#she drew mine so i figured i ought to draw hers!

[paintpanic]

My buddy @voiddemon's Fluff gijinka!

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Good intentions

Bucky Barnes x reader

Had to divide the story into four parts, and I’m working as fast as I can to finish the rest.

Please don’t hesitate to tell me what you think :) Especially if you like it.

Everybody's alive.

When Natasha catches your reaction to seeing a soaking wet Bucky coming in from the rain, your life becomes unbearable. Nat considers herself a decent matchmaker, but what happens when both her subjects are resisting her attempts?

***

Part 1: Matchmaker

Word count: 4412

It had been raining for weeks. Racing streaks down the glass. Soft drumming against the umbrella. Big, fat drops of water splashing against the pavement, sending shivers through my body whenever they hit my skin. Two in rapid succession on my neck – don't know how, though, my coat collar was pulled up as high as it could go, and my umbrella was larger than average. Then one straight into my ear, which made me squeak in disgust. This had to be an omen.

I shook my umbrella before stepping through the door. No need to be a savage, though from the look of it, I was the only one who cared. A quick nod good morning to Nesta in the reception while making a mental note to call down the cleaning crew. The state of the floor was appalling. Mud and dirt and water – apparently not everyone remembered to wipe their feet before entering the building. And umbrellas all along the wall, dripping on the tiles, creating puddles so large a toddler would happily jump in them.

A long sigh escaped. Time for a stern talk with Nesta again. This was supposed to be a good first impression, not an impression of someone's mudroom. My stomach twisted, this was just the latest in a long string of minor complaints. If she didn't improve soon, I would have to make a note in her file and I hated being strict. Still, it was a part of my job, just like running errands before eight in the morning and longing for the coffee I left in my office. I didn't have to like it.

The elevator pinged. “Hey, Y/N.” Natasha walked out with a smile on her face. Her hair was red again, like flames cascading over her shoulders. Damn, that woman really could carry any hair colour. I nodded and smiled back. “Good morning, Agent Romanov. You're in early. What can I do for you? Love your hair, by the way."

"Thanks. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

I shook off my coat and adjusted the bag on my shoulder. "Of course. What do you need? Let me just –""

The door blew open, banging into the doorstopper before closing behind a sopping wet figure and an umbrella that definitely had seen better days. "Good morning, Y/N. Hey, Nat. Have you seen Clint?" Bucky shook himself, sending a glittering spray of water everywhere.

"No, but check the roof."

The air was knocked straight out of me. I couldn't stop the tiny squeak that tumbled over my lips.  The way his hair stuck to his face did things to me, not to mention how the water glistened on his metal arm. I hadn't felt heat on my face like that since I was seventeen and spilled juice all over my shirt in front of my neighbour Todd.

Swallowing the rest of the rude noises hovering in my throat, I forced a smile and nodded to the elevator. "Saw him by the coffee machine on the third floor earlier, Sargent Barnes." My voice was breathier that usual, and I cursed the weather for calling me out like that, while simultaneously praying to any deities listening that nobody noticed.

"Thanks." He marched to the elevator with a pace that would divide a crowd of people without a word.

Natasha looked between Bucky and me, a devilish smile spreading on her face. Once he was out of earshot, she bumped me with her elbow. “So, Bucky, huh?”

The heat crept up my ears and settled in my temples. Surely I was no more than two seconds from combusting? “What? I don’t… no, I mean –" I drew a big breath and steeled my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, what was it you needed my help with?”

Her eyes locked on mine. "Never mind that… You're a terrible liar."

A good point. I let out a small wheeze and scrunched my eyes shut. "Fine! Yes, Sargent Barnes is a tall drink of water. Is that what you want me to say? Well, yeah, okay. Maybe I do have a thing for him." The defeat was inevitable. Already my intestines were squirming. Nothing good could come from this.

Natasha looked like it was Christmas and her birthday all at once. "I knew it!"

I shrugged, ignoring the rising chill in my chest. How to best deescalate this before it got out of hand? "Well, you are a superspy after all. But please, PLEASE, don't say anything to him. I like my job. Besides, he's a fucking superhero. I'm just… me."

"Just you?" She shook her head lightly and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I mean, come on! Look at me!" Holding my arms out, I swayed from side to side. I never liked to draw attention to my body, but apparently she needed the extra visual.

Natasha arched her eyebrow. "I am looking."

She was good, but I couldn't to give up that easily. "Yes, and then you clearly see that I'm ordinary. People like him don't fall for people like me. He's too perfect for that."

"Perf… perfect?" She snorted. "Y/N, Bucky's a mess. He's basically a cucumber with anxiety. Damn, you really have it bad if –"

"I know he has issues. You all do. I'm the one booking everybody's therapy sessions, remember? I'm not talking about his trauma. I'm talking about the fact that he's sweet as a marshmallow and his smile could power a small European country if Stark only found a way to harness its brilliance –"

"And the fact that he's got those broad shoulders and could probably lift and throw a bus if he wanted…"

"And that," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck to stop that annoying heat from spreading even more. That was a delicious picture, alright. "But I'm nothing special."

"Y/N, sweetie, what are you talking about? You know everything, who's supposed to be where, what we're doing, when we come and go – that's practically a superpower right there. Don't downplay yourself."

The laughter came out dry and humourless. She had to be kidding. Being organised and good at puzzles wasn't exactly rocket science. And besides, I didn't even have a good memory. Without my trusty calendar and phone I'd be running around like Hei-Hei.

"Appreciate your confidence in me, but I don't think so, Nat," I countered and repeated: "Please don't tell him."

She sighed. "I won't."

I tilted my head and put on my best mom-voice. "Promise me."

Her shoulders slumped forward, and she lifted her hand in the air. "I promise I will never tell James Buchanan Barnes about your crush." There was a small pause. "Partypooper!"

"Who's a partypooper?"

I yelped and spun around, looking into Tony's smiling face. "Oh my god, Tony, I mean, Mr Stark." Why did he have to be so stealthy? A big, flashy guy like him ought to be required to announce his arrival with trumpets and drums. Through my galloping heartbeats I noted the glasses were new though, and wondered what kind of new tech they really were. They suited him.

He smirked. “Not the first time a lady has said that to me. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Exhaling, I closed my eyes, just barely resisting the urge to pinch my nose – or maybe kick him in the shin as a diversion. This was going to hell with the express train. “No one. No one's a partypooper.”

“Really?” He turned to Natasha. “Nat?”

I shook my head vigorously, bringing forth all malice I had to my eyes, which I have been told is substantial.

"Y/N has a crush and –"

"Ooh, is it me?" He winked and wiggled his eyebrows.

That made me laugh. "What? Oh, god no." Then I immediately felt bad for my reaction.

"Okay, a little bit insulted, but whatever…"

"She won't let me tell Bucky that she's in love with him," Natasha continued as if she had never been interrupted.

Tony gasped, a look of absolute delight in his eyes.

It was as if the ground disappeared beneath me. A rush of adrenaline almost knocked me off my feet. "Natasha! You promised."

She shrugged and pointed at Tony. "I promised not to tell Bucky. Last I checked, that is not him."

This time I did pinch the bridge of my nose and exhaled deeply, then groaned silently. “Nat!” Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. “Sargent Barnes is a friend. Well, uh, a colleague. Of sorts. I do not -“

“So you didn’t just squeak and burst into flames when he came through that door, huh?” She pointed to the glass door with a grin on her face.

Yeah, this was definitely a torture-the-handler day. Though Natasha was right about my crush, of course, and I wasn't even sure it was just a crush anymore; it had lasted for far too long to be called a crush, I had to keep a professional relationship with all of them.

Truth be told I had had a crush on Bucky since the day we were introduced, but I remembered the exact moment I had fallen in love: it was a chilly spring evening about a year ago. The team had decided to go out to eat, Wanda had discovered a new restaurant downtown, and the food supposedly was to die for. I couldn’t remember what I ate, or if I even liked it, but I remembered the knitted cardigan Bucky wore, the one with the colourful pattern on it. It looked really soft, and I found myself longing to touch it. That wasn’t the moment, though. The exact moment that made me go “Oh shit!” was when I cracked some stupid dad joke, and Bucky unleashed his full laughter on me. Who knew that "Singing in the shower is fun until you get soap in your mouth. Then it's a soap opera," would be my doom? But the sound had stunned me, made me lose my voice for several minutes. If someone had opened my skull at that moment, the only thing they would have found was an empty space and a dial tone - my brain frantically trying to reconnect with my body. If I concentrated I could still hear the ringing in my ears.

