#scion like royalty but also scion like a plant

[holly-tea]

Prince Erato, Scion of Spring 🌷

-

A gift for my good friend @nightfaeses !!! it’s their birthday go wish them a happy birthday rn or i’ll explode you with my mind

[shih-coulda-had-it]

2 and 27 nanakikoooooo

2 (Royal AU) & 27 (Sick/Injured) | Nanahiko

//

Different fantasy AU than the one where Toshinori is the One who Would be King, but definitely still fantasy AU. The Dread God Usurper is just a hoity-toity title for AFO. And for the reader’s information, Sorahiko and Nana are in an arranged marriage, yet had never met before this night.

//

Their flight from the castle was only successful because no one had expected the heiress to co-opt an escape with the visiting mercenary. Of course, it was also likely because the guardsmen were distracted by the undead, surfacing from the earth, under the thrall of the Dread God Usurper.

Somehow, this was not Shimura Nana’s top priority.

“Hey,” she said sharply, jostling the mercenary’s head from where it had dipped onto her shoulder. Nana had commandeered the man’s horse, so she had the reins, but as she couldn’t just leave him, he had sat behind her and (presumably) guarded their backs. Nevertheless, Nana wasn’t about to show gratitude like that.

He murmured something in return, groggy. Nana discerned the words ‘arrow’ and ‘hurts.’

“I’m sorry, you’ve been shot by an arrow?”

“Hn,” he answered, and Nana felt his weight suddenly shift sideways. She hastily reached backwards in an attempt to prop him up; chancing a glance backwards, Nana saw a broken arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder.

She shrieked.

“Quiet,” said the man. Fortunately for him, the garbled plea was comprehensible enough that Nana managed to put a lid on it and prevent them from being thrown.

“How long has that been there?” Nana demanded, and turned her attention to scouring their surroundings for any safe haven.

The castle was the center of the capital, a sprawling city that boasted zero walls, a rigorously-maintained waterworks and sewage system, and more roads than the city patrol knew how to deal with. The Shimuras’ lax approach to securing the heart of their kingdom was a character flaw, only balanced by the fact that Shimuras were rarely holding court, instead choosing to personally tend to the borders.

One positive consequence of a roaming royal-in-disguise: every innkeeper did their utmost to present their businesses well, and at a bargain price, in the hopes that they would have the repeat honor of hosting royalty.

Another positive consequence: there were many, many inns.

Some of which would not be averse to bloodied men. Or women in bloodied dresses.

“Milady,” the man slurred, and Nana startled at how close the rumble was to her ear. “Wha’s happenin’?”

“Did you forget the past hour?” she asked, incredulous. She spotted several men, still merry (because who, who could have fled from the castle yet and alert the capital that it had fallen besides her and her companion?) and drunk, slipping out of a door spilling warm yellow light.

Nana nudged the horse over to the establishment’s small set of stables, wrinkling her nose at the smell. By the grace of the gods, she thought in relief, seeing several vacancies.

“Okay, down we go,” she said, and she watched the man sluggishly brace himself against her and slide off his horse. Once both of his feet were planted on the ground, Nana followed suit.

“Don’t run off with my horse.”

“I have absolutely no plans to do that,” Nana lied, and coaxed the man to release his grip on the saddle. He made a wounded noise when pushed away, but did nothing to stop Nana from stabling the horse.

Did nothing but stare, Nana corrected herself, freezing in the act of pulling out her coin-purse from between her breasts.

“What,” she said defensively.

“What?”

And then he tipped forward. Nana caught him, grunted at the weight, and resigned herself to lugging him inside. Though the innkeeper was cleaning up the messes of his previous customers, she was swift to pass the chore off to a maid and speak with Nana.

“Do you need a healer, m’lady?” she asked, wiping her hands on a rag.

“A room first,” Nana decided. She readjusted the arm slung over her shoulders and winced at the pitiful whimper. “Hot water and clean rags too, please. Anything you can spare for bandages. I’ll pay for the expenses.”

“Alright.” Blissfully, no questions were asked. After giving additional instructions to the maid, she fetched an oil lamp and said, “Follow me.”

Nana dragged her companion up a flight of stairs, until the innkeeper opened the first door to their left, holding it open and allowing them to step over the threshold. It was a cramped space, minimally furnished. Nana nearly tripped upon seeing the single bed.

“Need two?” asked the innkeeper.

“Ah,” said Nana. She plunged past her hesitation; the Usurper was infamous for his Hunts, and anything Nana could do to cover her tracks would be beneficial. Leaning in conspiratorially, Nana whispered, “The single is fine. It’s just that, he’s a rather large man, isn’t he?”

That earned her a grin. “A large man’s a large target.”

“As we unfortunately learned,” she agreed. The innkeeper waited for Nana to deposit the man onto the bed, face-first, and then exchanged a handful of coin for the key and light. “I’ll take a plate of dinner as well, please.”

“Any for him?”

“If he wants to eat, he’ll have to wake up first.”

Nana saw the woman out, and finally turned her attention to the man. He was tall, sturdily-built, with awfully soft-looking silver hair and a prominently-curved nose. And he was blearily awake, watching her through half-lidded eyes, the pale irises barely catching the yellow light.

“Did you want something to eat?” she asked, approaching the bed and surveying the damage.

“Something to drink,” he said hoarsely. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad.”

He laughed into the pillow, and it was humorless and despairing. It eventually petered out into a low curse, then an unsteady statement. “This… was not how I wanted to be meeting you for the first time.”

Nana blinked. “I didn’t realize I was expecting you.”

“Oh. That’s a comfort.”

“You can’t stop there,” she said, poking his uninjured shoulder. “Who are you to me, mercenary?”

“‘Mercenary’?” the man echoed in disbelief. “No, I’m - ” His breath hitched. There was a shadow at the door; Nana leapt up to retrieve the basin of hot water and rags (and an unasked for knife), and ushered the girl away. She didn��t want an audience for this next part.

“You’re…?” Nana encouraged. She set the supplies on the floor.

“Sorahiko. Sorahiko from the Yamanashi Kingdom. I was here because - because - ”

“Prince Sorahiko,” she corrected, reeling just a little bit. Nana recognized the name, even if she couldn’t quite place the degree of importance. Was he a valuable trading partner? An ally? “You’re the Torino scion!”

“Soon to be deceased,” he muttered.

“Aw, don’t be like that.”

“I have an arrow sticking out of my shoulder, and I don’t think even a warrior-queen is trained in the healing arts,” Sorahiko snarked. The burst of sarcasm faltered. “Did you really not recognize me?”

Nana, though feeling guilty about the earlier plan to rob him of his horse and supplies, was not about to be guilt-tripped by a sad small voice. “I hadn’t paired faces to names yet,” she said, defensive. “That’s usually a thing that happens after the coronation.”

“It really isn’t,” he told her.

“Well, I guess we’ll never know, considering what’s happened.” Nana exhaled sharply, then steeled herself. “That was the Usurper back there, did you notice?”

“Hard not to.” Sorahiko stirred, winced, and dug his face into the pillow. His words came out muffled: “He’s supposed to be a folktale boogeyman for bullies. What’s he doing, coming for your throne?”

“I’m glad you asked. Can you keep a secret?”

They breathed in silence for several seconds, the tension thick. Then, Sorahiko snorted and turned his head; Nana saw his profile outlined against the pillow, the wry curve of his smile.

“Dead men tell no tales. That’s how the adage goes.”

“You’re not dead yet,” she said, exasperated, and tapped into the power of One for All for strength (to hold Sorahiko down), for grace (to remove the arrow with as little damage possible), and for mercy (to heal the wound). Sorahiko cried out, one hand clawing at the sheets by his face, the other flailing backwards in an attempt to dissuade her.

Nana held on. The affair took less than a minute, and by the end of it, Sorahiko’s entire frame trembled with the aftershocks, and Nana’s skin felt tingly, charged with static electricity. She tossed the arrow shaft aside and picked up the knife.

Perhaps it had been meant for surgery.

She used it to slice his shirt in half. Mutely, Nana waited for Sorahiko to process what the hell just happened, and wiped away the crusted blood. She pressed hard against healed flesh, distantly registering his warmth.

“Oh,” Sorahiko breathed into the bed.

Nana eased up on the pressure. “I don’t know why the Usurper wants my power,” she admitted. “But he’s not supposed to have it.”

Slowly, he sat up. Trying to look regal, Nana assumed, although that was difficult with his shirt in pieces and that - that awestruck expression.

“So?” she asked nervously.

“Let me help you,” said Sorahiko. “He can’t have known we’ve made contact. Come to Yamanashi with me, and let me help you figure out what you need to do.”

She stared at him. “What if - what if it takes forever?”

“Then it takes forever.” A new kind of determination surfaced on his face, and Nana was taken aback at the fluttery feeling in her stomach. “Even if Yamanashi proves unsafe, and you need to run from kingdom to kingdom, just let me go with you. Whatever your task is, it’ll be easier with two.”

“You’ll have to rough it.”

Sorahiko snorted. “I’m not some spoiled whelp, drowning in ruffles and lace. Queen Shimura - ”

“Call me Nana,” she replied, faint, and extended her hand. He mirrored her; they clasped each other’s forearms instinctively, and Nana’s mouth curved into a slight smile that he returned. “I hope you’re not shy, Prince Torino.”

“Call me Sorahiko,” he shot back.

[oudenoida]

❦ - Changing clothes facing away, showing off their back (Ty and Luca)

Luca was under no delusions about what the house he shared with Max and Dash was like. He’d seen enough American movies to know that aside from the incredibly ordered and neat corners of it that Max was responsible for the three of them lived in something akin to a frat house; which honestly was part of the reason Luca liked it so much. But it also gave him just a tiny twinge of… was that shame? Was he even capable of feeling shame? Every time Tybalt Weymouth slept over. While he’d never been invited to the Celestial Sanctuary it was the stuff of myth, a palace hidden inside a mountain befitting the magical royalty that tread its halls, and he was very much aware of how his very messy bedroom; with tarot cards, underwear, and various drugs/alcohol scattered around it, didn’t really stack up next to “living castle”. He’d been awoken by the sensation of Tybalt sliding out of his bed and rolled over, hand automatically going to the deck of worn cards on the windowsill, drawing a single one out and looking at it. He’d thought it subsonic, but apparently his mewl of discontent at being confronted with the High Priestess reversed had caught Tybalt’s ear. 

“Not good?” 

He turned just in time to see Tybalt slide the t-shirt he’d been wearing off, revealing a broad landscape of back muscles Luca hadn’t even known you could get that toned, and he lived with a professional athlete. Words escaped him for a moment as he felt himself flush and he was suddenly glad he still had the worn quilt that was on his bed covering himself from the stomach down. On a very fundamental level Luca knew he was hot as fuck. His customers told him that, random people on the street told him that, and he told himself that on a daily basis. But he knew for all his tattooed and muscular sex appeal he didn’t hold a candle to his… whatever the fuck Tybalt was. He found the words a suddenly-half-naked Ty had stripped away from him and delivered them with what he hoped was a characteristic level of disinterest. 

“Just being yelled at by the Universe for being a bad person. So, you know. Nothing new. Or as you might say.” His voice took on a dramatically affected American accent, “Nothin’ new.” 

Ty flipped him off as he slid a collared shirt on, tugging a pair of jeans over muscular legs that Luca was now having a hazy memory of commenting on. 

