#quayside corner

[cantseemtohide]

Credit to Maxis, all those flies are really grim 😬😁

[codenomesailorv]

(+18) "The Colour of Ocean" fancfiction by Liebe_fiction

Saturday. Winter's day. I was standing on the edge of the pier, looking out at the distant horizon with its star-studded sky, twilight painting as far as the eye could see, a beautiful sight at the beginning of the night. The quayside was buzzing with life: there were traders from all corners of the country, the smell of different foods, the scent of potions and perfumes, the noise of the voices of those arriving. I now stood with my arms folded, a chill from the winds blew over me and I had no proper clothing. I let my bag of utensils and berries fall at my feet, and tried to keep warm as best I could.

The citizens of Pelican Town were arriving in droves now, excited and pointing their fingers at the colorful boats. I smelled another scent, the smell of fresh coffee, and turned in its direction. An ebony-black, burly woman in a turban was pouring hot water into a strainer with the wonderful-smelling powder. I approached her, still with my arms crossed from the cold.

"Hello, dear! Can I get you a cup of coffee?" The woman in the turban asked with a smile and I nodded. She quickly took the full cup from the strainer and handed it to me with a thin sky-blue scarf. "Enjoy!"

I thanked him and went back to where my bag was. Slowly sipping the warm liquid, I watched the waves of the ocean, the seagulls, and the swaying masts of the boats with colorful lights. I felt a certain melancholy at that moment, something I hadn’t felt for a long time, since I had moved to Pelican Town. 

“It’s been three years since I moved here… three long years… I’ve been doing my best to take care of Grandpa’s farm, and it’s been a wonderful time. I’ve been so well received here… so why do I feel so sad?”

Hadn't I faced strange creatures in the caves? Collected and made my own tools and gold bars? Hadn't I obtained treasures and was one of the richest citizens? Yes, I was. But I hadn't felt that melancholy since I had quit my job at Joja, the day I felt so anguished that the only breath of hope came from Grandpa's letter. And once again, after three years, that feeling of emptiness was torturing me again.

I was so wrapped up in these thoughts that I barely noticed the footsteps behind me and the person standing next to me.

"Hello, miss." A warm breath made my skin shiver. I turned around suddenly. It was Elliott, the resident of that beach, in the wooden cabin a few meters from the pier.

"Oh, good evening, sir." I answered, still scared. I quickly ran my fingers through my unruly hair, still dirty and sticky from the sweat of having spent the whole day in the mines. "I didn't see you arrive..."

"Sir?" He exclaimed and then threw his head back in a loud laugh. "Tell me you don't think I'm that old either! It's not enough that Jas and Vicent call me an old man when they come to play on the beach."

"Oh, I didn't mean to…" I stammered, now carefully running my hands and disguise over my charcoal-stained overalls.

"Don't worry, miss." He said, smiling. "I was joking. I'm used to it."

"Oh, well."

We stood there watching the waves on the pier, the coffee cooling between my fingers. Elliott looked at the sea with compassion, now his eyes shining at the sky, now black and full of stars, now looking at the small waves that broke against the wood of the boats. I let a heavy sigh escape my lips. He turned to me.

"Are you bored? I’ll let you visit the festival boats at your leisure…"

"Oh, no, please stay!" I said with a start. I could hardly believe my words as I said them, and Elliott also had a confused expression on his face when I suddenly grabbed the sleeve of his suit. "Can we talk some more? I’m not feeling well today."

"Sure, dearest. What’s wrong with you?" He asked and moved closer to me. I was breathless, because there was something I had locked away in my heart: I had felt something for him for a long time. I didn’t know when it had started, when we first greeted each other, when we had drinks together at Gus’s bar, I didn’t know. Everything about Elliott was close to perfection—his face, his compassionate eyes, his long red hair, his pink lips, and how he loved to read and write. His story of how he had escaped to that piece of nature-protected world was similar to mine, and I felt I had a connection with him, even if he himself didn’t know it. But what was a simple feeling was nothing more than that, a feeling. I never dared to speak to him, when he invited me to drink wine, he didn't seem to care about my clothes or my disheveled appearance after the day's work. There was a memory in which he had taken my hand, and just like that, he pulled me to dance. I had never laughed so much, the exultant joy I felt in his arms could not leave my thoughts. And now, it clashed with the loneliness I felt. Suddenly, I felt like I was going to cry.

Elliott noticed my eyes turning red and took a lock of my hair and put it behind my ear.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked, worried.

“I’m just… tired…” That’s all I could say, looking behind my shoulders and seeing that many people were near us on the pier. Elliott followed my gaze and understood, then took my hand and led me to the sand on the beach.

There, I left the coffee cup, and we sat down on the sand, near the cabin. The winter wind whistled through the small dunes, and I sighed in relief to be away from accusing eyes. Elliott turned to me.

“Okay, now that we’re seated, let’s rest. Tell me how your day was.”

“My day?” I said. “I fed my animals, picked tomatoes from my greenhouse, and cleared the fields of dry grass. I also went to the mines, but I didn’t get much.” I commented, and opened my bag towards him, so he could see the few still-dirty copper nuggets that were there. Elliott shook his head.

"You know, I think you’re amazing! I think I’ve told you that before. Doing so much on your farm isn’t for everyone… while I stay in this cabin, all alone…" And he turned his head to his house. I wiped my eyes and saw something cloud his face, as if he also felt what I felt. I put the bag aside.

"Do you feel lonely sometimes on this beach, Elliott?"

"Always." He confessed. "And you on your farm?"

"Very much." I said sincerely.

We stayed like that for a while longer, sitting there listening to the crickets in the distance and the hubbub of the festival. I looked at Elliott as he rested his hands on his knees, discreetly admiring his face, the wind blowing his hair over his shoulders, and he also turned to me and we stared. He smiled, and to my surprise, he took my hand and began to draw circles on my palm.

"Shall we talk a little to pass the time? Ask me anything you want and I'll do the same." He said. I smiled at that moment, my heart raced with the touch of his finger on my palm but I tried to control my heartbeat.

"What kind of questions?"

"Any kind you want."

"Okay. How old are you?"

Elliott suddenly stopped playing with my palm and looked at me. A smile formed once more on his lips and he ran his fingers firmly through his windblown hair. After resting his hand on his knee, he looked at the festival and gave a slight chuckle.

“I’m 34.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, dear. Do I look older?”

“You look younger,” he said, and it was true. It wasn’t that I thought he was old, again, I felt a new kind of attraction to him. I pulled my knees up to my arms and said, “I’m 27.”

“You inherited a farm so young!” he said, laughing. I let myself laugh too.

“Well. What’s your favorite color?”

"That's easy. Blue. But not just any blue." The redhead pointed to the sea and gestured with a circle. "Blue, the color of the ocean. The ocean at dawn, you know, when the sun touches its first rays on the water. It's so beautiful." 

At that moment I couldn't help but admire him. Everything he described was beautiful, and only someone who lived on the beach could have a view like that. I exclaimed with pleasure, and he smiled back at me.

"That's beautiful, Elliott! I wish I could see that one day."

He turned and watched me huddled against the cold. Then suddenly, he unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, wrapping it around my shoulders and pulling me into his arms. I was breathless, at that moment time stood still and I felt my heart pounding hard. I could feel his heart too, and it was beating at the same rhythm. My lips curled at the moment.

"Warm up. It's very cold tonight."

"I don't think I'll stay for the festival. I've already heard the mermaid's song and seen all the paintings for sale. I think I'll go home."

I wanted to get up, but at the same time I didn't want to move from where I was. The heat of Elliott's body took me away from reality and I wanted to stay like this by his side for the whole night, but I knew I couldn't. What would he think of me? What was that nervousness I felt, that heat, that anxious longing that I had never experienced before? I was confused, but at the same time I was delighted to be in his arms. He moved a little and we turned to look at each other.

"It's okay, it's late. I'll walk you to the farm."

"No need. I can manage on my own..."

"I don't want to leave you..."

My eyes widened at the redhead's unfinished sentence and he seemed stunned. We still had his arm around my shoulder and we looked at each other with something different, with hunger. His blue eyes made contact with my half-open lips and he came closer and touched me with his. My reflex was instinctive, my hands grabbed his shirt and tie and I closed my eyes to feel the heat of his mouth on mine. We kissed for minutes, each time getting deeper, we let go to breathe and went back to diving, each time deeper and I felt our tongues dance together. I felt Elliott's firm and warm hand go up my jumpsuit and hold my neck, he pulled away and kissed that region, and I couldn't help but let out a moan of pleasure. With his other hand he went up my blouse and I pulled him back to my face, while he opened his eyes and I sucked his lower lip.

" I…" I stammered, my breath coming in short gasps, now feeling red with embarrassment. I lowered my hands from his clothes and my head, trying to regain my balance. Soon he took my chin with his hand, and leaning close to my ear, he said:

"There are still people on the beach. Let's go to my cabin."

I had to blink for a moment to realize the intention of those words. I could have just grabbed my bag, apologized for the misunderstanding, and stumbled back to my farm and locked myself in to control myself. But I couldn't think anymore. I wanted him. I wanted to feel him completely, I wanted him to feel me, and I wanted to devour him. Elliott saw the hunger in my eyes and lifted him off the sand, leading me by the hand to his cabin.

I looked back, still anxious, but from afar people were gathering on the pier and on the boats, few looked in our direction, and often it was only to comment on the lights on the masts. No one had seen us. Elliott opened the latch and the door creaked slightly and pulled me with him. He closed the door softly behind me as I passed.

Again, I clutched his jacket around my shoulders and thought about running away. What was I thinking? He was my friend, what if I messed up? I gasped, and was about to turn around when I felt his arms around my waist and his lips at my ear.

"I've wanted you for a long time... but I didn't know how to do it..." His voice sounded hoarse and I let out another involuntary moan. "Now I don't want to let you go anymore. Please tell me you feel the same way about me..."

I felt my eyes water again, because those words had been taken from the depths of my being for a long time and my loneliness was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and felt a tear roll down my red face. I bit my lip. The words came immediately and I couldn't hold them back when I said:

"I want you too, Elliott."

That was all he wanted. Elliott ran his hands over my shoulders and removed his jacket, now passing through the cufflinks of my overalls and opening them, sliding them down to my waist. I felt my heart race even faster, and suddenly I remembered how inappropriate I was, with the smell of plants and mines, the color of soot on my skin. I wanted to move away and took a step forward. Elliott moved forward once more.

This time he ran his fingers through my shirt, passing them through my bra and unclasping it in a few seconds of trying. The piece slipped off my body and he pulled the shirt off me and turned me to face him and looked at me eagerly. I was naked in front of him and I wanted to cover myself but he wouldn't let me. He kissed my neck, then my collarbone and finally my breasts, and I moaned at the touch of his lips, not avoiding feeling my femininity throb with desire. He now finished undressing me, taking the rest of my pants and my belt off at my feet, and as soon as he was done, he tried to unbutton his own shirt and take off his tie. The sight of Elliott's bare chest made me delirious, my chest was firm and there was red hair all over his belly down to his pelvis, which he quickly took off his pants. He pulled me into his arms and brought me to his lap and I exclaimed in surprise. He was now taking me to his small bed.

As soon as he put me down on the bed, he stood up straight and took off my underwear and his boxers. I was delirious with the sight of his erect, large, pink member and I felt my lips fill with desire. I couldn't hold back my actions and crawled to his waist, where I put him in my mouth and kissed his entire length, sucking him all the way to the base and lingering on the head, sometimes slowly to feel the warm taste of his member and sometimes quickly, until I felt the warm liquid run down my lips, I sucked him with delight. When I raised my head, I saw Elliott enraptured with his head turned back, in a pure expression of crazed pleasure. He opened his eyes and looked at me, smiling mischievously now, and pulled my hair up to his face and took me for another long kiss. When we lay down, he didn't let me go a single second without moaning, my legs were shaking and he kissed and sucked my breasts, my belly and licked my femininity there, wet with desire. I wanted him more, I wanted him inside me! When my hands landed in his long hair and I moaned his name, begging him to end my torture. He immediately responded to me, also unable to bear it any longer. He positioned himself between my legs and penetrated me. By the Heavens! What was that I felt! He thrust slowly, feeling the walls of my sex squeeze his penis and then faster and deeper, and my body trembled in ecstasy. My nails sank into his back, and I scratched him, my mouth half open crying out his name countless times, begging him to go harder and deeper, but he thrust more slowly the more I begged. Until he himself couldn't hold back and spurted his liquid inside me and fell next to me on the bed, panting deeply.

The clock chimed in the distance. It was already very late. I could barely breathe, feeling the spasms of pleasure in my body. When I could turn to see him, his face was red and he was also panting, but a huge smile was etched on his expression. He turned and we looked at each other. He smiled so deliciously at me, and I couldn't help but lean into him and kiss his lips once more. Everything had been perfect.

"Green." 

"What?" he asked.

"My favorite color. It's green. But not just any green. The green of the meadow in spring, when the first flowers bloom." I said, smiling. 

Elliott then pulled my hand and kissed it, stroking my hair.

"Sleep here tonight with me. That way you can see my favorite color at dawn."

"Only if you promise me that you'll go to the farm to see my favorite color too." I said mischievously and he smiled once more.

"I promise, my dear.

[bikepackinguk]

Day Sixty-eight

Out from the woods after breakfasting, it's back to the road once more.

Barrow-in-Furness is fortunately well supplied with some good cycle paths so it's a nice ride in the sun down into town to take in some of the sights, before heading across the bridge to see the pretty little island of Walney.

Back again through Barrow and following the cycle route, I have a few redirections as the ride along the quayside is locked off, but eventually make my way south from the town for a great ride in the sun around some lovely salt marshes rife with wildlife.

The ride hits the coast once more by Rampside with a truly beautiful view across Morecambe Bay, with thebroad running right up along the coastline.

