.

Hope this helped in someway :)

Starting this off with please do not tag or ask Neil***

I need to know if anyone out there has a theory/idea/speculation about the tomatoes in season 2.

This show does nothing without a reason behind it. And ever since my first watch through, I thought the tomatoes randomly falling in 02.01 when Gabriel walks by was so strange. Why do they fall? Why do we have to see them fall and land on the ground? Why does Gabriel notice and seemingly step on one? Is it just filler? What does it mean???

I pretty much let it go and assumed it was just a nice little cinematic detail but then.

One day I’m watching 02.02 during the Job throwback and what do I see?

Tomatoes.

Right as Aziraphale is working out that something is wrong with the kids goats, you can see a bowl of tomatoes sitting on the ground.

Coincidence? Perhaps.

But then I notice when Crawley and Aziraphale are having their dramatic standoff, the bowl of tomatoes is directly in the center of the shot and positioned perfectly between them.

I wish I had a theory to offer you all, but I don’t. All I have is an observation that I just cannot explain. Could it be absolutely nothing? Possibly. But the attention to detail in this show is on another level, and I’d love to hear if anyone else noticed this or has their own theory as to whether the tomatoes mean anything.

Of course I’ve tried diving into the significance of tomatoes (also known as love apples) and I’m not seeing anything that’s standing out to me in regards to our ineffable idiots. Even in the book, there is only a small mention of tomatoes and a footnote that mentions tomatoes/love apples, but neither scene is about our beloved angel and demon duo.

Please share your ideas!

[binniesthighs]

➵ minho, son of hades ➵

Pairing: self insert, gender neutral reader x lee minho

Genre: fluff n’ smut

Tags: demigod au, inspired by PJO, sonofhades!minho, softdom!minho, mentions of death, blood, and the underworld, outdoor sex, unprotected sex (stay safe lovlies!), breath play, hand stuff (r receiving), marking, cockwarming at the end 

Word count: 2k

demigod skz mini-masterlist coming soon

{did you bring the mcdonalds?}

Though you had long forgotten, someone had told you once that there is always light in the darkness, you just have to be the one looking for it. But, what if it was the darkness in that light that sought you?

You had forgotten meeting him in the first place, but now he was everywhere, in the dawn and the dusk, in dark corners that you used to fear, but now welcomed. Reflected in his eyes was hellfire: he singed with burning edges but froze over with a bite. You should have been scared of him, as any sane person would. 

In those creeping tendrils of shadow, ebony wisps of smoke where the ones that entangled their fingers in yours. His hands were cold wrapped up in pale white skin that wasn’t stark, but rather mimicked the moonlight he had brought you to. 

Silver dewdrops were sprinkled at your feet where they clung to the blades of youthful spring grass. The chill of the night was just enough to make you shiver, but having gotten used to him, you could handle the cold. He tugged at your wrist, saying nothing, but twisting between the slabs of limestone and concrete. 

“Respect the dead. Just because they’re gone, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t people too.” 

His reminders would linger on your mind, much like the ways that he would tell you stories about what it was like...the underworld. Having been there so many times, you would have thought that it would have made him jaded, or broken him in some kind of way that made the pieces of him just a bit disjointed. But, it never did. 

A thin fog held over the cemetery just barely above your shins, and the humidity stuck to your bare legs. Wings flapped above to two of you: birds or bats, you couldn’t tell, but it somehow felt comforting knowing that you’re weren’t the only ones awake at this hour. Amongst the chirp the the crickets, the little string of silver and brass keys jingled at his waist. 

He had lead you deeper, nearest to the edge of the little maze of stones, to a pure, marble white gazebo cut from the smoothest white rocks. The stone itself appeared to glisten like the foamy crests of waves. In the middle, was a single large bench of the same cut. 

“Lets sit here for a while.” 

You know what that strand of skeleton keys meant, each one bearing the symbols of Hades. “Minho, I-I know what you’re going to say--” 

“--I have to go back. But, this time it won’t be for long.” 

“You can just...stay? Just for one more day?” 

An exhaustion dragged at Minho’s eyes, the kind that you had seen many times before on him. Even with wrinkles under his eyes, they were still set aflame with the same passion that each of the children of Hades held. 

“It’s important.” He simply answered, raising his freezing had to caress down your cheek. “You know that.” 

“I just wish you wouldn’t...wish you wouldn’t...” 

He had drawn you into his chest, a gesture which had felt different to you than it had with others. From a boy who walked the line of life and death so thinly, being close to him like this was your tether, your promise. His heartbeat thumped softly beside yours, and it was enough. 

He took your hands into his, “I got you something.” 

“You didn’t have to--” 

“--Take it. I want you to have it.” 

The sting of the metal necklace startles your skin. It was a simple sliver chain, but inlaid on the charm was a small garnet gem that sparkled like stars, resembling that of a pomegranate seed. 

“It’s gorgeous...”  

“-Pulled it out myself.” He swept aside your shirt collar to bring the clasps around your neck, then traced adoring fingertips over where it crowned your skin. His weary expression gave you a proud little smile. “It looks amazing on you.” 

“Why does this make it seem like you’ll be gone much longer than you say you are?” 

Minho sighed out with eyes cast to the rooftop of the gazebo. Etched into the stone was the insignia of his father: the pitchfork. You had been pretending not to look at it too. Once more, a hopeful little laugh slipped past his lips. 

“I thought that you knew that I’ll always come back to you? And they can’t harm me down there.” 

“You and I both know that’s not true.” 

“Don’t you trust me at all?” 

“Am I not allowed to worry?” 

After a moments pause, and the resounding sound of the hissing cicadas, he answered, “You are.” 

You should have been terrified of him. Even though you had forgotten meeting him, there was one thing that you had never let go of, and something that many misunderstood. In him, there was benevolence: something so deeply tranquil about the thread to be cut over life and death. You had never been fearful of him. 

The cold marble burned slightly at your thighs. 

“I miss you too when I leave. You’re the reason; you’re what keeps me coming back here so I’m never wandering. Understand?” 

The world turned a blur, and his fingers wiped at the tears cascading down your cheeks. 

“Please don’t cry.” He kissed at the salty tears in the corners of your eyes and cheeks as if he were healing the scars made by the stains. 

“I’ll miss you too. Like I always do.” 

“All the more reason for me to hurry back.” 

You scooched into his chest once more, taking a fistful of his cotton white shirt. 

“You always know what to say.” 

His hands took the sides of your face simply and carefully, hushing his lips lightly into yours like a whisper, like the way that the evening breeze got tangled in the branches of the birch trees. Soft and delicate like rose petals he kissed into your lips in the way that he would keep the shadows of the world at bay just for you. Minho wove delicious webs of want from corner to corner of your mouth. The taste of his tongue too bit like that fruit of the underworld, but to you, it had never tasted sweeter. 

With your hands weakly clinging to his shirt, he uttered, “May I have you one more time?” 

The fog had lifted over the cemetery, and you nodded right back into his lips. 

He rested his hand behind your head where he laid you down against the cool stone, the sensation giving rise to goosebumps on your skin. One by one, he laced his fingers between yours to your side while he returned back to your mouth to lend it his warmth. There was a mischievous little grin that teased from his lips to yours, then traced down your jaw to the twitching vein on your neck. With your closed eyes, all you could see was crimson and all you could feel was the way the he pulled at the skin of your neck, drawing forth those little marks he had given you dozens of before. 

Once he had finished painting your skin with his adoration, he kissed at each spot. The tingling sensation of his saliva on your neck mixed with the evening air sent shivers down your sides. 

The same cold fingers came exploring up the fabric of your shirt and swirled over your skin so lightly that you felt your whole body buckle. 

The evening’s breeze swept past you once more and his curious hands sent mewls from your mouth to mix with the symphony of the evening, but it was all for him. It only heightened once his hand had skillfully popped the button of your shorts, and his curious fingers delved inside further. He rubs at you purposefully, slowly, with fingers getting muddled in your arousal, teasing at how painfully needy you have become for him. 

“My love, there is nothing on this earth or in hell that will keep me from coming back to you. I’m just as much yours as you are mine.” 

You fight the tears that threaten your eyes, merely laughing out to avoid them. 

“You really do always know what to say.” 

“But I mean it.” He drags the pad of his fingertip over your slit. 

The marble is frigid under your bare legs and ass once he rids you of your bottoms, freeing more space for his hand to trace over the swollen skin of your sex. His lithe fingers feel intoxicating where he curves into you after wetting them with his mouth. Every electric little response from you and each half-uttered whimper and moan he lavishes in. In his obsidian eyes, you are everything that makes up the expanse between his two worlds. 

His other hand rides up your body to clasp around your neck, applying just as much pressure until your choked gasps test his own will. 

The keys on his beltloop fall to the floor with a metallic sounding clank. He sits, marveling at the vision of you before him, bathed in moonlight, and your chest throwing itself to every one of the gasps which chase the last. Minho looms over you like the shadow of coming night, and you welcome him with open arms.

Even like this, he should have terrified you, but never him, never the one who had guided you through the darkness hidden in the fissures of light. 

Minho gives himself all to you, coaxing himself into you deeply and completely: a feeling so whole that it must be impossible. Beside you, the earth resonates with cracks and fractures which send out little earthquakes amidst the slabs of concrete and little bouquets of wildflowers. A golden glow illuminates against the birches and the oaks. 

He’s lost himself in you, rolling deeply over your core as those branches bow in the wind. He’s cracked open Hell itself while he slips further into you. 

“M-minho--” 

“No.” He commands, and the golden glow illuminates his face, “Look at me.” 

He bites into your lip kisses of his own careless and breathy moans. 

“Look at me.” 

He renews his pace with the ever-growing spectral glow threatening to break the surface. The jet black strands of his hair bounce a little as he fucks you into the slab of marble, giving you no pause at all. 

“I-I’m--Minho--” 

The thin sliver chain of your necklace threads between his fingertips where briefly studies it’s shine. He’s kept the shadows away this long, now, as he finds himself near the edge too, the atmosphere turns heavy. Minho changes to lend your leaking and twitching sex the attention that it desires, and you unravel, just a little at first, then all at once. A mess of inhales and exhales flutter out of your mouth then your teeth catch your lip accidently, drawing just a little blood. Quickly, he uses his thumb to rub away the little red dot while chuckling, 

“Don’t get too carried away darling.” 

You look directly in his eyes as you shudder underneath him to plead wordlessly for what he knows you want. You can barely manage the words, but you know it’ll be all that it takes. 

“Feel you-inside...I-I want you to--” 

With one of his freezing hands, he hikes your thigh up to find his perfect angle, grazing you deep inside. White noise fills up your head when he drives one more orgasm out of you, turning you inside out into a proper, quivering mess. The marble doesn’t feel as cold anymore when he cums inside you with shaking thighs and a heaving chest. The pitchfork symbol above your heads catches your blurry vision, but so does the peaking red and yellow sun on the horizon that melts into the emerald tree line. 