“Did I tell you I wanted to wear your legs like a feather boa last night?” 

“You did. Right before I rendered you speechless for awhile.” 

Luca gave a little shiver as he looked at the upside down woman giving him a death glare from a small rectangle of cardstock. “I remember. Big fan of that, Weymouth. Big fan.” He could hear the wispy voice of Professor Trelawney in his head as he looked at the High Priestess. She means to tell you you’re not listening to your inner voice Lucas. She never had gotten his name right, When she’s reversed it’s a call to stop and breath and turn inward. What is your mind telling you, your heart telling you, that you’re trying to block out?

He slid the card back into the deck and looked up to see Ty looking down at the sweat-stained t-shirt in his hand, Trelawney still echoing in his head, “Uh I took a bunch of shit to the thrift shop the other day so there’s like… an empty drawer in the dresser if you don’t wanna like bring that to work with you or something.” It violated a pretty fundamental if unspoken tenet in their relationship; impermanence. They had existed in a neutral detente for months, a cycle of ghosting and late night hookups that they had staunchly refused to tie any sort of label too. Tybalt was well aware of what Luca did for work, and while it hadn’t come up in any sort of serious conversation Luca couldn’t image the Weymouth scion settling down in any capacity with a whore. 

The look he received was inscrutable and Luca was reminded that he was looking at a man who had been a hair's breadth away from being called Lord. “You just happen to have an empty drawer? I know how Ava shops for you, Santos. I find that hard to believe. I’ll just shove it in my bag and wash it at home tonight. Thanks though.” 

Propping himself up on one elbow to watch Tybalt put the shirt in his bag he could see the edge of the High Priestess poking out of the desk, one disapproving eye pinning him to his pillows. You have to listen, Lucas. You listen to the forces of the world very well, nobody in this class can read the cards like you can, but even you need the reminder to listen to yourself. Sometimes the most important messages don’t come from the deck, but from within. 

Ty had one hand on the doorknob, and Luca could already hear the knob turning and the hinges creaking when it finally burst out of him, far louder than he had anticipated, loud enough where Dash was sure to bring it up later, but bursting out all at once like a ruptured dam. 

“I fucking love you!” 

The doorknob stopped in its rotation but Tybalt’s back remained turned, though, if Luca was reading posture correctly, slightly more rigid than it had been previously. There was no response, no indication other than the cessation of movement that Tybalt had heard him at all and Luca swept his legs out of the bed, planting them on cold hardwood and keeping the quilt over his lap.

“I… I love you, okay? I know. I know this breaks all the rules we never talked about but we both know are there but I love you. When I wake up and you’re not here it’s a shitty morning and when I lay down and I’m alone, or really even when I’m not alone but it’s not you I don’t sleep for shit. I know. I know what we are. I know what this is. What this isn’t. But… I fucking love you. Leave the fucking shirt. Leave a bunch of shirts. Leave shirts and boxers and sweatpants and a toothbrush in a stupid cup by the sink and the smell of you on my blankets and the heat of you on my pillows. Just…. Leave something.” 

From behind him he could swear he heard the gentlest of laughter and the whisper of card against card as she slid back inside the deck but he was too focused on the stationary man in front of him to check to see. Ty’s hand drifted from the doorknob to his pocket and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the door and breathing a quiet chuckle, “Is it part of your inherent divinatory magic where you just know exactly what’s going to throw me for a loop? I know you’re a gifted seer. Does this come with it?” 

Now it was Luca’s turn to stay silent, head low staring at the floor between his feet. He could tell whatever the outcome this was a turning point for them. Either Tybalt was going to walk out the door for the last time or something bigger was going to happen between them, but whatever forces sometimes gave him a glimpse of a possible future were criminally silent in the moment. It wasn’t until he saw a pair of shoes step between his bare feet and felt a finger tilting his chin up that he felt the blush of hope in his heart. 

“I love you too, Luca.” 

He watched as Tybalt knelt so they were at eye level, leaning forward to brush a gentle kiss to Luca’s trembling lips, “Breathe. I can hear your heartbeat from here. I’ll leave the shirt. I’ll leave the shirt and the toothbrush and the me. I didn’t know you could say that many words in a row… but I love you too. Fuck the rules. You know how I feel about rules. What rules did to my brother, to me, to our fathers. I don’t give a single fuck what rules we had between us. We’ll write new ones. But the first one is this…” The kiss deepened and they both stood, Luca leaning into the feeling of Tybalt. 

“We’re going to start saying stuff out loud. I fucking love you, you dumbass. I just can’t believe you said it first.” 

[theaetherhealerffxiv]

An Ascians Memories

A FFXIV fanfiction - One shot

Pairing: Wol/wod x Emet-Selch

Rated: PG-17 [for safety]

WoL/Wod is NB with female leaning [you/yours/etc]

Word Count: 2107

Summary: Emet is reminiscing about past lives of yours.

He watched you from afar, scurrying to and fro. Doing this and that for the citizens of the Crystarium. You had been ordered to rest by your companions, ‘Fighting Fit” was just a phrase he had used to describe you. He could clearly see the fractures in your beautiful soul. It pained him more than anything in the various shards. Your soul burned brighter after every cataclysm that they had caused, more whole than the other pale souls next to you. Beautiful and glowing, your light continually washed over him when he stood in your presence. Making him wish more and more to steal you away from your fate as a hero. To dote upon you to hold you close and hide you away from both Zodiark and the dreaded Hydalen. No more fighting, no more pain; no more fractures upon your soul. 

Emet-selch shifted as you ran under his hiding spot to another person. Sweat clear upon your brow when usually there would be none. He squinted, his heart aching, the final act was drawing close. What he would wish to pull you into his arms and kiss you - rejoining be damned.

Pain shot from the back of his skull as he thought those words, shifting he rubbed it. 

“And what if it comes into fruition! What if you bring about the grand rejoining and my soul is no more? That you cannot bring it back! Or that you sacrifice it?!” 

“I will not. Zodiark will bring them back, we just have to create an appropriate sacrifice.” 

Groaning he pressed his head against the cool stone of the building. That's right, everything will be right if he follows the original plan. Even your fractured soul will be healed, he had to believe in it otherwise everything would come crumbling down. His very soul would be overwhelmed if he did not believe. With the pain throbbing in his head he gazed back down at you, bent over in an alleyway trying to catch your breath. Emet knew he could easily port down there, wrap his arms around you and whisk you back away to his room. To force you to rest until you had gained back some semblance of your strength. But he knew it was futile, the plan was falling into place and he must play his part. And he knew his part had nothing to do with holding you close.

Leaning his head back he closed his eyes. There was a time of course that he would have done just that; forget his plan, forget the countless eyes upon him, he would steal away into your chambers for a passionate kiss. For a night of pressing his body to yours, of whispered promises and hopes. It had perhaps only been about one hundred years since the last time that the two of you had been together in such an embrace. He had possessed a child; grown and lived a life of a human. The life of Solus zos Glavus. A smile stretched across his face as he remembered.

Meeting you in the military academy, your eyes bright, your soul even brighter. Instantly he had assigned you as his personal guard. It of course had been the first lifetime in many years that he had been in a position of power while you had not. Why in the Allagan empire you had been his empress, and even later a fellow lord which he threw himself upon in times of trouble. Your arms had ever been accepting; but that lifetime as Solus had been truly special. Duty bound him, and duty bound you, but it never stopped you from sneaking him out of the castle at his request to have a picnic in the hills. To stay by his side during a battle and easily strike down anyone that had gotten close to him. You, instead of he, had set about the courting process. Emet-selch had founding amusing at first, but then found that he loved it. He loved being in your arms after a long day, your soft whispers in his ear telling him it was alright. That he could not please everyone, that even his family had no right to question his methods. You had been devoted to him, to the point that if it were not for status he would have wed you right away. No, instead his family wed him to a woman of pedigree, whom he had bed with disdain. After the act he would always steal away to the room that the two of you shared. Emet had even gone as far as to name you his consort. The people did not care; it was not as if the two of you could have children.

No, in that lifetime you had been male after all. The people found it romantic, you would not be mentioned in any history books as the royalty and lords did not like you, but the commoners would remember your heroic tales. 

In fact, thinking of such things reminded him of one specific memory…

------

It was a battlefield; together the two of you where in the Emperor's tent, and Solus was tending to your wounds.

“Such a foolish act, what if you had been killed Gyrus?” The Emporer chided you as you laughed, wincing as the man pull tight a bandage on your back. 

“But I am fine my love!” You teased leaning back to peck him on the cheek. For a Garlean you always found the emperor to be comically small. He scoffed and slapped your wound, causing you to cry out, then devolve into a chuckle. Watching him pout as he washed his bloodied hands in a bowl of fresh water. “Solus,” You murmured as you watched his shoulders slump. “Solus I am fine, my dear Emperor, please I beg of you turn to face me.” Standing you suppressed a gasp of pain that shot through your shoulder; you had thrown yourself in a way of an assassin that had snuck behind your battlements. You had of course been prepared for such an attack by the enemy. Regardless of what you had not anticipated was that they had company. Reaching out you wrapped your arms around Solus, who leaned back into your embrace with comfortable ease.

“Gyrus you fool.” He grumbled in your arms. Was he, crying? You frowned and pushed back his greying hair. No, his golden eyes stared at you with frustrated intensity. Leaning down you pressed a kiss against his third eye. The Emperor shivered and twisted in your grasp until he could plant a firm kiss upon your lips. Sighing you leaned back and pressed your forehead against his. Your third eyes gently rubbing against each other. 

“A fool for you,” You teased, your voice breathy. Another stolen kiss; your bodies pressed up against one another in unfulfilled passion. 

Suddenly a cough came from the entrance of the tent. Solus pulled back from you reluctantly and called out to them. It was a messenger to tell the two of them of the battle ahead of them…

----

A bird landing next to Emet shocked him out of his memories, then he heard someone call his name; there was only one person that would actively call out to him. Turning he expected your face, instead he found one of the twins, the female. He frowned, but teleported from his resting place to an area in front of her. He glared down at her. “Yes?” He asked folding his arms before him as the young girl clenched her fists as she stared at him. The Ascian knew what she wanted to ask; her face showed it. Turning away he frowned. “If I knew how to properly deal with that overwhelming amount of Light I would have told you all already.” He waved his hand at her, answering Alisaes question before she even had a chance to ask. Tears brimmed in her eyes before she turned on her heel without a second word and stormed off. He couldn't help but frown at her retreating figure, when had she been told about your condition? He had thought that the woman Y’sthola was trying to keep it a secret from them. When she vanished from his view he turned away raising his hand to his chest he gazed down at the floor. His chest burned; regret. Emet-selch knew a few tricks to mitigate the light, but that girl knew he would not share them. He also knew he could not aid them in such a way. Clenching the cloth at his breast he felt a torrent of emotional pain; tears threatening to form in his eyes. 

You had been Gyrus just a mere one hundred years ago, before that? Ellana, and even further than that Inomina - he could name every single one of your reincarnations. Each one special in his heart. But Emet cast his mind further back even still, back to when your true home had still stood. Before the final days. When the two of you walked the pale streets, studied various methods of creations… had weaved your magics together to create life. Pulling himself back into the darkness he found himself once again perched high up in the buildings. Even though he fought back tears he found himself blushing at the memory. Your magics had been strong, but even though you two had always tried to weave new creations you always fell in each others arms. 