The cycle route diverts more inland after a ways, but I opt to stick with the main road to keep on taking in the views. A few hills start to cause a bit of work to be needed, but eventually I make my way over and in to Ulverstone, with a striking view of the Sir John Barrow Monument on the hill above.

With the A590 looking particularly busy here, I opt to take the cycle route leading a little inland to avoid it. Whilst it's some nice country lanes, it also goes straight up and over the hills, meaning a very sweaty section of the journey.

Finally the hills are crested and I roll down to Greenodd, where a bridge offers a shortcut over the River Leven and a nice little ride through the nature reserve.

After a break for lunch, it's time to strike south on the B5278, which leads through some nice tunnels of trees down to Cark, before some more slogging through repeated climbs until arriving round at Grand-over-Sands.

There's a great stretch of promenade to ride along here, with some more beautiful views across the bay.

Out from Grange, it's more cycle route following in order to navigate around the busy A road, which offers a combination of nice long flat stretches along with repeated climbs up and out to the other side of Levens, where we head south once again.

Past Levens Hall, we hit the coastline once more west of Heversham, with the wind beginning to make its appearance blowing up from the bay.

The ride along past Sandside continues to be very pretty, though the strong winds are making progress more of a chore, and after reaching Arnside we're up some steep ascents to get across to the south stretch of the AONB.

The area here is very beautiful with a combination of lush forested areas and beautiful sea views, but it's also very hilly and a lot of work to keep going.

Around a corner as I approach Silverdale and there's a sign welcoming me to Lancashire! Progress!

With the evening wearing on and the legs having earned a break, it's not too much trouble to find a spot of trees here where I shouldn't be disturbed for the night. It's curious how attitudes change - on the ride up the east coast, I was very conscious about getting the tent up before Scotland and spent almost every night in my bivvy bag. After weeks of use, I'm happy to use it whenever I can now!

TTFN!

[samethyst01]

Through The Window

Chapter One

‘None shall find joy in this false grain of hope, and to concede upon which their mind may fill with chaos.’

That was the final line of my father’s book. As you might be able to tell, he was a rather eccentric man, one who found fanciful intrigue in the works of Lovecraft and Poe rather than sports stars and craft beers. He was a private, distant man. Time spent in his office was rather more akin to all of his time, hunched over his desk and either typing or scribbling away some mad ramblings.

I might be exaggerating, but he really was a very strange man. Whenever we spoke, which wasn’t often, he never knew exactly how to relate to me. It was almost as if he never wanted me, like my existence was a complete inconvenience to him. He was never abusive or toxic, but that doesn’t mean he loved me. He merely understood that I was his son, and I lived in his house, and he was one half of the union that sired me.

He would often catch me looking through his things, especially the papers in his office. He never scolded me for it, simply told me in his hushed voice that it was not for me to see yet. In one of the only moments of intimacy between us that I can remember, he sat me on his knee and told me his plan. I was far too young to understand what he meant in his words – I was only about five or six – but I was just happy to hear him finally speak to me.

What I remember of this conversation was the word ‘small’. He told me how small we were. Not just us as in himself and my mother and me, but the whole human race. He told me there was something out there that was far bigger than us, far more important, and that we were all just waiting for it to come down from space. He looked me in the eyes and told me one day, one beautiful day, all of humanity would become one with this vast something and be happy forever.

As I grew older, I wondered if maybe he was part of some obscure offshoot of Christianity, and this ‘beautiful expanse’ was just a word for God or Heaven. I was disabused of this notion on the day I finally read his stories, which also happened to be the day he died. I learned very suddenly that my father was not a man of God, nor of Satan or any conventional deity.

But before I speak of that, I must tell you how I came to see him dead.

If you’re the type of person to fall deep into intensity in your life, you might have something akin to a ‘happy place’. Whatever it is, whoever you are, it’s either a physical location or some abstract feeling or concept that fills you with comfort. It is, for some, a kind of immortal liminal space that they may regress into and find deep reassurance in. This is especially true if one has been traumatised.

My happy place was a seaside town which I visited with my parents once every three years. It’s still there, in a quiet corner of the world, tiny and unassuming and home to a great many secrets. We first travelled there when I was a baby, far too young to remember the details. As my mother would later tell me, it was the town my father lived in when he was younger. He was born and raised in that place, and only left in order to pursue a career in theatre, which he promptly abandoned after some unknown event.

It wasn’t until I was six that I have a clear enough memory of that town. It was truly miniscule – a cluster of buildings nestled against the sea with a quayside that led upwards along a raised path towards the beach – and the waters beyond. I remember being fixated on the town when we first arrived, obsessed with every small store and business, from the arcades to the strange shop that sold dreamcatchers and totems, and from there to the acrid smell of vinegar from the fish and chip place that wafted all the way down towards the caravan park at the end of the path, set in a forested area that overlooked the sea.

On the colder days, my mother and I would visit the Highstreet shops, from the ones that sold wetsuits and coats to the other that offered hot sauce and quiches, among other things. It was like a dream to my younger self, this place so isolated from the rest of the world and so content in its own sense of progress and serenity. I wanted to be like it. I tasted every morsel on offer, from crab meat to haddock to cod to battered sausage, and I fell in love.

We drove a few miles down and came upon a restaurant that overlooked the swampy marshes, and we ate lunch in the quiet sunshine. I tasted lobster for the first time, and squid, and I saw my father smile. The expression was so rare and unexpected that it felt like an event, a moment I would savour in my mind for years. When he smiled, my mother returned it twice as widely and I laughed with a kind of innocent joy I’m sure I shall never recreate.

I spent time swimming in the sea on the hottest days, when the tide was as far in as it could go and the water stretched on into the horizon. That beach was massive, so wide that you’d get lost if you walked for only a few minutes. I saw seals flop onto the sand and bob up and down in the waters, and once even saw a galloping horse ride in from somewhere far away, majestic and stark black against the pale shine of the sand.

I wondered what lay out there in the ocean, far beyond my reach. I remember seeing the tiny speck of wind turbines in the distance and wondering if they were people who were stuck out there and could never come back to land. Once, and only once, I saw the shadow of something moving slowly beneath the surface, gliding away from the shore and deeper into the depths. I hoped it was a dinosaur.

One night, my parents and I visited the local cinema to watch a film. It was Toy Story, my favourite at the time, and when I learned it was the movie we’d be watching I was overjoyed. In a rare act of kindness, my father bought me the biggest bucket of popcorn they had on offer. My mother gave him a look that bordered between disapproval and joy, one she could not properly express. My father said nothing and simply winked at me.

When the film was over, I remember an older couple approaching us. They must’ve been in their late fifties, maybe early sixties, and they regarded my father with familiarity. My mother was uncomfortable but polite, and the couple spoke with a great degree of intensity. They looked from my father to me and I remember their smiles were almost frightening in their enthusiasm. I felt very disquieted by them.

That night, as a storm lashed at our cottage – we couldn’t stay in my father’s old home, as it had long since been destroyed – I felt an overwhelming urge to go to the beach. I waited for my parents to fall asleep before I dressed quickly and braved the weather, stumbling down the quayside towards the path. It was so dark that I could barely see a matter of feet ahead of me, the rain and the night combining into a complete, incomprehensible abyss.

I was able to walk the path instinctually. I still don’t know how or why I was compelled, but I was far too young and naïve to ignore the feeling. So I walked, and I walked until I arrived at the beach. The water was further out and the tide had ebbed, leaving me with much ground to cover before I could reach the sea itself. A distant, quiet whisper filled my ears and I strode onwards, ignoring the rain pelting my coat and the mushy sand filling my boots.

And then, like it could’ve been simply a dream, a bolt of lightning arced across the sky and illuminated a figure far out on the sand.

My eyes widened at the sight and dread filled my stomach. I felt control of my body returning, and I suddenly wanted no part of this midnight stroll. I wanted to go home, to run back to the path and pretend I was having a nightmare, but something about the figure intrigued me. Their dark form, set in shadow against the storm, swelled this horrible curiosity inside me that I couldn’t understand. I thought I was going to die.

Before it was too late, I felt something grab me from behind. It was my mother, my father at her side. They hugged me tightly and my mother screamed with fright over the sound of the storm, tears streaking down her face. I began to cry at the sheer ferocity of her emotion, but only because I was scared she was angry with me. I couldn’t begin to understand how worried she must’ve been. She probably thought I was dead.

I was too upset to articulate what had happened, and sensing this, my mother wrapped me up in her coat, kissed my forehead and began leading me away from the beach. My father’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, and I wondered if perhaps he’d seen the figure too. My mother gently took his hand and her touch snapped him out of his daze. We returned home and over a hot cup of cocoa, I pondered what had happened to me. Fruitless guessing was what it ended up being, in the end.

We returned to the town every three years, with almost the exact same routine each time. The only difference as the years went by was me, as I became older and more independent. I would wander off a lot more, exploring the hidden corners of the town more frequently. Our cottage had a basement that I managed to find the keys to, and I hoped it contained something dark or scandalous. It was just old swimming gear and firewood. There was, however, a hidden door within it that had no key.

That couple always managed to find us, too. I found out that they were Howard and Diane Lorely, residents of the town who knew my father through his father. I never spoke much to them but I also never shook the feeling of unease when I did. Their faces always had this uncanny stretch to them, like if they kept at it, one day they’d freeze up and never be able to move the muscles again. They always addressed me as ‘the special one’, a label I came to find patronising the older I got. Maybe it was just teenage arrogance, or maybe there was truly something insidious about it.

The last time we visited the town, I was eighteen. I was the typical angsty teenage boy, but despite my bloated sense of self-importance I still regarded the place as one I held dear. At this point in time, my father had become so distant that even my mother had stopped trying to engage him. She was fatigued with him and his coldness, and I could tell that their relationship was on the brink of collapse. As for the man himself, he only spoke a few scant words to me across the entirety of the visit, and only once looked me in the eyes.

The Loreleys were still as intrusive and unrelenting as ever, and upon our last meet, their demeanour caused my mother to snap and demand they stay away from us. I have never seen such malice and hatred since, when I saw it in their eyes in that moment. They looked at my father with palpable disappointment, and in his expression I saw a deep sadness and regret. It disgusted me to think he held these crones’ opinions higher than the welfare of his family, and my already existing distaste for him only grew.

On the last night of our trip, I decided to venture out onto the beach one final time. I knew I’d find nothing, but a tiny part of my still inquisitive mind hoped I might get some closure. In the dead of night, when I was sure I would be walking alone, I headed down to the sand and stood before the still-ebbing tide. Moonlight reflected off the waves and the gentle sound of sloshing water filled me with calm. I thought, in that moment, that I was truly at peace.

Someone stepped onto the sand beside me and let out a long, heavy sigh. It was my father. I looked away from him, having nothing to say. I didn’t need to speak, however, as it seemed he had come there to set things right with me.

He told me he was sorry for the way he treated me. He told me he never wanted children, that his relationship with my mother was always intended to be a brief one, fit for naught but sex and drug use. He told me there was much about himself I would never know, and it was a gift he had given me; the gift of ignorance. He turned to me, and I felt compelled to do the same, and for the first time in quite literally years, his gaze met mine. His hooded eyes locked upon my own and he whispered a phrase I had never heard before or since.

“I love you, son.”

To this day, I still have no idea if he was telling the truth, but in that one moment, I didn’t care. That was all I had ever wanted from him, all my private desires and holiday wishes, all of it had been for that moment. I just wanted him to acknowledge me, and he did. I didn’t say anything, and without another word, he placed a hand on my shoulder, smiled softly, and walked away. It was like a dream.

I stayed on the beach for a little while longer, hoping to catch a glimpse of something drifting in the water or standing ahead of me on the beach. I didn’t, however, and I resigned myself to returning to our cottage. We left the town the day after and my father and I never spoke of it. I doubt my mother even knew we had exchanged such an intimate moment.

Exactly one year later, on the eve of my father’s forty-sixth birthday, I resolved to understand him. While he and my mother were out at an art gallery – a vain attempt on their part to rekindle their love – I stole the key to his private office and looked through his writings. The contents of his personal laptop were mainly dark poetry, which I rather enjoyed, but the physical notebooks contained that which I now believe have led me to where I am today.

I dare not describe them in detail, not yet, but the concepts and confessions they presented left me haunted. I was suddenly and totally learning just what kind of a man my father was, and the truth was not merciful or in any way kind. The very moment I heard my father’s return, I tidied his office in a panic and pretended I never even knew the location of its key. My mother was fooled – she always did see the best in me – but he knew as soon as he looked at me.

Just twelve hours later, I would watch my father’s heartbeat slow and disappear on the ECG as he slipped into death. It was deemed a sudden and tragic heart attack. The horror of its timing was not lost on me, nor my mother when I told her what I’d done. Something had killed my father, and it had done so to express a point. Nothing he had ever created was meant for my eyes, nor for the eyes of any but those it deemed worthy of its secrets.

I know that must sound like madness, but there are things I have learned that will not leave me. Things not just about my father, but about my mother and that town and worst of all – about myself. This journal or table of confessions or whatever it is serves as my way of keeping a kind of routine in my life. Things are getting hard to process. I apologise for the way in which I write – my language, syntax and tone – but it’s a style I rather think I’ve adopted from my father. He was a flowery writer.

As for what I will tell you of: the cottage my family and I stayed in has just recently come up on the market. I’ve reserved it for two weeks. Whatever I find in that place, I’ll be sure to record it here. If you doubt my sanity at any point, I congratulate you. That is the sign of a sound and steady mind.

I don’t think I can be sure of my own mind anymore. I’m not sure I can trust it.

[boutny]

Mast-er-ful, mast-er-less

The planned route - as long as we made good progress along the South Coast, it seemed achievable

Boutny was on a buoy in Falmouth harbour, where she had hosted Anna and Esme while I was in Scotland for a few days. The first week of September looked just right for completing Boutny's voyage of the summer - the plan had been to get from Faro to Brightlingsea in Essex, and it looked as if Wednesday to Sunday would bring 70 hours of Southerlies and South Westerlies, and then maybe 30 hours of Easterlies. So if Boutny made the 200 miles or so to Dover in the 70 hours, the Easterlies would allow us to make Brightlingsea the next day after turning the corner from the Channel to the North Sea.