Minho holds you into him for as long as he can manage. Unspoken words fill the air between you while you’re still connected as one. 

“There’s...nothing else I can do to convince you to stay longer with me?” Your fingertips find their way through his sweating scalp. 

He nods no with an type of acute sadness in his eyes while he memorizes your features for what he thinks to be the last time in a long while. 

“I can’t stay any longer. The business of the dead is much more different than the living.” 

Just past his shoulder, you discover three or four fireflies flickering like floating candles: the light in the dark: and you weren’t even looking for it at first. 

“Then at least, can I just ask until the sun rises? Will you stay?” 

He plants one last kiss upon your forehead, “Until the sun rises. 

[edogawa-division]

“Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.”

Introduction

Yuriko Kuromiya, also known as Black Dahlia in rap battles, is an ex-assassin turned forensic pathologist working in Edogawa. A woman who has walked with death all her life, Yuriko gives off a fearsome presence often silencing people with a single look. She now uses the skills she's learned as an assassin to help solve murders.

Yuriko is an extremely tall woman with a voluptuous figure. She has extremely long white hair tied into a neat bun with her bangs swept to the right and that frame her face, she has emerald green eyes that glitter dangerously and a beauty mark under her right eye.

She wears a grey dress shirt with black bat-shaped collar pins and a chain along with a dark violet tie. Over it, she wears a black waistcoat. Her lower body is covered by black dress pants and wears 4-inch sleek, black heels.

Name Meanings

Kuromiya (黒宮) - Black Palace

Yuriko (百合子) - Lily Child

Aliases

“The Black Dahlia”

“The Flower of Death”

Terrifying, Scary, etc.

Mom - Kaoru and Kanra

Biographical Info

Gender - Female

Age - 33

Birthday - December 22nd

Ethnicity - Japanese

Hair Color - Snow White 

Eye Color - Emerald Green

Height - 185cm / 6'1 | 195cm / 6'5 (In Heels)

Weight - 115lbs / 52kg

Star Sign - Capricorn

Piercings - Lobes

Markings - Scar on the right side of her stomach, Scar between her breast, Eastern style dragon tattoo across her back 

Family 

Unknown Biological Father (Deceased)

Unknown Biological Mother (Deceased)

Adoptive Father (Deceased)

Older Adoptive Daughter

Younger Adoptive Daughter

Voiced By - BRIER (Rapping)

Fun Facts

MC Name - Black Dahlia

Occupation - Forensic Pathologist 

Division - Edogawa

Team - Wicked Requiem 

Position - Leader

Favorite Food - Pomegranates

Least Favorite Food - Pickled Daikon 

Likes - Peaceful Moments, Drinking Tea, Watching Murder Documentaries, Flowers

Dislikes - Threats towards her loved ones, Chuohku, Sunlight

Hypnosis Microphone

Yuriko’s Microphone takes the form of a black vintage mic and stand. The stand takes the shape of a spine and ribcage with the mic extending from the top of the neck in place of the skull. The ribcage connects to the narrow stem of the stand, which ends in a lower backbone connecting to the bottom. A white lily is seen blooming where the lungs and heart should be.

Her Speaker takes the shape of a cemetery angel holding out a circular shape speaker in her hands with 2 smaller angel statues weeping over grave-styled speakers on each side.

Her rap ability, Silence, prevents the use of her opponent's rap ability for the rest of the battle.

Yuriko’s rap centers around death, often mentioning things that have close ties or that symbolize death. She raps about how she refuses to bow to anyone and how she dares anyone to try their luck against her often mentioning all the atrocities she's committed. She also makes reference to how protective she is of her family and that anyone who tries to harm them will suffer her wrath. 

Personality

Yuriko comes across as a somewhat aloof individual, interacting minimally with people and being rather straightforward. For the most part, she is a level-headed, strong-willed, and independent woman. Yuriko maintains a controlled and incisive persona to keep whatever she’s thinking a secret unless she's around people she absolutely trusts. Although always polite, Yuriko is unafraid to state her opinions and sees no reason to apologize for her words. Yuriko also tends to throw playful verbal jabs and crack jokes, though she admits most people don't tend to understand her humor due to her serious nature.

While reserved toward people she doesn't know, Yuriko is actually quite nurturing. Towards Kaoru and Kanra, she acts as a maternal figure, often being softer and genuinely affectionate with them. Yuriko actively supports them in their endeavors even if what they choose to do leaves her feeling quite exhausted. 

Due to spending most of her life as an assassin, Yuriko has no problem discarding the few social niceties she has. When this happens Yuriko turns callous and ruthless not above committing atrocities. Reacting with fierce brutality to any who dare stand in her way. Leaving anyone who survives her wrath in severe pain or anguish.

Background

In a separate post coming soon.

Trivia

Yuriko is known to occasionally drink tea that has been laced with poison

She hates being in the sun for long periods of time as she burns up quite easily.

Yuriko is proficient in ballet, using it to stay in shape.

Yuriko is fluent in many languages, claiming to speak over 15 languages fluently. 

Much to Yuriko's amusement many people often assume that Yuriko is in her mid-twenties at most despite actually being in her early 30's.

The dragon tattoo on her back is a homage to her adoptive father. 

[mysticalmusicwhispers]

lovers’ dreams

Summary: “A day fit for a spring dream.” And then he kisses Roshan, and they become lost in each other.

Characters: India (Aditya), China, Iran/Persia (Roshan, genderfluid). Human names used. Indran, Churan, and Indchu for ships!

Notes: 100% distilled surrealism! This was supposed to be a writing exercise that ran away from me rip. There are many footnotes that explain Many things. Enjoy!

also on AO3! (there are bonus thoughts and explanations there for anyone who’s interested or slightly confused 😅. everything necessary for you to understand the story is here too but I ramble about my thoughts going into the piece on AO3 lol)

———

The willow’s drooping branches hide Yao’s face like a beaded curtain, a bride’s sheer red veil. The spring breeze snakes through the tree, and the sound of wedding suona—sorna rings through the silence. A flutter of phoenix wings brushes past their ear, a whisper on the wind. Roshan walks languidly until they are in front of Yao; it takes a minute—it takes a month. Yao’s face is sharp and his eyes glint, like the jade in his belt. But the kiss is soft when they take his lips in theirs, and it tastes of the rose’s tender petals. The clean sweetness of flowers is warm against Roshan’s face and the fragrance of tea drifts into their nostrils. 

Yao pulls away, and Roshan opens their eyes to polished jade thorns sprouting up from the earth around them—crisp green, sharp-tipped; elegant, dangerous. So these are the fruits of our love. It is fitting. They lean to kiss Yao again, and this time, a laugh peals through the air when they part. It is not Roshan’s, and it isn’t Yao’s. But it is clear as spring water and tinkles like a bell, a joyous sound, and it makes Yao smile—a smile that is gentle, calculating; sweet, dangerous. A copper coin hides in the corner of his lips. “A day fit for a spring dream.” And then he kisses Roshan, and they become lost in each other.

When Roshan opens their eyes again, Yao is gone. They are standing in nothingness, a shell of a dream. A liminal plane. A wedding song echoes in the empty space, loud and cheerful, although there are no musicians to be seen playing the dohol, the sorna. Then sprung from the air, a mirror of fate, Aayeneh-ye Bakh, with its customary candelabras flanking it, and with their dots of golden light—miniature suns, sparkling stars. Its face shimmers, clear and gleaming: a pond on a full moon night—and in it, Yao stands, his reflection bright, splendid robes shimmering like gold scales and fine silk. Roshan reaches out a hand, and pulls him into a kiss.

“Welcome back, my dear.”

———

It is sunset, and a chill brushes past Yao’s shoulders and winds through his hair. The sky burns red, and fork tongued flames lick at the sun. A world bathed in fire, on the cusp of night. A lotus pond sits before him, and a figure is at its edge—Aditya, adorned in gold, the perfect figure of a prince. He, a dream of glittering palaces and beady emeralds, bright against the glow of the setting sun, sharp against the bloody sky. He holds a lotus blossom out, and Yao takes it. It is pure, tender in his calloused hands. A drop of blood drips from a petal. He lets it float into the water, and Aditya watches with him as the peach pink petals drop before their eyes—the lotus head balloons, then falls with the weight of seeds; it withers, a shell of its fruit. Divine beauty is short lived—seasons turn with the winds of change.  

Aditya loops an arm around him, bare skin on bare skin, the warmth of the sun hanging around them like a curtain. Their lips meet. The kiss is long, and lingers even after Yao pulls away; it is slightly bitter, but how could it not be? Aditya’s eyes are like black tea, and Yao tastes acrid lily bulbs. The sky has faded into burnt orange, the aftermath of a blaze. Autumn leaves fall from ginkgo trees, golden yellow, bright with memories of the past. Aditya closes his eyes, and Yao watches him sink into a dream.

The scene shifts before his eyes. The lotus pond morphs into a giant chessboard, and they are on opposite sides. Aditya plays white. Cream colored pawns meet chocolate brown knights, and they watch as kings rise and fall, as steady as the spinning of the world. Chariots race and elephants trumpet; the cavalry fight with long swords and bows, and the peasants use polearms, raised fists. Yao meets Aditya’s eyes, warm but gleaming with an ambition that has never gone away. He nods to his neighbor to the west, to his rival, lover, partner, equal. Aditya smiles.

“So we meet again.”

———

It is afternoon, and the sun is warm on his face. Roshan sits on a bench in the courtyard, holding a cup of coffee in one hand, a pomegranate in the other. Aditya nestles into their side, and they give him a feather light cheek kiss, gift him a wisp of air. They hold out the pomegranate, offers it, and Aditya takes a bite. Roshan takes the other half. They watch as the fruit regrows, seeds become jewels, glittering rubies in folds of red fabric. Roshan holds one up to the light with a critical eye. They spread tawny wings, amber eagle eyes alight with the pride of the past present future. A lion and the sun. The wings disappear—a trick of the light, reality fallen away. Then they hold up the cup of coffee.

“For you.” Aditya smiles, and offers a cup of black tea in return.

We have shared many things, and fought over equally many. How will it be in the future? He takes a sip, and falls through the cup.

A cemetery of swords surrounds them, a memory of things gone by. Afternoon sunlight filters through the trees, winds into Roshan’s hair. Idly peaceful. Flowers sprout through the earth; wither; climb up the rusted metal once again. A vine of roses twists around the hilt of a ceremonial spear, supple and full against cool, glinting steel. The leaves flicker, green yellow dead green again. Its blossom is still fresh red, like passion, like their love, pooling around them like a million memories, a still night in the river of time. Aditya looks at Roshan, different yet the same, a reflection of what they once were. Familiar, always, despite the changing tides and shifting dreams.