I avoided him for a week afterwards - well, tried and failed; my work meant contact with the entire Avengers team at all times - but the mental distance hurt too much to keep up with it. Since then, I allowed the realisation to wash over me, causing me both joy and suffering. And I thought I hid it well. Not well enough, apparently, since Natasha sniffed it out. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and sigh again. However, I couldn’t stop my intestines from curling into a tight ball. She had brought Tony into this after all.

Tony’s eyes shone. It had been a long time since any drama unfurled in the compound. He was practically starved, and this… This was delicious.

Looking between them, I knew this wouldn't end well. "You know what? I'm gonna go set up the briefing. Room 705. Thirty minutes. Don't be late." Fishing the phone out of my pocket, I sent a group text to everyone with time and location. In afterthought the wording in the text might have been a tad too harsh, threatening bodily harm if they were late, but the start of the day warranted some sort of reaction leaking from my brain. I locked eyes with Natasha. "Not. A. Word!"

She nodded, but the grin never left her face.

Tony watched me frantically push the elevator button, and I caught him whispering, not knowing I could still hear him. Or maybe he didn't care. "So what's your plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a plan? You're the resident match-maker here, aren't you?"

Nastasha let out a small laugh. "Do you know why she refuses to do anything about it?"

Tony nodded. “Because she’s professional and a bit afraid for what the people at the top are going to say?”

“No. Well, probably that too, but she thinks Bucky is way out of her league. Something about him being a superhero.” She snorted.

“What?” Tony let out a barking laugh. “Why? Bucky’s like the most timid ex-assassin you can find. I mean, he’s basically a cup of soft serve covered in salt and liquorice."

“I know. We gotta get them together. So, uh, are you in?”

“Uh, yeah! What’s your plan?”

The room finally sealed itself around me and I heard nothing else than the back of my head banging against the mirror wall and F.R.I.D.A.Y. cheerfully announcing what floor I was going to.

Half an hour later I had to step out for a bit to fetch a new cable to the projector, and when I got back, almost everyone were seated. My chest hollowed when I spotted Tony and Natasha sitting together, looking very conspiring indeed.

The urge to either run from the room or break them up rose in my throat, but instead I pulled up a chair next to Sam and focused on my breathing. He was one of the most calming people on the team, and I shamelessly used him as a shield.

Other than the small scare in the beginning, the morning briefing went without hitch. Agent Hill presented the upcoming missions, and I marked my calendar accordingly. Apparently SHIELD had detected a new terrorist group forming in northern Europe, and needed eyes.

Natasha was a given, she could go undetected for longer periods of time, and could take care of herself if necessary. Of course, Clint would come with her. They were an amazing team together, and he would probably go anyway, even if he was assigned to another task. It was better just to let him.

Steve and Sam would step in if it came to that, but would have to keep under the radar until they were needed. Bucky would travel to Europe with the others, but I knew he would set off alone the minute they touched ground in Stockholm. He worked best alone, or so he claimed, and anyway it would be an advantage to spread out. Still, I made a note on my pad to make sure he had everything he needed, and then some. Who knew where his road might lead him.

Bruce and Tony would work together to develop a better algorithm for the surveillance. So far, the terrorist group had evaded SHIELD's best efforts to pin them down. I was actually surprised to learn they didn't even know their name, which made me suspect something big was coming.

The rest of the team was assigned to other, smaller missions, scattered across the States. That way they could easily be reassigned if the situation escalated in Europe.

During the meeting, I kept an extra eye on Natasha and Tony. They sat next to each other, and though I thought I saw them passing notes a couple of times, I didn't want to bring any attention to it. The rest of the group looked oblivious. A sigh of relief escaped me, and Natasha looked up. She nodded imperceptibly towards Bucky, who sat with a bored look on his face and a discarded towel by his feet.

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head, trying my best to stop my ears from buzzing. Suddenly aware of every molecule in the air and trying desperately to ignore the intense weight, I focused all my attention back on Agent Hill’s presentation. Still, Bucky’s presence lingered in the back of my head, and together with the imminent threat from Natasha and Tony, I felt like I was sitting on explosives.

When Maria finally closed her laptop and turned to Director Fury, everybody got up, chatting as if the meeting had been a regular parent-teacher meeting and not a brief on a possible terrorist organisation on the rise.

“Can you believe that people will do things like this?” an agent asked as we all filed out of the room.

“Well, faith is a strong persuader,” I replied with a shrug. “Some are willing to go far for what they believe in.”

“Yeah, but they’re wrong,” the agent continued.

“They’d probably say the same about us,” Sam said, and I nodded.

“There are always two sides to the coin. If not more.”

“But -“

“And then it’s up to us to figure out what to do. We have to look at the big picture. Not everyone is capable of that.” Sam tilted his head with a look of disappointment in his eyes.

The agent huffed and hurried off with a look on his face that either said that he was constipated, or that being schooled by a member of the Avengers was too much for a Wednesday morning.

“Not sure he saw the big picture, Sam.” I shook my head and smiled.

“Don’t think he could. Better hope he doesn’t get promoted soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. He’ll be on desk duty for years still. And I guess you have a little desk duty yourself right now?”

“Well, actually… I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

Uh-oh. That sounded ominous. “Of course. What can I do, what do you need?” My voice rose to mimic the retail job I had before I got lucky enough to join SHIELD's training and ultimately land my dream job.

Sam grimaced. "I gotta go to Louisiana. Just a short trip, couple of days maybe."

"Shit, don't think Director Fury would be too happy about that right now, not to mention the rest of upstairs. You're supposed to be on silent duty until you leave for Sweden."

"Yeah, I know that, it's just… Cass and AJ has been asking me to come visit. And Sarah's getting sick of their nagging. Also, I sorta promised on the phone yesterday. Didn't know there would be a world crisis today."

Smiling softly, I hid the urge to smack my face into the wall. This was going to take a lot of explaining and string-pulling. He was supposed to go no-contact for the duration of the mission, but I hated disappointing the boys. And Sarah was a good woman. She didn't deserve being let down, even though it technically wasn't Sam's fault this time.

"Sam, you're such a softie," I said after some consideration. "Go. I'll figure something out. Just be back before the weekend, okay? And –"

"Yeah yeah, and I'll come in at once if the situation escalates before we're scheduled to head out."

I gave him a crooked smile to disguise the trouble he had just handed me. "Sure. But I was gonna say bring back some of that pecan pie. I've been dreaming about that since last summer."

Sam let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of my head, melting my nervous soul to a gooey puddle. "You're the best. Thanks."

"Fly safe."

"I always do."

"Really now?"

"Oh so that's how it is, huh?"

"That's how it is. Say 'hi' to Sarah for me."

With a short wave, he took off down the corridor, leaving me quietly screaming and already doing the mental gymnastics to find a solution.

***

Departure time was in two days. Everyone was on edge, trying their best to prepare for any eventualities, both inconceivable and expected. After a short meeting with the departure crew to share the last pieces of intel, I felt empty and tired. Missions always affected me more than they should. These people were my friends; if anything were to happen to them, my world would collapse.

Apparently I wasn't the only one feeling a bit drained. No one was in a hurry to leave, and the conversation was hushed and weary.

"You know what we need?" Tony said loudly, slicing through the silence and winking to Natasha. He thought I wouldn't notice, but I did, and the suspicion grew in my chest. What now?

"Pizza!" they said in unison. "We should gather everyone, before we all go."

Tony nudged my arm. "My treat. What do you say?"

Narrowing my eyes, I tilted my head. "…sure."

"Oh, don't be like that. We all need good pizza. Especially today, what with all this rain. Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y., you know that pizza bakery up the street, the one with the chicken one. Order pizza for everyone. Remember the one with pear, brie, and white sauce. Have it delivered to the lounge."

That did it for me. If he ordered my favourite, I'd be damn sure to eat my part. "When?"

"Uh…" He looked at his watch. "Noon. I'll send out a ping. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks. I do have a ton of things to do to make sure you guys don't die on this trip." I tried to keep it light, but now that the thought had settled in my mind, I had to fight off the tears. It was a miracle I managed to keep the tremble from my voice.

An hour later I tripped over the doorstep to the lounge, surprised to see it was empty except for Tony and Natasha and a huge stack of pizzas. "Where is everybody?" The door clicked behind me, sealing the silence in.