That was the plan. And as I have quoted before on this blog - what does God do when they want to laugh? Watch people making plans...

I emailed the group of potential crew the weekend before, and I was delighted that John once again put his hand up. He knows Boutny and he knows me, and he is both a hugely useful person to have aboard and a great sailing companion. We took the overnight train, me from London, he from Basingstoke and met up at 7am on Truro station, where we connected with the train to Falmouth.

Lovely way to travel ... except sleeping while sitting is an art

We got to the quayside too early for the late-rising water taxi. The port was still and we had a little bit of a ticking clock - we needed to get to Madgik, John's boat, to collect his wet weather gear before his mooring dried onto mud.

Waiting for the water taxi at Falmouth town pier

The wind started light, and the dolphins accompanied us out of the Fal estuary.

The first of many dolphins who'd accompany us over the next 36 hours

We soon got the big Spinnaker up, and it would stay up from about 11 on Wednesday to 5am the next morning. We had a full supermoon and a blue moon, and despite cloud cover, the night Spinnakering was magical. Here we are in the evening, the filming obviously designed to show how well we eat on Boutny.

The moon, of course, also meant Spring tides, and one of the challenges of the route is that the tides around the headlands can be pretty ferocious. Portland Bill is the famous tidal race, but the other headlands have mini versions of these going too.

The Samsung phone camera trying to cope with a moonlit sail. Of course, the sky was grey-black, not that absurd blue it has filled in

It settled into wind with rain, and was surprisingly wonderful sailing. John surfed some lumps and thought he might have broken at Boutny speed record. When I was helming, I preferred to gaze at the sea and make the occasional tiller correction to maintain our heading. We hit the contrary ebb off Salcombe, and despite Boutny giving every appearance of powering through the water, the lights ashore were hardly moving. I took down the Spinnaker early in the morning because the wind was backing, and we needed to stay offshore to clear the Portland Bill tidal race by a (very safe) 15 nm.

We hit the ebb again off Portland in the early evening of Thursday, and we were looking forward to the turn, and being powered at speed. By then, the wind was fresh, and we had taken a little gib in and taken the foresail down entirely to have a calm night. There was a messy swell, and to stop unwanted sail movements, I had tethered the clew of the main to cleat on the outer beam. We were powering along very nicely, John and I chatting in the cuddy. We reckoned we were in with a chance of making Dover before the winds turned.

And that is when it happened.

A great cracking sound.

"That's the mast breaking!" was John's immediate thought. I was not sure - maybe my echo-location is not so good. We were frozen for a moment.

"Do you agree I should take the main down?" I asked.

Yes, John agreed, and I pulled the main down as fast as I could. We looked up, and there was the crack. About 2m from the top of the mast, a great big split in the planking.

"How are we going to stop that falling on top of us?", asked John, very sensibly...

As quickly as I could, I took a hoist from the foremast, secured it to a hoist on the main, and pulled both of them up - if the top of the mast was going to finish breaking off, it would dangle off the foremast rather than fall onto us into the cuddy.

We sailed into Portland Harbour on the gib. The tide turned in our favour and we made 4kts-5kts and arrived around 11pm. Enough time to anchor safely and get a good night's sleep. The next day we had the wonderful surprise of finding a really helpful crane crew at the Weymouth and Portland National Sailing Academy - hugely recommend the place - and the split mast was soon lying flat on Boutny's deck. I will be repairing the mast, and inspecting the foremast thoroughly, over the next few weeks in Portland.

So ... what are the lessons from this adventure?

The first is simple - be patient. Boutny spent 18 months on the hard in Sete. I really went over the hulls and decks thoroughly. But for some reason, I never decided to take down the masts and give them the same treatment. Soon before launch, in June last year, I had gone up the masts and found a bit of rot here and there as well as traces of old repairs.

My departure had been delayed by all sorts of frustrations - mainly to do with a bad choice of epoxy primer undercoat paint - and I was feeling frustrated. I should, of course, have decided then to take the masts down and give them a good servicing. But my impatience to get going led me to the wing & prayer strategy instead. Very short-termist, obviously.

But not just short-termist - just misguided. When sailing, the point is not really to get anywhere. The goal is the way. The end is the means. The means is the end. So frustrations like that, of having one more step before being ready, really have no place. So maybe the second lesson is to have a regular reminder when wishing for speed: are you actually constrained? are you doing this for the way or the end?

Of course, on Friday morning in Portland, I started out with feelings of frustration - I had to jettison all those plans I had related to Boutny having reached her winter destination ... I would be able to empty her of 18 months of accumulated stuff, I would be able to start to think about the rain-cover/tent, indeed, I would be able to plan the proper refurbishment of the masts.

But the more the day progressed, the more I found myself surrounded by the helpful crew at the academy, and the more I reminded myself that my destinations were fictions, on this adventure with Boutny, the happier I found myself in Portland Harbour. I quickly started to look at it as somewhere that might be home for the winter, and what had seemed in the morning like a disaster was now appearing in a quite different light. So maybe if I had been able to do that in June last year, I would not have been in Portland that day at all.

Evening on a visitor buoy in Portland Harbour; the guys in the boat were catching Bream, the kite in the background had delighted us all evening with their foiling.

[aboutnorfolkcottages]

The Old Barn + Churnery, Norfolk Coastal Cottages

This self-catering vacation cottage is located on the lovely North Norfolk Coast, just a short walk from the large sandy unspoilt beach. The property is located on the corner of Quayside and is an excellent starting point for exploring the region. The house has its own enclosed yard, where the kitchen, utility room, and pantry are located.

This 12th century Norfolk cottage is open all year and greets guests with open arms. In the heart of Norfolk, there is a hidden gem.

Bring your dog with you to the beach instead of leaving it at home. Our family cottages are offered for exclusive self-catering rentals, making them an ideal location for dog-friendly beach vacations. With 6 bedrooms and a huge kitchen, it's ideal for larger groups, but it's also enjoyable for families of four or two couples, as long as you and your closest friends are seeking for luxurious coastal comfort.

COTTAGES BY THE SEA IN NORFOLK

Our Norfolk Coastal Cottages provide a unique and charming respite from the rush and bustle of city life. Our isolated, tranquil rental cottages feature beautiful views of Norfork's pristine coastline and are only a short walk away from several stunning attractions, including miles of untouched shoreline. Our charming North Norfolk Beach cottages are the perfect backdrop for a romantic break or a family holiday. It has stunning landscapes, wonderful beaches, and a variety of activities for everyone to enjoy.

The North Norfolk Coastline has been designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and it is one of only two regions in the county that are legally protected from development. This means that there are few houses or structures in this area, allowing you to fully experience the natural beauty all around you.

There are several ways to enjoy your stay at our North Norfolk Beach cottages at Norfolk Coast B&B Cottages and Camping. You can walk down the beach, relax on one of our numerous patios or balconies with beautiful views, go fishing, or simply spend time exploring the surrounding area on foot or horseback! Other outdoor activities accessible include golfing, biking, horseback riding, and water sports such as sailing and windsurfing! You will never be bored while staying at our private rental cottages because there is so much to see and do!

HISTORY: FOR CENTURIES, THE NORFOLK COAST HAS BEEN A POPULAR VACATION DESTINATION.

The North Norfolk Coast has long been a favorite vacation destination, but with so many wonderful sites to visit, picking just one can be difficult. We've compiled a list of our top five tucked-away jewels on the North Norfolk Coast that you won't want to miss when planning your trip to this beautiful corner of the world.

The coastline, which spans for more than 100 miles, is home to charming villages, beautiful beaches, and historic sites. Hiking, motorcycling, fishing, and bird watching are among the activities available to visitors. The Norfolk Coast is also famed for its delectable seafood eateries, such as The White Horse in Brancaster Staithe and The Kings Head in Blakeney.

The Norfolk Coast was named one of the greatest locations to live in the UK by The Sunday Times in 2019. The annual Finest Places to Live guide published by the newspaper assists readers in determining the best places to buy a home and live in Britain. It considers criteria such as quality of life, jobs, schools, community spirit, and local facilities. The "unspoiled shoreline," "quaint villages," and "really lovely scenery" of the Norfolk Coast were all lauded.

WINTERTON-ON-SEA

Winterton is well-known for being Norfolk's only seaside resort with direct access to the North Sea and its own beach. Since Victorian times, this county town has been a popular vacation destination, and it offers plenty of possibilities for walking over scenic beach dunes, exploring tiny shops, and simply relaxing by the ocean with a good book or coffee and friends.

HUNSTANTON

Hunstanton, like Winterton, has long functioned as a gathering place over the centuries. In fact, great author Geoffrey Chaucer included Hunstanton in his epic work "The Canterbury Tales" about 700 years ago! Today, visitors come for the endless beaches flanked by rock cliffs, or for the rich history at landmarks such as Old Hunstanton Chapel and The Red Mount Chapel, which were erected in 1585 from flintstone uncovered during building at nearby Holme-next-the-Sea.

SHERINGHAM

Sheringham is about 10 miles north of Cromer and is known for its fishing heritage, sandy beaches surrounded by rocky cliffs, and charming stone architecture such as All Saints Church, which was built in 1421 on Beeston Bump hilltop and offers beautiful views of both land and sea vistas below!

WELL-NEXT-THE-SEA

None of the seaside towns on the Norfolk Coast compare to charming unhurried Wells, where colorful beach cottages line a large golden sands beach stretching from the renowned striped red and white Holkham Hall inlets to the Stiffkey salt marshes. Take a leisurely boat ride through The Nature Reserve for a closer look at local seal populations or participate in the mussel-picking tradition as an added treat!

THE HOLKHAM HALL

Finally, we arrive at one of Norfolk's best-kept secrets: the magnificent Holkham Hall. This stunning Palladian mansion was built between 1734-1764 on 25,000 acres of pristine parkland and deer herds and is still home to the Earl of Leicester's family today who welcome visitors from near and far year-round to share in its beauty whether it be exploring the house itself or enjoying outdoor activities like horse riding, cycling, or simply taking a peaceful stroll around Holkham Estate's lake villages dotted with thatched cottages!

The coastline, which spans for more than 100 miles, is home to charming villages, beautiful beaches, and historic sites. Hiking, motorcycling, fishing, and bird watching are among the activities available to visitors. The Norfolk Coast is also famed for its delectable seafood eateries, such as The White Horse in Brancaster Staithe and The Kings Head in Blakeney.

[cycas]

A Sail in the West

for @tolkiengenweek

A brisk wind high in the sky sent small white clouds scudding over the dark and shining waters of the Gulf of Lune.

Elrond, riding with the High King along the green foreshore where the blue shadows of the mountains of the Ered Luin came dipping down to meet the clear water, thought he had seen a cloud-shadow at first. Then the King turned and pointed, and he realised that it was a ship. Not one of the familiar Falathrim fishing boats, not one of the leaf-green sails from the settlements of the Sindar, south along the coast. This sail was white, and the flag...

“Elros?” Gil-galad had reined in his horse and was looking out at the ship.

Elrond shook his head impatiently. The ache of loss had fade a little with time, but it did not help to have it doubted. “No. He’s gone. Don’t hope for that.”

“I didn’t mean that. Only that it is his banner. A kinsman, perhaps?”

“Five hundred years,” Elrond said.

Gil-galad shot him a very keen observing look, but said only, “Is it so long?”

“Yes. For five hundred years there’s been no ship from Númenor. Six lives of Men — at least, the lives of the Men of Middle-earth. Why return now?”

“We’ll know soon enough. They are coming in to Mithlond.” Gil-galad said. He looked sideways at Elrond and a reckless smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “Come on. I’ll wager my new arm-ring against your knife that I can get there first.”

“I expect you can,” Elrond said drily. “How could I challenge the King?”

“You’re my herald. You’re supposed to be there first, to announce me!”

“That doesn’t mean I’m supposed to break my neck galloping to beat you to it!” Elrond protested, laughing despite himself.

But Gil-galad had set his horse dancing, and the other horses were picking up the mood. “Five hundred years since we last heard from Númenor,” Gil-galad said over his shoulder, as his horse wheeled, kicking up his hooves. “Do you want to wait another day to find out what they have to say to us?”

And with that he was gone in a whirl of thundering hooves, the blue ribbons streaming from his horse’s mane. Elrond took another look at the distant ship, and then let his horse have his head to follow.

*****

The Men crowding the deck of the strange ship were tall and strong, dressed in a style that reminded Elrond of the Vanyar of the War of Wrath, on those rare occasions that he had seen them wearing clothes other than armour. They looked down at him with his brother’s eyes, cheerful, excited, talking in a language that slurred and jarred oddly on the ear, filled with half-caught words and curious, incomprehensible phrasings.

“The languages of Men change swiftly,” Gil-galad said, half under his breath, as Elrond stepped forward in grave acknowledgement to greet the men coming smiling down to the quayside.

Their first words, greetings and goodwill, were enough like the Taliska of his childhood that he could pick out the meaning, but not close enough that they were likely to understand a reply in that language. In Lindon, these days, people spoke most often in Sindarin, but the Men who had gone with Elros after the war had been more likely to speak either Taliska, or Quenya picked up from the Hosts of Valinor.

Elrond opted for Quenya, named himself (eyes widened as he gave his name and lineage: clearly Elros was on his way to being a legend in the land he had founded among the pathless seas) and then introduced the High King and his companions. He kept his face warm and approachable, listening with care to the half-familiar names and titles, puzzling out the connections between them, but his heart was filled with an unaccountable confusion of emotions.

Another of the Men stepped forward to take his hand. Another pair of grey eyes, dark hair and a presence strangely familiar, though the face was not one he had seen before. “I am your nephew,” he said. “It’s good to meet you at last, after so long.”