Every lifetime he thought. In every lifetime the two of you had easily fallen into each other's arms. Passionate kisses, touches, and bodies often pressed against one another. Instead, in this lifetime, perhaps the final one you two stayed away from each other. Perhaps, he thought, it was best this way. 

Best for you not to become attached to him. For him to be the tag along, the plus one to your merry band of Scions. Sure, you two had stolen kisses and touches from each other in this lifetime. But compared to the others it was minor. You would not be too affected when the time came. If he won, he would cradle your body until you passed into the final Lightwarden. In fact he would stay with you until the moment this shard was no more. Perhaps even then he would find a way to steal your soul and hold onto it until he could find a way to make you reincarnate. But, if you won he would perhaps ask you to kiss him one last time. Perhaps he would touch your face as his body disappeared. 

Wincing once more at the pain in the back of his skull he sighed. He could not lose of course, for the sake of the thousands of dead. He could not have the fleeting whimsy of wanting to love you when his goal was so close. Emet knew he would have to succeed if he wanted to bring you back. He had too. Gazing down he found that you were gazing up at him, sweat clinging to your beautiful face. Emet sat up quickly as he noted that there were more fractures in your soul. Your eyes strained with pain and without a second thought he willed himself from his seat to before you. 

You smiled weakly as he appeared in a cloud of darkness before you. His face surprisingly wild, his golden eyes searching yours. “Ah, I saw you up there and was wondering if you wanted to go get something to eat?” You asked. Sure, the deal with the Greatwood warden had hurt you more than you had wished to admit. Everyone was starting to see that it was affecting you, but true to your word you did not want them to worry. Your smile vanished as you felt his arms grab you and pull you into him. His hands digging into your clothing. You raised your hands to hug him back. “Emet, what is wrong?”

“Nothing hero.” He responded quickly pulling away and producing a handkerchief from his pocket. Gently dabbing away the sweat on your brow. “Do you have a place in mind you wish to try?” Emet asked sticking the damp handkerchief back in his pocket. 

“Oh yes!” You exclaimed with forced energy. Throwing your arm around his you pulled it close to your chest and grinned. “There is this place up the way that sells delightful sandwiches. I wanted to and the little Oracle but they already ran off somewhere!” Pouting you tugged his arm. He sighed dramatically and allowed you to pull him along.

Perhaps, The Ascian thought. Just a little longer…

[birdnormal]

eggman - a member of a clan of egg-men

so inspired by a few posts on somethingawful, i fed a few one-sentence summaries of, like, basic D&D classes into talktotransformer and let it generate me new classes or alternate versions of old ones

and then i started feeding its own input to itself

things got Fun

here’s..... a bunch of ones i liked

Bard -  Lights and voices of reason, song and sound. 

Clairvoyant -  Seemingly on the other side of the veil, a creature with psychic powers, a knowledge of the past, and of the future. 

Horse Archer - Able to mount mounts as heavy as any champion. 

Bard - The spiritual masters of all living beings.

Pagan - Those born between the stars, and those able to harness divine energy to overcome demons or the darkness of the dead. 

Rioters - A force of unspeakables capable of wreaking havoc throughout the world. Sage - One who can help make the world a better place. 

Warlock - The true god's guardian. 

Thief - One with access to the deepest secret. 

Magician - The best of luck in all matters of fortune; the instrument of the gods. 

Druid - The protector of life and balance and the protector/assassin of foes. 

Scion - A creature who has fallen from grace. 

Paladin - A faithful servant of the gods and goddesses who fights evil by means that can only ever bring harm. 

Keeper of Silence - A guardian of the holy temple. 

Mage - In the service of the sun or as an extension of one of its energies, the world. 

Nexus - You were just born, but you will become a legend. 

Priest / Cleric - Clerics and priestesses of the Lord of Lies. 

Jock - An expert at sports, or an athlete that excels at all the same sports. 

Punisher - An old world warrior born with a passion for vengeance and death. 

Warlock - A mighty warrior who stands for the right or wrong (the truth is always up for debate). 

Humanoid - A human with the will to harm others. 

Alchemist - A true alchemist has no control over the volatile products of his creations or the raw energies of a plant life, but he is the only one capable of creating potions.

Bard -  Those born without musical talent, who are often misunderstood by others. 

Inventor - That is, those who create magic items that were previously unknown to mankind. 

Sneak - Sneak attackers, who use subtle skill at hiding their presence.

Horde - Aspiring rulers and nobles who would see humanity rise to greatness through a war of righteous will and virtue. 

Soldier - Soldiers, Rangers, Rangers-Horsemen, & Waaagh!! 

Duelist - Fighters with magic swords fighting alongside the champions they fight for. 

Oracle - All are capable of divining mysteries. 

Death Knight - Someone whose death represents a rebirth for all who come before. 

Thief - A skilled thief who must use trickery and deception to survive long enough to steal from the rich and powerful. 

Ninja - Thieves who take things personally and do their own dirty work. 

Undead - Power to kill, and a desire to die. 

Demon Hunter - Those that believe they can break the laws of reality. Baroness - This is a powerful individual, but she prefers to keep secrets and live a quiet life. She is a master of the art. Or is it? 

Chimer - People who live a life of magic and intrigue, with the intent of transforming it into something great.

Champion - A man or woman that has survived by killing a demon for all eternity.

Rogue - A rogue, that is the ultimate enemy of reality itself.

Voidheart - An ancient deity of the planes. He is so great that all people fear him and cannot leave him to live out his life. A unique character. 

Spirit - One who has lived in the planes for centuries and knows nothing of the planes. 

Undead - They are bound to the planes, and they fear the darkness and are the embodiment of the dark. They have no form and can't move. 

Purgator - A spirit of the occult who can control and manipulate objects, objects of energy, and even spirits. Shadow Dancer - An arcane dancer who prefers the shadows, and often travels to other planes. 

Oasis Master - A master of everything from astronomy to the science of time travel. 

Revenant - A guardian spirit who follows your dreams. 

Scribe - In exchange for power and power over living beings, scribes specialize in creating magical items. 

Darkfriend - The ancient race of warriors whose magic has made them invulnerable to the slightest damage.

Fighter - A skilled warrior who has lost what used to be his life.

Alfred the Reaper - The lord of the black arts, a great necromancer.

Mountain Spirit - A restless spirit who can only be seen at night.

Altar Cleric - A devout worshiper of the goddess of chaos and fire.

Mesmer - A gifted mover and shaker of life and death, who can cause a powerful sonic assault on impact to any creature.

Nymph - A nymph who can manifest fantastic illusions, or conjure herself into the form of a living creature and move silently and serenely in the night.

The Unshackled - A class that seeks to turn the darkness on her companions into light.

Magus - A divine seer who believes that magic can heal all, though she often does more harm than good.

Flametongue Spider - Spider-dwellers who seek out and feed on the screams of other creatures.

Gorebringer - A dark-powered melee fighter who wields ancient weapons.

Courier - A courier who is known for his efficiency and efficient deliveries.

Eggman - A member of a clan of egg-men who are considered the most fierce warriors in all of the lands. 

Femme Fatale - A noblewoman who lives like royalty, and never takes part in battles. 

Pale Rider - Riding an ostrich, the pale rider follows other people's directions.

Thief Wizard - A skillful thief who can steal from enemies and steal a soul.

Eldritch Abomination - This is the worst creature you've ever seen. These people are just as bad as it gets! 

Shardsmith - You create your own weapons from scribed shards and other natural resources to enhance your own abilities at the cost of strength, endurance, and the use of your hands. 

Ruthless - A woman who will not stop when threatened. 

Aquatic Healer - A healer who specializes in healing aquatic creatures. 

Berserk - A barbarian with powers of mind bending. 

Arcanist - A scholar who can perform complex math spells while channeling their powers. 

Ranger - A ranger with the ability to fly. 

Barbarian - Not much to say, barbarian isn't for everyone. 

Swashbuckler - A brave warrior, skilled in swashbuckling, or a swashbuckler who lives for the thrill of the chase. 

Unflinching - A woman who takes care of her own without giving anything away. 

Pleasant - A man who can survive in difficult circumstances. 

Follower - A person who is able to take advantage of others, knowing when not to step out of bounds. 

Fool - A simpleton who has bad judgement or doesn't know what to believe.

Unholy - A monk who worships the devourer deity to serve the Order of the Silver Shadow. 

Lunar Scion - An elementalist who can harness the life force of planets to enhance her abilities. 

Celestial Slayer - A disciple of Celestia who studies the occult. 

Lighter - A spellcaster with the ability to light things at will. 

Dweller - A scholar that uses the written word or electronic devices to communicate with others. 

Frightened - A barbarian whose mind and senses are impaired by sheer terror. 

Shard Trader - A merchant who specializes in the craft of using forged and crafted shards to craft better-than-perfect weapons. 

Champion - A powerful master of the arcane but unwilling to face their enemies or live with them. 

Loyal - A loyal servant who holds no grudge for those who failed him in combat. 

Parry Specialist - A skilled pryer who can use her bare hands to manipulate the minds of others. 

Dwarf - A dwarf who has mastered nature but finds many things about his home lands difficult or impossible to navigate. 

Asteroid Hunter - A pirate who's obsessed with finding the lost treasures of the outer star system, while also trying to avoid the attentions of other pirate captains. 

Shapeshifter - A shifter who wants nothing more than to get to the center of reality, and who enjoys manipulating others and using this as an avenue for [cut off] 

Barrister - A petty lawyer or clerk, who is best known for his wit and chisel. 

Insect Fighter - A fighter that likes to live underground, fighting other insectoids on the hunt for food.

Gifted - A barbarian with supernatural powers. Sometimes, such as on his birthday, he comes up with unique recipes for weapons and armor.

and one i got by prompting it with the name of the class:

Clown - A clown that looks like a bear that uses his clown costume to sneak up on targets, while wearing gloves and a bear mask.

[anothergracekellyblog]

“MINIATURE MONACO” | National Geographic, April 1963

Article and photographs by Gilbert M. and Donna Kerkam Grosvenor

Portrait of THS Prince Rainier and Princess Grace by Bates Littlehales

SOURCE: My scans @ Google Photos | *Full issue* | *Article only*

SOURCE: Bates Littlehales at Getty Images

SOURCE: Gilbert M. Grosvenor at Getty Images

MINIATURE MONACO

All winter long my wife Donna and I had thought about visiting Monaco. We would swim in the blue Mediterranean, bask in Europe's finest climate, royalty in glamorous Monte Carlo, and savor life in one of the world's smallest and strangest countries.

Besides, Monaco was making news by arguing with its powerful neighbor, France, 368,125 times its size. After seven centuries of self-rule, this toy Riviera principality was teetering on the edge of political disaster

By treaty, Monaco agreed to conform with French political, military, and economic interests. Now France wanted Monaco to impose taxes on businesses based in the principality. If foreign as well as French firms were to be taxed, carefree little country, with its air of musical-comedy charm, might never be the same again.

22,000 Residents, 2,000,000 Visitors a Year

Coming by car from Italy, we first sighted Monaco from one of the world's most beautiful mountain drives, La Grande Corniche. From our high vantage point we beheld the entire principality, cupped between the foothills of the French Alps and the sea.

We could take it all in at a single glance, for 370-acre Monaco is less than half the size of Central Park in New York City. It reaches only three miles along the Mediterranean shore and 200 to 1,200 yards inland.

Monaco’s permanent population consists of 3,400 native Monegasques and 18,600 foreigners with residential privileges. Yet to this tiny principality, pressed on three sides by France, come two million pleasure-seeking visitors each year.