Natasha shrugged. "Late?"

At that moment the door opened again and Bucky sauntered in with a mischievous smile on his face. "Gimme the pizza and nobody gets hurt."

"Jeez, Buck. Remember your manners. There are ladies present." Tony grinned, but opened the top box and helped himself to a slice.

Bucky snickered and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, Y/N," he said with an over-the-top flourish. "I hope you can forgive my insolence." He gestured towards the pizzas. "Ladies first."

My heart did a somersault, but I managed to keep it cool on the outside. "Insolence forgiven," I replied, swallowing a hiccough that lodged itself in my throat, before taking a plate and sifting through the boxes until I found the right one. Loading my plate, I sat down, sinking into the soft cushions. Only thing missing now was some candles and a drink, and I'd be set for the day.

Natasha gave Tony a pointed look. Two minutes later he picked up his phone and half jogged out the door. That was odd. Tony never jogged.

I looked between Natasha and the door, the pizza forgotten halfway between the plate and my mouth. She looked anywhere but at me, but was saved from a confrontation by her phone ringing. "Gotta take this," she muttered. "Can't prepare enough for the trip." She smiled apologetically and left the room. That was a lie, of course. She had full control; all intel was already read and destroyed. And if something new had come up, I would have been notified too.

Suddenly the plate felt heavy in my hand. Maybe it was naïve, but I had expected Natasha and Tony to respect my wishes; after all I had made it absolutely clear that they should leave it, hadn't I? Their amusement and entertainment wasn't worth being an inconvenience to Bucky.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked when the door clicked behind Natasha.

"I… I don't know," I lied haltingly.

Bucky shrugged. "Oh well. Might as well catch up on some paperwork before the flight too. See you later." With one slice between his teeth and another in his hand, he left the room with a friendly wave.

"Sure. See you." I spoke to his back; the glass door had already closed behind him. The lump in my throat grew. Even though Tony had ordered my favourite pizza, I no longer had any appetite. My mouth was dry, and it was a struggle to swallow. In a fit of frustration, I kicked the table, smacking my toe in the process. The pizza slice slid from the plate and landed on my thigh. "Fuck!"

"Ooh, pizza!"

I spun in my seat. Steve had just arrived, and that made me feel a little bit better at least. He was always a laugh.

"Where is everybody?" He looked around and spotted my moping figure, holding an equally sad slice of pizza. "You okay?"

"I guess," I replied, trying to smile and failing miserably. "Everybody else left. The mission, yeah?"

"Right. I thought everything was planned and okayed."

I couldn't bring myself to fill him in on the situation. If he didn't already know, it was nice to have someone neutral by my side. "Yeah, I don't know."

Their scheme was becoming clear; making Bucky spend time with me alone. But it was a failure. Even he thought it was awkward, and he obviously didn't want to be alone with me. Not that I blamed him. If I was him, I'd do the same.

I glanced at my watch. 12.30. Just then Sam, Bruce, Wanda, and Vision spilled into the room, heading towards the pizza like a herd of hungry goats. Slowly my appetite returned too, and half an hour later the blow to my heart was a painful memory pushed to the back of my mind by excellent pizza and wonderful friends.

Later that day I ran into Tony on the way to the garage. He tried to slip past me, but had to stop when I blocked the door, arms crossed over my chest and puffing myself up as much as I could. "Seriously, Tony! What did you expect to happen, huh? That I'd just throw myself in his arms because we were alone? Because newsflash: I've got both self-control and decency. Do you really think I've never been alone with him before?"

At least he had the decency to look thoroughly chastised, and he mumbled something inaudible I thought maybe sounded like an apology.

No way he was getting away with a tiny one. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"It was Nat's idea," he said, trying a smirk that didn't work at all.

"I very much doubt that," I replied, dragging a hand over my eyes. "Do I have to call Pepper? I didn't think so," I added when he shook his head. "Do better! Now excuse me. I have a lot of work to do to ensure you actually don't die on this mission." With a final, exaggerated frown, I turned and marched out of the room, ignoring the samba in my chest.

Part 2: Eel infested waters

[liesfallaciesfabrications]

Mr. Queen Analysis

My take on the rather heartbreaking and vague ending of the KDrama, Mr. Queen.

  Okay, I’ve been thinking long and hard on this subject (way too much) and have come to the following consensus:

Bong-Hwan and So Yong are both versions of the same soul. What got me thinking about this was that scene in episode 5 where SoBong talks about original and past lives but then mentions parallel time-streams. To illustrate, she draws two lines running side by side and explains how a past life can be in one and the original/current being in the other. This had me stumped a bit, and I thought it a bit random that they put that in there, but then I looked up “reincarnation and parallel lives” and there’s a surprising number of articles on it - though obviously not conclusive or scientific as it involves spirituality. 

Episode 5 also explains why time in the present is flowing at the same rate as the past, which we discovered when BH’s consciousness briefly reentered his body and explain why they chose to reveal that fact. Time isn’t linear here but more fluid with both versions existing simultaneously - harkening back to the two lines Mr. Queen drew to illustrate.

The reincarnation theory would explain many of the elements of the story that I found hard to accept. For example:

If So Yong’s separate soul was in there with Bong Hwan’s soul then why did he never feel her? In fact, the show repeatedly makes reference to the idea that Bong Hwan does not feel another soul and attributes characteristics of SY to the body (telling her after the kiss that the soul is in control of the body so she ought to behave and in another scene he tries to get her soul to return by addressing the lake - where he believes she is hiding).  The only time he accuses her of being a separate entity inside of him is when he wants an excuse for his feelings and reactions to CJ. The “it must have been her that took control. If I knew it was CJ I would have....still enjoyed it?!? What’s wrong with me?” moments. LOL What if the reason he couldn’t feel another presence was because there wasn’t another? He merely had his consciousness wake up in the body of his past life but didn’t realize it.

It would explain the gradual integration of both personalities. For example, when CJ returns the book to Mr. Queen, she never thinks of herself as NOT being the girl from the well as she did when he first confesses his love for her at the lake. As BH spends more time in her previous body, the lines become more blurred not just in memory but also in identity because he IS her. If they were two separate souls, I don’t think she would have that same reaction nor do I see anything to indicate that So Yong “took over” in that moment or any other. Memories were accessed, personality traits were mingling, but we saw SY come out in episode 20...that personality was immediately recognizable. Fantastic acting by SHS - especially as she had me loving the one and hating the other, despite being both.

It would explain why Mr. Queen falls for CJ so hard, despite his initial protests. I never liked the idea of his feelings being manipulated, but I can get on board with the idea that he accepts his feelings for CJ because this is a man that some part of him has always loved - and falls in love with “again” through their shared experiences and journey.

It would also explain the question of why Bong Hwan. What was the connection between this man and So Yong? They are reincarnations of each other. When So Yong was feeling hopeless and needed strength, she pulled upon her stronger version of herself to help her - made possible in that moment when she desperately wanted to give up on life and he desperately wanted to live. She came to him in that pool and appeared to the queen again when she was looking for answers in the lake. This does not give the impression of a soul cruelly imprisoned in her own body against her will. 

It would also explain why, when Bong Hwan briefly went back to his body, So Yong did not reappear. She wasn’t being suppressed. She purposefully had her reincarnated self come to give her strength and was not ready at that time to assume her life again. I found her choice of words at Byeong-In’s grave to to be telling. She said he always knew where to find her whenever she was hiding. It’s also why I believe BI didn’t realize Mr. Queen wasn’t SY - for the same reason CJ doesn’t at the end of the drama. These two men, both of whom deeply love her, could sense it was her, just in reverse order. CJ-SB-SY and BI-SY-SB.

It would also solve the pesky issue of why BH is an overall better person - not just at the moment of his return but before. Someone on Reddit mentioned the implausibility of CJ’s political accomplishments causing a ripple effect to change BH, and I agree. However, if we look at BH as SY’s reincarnation, then the positive attributes he now displays in the altered timeline can be accounted for because he prevented his previous incarnation from killing herself, therefore in his next lifetime his soul didn’t carry those grudges. This fits with the idea of reincarnation as a person’s life experiences and emotions/grudges/regrets/mindset at death will determine the psychological and even physical manifestation of their next life. 

SY was told by evil Kim that she had no power b/c she was a woman - next life is a man. 