———

Notes

this part might actually be longer than the fic itself rip 😔 reminder that there’s extra rambling on ao3 lol

Suona/sorna: suona (唢呐) is a traditional wind instrument often played at wedding and funeral processions in northern China! (also used in Southeast China + Taiwan) It’s very loud and has a super brassy sound, but personally I think it sounds alright! The instrument came from Central Asia and is also used at weddings in Iran (where it’s spelled sorna/sarna), where it’s played with a dohol, a large cylindrical drum.

Phoenixes: wedding imagery in China, where a dragon symbolizes the groom and the phoenix the bride. There’s also an analogue to the phoenix in Persian mythology, a simurgh, which is a benevolent creature that is said to purify the land, roosts in the Tree of Knowledge, and apparently has seen the world be destroyed 3 times. Can symbolize healing, divinity, wisdom, and life. (the simurgh symbolism doesn't have much relevance to the fic but I thought it was incredibly interesting to read about lol)

Spring dream: very loosely referencing the Chinese phrase 一场春梦 (yi chang chun meng), which literally translates to an episode of a spring dream. It means the feeling that past predictions or events were actually totally wrong and fruitless, like you expected something (probably really good), but then woke up to reality not being up to your expectations? I can’t translate 😔

Mirror of Fate: In traditional Iranian weddings, a large, elaborate table with flowers and food and different spices is set up (sofreh aghd). A mirror of fate and 2 candelabras are also placed in the center of the table. The mirror represents how fate brought the bride and groom together, and the candelabras represent light and fire. The mirror is there so that when the groom looks into it, the first thing he should see is his betrothed's reflection.

Lotus blossoms: in China and India and many other parts of Asia, lotuses represent purity (they grow from dark mud but the flowers are pure white/pink), the divine, elegance, spiritual promise, the good part of humanity. so, a lotus with a drop of blood in Yao’s hands would be interesting.

Lily bulbs: this is purely self projection but lily bulbs (baihe) are used in Chinese medicine and I despise them. They're not super bitter but they taste starchy, bland, and off. Also lilies and lotuses are pretty similar and I thought that would be interesting :>

Chess: idk if I need a note for this but chess originated as an Indian game called Chaturanga and spread over to China and Iran, among many other places in Asia.

Tea and Coffee: nothing really special about this besides that Iranians Really Like tea. Decided to make India drink coffee instead for contrast; realistically he’d also be drinking tea lol

Eagle eyes: the Iranian/Persian symbol of the Faravahar, from Zoroastrianism has wings that are supposed to be eagle wings (I think? correct me if it’s just unspecified). You’ve probably seen it; it depicts a man with spread wings, half kneeling in a side view. Nowadays it’s also a symbol of Iranian culture, history, and national pride, besides being representative of Zoroastrianism.

Rose: national flower of Iran, and obv I don’t need to explain the other rose connotations. Also I’ve fully adopted the hc that Roshan and all their stuff smells like roses so that’s there too.

Lion and the sun: getting lazy with the explanations, but the short version is that it was a very important Iranian national symbol for many reasons, moreso tied to the state than culture (imo); it was also on the national flag up till the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Although I’m still debating how much Roshan is associated with the state, I also think sun and lion imagery fits them (glory, golden days, pride and courage). It’s super interesting, go search it up if you wanna read more!

This whole fic was somewhat inspired by this one, and the indchu bit was also somewhat inspired by this fanart.

If you made it down here, you have all my gratitude. Feedback is welcome and appreciated! Thanks for reading <3

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 29)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.1k (I’m sorry)

Warnings: The usual

A/N: I know today was supposed to be a PoV update day, but I am struggling with those atm, so for now I’ll post every Saturday and Tuesday, and if I write and want to post an Ivar PoV or smth, I will do so out of schedule. I’m so sorry, but otherwise I’ll just stress myself out.

There’s a bracelet mentioned in this, I had this one in mind. Pretty, innit?

And just an fyi, (I haven’t done these in a while, damn): Falcons are symbols of Freyja, who has stories referring to how she cries tears of gold at the absence of her husband from her side. Bats are symbols of Persephone, and in my canon I’ve always portrayed her as a woman of dark skin and blind eyes. Oh, and snakes are symbols of Hades.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless​ @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls​ @ietss​   @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​​

The air around you is strange, a mix of warm and cold that doesn’t quite manage to be lukewarm, each second the breeze changes from a welcoming moment in the sun to the biting winds of a coast. Even the sky looks wrong, somewhere between night and day, the sun shining brightly one moment only to turn cold and distant the next.

You can almost see the silhouette of a woman standing in the distance, and because you know you must, you walk to her.

She extends a hand, her smile vicious but her eyes warm.

For a moment, when you blink, the blind eyes disappear and pale eyes look back at you, crying tears that shine like gold. Her lips aren’t stained by the red tint of pomegranates and blood anymore, but she still smiles, a mother beckoning a child into her embrace.

It is not the face you have come to know, yet she’s still familiar, and their voices when they whisper your name sound like one.

You reach with trembling fingers, try to reach her, and for a moment you can almost feel her warmth, burning like the fire that was once all you could feel. But the moment your hand finds hers, the moment the tips of your fingers touch hers…the cackle of a falcon, the screech of a bat by your ear, and she is gone.

All you have left is the cold that seeps into your skin and the certainty they have heard you, and answered, each and every time you’ve prayed.

A murmur of your name brings your attention to the youngest son of Ragnar, forcing you to return your attention -your mind- to the here and now, to the city that starts to wake up, to the streets you are supposed to be walking.

You answer the question written in Ivar’s eyes with a smile.

“I’m fine,” You promise quietly, “I have been having trouble sleeping, that’s all.”

“Dreams?”

“Are you to trust dreams as visions?” You ask, a little life returning to your voice as you tilt your head to the side.

“You told me yourself that your Goddess’ form appears in your dreams.” Ivar argues.

It wasn’t just her.

You refuse to admit to the son of a Viking seeress that you have dreamt of Freyja. If by chance some of Aslaug’s gift remains with Ivar, you dread to hear him decipher the meaning behind the form you saw in your dreams. So, you keep that to yourself.

“But you do not believe in my Gods.” Is what you argue with instead.

He shrugs with his arm not on the crutch, “I believe in you.”

You stop in your tracks, stunned into silence. Your eyes are glued to Ivar’s back as he continues walking, and a tremulous smile starts lifting at your lips, aided by the fragile hope and foolish emotion blossoming in your chest.

Ivar turns to you when he sees you are not coming, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at your surprised and commoved expression.

“Don’t overreact. You were never wrong about your…dealings with your Gods before.”

Shaking off the surprise and the foolish hopes and feelings that have no place here, that cling to your mind like cobwebs, you skip the space between you, offering him a smile and a nod.

“I still appreciate the trust, Ivar.” You tease, skimming bold fingers over the back of his hand, a smile on your lips.

He regards you in silence for a few moments, not walking anymore, and you see in his gaze that he ponders with himself whether to say something that’s in his mind or not.

“Let’s go eat, woman.” He finally huffs, turning his attention to the path ahead. You bite down your disappointment at him swallowing whatever his words were to be, and walk at his side.

The thralls that greet you when you enter do so with a smile, although their eyes linger on your hair for a few moments, and move cautiously about as they set the food in front of you both and take their leave.

“You keep confusing them, you know.” Ivar starts casually, already focused on his food but still demanding that you sit at his side while you eat your bread and drink your herbal tea. You have no idea how these people manage to eat so much so early in the day.

“Me?”

Sucking his fingers clean, a gesture you shouldn’t be following with your eyes the way you are, Ivar lifts his gaze to focus on you.

“You refuse to let them braid your hair unless we make a deal, you reuse that old dress every chance you have.”

“I like my hair this way.” You quip, rather obstinately.

Ivar’s eyes go to the gentle twirls and the delicate updo holding the hair away from your face, studying the style for a few moments. Finally, he shrugs in response.

You have an inkling that’s the closest you will get to receiving a compliment, so you let yourself enjoy the victory as if it were one.

“You still get cold in that dress. You keep trembling when night falls, woman, it’s annoying.” He mumbles.

“It’s…mine.” You offer as explanation, smiling down at your infusion as you watch the herbs swirl and smell the familiar scent of red clover and chickweed.

When you lift your gaze from the swirling herbs in your cup, you catch his eyes on you, but he adverts his gaze to his food once again when he speaks, “You have dresses in our room. Those are yours.”

“They are not mine, they are clothes you had people bring to me.” You insist, fingers tracing the worn Byzantine thread with care.

“You can ask them to bring you the ones you like.”

“I don’t want to take it from them, they…deserve compensation.”

“Would it be better if you bought your own, then?” He offers, and even if excitement bubbles in your chest and into your lips in a small smile, you still refrain.

“I don’t have any gold.”

“I can give you all you need.” Ivar sentences, and although for a moment your mind lingers on the meaning you think he intended behind those words, you soon find yourself with a smile on your lips and only thoughts of the peplos and chlamys you had back in your home before it burned down.

It has been so long since you have had time -or coin- to make some dresses.

“I don’t want to be in your debt.” You insist, even if you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling.

Ivar regards you silently for a few moments, resting his elbows on the table between you and challenging your eyes with his, his expression asking you why you decide to be so difficult about everything. You offer a shrug in response, wondering if he sees the hypocrisy in complaining about you being difficult to deal with.

“Think of them as…gifts, then.”

“Alright.” You murmur, your gaze holding his for once not feeling like it’s a duel, but an encounter. When it is a genuine one, however rare they are, Ivar truly has a lovely smile, you realize.

When you are done with your meal and murmur your goodbyes as you prepare to head for the apothecary home, Ivar interrupts you, sly smile on his lips and a shine in his eyes that, were he to be any other man, would make you think he is flirting.

“I like red.”

You smile in response, bending down to press a kiss against his cheek. Ivar grumbles his way away from your affection, but the shine in his eyes, the faint color in his ears, give him away.

“Come with me to the market and I’ll see what I can do.” You offer, already knowing you are triumphant.

____

“Oh, this is fun.” You laugh, dangling your feet over the chariot’s end as you watch the ground quickly move underneath them.

Ivar grunts something in response to your enthusiasm, and you can almost tell he is exaggeratedly rolling his eyes as he faces the horse and guides it through Kattegat’s roads.

You say nothing, still beyond thankful he agreed to come to the market with you, aware as you are of how…uncomfortable he is walking around the people of Kattegat. If his words the day you witnessed first-hand what happens when his eyes get that blue tint to them are anything to go by, and you know they are; it is evident he hates the reminder, for himself and especially for others, that he is disabled.

You’ll never know what life was -is- like for him, you know you couldn’t fathom the pain, the anger, the resentment. But what you can do is try to understand him, understand his rage and his hunger.

I spent most of my life crawling around in the dirt, having to look up at everyone, like I was always kneeling in front of them.