Directly below us spread Monte Carlo, most famous of Monaco's three districts. The huge baroque casino stood out among pastel-hued hotels and apartment houses crowded against the sea.

Fronting the pocket-size harbor lies Monaco’s next district, La Condamine, a residential and business section. Here international firms operate happily, sheltered by Monaco's liberal tax laws, and wealthy or retired people clip their coupons with never a worry about Monegasque income tax.

Beyond the square stone-jettied harbor, atop a headland, sits the third district and capital, Monaco-Ville - the Rock - crowned by the fortress palace of Prince Rainier III. Monaco's renowned Oceanographic Museum, a temple of the sea, is built into the Rock's sheer cliff.

Farthest west lies Fontvieille, an industrial section, not an official district. It turns out such varied products as pharmaceuticals, plastics, tobacco, precision instruments, ceramics, glass, and cosmetics.

Conqueror Comes in Friar's Garb

Donna pointed to the Rock. "That's where it all started," she said, “Do you remember the story of how the early Grimaldis took that fortress in the 13th century?"

It was quite a coup. On a night in 1297, drowsy soldiers inside the fortress on the Rock were shaken awake by a knock on the gate and a friar's plea for a night's lodging. Once admitted, the intruder drew a sword and slew the guards. He hailed companions, and they captured the Rock. The bold adventurer was François (the Spiteful) Grimaldi, scion of aristocratic seafarers from Genoa.

Now, more than six and a half centuries later, a Grimaldi, Prince Rainier III, still ruled the Rock and the principality lying below us.

Like a giant amphitheater facing the sea, Monaco's crowded, sun-splashed buildings rose above the harbor, a stage where luxurious yachts rode side by side.

The magnetism of the setting reached out to us. We descended to the sea.

The glistening yachts, like competing starlets, vied for top billing. Multicolored standards waving from their sterns reminded me of the parade of flags fronting the United Nations headquarters in New York. Donna counted the flags of 12 nations.

On board, professional crews polished brass or varnished brightwork. Although hailing from scattered ports, the crews sported identical blue-denim trousers and white T-shirts their yacht's name emblazoned in blue across the front. The uniform, I learned later, is adopted by virtually all boats visiting Monte Carlo.

At the quay’s end I looked up and across to the Rock and Monaco-Ville clinging to it. Atop the palace flagstaff fluttered a white standard bearing the crest of Grimaldi. It signified the Prince was in residence.

It seemed incredible to me that one family could control the principality so long. How could the Grimaldis hold off the Spanish, the Genoese, Venetians, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and survive two World Wars?

Donna had a theory that seemed likely: The Grimaldis had cleverly kept pace with their times; they never let tradition interfere with progress.

In the 14th century, the wealthy Grimaldis ruled the waters off Monaco and increased their fortunes by levying a droit de mer, or sea tribute, on all goods carried by vessels passing within sight of the Rock.

For the next three centuries, even though outgunned by larger fleets, the Grimaldis held on to their tiny fief by negotiating protective treaties with both France and Spain, and by marrying their offspring into the wealthy and influential families of Europe.

In the 1860's when Monaco's treasury ran low, Prince Charles III - Prince Rainier's ancestor - sold the rights to his country's struggling casino. A shrewd businessman named François Blanc (White) obtained a 50-year operating concession. He guaranteed Monaco a substantial share of profits from the casino.

François Blanc transformed the pumpkin-sized principality into a Riviera playground. Grand dukes arrived in special trains to try their luck. Monegasque fishermen beached their boats, exchanged fish for chips, and became nimble-fingered croupiers.

Blanc's casino profits ran high; the saying still lives that "whether you bet red or black, White will win." The House of Grimaldi won, too. In 1869, Prince Charles III abolished taxes in Monaco.

Albert I Founded Museum of the Sea

Science, ballet, and international conclaves were introduced to Monaco by Charles's son, Prince Albert I. He inherited the early Grimaldis' love for the sea and was fascinated by marine biology, making 30 scientific voyages. In 1910 he opened the Oceanographic Museum to exhibit his astounding collection of specimens. Jacques-Yves Cousteau, renowned undersea explorer, now directs the museum, which last year attracted more than 850,000 visitors and scientists.

Prince Albert, noting that Monaco's climate suited subtropical plants, also started the Exotic Garden. Today it ranks with the finest cactus gardens in the world.

The present Prince, Rainier III, has his ancestors' business sense as well as their flair. He has sparked a fantastic economic boom and a $200 million dollar, five-year expansion project, which includes adding 100 acres of land to Monaco. And he has given his principality a beautiful Princess, the former Grace Kelly of Philadelphia and Hollywood.

Wedding Crowds Jam Monaco

As the days passed into weeks, we explored the principality on foot. Most charming to us was the antique district of Monaco-Ville, which remains unblemished by 20th-century architecture. Its buildings run together like a jigsaw puzzle and the narrow crooked streets, forbidden to automobiles, lead to secluded garden restaurants crammed into small courtyards.

In stark contrast is Monaco-Ville's main square, which bursts with tourist buses and foreign-licensed autos. A good part of the palace's 100-man, whistle-blowing guard - the carabiniers - struggle frantically in the square for control.

At a sidewalk cafe I asked the proprietor what caused the tremendous crowds that day.

"The big wedding,' he replied simply.

"What wedding?" Donna inquired.

"Madame, Prince Rainier's wedding, of course," he answered, annoyed.

"But that was in 1956,” I protested. 

"Quite true, and ever since we've had the crowds,” he retorted.

Not many days later, Monaco exploded with excitement. It was Grand Prix week. Europeans jammed the principality in early June for one of several Grand Prix races to determine world auto-racing supremacy.

Monaco's Grand Prix is the most famous auto race through city streets. Stands line the course. Spectators hang from apartment and hotel balconies.

"We reserve race-view rooms years in advance," a hotel manager told me.

Yachts flock to the harbor and anchor close to the breakwater. The owners are hoisted to the masthead in bosun chairs for a bird's-eye view, helicopters churn overhead; light planes circle endlessly.

At race time the loudspeaker crackles, "Ladies and gentlemen, Their Serene Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Monaco."

In his red Porsche, Prince Rainier speeds through the traditional ouverture du circuit. Beside him sits the Princess in a Kelly green dress and white turban.

The racers line up for the start. The red and white flag dips, drivers clutch out, the machines scream, shudder, then leap forward trailing streaks of burned rubber and dense exhaust clouds.

I stand atop protective hay bales at the first turn. Donna remains behind a wall near the track on the Avenue de Monte-Carlo.

Red, green, blue, and metallic blurs of machines and drivers merge into a maelstrom of color as the cars roar toward me at 60 miles an hour. Squinting through the telephoto lens, I sense a dangerous squeezing pattern forming in the heavy traffic.

Suddenly one car nudges another, triggering a chain reaction. Three entangled cars fishtail badly, practically into my lap. A viciously spinning wheel shears loose from its axle. In my rangefinder, I see it coming.

The wheel bounces, gathers momentum, and sails directly at me. Forgetting pictures, I flip backward, cameras flying, and hit the pavement flat out.

An elderly Monegasque track official, standing but three feet away, remains frozen, and the wheel plows into him like a steamroller. He is knocked unconscious. An alert Red Cross stretcher team speeds him away to Monaco Hospital. My enthusiasm for close-up pictures vanishes.

After 82 minutes the lead cars have toured 50 laps - the halfway mark. The field narrows as drivers and machines fail - the three-car crack-up, broken fuel pumps, sheared drive shafts, fractured gearboxes.

At 94 laps a New Zealander, Bruce McLaren, leads the Ferrari team's Phil Hill, an American, by 30 seconds; at 98 laps the lead narrows to 12 seconds; the checkered flag drops as McLaren finishes a scant two seconds ahead of Hill, 1961 world champion.

High Fashions Bring High Prices

After Le Grand Prix, the Monte Carlo summer season shifts into high gear. The small, fashionable dress shops display the newest creations from Paris, Milan, and Rome. Leotard-like outfits of stretch silk by Pucci, the rage of the Riviera, sell for S100 and up, and matching silk shoes and purse for another $50. Antique shops are willing to sacrifice authentic Louis XIV chairs for only a few thousand dollars each.

Monte Carlo's hotels begin to fill up. Of them all, only the Hotel de Paris is really plush. Moreover, it is really expensive - three-room suites can cost $120 a day.

As one Monegasque put it, "If the Hotel de Paris were cheaper, the status seekers would avoid it."

At our hotel, the furniture was only almost antique. Our bathroom was twice the size of our bedroom, and wooden steps led up to the tub - four feet above the concrete floor.

One morning I ordered orange juice for breakfast, and the incident provided an amusing sidelight on Monegasque hotel thinking. The menu listed the beverage for sixty cents, and so when the bill exceeded three dollars, I inquired about this small mistake.

The manager apologized profusely and telephoned the chef. After a lengthy conversation, he reported, "No mistake, monsieur. The oranges were very small today. It took more than usual to fill your glass."

We were learning how Monaco keeps its economy in the black. Tourists and the commerce they generate provide some 40 percent of the Monegasque income.

Anything bought in Monaco carries a sales tax of about 3 percent. All services - hotels, restaurants, entertainment - are taxed 9 percent. The principality also runs a tobacco monopoly and operates highly profitable radio and television stations, among the most powerful in Europe.

In 1885 Monaco issued its first stamp, and unwittingly struck another rich vein of national revenue. No one could have predicted the 20th-century popularity of philately, or that Monaco's stamps would eventually contribute 8 percent of its budget.

Strangely, while it is still Monte Carlo with its casino and glamorous life that draws visitors, gambling profits now bring in only about half as much as Monaco's stamps.

Home of 600 "Presidents”

So successful is this Monegasque economy that the country levies no personal income tax and no property tax; corporate taxes are modest. Yet it is probably the only country left in the world with no national debt.

This economic lure has helped spark the prosperity. Foreign firms need pay only a moderate fee to incorporate in Monaco, but their activities must be real. Holding companies and letter-drop corporations are not allowed.

Monaco presently has 600 corporations. Directeurs (presidents) outnumber croupiers - although the croupiers' tips alone exceed the average annual 'fee' of 10,000 French francs ($2,046) paid the directeurs.

Ironically, Monaco's very success had threatened to bring about her downfall. Her tax inducements figured in the rift between President de Gaulle of France and Prince Rainier.

Paris argued that it was unfair for French businessmen to incorporate in Monaco and thus avoid paying taxes to France.

However, Monegasques countered that France must approve all applications from both French and foreign firms desiring to transfer their activities to Monaco. If France did not wish her citizens to set up business there, she could deny them incorporation.

"Surely, the true source of the French-Monegasque dispute must be obscured,” a Monegasque told me. “Taxation would help France so little, but hurt Monaco so much."

An Italian businessman put it more bluntly: "If the French clamp down, I'll move my offices to Geneva within the month."

We were eager to interview Prince Rainier about his plans, as well as to photograph the princely family. Finally, approval came from Georges Lukomski, palace photographer and assistant press attaché.

Arriving early, we asked Georges to show us around the Palace of Monaco. We started in the inner courtyard which separates the offices, formal reception rooms, and visiting royalty suites from the private living quarters.

"We'll take the back way; it's quicker," Georges announced as we mounted a dark, musty stairway - little changed since the 15th century.