SY had her love cruelly rejected - next life is a playboy who doesn’t seem to believe in love. 

SY felt that she was living a lie - next life is a man who doesn’t care who he offends with his opinion and does what he wants when he wants - to the point of selfishness - though this changes when he prevents many of these resentments by his actions in the past. 

Finally, it would explain why CJ is so “oblivious” at end of the show. He promised when he returned the book to SB that he would never fail to recognize her, and he doesn’t. While her personality has changed, it’s intrinsically also the same person, though this is the area I felt the writers dropped the ball in execution, but I get that they were pressed for time. The implications of this aspect also seem to be what KJH meant in his comment to a fan’s question of whether the king knew that BH had left.That it didn’t matter: SY or BH didn’t matter, only how CJ saw her.

So why send BH back? I believe they did it because it wouldn't make sense for him to live a life he essentially already lived as SY. Reincarnation is meant to be for a soul to grow and spiritually evolve, which it could not do by simply repeating what it had already done. Also, for some reason (I suspect so as not to offend Koreans by skipping over one of the most prominent historical figures in their culture - Queen Min), they still have CJ dying at age 32. This can be seen in the book BH is looking at when he's seeing his portrait, and is mentioned as early as episode 1. This was never going to be a happy ending for CJ/BH in the sense that many viewers wanted. Rather, he was going to facilitate the relationship of SY/CJ so that his previous life could run its course...ugh, I feel sick typing that out...with the hope that they meet again in another lifetime. Our SB is many things but trapped in Joseon without modern medicine, a miracle worker she is not. CJ dies without any heirs; his baby with the queen dies at just six months. If the BH decided to stay for love and then lost the baby and CJ, that would be just as heartbreaking for me as the ending I received. 

Wiki and other sources speculate the CJ was poisoned by the Andong Kims, but many historians (including Bong Hwan’s mother, it seems) dispute that fact as it would serve no purpose since he was a puppet king and since his death then allowed the Jo family to briefly take control until King Gojong’s father pretty much crushed both the Kims and the Jos. In reality, he probably died of unhealthy habits and a life of excess. In the show’s world, who knows...cancer or any number of possible illnesses that could not be treated at that time. During the banquet planning, we see CJ suffer a nosebleed. In the spinoff, Mr. Queen mentions how CJ is trying hard not to collapse from the strain of his burdens. These could be hints left by writers to indicate that CJ’s health has been compromised by the grueling struggles and stress he’s had to endure, not to mention allowing himself to get blown up.

They writers did give us the hope for another reunion - perhaps in BH’s lifetime or perhaps another one. It’s why I think they tried to imply a SY/CJ connection in the Bamboo Forest prequel (the only prequel in the spinoff) as well as end Bamboo Forest with a reincarnation wish. The setup seemed quite intentional and in specific order. The prequel created a sense of destiny. The next segment was about Mr. Queen confirming if it was just his body or his soul that was attracted to CJ...literally the words out of the character’s mouth...and they gave an answer to that with the last shot. The final segment introduced the wish for CJ to meet his queen again, and he is clearly thinking of Mr. Queen - so why the prequel, which would seem to introduce a separate love interest, unless it’s actually not because they’re one and the same with the middle segment emphasizing the genuine attraction and love for each other.

This might not be everyone’s cup of tea; it certainly wasn’t mine, and I think the writers should have handled the leaving better instead of going for an quasi mind-wipe of all the characters’ remembrances of Mr. Queen. I mean, CJ went from being horrified at Mr. Queen acting like a perfect little queen for a few seconds a mere handful of episodes ago to just asking "why the formality" at a more permanent display of temperament and seemed practically oblivious otherwise. Then Choi and Yeon were "shocked" when So Yong didn't revert to her witch of the palace act and chastise the maids that were laughing by the pond - as if Mr. Queen didn't already change that way of thinking months ago. Not to mention that they were also nonplussed by the fact that their relationship to the queen had gone from being regarded as family back to a servant/master status quo. Even with the soulmate angle, there was to much deus ex machina thrown in. The idea of soul mates is a romantic one, but the execution of it fell through.

They should have never gone with the reincarnation route, especially if they were never intending to let SY have a true voice in the drama, even if it’s just a final conversation between herself and BH before he leaves, made possible in that split second before true separation. Viewers never got to bond with her, and in those moments we did see her, she was either a watered down version of the personality we were emotionally invested in or emphasized the opposite characteristics (demure, feminine, etc...) that we loved Mr. Queen for rejecting. Also, this angle gives us no true feeling of completeness and satisfaction. SY is with CJ in the past - we won't see them develop their feelings for each other and grow to like them as a couple. BH is in the present but who knows if he'll find CJ's reborn soul and happiness with whoever it is. Promises without fulfillment demand too much from the audience to fill in the blanks. If that's the case, next time just give us a tag line and tell the audience to imagine the rest.

Even if they share the same soul, we are given two distinct personalities and not enough connection between them in terms of their recognizing each other, acknowledging their feelings for CJ to each other in some sort of passing the flame moment that would make it feel more homogeneous and prevent feelings of resentment at what we perceive as an injustice to a personality we adore.

Instead of creating an emotional divide between the two, they should have just have SY die before BH's soul enters, and develop the romance between CJ and HB's as the novel and even that cheap and campy Chinese version did. Having SY there just muddied the waters, and became a distraction and an excuse for every emotional milestone Mr. Queen experienced, negating that character's development and laying it at SY's feet or claims of deliberate interference.

They should have chosen a fictional king and not boxed themselves into a limited outcome. Granted, it gave them a valid reason for booting BH back to present times, but look at the result: limited number of years with someone the audience isn't really familiar with for our beloved ML (plus their baby dies) and a huge question mark for our F-turned back into ML in the present with the hope that maybe the reincarnation thing works in his favor but who knows because they couldn't even toss us that small crumb which would have alleviated some of our heartache for BH as well as give more credence to the fact that SY/BH are the same and thereby lessened the feelings of resentment to the SY character as well. Or they could have gone with a multiverse theory and left it wide open as to what sweeping changes would occur. BH being initially thrown back to the Joseon era as a result of his dying would have achieved that because then the audience would have no reason to revisit the present nor see that the worlds were linked via changes upon his return and stuck with the poisoning threat averted. Blow recorded history to smithereens and leave that to our imagination instead.

Yes, the fish-out-of-water hijinks were great fun, but the completion of the character arcs/relationship/etc...shouldn’t be an afterthought. 

The other element I would have liked to have seen that was in neither of the televised versions (though the Chinese one came very, very close) but was in the web novel is the king fully accepting that his wife is not the woman she was, believing that her previous body was a man, falling in love regardless and she with him. However, I think we all knew that wasn’t going to happen in a kdrama. 

[anathtsurugi]

The Colder the Winter, the Warmer the Spring (Chapter 21) - A Kalluzeb Fic

Words: 264,463

Chapters: 21/25

Rating: E

Relationship(s): Garazeb Orrelios/Alexsandr Kallus (Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla, Rex/Ahsoka Tano)

Summary:

With that, the image widened and Zeb could see that Kallus was holding something in his arms, and as the Lasat inspected the image, he gradually began to realize that it was a baby – a Lasat kit.

"Zeb...help me."

"Oh, karabast."

Excerpt:

"Y'know, you wouldn't do so bad as a bounty hunter," Zeb's voice threaded its way through the tangle of his thoughts. "But then, I guess you cut a kriffin' fine figure in anything you wear."

"Like it, do you?" he asked, offering up a little smirk as he looked up at his mate. "Perhaps I ought to hang onto it...once this is over?"

"Wouldn't say no to that," Zeb said with an easy purr, drawing him up into a light kiss. But they didn't really separate when the kiss ended. They kept their foreheads pressed together, just enjoying the closeness, the openness. In this moment, Kallus found he truly didn't care that they were heading into unimaginable danger. Whatever happened, he had had this. He and Zeb had known this.

"This is real," he whispered reverently against his husband's lips.

"Realest thing I've ever known," Zeb returned, pecking his lips one more time before continuing with, "Think he's bored yet?"

"Oh, I'll grant the boy this. He doesn't tire easily."

"Think it'd change anything if we gave him a show?" Zeb suggested, subtly rolling his hips against him, which elicited a laugh from the ex-Imperial.