“Really?” Elrond was overcome with sudden delight. “But this is wonderful! I thought after so many years, all Elros’s children would be long gone.”

His nephew’s grey eyes shadowed with old grief. “The others are, I am afraid. My brother Vardamir died some time after Father. Father lived a longer life than any Man before him, I don’t know if you knew that?”

“I felt him go,” Elrond said and shrugged. His nephew echoed the gesture, and though the grief had dulled years ago, it still felt somehow right to share the moment with someone who had been close to him.

“He chose his time, and Vardamir did the same, nearly thirty years later. Then my other brother, and my sister, twenty years or so after that: they went together, when they knew the time had come.”

“But you chose otherwise.”

A sideways look and Elrond knew at once that it would be best to move on from that subject. “Yes. Vardamir’s grandson is now King in Númenor.”

Elrond nodded. “His name is Elendil, is that right?”

“Tar-elendil. It’s a tradition to add ‘Tar-’ to the King’s name.”

Elrond nodded attentively, though he was not entirely sure about calling oneself ‘High’. But then, was that any worse than being called ‘King’?

He would have sworn that he had not let the thought show at all on his face, but the other smiled.

“I know. I thought the same. Rather them than me!”

Elrond felt his smile broaden. “Let’s talk more, later, kinsman. I have so much I want to ask you!”

******

There was a feast, of course. There would have been a feast to celebrate Gil-galad’s return to Mithlond in any case; the cooks had been competing to produce new dishes : pies spiced with ground seeds and scented barks from the South, meats stuffed with whortleberries soaked in honey, great crab-claws from the harbours, gilded and painted in fantastical ways: Gil-galad would taste all of them and pronounce his judgement, which would set the fashion for the bakers and the cooks of all Lindon, for a little while, until the next competition began.

But the arrival of the ship from Númenor had set everyone into a whirl: lamps were lit, old banners drawn out from chests and closets to be rehung: jewellery that had been out of mode for years was rediscovered. The red spears of Hador, the flowers of Lúthien and the six-pointed star of Eärendil were everywhere, suddenly, and more than once, Elrond was startled to hear the shimmering notes of a song that had been rarely sung since Elros went away, whistled merrily by hurrying Elves as they crossed the rose-gardens before Gil-galad’s hall, or echoing along the colonnade that now ran along the main road up from the quays.

There would be harping through the night, tonight, and that would be only the beginning. The Men of Númenor wished to meet their Eastern cousins, and so messengers had been sent out into Eriador to the settlements beyond the Mountains. Many songs would be sung of the reunion of the Men of West and East.

*****

The Moon was riding high over the Gulf of Lune, reflecting a long silver trail across the dark water. Down along the shore, Elves were dancing to the sound of silver pipes, and closer by, someone was picking out a tune on a harp.

“So you chose the Elves,” Elrond said at last, turning away from the window.

“Yes. Like you.” The man — no, the elf, had abandoned his pretence at confidence, and had crossed his arms across his body, his shoulders hunched.

“Like me, yes. How old were you?”

“Old enough to make my own decisions.”

“I am sure you were. People felt we were too young to choose, too..”

“Father said you’d understand.”

“I never entirely understood why my brother chose as he did,” Elrond admitted.

“And nobody in my entire family has understood why I chose as I did. Except you, perhaps?” He sighed. “Even Father didn’t understand, though he said you would. I’m glad Mother never knew.”

“She died... before?”

“Of course. She was of the first generation. She lived a good life, but not a long one. Not compared to her children, anyway. ”

Elrond winced. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard on all of you.”

He shrugged helplessly. “It’s how it went for everyone, on Númenor. We all had people who lived what they would have called a normal lifetime and no more, and others who lived longer — none as long as Father, though. But that’s why I decided to go with Vëantur, when he decided he was going to try a voyage back into the East. There are Elves on Númenor, of course. Visiting elves, from Tol Eressëa, from Valinor. Not living there forever, while all their family go on.”

“So you decided to leave Númenor... for good? ”

“Yes.”

“You could have gone to Valinor,” Elrond suggested, very gently.

“So could you,” his nephew said. “Why didn’t you?”

Elrond gave him a long, thoughtful look, and did not answer directly. “Didn’t my brother name you Manwendil?”

His nephew made a sour face. “Yes. I don’t use it. If I were Manwendil, I could have gone to Valinor. I could have sought out my grandmother and my grandfather. But I’m not Manwendil. So father said... he said that perhaps I should talk to you about it. Does that... does that make any sense?”

“Oddly,” Elrond said. “Yes. It does make sense to me. For some of us Elves, the Hither Shore is the right place, and the right choice. Welcome to Middle-earth, Erestor.” ------------------

The long time gap between Elros leaving and the return to Middle-earth is from Unfinished Tales. The Numenoreans were isolated on their island long enough that when they returned to Middle-earth, they couldn't understand the language of the Men of Middle-earth. In this story, I've assumed that is because the language of Numenor had evolved, as well as that of the more short-lived men of Middle-earth. Erestor Halfelven is mentioned in The Return of the Shadow (The History of The Lord of the Rings Volume 1) (1988) and  The Treason of Isengard (The History of The Lord of the Rings Volume 2) (1989)

as a kinsman of Elrond. He could be descended from one of Nimloth, say, but I prefer him to be one of Elros’s kids. I don't see why they shouldn't get the Choice, as Elrond's children do Elros's son Manwendil has no history at all. All we know about him is his rather devout name : 'lover of Manwe'. Otherwise, he's lost to history. I think this origin for Erestor does fit with Erestor’s handful of canon lines, where most of what he says is immediately contradicted by Elrond or Gandalf. He doesn’t come across as a solemn councillor, he’s more the kind of guy who has to be given a job in the family firm because he’s the beloved nephew, but everyone knows that Erestor’s ‘counsel’ must always be run past Elrond as the sanity filter. None the less, he never stops counselling! :-D

So this is my attempt to show Erestor as a younger son who ran off from Numenor to become an Elf with his slightly-disreputable Middle-earth uncle.

I believe that from the perspective of Valinor and Numenor, Elros was the respectable twin, the one that takes responsibility, becomes a king, obeys the Valar, and sails to Numenor to live safely away from Middle-earth.  Elrond, who chooses to be an elf but not a king, ignores the counsel of the Valar to stay in Middle-earth and hangs out with the rebel Galadriel and Maglor is the more dodgy one.

So what does that say about Erestor?  If he’s a Peredhel, he could have sailed to Valinor. If he was born on Numenor, it would have been really easy for him to do that. Easier than going back to Middle-earth.  But there he is, valiantly counselling Elrond, who going by the Council, invites him to everything so he can say the wrong thing and allow Elrond to explain why it’s a bad idea.   I think it tells us that Erestor is possibly not terribly wise, but he’s very, very loyal.

[jayde-jots]

Another fic for @crossover-fraternity . The engines are now settled and Jayde is making sure to look after them.

(I hope the guys are in character, I apologize if their not.)

Jayde flew alongside the engines as they all travelled down the line to Knapford beach. Parked on one of the larger quaysides was Jayde’s quadcopter. It was a chosen location to park after moving it away from Arlesbrugh Harbor, it was in a public area so the chances of an attack were slim, it was also not to far from Tidmouth town square so they could do some shopping if need be, it was also close to sets of track so an engine could park their locomotive not too far. Jayde touched down where the ramp to get into their quadcopter would land and watched from the quayside as the engines all got out of the locomotives and began to make their way down to where Jayde was. The humanoid quadcopter signalled for the ramp to come down, and as it began to descend Jayde slipped in to change bodies as their military body was now not needed. Jayde opened the same compartment that their military body was stored in and then closed it behind them after hopping in. In a fraction of a second Jayde’s consciousness was then transferred into their new chauffeur body. They exited their soul compartment that was under their cockpit controls and took a long stretch. They then quickly put some new clothes on before the engines arrived.

Said engines were wowed when they entered the interior, it was very modern and polished. In the centre was a huge ore of jade with a jade dragon in the middle of it like a resin cast, the walls had this Lichtenberg pattern running down them like the roots of a tree with some crystal shaped lights hanging in between them every so often.

“Welcome aboard guys, I’ll give you a small tour.” Jayde said as they welcomed them in. “To your left is the kitchen and living room, the door adjacent to the corner sofa is the bathroom. Over there is the cockpit, please don’t touch anything there unless I accompany you.” Jayde said pointing to each area specifically. The kitchen was the typical marble clean, stainless steel type of kitchen you’d expect from a modern acrolectal house. The fridge was a double doored water dispensing type, the table was smooth wood with a white top, the chairs were sets of bar stools with cushioned back rests, the floor was marble tile, you get it. The living room wasn’t much different. White velvet corner sofa, black carpet with some white spots here and there to imitate a night sky, some shelves above the couch that had some books, and a flatscreen tv in front of all of it.

“I like the wallpaper, it looks very nice.” Henry commented as they all walked in a little more to have a look around. “That ain’t wallpaper Hen, have a feel of it.” Jayde said as they monitored where the engines went exploring. When the former big green engine felt where the pattern was he realised that it wasn’t actually flat but outstretched from the wall, making it seem like their was actually a tree root entangled in the walls. Jayde smirked as they knew Henry was going to be amazed when they went upstairs. James walked around a little bit opening the bathroom door to have a peek inside. When he saw the contents it followed the same theme as the previous room. There was a large spa bathtub in the corner with a shower head above it, in the corner straight ahead of James from the door was the toilet, and to his right was the sink and a large mirror. James took to looking in that for a second. Edward had decided to sit down on the sofa and relax a little with the soft cushion caving under his weight. Thomas and Percy looked at the controls of the cockpit from afar as it all looked extremely complicated and they didn’t want to risk breaking anything. Gordon had already seen inside Jayde’s quadcopter before from when they visited with Spencer on a few occasions, but it still always surprised him with how detailed everything was. The perspective change from height was also a little jarring. Jayde placed their hand on Gordon’s shoulder and gave him a look that was asking if he was okay. The big blue engine nodded with a small smile as his answer and when Jayde was happy with it they gave him a small pat before walking over to stop Percy and Thomas from getting to close to the controls. “Guys, museum rules. Look but no touch.” “We know.” “We’re not gonna touch anything.” Percy and Thomas said as they continued their thorough inspection. Jayde chuckled under their breath a little as they found it ironic, all these engines were ether close to a hundred or over a hundred and they sometimes still acted like kids, while Jayde was the youngest person in the room not even being ten years old, and yet they were helping them get settled to be humans for a short time. Jayde smiled as they watched the two read the labels for the buttons when one specific area on the panel caught Jayde’s attention. It was a divot where a tablet would slide into, it was what Jayde used to contact Spencer whenever Jayde decided to visit Sodor and he was still in Boxford. The quadcopter couldn’t help but wonder how he was doing, they missed the big silver show off. Jayde had to push that feeling down for a second however when they needed to give the upstairs a show. “Alrighty guys, bedroom is upstairs.” Jayde gestured them to walk to the stairs and when they all reached the top the engines gasped. In the centre was a white tree with fairy lights hanging down it like a willow, a crystal light held in its trunk by roots. At the back wall was a white elaborate canopy bed, and along the walls were low loft beds with shelving underneath them. Again, everything looking very fancy and expensive. Like something ripped right out of a fantasy world.

“Before anyone asks, no; no one is getting the canopy bed. Otherwise, first come first serve. Feel free to pick a bed you want to sleep in later.” Jayde said before watching the engines explore the new room. Thomas and Percy went and picked some beds next to each other and laughed as they both bounced a little on the mattresses. “Whatever you two do, don’t stand up and jump on those, there not built for that and I quite frankly don’t want to have human brains on the floor.” Jayde warned the two tank engines. Gordon and Henry also picked out two lofts next to each other but they just rested back on them. “Oh this feels so nice…” Henry sighed as he hugged a pillow close with a smile on his face. Gordon hummed as he just laid flat on his back. “Better than a hospital bed at least.” That reminded Jayde that they would need to take all of them to a hospital to get themselves checked, the quadcopter needed to know if they had to accommodate for anything like diabetes or allergies. They also needed to log who these humans were so that their families could know piece, Jayde hatted to think about the families who Thomas and Percy’s bodies belonged to. James and Edward took beds as well but Edward had trouble climbing up the ladder as his foot slipped off a rung. “Ah!” The old engine shouted in a shock from the short fall. “Edward?” Jayde asked as they quickly walked over while the other engines looked over. “I’m fine, my foot just slipped.” Edward reassured. “Nothing hurt?” Jayde asked. “No, I’m fine.” Edward tried again to climb up but the same foot slipped again. This time Jayde caught him and placed him on the bed themself. “There we go. Now let's see why you kept on slipping.” Jayde bent down to have a look at the lofts rungs first but saw nothing wrong with them, so they moved on to have a look if Edward maybe stepped in something slippery on the way here. What Jayde saw though made their eyes widen. “Oh?” Jayde rolled Edward’s pants leg up and saw a metal prosthetic leg where a normal foot should have been. “Looks like whoever this man was, was an amputee. We certainly need to get you to a hospital tomorrow Edward, we don’t know if this man needed any medication because of this.” “A word of pre-caution everyone, hospitals are some of the most uncomfortable places on earth.” Gordon shivered. “That reminds me Gordon, do you have your discharge papers and test results on you? I could really use those to know what I need.” Jayde asked. “Their in my engine.” “Could you please go get them? Important papers like those you want to keep safe.” Gordon nodded and hopped off the bed to back downstairs and the others followed. “Alright, I wanna do a basic check-up on you guys. Take your temperatures and blood pressure and such. I’m especially worried about Henry if he nearly drowned in a kiddie pool, I wanna check for secondary drowning.” Jayde said as they pointed to the living room sofa for everyone to sit down on. “Secondary drowning?” Henry asked sounding worried. “It’s where if water gets into the lungs you can die from anywhere from a few hours later to a few days. Calm down hon, if you don’t feel any pains in your chest you should be okay.” Jayde said walking back to the group with a doctor's bag. Henry still seemed very worried so Jayde took the very friendly approach. They sat down next to him and held his hand as they put on a stethoscope. They gently hugged the tall human close, rubbing his arm until he was calm enough, then once he was breathing calmly they stuck the stethoscope under his shirt and scanned it along his back. Henry jumped a little at Jayde’s cold hand but calmed down again as Jayde used their free hand to stroke his shoulder with their thumb. “I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary… and your heart sounds nice and strong. All in all, nothing to worry about.” Jayde smiled as they took the stethoscope away and gave Henry one last hug which the engine appreciated. Just then Gordon walked back in holding the papers, he handed them to Jayde who opened them up and gave a look. “Diabetic… allergic to