And again, the part of you that is soft and foolish wants nothing other than to give him the happiness, the certainty, the safety, the love some may say he does not deserve but you would gladly give freely. And the part of you that is cruel and angry wants to watch him conquer, triumph, wants to stand by his side and see the world that pushed him to the ground burn.

A voice that sounds so alike his whispers there’s no reason why only one of those things has to be possible.

Still, in your mind lingers the image of a younger Ivar, heartbroken and hopeless at the seemly inability to fight, to earn his right to Valhalla; and it sends a pang of pain through your heart.

You know the stubborn King would only call it pity if he were to know, so you keep your tone light when you say,

“Thank you for this, Ivar,” He only answers with a huffed ‘hmphf’, so you add with a side smile, “I hope you know I will ask for chariot rides way more often.”

“For the right price, I’ll give you anything you want.” Ivar finally answers, and you catch a glimpse of his blue eyes turning to you for a moment.

“Dare I ask what the price might be?”

You could swear you hear him chuckle, and before long the market is in your sights, bubbling and colorful, and your attention is stolen by the wares and chanting vendors.

As you walk eyeing every little trinket and odd curiosity, you cannot keep the nostalgic smile from your lips.

“When I was a child my mother and I used to walk markets just like this one. She…she had this tradition, bought a new dress or a new piece of jewelry each time my father was to return from a campaign.” You recall with a watery laugh, fingers caressing the hanging necklaces of colorful beads you walk by.

“Campaigns? Like raids?”

“Yes, she…she used to say it was so he would have some surprise to return to, and my father would joke it was her way of keeping him in Eleusis, a threat that if he left us too frequently she would spend all our coin on pretty things,” You answer softly, running your hand over a piece of cold blue cloth, “Our temple looks over the sea, and I would sit with her on the steps, waiting for my father’s ship to return. He used to say our smiles guided the navy home,” You laugh. The smile in your mother’s lips as the sea reflected in her burdened and yet loving eyes is brought forth in your mind, and you cannot keep the next words from stumbling out of your lips, “I think…I think those are the only times I remember her being…happy.

She fought so much, through her noble title and the title of wife of a Strategus, through her worship and her strong voice. And yet she perished amongst flames, her death cheered by her own countrymen.

The cold hand of fear grips your heart, and after being once so close to ending your tale the same way, for a moment you refuse to expose yourself to that bitter and barren end, no matter the cost.

You shake off the dark thoughts, and focus on the market and the life bubbling within it.

“I don’t think I ever said this, but Kattegat truly is beautiful, Ivar.” You offer after a while in silence, the sharp focus of his blue eyes setting on you at your words.

“My mother turned Kattegat into a trading hub, allowed the town to prosper through commerce. When I became King, I…wanted to honor that.”

“Did Queen Aslaug teach you of trade?” You ask curiously, your lips still smiling as your eyes rake over the stands of so many different colors, of the offered spices and cloths and pets. It all is beautiful, loud, and with pieces of everywhere in the known world scattered throughout.

It feels like the Silk Roads. It feels like the first home you knew.

Ivar huffs, a combination of amusement and maybe regret, “No, she didn’t. I did not care for it, but my older brothers learned from watching her rule,” He explains, and remains silent for a few moments, for so long that you think he’s not going to speak again, until he takes a deep breath, “Hvitserk has been the one dealing with commerce and foreign trade, and he has done…good for Kattegat.” He says finally, the praise towards his brother gruff and carrying the bite of rancor, like admitting the other man’s success irks him.

“You should tell him that.” You murmur as casually as you are able to, pretending to eye a display of metal bracelets.

Your fingers trace over the snakes on one of the intricate metalworks, and you are reminded of the altar in the forest of Eleusis: Persephone, sitting in her throne with a scythe, symbol of Demeter, held in her hand to demonstrate her pledge to her mother, and snakes, symbols of Hades, curled around her body as proof of her husband’s love.

“Do you like it?” Ivar asks, ignoring your previous words and looming over your back as he regards the delicate bracelet you hold. Not waiting for your answer, he motions for it and talks to the man behind the stall in his own language.

You place your touch back on the King’s arm, but this time is a call for attention, “Thank you, but I couldn’t, I don’t need it.”

But he shakes his head, lips pressed into a line, “I asked if you liked it, not if you needed it.”

“Must we argue about everything?” You sigh, exasperated as you watch him pay for the bracelet with curt words.

When he turns his gaze back to you, he does so with the arrogant and maddening smile you have learned to hate, “I don’t know. Shall we argue about that?”

You just huff in response, striding your way to a stall with bright linens and leaving him -and his bracelet- behind.

“Sure, make the cripple chase after you.” He growls, the bite in his voice paired with shame that even with your back turned to him you can sense, making you falter. A moment regret pangs at your stomach, but you will not apologize. Instead, you move to one somewhat empty passageway, so you can speak freely,

“I don’t like that word,” You grit out as you turn to watch him approach, “Rather, I don’t like how you use it.”

Ivar stands in front of one of the more secluded alleys, and you can sense the tension in his frame, the shame and despair, but say nothing about it.

He is quick to fire back, “Well, I don’t particularly like being a cripple, wife.”

“Oh, for the love of-…” You growl as the word rings in your head, and you pace away from Ivar for a moment, running a hand through your hair as you roll your eyes. When you turn back to the King, you face his angry and defensive gaze with your own, determined and fierce, “You are much more than your legs, you are what you made out of yourself past them, because of them,” Shaking your head but keeping your voice down and the people from hearing, you hiss, “It would have been easy for you to wallow in pity and let the world look down upon you, but you didn’t. You are dedicated, and strong, and brilliant, and…and many more things; and you chose to show them to never underestimate you, you made the choice to fight.

His eyes look into both of your own, the movement of the Greek-Fire like irises hinting at a desperation, a hesitancy, a fear, you once would never have believed Ivar would be able to show.

You reach with impulsive, careless, stupid fingers to trace the scar that has mesmerized you for so long, that runs right over his cheekbone, under his eye. He jumps at the touch, although not as violently as the last time you were this stupid, and keeps silent as his eyes, his mesmerizing eyes, jump between yours with a thousand questions written in them.

With a deep breath and refusing to move your gaze from his, even if you feel as exposed as he is, you continue,

“And it wasn’t easy, was it? It wasn’t and it is not fair. And if you use that word like…like they use it, you prove them right. And we both know they are not right about you.

With one last caress of his jaw, you lower your hand and press a vulnerable palm over his armored heart, looking up at him with determination.

Ivar regards you in silence, surprising you at his lack of defensiveness, of bite, of cruelty. But his guarded, so tightly controlled expression that it almost looks fragile makes something within you relent, something within you soften.

And your voice is just as quiet as before, but this time lacking the bite when you say, “So…stop using that word like an insult, because you turned that word into so much more. Because you are so much more,” You say, the fervor in your voice surprising you. After a beat of silence, you add in a mumble, “Like an insufferably stubborn man, among other things.”

He says nothing in response, only stubbornly offering you the bracelet with a clenched jaw. You roll your eyes, but extend your arm and allow him to put it on your wrist, trying to dispel the electrifying effects his warm touch has on your skin.

With his fingers still on your wrist, Ivar tugs and draws you closer. Surprised, your feet clumsily cross the space he demands to be crossed, and you look up into his eyes, those alluring eyes that both threaten and adore.

Ivar says nothing for a few moments, before finally moving forward, and your heart skips a beat, your breath leaves you. For a moment that lasts an eternity, you think he will be the one to give in.

But Ivar only leans close to speak by your ear, a murmur of your name. A moment, and you hear him again, quietly, barely a breath, “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” You warn, just as quietly, “I did not say those things expecting gratitude, I said them because they are true.”

Uncertain fingers trace one last hesitant caress along the skin in your wrist, right over the bracelet he gifted you with, and it is a silent agreement between you that you both return to browsing the market.

“Almost as fine as Byzantine silk, I swear on it,” The woman promises, offering you a display of soft and flowing linens. “Fit for the Gods, even.”

You laugh as you shake your head, “I am far from divine, good woman.”

“Because you lack my silk,” She insists with a toothy smile, and another light chuckle leaves your lips as you look over the different colors of the silk she offers, eyeing the varying colors and trying to decide on a good one for a formal peplos.

A rough hand grabs one of the dark red pieces before you can make your choice.

“I like this one.” Ivar says, and even if his tone makes it sound like an order, you still nod your approval and ask the vendor for the needed linens.

Later, after spending part of your day browsing the dresses and cloth offered in the market so tirelessly your feet now ache, you relax in your bed with a warm cup of milk and honey in your hands, watching as the pale sun settles over Kattegat’s horizon.

The warmth of the fire, the safety of the house around you, the rhythm of this city; none of this should feel as familiar, as comforting as it does.

Drawing your knees to your chest, hiding bare and cold feet under the furs, you set the cup down and keep your tired eyes on the horizon, even if the sun’s light is quick to blind you.

When you blink past the light, you find yourself looking into eyes as blue and as burning as Greek Fire, and a small smile pulls at your lips. He extends a hand, offers you a bracelet.

You roll your eyes, but accept Ivar’s warm touch as he places the bracelet around your wrist. Proudly keeping your place at his side, you walk with him through the street.

A woman keeps her dark eyes on you as you walk her by, and when you offer her a small smile and a nod in recognition, she offers you a smirk.

“Snakes curl at your feet. They bind you to this realm.” She says, her Greek harsh, only slightly better than Ivar’s. You swallow past the knot in your throat, and turn your gaze once again to the path ahead of you, jaw set tightly.

“Not for long.”

She laughs, darkly, hungrily, knowingly.

“You should know better than to say that, chosen of Persephone.”

You stop dead in your tracks, something off about her flawless Greek startling you. She holds your gaze, a challenge shining in her blind eyes. You blink, trying to see what changed of her face that unsettles you so, but you cannot seem to focus.

The woman lowers her face, a dark laugh echoing around you as darkness consumes the once vivid and loud streets. You turn around wildly, looking for…for…

The woman appears in front of you, face bare and blood dripping down her full lips. She extends her hand, offers you a red veil.

A gasp makes its way out of your lips as you sit up in the bed, eyes frantically searching for…her, as if she is to still be here.

You cannot shake from your mind the snippets of the dream -Vision? Message?- from your mind, and when you straighten from the fire you were occupied with, you catch sight of the clothes and linens you bought today and are startled by the amount of red you can see.

The color of a bride’s veil. The veil she offered you.

When you lift uncertain hands to run through your loose hair, you catch a glimpse of the bracelet Ivar gifted you on your wrist.

A shackle. A snake to curl at your feet and bind you.

Trying with all your might to dispel such thoughts, you return to your seat with the now cold cup of milk and honey in your hands and close your eyes tight.

Try as you may, each time you manage to shake off the images of your dream, behind closed eyes you see the countless dreams that came before it, the countless times you saw a figure that wasn’t quite mortal lurking in your dreams.