The ornate rooms we passed through were predictably antique, richly leafed in gold and dressed in velvets. Although George Washington never slept there, Georges assured us that numerous popes, cardinals, emperors, and kings had.

Through the labyrinth of halls and stairways, we twisted, glimpsing paintings and relics of the early Grimaldis. Back on the ground floor, we passed what appeared to be a naval torpedo with a seat and controls to guide it.

"That's the Prince's skin-diving submarine,” Georges said casually. "He uses it sometimes when he collects specimens for the Oceanographic Museum.”

We emerged into a sunlit garden where children's swings and sandboxes shared space with the flowers, balls, tricycles, and toy trucks lined the gravel path. An inflated swan, plastic raft, and two tiny paddles drifted in a blue-tiled swimming pool.

Prince Rainier and Princess Grace entered the garden, Prince Albert, then four, and Princess Caroline, five, skipped behind them.

They were so informal that Donna momentarily forgot her much-practiced curtsy.

"Welcome to Monaco," the Prince said.

The fresh, natural beauty of the Princess surpassed her familiar photographic image. But it was the Prince who surprised me. His portraits fail to express fully his youthful exuberance and dynamic personality.

"Does your GEOGRAPHIC article include all the Riviera?" Princess Grace inquired.

"No, your Highness," I replied. "We're photographing only the Principality of Monaco."

"That's wonderful!” the Prince exclaimed in flawless English. He studied in British schools and served as a French liaison officer with a Texas division in World War II.

"I trust you're interested in seeing more than just the casino," the Prince commented.

"We're exploring all the principality this summer," I assured him, "even the blueprints for land expansion."

The Prince lit up. "Good. Then you know of the new land we're gaining both from the railroad and from the sea.”

"Next time you visit Monaco,” he said, "the trains will run underground - not along the waterfront as they do today." (I could vouch for the latter: Our hotel room overlooked not only the harbor but the more than 50 trains a day that rumbled through the principality.)

"You know, don't you," the Prince asked, "that we're using the rock from the rail tunnel to create new land along the shore? We badly need the new industrial sites in Fontvieille and space for new hotels, offices, and apartments in Monte Carlo."

Although the Prince did not mention it, Monaco's growing acres come from an additional source: French soil bought as earth-fill from the owners of nearby hillsides.

"Don't forget to visit our industries in Fontvieille," the Prince said, bidding us farewell.

Welcome to a Woman's Kingdom

So, next day, Donna and I called on the flourishing Lancaster Beauty Products factory. It further emphasized the puzzling relationship between France and Monaco.

Monsieur Georges Würz, the owner, welcomed us into his "woman's kingdom".

"Our lipsticks, facial creams, and extracts for problem skin are sold mostly to the Common Market countries," he told us. "In order to meet the demand for our products, we employ workers from the French towns of Beausoleil and Menton."

"And what would happen if France blocks her roads leading into Monaco?" I asked, recalling newspaper speculation.

"The workers would be jobless, and I would be bankrupt," M. Würz replied.

He opened a door, stepped across the threshold, and announced, "I am now in France. The frontier divides my factory. Under French law I can only store goods here; but where you stand, in Monaco, I produce our produits de beauté!"

This brought to mind the Monte Carlo apartment building where tenants in the front reside in Monaco and pay no taxes, while those in back live in France-among them a French tax collector.

The noon whistle blew, and people scurried from their offices. We left the factory to join throngs headed beachward for a two-hour lunch in the sun.

At the popular Calypso restaurant, on the water, we sat amid bikini-clad patrons who ate pizza and salade niçoise or did the twist to a blaring jukebox.

It was here we observed a most remarkable feat of legerdemain, which revealed, among other things, why Monegasque working girls carry bulky handbags. Each bag contains at least a lunch, beach towel, bathing cap, and bikini. Magician-like, out in the open, the girls shed dresses and underclothes and skillfully don bikinis with a minimum loss of motion or modesty. The execution was brilliant, if devious.

Donna confessed that her admiration failed to spark the necessary courage for emulation. "This is no place for a novice," she said.

Syndicate Controls the Casino

We left until last a visit to the casino that brought reigning royalty to Monaco for a century, We had already been briefed by Monsieur A. G. Bernard, the casino's public relations manager.

While few non-Monegasques know this clever, philosophical gentleman, everyone knows the syndicate he represents: Société des Bains de Mer et du Cercle des Etrangers de Monaco – the Monaco Sea Bathing Society and Foreigners Club.

SBM controls the Casino of Monte Carlo, the Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo Beach, the high-stakes Casino d'Eté, modern bowling alleys, and even a jet-helicopter passenger service. A fabulously wealthy Greek shipowner, Aristotle Socrates Onassis, is a large stockholder in SBM. He lives aboard his luxurious Monaco-based yacht, the Christina.

As the short, wiry M. Bernard ushered us into his office, I immediately asked, "How can I expect to win at your casino?"

"Ah! Winning depends upon how you play," he responded. "But winning is not really the primary motivation of our patrons. For some, it is relaxation or release from worry or loneliness; for the system players, it is a study in mathematics; for the tourists, the casino is a novelty; and for a few, gambling is a disease, as destructive as any on medical record."

I asked permission to photograph the casino.

"This is possible, but only if you bring your own models, We must respect the privacy of our patrons who may wish to remain without names or faces - you understand?"

With that, he handed me a pass, "To eliminate temptation for madame, I have issued you a joint card for the casino, monsieur." He smiled, "She cannot go without you."

"That's fine,' I said, “but you still haven't told me how I should play to win."

"Ah, yes, there is one foolproof way," M. Bernard began. "You pass through the salons ordinaires into the salons privés. Select a heavy bettor, station yourself behind his chair, keep your hands in your pockets... ," he paused ever so slightly, "and watch. If you gamble in this way, you will always win."

With that advice, we entered another world, another era. Nothing had been spared in creating this dazzling monument to French baroque architecture and design. Gold-faced moldings, pastel frescoes, and muraled ceilings arc interrupted only by crystals dripping from huge chandeliers suspended above the array of green-felt tables.

We followed M. Bernard's instructions and walked through the salons ordinaires. The attendant bowed as we stepped from wooden floors onto plush, piled carpet and into the hushed salons privés. These are private only in that an extra payment is required, and guests must be properly attired for the privilege of wagering higher stakes.

Voices intermingled with the crisp clicking of chips, the metallic tick of spinning balls in roulette wheels, and the tinkle of the jewel-encrusted wrists reaching to place bets.

At the center table, a small group gathered around a tall, slender Italian, his deep suntan accentuating graying sideburns. Only his eyes hinted of nervousness as he tossed out four-thousand-dollar plaques. In fifteen minutes he won 125,000 francs, more than $25,000. Then he turned and scooped up his winnings. Dropping a $100 tip on the table for the croupiers, he strode briskly away.

This was a night we would not soon forget. Thanks to M. Bernard's foolproof method, we had won a vicarious fortune.

Happy Land of Make-believe

We have come to know Monaco as many things. She is well ruled by one of the oldest and shrewdest dynasties in Europe. She enjoys a booming economy. Since our visit the tiny fief and France have worked out a settlement of their fraternal spat. In the future, French businessmen who settle in Monaco must pay taxes, For those who have already acquired residency, however, the favorable economic climate remains unmarred.

But Monaco emerges, ultimately, as a land of make-believe. She suits the fairy tale, even to the handsome Prince who marries the beautiful Princess and lives in a palace overlooking the sea, hopefully, happily ever after.

As long as enough people want to believe in fairy tales come true, there will always be a Monaco somewhere.

THE END

[nezzfiction]

ENMY Chapter 30 - Not Quite As Thick As Thieves

Chapter Synopsis: Emerald reveals to Yang about the Branwen Family’s place among the Noble Factions of Mistral. Meanwhile, distrust forms between the team as Emerald and Mercury have been secretly contracted to assassinate Qrow Branwen.

Series Synopsis : Team RWBY is disbanded, and Yang must find herself new allies. For her, yesterday’s enemies are today’s friends(?). Joining up with the likes of Emerald, Mercury, and Neo, the four comprise Team Enemy.

Links to read the series: Ao3 or FF.net

Or hit the jump below

Not Quite As Thick As Thieves

.

Trust among our kind

Be it ever so hard to find.

.

.

Just as Emerald revealed Yang’s birthright as one of a noble line, Team ENMY’s limousine pulled into the Vermillion mansion’s front step.

Peafowl exited the driver’s seat and went to open the passenger’s, but by the time he was there, Yang had already kicked the door open.

“Wait! So, you’re saying I’m royalty?!” she exclaimed.

“Outcast royalty, but you’ve got the gist,” Emerald answered. “If you trace it back a few generations, a Branwen was once the Head of Vermillion.”

“…So that’s why you told me specifically to bring my birth certificate when we left Patch.”

“Bingo.”

“And why I registered into Haven so easily. And how we were able to cross the borders without any problems!”

“Some of that was Raven, but sure enough.”

Yang massaged the sides of her temples, while processing this new information. As she digested, Peafowl led the team through the Vermillion’s estate. Though, it was referred to as a mansion, it would be more accurate to call it a complex of buildings.

While walking through its luxurious red marble halls, a note was passed to Peafowl by another butler.

“It seems my employer has an urgent meeting he must attend to first, and therefore, must delay your appointment. I humbly apologize on my master’s behalf, but I believe I have something to occupy your time whilst you wait.” At this, he addressed Yang and Mercury. “The parcel you requested as payment has arrived, if you would like to examine its contents.”

“Sweet!” Mercury rubbed his hands together.

Yang also seemed pleased at hearing the news.

“Parcel? What parcel?” Emerald asked.

Deeming it better to show rather than tell, Peafowl led the team to a waiting room, where a small wooden crate sat atop a polished table. Although, to his surprise, the room was not empty.

A flamboyantly dressed noble was standing beside said package. His suit possessing dashes of blue and green glitter. Heavy makeup was applied to his face. And he had a nose that protruded a touch longer than average, adding to his seemingly snobby demeanor.

“You!” he gasped.

Peafowl froze for a moment, but was hasted to regain his composure.

“Greetings, Lord Peacock,” the butler bowed. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance once again.”

“I’d heard the rumors, but that brat really picked up an urchin like you. Hmph,” the one called Peacock scoffed. His attention shifted to Yang. “And you must be the Branwen scion all the plebs have been on about.” He switched glances between Yang and Peafowl, who both shared exiled lineages. “Birds of a feather, I suppose. Things really have gone to hell. And to think, I would be delivering this package to you.”

“We are eternally grateful for—“

“Silence, worm. I am taking back the device this instant.”

“It is within your every right, but if I may, this task was requested on behalf of Azure’s Head of House, was it not? I fear for your reputation if—”

“Gngh!” Peacock grumbled. He strode straight to Peafowl, and stuck his chin out so far it was only inches away from the other’s face. “I will remember this insolence. And as for you,” he turned to Yang again. “You should also remember your place outside the affairs of your betters. Just because you and your mother have scrounged up some scraps of acclaim, does not make you one of us! You are exiles, and you will always be exiles.”

“I don’t really care about this noble stuff,” Yang said offhand. “But I am half a step from cracking you one across the face.” The fingers on Ember Celica whirred.

“How barbaric.”

With one last humph, Peacock stomped from the room.

“Nobles,” Mercury snickered through his teeth. “Always think they’re better than everybody else. Nothing but yips and empty bite when it comes down to it.”

“Rich people certainly have that way about them,” Emerald added.