dogs… good to know. I’m going to hand you a little box of medicines in it Gordon, I want you to store them under your bed.” “I’ve heard of people being allergic to certain things and I’ve also heard of diabetics, but what are ether of them specifically?” Gordon asked. “Yes, I’ve heard of those as well but have never been told in full detail what they mean. If Gordon has these I think it would serve all of us well to know what they are.” Edward said. “Both having allergies and being diabetic are actually rather common, so I wouldn’t put it past anymore of you having ether. Having allergies to something means your body can’t handle being near a specific thing, allergies are a lifelong condition as well as diabetes. So if Gordon were to go to pet a dog for example he would probably start sneezing a lot or maybe even break into hives. Hives are when the skin becomes red and starts to grow bumpy as well as swollen. Being a diabetic means your body can’t make insulin, and insulin is what your body uses to take the sugar out of food you eat. So it’s like if the fire in your fireboxes couldn’t burn the coal properly to make you steam.” Jayde explained. The engines all hummed in understanding, it making a little more sense. “Okay, now that I’ve explained that, I would like to give the rest of you check-ups. Henry, I want you to look ahead for me and don’t move your head. I’m going to check your ears.” “Why?” Henry asked. “Just for any damages. It also tells me if you need to clean them.” Jayde said grabbing an otoscope. “You guys can feel free to turn on the tv in the meantime or grab a book if you like.” “Dibs on the remote!” “Hey no fair Thomas!” James yelled at the former tank engine. Jayde sighed but had a smile on their face as they continued Henry’s check-up. “Will this take long?” Henry asked. “Only a few minuet’s, and it will go over quicker if you do as I say.” Jayde said as they turned Henry’s head back to facing forward like a child in a barbershop.

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @bozzleboz​

A light dusting of snow had begun to fall across the streets of Paris as the man, known to most of the inhabitants of the Palais Garnier as The Perisan made his way past the grand entrance and dodging the steady stream of carriages now pulling up to the bottom of the steps, and headed in the direction of the Rue Scribe entrance.

 He pulled his thick wool cloak about him, and shucked the strap of the cumbersome canvas satchel that hung over his shoulder beneath it.  All around him patrons flocked in fancy furs and mufflers, their bright steps ringing on the pavements as they sprang from barouches and landaus, a flash of gloved hand and quick peep of ankle punctuating their movements. The air rang with halloos riding on a current of excited chatter.  A few of them cast furtive glances his way, sharing sly whispers behind their hands. He pulled the collar of his cloak up further and pressed on.

 They would soon all be thronging in the grand stairway of the Palais, expensive furs hastily discarded at the coat check to reveal the latest fashions, dripping in jewels, fans whirring frantically amongst the hubbub.  Watching and being watched - that was the purpose of the thing wasn’t it? He wondered how many of them actually cared for the opera they were there to listen to, beyond the opportunity it afforded to see, be seen and to gossip with the great and good. Some nights he enjoyed it as much as the best of them, that circus of fashion and flesh, but tonight he was in the mood for less egregious company, and where he was going he would most likely need to keep his furs on.

 ‘The Persian has the evil eye’ - that’s what they said about him.  He had heard it many times of course, the ballet girls gasping and tittering, and the stagehands touching whatever piece of iron they could find to ward it off.  There were times when he cursed the day he came to this wretched country and missed his home with an ache that went deep into his core.  It was especially so at this time of year, when all of Paris was taken up with celebrations for festivities which he felt he had no part in. The irony of the fact that these moods drove him to seek out the company of the very man who caused his exile was not lost on him. Still, if there was any man who understood the sensation of feeling desperately lonely and misunderstood, whilst simultaneously craving and loathing the company of one’s fellow man, it was Erik.

 He reached the Rue Scribe entrance and kept walking, stopping instead a grate a short distance beyond and surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder, before pulling it open and stepping inside.   The air outside had been crisp and chill, but inside it felt dank and cool, and he was immediately grateful for his thick winter clothing.  He rustled beneath his cloak, pulling a small brass lamp and an ornate box containing a strike light from the bag concealed there. With deft hands he lit it, sending a dim light bouncing off the mildew stained walls of the passageway.  He did not take any pains to conceal his arrival from his friend. Erik would know of his presence by now anyway, he always knew.  It was far better to arrive with as much clatter and fanfare as possible, any attempt at stealth might otherwise prompt some of his strange friends more twitchy reactions.  Besides which, he had had enough run-ins with Erik’s traps and ‘doorbells’ to know that it would be beyond foolishness to traverse these passages blind.  

The descent to the edge of the lake was slow and arduous, and not for the first time the Persian found himself marvelling at the strength and fortitude of the strange man who lived below.  While he himself grew stouter and slower with every passing year, Erik, despite his emaciated frame and sickly pallor seemed to retain that strange spider-like grace and energy that he had possessed when they had first known each other in their youth. More than once he felt his foot skid from beneath him on the damp uneven passageway, and he had to fling out an arm to brace himself against the wall.  He muttered a string of curses under his breath.  He would never understand why the man insisted on holing himself away underground like this. With his skills he could easily have designed himself a dwelling above ground which was just as secretive and solitary as he desired, but he suspected that something in the inconvenience and squalor of this arrangement suited the man’s aesthetic.

 At length, he came to the edge of the vast underground lake, and stopped, the sound of his heavy breaths echoing all about him.  Before long he heard a rhythmic splashing, and at last a pair of glowing yellow eyes became visible, scowling at him through the gloom.

 ‘Daroga,’ came the voice, smooth and seductive, but with an air of danger and threat to it. ‘To what do I owe the honour of your presence tonight?

 A brief shiver ran across the Persian’s skin. It was one of the cruelest ironies that his strange friends should possess such a beautiful voice. A bird of paradise trapped within a hideous, rusted cage. It had been one of his most potent weapons in their time in Persia. It’s silken tones hypnotising and subduing before the masked assassin made his mark. In another world, or another time that voice, and the brilliant mind that went with it could have achieved great things. Perhaps they already had achieved great things, terrible, but great, and yet nobody now but himself was alive to know it.

 ‘Good evening Erik,’ he replied, trying to keep his tone bright, cheerful and unthreatening. ‘A social call, nothing more.’

 ‘Hrmph’ hissed Erik from the gloom, the lamp like eyes squinting suspiciously. ‘So you have come to check up on me, have you Daroga? To ease your conscience and make sure that Erik has not gotten himself into any mischief, I presume?’

 ‘Come, come now,’ the Persian replied brusquely.  ‘May I not pay a simple social call to an old friend during the festive season?’

 The splashing ceased, and the boat bumped against the rough stone quayside of the passageway.  The Persian raised his lamp, and its dim light revealed to him the strange figure of a man, tall and thin, to the point of looking stretched, leaning almost jauntily on the pole at it’s bow, his head cocked to one side.  As always he was impeccably dressed, in full evening attire, with his best opera cloak on, the jeweled shoulders twinkled in the lamplight. His face was covered in a black mask, a thin wisp of silk covering the mouth area.  Not for the first time, the Persian wondered whether the man dressed in such a state of formal readiness all year round, or if, despite his frequent protests, he too anticipated and looked forward to these visits in his own way.

 ‘You know I do not celebrate, Daroga,’ the man said dryly.

 Carefully stepping into the boat the Persian pulled his cloak aside, revealing the bag concealed beneath, from which with a quick rummage he pulled the neck of a bottle of spiced cognac.

 ‘Nor i,’ he said smiling, ‘neither, as you well know, am I supposed to drink. And yet here we both are…’

 The masked man inclined his head, the fabric in front of his mouth fluttering briefly as if he had released a silent chuckle, and with a lithe movement and strength that was belied by his wispy frame, he punted the boat away from the quay and back across the lake.  

 They reached the opposite shore in silence and the masked man sprang out, leaving the Persian to stand wobbily as the boat bobbed in its moorings.

 ‘Careful there Daroga,’ his companion chuckled. ‘We would not want you to damage your venerable knees, old man.’  

 ‘You are the very picture of consideration, Erik,’ he replied, reluctantly taking the proffered hand and pulling every so slightly harder than required as he stepped out. If he hoped that it would unbalance his slender friend he was sadly disappointed however. Instead he seemed to stick to the slick rock with the dexterity of a spider, immediately dropping his hand as soon as the Persian’s feet made contact with solid ground, and stalking away on long limbs toward the door of his lair.

 He threw the door to the house on the lake open with a theatrical flourish, ushering the Persian over the threshold before divesting himself of his own cloak with a dramatic flick.  The Persian removed his own wrappings at a more leisurely pace, shivering slightly as the cold air of the room seeped into his clothing.

 The sitting room before him was as it always appeared. Fastidiously neat except for a desk in the corner which was piled high with sheaves of paper which always threatened to topple at the slightest movement or breeze and yet somehow never did. A low fire burned in an ornate fireplace, and beside it two well stuffed easy chairs were arranged beside a set chess board.   The Persian smiled and strolled toward the fireplace, rubbing his hands in front of it, before idly bending to select two large logs from the basket beside it and throwing them on the fire, stirring it vigorously. The masked man simply settled in one of the chairs with a slow and deliberate movement, watching his every move with a sardonic eye.

 ‘This room never gets any cheerier Erik,’ he commented. ‘I shall never understand why you chose to lock yourself away in this damp and miserable hole when you could have designed yourself the most comfortable rooms in the whole of the city with your talents.’

 ‘My dear Daroga,’ Erik replied wearily. ‘We have covered this before, and I have already informed you that this is perfectly adequate for my needs.  It is quiet, and private, and,’ he continued with emphasis, ‘Erik likes to be left alone.’

 At this the Persian simply smiled and strolled over to the two crystal cut glasses carefully set out on the sideboard.  He withdrew the bottle of cognac from his bag, uncorking it and pouring two generous measures, before lifting his own glass and swirling the liquid within it by way of salute.

 ‘Nobody ought to be alone this season,’ was his simple reply.

 ‘This season, and every season,’ came the brusque reply. ‘The less time I have to spend entertaining meddlesome boobies like yourself, Daroga, the more I can spend on my great work.’

 ‘Ah, yes!’ cried the Persian clapping his hands together and settling into his own chair, ‘The Opera!  How is it coming along?’

 ‘It would come along much better without interruption,’ he harrumphed in reply, pushing a pawn across the board with a long, thin finger

 The Persian threw him a sidelong glance, but from the way Erik’s hands now twisted together he knew that the man had something praying on his mind. He did not require any encouragement to unburden himself.

 ‘Did you know that those fools of managers are considering retirement?’ he barked.

 The Persian simply inclined his head and continued to consider his own move.  He had heard rumours of Debienne and Polongy’s intended departure for some time now, and who could blame them. Managing an Opera House was, of itself, no mean feat, but he suspected that the task was not made any easier by the constant attention and interference of the fabled Opera Ghost.

 ‘Indeed?’ was his only reply. He lifted his own piece and moved it onto the board deliberately.

 ‘Indeed!’ cried Erik, leaping to his feet and pacing. ‘It is most inconvenient.  It has taken me some years to train him in running my theatre in the proper way, and now I am to be forced to begin the process anew again. No doubt with some bumbling fool with money to burn who cannot tell an overture from an aria!’

 He flung himself down again in the armchair, pushing another piece across the board with unnecessary force and the Persian smiled quietly to himself.

 ‘Perhaps this might be the perfect opportunity for you to adopt a more honest system of dealing with the opera house management?’ he suggested tentatively.

The subject of Erik’s so called arrangement with the opera management had long been a bone of contention between the two of them. It was extortion on the most spectacular level, and the fact that the management had chosen to pay it was testament to both the success of the Palais Garnier, and to Erik’s not inconsiderable talents as a troublemaker.  He could not fathom what the man did with the money. Nothing about the appearance of the house on the lake had changed in the years since had been visiting it.  The furniture remained the same, as did the structure, and his friend hardly kept a sumptuous table. Indeed the man’s appetites were so small that the Daroga had long since taken to bringing his own refreshments with him during his visits for fear of otherwise going unfed.  He was not sure if it made the act more deplorable, or impressive that he seemed to rely very little upon his gains, seemingly only drawing them as a point of principle rather than necessity.

 The reaction to this question therefore came as no surprise.

 ‘I warn you Daroga,’ the masked man growled, ‘do not interfere! Erik’s business must remain Erik’s business, or it will be a good deal to pay for you and them, I tell you! I will not tolerate any meddling.’

 The Persian merely inclined his head again, and steepling his fingers, waited for this strange companion to make his next move.  

 For a time the two men sat in silence, idly moving pieces about the board and sipping at their cognac, until at last, the silence was broken by a loud rumbling from the Persian’s stomach.  From across the board the masked man rolled his eyes dramatically, not lifting his gaze from the board.

 ‘Apologies my friend, if my digestive processes inconvenience you.’ The Persian bent and rummaged in the bag at his feet, pulling out two tightly wrapped and sweet smelling parcels. ‘However, I have taken pains to ensure I supply the remedy. If you would be so kind?’