All the times before and after your return to Eleusis where you saw clearly in the distance a pair of thrones, though you knew one would remain empty for quite a while. Even after finding yourself shackled and bound in Kattegat, the dream of the snakes that slithered around you, only to then make you trip and fall, only to let Ivar move over you, promise you a kingdom against your lips.

Gods, the vision of…of the woman that cries gold, the motherly smile, the armor covering her chest. How you could blink and see blind eyes and dark skin instead, bloodied lips and still the same warm and welcoming smile. Both hands extended towards you, of which you found yourself unable to hold on to neither.

You never believed it to be a curse, to be a woman born destined to be close to the Gods.

But your eyes fill with tears, your heart grows heavy, and you cannot help but think how life could have been so much easier, how you could have been so happy, if only you had never known both of the Seer and the Oracle, of Freyja and Persephone. Of Kattegat and Attica.

And how you wish for a life where you don’t feel Fate tearing you in two.

____

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked this chapter!

Also, yes, I made a Phantom of the Opera reference lol

[ijustdontlikepeople]

hi there 💛

could you pls explain in-depth the casting for you 5sos x greek gods edit? would love to hear how was that thought process, as a greek mythology enthusiastic 🥺

i really loved it btw !! 💜

Hi! I sure can! I’m glad you like them!! 💜

Apollo was the Greek god of music, healing, and prophecy. Overtime, he also took over the duty of driving the sun chariot that caused the sun to raise each day from Helios. He is associated with pythons because he slew the dragon, Python. He is also gave us, Laurel wreaths as a sign of victory. Apollo was in love with a nymph called Daphne; he chased her for a while until another god took pity on her and turned her into a tree. (Daphne means Laurel). Laurel wreaths became a sign of victory because they were presented to the winners at the Pythian and Ancient Olympic Games. He has many more facets and roles, but these are the ones displayed in the edit or which I see connecting Apollo and Luke.

So the edit has a sun background. Golden ichor (blood of the gods) coming from his eyes. A Laurel wreath on Luke’s head and a python in the upper right corner.

So I picked Apollo for Luke for a few reasons. One, I have a bit of synthestia and they are both gold. Moreover, Luke reminds me of sunshine. Additionally, the god of music makes sense for the frontman of the band. And I feel like healing is also adapt for him, because it’s pretty clear he has healed a lot in the last few years.

Hades was the Greek god of the underworld, of the dead, and riches (specifically under the Earth). (He was not the god of death). His most famous story is arguably kidnapping Persephone, who became his wife. This myth sets up the reason for seasons in the ancient worlds. Persephone is goddess, and the daughter of Demeter - goddess of agriculture- so when Hades takes her to the Underworld she is not dead. However, she eats 6 pomegranate seeds which causes her to have to stay in the Underworld 6 months of the year. Pomegranates and seeds are therefore highly associated with Persephone and Hades. He is also well known for his three-headed dog Cerberus, who guards the entrance to the Underworld. (Fun fact: Cerberus might derive from the Ancient Greek word for Spot! So his dog might be named Spot!) Again this not a full account, but the information important for this edit.

So the edit has dark eye makeup, and a dark dog in the upper right corner. The crown is made of Pomegranate seeds and the background circle is black marble. The border is a generic Laurel wreath because I wanted to find a Helm of Darkness (a helmet that Hades had that made him invisible and maybe incorporeal) but I couldn’t find a good image.

I know this might be a bit of a weird one. Again a bit of my synthestia, both are black in my brain. So how Hades got Persephone is not good (kidnapping is bad) but they end up being one of the most functional couples in all of Greek mythologies. He only has a handful of children and they are almost all with his wife (which is weird compared to Zeus and Poseidon). Michael and Crystal have the most visible and the longest running relationship of any of the 5sos guys. Hades love for his dog is also a connection I see between him and Michael. Also, of all of the guys, Michael seems to have the most side-hustles. He’s making the dough.

Dionysus was one of the “younger gods.” He became a god in a weird way which I won’t get into. He is the god of wine, partying, madness, and vegetation. Occasionally, he was given the epithet “Eleutherios” meaning liberator. His myths generally involve partying turning into wildness, like drunk women ripping a man to pieces. Dionysus is highly associated with grapes, ivy, vines, and drinking cups.

Calum in the edit has eyes of multiple colors. He is against a purple circle surrounding by vegetation. His crown is ivy. Grapes are in the upper right corner.

So these guys don’t match in my color brain. But, of the main 12 Olympians I feel like the partier is the right fit for Calum. He seems like he knows how to have a good time. I don’t think he is crazy (lol) but he does have a bit of temper (not saying a bad or unjustified one). Also, like he seems to spend a lot of time (when he’s livestream or people are posting pictures) outside. I associate him more with the outdoors than any of the other guys.

Last but not least, Hermes. Hermes is the god of travelers, orators, cunning, and commerce. He is the messenger of the gods and a psychopomp. Hermes’ main symbol is his caduceus, a staff with two snakes twisting around. He is also known for his winged sandals and helmet.

I associate Hermes with blue so that’s the running color scheme, though this is not a classics thing. The circle behind him is a night sky because he flys between the boundaries of the Heavens, the Earth, and the Underworld. The crown is blue gems, I wanted to find a winged helmet or even just a crown shaped liked wings to invoke the helmet, but I could find one that worked with Ashton’s head angle. The border is a common Greek motif on pottery.

Ashton is the one, especially in the beginning, who seemed to be in charge of a lot of the business side of things for the band. Or at the very least, in charge of relaying what the band wanted to their business people. Even now, he’s the one emailing the merch company about bad orders for fans. He also does a lot of the bands social media, being the messenger for the band to the fans. He is a “wordsmith of sorts” and the connects him to orators. Ashton is clearly a cunning business man to have had the success he had with his independent solo album. Additionally, in the tour diaries and instagrams he seems to be the one always looking to explore the places they travel to (Cal often being right there with him though).

So yeah. Sorry for this super long answer! I hope it’s okay! I love talking about this kind of thing! 💜

[darkpoisonouslove]

The Power Inside a Family

Summary: The spell put on Griffin to turn her into a crow may get in the way of a celebration, but can’t disrupt her connection with Faragonda. But what to do when that is not enough to save the day and break the curse?

This is set somewhere between 6x02 and 6x10 and there is nothing to canon to disprove that this happened.

Written for @writersmonth day 3 - word: outside/setting: wedding.

CW: mentions of death, murder and child neglect.

“Who would have thought we would be spending an anniversary like this?” Their silent treatment had been an especially hard slap in the face on days they would have celebrated together after the years they’d missed, torn between the Coven and the Company. But the sight of Roxy carrying the crow into her office since Griffin couldn’t open doors or teleport with her magic trapped in the wings of a bird had her own powers cutting through her insides like glass shards. Her mother would be proud of the dark power she could draw from her feelings but it couldn’t bring back the only witch in the room.

It was useless. Her pain and her anger and her heart full of nothing but care for Griffin’s well-being were all useless while Winx were out there fighting girls just as young as them to save the world.

She held out a finger for Griffin to perch herself up on. “I was so happy when you married me. The happiest I’ve ever been.” That smile might have left her face over the years they’d struggled through but it was still living deep in her bones. Carving the marrow out of there and hollowing out her skeleton wouldn’t be enough to touch it once. “Was it because we were just girls who knew nothing of the world or was the world just free of evil back then?”

Griffin flapped her wings and screeched at her, as opinionated as ever despite the limited ways to show it. The blood red eyes of a crow were nothing like her golden irises but the look in them was so familiar. Faragonda was swept through the door to the past it opened.

Every little detail was popping out of the photo. It had to be the tangible happiness captured in the image that breathed life into it. Emalyn’s dress was a radiant blue–the color of ocean water turned into a jewel–and her purple hair was braided in a crown around her head with golden lilies tucked into it faded into the background at the look of the serenity in her eyes and the tenderness of her fingers on Aryan’s arm. His body was attuned to hers despite the sun scorching and blinding him before she’d pull him under the shade of the tree they’d grown outside their new home and his smile was brighter than the topaz of her engagement ring – now paler from all the light it’d seen over the years of their marriage. There was more love in a memory of theirs than Faragonda had seen from her own parents her entire life. Then again, she was more a member of the Sylvane household than her own home now.

“How do you picture your wedding?” She turned to Griffin who was religiously taking notes of the heavenly bodies and their movements.

“My wedding?” Griffin scribbled down a couple more lines before looking at her. All the light of the sunset reflected in the waters of Erebhus was gathered in her eyes. It would be too much for any other eight-year-old but it was the perfect aura of her lithe body. “I will marry the earth and grow roots with my heart so that no one will ever tell me again that my magic is unnatural.” Darkness clouded her gaze, sheltering the heavy bitterness her voice carried from her chest.

Still, there was a picture unfolding in Faragonda’s mind of the plants growing from Griffin’s touch. She could see her with stalks of oregano and lavender twisted in her purple locks and peony blooming on her lips, with cacti down her spine and aloe sprouting from her arms, little daisies adorning her fingers and vines crawling up her legs. There’d be apple branches in her veins and pomegranate seeds in her heart. And her eyes could breed the loveliest of daffodils.

“That would be pretty.”

Warmth flushed over her from Griffin’s resolve. “It would be powerful.”

Faragonda startled, the photos spilling from her hands. She hadn’t looked at her mental image through those lenses. Power was always her mother’s concern, not her own. If it was in Griffin’s head, too, maybe it was time to open her eyes to what Griffin’s friendship truly was – a veil for Griffin’s curiosity about Faragonda’s magic. Maybe to her best friend she was like the night sky – a mystery to study.

“What about your wedding?” Griffin ducked down to help her gather the photos. “I deserve a good party for all the fun I’ve brought into your life.” Griffin grinned at her. And just like that she was in Faragonda’s league again. She was her best friend, the person to spill her guts to.

“I haven’t planned anything.” How could she? Emalyn and Aryan had married into happiness. Griffin’s happiness lay in the power to make the world of her dreams come true. And her own was out of reach like her family at the other end of the Magic Dimension. “I can’t think of the future when the family I have now is hanging in the balance.” Her nonexistent powers had left her without a past either, without a childhood. She’d been stranded outside the realm of love. All she had were Griffin’s eyes capturing the eternal sunset of Erebhus.

“Marry me!” Griffin bounced on her heels.

“What?”

“You have me,” Griffin grabbed her hand, the photos of her parents forgotten on the floor as silent witnesses. “You’re part of my family. Marry me.” A ring woven from tiny white flowers materialized from Griffin’s magic. Fairy grass.* Griffin always complained about the name, the flower’s beauty forever associated with fairies, but she’d never given up on her love for it. And she was offering that love to Faragonda.

She let Griffin slip the dainty symbol on her finger. “How are we going to get married?” They were far too little for that even if the world had forced them to grow up prematurely.

“Well, we do have a house.” It was Griffin’s house that her parents had built for their family. “So we should go out and plant a tree.”