"Tempted as I am to accept the offer, no, I don't believe it would. While I am still his assignment, nothing we do will drive him off," he returned quietly, gaze darting to the corridor outside the runner's little bridge. He couldn't actually see him, but he knew Cassian was there sure enough. Ultimately, he called over Zeb's shoulder, "I do hope you don't think you're being subtle, Captain Andor."

"We don't bite, y'know," Zeb joined in before growling low in Alex's ear. "Well...don't bite other people anyway."

Alex returned the playful growl with a small nip to his mate's ear just as Cassian stepped onto the bridge, eying them both dubiously. Like Kallus, he was garbed as a bounty hunter. "At no point did I imagine either of those things was true. Spying on a spy is, after all, a little different than your garden variety spying."

Raising an eyebrow at the younger man in interest, Kallus nodded at the pilot's seat, inviting him to sit. Cassian moved into the space, coming to stand beside the chair, but he did not sit.

"We are about to step into a very fraught situation, Captain. A situation in which we will both find it needful to trust in and rely upon one another. For my part, there are not many I am inclined to trust. I imagine the same is true for you. I have no intention of hanging my daughter's life on that kind of game, and I find the thought of having to puzzle you out in the next hour quite wearying. So I will simply ask. If it is permissible for you to say, what do you observe of me thus far?"

It had not been what Cassian was expecting of him. He could tell that much from the very slight twitch of his jaw. Likely he had expected the ex-Imperial to ask what he could do to gain his trust, and that would've been the exact wrong course of action. It was what a plant would say. What someone who was trying too hard to achieve a single goal would ask. But Kallus had more than one goal here. More than two, even. Because he saw something in the young captain. Possibly the same something Ahsoka Tano had once seen in Agent ISB-021.

The captain stared at him a long moment before answering, taking the time he needed to phrase properly.

"You expect a blow."

Kallus offered no reaction to his words, though he did feel Zeb tense beneath him. He simply inclined his head, inviting the younger man to continue.

"You don't display it as much around your Spectre companions, suggesting that you either feel safe among them or that you just don't wish for them to see it. It could be both. But in the presence of other rebels, you move as if you expect to be attacked. That, to me, would suggest guilt. Whether that is guilt over actually being the spy Draven accuses you of being or guilt for your past deeds remains to be seen. He is the only one you lower your guard for completely," Cassian said, nodding at Zeb. "If your caring for him is a lie, you are a better liar than I will ever be. Whatever your ultimate goal is, Agent Kallus, I believe you truly do care about this one."

At the implication that there was anything false about him, about what they were to each other, about what they had suffered and sacrificed, Kallus felt Zeb's muscles begin to tremble beneath him in anger. And while he would've liked to express a little of that anger himself, he knew he couldn't fault Cassian for his assignment. So he soothed his mate with a firm kiss to his forehead.

"Ze ze, ni ashkerra, ze ze. Ul or'sultir rokir," he whispered against the Lasat's heated skin.

"Ul na hargiri. Ul hargiri an."

"Ul san tefsa sultad ka ul sana kalla sultat...nel La lina sana," he told him, gently taking his face between his hands.

That point calmed the Lasat almost better than he had hoped. Settling beneath him, Zeb drew him into one more kiss, breathing against his lips, "Sail La reisvir s'an tefsa li ke velkir lorinsir loa rakaln kerra'ul."

"La sylf zeryln sultir ni ashynym," he said, holding there for just a moment longer before turning his focus back up to Cassian. "Some striking observations, Captain. Shall I tell you what I observe of you?"

Cassian gave no answer one way or the other. He simply stood there, waiting.

"I see a man who seeks an enemy. I don't believe you questioned General Draven on whether or not I was to be trusted and that is unfortunate. Not asking questions is what allows entities like the Empire to seize control, and to keep it. If you fight blindly for a cause, it will not be long before you become the very thing that you hate. How old were you?" he asked.

"What?" the younger man asked, the only response he betrayed a somewhat sharper inhalation before speaking.

"The first time they put a weapon in your hand. How old were you?"

Finally understanding what it was he was asking him, Cassian's expressionless face seemed to almost stiffen.

"I was six years old."

Alex nodded. "About what I would've guessed. You've never known anything else. You wouldn't find it difficult to turn toward an enemy because it's all you know."

"So what?" Cassian asked with the tiniest of sneers. "Are you going to tell me not to view you as an enemy?"

"No. I would never presume to tell you what is and is not so, for mine is only one perspective in a galaxy of trillions. You have a keen mind when you take the time to use it, so the only thing I would tell you is this," he began, finally rising from the chair. "Take the time to consider who your enemy truly is. If you don't fully understand who you are fighting for and against, the consequences will prove...disastrous," he said at the last, voice falling off into a whisper as he turned to look out at the blur of hyperspace. For a moment, he thought he could see faces in the lights...hear voices in the hum of the hyperdrive...

"Dan-dan! Dan-dan!"

Lia's terrified eyes as they carried her away...

"Protect her...keep- keep my child safe...my treasure..."

The light fading from Arekaya's eyes as she stroked Arkalia's head for the last time...

"Just go to hell...monster..."

The child screaming...eyes filled with terror...

"Did you believe you could be forgiven?"

The harrowing emptiness in the Lasat girl's eyes as she moved in for the kill...

"Can you do it? Can you give them what they need? Even though it will break you?"

Zeb screaming as Kuross sent punishing currents of electricity through his body...

"You like it."

Archrem kneeling over Zeb's naked, defenseless form...

"Your daughter? You aided in the destruction of her people. You bore witness to the execution of her entire family. What daughter is she to you?"

...that child...I can still hear her screaming...

"Alex," Zeb's voice suddenly broke through his haze of guilt and terror. Then his mate's hand was slipping into his and he was gripping that clawed, four-fingered hand for his life.

When Zeb felt the intensity of that grip, he moved in behind him, drawing his back to rest against his chest and enfolding him properly in his other arm. The ex-Imperial shuddered in relief when he let his head fall back into the crook of the Lasat's neck once again.

"S'in klinas. S'in sultira kol. S'an torril kol na mal," Zeb soothed him, holding him as close as he could. "An or'san sav ulri mayka."

And he knew that, but...at the same time...he didn't know if there would ever be a day he didn't feel guilty for who he had been. Likely that was as it should be. The only thing for it was to keep going...to keep moving forward in spite of it all.

"An san zai'ym ashyn na sir, ni ashkerra," he said softly, languishing in the embrace just a moment longer before pulling away from his husband. When he looked back to Cassian, it was to find that the younger man seemed not to have stirred from his spot during his episode. But it also seemed to Kallus that he looked at him differently than he had the past month.

Chapter 21: The Nightmare Awakened

[moonlightreal]

Strange Fate first two chapters

I figured out where I read the first chapter of Strange Fate!  It’s in the Night World guide, it has the first two chapters…. At least the first two chapters as of 2009 before Brionwy’s story split off into its own book.

And reading just these chapters I can see why.  Sarah's chapter feels kind of clunky and forced, maybe because the author has to cram in all the introductory info, while Brionwy’s chapter is just… really good.  *sigh*

Anyway, I decided the internet needs these chapters so I typed ‘em in.  (so all typos are mine) Enjoy! Inspire your fanfics!  Just don’t use them as the first chapters of your fanfic, that ain’t cool.  And buy the Night World guide too. It has plenty of other clues about the plot of Strange Fate if you read carefully.

Chapter 1 Sarah

Sarah wasn’t trying to hear the whispering that was going on in front of her.  She couldn’t help it.  Soft as it was, it seemed to override the teacher’s voice.

“You’re really getting me worried about homecoming.  Are you going or not?”  Rachel Carr was saying softly to Pamela Adams.

Sarah absentmindedly decorated math sums in her notebook with a design of flowers, which somehow seemed to make the voices even clearer.

“It all depends.”  Pamela answered, sighing.  ‘the idea was to get Mal Harman to ask me, but so far...”  she shrugged gracefully.  “You know.”

“Same with me.”  Rachel whispered back heavily, without turning to look at Sarah.

Sarah stopped drawing and stared at her notebook.  Maybe they didn’t know she was there.  Since her mother’s funeral a year ago, people often didn’t know she was around until she spoke.  And the two most popular girls at E.B. Turner High School didn’t usually sit near Sarah or pay her much attention.

Rachel continued, “Don’t worry, I’m not competing with you.  I mean, I have my eye on Kierlan Drache.  But the question is, can either of them be pried apart from that mousy little Sarah, even for one dance?”