 Erik rose with a fluid motion and took the parcels from his hands, crossing the room in the direction of the kitchen.  Despite his studied indifference, the Persian knew that his companion had a sweet tooth, and never turned down the chance to partake of the Halva and Zoolbia that he brought with each visit.  A memento of their time together in Persia. It was another part of their strange rituals together. Never acknowledged, and never requested, yet always there.

 To his surprise, the masked man came back bearing a tray laden not only with the sweets he had supplied, but also a supply of Macarons, and a rather liberal selection of biscuits and cheeses. The bottom fringe of his mask was removed, revealing his thin lips, set among yellowing skin and stretched across a toothy jaw.

 ‘You eat too many sweets, Daroga,’ was his only explanation.  The Persian simply smiled.

 They continued on in silence, until the board was played, and their glasses and plates were empty, and at last, the Persian made to stand.

 ‘I must thank you for your hospitality again, Erik,’ he said.  His companion merely harrumphed in acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps one of these days you will see fit to visit me? You are always welcome.’

 ‘Erik is far too busy for social frivolities.’ He replied brusquely.

 Once again, the Persian nodded, and collecting his bag from the floor, rummaged in it once again.  From within it he withdrew a series of small figurines, a baby, a crib, a donkey… He placed each one carefully on the mantelpiece, ignoring the growing look of incredulity which radiated from his companion, despite the mask which covered his face.  When at last he had finished, he stepped back and admired them.

 ‘What, please tell, is that?’ spat Erik.

 ‘It is a creche,’ he replied simply.

 ‘I can see that. What on earth possessed you to bring such a thing into my home and place it upon my mantel?’

 ‘It is a gift, Erik,’ the Persian replied wearily. ‘If you must know, I was accosted by a precocious young child whilst shopping at the market, who informed me that they were quite the thing, and that they were the ideal gift for a loved one for the festivities. I did my level best to explain that I did not traditionally partake in festive celebrations, and had no friends of relatives who did. She was, however quite insistent, and somehow I came away having purchased one for my ‘nearest and dearest’, which, it turns out with no small measure of irony, appears to be you.’

 The masked man made no answer to this, and instead moved in the direction of the mantel with a strange urgency.  For a moment the Persian thought with a sinking of his stomach that the man was making to cast the figurines into the fire, but he simply reached out and seized one of them, a white cloaked angel playing a lyre, and held it appraisingly between his long fingers.

 ‘You are a sentimental fool Daroga,’ was his only reply.

 ‘It would seem so.’  

 He gathered his cloak and hat, slipping them back on as he made his way towards the front door.

 ‘And I mean it when I say you are welcome to visit. Truly Erik, it does you no good to always be so alone.’

 The masked man smiled, and still considering the wooden angel between his fingers, followed him to the doorway, neglecting to put on his own cloak.

 ‘Would it please you to know that I am considering an honest occupation to fill my time, Daroga?’ the man asked, an unsual note of excitement in his voice.

 ‘If it were truly honest, then yes, it would please me greatly.’

 The two of them stepped into the boat, and the masked man slipped the wooden angel into the pocket of his trousers, before taking the pole and punting them away from the shore.  He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting the Persians for almost the first time that night, a strange glint lurking within their glowing depths.

 ‘I am considering taking up teaching,’ he declared, almost grandly. ‘So you see, I shall not be s much alone.’

 ‘Teaching?’ asked the Persian incredulously.

 ‘There is a singer. She has much potential, but she lacks refinement. Under Erik’s guidance she could become something brilliant.’

 There was a spark of life in his face that the Persian had not seen for many years, not since the man had been absorbed in his architecture, or possibly even since he was so absorbed with his activities from the before times. He did not care to think too carefully about what that meant.

 ‘And this student, how did you meet her?’ he asked cautiously.

 The masked man muttered and hunched over the pole, withdrawing his eyes and refusing to meet his gaze.

 The Persian sighed, the boat bumped into the opposite shore, and he prepared to step out. As he stepped onto the rough quayside and shouldered his bag, he turned and looked at his trange friend with a stern eye.

 ‘Do not do anything rash, Erik. I shall be watching you.’

 The masked man let out a soft chuckle. ‘I would not expect anything less, my dear Daroga. Until next time…’ and with that, he pushed off from the pontoon, gliding back into the gloom of the lake like a ghost.

 The Persian shivered and pulled his cloak about him. He groped blindly for his lamp, finding it still resting where he left it on his arrival, and pulling out his strike he lit it once more.  As he began the ascent to the word above he tried to quell the rising sense of unease which was building in his stomach.  Perhaps this new student would do his strange, melancholy friend some good. Perhaps this time he truly did intend to go about things in the right way.  He could only hope, but, as he stepped out into the cold snowy streets that surrounded the Palais Garnier and began his way back across town, he could not help suspecting that he was going to be spending much more of his time at the opera in the new year than he had previously.

[cantseemtohide]

He may have finally started making the coffees but nothing is going right for the barista townie!

[my-fanfic-library]

Something Different {BBC Dracula x Reader} [16]

Masterlist

~^*^~

~^nine months later^~

After you had buried Zoe, and you and Jack had tasked Renfield with properly disposing of Dracula’s body, moving on became a difficult task in London. It seemed that Lucy lurked around every corner and whenever you went off to work, you’d somehow find yourself looking amongst the towers of concrete and finding the window that once belonged to the undead Count.

The temperature dipped. Christmas came and went and when it felt like the year only dragged on, despite moving into a new decade, you decided in unison to move back up north. Instead of going back to Whitby, where even more memories of the vampire tainted almost every street, you decided to move to that secret haven you had visited so long ago.

Nine months down the line, Robin Hood’s Bay was in the climax of its tourist season. July was blessing the northern coastline with an abundance of hot days and blue skies and both Jack and yourself had secured jobs.

After the trauma of your dealings with the vampire, you both decided to hand your notices in at the Foundation and find more domesticated lives. They suited you well. Talking to normal humans, leading normal lives - it suited you both so well. You had grown much closer in this time. Jack had learnt to forgive you after Lucy’s death; you had grieved for the vampire man that had stolen your heart and had moved on.

Things were finally no longer dark. Life regained its magnificent colours.

Walking along the beach, parallel to the rolling waves, your hand brushed against his - an innocent mistake. The cooling breeze soothed your skin where the sun beat down. You looked left, taking in the sight of the families far out in the rock pools with their neon nets, most likely looking for little sea creatures to fish out to inspect. Every now and again, a small child would squeal in excitement at finding a dead crab and their father would laugh and explain that it had been eaten by the birds who had left behind the shell.

You then looked right, a soft and loving smile came upon your face. Jack wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking ahead (most likely at the two dogs currently racing for the tennis ball their owner had just thrown). To say that you were surprised at your sudden budding feelings for your old friend would be a huge understatement. You had come to appreciate him for all that he was - plus you suspected that living together (platonically, of course) had something to do with it.

Jack had somehow become your home. He was the only person who could truly say ‘I know what you’re going through’ and mean it. Something about having such an intimate secret with him seemed to tie your bond ever closer.

The walk on the beach lasted a little longer, before you silently agreed it was time to head back. There would be an influx of tourists soon and you definitley didn’t want to try and battle for somewhere to sit on the sand. Besides, standing up at the top of the cliffs gave a beautiful view of the sea.

Robin Hood’s Bay was infamous for its steep hill winding up from the beach to the top of the cliffs. It was hard to walk down without feeling like you were about to topple over and roll the rest of the way down, and it was even more painful trying to get back up. There was a searing pain in your thighs as you took broad steps to try and scale the monster quicker.

You could hear Jack’s laughter behind you at the ridiculousness of your walk, but you ignored him. Hopefully living here would soon provide you with thighs of steel.

The feeling of victory that overcame you when you reached the top was worth every second of torture working up that hill in the heat. You turned to see Jack a few metres away. He grinned up at you and when he made it to your side, he was gently panting.

“Well, let’s agree to never climb that damn hill in the middle of one of the hottest days again.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna dive off the cliff and take a quick swim after that.” You joked.

“Let’s get going. I could do with some lunch.”

Slowly walking, you made your way back to your small shared cottage. It was cool inside. You took your seat at the dining table, eyeing your leather sofa with disgust. You knew that you’d stick to it if you went anywhere near it.

As he made himself a little lunch, Jack flicked on the TV in the living room and turned it up so that you could both hear from in the kitchen. The afternoon news was just beginning. It was the usual political issues, a virus outbreak in Southeast Asia, another tragic stabbing in London.

“A body was recovered from the Thames river two hours ago after tourists spotted a floating figure in the middle of the water just south of the Millenium Bridge. Scotland Yard have just released a statement in the last few moments confirming that the cause of death appears to be the same as those deaths reported last autumn in Whitby and in London.”

You looked at Jack. He had frozen halfway through buttering his second round of bread.

“CCTV footage shows a man, as you can see, and the police are urging for anyone with information on the suspect to call the number on the screen.”

You leapt up, rushing into the living room with Jack hot on your tail. The image was blurry but you knew that face anywhere. Dear Lord, couldn’t he have been bothered to dress a little differently than usual?

“The lawyer?” Jack breathed.

“Since when did Dracula drink his blood?”

That was the first time you had uttered his name in nine months and you’d be lying if you said that speaking it didn’t spark a little pain in your chest. You missed him so much. You expected a text message or a phone call every day, until you reminded yourself that you had changed your number. Even if by some miracle he was still out there, you’d probably never see the vampire again.

That was how it needed to be. You needed to be safe.

Your mind began to wonder. Had Dracula been drinking his blood back in London? And if so, had it simply taken this long for him to turn? Dracula’s finest bride, it seemed, would never be seen by its creator. You knew there was more to that lawyer’s loyalty than just contractual.

“Thank god we aren’t in London, huh?” Jack mumbled and made his way back to finish constructing his sandwich.

“Yeah...”

You trudged back to your own seat, beginning to rearrange the flowers that day in the middle of the table.

That night, you seemed to have a fever dream. A hot, burning fire, and between the flames, a tall figure. It seemed unharmed by the licks the fire gave it and as you reached forwards, the orange forms split to make way for your appendage. Before you could make contact, it whispered your name in a distorted voice. It sounded somewhat familiar. ‘[First]...’ it hissed as if imitating the sound of the fire, ‘where are you, [First]?’

You tossed and turned as the dream began to die away and you spent the rest of the night in a dreamless darkness. The next morning, the dream lingered in your mind. When Jack promoted you to confide in him, you opted not to tell him. It wasn’t like any of it mattered.

He didn’t press too much on it, but decided that he wanted to try and cheer you up.

“Why don’t we go into Whitby for the day?” He suggested, “only if you’re ready, of course.” He quickly added before shoving another spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth.

You thought about it. You hadn’t been to Whitby in nine whole months. Truth be told, you missed it. But you couldn’t decide if that was because you also missed Dracula. You scoffed. You had to be the only person to have grieved for a vampire. Except for maybe Mina Murray - but she didn’t count because her fiancé had been human for most of the time she knew him. Dracula had always been a vampire since the moment you had met him.

“Nah, it was a stupid idea, right.” Jack supposed your scoff was of disbelief that he’d suggest something so utterly stupid.

“No, I think we should go. I’d like to watch the boats.”

Jack watched as an absent-minded smile took hold of your lips as you thought about the harbour.

Well, two hours later and you were sitting by the bandstand, facing away from the structure as you looked out to sea. The pirate ship that took tourists out to sea a little and back again was coming back into the harbour. Some children not too far away from you excitedly jumped and waved and the pirate steering the ship waved back.

It was comforting to hear the whirl of music from the arcades, to get a whiff of both Whitby’s famous The Magpie and Quayside fish and chips, to see the lighthouse, and of course, to look over and up at the abbey.

Oh, how you had missed it here.

“Should we go over the bridge? I’ll buy you a sugar dummy.” Jack offered.

“Sure, why not?” You shrugged and swung your legs over the bench to turn and stand.

You froze.

Standing across the road, outside of the RNLI centre was him. Your jaw dropped. You had to be hallucinating. It couldn’t be! The yellow tourbus whizzed past and when it revealed that side of the road again, he was no longer there.

“[First]?” Jack broke your absolute disbelief, “you alright?”

~^taglist^~

@vampiregirl1797 @avalanet @bunnyreese12 @nerdonpluto @teamceleries @grifffins @hitbythunder @winterseoul @mymagicsuitcase @angeli-fucking-cat @benedictethegoddess @bloodhon3yx @nifflersravenclaw @writteninthestars288 @labelladrama @frankcastlesgrunts @angelicdestieldemon @quakerlasss @aliisa-jones @wolverinexmenn @clairedragonessbaker @cryiner @mitsukatsu @piratewhore @your-pixels-are-showing @tardisnesss @ladydovahkiin180 @catwomom @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes @th3rah @viper-queen @mephdcosplay @greghouse7 @faeprinces @kokoro-no-yami @trishaferdream @therealmoni @crazytxgradstudent @sansthelonelypunster @crowley-needs-a-hug @girlonfireice @wasntpriscilla @ivanna6026 @greeniemoon @blueinkblot @tefymorgan @misfitgirlwrites @lokiphan @newheart97 @middlespellman @bratty-sweetheart @dipsylou @lilmou5ie @the-fangirl-life10 @enchantersnight @imthedoctorlove @haleyea @hoefordarkness @divinemoonsters @dragosdaughter @certthekilljoy @asianbuttcheek

[nicistrying]

A selfie for @mars-nelke and @redbeardstefuk - we went OUT TO A PUB last night!! Had to do test & trace forms, wore masks pretty much everywhere there and back, hand sanitiser everywhere etc and the capacity was really reduced but it was soooo nice to eat something we didn't have to cook ourselves 😂 And to have nice gin again omg, I have really missed good gin with good tonic. We got sat in a little corner to ourselves upstairs and tbh it was lovely. And it was especially lovely to be back down on the quayside with the Milennium Bridge all lit up 🌈 Won't be doing it on the regular and certainly not on a weekend any time soon, but it was a nice little night out of our own four walls.