“You okay, Peafowl?” Yang asked the butler.

“I am fine. Thank you for your concern, but I am quite alright.”

“Okay.” Yang gave him a soft nudge on the arm. “He wasn’t worth the blood stain on our clothes, anyhow. Now, let’s see that reactor!”

Peafowl revealed the briefest of smiles, before proceeding to open the crate sitting on the table.

From out of the box, he pulled a pair of palm-sized circular objects. Metallic and shiny, they gave off a small hum and a faint green light. It was obvious to be some sort of top of the line tech. And the way they weighed in Peafowl’s hands as he held them, left the impression they were constructed out of very special material. Whatever they were, they looked impressive—and expensive.

“So, what are they? They look expensive,” Emerald observed.

To her surprise, it was Mercury who answered.

“Old Dust Reactor prototypes, courtesy of Atlas’s R&D.”

Emerald’s eyes went wide. “These things? They’re tiny.”

“Compared to the engine we stole before, yeah. But these aren’t meant to fly airships.”

“Then, what are they for?”

“Weapons,” Mercury grinned, as he took one and flipped it through the air. “They were originally part of that doll Atlas made a while back.”

“Penny,” Yang worded sternly. “Her name was Penny.”

“Right, ‘Penny’. Anyway, me and Yang did some research and thought it would make for a good arsenal upgrade.”

Emerald could see where Mercury was coming from. He wanted to get a new edge in the fight against Qrow and Ruby’s team. The idea itself wasn’t bad. But that wasn’t what annoyed her.

“And, what? Peafowl just happened to send for one after you asked him?”

“Well, no. Me and Yang pulled a small job to pay for it.”

“You and Yang took a job?”

“…Yeah?”

“Without consulting me.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh, is there a problem?” Yang asked. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a big deal.”

But Emerald only held a hand up to her face and continued speaking to Mercury.

“Why didn’t you come to me for this?”

“Well, Yang’s the one helping me with my tuning lately, and it was her idea, so we went with it. And the job wasn’t tough enough to need all of us.”

“I could have stolen the tech. We didn’t need to rely on favors or…outside help.”

“It’s from Atlas’s highest security R&D Department. Even you couldn’t have stolen it and made it back in three days.”

Emerald crossed her arms. Her scorn drifted from Mercury to Yang.

“We’ll talk more about this later.”

“Fine. Anytime, Em,” Yang met her glare.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Peafowl answered it, and immediately went to a deep bow upon seeing who it was.

Standing there, was a young teenage boy, wearing a dark blue hakama. Accompanied by a tall woman robed in crimson garments. The two flashed a polite smile towards Team ENMY, who instantly went on guard. The reason being the ones who greeted them, and most likely summoned them here, were none other than the Interim-Head of House Azure and the Head of House Vermillion.

 .

* * *

.

The group of seven proceeded to a private corner of the estate, where more clandestine meetings were held. A one-room building lying on the edge of the garden.

Upon crossing the threshold, a pleasant smell of old wood could be detected in the air. Low-light lanterns provided them vision of the conference space.

They were about to take their seats around a long table that looked like one used for board meetings. But it was the outstretched hand of Vermillion Wing, who stopped them all from doing so.

Likewise, Neo and Peafowl also seemed to sense something amiss. Both of them positioned themselves front of Yang and Azure like bodyguards.

Vermillion eyed a vase set in the middle of the table for a moment, before glancing at Peafowl.

“I remember that vase having slightly different flowers the last time I was here. The maids may have switched them out, but to err on the side of caution, would you mind ridding us of it, Peafowl?”

“As you wish,” he answered.

For the first time, Team ENMY saw the butler use the long cloth that always draped over his arm, as it whipped out around the vase. The thick tapestry enveloped the pot and its flowers until not a sliver of it peeked out.

And just when the cloth tightened, a muffled boom caused the silhouette to expand. Smog trails emitted from it, as Peafowl carried what remained of the vase outside.

“Hm, I take back what I said. Guess not all nobles are empty words,” Mercury whispered to Emerald. “At least, she’s the real deal.”

“Being prime targets for assassinations probably toughens someone up. The other Heads of Houses probably aren’t pushovers either,” she whispered back, while keeping an eye on the young Azure.

Acting as if bombs planted in meeting chambers were business as usual, Vermillion made her casual way to the head of the table and bid everyone to take their seats. Team ENMY seated themselves on one side, while Azure took the other, shortly joined by Peafowl.

“First, I would like to express my deepest regrets concerning what happened to the Branwen family in the past,” Vermillion said to Yang. “Truly, such a thing should never have occurred. The perpetrators of the incident were found and punished over a decade ago, so you may be at ease.”

“Uh…thanks,” Yang responded awkwardly.

“With your consent, I would gladly reinstate the status of your household and welcome you once again under the Vermillion Wing.”

“Oh. That’s…nice. Ow!” Yang felt Emerald kick her under the table. “But I don’t think I’m in any position to make a decision like that. My mom should be in charge of that, right?”

“Unfortunately, Raven has elected to ignore subsequent offers of talks,” the woman sighed. “As such, the prerogative of your family falls onto you.”

“Riiiight… Well, I’d maybe want some time to think about it.”

“Is the offer displeasing?”

“No!”

“Ah. You wish for an elevated standing than it was previous. I shall see that this is ammended at once.”

“No! It’s not that…it’s just—“

At that moment, a childish laugh echoed from Azure.

“She is teasing you, Miss Xiao Long. There is no need to be so flustered. Although, if you are so reluctant to join her faction, perhaps I should make my own bid,” the boy offered.

“What?”

“In a technical sense, the Xiao Long line is a distant relative. Not as prominent as the Branwen’s is in Vermillion, but a connection exists however thin. Before your family migrated to Vale, we were all under the same House.”

“Huh.” Yang thought about the meaning behind her surname. “That makes sense. I’m not really interested, though.”

“That…is a shame. But, I do hope we can change your mind.”

*Ahem* Vermillion cleared her throat. The golden rings on her wrists shuffled with a clink, like a bell.

“I believe we should now address the matter, by which we have asked you to come here.”

“Okay…”

Azure gave a prompt nod in agreement.

“Apologies, but it may be more prudent if Azure, Miss Xiao Long, and myself were the only ones present for this discussion. I mean no offense to your company.”

Yang shook her head. “I trust my team. They’re also my…closest advisors,” she quickly made up. “So, I’d like them to stay here.”

“I’d also prefer Peafowl to remain,” Azure added.

“Very well.” Vermillion consented. “If I may be frank, Azure and I, among others, are curious about the stance you are taking in regards to Argent and his administration.”

“My stance?”

“Specifically, the nature in which you serve under Raven, who acts as his Vice Minister. According to our intelligence, you and your mother were estranged. Recent circumstance has changed that, but still, a distance exists.”

I shouldn’t be surprised they know. The top nobles probably have hundreds of spies and resources.

Yang spared a side-glance to Emerald, who seemed passive.

I’ll play this a little straight then.

“Yes… That’s right. We’re not really close. It’s more like our team is work for hire.”

“You refer to in a mercenary capacity.”

“Yeah.”

“That is all?”

“Yup.”

“Hm…”

Not only Vermillion, but also Azure lapsed into silent thought. After some time passed, it was the young boy who spoke.

“I believe we should be straight forth with our proposal, Vermillion. If I may?”

“Please.”

Azure turned his attention to Yang with open amicableness.

“The truth is, we would like you to throw your full support behind one of our Houses.”

“I don’t think I know what that means. Why, even?” Yang puzzled.

“As it stands, Parliament fears Prime Minister Argent wields too much power. While there are a number of variables contributing to his expanding influence, one of its larger factors is you.”

“Me?”

“Your team proved a pivotal force at the Battle of Dracul. You led the White Fang’s portion of Mistral’s military to victory.”

“My mom did that.”

“Both of your names appear in the minds of our citizens when the war is concerned—and that inevitably leads to support for Argent.”

Yang scratched her chin and scrunched her face.

“I get it. So, you want me to stop fighting for my mo—Raven, and fight for you guys instead. You want me to stand alongside the nobles, instead of the White Fang.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I don’t really care who I fight for, but I do have an arrangement with Raven. Also, my team has a…contract with her too. We can’t just switch.”

“Whatever boon she promises for services rendered, our two Houses combined can outmatch it. If it is rewards alone you are after, that is,” Azure spoke with emphasis. “But I believe you an honest person, who wishes to do a more selfless kind of good. Am I correct to assume you work towards the betterment of your fellow person?”

“…”

“We seek your help not to the benefit of ourselves, but to the benefit of all. With Argent’s growing influence, corruption will undoubtedly set in. And if we wait until this war is over, it may be too late to act.”

“…What makes you so sure Argent won’t continue the cycle?”

“Because power corrupts all, Miss Xiao Long. The other Houses must exist to keep the others in balance.”

By the look on Yang’s face, it was clear she still harbored doubts.

“The Prime Minister can’t get rid of the cycle just like that. It’s not just the nobles, but regular citizens would resist it. They’ll see him as a tyrant, wouldn’t they?”

“He doesn’t have to get rid of the cycle. He only needs to control it.”

“…”

“Our Houses are diminishing. By the end of this war, it would not take much for Argent to initiate a takeover. Should he succeed, he would be able to choose any future Prime Minister Seat he wishes. In actuality, two candidates come to mind from the outset.”

“Oh…”

Crap.

“You are beginning to see the bigger picture, are you not? Argent could position Raven as the new Head of House Vermillion and yourself of House Azure. Your statuses are precarious, but the reputation and respect you’ve garnered from the masses would see the appointment with little resistance.”

“But what about the Sable faction?”

“If Argent does not raise a figurehead from within their household, he could simply have it abolished altogether. Sable has faced much accusation in the way of corruption in recent times. Citizens would cheer its dissemination.”

“But…this is just guessing what might happen. It doesn’t mean it actually will,” Yang supposed.

I can’t believe mom would just let it happen either. There’s just no way.

“I would also like to believe Argent would never be capable of such a thing,” Vermillion weighed in. “But I would err on the side of caution than risk tempting him.”

“Please, Miss Xiao Long,” Azure pleaded. “You would lose little by switching your support. But Mistral stands to lose everything if you do not.”

Yang felt plagued by a million thoughts. The arguments by Vermillion and Azure were a bit far-fetched, but a certain truth rang to them. She also didn’t know Argent personally, so how would she know if he was the kind to be corrupted by power or not. Isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?

“Miss Yang Xiao Long,” Vermillion implored her.

“There must be balance.

Or the people will be the ones to suffer.”

.

* * *

.

Team ENMY made their way across Haven Academy’s campus after Peafowl dropped them off. It was night by the time they returned, and the classrooms were already empty and locked.

“UUGGGHHHHH!!! I hate politics….” Yang groaned.

“Yeah…that was pretty heavy,” Mercury responded. “I’m glad I’m not you.”

“Thanks, Merc.”

“I mean, my problems suck, but at least they’re simple. Kick a guy here, stomp a Huntress there. But fate of the Kingdom mixed with mommy issues? Your problems have that extra-special, complicated kind of suck to them.”

“Thank-you-Mercury. Insightful stuff, as always.”

“What are you gonna do? They said they were expecting an answer soon.”

“I don’t know. What do you guys think?”

“Doesn’t matter to us,” Emerald entered the conversation.

“How does it not? You need more of my mom’s help with Cinder, so you can’t just switch support.”