The girls must not have noticed she was there.  Pam and Rachel were always full of sweetness and light to Sarah in front of other people.  But the, that was because Kierlan and mal were usually the other people around Sarah.  Sarah bit her lip.  She would never last more than a few seconds in a debate with these girls, but…

No.  She bit her lip harder, holding back words, imagining herself in a cool green forest instead of this slightly stuffy first-period math class.  Her teacher’s droning voice became the creaking of the redwoods.

It was October 12 and no one had really asked her to homecoming, and she certainly hadn’t asked anyone.  But then, no one ever asked her to dances.  What happened just happened by itself.

“So have you spoken to Mal about it yet?”  Rachel asked Pamela.  Somehow, despite how Sarah tried, the whispering, although soft, would not become the sound of leaves rustling in the trees.

“I’ll make my move when I’m ready,”  Pamela said coolly, uncrossing and recrossing long, elegant legs in her very short white knit skirt.

“But it is Mal you’re after—and not Kierlan, right?”  Rachel demanded.  Neither of the boys in question were in the honors math class.  Mal was in regular math and Kierlan—well, he was supposed to be at the junior college for this class.

Pamela spoke indignantly, “Are you joking?  As if I would even think about Kierlan after what he did to me last year at the Spring Fling!”  Pamela forgot to whisper as she tossed her glossy blond hair.

This got the two girls a long, stern look from Mr. Osford.  Another student was called up to the blackboard, and Sarah hastily bent over and scribbled the exponential equation from the board into her notebook.  Then she frowned, solved the problem, and decorated the number with twining vines.  Much more elegant.

Math and art were the only two subjects that made sense to Sarah.  She could never be a mathematician like Kierlan, but she hoped she could be an artist.  In the big art room she had a painting hanging that had recently won a county prize, and she would be packing it up with Ms. Jessup to go to the state competition later that day.

But that doesn’t give me long, gorgeous legs like a model’s, she thought.

“No, no, no,”  Mr. Osford was saying to the student at the blackboard.  “Like this, not like that.”

Rachel and Pamela barely paused.

“Well, wear a long dress this time, then.  He can’t flip that.”  Rachel leaned over to pat Pamela’s arm with a sympathetic air that held just a hint of smirk.

Pamela simply moved her arm and looked back haughtily.  Pamela had everything a girl needed to look haughty, sarah thought with sad admiration.  She was tall, blue-eyed, a natural blonde, with a perfect, curvaceous figure and those long, long legs.

And Rachel was as perfect in her own way, with thick dark hair, wide dark eyes, and legs that were almost as elegant.

Sarah, on the other hand, was rather slight and fragile looking, with very little on top and nothing at all anywhere else.  Coltish legs, no hips, flyaway brown hair… and a face that somehow couldn’t do “haughty” at all, not that she tried.

“Anyway, good luck if you have to ask Mal yourself.”  Rachel whispered the words as if Pamela had proposed taking a swim in a river full of alligators.  Sarah found herself nodding agreement, then remembered she ought to want to skewer the girls and barbecue them for being so insensitive.  Mal wouldn’t barbecue Pam and Rachel though, if Sarah told him about this conversation.  Mal was the master of the cold stare.

“And that’s supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”  Rachel said hastily, in a placating voice.  ‘It’s just—there have been other girls who’ve tried, you know.  They usually come back frozen solid. But at least if—when he says yes to you, you know you’ll look great together.”

and so they would, Sarah thought.  No arguing with that.  The gentle rustling of sarah’s green woods had retreated and Mr. Osford’s voice grew louder, trying to make the power of exponents sound interesting with his inflection.  Sarah very carefully drew a design of branching leaves around another sum.

“I just honestly can’t see what they see in that Sarah girl.”  Pamela said in exasperation.

Neither can I, Sarah thought, suddenly breathless.  She had to really blink to suppress a sniff. She started worrying about what would happen when the class was over—would Pam or Rachel glance behind them when they walked out? If they did, it was going to be agonizingly embarrassing for all of them.  And what about later?  She had art class with Pamela, for pity’s sake.  How was Sarah supposed to act then?

Sarah moved ahead of Mr. Osford’s lesson, copying questions from the board and solving them.  She scribbled a gigantic venus flytrap looming over the last equation.

Despite the hurt Sarah felt from Pam and Rachel’s remarks, Sarah knew what was really going to happen.  Kierlan, with his dark red hair, tawny eyes and cheerful face, would definitely be the one to bring up the dance.  He’d be sure to act as if they were all going to the dance together, if only as ajoke.  Everything was a joke to Kierlan.  He’d ask when Sarah wanted to head off to “do-si-do” or “get down and boogie.”

And then Mal would ask, coolly, if Kierlan had actually asked Sarah to the dance or if he was just making assumptions again.  Sarah could almost hear Mal saying it.  Mal was the opposite of Kierlan.  Sleek, dark-haired, always perfectly dressed, with eyes that were like windows into the early morning sky, he’d definitely ask if Kierlan was making assumptions.

And then Kierlan would say that he and Sarah were too close for him to have to ask about every little dance.  “So if you’re planning to ask her,”  Kierlan would say to mal, one arm casually thrown around Sarah’s shoulders, “go right ahead.”

And then both of them would look at Sarah for justification.

“You’re not really going with this jerk?”  Mal would say.  “You know I’ve warned you about him.  He’s an animal.”

And Kierlan would say, “But Sarah loves animals, don’t you, Sarah?”  Except, of course, that Kierlan almost never called her Sarah.  He used the nickname he’d given her when she was five.

This nickname would both muddle Sarah's feelings and melt her heart.  Then sarah would look up helplessly at Mal, who would say that Kierlan was using undue influence, and that sarah’s decision should be entirely free of prejudice.

And somewhere in all of this, the fact that Mal never—ever—actually asked Sarah to go with him, either, would get lost.  And it would end the way it always did: with the three of them going together, the guys alternating turns buying Sarah flowers.  And the three of them would spend most of the dance talking—and trying to keep Kierlan from slipping “a little something’ into the punch bowl.

“So what color are you going to wear?  Mal’s not going to have much time if you wait until the last minute,”  Rachel whispered, making it sound as if the deal was done, the arrangements already made.

Sarah thought of the lovely little homecoming dress that she had bought two weeks ago.  It was aquamarine, to match her eyes, and she’d bought it knowing—assuming that she knew—exactly how the scene with Mal and Kierlan would play out.

Except… maybe things wouldn’t happen the same way this year.  Mal and Kierlan were seniors now; Sarah was only a junior.  Maybe being a senior was more serious and things were going to be different this year.

The thought made her heart pound, and Sarah knew she couldn’t stand much more of this.  Class was almost over but—what if Pamela turned around?  What if Pam realized she had overheard their entire conversation?  What would Sarah say?

“I’ve got something in basic black; that ought to be easy to match,”  Pamela said, “What about you?”

“I bought something creamy—sort of ivory,” Rachel said with a pat to her long dark hair.  “also easy to match.”

Somehow that did it.  That short exchange about dresses, already bought and waiting—just like hers. Sarah suddenly heard someone speaking aloud, in a conversational voice, then with a slight shock realized it was her own.

“Mal always wears black—but he doesn’t like it on girls,” Sarah said, watching Pam and Rachel start to turn and look at Sarah.  “At least not since—,”  Sarah began, but discovered she couldn’t finish her sentence.  At least not since my mother’s funeral, Sarah thought.

Now that Sarah was this far in, she turned to Rachel and said, just as loudly, “and if you’re going to wear ivory around Kierlan, you’re going to come home covered in punch.”

There was a moment of perfect silence, and then Mr. osford rapped sharply on his desk.  “Pamela Adams, Rachel Carr!” he called.  ‘Sarah...um, Strange!  Are you three looking for a detention?”

Sarah, embarassed as she was to find everyone in class looking in her direction, felt slightly vindicated.

Then, to her horror, she smelled roses.  A shaft of pain shot through her head and she shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.  Oh no!  Not now!  She couldn’t have a migraine here.

Automatically, Sarah's other hand flew up.  She lifted her head to see Mr. Osford shaking his head as if to say “Give me a break.”  he looked to Rachel and Pamela, as if expecting their hands to go up too, but they sat stiffly, flushed, staring straight ahead like extras in a movie scene.

Sarah knew from experience that she was fighting the clock now.  If she couldn’t stop the migraine in the next minute or so, she wouldn’t be able to hold it off at all. Without waiting for permission and with her vision already edged with sparkling silver, she stood up—and knocked her math book off her desk.