@zombie-apocalypse-training @therambl3r @weight-warrior @therunnymoonsover @81welsh How are you lovely people?

[edenfalling]

[Fic] “Between the Saltwater and the Sea-Strand” - Naruto

Summary: Yukiko and Kakashi run an undercover mission in the coastal port of Asase during monsoon season. Rain can make anyone philosophical. Part of the Apartment Manager AU, set after The Guardian in Spite of Herself and before An Unorthodox Pedagogical Approach. (3,515 words) Note: Written for warriordrgnmage, in response to the prompt: Naruto: Hatake Kakashi/Ayakawa Yukiko set in the Way of the Apartment Manager Series Timeline. For the Bingo card: Monsoon. It is also a fill for the genprompt_bingo square monsoon. For obvious reasons, Yukiko and Kakashi are using fake names while undercover. Yukiko is Aoi, and Kakashi is Hyoujin. Also, you may notice that this is gen! See, while I am perfectly cool with people shipping Yukiko with Kakashi, that is 100% never going to become Apartment Manager canon, for many, many reasons. If anyone wants a shippy AU, you are welcome to write it yourself, because I flat-out CANNOT. Seriously, even if I tried, you wouldn't want the results. They would be awful. Trust me on that. --------------------------------------------- Between the Saltwater and the Sea-Strand --------------------------------------------- Kuwa Natsume looked up as Yukiko slung herself in through the office window in a spray of rain, raised one eyebrow, and then looked back down to her account books. "Misplaced your shadow?" "Does anyone have a shadow in this weather?" Yukiko said wryly as she shut the window, reducing the sound of rain from deafening to merely incessant and inescapable. "I thought I was used to rain, but coastal monsoons are something new, yeah?" "We get that a lot from inlanders," Kuwa-san said as she drew a sharp line under a column of numbers and wrote a sum. "You get used to it, and it's easier for shinobi -- you have all that fancy ninpou and whatnot. But in all honesty, Aoi-san, where is your partner? I can't finalize your supply contract without both of your signatures." Yukiko made a face as she combed water out of her black-dyed hair. "Is it that important to be fussy when this is all ninety percent illegal anyway?"

"The more illegal, the more important to nail down all the details," Kuwa-san said. "What court would adjudicate the case if you sign alone and Hyoujin-san decides next week that he won't pay for his share?" Yukiko personally agreed with Kuwa-san's caution, but her cover persona would probably make one further push. So, "Oh, don't worry about him. Hyoujin trusts me completely--" Kuwa-san raised her eyebrow again. "--nearly completely when it comes to contracts. What's the point of having a partner if you can't split your responsibilities?" "I would say partners split focus, not responsibility. If you don't maintain some degree of joint liability, what's to stop one of you from turning on the other?" "Ethics?" Yukiko said with a winning smile, and allowed herself to laugh at Kuwa-san's carefully calculated answering smirk. "Fair enough. Let me look over the terms and I'll drag him over here to pretend he knows how to use a brush sometime before-- when do you close today?" "Six." "Before six. Actually, let's say before five, yeah? He's not that hard to track or sweet-talk if you know what you're doing." Yukiko held out her now-dry hand for the supply contract and wiggled her fingers until Kuwa-san passed it across her desk. She retreated to the broad windowsill and began flicking through the pages. It wasn't complicated, just a dead drop of miscellaneous dry goods in neutral territory that would hopefully establish her and Kakashi as reliable clients and Kuwa-san as a reliable supplier -- a standard way for missing-nin and gray market merchants to feel each other out. If the goods wound up as a cache for a long-term Leaf-nin mission, well, nothing in the contract specified that Yukiko and Kakashi had to be the ones to make the pickup. And their cash was perfectly legitimate Fire Country tender, so as far as Kuwa-san was concerned, there was nothing to worry about. (Yukiko was fairly certain there was nothing to worry about on Konoha's end of the bargain either. Kuwa-san had a rock-solid reputation for following through on her contracts. Nobody survived twenty years in the gray market without either keeping their word almost religiously or spending a fortune on bodyguards, and Kuwa-san barely bothered to pay for warehouse security.) "Where do you source kunai?" she asked as the rain's intensity kicked up a notch, beating against the windowpane in a nearly solid sheet of water. "Wind Country," Kuwa-san said without looking up from her accounts. "Earth Country's metallurgy is better, but the border tariffs aren't usually worth the slight increase in quality. I could change that if you're willing to pay the difference." Yukiko feigned consideration. "I don't care, but Hyoujin can get picky about steel composition. What would the increase be for this number of kunai and senbon?" Kuwa-san named a figure. Yukiko made an exaggerated expression of disgust. "No thanks! He can whine and make do. I'm not paying that much more for what, a half percent less chance of flaws? It's not like anyone expects kunai to last anyway. Use 'em and lose 'em and buy some more, that's what I say. Or steal whatever's left from your targets! That's economy, yeah?" "Officially, I can't encourage any behavior that would reduce my chance to sell you more equipment, Aoi-san. Unofficially? Yes, that's very economical. If only all my clients were equally practical." "Eh, there's all kinds of ways to be practical. What we're good at is mostly spying and killing -- it's more efficient to hire a ninja than do that stuff in-house, yeah? Just like you're good at moving stuff around to where we need it, so it's more efficient to hire you instead of us trying to figure all that stuff out from scratch. It's win-win, is how I see it." Yukiko tapped the papers to shuffle them into a neat pile, then handed them back to Kuwa-san. "That looks fine on my ends. Me and Hyoujin will be back sometime this afternoon to sign and pay the next installment." "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Aoi-san," Kuwa-san said. Yukiko grinned and dove backward out the window, into the pounding rain. --------------- Kakashi was lurking in one of Asase's numerous quayside bars, most of which were run out of the back doors of warehouses and also did a brisk side business in assorted seafood dishes. Rain pelted down on the roof tiles in a clattering racket that Yukiko found personally soothing but professionally irritating -- it was a lot harder to eavesdrop through the constant noise, not to mention the complications it added to genjutsu. She and Kakashi had spent their first night in Asase mutually grousing about the unpredictability of electric ninjutsu in waterlogged conditions and the difficulty of filtering ambient sounds out of illusions. Today Kakashi was sipping a bowl of lobster broth through a long, curved straw that vanished into the deep blue folds of the scarf he'd used to shroud his face. To the casual eye he was staring out an open window toward the rainswept harbor, his oversized gray hood restricting his range of sight and hearing, but Yukiko followed the combined angle of his feet and chopsticks to their targets: a trio of young missing-nin drinking in the far corner, defaced forehead protectors proclaiming their renunciation of Kiri. They were small-time, only a few months out on their own each with barely a name and one line of description in the latest bingo book editions, but anyone willing to go against the Bloody Mist was worth a second look. Whether this particular investigation would conclude in a job offer or an assassination was still up in the air. "Heya, Hyoujin. Thinking of roping in some new blood for larger contracts?" Yukiko asked as she dropped into a seat across from him (back to their targets) and set her ramen down on the unsanded wood of the table. Kakashi shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Three's better than two for flexibility, but more than four on a mission gets awkward without ranks and a chain of command. Nobody who leaves a village wants to go back to those kind of restrictions." Yukiko tilted her hand. "Eh, there's assholes on power trips and there's division of labor -- not necessarily the same thing. I let you take the lead in a fight and you let me take the lead on retrievals. That's just practical, yeah? But we wouldn't throw each other away. Shinobi are tools, sure, but if you don't look out for your teammates, how can you trust they'll look out for you?" Kakashi shrugged again and continued sipping his broth. Targets hear? Yukiko signed under the guise of snapping apart her chopsticks. Yes, Kakashi signed back as he lifted his bowl and drank the last of his broth under the shadow of his hood and scarf. No bite. Yukiko slurped a mouthful of noodles and nicely salted broth. "Grouch. Well, whatever we do for future contracts, today we have to sign off on the supply contract with Kuwa-san. We'll need the goods for that thing in Tea Country and she wants both of our names in writing." "Sign for me," Kakashi said "Tried that. She won't bite." "So fake it. Illusions are your thing, Aoi; pretend I'm there and forge my seal." Yukiko slurped another mouthful of noodles in her best imitation of Naruto's sloppy manners. "Oh, sure. Lying is the best way to establish trust for future contracts, yeah?" "She's a civilian, how would she know?" "Not the point. C'mon, Hyoujin. You won't melt in the rain. Let's go make nice with Kuwa-san and I'll make it real worth your while." She ran the edge of her sandal up the side of Kakashi's shin and gave him her best imitation of her cousin Yura's flirtatious smile. Kakashi twitched. Yukiko slapped the table and let her smile shade into a more genuine grin. "Ha, I win." "Fine. Finish your soup and let's go drown ourselves. Again." "Eh, getting soaked's not that bad. Especially when you've got a partner around to help you peel out of all your soggy clothes and warm up when you get home, yeah?" Kakashi twitched again, then rallied and let a tiny arc of electricity jump between two raised fingers. "And then get wet again?" Yukiko held onto her cover persona by the skin of her teeth. "Now you're talking my language. All right, I'm done. Let's go give a little now so we get more back later." --------------- Signing the contract with Kuwa-san took all of twenty minutes -- half of which was entirely for show, as Kakashi lived up to his cover persona and whined about the kunai quality until Yukiko overruled him -- after which they had the afternoon and evening entirely to themselves and a conveniently established reason to retreat to their rented room and lock themselves inside Yukiko's best privacy genjutsu. "We can't stay longer than another day now that the contract's signed," Kakashi said as he flashed his hands through the seals for a quick and subtle bit of ninjutsu that left their clothes and skin completely dry without spilling any excess heat. "Do you think the targets will be receptive if we approach them openly?" Yukiko shook her head, grimaced at the awkward motion of her still-tangled hair, and began working the tie out of her ponytail. "No chance. I don't know if they'd even be open to a joint mission with Aoi and Hyoujin at this point. Sumire wants security and Kenichi likes profit, but they're still raw enough to see tigers in every other shadow, and Eriko's almost too paranoid to make deals with someone as solid and non-threatening as Kuwa-san. On the bright side, they're wildly unlikely to join up with anyone else." Kakashi slumped back onto the futon with an annoyed set to his eyebrow. "And since they haven't moved against Fire Country assets, there's nothing to justify an assassination without a contract. I hate leaving loose ends." Yukiko dropped down to sit cross-legged beside him, fingers slowly working through her tangles. "Think of it as a guaranteed vacation in a few months. Our agents will send word the next time our trio pass through Asase, Aoi and Hyoujin turn up to sign a new contract with Kuwa-san, and we sound them out for a joint mission. They ought to be the right balance of calmer and hungrier by then, and we'll get a better reading after a week or so of close contact." "Ugh." "Yeah, yeah, talking to people is terrible and scary." Kakashi rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his arms, the soft, voluminous fabric of his hood blocking all apparent lines of sight. "Only the living." Yukiko froze, then sighed and flopped onto her back with her arms above her head. "Yeah. The dead talk back just as much, but it's still so much easier." "Sometimes I wonder how many people in Konoha would qualify for a 'Lone Survivor of My Genin Team, Including My Teacher' club," Kakashi said into the futon. "Then I stop wondering because the math is too depressing. But we could start a private chapter just for us." "Sometimes I hate that you trust me enough to say things like that," Yukiko said to the ceiling. "Then I tell myself not to be an idiot, because it means I get to say equally horrible things to you. Like that I'm pretty sure if we recruit our targets, at least one of them will be dead within two years, and I'm not sure that balances the odds that all three of them will die within one year if they keep working as missing-nin. After all, there's always a chance they might retire and start a farm." "Says the woman who got so bored with civilian life she jumped into a chuunin exam the minute Sandaime offered her a chance." "Says the Anbu assassin." Kakashi snorted. "We're all so fucked up." "Yeah." "Might as well be fucked up with other people who understand." "Yeah." They lay in silence for some time, listening to the steady thrum of rain on the roof tiles above. The air was warm and sticky, and the breeze eeling through the open window smelled faintly green beneath the ever-present fish-salt-rot odor of the sea. "Let's accidentally-on-purpose bump into the targets tomorrow morning, buy them breakfast, and float the idea of a joint mission later in the year," Yukiko said eventually. "Might as well plant seeds when the ground is soft." "You pay." "It's all mission funds in the end." "To clarify: you handle all the human interactions. I'll stand behind you and look vaguely menacing so they'll think at least one of us is competent." "To clarify: you'll look vaguely constipated, while I impress them with my social competency. Networking is an important skill for missing-nin." "I object to that assessment." "Which one of us has experience making business deals directly with civilians instead of through the mission office?" Kakashi flicked a gust of wind at her, re-tangling her hair. Yukiko pulled out Aoi's grin as she kicked Kakashi gently in the ankle. "Ninjutsu isn't a valid argument, which means I win. Your forfeit is fixing my hair." "Having teammates and friends is a terrible choice and I should never have made it a second time," Kakashi grumbled, but he sat up and tapped Yukiko's shoulder. "Turn around and hand me your comb." --------------- They hadn't been able to slap any chakra tags on the targets -- Eriko's paranoia was too thorough for even the subtlest of genjutsu threads to make it past her guard longer than a couple hours -- but Yukiko had gotten a decent sense of their chakra signatures over a series of not-quite-encounters during the past week. It helped to have rooms in the same lodging house, of course. Kakashi took first watch, leaving Yukiko to spend the back half of the night with a manual on steam heating systems and the interminable patter of rain. Eventually the sky began to lighten from matte black to flat gray and her spider-light sweep across the building and surrounding streets caught movement from their targets. "Time to go," she said as she stood. Kakashi remained unmoving until she nudged him with her foot, secure that he was actually awake and wouldn't strike her in reflexive defense. "I remember pretending to be a morning person when I was too young to know better," Kakashi grumbled into the futon. "It was a terrible idea then and it's a terrible idea now. Nobody should be awake before the sun is halfway up the sky." "Unfortunately the targets set the schedule," Yukiko said as she tucked her book away into a holding scroll. "Come on, put on your face and let's get to work." Kakashi flicked a minor wind jutsu in her direction as he rolled to his feet, but Yukiko had braided her hair so this time it stayed secure and untangled. "I wonder if I should switch to bulky scarves as an off-duty option. It's easier to eat and drink through the gaps between layers than to yank a mask up and down very fast or while people are looking away, and people have been much less interested in Hyoujin's face than they tend to be in mine." "That's because Hyoujin doesn't have a reputation. There's no glory in pulling down some random missing-nin's scarf." Yukiko grinned at Kakashi's affronted eyebrow and slipped out the window ahead of another wind jutsu. It wasn't hard to find their targets today: apparently Sumire's morning grumpiness had won over Eriko's paranoia and the trio of former Mist-nin were huddled near a breakfast yatai, half-sheltered from the incessant rain, and haggling over prices with the male half of the married couple behind the counter. Yukiko couldn't have asked for a better opening if she'd tried. She eeled her way up to the counter and grinned at the woman scraping down the stove from whatever she'd last been grilling. "Two miso and two fish on rice -- salmon for me, mackerel for my partner," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at Kakashi, who was standing, smugly dry, under a wind jutsu shaped into an invisible umbrella. "Oh, and how much extra for nori with the salmon?" The woman named a price. Yukiko rolled her eyes. "I hate bargaining on an empty stomach, so I'll just pay nine tenths of that and we'll all pretend you're not robbing me blind, yeah?" She glanced sideways to where the three young missing-nin were still arguing with the other cook. "I hate listening to arguments on an empty stomach, too, so how about I cover these loudmouths, too? Or at least the difference between what they're willing to pay and what you're asking." "Deal," the man said, interrupting the mockery of persuasion Kenichi was currently attempting. "Pay up and thank the nice lady for making sure I don't turn you away unfed." Eriko slapped her hand over Sumire's wallet. "No. It's poisoned." Yukiko rolled her eyes again. "There's a difference between reasonable caution and paranoia, yeah? I want a peaceful breakfast and our last mission went well, so I'm willing to pay a little extra to smooth things over. It's not like it's that much money. And hey, if it'll make you feel better, consider it a-- a-- Hyoujin, what's the word I want?" "Why would I know? You handle contracts," Kakashi said as he slipped a bite of mackerel through the folds of his scarf. "Ugh, why are we still partners?" "Because I'm very good with knives." "Point!" Yukiko slapped the yatai counter and turned back to the trio of missing-nin. "Anyway, breakfast. You're right that nothing comes free, so let's say that I'm paying for you to consider a joint mission sometime in the future, if me and Hyoujin have a line on a job that needs more than three people and we're kicking around the same market, yeah?" Sumire blinked. Kenichi looked like she'd slapped his face with a whole salmon. Eriko scowled and said, "That's not how contracts work." "Yes it is. It's called a-- a-- it's an option, that's the word! You can ask any of the suppliers in town, they'll tell you. I'm paying for the chance to run a job past you, because anyone who makes it out of Hidden Mist is worth a trial run, yeah? You don't have to accept. You just have to listen. And now I'm done with this conversation because I don't like having arguments on an empty stomach any more than I like listening to them. Don't die, and me and Hyoujin will see you around." She grabbed her rice bowl, her cup of miso, and her disposable bamboo chopsticks and kicked Kakashi's ankle to make him turn around and stop staring creepily at the trio of missing-nin through the folds of his scarf. Bite? she asked in handsign masked by a low-level illusion -- the chakra for which ought to be covered by Kakashi's own completely explicable umbrella jutsu. Maybe, Kakashi signed back, then added aloud, "What do you want to do for our next vacation, if this job goes as well as the last one?" Yukiko shrugged elaborately as she swallowed a mouthful of fish and rice. "Eh, there's worse places than the ocean. And by then, the rain should be over for the year. I like water a lot better when it stays flat on the ground than when it's trying to crawl up my nose and into my ears, yeah?" "That's because you have no imagination," Kakashi drawled. Yukiko considered countering with her own innuendo, but no; they were leaving Asase. They could leave Aoi and Hyoujin behind with the rain and introspection and return to more familiar ground. So she poked Kakashi with her chopsticks instead, and laughed when he neatly dodged the strike. As they walked past Kuwa-san's warehouse, bickering companionably, a watery ray of sun pierced briefly through the clouds over the storm-wracked sea and laid a path west to the green reaches of home. --------------------------------------------- End of Story --------------------------------------------- Well, that took significantly longer than it needed to, but I won in the end. \o/ Also, Kuwa Natsume (from Whose Allegiance Is Ruled by Expedience) is now officially part of Apartment Manager continuity. You're welcome. :D