“Right.” Erebhus weddings were traditionally held under a tree the couple had planted together outside their new home to show they could grow a strong life together even in the swampy land of the planet. Very different from Faragonda’s home planet but that was fine with her. She only belonged with Griffin.

“Let’s go then.” Griffin dragged her out the door in a flash.

They ran into Emalyn in the corridor, the force of their enthusiasm enough to take down anything but her. “Where are you going?”

“To plant a tree. Faragonda and I are married now.” Griffin held her mom’s gaze and Faragonda flushed when Emalyn’s eyes moved over to her and their joined hands. The ring would have wilted on her finger from her body temperature if not for Griffin’s magic with plants.

Emalyn put a hand on Griffin’s shoulder and the other on Faragonda’s and bent down. Despite her gentleness, her touch was weighing so heavy on Faragonda’s bubble it would burst it. “I’ll help you pick out a tree but you have to promise me you’ll take care of each other. Family is serious work and it would pain me to see either–or both–of my girls hurt or upset.”

Faragonda looked at Griffin, her little heart ready to burst in her chest from all the relief she was holding back, waiting for permission to feel it. Griffin nodded and squeezed her hand, her expression not one of childish ideals but a promise of the heart and head alike. What came flooding in wasn’t just calmness. It was happiness.

Faragonda waved her hand and the mirror image of her office was replaced with a big hawthorn tree in the frame on the wall. It was charred after the Coven murdered Emalyn and burned down Griffin’s childhood home but it was still standing unlike the one Emalyn and Aryan had planted. It was tall and alive behind the damage – the true embodiment of power. If she could reach through the mirror and the bark and touch the flow in its veins, maybe it could lend her the love they’d grown it with to protect her family again.

Griffin circled her once before nestling herself in Faragonda’s hands to encourage stroking of her feathers.

“I don’t have the power to turn you back,” Faragonda ran her fingers over trembling wings. Griffin’s beak poked her right in the heart. “I know you forgive me. I just hope you’ll be able to tell me so yourself some day.” Hopefully, before their next anniversary. Griffin was no less of a strong character as a crow and nothing could break up their family but Faragonda needed her to be the strong one on their side to make sure no other families would be touched the same way.

*I’m talking about Gypsophila that most sources referred to as Baby’s Breath but it was called Fairy Grass a couple times and we’ll take that for the story opportunities it provides.

[comparativetarot]

The High Priestess. Art by Isabella Rotman, from This Might Hurt Tarot.

The High Priestess is a woman of mystery. The veil behind her is decorated with pomegranates, linking her to Persephone (Roman Proserpina), goddess of spring and queen of the underworld. She wears the triple moon symbol of the goddess on her head, linking her to femininity and lunar power. Behind the veil, we glimpse water, which in tarot symbolizes the unconscious. We are not forbidden from walking between the trees; we just don’t know how yet. The High Priestess holds a book, which many think of as the Torah, representing divine wisdom. In older decks (see Tarot of Marseille for an example), this card is labeled ‘The Papess,’ meaning woman pope.

The High Priestess is darkness, psychic power, and all the mysterious sides of the feminine archetype. She has access to the collective unconscious. The Fool meets her early in his journey, before he is ready to understand what that means.

The High Priestess instructs you to turn inward. We are like the High Priestess every time we read the cards. Meditate, journal, make art, do anything that gets you in touch with that part of you that’s difficult to consciously access. This may look, in practicality, like stillness. You don’t have access to what is behind that veil yet. Take your time, look inward, and believe what you see.

[redemptionbaby]

The Altar is Calling | Arthur/Reader| Pt.3

Pairing: Demon!Arthur Morgan/Reader

word count: 1305 

Notes: oh geez here it is. I don’t think this is necessarily well developed, which is why I’ve been holding onto it for so long, but I’m just gonna post it lmao

When you next awake, Arthur is no longer next to you. The curtains of the canopy bed are still drawn, which is probably why you slept in so late. You assume it’s late. Arthur is already up. Then again, there is no day and night in hell, is there? You hear an accusatory tone from a nearby room.

“Oh, so first you don’t tell me you got hitched, now you won’t even let me meet her? This is the kinda thanks I get, after raising you like my own son?”

You get up and find the room has changed, the illusion no longer present. The walls and floor are a deep blackish blue like obsidian, the ceiling glimmers with embedded gems that seem like they’re supposed to emulate stars. The furniture is matching, and there’s too-red light coming through the gaps in the drapes. There’s a vanity against the far wall, on it is your nightgown neatly folded, next to another piece of folded clothing. Interestingly enough, it’s white, with intricate embroidered symbols and motifs you don’t recognize.

You slip it on to find it comes to your knees, and it looks to be a tunic or dress, very loose, but it would have been much scarier if it was perfectly form-fitting. You use a nearby basin and pitcher to give your face a quick wash, and you notice after licking your lips that the water tastes very… mineral-y. 

“Now, I didn’t say anything like that. She just so happens to be asleep right now ‘sall.”

“I see-- tired her out on the wedding night? That’s my boy!” This statement is accompanied by haughty laughter and embarrassed blustering. 

You pad your way to the door and carefully open it, hoping not to make too much noise. The door opens directly into a sort of sitting room or foyer; Arthur’s back is to you while another demon is casually standing across from him. Arthur is again in his loincloth, hair still mussed from last night, while the other demon is dressed in a cleanly pressed white shirt and a black and red vest, not unlike how you’d see your father’s friends dressed at social events. 

“Now, I didn’t mean it like that—“ 

The other demon’s eyes flicker away from Arthur and behind him, landing squarely on you as you come up to them, gingerly grabbing onto Arthur’s wrist to try to get his attention. He swivels his waist to see you standing at his side, in the dress he picked out for you, no less. The other demon’s eyes light up kindly, his face stretching in a smile that shows his crow’s feet, but at the same time his expression is not unlike the one you make when you notice the waiter walking by is finally carrying the tray with your order on it. 

“Oh, now Arthur, you didn’t say she was such a sweet little thing! Salutations, young lady!” The demon rather assertively grabs the hand at your side, kneeling somewhat to get at eyes level with you and kissing the back of your hand. He waits for a moment, in quite an obvious fashion, before you yip out your name and introduction just like you do at all of your mother’s parties, sounding like a little dog in the most polite way possible. The demon barks out another startling laugh before standing back up to full height and looking down on you. 

“Call me Dutch, miss. I’m an old friend o’ yer husband’s,”

“Old is right—“

“And by that, he means I can recollect all sorts of stories from when he was a snot nosed brat!”

“C’mon now, that ain’t necessary— darlin’, you hungry? I’m sure our guest is just on his way out. Now ya seen her, y’happy old man?” 

“I outta punish you for speaking to me like that, in front of a lady, no less. But seein’ as it’s your honeymoon, I’ll forgive you and get out of your hair,” Dutch turns back to you with a less-than-innocent expression. 

“Delighted to meet you, little lady. This fool ever give you any trouble, you’ll be sure to give ol’ Dutch a call, won’t you?” He disappears before you in a mass of dark, smokey tendrils that appear at his feet, leaving behind a small card with a sigil on it. You hear Arthur mutter drama queen under his breath at the display. 

Upon picking up the card and thinking of where to put it, you discover that your dress has pockets, making this pretty much the coolest day of your life. 

—————-

For breakfast, you have a bowl of berries and pomegranate seeds with a side of fresh cream, honey, and oats. Despite its simplicity, it tastes absolutely decadent. In between spoonfuls of food, Arthur lets you play with his hands, exploring the lines in his knuckles and palms, stroking his claws, fiddling with his rings. He’s unoccupied by food, and seems content to let you do everything at your own pace. Inwardly, he’s overjoyed by this simple act of intimacy. 

“Do you need to eat? Is that like, an insensitive question?” He chuckles. 

“Nah, not really. Though there are a few things I like to eat for fun.” He winks with a kind of playboy smile he hasn’t made in decades, then immediately cringes at his own attempt to be smooth (considering just the other night, he cried his way out of consummating his own damn marriage). Luckily, the innuendo seems to have gone entirely over your head. 

“So why do you have the food? For guests?”

“They’re offerin’s. Ain’t as much as they used to be, but some mortals still worship us demons. I even get prayers every now and again, if you can believe it.” He sighs listlessly. “Food don’t go bad down here, so it just piles up. ‘M glad someone can enjoy it.”

He reaches across the table and grabs your chin, using his thumb to wipe some cream from your bottom lip. Your tongue darts out to lick his thumb, a bold move on your part, and one which clearly surprises him. His eyes are wide and his eyebrows raised for a moment, before his face relaxes into a lazy smirk, and he chuckles. Your face heats up, and you lower your eyes, avoiding his gaze. He can’t help but keep staring anyways-- he loves to see the pink on your darling little face.

“So what’s the verdict, little wife? You stayin’ down here with me, or goin’ back up to your own kind?” He can’t hide the disappointment in his voice at the idea of you leaving. Your eyes flick back up to him in a way that reminds him that you’re more than meets the eye.

“This-- you. You win hands down. Of course, I’d like to not leave my parents totally hanging, if possible. They’d be heartbroken if I just vanished…” Arthur’s smile reaches his eyes at your words, he gets up so quickly he nearly knocks over his chair, taking a couple quick strides before scooping you up by the waist. You grip his shoulders instinctively as he lifts you much higher than you’ve ever been lifted, twirling you, before handling you to sit on his forearm. You’re at eye level with him now, with his free hand on the back of your neck, and he leans in to plant a sweet kiss on your lips, coaxing you into opening your mouth so he can get his tongue in. You feel like he’s trying to devour you, and he only breaks the kiss to further pepper your face with kisses. The adoration, the worship, the gratitude, the love in his eyes is unmistakable. 

“‘Course we can work something out, angel. You’ve got my word.”

You wake up in your bed at home.

[sebastianshaw]

God forbid, GOD FORBID, but... hel and shaw.

Name: Hulda Helasdottir (I think that’d be the correct spelling?) Hulda means “secrecy” or “hidden” in Old Norse, but “sweet” or “lovable” in Old Swedish and like, idk, I don’t know your Hel deeply enough to be totally sure but that sort of seems. . .right, for a child of hers? Like something she would name them. It’s also a genus of moth, and I also drew inspiration from those for her; quiet things that dwell in the dark and are misunderstood. “Hulda” also has some meanings in Hebrew but that’s coincidence and doesn’t have much to do with her.

Gender: Cis Female. Probably experimented a bit with gender fluidity here and there but she was like nah I’m good.