“They need you not the team. People don’t care about us. We didn’t take down an Atlas dreadnought by ourselves.”

Yang frowned. “I was really looking forward to some sarcastic remark, followed by actual clever advice.”

“Looks like I’m fresh out of both.”

Yang groaned so loud it was almost a scream. “Come on, Merc. Let’s start working on your upgrades. I’ll just lose myself in that and stop thinking about all this other noise.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mercury agreed.

“Wait a minute.” Emerald laid a firm hand on Yang’s shoulder. “You two go ahead,” she titled her head to Mercury and Neo. “Yang and I need to have a little chat.”

Mercury seemed to take the hint, shrugged, and walked off with his hands in his pockets. Neo lingered for a second longer, trading looks between them, but inevitably followed suit.

When they left, Emerald led Yang to an empty classroom, to which she picked the lock to. She held the door open for Yang to enter. Once she was in, Emerald closed the door, shrouding the room in pitch black darkness.

“Um—“

“You and I have a problem,” Emerald spoke from the shadows.

“Yeah… guess so. I thought you were going to dance around this forever. But now, maybe I can finally get some answers.”

“Don’t be cheeky. I know what you’re trying to do—the angle you’re playing.”

“And what would that be?”

Yang could hear Emerald pacing around her. “Miss goody-two-shoes, moral compass and big sister to us all. You may have Mercury fooled ‘cause he’s easy to please, and don’t get me started on Neo.” Yang felt Emerald’s blade hover close to her neck. “But you’re not pulling one over on me.”

She couldn’t allow herself to be intimidated by this.

“What’s this about, Em? I won’t understand unless you spell it out.”

“This is about you trying to get all chummy with us. We’re not friends. We’re just using each other to our own ends, and once we get what we need, we’re going our separate ways. So let’s not pretend like this is anything more than an unlikely joint enterprise.”

“Where’s this coming from? Why can’t you just face me?”

“Don’t. Just stop. We’re not really teammates. So stop trying to treat us like we are!”

“You recruited me! You said we were Team ENMY!”

“And you bought into it like a cheap sap. We only said what it took to get to Raven. It was never about you. It could have been anyone, if it served our goals. We could’ve easily left your cripple ass to rot in that stupid house, where we found you.”

Yang felt a bit hurt by Emerald’s words, but knew there was more than what Emerald was letting on.

“You’re right about me trying to get closer to all of you. Maybe I am trying to help you.” She tightened her lips. “I think you’re good people for the most part.”

“Hah! Don’t make me laugh!”

“Wait, just listen, okay? I’ll be the first to admit, I didn’t think I’d actually get along with you guys. It’s just—after being with you, I…I got to care about you. Even if you don’t care about me.”

“Cut it with the saint act already!” Emerald spat. “It’s enough to make me hurl.”

“It’s not an act. I’m just being me.”

“And trying to save people who DON’T need saving! We don’t need you. The only one we’ve ever needed is Cinder.”

And then, Yang felt she touched on something. A moment of clarity behind what the other girl said.

“Who do you think I’m trying to be, Em?”

“I know you’re trying to be our friend, when you’re clearly not.”

“That’s not what’s bothering you.”

“What would you know?”

“I’ve hung around with all of you long enough. The only time I’ve seen you this irritated is—“

“Shut. Up.”

“When Cinder is involved.”

“SHUT UP!!!” Emerald jammed the barrel of her gun at the back of Yang’s head. “You need to shut up. Right. Now.”

But Yang wouldn’t back down. If she retreated now, she thought something would be lost. Instead, she turned and grasped Emerald’s hands, which shook.

“Do you think I’m trying to replace Cinder?”

A bullet went off and whipped Yang’s hair back.

“It’s a good con, blondie,” Emerald growled. “If I was a chump, I’d fall right for it.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone.”

“The next bullet’s going straight through your skull.”

“I’ve done everything I can to earn your trust. I don’t know what else I can do!”

“There’s nothing to do, you moron! You were nothing, but a mark!! In fact, we don’t even need you anymore! We know how to revive Cinder! We can work out the rest! This team’s done!!!”

Something snapped in Yang.

She stepped towards Emerald’s gun. Her hair blazed with a fire that lit up the room, like a bright candle. Her hands took the scruff of Emerald’s collar. The lines in their visages laid bare.

“Then, take the shot, Em! You don’t want me, you don’t need me, you say? THEN, TAKE THE SHOT!”

“Back off, Yang!”

“Take the shot! Prove you’re right! That you can’t trust me! DO IT!”

“I’M WARNING YOU!!!”

“I’M SICK OF THIS SHIT BETWEEN US!!!” Yang shouted from the depths of her soul. “YOU THINK I WANTED THIS?! I WANTED TO HATE YOU GUYS UNTIL THE END!!!” Angry tears glistened down her cheeks. “But…I came to trust all of you. Mercury, who screwed me over during the Vytal Tournament! You, who acted like our friend, when all along, you were planning on betraying us! And Neo! Neo…I fell in love with someone who tried to kill me! Who’s probably going to try to kill Ruby any chance she gets! How messed up is that?!”

Yang stuttered with painful breath. Her cheek bones tensed so hard they ached. The edges of her mouth trembled and twisted.

“Tell me you don’t feel the same, Em… Tell me you’ve hated me all this time and were just waiting for this moment.”

Her thoughts went to the day they barged into her house and offered her a proposition—to the day it all began.

“That it didn’t mean anything to you, that you guys were the ones, who brought me back. Say this team doesn’t mean anything…”

Her thoughts went to the fights against Blake and Weiss.

“I’ve betrayed my friends and so many things I once stood for. I caused the death of Weiss’s sister. She’ll never forgive me.” Yang’s face contorted into a broken smile. “Go ahead and say it was all for nothing. You conned me. Because if I don’t have this team, at least, I…!”

She stopped.

Her voice softened to a whisper.

“Do it.”

Yang’s flaring Aura dissipated, and the room went dark once more.

In the quiet shadow, she felt Emerald break away from her grip. Trepid footfalls echoed the lecture hall, followed by light peering from a doorway that opened and swung loosely. And like that, the thief had stolen away.

Yang left to wallow in the words she and Emerald still left unsaid.

[foodieworldmelbourne]

This man prefers you don't know his name. But he let our photojournalist into his world

Updated September 16, 2018 09:28:47 Map: Melbourne 3000

Photo: The old orchardist, who prefers to remain in obscurity, polishes one of the little apples he's spent more than 30 years quietly developing. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) In a world gripped by 'go big or get out', he had a bold idea. Go small. In patched jacket and faded beanie, the man treads across the paddock. His face, inscrutable. His diminutive frame tinier still against the towering messmates, the peppermints. A black and tan kelpie trots ahead like a sentry, ears erect, tail high. The morning ritual. An old orchardist's early-rising habits die hard. Between his fingertips, you know without looking there'll be the stub of a cigarette, hand rolled. The old butts accumulate in the pocket of his overalls. He is not quite a recluse you can sometimes chance upon him at the local shopping centre. Or you might spy him walking the dog on a deserted oval. But he is beyond private.

Photo: Home is 17 slender acres in Victoria's Yarra Valley. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Never has there been a more reluctant hero of his own story. Such is his aversion to the spotlight, his desire to avoid any kind of publicity, that between agreeing to tolerate my presence and this story nearing publication, he will insist his identity be withheld. You will never know his name. You will hardly get a good look at his face. This is a man hiding in plain sight, even from the photographer. That I am here at all is a miracle of spousal influence, though his wife also doesn't want to be known. Whenever I visit she performs a vanishing act of her own, staying inside or tripping off to the swimming pool in town. God's country 'Here' is 17 slender acres tucked into the folds of Victoria's Yarra Valley. On this undulating strip of land, man and wife neither from farming backgrounds made a life as orchardists. It was here they unearthed what became, for him at least, an obsession: reinventing the apple, in miniature. The little apples, as he calls them, the term of endearment embedded. "If you take on a project like this, you have to become besotted," he tells me. "If you half-heartedly go into it, it'll never succeed. So while you can, and while you're younger, you chase." To observe him here is to be struck by the sense of a tiny god in his own beappled Garden of Eden, tending to creation. It's exactly the kind of grandiose impression he doesn't want conveyed. He rejects anything that starts to sound like a romanticised account of his life's work. But it's undeniable. One big producer aware of the little apple describes it as a 'magnificent' achievement. Creating a new variety of fruit is a kind of holy grail for growers who are always looking for a unique product.

Photo: "If you half-heartedly go into it, it'll never succeed. So while you can, and while you're younger, you chase." (ABC News: Jane Cowan) 'A certain charm' In the corrugated iron shed, the old orchardist leans on the counter, polishing a tiny apple with a swatch of toilet paper. Packing instructions lean against the wall. A motorised pushbike is propped where the window light meets the shadow. It's aimed sometimes at the apple trees, full pelt, to scare off the parrots. A conventional apple weighs 160, 170 grams, he's telling me. There's already a smaller variety on the market. But the old grower isn't perturbed. His is tinier still. At 44, 45 grams, it's a quarter the size of an ordinary apple. He imagines it plated, whole, at a fine dining restaurant. On a cheese platter, perhaps. His wife sees it as a snack apple in school lunch boxes. The orchardist doesn't like the term 'miniature' or 'mini'. Forget 'tiny'. Same goes for 'dwarf'. 'Baby' is unacceptable. ("Nobody eats babies.") 'Fairy' he particularly hates. "No, see, they've all got connotations," he says. For him, the word has always been 'little'. "It's got a certain charm to it, right? One of the little people. "But there's nothing wrong with being little," he adds, a twinkle in his eye. "I'm five foot two in my boots."

Photo: The orchardist's overalled legs and boots protrude from an apple tree during picking. As commercial fruit growers have scaled up, his small operation has become an anachronism. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Believing In the old man's book, people fall into two categories. You're either a believer or a non-believer. His wife is a believer, obviously. A partner, almost as steeped in the little apples as he is. Though the constant talk of little apples has become wearing, like a third presence in their marriage over the decades. "She's been putting up with this since the 80s. Quite frankly I think she's sick of hearing 'apples'. "If I mention the word 'apple' she's just as likely to throw a box at you. And I don't blame her." A nearby commercial grower has told the orchardist he's wasting his time. Non-believer. Fact is, the little apples have already been in some high places. Big hotels and upmarket restaurants in Sydney and Melbourne. A fruit shop in Toorak. Stephanie Alexander took the little apples to the Melbourne Cup one year. They graced wineries, function venues. They were bottled and sold into David Jones. Exported to Asia. The orchardist remembers one business meeting in the dining room of a swanky city high-rise, pianist tinkling in the corner. Coffee and biscuits delivered to the table. The head chef in his white gum boots. The little apple was earning respect.