[natgeotraveluk]

A fisherman at the harbour, the beating heart of the small town of Sagres, and gateway to the Southwest Alentejo and Vicentine Coast Natural Park. This was the cradle of Portugal’s Age of Discovery from the 15th to the 17th centuries, but the town dances to a different rhythm these days. Instead of seafaring galleons, the quayside bustles with fishing boats bringing in the day’s catch. Of all the fresh seafood landed in this corner of Portugal, percebes (known as ‘goose barnacles’) are perhaps one of the most curious-looking. The crustaceans are harvested from the rocks and are a local delicacy, best enjoyed lightly boiled and served with a glass of chilled vinho verde at the beachside Mar à Vista restaurant // Photo by @richardjamestaylor for the Jan/Feb 2021 issue of National Geographic Traveller . . . #NGTUK #natgeo #nationalgeographic #natgeotravel #travelgram #instatravel #travellersofinstagram — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/3whmn8A

[gulet-broker]

Best Choice Boat in Turkey + Yacht Charter Trip

Arriving in Turkey is like returning home. The reception is always warm and the face is smiling. You will feel this as much as you can when you board a Turkish gulet for a Blue Cruise cruise. . . . simultaneous encounter with indescribable beauty, not only in the colors of the water, or in the way the sun works when making fun of the various hues from the pine forest, but in the distant portraits of ancient castles, the smiling faces of a group member and the world .

And if you have to choose to extend your vacation to the Gulet Charter Turkey, walk along the Turkish Aegean and Mediterranean coast, or the Greek islands - then be aware that from here on, every other holiday or holiday you do will be worth this!

Imagine being able to turn off your cell phone, slide your watch, and discard your everyday clothes in shorts, bathing suits, and sarongs. This is a kind of "barefoot" holiday, where times and movements reflect your needs, and your privacy and comfort are put before everything else. This is a truly unique holiday within a single Turkish handmade ship, where the only concern is that you have taken enough time to truly relax and enjoy some of the most wonderful pleasures in life. Being at sea in Turkey is one of the best ways to reward yourself, at the same time gaining the real experience as it can only be provided by Turkey.

Gulet Charter Croatia has a wide selection of luxury, but affordable cruises and more than 20 years of experience in building the perfect cruise for any occasion. If you have never sailed before, now is a good time to find one of the most relaxing ways to walk behind the small coves, small harbors and uninhabited harbors forming the south-west corner of Turkey. It is an opportunity to experience a different way of life, in which time seems to pass slowly and locals preserve the traditions passed on by the hooves. This is an opportunity to explore the coastal villages off the road or to climb monasteries to islands near the Greek islands, discover ancient ruins accessible only by sea, or by snorkel over the remains of a Byzantine village.

This is an attractive world cornerstone with many temptations for travelers back and forth. There has never been a “one-size-fits-all” trip, when you choose your team to go with and when Gulet.com.au works closely with you to customize it.

Lycian Adventure Journey along the southwest coast of Turkey

Day 1 Gocek and Tomb Bay

Enter the beautiful port of Gocek, just 20 minutes from Dalaman International Airport. Sail via Tomb Bay on the west side of the Gulf of Fethiye. This is a beautiful harbor with wooden slopes and numerous stone tombs, carved out of rock by the people of ancient Lycia. Exploring the tombs involves a small climb but this is a good opportunity to take a closer look at the ancient remains of the temple with gates and a variety of pigeon holes. Take a great view across the harbor and head to the other side of the harbor. For the real hunters, there is an ancient Cyra acropolis just up the hill.

Overnight in Tomb Bay.

Day 2 is Skopea Harbor and Manastir Bay

After a leisurely breakfast and breakfast, enjoy a series of short hops of "Skopea Harbor", the most picturesque part of the gap, stop to discover other Byzantine ruins on your way to the evening port, "Manastir" (Monastery) Bay. Swim, swim in a boating boat or walk on the beach among the olive trees. There are also underwater ruins of the palace that you can explore and this is best done with a snorkel and wings or by taking the tender shore. Tonight, eat at the beach for a typical Turkish currency.

Day 3 Turunc Pinari (Turunc broadcast)

Drive across the gap and anchor in a beautiful harbor called “Turunc Stream”, which is lined with a beautiful pine forest. Here, you can take the tender to the wooden harbor and surround yourself with a small garden paradise made by the local restaurant Osman and his wife, Tulay - both very friendly people. Snorkel, swim, or take a quiet nap on the deck. This is a real paradise. The beauty of the rocks above is highlighted as the setting sun touches them with a golden glow.

Day of the 4th Gemiler Island

A boat around the entrance to the Gulf of Fethiye and drop anchor on the island of Gemiler. Grab a mask and wings to gaze at Gemiler's dazzling treasures: an ancient quay and other quayside shops - just under the water. In the afternoon, head out on the beach and visit the ruins of what used to be a large Byzantine settlement: among the many ruins, there are three churches, one of which has a lower floor. Also interesting is the eagerly closed road that runs along the side of the mountain and in the harbor. It is an attractive site and the view of the sun from the top of the island is very impressive. Head to Cold Water Bay where a nice little trail takes you to a beautiful spot next to a small restaurant that supports visiting boats.

5th day in Kalkan

Wake up to the beautiful "Butterfly Valley". If you have time to walk along the beach, this is a great place to take in the many natural scenery. It is a long way to the Kalkan with many heads. . . a great opportunity to enjoy reading your book and relaxing on the deck.

If you are on the shores of the Kalkan harbor, take a trip to the coast to get a better view of the beauty of this beautiful mountain town. The rugged Kalkan streets are lined with whitewashed houses, some of which are almost obscured by the colorful bougainvillea. These Greek-like houses are a reminder that the Kalkans were formerly inhabited by Greeks and Turks. This evening’s dinner can be taken from one of the many fine finesse

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Public treated to obfuscation at Waterfront Toronto meeting on negotiations with Google sister company over surveillance district

[Rosemary Frei is an independent journalist who broke the story that Google's Sidewalk Labs had quietly sewn up the rights to turn most of Toronto's lakeshore into a surveilling "smart city" (Google/Sidewalk lied about this at first, were cornered, admitted it, and rolled back the plan). Now she's back with a report on last night's "Public Update on Quayside" meeting, where any hope anyone nursed that Google would be pursuing humane urbanism, rather than surveillance and extraction, were firmly dashed. -Cory]

At Waterfront Toronto’s first meeting for the public after its board of directors voted Oct. 31 to continue negotiating with Sidewalk Labs on the parameters of a 12-acre surveillance district, officials from the public agency made it clear they’re already wedded to the Google sister company. The hundreds of attendees of last night’s ‘Public Update on Quayside’ were each given a package that included a copy of an Oct. 29 letter from Waterfront Toronto President and CEO George Zegarac to Sidewalk Labs’s Chief Development Officer Josh Sirefman. Zegarac lays out in the letter how the two bodies will work closely together -- with Waterfront Toronto taking the lead in on such things as negotiations with all three levels of government – to "develop an ‘Innovation Plan’ to advance and achieve Waterfront Toronto’s priority outcomes." Based on this newly arrived at ‘realignment of Master Innovation and Development Plan threshold issues,’ Waterfront Toronto’s final decision on whether to proceed with the plan will be taken by its board by March 31, 2020.

Members of the public who walked into last night’s meeting with a scintilla of hope that Waterfront Toronto officials may still admit it is extremely unwise to bed down with a high-tech giant had that hope dashed. (And it was even further smashed by a November 19 Reuters report quoting key Waterfront Toronto officials as saying they have all the information they need to evaluate Sidewalk Labs’s proposal.)

Among the ‘pearls’ at the November 19 public meeting:

- in response to a question about how Waterfront Toronto can possibly curtail how much information is collected by Sidewalk Labs, Zegarac said they would penalize Sidewalk Labs if it breaches privacy boundaries. Member Melissa Goldstein scoffed at the idea of penalties having any effect on Google. Zegarac replied, "I'm just saying what we're trying to do. Nobody's outlawed Google from their country. We need to be realistic about what we can do with this project."

- Meg Davis, Waterfront Toronto's Chief Development Officer, responded to a question about whether the public can evaluate Sidewalk Labs's business plans for Quayside by saying Waterfront Toronto isn’t capable of making such an assessment. "Sidewalk Labs is a private company, so I don't know how we would technically evaluate those business models for them," Davis said with a straight face.

- another audience member asked when Waterfront Toronto will file documents to respond to a lawsuit by the Canadian Civil Liberties Association -- which the group filed in April 2019, challenging the jurisdiction of Waterfront Toronto in entering such a complex agreement with Sidewalk Labs, asserting such an agreement violates residents’ Charter rights to privacy, liberty and free association -- and which is continuing. Zegarac replied, "You know what? We’re kind of removed on this one because this is before the courts, so I don’t want to get into any details, but we are responding to that, so I’ll just leave it at that." Zegarac’s response is classic official obfuscation: the truth is that Waterfront Toronto has not yet filed any documents. Instead, Waterfront Toronto’s lawyers, whose high bills are footed by taxpayers, are busy keeping it out of court.

https://boingboing.net/2019/11/20/public-treated-to-obfuscation.html