Sarah could hear scattered laughter, not really unkind laughter, but she didn’t have the mental balance at the moment to judge fairly.  All she knew was that she had to get out of this class.

Abandoning her books, trailing her backpack, Sarah hurried to the end of the row of desks.  The pain in her head was coming more and more frequently, and she heard Mr. Osford say, “Sarah, I’m sure you can wait for the restroom for another six minutes.”

Sarah was no longer paying attention. She lunged toward her goal: the door.  Someone she couldn’t see caught at her backpack as if to stop her.  Sarah stumbled and there was more laughter.  Mr. Osford, who had never had Sarah in a class before this year, asked, suddenly concerned, “Is something wrong?”

Someone else, far away, said, “She gets migraines.”

Sarah found the doorknob by touch; the glittering silver aura now covered half her visual field.  She opened the door and slipped through, just in time to hear Mr. Osford saying faintly, “Quiet down, everyone.  A migraine is just a headache.”

Not my migraines, Sarah thought grimly as she headed more by instinct than by sight through the empty halls toward the girls’ restroom.

Not even Sarah's doctors could explain what happened when Sarah's migraines hit full force.  They weren’t classic migraines, but they weren’t classic seizures, either.  They didn’t respond to medication.

All Sarah knew was that at the peak of the pain, she lost consciousness and had—nightmares.  She had these same nightmares when she was asleep.  But Sarah never told anyone about what happened in the nightmares, not even her kindly, sympathetic doctors.

Sarah was afraid that her kindly, sympathetic doctors would have her locked up.

Here was the girls’ restroom. Thank God, she’d made it.  She needed hot water.  She stood at a sink and began running the water as hot as she could get it, ignoring the two senior girls who were putting on their makeup and talking.

Sarah leaned forward, breathing slowly and feeling the steam on her face.  When the water was hot enough, she soaked a handful of paper towels and held them on the back of her neck.  Sarah lost track of time.  But she realized, gradually, gratefully, that the smell of roses had gone away, and that the shimmering silver covering her vision had retreated.  She had caught the migraine early enough to stop it.

But she’d also left the hot water running in the sink.  The entire mirror was misted over with steam.

Sarah realizes that the older girls were looking at her pointedly.  Hastily, she turned the hot water off and used her wad of paper towels to make a vignette in the misted mirror.  She tried to shut out the glares of the senior girls as they scrubbed at their glass too.

Doing her best to appear casual, Sarah looked in the mirror.  Her aquamarine eyes reflected back, their depths somehow giving the impression of being full of unshed tears.

The rest of her features were also all present and correct.  Flushed skin that was usually pink, as she blushed easily.  A small nose and a small, determined chin with a dimple.  A nice mouth, if she thought so herself, and eyelashes that didn’t require mascara.  Hair; light brown and always falling in different configurations over her shoulders.

It was… a gentle face, Sarah thought as she turned away from the mirror.  Sarah’s mother had had a small, heart-shaped, gentle face, and Sarah took after her in that.

Sarah sighed, and turned to throw the paper towels into the garbage.

And was engulfed by the smell of roses.

Chapter 2 Wings

It happened all in an instant: the shaft of pain coursing through her head, holding her frozen again.

The smell of roses filled her nostrils, almost sickly sweet, much stronger than it had been in the classroom.

Sarah clutched feebly at a sink.  Oh God, she thought wildly, this isn’t fair!  But her vision had already narrowed to a small circle, and she couldn’t ignore the scent of warm, full-blown rose blossoms.  They were so real she could almost see them.  Sarah was going to have a migraine—right now—and somewhere down there was a very hard tiled floor.

She turned as another lance of agone shot through her head.  Sarah was trying to get into a stall where there was privacy, when suddenly both of the senior girls screamed. The door had just burst open and a boy walked inside.

“This is the girls’ restroom!” one of the seniors cried in outrage.

The boy answered indifferently, “Well, that’s what I’m here to find: a girl.”

The two seniors were still shrieking at him in fury and shock as Sarah tried to take a step forward.  All she could see, in the center of her glimmering tunnel, was a tall boy with dark hair and chiseled features in a rather pale face.  She saw eyes so light gray that they almost weren’t a color, and two arms held out to catch her.

“Mal,”  Sarah heard herself whisper, and then, without question or hestiation, she let herself fall forward into the darkness.

And as she went, sarah realized that today’s migraine-nightmare was going to be a bad one.  It started with wings.

***

Wings.

Crispy was squatting on her haunches at the far edge of the boneyard.  The white shape she had been staring at for the past few minutes was not some sheet of amazingly clean paper dumped from the Grand House.  It was an animal.  An animal with wings—a bird.  She was proud of knowing that fact, and even more proud of knowing what kind of bird it was.

A pidge-un, Old Useless had told them when she described it.  Not all things with wings were Masters, the old woman had explained to them.  Not all things with wings meant death.

In the old days, Useless said, there had been lots of birds in the sky, the blue sky.  That was before the Masters had purged the animals, of course, and darkened the sky, making it forever gray.

Despite her bragging rights, Crispy was deeply grateful that in the plump, gently curving shape of the pigeon, she could discern no sign of wings at all.  Even knowing it was not a Master, she didn’t think she could watch wings unfold without shrieking.  And, considering the predators that lived in the boneyard, one shriek would mean her death.

Okay, so you’ve seen a bird.  Now get back to work, said Crispy’s mind, or, more accurately, said one half of Crispy’s mind.  It was the half she called Smart Crispy, who knew what was really important and what wasn’t.  Important was surviving, gathering food, and most especially not getting caught and put back into the fawn pens where the little kids were kept to be fattened.

Important was not a bird.

Still, she sat.  it’s alive.  It moves by itself, the other half of Crispy’s mind marveled.  This part was the part she labeled Dumb Crispy.  Dumb Crispy was slow, but stubborn.  What does it hurt if I sit here and watch the bird for a minute? It asked.

Crispy tried to remember other things Old Useless had told her about birds.  Useless could tell you lots of things if he was in the mood; you just didn’t want to get too close to her mumbling, toothless mouth.  Useless’d lived her life in one of the crazies’ pens, but somehow she had avoided the selections, and somehow she had escaped from the pen during the chaos of the Grand Hunt, the Hunt when Crispy had been burned.  Old Useless’d cared for Crispy then.  Now Crispy cared for her.  A debt was a debt: that was the iron rule.

Besides, half the time Old Useless said they were family.  Sometimes she said she was Crispy’s grandmother, sometimes her great-gran, and sometimes even her mother, a clear impossibility.  It was probably all nonsense, but the thought that crispy might really have a relative, even a crazy, white-haired useless old woman, made her feel warm.

And that’s the kind of thought that gets you killed, Smart Crispy snapped.  Can you imagine what Roach would say to that?

Dumb Crispy wasn’t completely dumb. She was sampling the twilight constantly, instinctively.  She was sniffing the air, opening her mouth so she could smell better, listening, glancing all around her, checking with all her senses for danger.

She hadn’t reached the ripe old age of eight and a half by not paying attention.

Of course, she’d very nearly not reached that age.  Crispy grinned, stretching some of the red scars on her cheek, and glanced down at her hands.  One was full of graybread, the coarse, springy fungus that grew here and provided most of the food Crispy scavenged every day..

her other hand was her baby hand.  It was curled and stunted by the fire that had given her these scars, and it looked completely helpless.  Old useless was the one who had exercised Crispy’s hand using herbs and poultices to take away the pain.  Old Useless also claimed to be a witch and said she’d used the last of her witchlight to help Crispy, but Useless said so many different things that it was impossible to know what to believe.

However it was, by luck or chance or Old Useless’s magic, Crispy had one good arm and one that looked withered but could do everything the other could.  Like the two halves of her mind, the two halves of Crispy’s body were divided, one normal, and one puckered with angry burn scars from her dusty towhead to her small, rag-bound feet.

Right now Smart Crispy was coming up with an idea that appaled Dumb Crispy.  So you want to watch the pigeon? It said.  Okay, I’ll watch too.  And I’ll tell you something: there’s meat on that bird’s breast!  Meat! Remember how long it’s been since you tasted meat?  Can you remember?

Dumb Crispy could feel her heart pound.  The bird was harmless; it was free.  It could get out of the valley, flying over the boneyard, over the hills that surrounded the Grand House and the farm that belonged to it.