General Appearance: Shocking pale with long straight black hair that once in awhile she crops very short, but it always grows back swiftly. Pointy-chinned androgynous pixie face. Very big eyes, almost unattractively so. Skinny but big-boned. In her mother’s realm or otherwise among her fellow supernatural beings, I’m think a gown a lot like THIS in a deep maroon, with her hands bedecked in jeweled finger-bracelets and nothing at all on her feet. Definitely has Hel’s fondness for gems. In Midgard, I’m thinking a lot of gray tweed blazers and skirts with maroon tops, kind of a Dark Academia look, but it’s somehow always a little slouchy and ill-fitting, just as her hair always looks unbrushed and sometimes has bits of moss or forest floor debris floating in it even when she’s in the city. Those with supernatural sight can perceive deer antlers on her head, and I don’t have any reason for this besides that I think it’s cool. I could say something about the loss and regrowth of antlers symbolizing the changing of seasons and cyclical nature of life and death but honestly? I’m doing it because I like the aesthetic.

Personality: Strange little girl, where are you going? Hulda is drawn to darkness and hidden places, both figurative and literal. She pokes her head into caverns where no lights gets in, seeking out what’s to be found. She loves mystery, but she loves truth even more, especially the kind that hasn’t been seen by anyone in a long time, if ever. She things of herself less of a hunter, and more a forager. She only wants to examine what she finds, not hurt it. But she is her father’s daughter and can be seduced by what she finds in the dark. She would eat the pomegranate seeds and fairy fruit. Like Ofelia in Pan’s Labrytinth, she cannot resist what’s on the table, even when warned about the Pale Man and what will commence if she takes but one bite. And maybe. . . maybe she even wants it. She is drawn to the darkness, after all, and that includes danger. There is no thrill without risk. And sometimes that tastes sweeter than a victory, a clean getaway, ever would.  Hulda knows all the rules. She knows who to take food from. She knows whom not to give her name. She knows which paths to stay on. She knows. She just chooses otherwise. Because it’s so much more INTERESTING that way.

Special Talents: Hulda can walk easily between realms and worlds, frequently finding little pocket dimensions like little caves or groves. Woods are always bigger when she’s in them. Moths are often in her presence. Puppies tend to be born with two heads in places she’s passed through. Has all the standard Asgardian attributes by half, and probably some dark/nature type magics---people always forget that death and fungus and blight are all as much parts of nature as sunshine and flowers--and is shockingly good at marbles. 

Who they like better: I think she’s primarily been in Hel’s care for most of her life, so it’s less she likes Shaw more and more that she’s more curious about him, ESPECIALLY since he’s something dark and dangerous and downright hostile to her

Who they take after more: Hel

Personal Head canon: Hulda has a sister. Her sister’s is Dyr. Dyr can mean “deer” but it can also mean simply “beast” because that is what Dyr is. Dyr is not a name, you see. It’s a title. Dyr is big, and best not described beyond this, but whatever she is, she fits in very well with her two uncles on Hel’s side. Dyr is Shaw’s greed and Hel’s loneliness made hungry howling flesh, and she haunts and hunts whenever Hulda does not exist, wherever Hulda does not exist. You see, a common misconception is that Hulda turns into Dyr when in certain realms. This is not the case. They are separate beings, they simply cannot exist at the same time. When Hulda goes to a place that is not right for a creature like her to be, where one like the Dyr would be better suited, then Dyr will exist and Hulda will not. It’s that simple. It’s very simple. People seem to have a hard time with it though.

Face Claim: N/A

[writefinch]

The Prince’s Offering, Pt.2 (”Historical,” bondage, harems)

The Prince, the Brigand and the gift followed their host through to a sitting area, and all three visitors sat down on plush cushions indicated to by their host, though Thom had to guide the woman-gift into place, grabbing her chest roughly as he pushed her down.

Davai looked around and took in his surroundings. A low, square table, barely an inch off the floor, occupied the center of the room, with four plush cushions placed around it, upon which the three visitors and their host currently sat. The table was laid out with a selection of pastries, fruits and sweetmeats, as well as a heated bronze pot for the decanting of tea.

The floors were strewn with fine rugs and more cushions, and upon some of those cushions lazed serving girls, bronze skin visible under impossibly sheer gauze, their necks, wrists and fingers weighed down with a fortune's each of intricate jewelry. They all seemed in possession of an ethereal beauty unlike anyone the young lord had ever seen, and when one glanced his way with the briefest of sultry smiles, Davai felt his cheeks glow pink.

In one far corner a small pool was recessed into the floor with a gauze-clad attendant lounging beside it, in another corner was a set of bookshelves where one girl perused a scroll by lamplight, and the back of the room on a raised dais sat an empty throne, flanked by four hounds on each side.

As Davai peered at the dais, he realized that it was not a true throne, and they were not true dogs. The throne was a frame, empty underneath the seat and strewn with scraps of fabric, and the dogs were cast-iron statues with golden engraving, draped in many layers of the same gauze that the serving girls wore. It did not take a scholar of the arts to adduce the meaning of this display: The Old Duke had overseen eight fiefdoms, each ruled by a Lord Knight, and the symbol of the knights was a black wolf. In the Mughal display, the Old Duke's throne was hollow and worthless, his proud wolves were dogs and whores, and they would be nothing more than a near-forgotten backdrop to a new age of Imperial rule.

Finally, his eyes settled on his host. He was a man of Turkish stock, roughly two-score years of age, with a square jaw, a full moustache, and a day's growth of stubble across the rest of his face that did nothing to hide the thick white scar on his chin. He was tall, with several inches on Thom and a full foot over Davai, and carried himself with the bearing of a fighting man. His eyes were warm and his smile warmer, and Davai watched as the man bought a cup of hot tea to his lips and sipped at it, before setting the tea down and looking right at him.

"Heated floors," blurted Davai, and felt profoundly stupid for having done so. Their host chuckled graciously.

"Indeed, heated floors. Technology of the ancients, something the General had fitted into this castle by one of the finest engineers of Persia. Water is heated in a great vessel elsewhere in the castle and carried by pumps to an intricate series of pipes underneath the tiles, and a web of chimneys within the walls pulls away sweltering air and foul humors. Rather ingenious," he said, before furrowing his brow, "though of course this keep was never built with such a thing in mind, hence the damnable whistling. Pasha, play a tune for us."

Davai's ears perked up, and he could still hear the shrill cries of the vents until one of the serving girls placed a wooden flute to her lips and began to play. A soft, calming tune carried forth, and it seemed to have been composed in a manner that utterly masked the noise underneath.

"Thank you, my dear," said the man. "Now, Thom, I have met you before, yes?"

"You have sir, indeed," replied Thom. "I was delivering tithes from some of the nearby holdings, and you were receiving them. An honour to meet you again, sir."

"And a pleasure to see you, sirrah. Would you do me the favour of introducing your employer?"

Thom nodded. "I present to you Lord Davai of the line Kestrel, representative of the Houses of the Amber Plains, next in line to the Barony of East Barleycorn."

"A pleasure to meet you, Lord Davai. My name is Sir Karim the Acquirer, and I am a... hm, how would I say... a scrivener, yes, a scrivener for the Great Empire."

"A pleasure in kind, Sir Karim," said Davai.

"Mhmm." Karim opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. "As we are to conduct our business on behalf of the Great Empire, the necessary ritual must be undertaken beforehand," he said, lifting his robes enough to stand up before pointing to a clear patch of rug beside the table. "From this spot, Karakorum lies in the direction of the pool."

Davai said and did nothing for a moment until he was poked in the ribs by Thom, who did not even have to mouth the word before Davai remembered the need to kow-tow. The three men each took kneeling positions facing east and touched their foreheads to the ground repeatedly in the correct display of respect, with both Thom and Davai making two more bows than Karim. With the ritual complete they returned to the table, where Karim bade them to eat.

They partook of crisp apple slices dipped in honey, black bread slathered in butter, almond sweets filled with pomegranate jam and strong black tea while Karim made light conversation. They spoke of the approaching harvest, of the last and next tournaments, of the advances in astronomy, and of playing companies.

Karim placed his empty teacup on the table, and a serving girl refilled it the moment he loosed his grip on it. He paid her no mind, and looked across at Davai instead. "I understand you have traveled some distance to join us here. How was your journey?"

"It was a straightforward one," said Davai carefully. "The new roads are smooth, and there is no worry of bandits." He aimed to acknowledge the benefits of Imperial rule, but was keen to avoid overt fawning.

"Yes, mhm. And, Lord Davai, might I ask why you have traveled all this way? As smooth and safe as our roads are, I assume you did not come all this way to merely test them."

Lord Davai fought the overwhelming urge to swallow and instead cleared his throat, but could not avoid nervously brushing a curl of hair out of his face. "Baron Vadim has sadly passed away, and as he was tragically bereft of heirs, some of his holdings stand to be inherited by the Houses of the Amber Plains. A great many of his holdings, in fact, and though the Great Empire graciously consented to oversee the Amber Plains in their stead in exchange for fealty and fair tithe, they did not offer such consent with holdings twice that size in mind.

"In light of this change, we wish to reaffirm our loyalty, to demonstrate our awe and fear of Imperial might, to give our gratitude for the Great Empire's mercy, to offer new gifts and tribute in line with our resources, and to beg counsel on the Great Emperor's desires in how his holdings should be overseen, should he deign to allow us to continue our stewardship." Now he swallowed, and quickly sipped tea to sate his suddenly dry mouth.

With a broad smile, Karim nodded. "Well, I cannot speak to everything you have mentioned yet, but I can say this: the Houses of the Amber Plains have made a wise choice in sending a well-intentioned emissary. Had every noble in every city in my homeland made the same choice in light of the Grand Empire's overtures..." He trailed off, and then grinned darkly. "Suffice to say there would be a great many more cities remaining in my homeland."

Davai nodded. "It behooves us to learn from the folly of others, and never more so than when the cost of folly is so dear."

"Indeed," said Karim, and there was a momentary and uncomfortable lull in the conversation. Davai looked to Thom for counsel, and the ruffian looked at him and then to the scroll case by his side.

Clearing his throat again, Davai held up the scroll case. "Sir Karim, I bear a written pledge of fealty from the Houses of the Amber Plains, alongside details of our holdings, and a new offer of tribute."

"My deepest thanks, Lord Davai," said Karim, taking the case. He called over the serving girl by the bookshelves and lectern, who took it from him in turn. "I will review it with our scriveners in due time."

Davai looked nervously to his companion once more and then said, "We would also humbly offer some gifts, as the Great Empire has shown us favour by simply offering this meeting." He looked to the bound girl, loaded with bags and boxes like a beast of burden, and felt a cold stab of regret, but continued nonetheless. "With your consent, Sir Karim, I would ask Thom to present these gifts."

Karim laughed warmly. "It would be my pleasure and honour to receive your gifts on behalf of the Emperor. Please, proceed."

"Yes," said Davai, wiping some of the sweat from his brow that had appeared from the warmth of the room. "Thom, sirrah, if you would."

With a flourish, Thom the Brigand unstrapped a finely-carved cypress box from the woman-gift, flipped it open, and began to display the contents.