Photo: The orchardist handles his produce the old-fashioned way. By hand, in wooden boxes. The little apples are a quarter the size of an ordinary apple. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Reinventing the apple It all began with a hail storm. Necessity. Invention. At the time the orchardist was in berries and cherries. Overnight, everything was shredded. If he was to salvage an income for the following year, he needed to plant something else, pronto. "What can we plant?" he asked a friend who'd grown up on an orchard. "Zucchinis or tomatoes," came the answer, these fast-cropping annuals long the saviour of farmers in a pinch. The orchardist's agent happened to have a spare 1,000 tomato plants. Cherry tomatoes. Into the ground they went. The following year they were harvested and taken to market. "They were brand new on the scene at the time and I could not grow enough of the things, could not pick enough to satisfy the market." The orchardist's customers included Trans Australia Airlines, for in-flight meals on international routes. The next year cherry tomatoes were everywhere. But the experience had set an idea germinating in the orchardist's head. "We tried to work out what we could grow that's different to ordinary, everyday. "I don't like competition. I never enjoyed going to market, I could not deal satisfactorily with buyers on price, I hated haggling. I would set a price and if I didn't get it, half the time I'd bring the fruit home. "I like to be a bit different. I was trying to get something in which there was no competition. "And so we conceived the idea of the little apple to the big apple, applying the same principle as had worked with tomatoes." Why not little oranges or little pears? "Little pears had already been done, strangely enough. They were very delicate and came in little weeny packets with little pull-on socks, individually wrapped." The snap of the lighter punctuates our conversation. "But there was no little apple I'd ever seen. Everybody ate apples, you know, they were a universal, widely accepted fruit. So that's what we really thought." From there on in, the trajectory goes something like this: "We had the idea. We searched nurseries for a little edible apple. None available. We read books on horticulture that thick," he pinches the air, indicating three inches "No mention of a little edible apple anywhere. "So we went and bought every crabapple tree variety you could find, and planted them. None were suitable to eat. So we had to start looking further afield." Which meant roadside verges, football grounds, people's backyards. "Anywhere there was an apple tree, we would grind to a halt. Ha. "It had to have apples in it, to see what size they were. And sometimes you'd come a gutser because they'd turn out to be conventional apples with no water and no fertiliser and no thinning so they'd just grown pretty small." But his best friend knew where there was one. The location of that original little apple tree, the orchardist will take to his grave. Suffice to say, he got his hands on a sample. He learned to bud and graft. He learned about root stocks and scions. And he learned how to wait. Apple trees take four years to bear fruit. "I can remember the trees. They were neglected because we just left 'em to grow because we were concentrating on earning a living off berries and cherries. Once we realised the fruit was at all saleable we'd have to pull them out of a big patch of grass and stuff."

Photo: The orchardist wrangles nets in preparation for covering the trees to protect against birds. Hail is another threat. (ABC News: Jane Cowan)

Photo: At 75, the physical labour involved in maintaining the trees has become harder to manage. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) From royalty cheques to fear of theft Though he doesn't eat fruit ("Never have, even as a child."), the orchardist knows the subtleties of the little apple by touch and sight. What it means when the leaves are curled. How a greasy skin indicates a little apple is ripe. To be sure by checking the colour of the seeds. Black, not brown. How to control the shape of a tree by choice of root stock. Even when big names began picking up the little apple, though, it wasn't earning the orchardist the handsome living you might imagine. Fruit growing never did. "We had one very good year. And it was on cherries. They were in short supply, and we had a crop. "The rest of the time, oh well, we got by. "Some years were so bad that my wife went to work in the general store, I went to work at other orchards." But the little apples were being well received, and six years after the orchardist first dreamt them up the fruit was in steady demand. A niche market had been created. The orchardist would leave home at two o'clock in the morning in a Morris Minor "loaded to the gills" and deliver his produce by hand in the city before driving back again and beginning work on the farm. Later, when it got too much, there was a partnership with a big grower, and regular royalty cheques from the little apples. But, after a decade, the big grower got out of apples altogether, re-entrusting the little ones to their creator. Inventor became guardian.

Photo: In his study the orchardist smokes and plots and worries. To this day he has trouble sleeping past 2am, the time he used to rise on market days. (ABC News: Jane Cowan)

Photo: True to his surveying background, the orchardist has long kept meticulous diaries recording the details of life on the farm. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Inventing something brings with it a certain amount of anxiety. "Part of the danger is theft of budwood," explains the orchardist. "If you let strangers onto your property, especially growers who know, they're not beyond snapping a scion off a bush and waving the flies away and it goes down inside their shirt and when they get home, it's bloody well grafted and it's gone." This fear is the reason for the string across the driveway, the draped coat whenever apple boxes are left in view in the back of the ute. "Because once it's out, you've lost your exclusivity. "At the moment you've got the exclusivity of the one I found and hopefully the parent tree I got it from has now carked it or disappeared off the face of the earth, so it's nowhere else but here." Even the neighbours don't know about the little apples, the orchardist says.

Photo: With scrapes from apple tree branches on his hand, the orchardist puffs on an ever-present cigarette as he loads his ute after picking. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Buyer wanted Growers never talk about selling fruit. They talk about getting rid of it. These days the old man's life is consumed with getting rid of the little apple. Having closely guarded it for close to 40 years, he's now grappling with how to find a buyer, an heir to carry on what he started. It's autumn and the little apples are blushing on the trees, carpeting the ground. The orchardist boots one off the path, curses the birds.

Photo: The property has several dams, one spring-fed, which have provided irrigation for the fruit trees over the years. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) His face is a contour map of wrinkles that seems to collapse upon itself when he's tired or worried, which he has been a lot lately. For he is a man contemplating his own demise. "It's a journey and the journey's coming to an end. I'm 75. I'm bloody lucky to get this far I'll tell you now." In a globalised world, he doesn't use computers. Eschews technology. He's approaching potential buyers one by one. He has a list. He knows growers. But growing is not the same proposition it once was. "Growing has changed to the point where you had to get big. You could no longer survive single handed, working an orchard. "The margin per kilo is so small you've got to have a lot of kilos in order to make a living out of it, to cover your costs. And the only way you can do that is to plant an awful amount. More than what one man can handle. "You've had to get to the point where you employ permanent labour or have large capital resources behind you. For cool rooms, forklift trucks. Everything was done by hand in the old days, into little wooden boxes you used to carry in and out of cool rooms. These days it's bulk handling, controlled atmosphere rooms they suck the oxygen out of. Enormous changes."

Photo: An apple fit for haute cuisine. In the packing shed the orchardist cuts open some of his crop to assess ripeness. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) He imagines the perfect buyer to be a fresher version of himself. "If I could meet somebody 40 years younger than I am, full of enthusiasm to take it up, I'd almost give 'em a kiss." He thought someone with a roadside stall in a tourist area might be interested. They could sell direct to the public while supplying high-end restaurants. But he approached one and couldn't get the time of day. "I think the old days when people were more inclined to have a go are less around than they used to be." Once upon a time governments were involved in breeding programs. Now, as far as the old orchardist can see, it's all private partnerships. "I know of nobody in the research area in government that I could go to, and show them. I've written to people, I've sent little apples to people. I've got replies from them saying, 'It's a terrific idea, contact so and so' which I've already done, with no result." A legacy, without anyone to bequeath it to. "I'm still looking for a buyer. Because I don't know anybody to give it to, that's worthy of giving it to. And the trouble is, if I give it away, people won't value it and it's just as likely to get chopped down and lost. "I had hoped to sell it and make some money. At my stage now, that's not so important. My more important thing is that all those labours are not lost." Journey's end Whatever happens, by year's end he'll be ploughing the trees in or cutting them down, pushing them into a heap and setting the whole lot ablaze. He's decided he can't maintain the orchard beyond this season. The yearly netting brings on bouts of wheezing and the need to lean against a fence post. He requires help to do the spraying and the friendly nearby farmer, who's been doing it along with his own, is getting out of apples. It's crystallised a deadline in the old orchardist's mind. If he sells the little apple, then too the trees on his property will be burnt, to guarantee the new owner exclusivity. One way or another it all ends in burning. His life's work, up in smoke. "Don't feel sad about it because I'm not, okay? "That won't hurt, nup. Won't worry me at all. Because that's a closure, that's the end. Yep and then there's other things. There's the kids, the dog. Yeah, plenty of other things. In some ways it'll be a relief." I can't tell if he really means it. He's told me his life shouldn't serve as an inspiration to anyone, to other innovators. The way he tells it, throwing in his career as a surveyor to venture into fruit growing in the first place was not his smartest hour. But he's also said he'd make the same choices again in the same circumstances. That it's been a way of life, far better spent outdoors than behind a desk, shuffling a stack of papers.

Photo: In the overalls he wears like a uniform, the orchardist inspects his beloved little apple trees. To innovate is easy, he reckons. To have enough capital behind you to turn a unique product into a commercial success is another thing entirely. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Don't give up your day job cannot be the epitaph to this story. He invented an apple, dammit. Like God himself. When I ask what crosses the old man's mind when it's just him and the apple trees, what the land means to him, he emits a rasp of a laugh. "Ah, well, of course it's been everything for 40-odd years. You can't walk out the door without saying, 'Oh, I remember that.' "I guess you do get attached to land, although nothing's permanent. The land is, probably. You'd hate to leave it. "The little apple is not successful insofar as nobody's doing it and we've had trouble trying to sell it. That no longer troubles me at all. I'm quite happy now, just the fact that I've done it, that's enough. "I don't measure things in financial success as you might gather, by the age of the cars and the age of the tractors and everything else." Demise of the small family farm When the old orchardist drives up and down the dips and around the whorls in his road he sees the landscape that's there, but also the one that used to be. "When we started here in 1978 I think there were probably the best part of 20 small growers in the area." Apples, mostly. Cherries. Lemons. The bloke next door cultivated roses. The berry grower across the road would be 90-something now, if he was still alive. None of the children became involved in the farms, though, and the places were sold. Given over to paddocks with long grass and horses. Lifestyle properties. "You know we tend to sling off at them but you shouldn't really because they're what's holding the whole place together. They cost an awful lot of money nowadays, so much money that you simply could not afford to buy the land to farm, to plant an orchard, if you wanted to. Just too expensive to buy. And so there's a lot of people who just enjoy the bush and the scenery." A way of life, faded into history. "Luckily I'm not doing it for a living anymore because what I'd miss is the bloke over the road to go ask him, 'How do I fix this problem?' Or the bloke down there who knows more than I do. Those days are gone where you are meeting fellow growers. "Those people just gave you information, never held anything back. They'd give you plants, advice, everything. It was terrific, you know. No jealousy or 'here comes a competitor', nup. "I've got one left up on the corner who I can talk to, and we can commiserate together about the weather." As children, the orchardist's three sons would help with the picking, a play in the rowboat on the dam the reward for making it to the end of the row. Now they have other lives, in other places. "Not interested, full stop. None of them are growers in any shape or form. One of them might keep a little veggie garden but none of them are interested one iota. I'm glad because it's too hard." It's shades of his own father, a bricklayer who would not teach his son to lay bricks. "Dad used to come home of a night-time, sit in a chair and fall asleep, absolutely buggered. He was determined that I wasn't going to fall into the manual, hard physical labour like he did."

Photo: A hard-working life held in his shoulders, the orchardist pauses at the kitchen bench while boiling water for coffee, which he drinks black. (ABC News: Jane Cowan) Postscript It's winter before the orchardist gets in touch with the news. He's sold the little apple! Though keeping the details characteristically quiet. Finally, our story ends, he writes. With the sale of the business and the removal of the trees with the land back to pasture, we may now have the peace we seek. Crosswords for him. For his wife, watercolours. There will be life after apples. For on the seventh day, He rested. Topics:fruit,agricultural-crops,rural,fruits,lifestyle-and-leisure,gardening,science-and-technology,horticulture,edible-plants,fruit-crops,fruit-trees,agribusiness,community-and-society,inventions,melbourne-3000,vic First posted September 14, 2018 14:25:26 http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-09-14/orchardist-invents-little-apples/9369960