"Among the first box of gifts is an engraved silver tin filled with a powder of mushrooms and antimony which is known to induce waking dreams, an enameled brooch which was made by the Gauls in ancient times, an alchemical treatise on that which can create a solution of gold, a relic of Saint Peter..."

Thom continued in this vein for some time, methodically displaying the contents of the dozen-odd containers attached to the woman-gift until she was bound but unburdened. He displayed jewels and gems, potions and tinctures, ancient heirlooms and war trophies, spirits infused with the essence of cherries, lambskin-bound tomes filled with painstakingly translated works from the Ancient Romans, old and secret maps.

The collection had been pulled together over months at great expense, and had already led to strife and bloodshed between the noble houses. A dark grin almost spread across Davai's face at the thought: such a collection would pale against the curiosities room of a moderately successful merchant of Mesopotamia, and to the Mughals these items would mean little more than children's toys.

Karim watched the display with mild interest, and clapped his palms together at the conclusion. "Lord Davai, I am an honest man, and I eschew mistruth wherever my fealty does not demand it," he said, "so I am afraid you must know this: my masters will most likely treasure the spirits more than anything else in this collection."

"I cannot fault their taste," said Davai wryly, "I am rather partial to them myself."

A belly-laugh from Karim carried around the room. "Quite so! In truth, you have provided one gift without knowing it--you have outdone several local rulers who claim more wealth than your noble houses but delivered a more impoverished offering than this. Such knowledge may earn favour with my masters, though I am not sure it will help your popularity among the wider local nobility, and as I said before, they will be glad to indulge in your spirits!"

Thom openly leered at a serving girl as she brushed pastry crumbs away from Karim's lap, and licked his lips. "I can think of some things they would prefer to indulge in."

"Yes, you spoke of them at great length on the journey here," said Davai acidly. "I'm not sure there is a single foul desire in your heart that didn't pass your lips over the course of the week."

Thom glared at him contemptuously. "I beg your pardon then, had I known you were not a noble lordling but instead a novice from the abbey, I would have been more circumspect."

"Address me as my station demands, brigand!"

Thom bared his teeth for a moment, and then muted his expression. "I apologize, Lord Davai. I spoke out of place."

"Yes. Remember that place, Thom the Brigand, or I will remember to make you remember."

They stared at each other for a moment before a noise returned them to their surroundings, and they both looked to see Karim snickering at them. Thom coughed awkwardly, and Davai's guts twisted with embarrassment. "My dear guests, please," said Karim, gesturing grandly, "I am keenly aware of the boredom and stresses inherent to long journeys. I implore you to accept a neck massage from the serving girls, you will feel like new men afterwards." He snapped his fingers. "Tabitha, Bahar, Mido, if you would."

Before he finished speaking, three serving girls appeared and slunk behind the men. Davai could not help but give a start as he felt soft hands on his shoulders, a gentle breath in his ear, and warm bosoms pressed against his back.

"I am Bahar, my lord," purred the girl, in a thick Persian accent. "May I begin your massage?"

Thoughts of continence, piety, and guilt swirled within Davai, and he froze. "Ah--"

"Dear guests," groaned Karim, already enjoying his massage, his voice so deep it was almost a croak, "my delightful girls are skilled beyond reproach, and they will take care of you completely. Take any offer from them as freely you would from me."

Davai did not need to be reminded to accept all and any hospitality from their host. He turned his head until he could see Bahar's veiled face out of the corner of his eye. "Yes--" he swallowed, "--yes, you may begin."

With a soft giggle, she ran her palms along the width of his shoulders, pressed, and Davai felt a shiver of warmth quite unlike anything he had felt before. Fingers played over his muscles and the sensation grew stronger still, a buzz of pleasure that seemed to both relieve his muscles and invigorate them. He bit his lip, stifling the urge to moan, but as he noticed Karim's contented humming and some kind of... gurgling coming from Thom, he let out a coo of delight and fell back into Bahar's skilled hands.

Pleasure mixed with pain in a way that seemed to intensify both at once as she worked her thumbs over a spot by his shoulder blade. "Were you injured, lord?" she murmured in his ear.

"Mhm." He had closed his eyes without even realizing it. "A jousting tourney."

Her lips brushed his ear for the briefest of moments, and he felt it glow red with heat. "Do you joust, lord?"

He nodded, his neck feeling unusually smooth as he did so. "Poorly."

The girl giggled and resumed her work. Davai worried that he would fall asleep, but as the massage continued the deep relaxation turned into something light and springy, and he felt more awake than he had done in several days at least. He opened his eyes again to take a drink of tea, which another girl had refilled at some point, and saw the two other men with dazed, slack expressions. Karim wore it well, appearing deeply contented, but it made Thom look quite demented.

As the three men roused from their dazed states, they each found their eyes drawn to the one person sitting at the table who did not have a serving girl behind them. Karim looked upon the woman-gift and observed, "I have travelled far and wide, but I do not recognize this breed of pack mule you have brought along."

"Mhm!" Thom jolted himself to attention. "Sir Karim, I lost myself so deeply in displaying the gifts she carried that I missed one gift entirely. She is to be yours, to serve the Great Empire in whatever way is most pleasing."

Karim appeared to mull this over. "I see. Might I ask who she is?"

"Her name is Justyna, and she is the fairest and most beautiful woman in all our lands," said Davai. The sensations of the massage could not touch the hollowness he felt inside as he spoke, and he hoped at least that the hollowness had not crept into his tone.

"A delight indeed, then." Karim ate a slice of apple, and then said, "I admit, such a heavy veil had me expecting something rather plain. Might I gaze upon her?"

With a nod, Thom moved behind the bound woman and untied the ropes that fixed the veil to her head. He removed the veil without ceremony, and returned to his seat. He grinned, Davai felt something ache inside his chest, and Karim beamed at the sight.

The sweat on her brow nor the tears on her cheeks nor the grease in her hair could detract from her beauty. Her eyes were a pale blue, her cheeks full and dotted with freckles, her copper-red hair was soft as any silk, and she had an unearthly air to her, like a captured nymph. She remained silent; a second, smaller gag had been underneath the cleave gag formed by the veil and rope the entire time. This gag was formed of two pilfered silken handkerchiefs, one balled up and stuffed between her lips, the other wrapped around her head and mouth to keep the first in place. Unbeknownst to all but the woman and Thom the Brigand, the handkerchief in her mouth had been doused liberally with Thom's male seed before being forced between her lips. She stared forward into space, exhausted on every level.

For the first time since the meeting began, Karim appeared genuinely impressed. "A true beauty indeed," he said softly. "Pray tell, is she of noble birth?"

Davai shook his head. "There are many striking noblewomen in the Houses of the Amber Plains, but none so enchanting as her."

"I see." Karim straightened up and looked directly at Davai. "I must inform you, if you intend to give this woman over as a gift, she will be received as a slave."

Davai opened his mouth to speak, but Karim held up a hand. "I beg you, heed me well before you speak further. To sell a slave is one matter, but to gift someone into slavery is another matter entirely. It is the custom of my people that before a slave can be given away, the giver must be wholly aware of what such slavery will entail."

For a moment Davai said nothing, and then he nodded. "What, then, would such a thing entail, Sir Karim?"

"The first detail is that she will become a serving girl for a harem. This is without question. The second detail is that this will require training and induction, both of which will be severe and intensely taxing. The third detail is that any serving girl--but especially one of such beauty--may be bartered on to another harem. She might never see her homeland again." Karim sipped his tea, set it down, and continued. "Finally, I counsel you to ask the girls how they became part of the harem. If your Justyna becomes a slave, her experience may be different in the detail, but not in the broad strokes."

The hollow feeling grew stronger, but Davai willed himself to push it down inside him. He heard a high giggle, and looked at the serving girl who had draped herself over Karim's shoulders. "Lord Davai, I am Tabitha,” she said. “Would you like to know how I became a serving girl?"

(Part 3 here: https://writefinch.tumblr.com/post/641949398777102337/the-princes-offering-pt3-cn )

[blairinspace]

Once a pirate, always a pirate.

Character profile for: Auguste Sinclair.

[Image description: A digital waist-up drawing of a man surrounded by a fiery scene. His features resemble a feline, and there are dark stripes across his cheeks. He frowns and stares coldly in front of him, facing the left. His hair is dark brown and curly. He wears a regency shirt with ruffles that trail down his chest. /end description]

Basic Information

Name: Auguste Sinclair.

Age: 30's.

Gender: Male.

Species: Caspian tiger with pseudo-melanism.

Place of Birth: Marseille, France.

Nationality: French. Turkish blood.

Occupation: Pirate. Corsair, sellsword.

Marital Status: Unattached, indifferent.

Physical Attributes

Height: 5 feet and 10 inches.

Weight: Average, if not on the smaller side of 130 lbs.

Eye Color: Ocean blue.

Coat Color: Beige and ash brown. Thick, dark stripes create a marbling pattern across his coat.

Hair: Ash brown, nearly black curls. Falls to his shoulder blades. Typically pulled into a loose, low ponytail. Sometimes braided.

Distinguishing Features: Thick eyebrows, cold eyes. Left upper canine is replaced with gold. Large scars on chest, a fine nick crossing the left side of his lips and partially stretching across his chin and cheek; many smaller ones elsewhere.

Build of Body: Lithe, athletic. A tad scrawny.

Scent: Sea salt, cloves, and bay leaves.

Posture: A bit withdrawn, a bit haughty.

Typical Clothing: Usually wearing cotton breeches and heeled boots, with laced linen shirt, and silk vest, much of which is decorated with embroidery of some sort. His style is a little flamboyant and too rich for his kind.

Accessories: Ear piercings. Colorful sashes. Embossed leather belt; attached is a coin purse, a French cutlass, and a Turkish dagger.

Voice: Sultry, smooth, confident. Cillian Murphy.

Accent: Remnants of French, mixed with something else.

Mental Attributes

Likes: Reading, writing and journaling, sword sparring. The sound of an old but sturdy hull. Starlit skies.

Dislikes: Crowded ships, stormy weather. Heights. Nosy individuals.

Education: Fairly educated. Literate in French and English. Child of nobility.

Fears: Being found, going home. Falling in love.

General Attitude: Very much a man that lives in his own world. He has turned his back on everything he knew at home and makes his own way in life. Depends on no one but himself, and whoever buys his sword. Tends to drive away those who try to get close to him, especially the ones who ask too many questions.

Quirks and Habits: Fidgets; usually with a coin, rolling it between his knuckles. Can sleep just about anywhere. Smokes when bored or nervous.

Temperament: Choleric; independent, decisive, goal-oriented, ambitious, vengeful, short-tempered.

Symbols: The pomegranate; power, blood, death. The color red; passion, willpower, vigor, wrath, determination. The Hermit; withdrawal, introspection, roguery.

Generous - Refined - Capable - Loyal Private - Solemn - Hedonistic Abrasive - Difficult - Moody - Paranoid