She didn’t want to kill it.

Then you’d better scavenge something better than fungus, Smart Crispy said.  Because I know what Roach is going to say when she hears that you saw meat and didn’t even take a shot.

All right, all right.  Crispy blinked rapidly; she wasn’t crying, of course—she never cried—but she had to blink before moving again.  Slowly she stuffed the last cones of graybread into the rags that served her as a tunic.  Then, slowly, reluctantly, she reached down to her rawhide belt, groping for her slingshot.    It was makeshift, with almost all the materials gathered from the boneyard.  A piece of tire from an old tractor for the cup.  Bits of rubber for elastic and a Y-shaped pipe for a handle.

Then she positioned herself, inching upward, praying that the mound of garbage at her back wouldn’t collapse.  And all the while she thought.  She thought herself part of the night, part of the boneyard, just another bit of garbage that the bird wouldn’t notice.

At last Crispy was in line for the shot.  Slowly she fitted a pebble into the slingshot.  Now was the time to disappear into the boneyard background.  The bird mustn’t sense any danger.  No danger… no danger…

That was the moment Crispy sensed the danger to herself.  It was unmistakable, and it was close. It was just a hint over the reek of garbage, a rank odor that froze Crispy’s heart.

Werewolf.

[antevalia]

poison ivy | act: one

➳ Summary:  He thought he was done for, after attempting to chase down a suspect in his investigation, a mercenary ends up getting trapped the dead weight of his horse in the depths of the forest. Fearing for his life when the unknown suspect returns back to tie up loose ends, an unexpected savior comes to his rescue. However, he might find himself having to make a tough decision between his flame, his coin, and the good of the people.

➳ Word Count: 1.9k+

➳ Rating: Teen

Thick leaves and branches whipped and slapped, cutting at his cheeks and his exposed arms. He’d know he’d come to feel the effects of this endeavor once it was all over and the excitement of the chase wore off. Yet he was almost upon them! Swiftly, the young hunter chased after the cloaked rider on horseback, leaping and crashing through the thick forest. One would have already abandoned their horse after being taken off the beaten path and lured deep into the woods like this. It was so thick with moss and nature, there was hardly any place for walking or trotting without a struggle. Yet, for the bounty hunter, there was no time to waste. Almost within range, the hunter took arm with his dagger. If he could get close enough, he’d throw the lousy mongrel from his horse and from there it was easy pickings. If he could. The cloaked figure was only in range for mere seconds before turning and vanishing into the thickness of the forest yet again. On and on this went until the two were back on a clear dirt path again leading straight ahead. With a clear path, the hunter grabbed a rope from his hip, swinging it to his side. Steadying himself he raised the rope and just as he swung it forward, the cloaked figure jerked his horse to the side and in one quick moment the hunter’s horse found itself entangled and suddenly tumbling down a muddy and rugged hill, it’s rider tumbling with it. Feet firmly clasped in their hatch, the hunter’s leg twisted and turned, his side and back colliding with the dense mud and stone before being launched in the air, then back down again. Twigs poked at him like dull swords and his knees began to tear and crumble. Out of breath, the hunter choked on his screams, mud slammed against his face as he slid and only came to a stop once a tree stump blocked his path. 

Groaning and writhing, the hunter looked hesitantly looked down, fearing the worst. His knees were bruised and bloody, a twig of sorts lodged into his calf, and his right leg had almost entirely been trapped under his horse. The pressure was agonizing and even more so when he began to struggle to remove himself. He muttered a curse and laid back with a grunt in defeat, but sat up almost immediately once he heard rustling in the distance that seemed to draw nearer by the second. Grunting, the hunter frantically searched around him for his knife, his dagger, his bow, anything to defend himself from what he assumed might be wolves coming to tear him limb from limb. To his surprise, what emerged was no wolf but rather a figure dressed in a dark cloak. The one he had been chasing. Groaning, the hunter, tried desperately to free himself as the figure stalked ever so closer, unsheathing a unique looking dagger from his cloak. He was to die here, he was sure of it. Yet as the masked person was just upon him, something zipped through the air, and the assailant drew back, gripping his arm. Blood.

“Away with you!” A voice yelled. From the top of the hill stood a woman, her glare and her arrow fixed. “Away now!” She yelled again and loosened another arrow. As quick as it flew, the masked rider vanished back into the depths of the forest and the hunter let out a shaky breath. Quickly, the maiden archer slid down the hill with ease, though dirtying her boots, and bent down, surveying the sight before her. Through the pain, the hunter felt mild embarrassment at his predicament. Here before a woman, a man of his stature lays crippled in pain, crushed under a horse that was no doubt beyond saving as its neck bent in an unnatural position. A horrible shame he’d feel even more later, for that was a horse he’d been given by a good friend of his. “Your leg,” the maiden said, pointing to it. “I’ll need to examine it… But first, we ought to save the other one.” The hunter only grunted and watched her carefully as she shifted towards the fallen horse. 

“You cannot lift it, its too heavy,” the hunter said, though the woman just ignored him and held her hand out. In one swift motion, the maiden guided her hands upwards and the hunter felt a tremendous weight taken off of his leg. His eyes looked on in shock as the maiden directed the horse’s corpse to the side and gently placed him on the ground. “You--You’re a mage!” He let out. Again, she barely acknowledged him and only hummed a response, and began shuffling around in her pockets.

“And you’re a mercenary,” she said blankly, nodding towards all the fallen papers surround them from his horse's satchel. They were nothing but bounties, official letters, and treasure maps. All of which he’d certainly need later. It was a dead giveaway. Before he could respond, the mage removed a small vial from her pocket. “Drink this,” she said, shoving it towards his mouth. He had no time to protest before she placed the vial between his lips, and tilted it, the vial’s contents spilling awkwardly in his mouth. It was a horrid taste that seemed to linger on his tongue as he swallowed. Gods, why did he swallow it? She was a stranger!

“What is this?” The hunter said, spluttering. “What poison—”

“It’s not poison,” the archeress interrupted. “It’s to help with your affliction.” Before he could even think, she quickly removed the twig from his calf, a sharp pain shooting up his leg and making his heart race once again. It was so sudden, he didn’t even register that he’d been howling out in pain for a few seconds now.

“You’ll kill me,” he whispered in between ragged breaths. It hurt like hell and the stingy pain after she removed it made it all the worse. She only glanced at him, but he could have sworn he saw her roll her eyes as she began to bandage his bleeding calf.

“I cannot treat you here,” she said suddenly. “We’ll need to go to my hut. It’s not far from here.” For a second the hunter had wondered how exactly such a thin and frail-looking woman was to carry him, a heavy with muscle mercenary, to her hut. That was, until he found himself suddenly a foot above the ground, floating behind the woman who marched through the forest like it was her own, bow firmly in hand. Glaring eyes darting from side to side. 

“This is—I’m flying!” 

“You’re a mercenary who’s probably fought countless monsters of different variety and worlds and yet you’d marvel at simple magic?” It was the most she’d said to him thus far. Her voice was smooth and quite deep. Maybe a bit of rasp to it. Nevertheless, she struck him as a woman of value. 

“Fighting creatures and mutations is nothing to compare to taking flight.”

“You’re but only a foot off the ground, sir,” she said as a matter-of-factly. She scoffed at him and he could tell she thought him an indignant fool. 

“The pain,” the hunter said. “It’s not there anymore. What did you do?”

“The tonic I gave you,” she replied simply. To that, he let a small ‘ah’ and let her drift him along after him in silence. When they arrived at the hut she set him down gently atop a long wooden table, simultaneously moving the herbs and other assorted plants off of it and placing them elsewhere. Then she turned to him and began ripping his pants around his wounded legs.

“Well, this isn’t how I imagined I’d be undressed by a woman,” the hunter said and the archer only shot him a look and continued. The hunter hadn’t noticed before, but his wounds seemed pretty grievous. His knees were all mangled up and swollen, and his ankles looked like crumpled paper. Nevertheless, his right leg had seemed like it’d been crushed entirely. He let out a sigh and laid back, letting the woman do her work on his legs. “Is it bad?” He said hesitantly.

“Well, your legs are done for,” she said and look of horror spread across the hunter’s face. “For now.” He relaxed but still looked equally disturbed. She took a few glances at him before a small smirk graced her lips. 

“Oh, that amuses you?” The hunter said. “Poor wee crippled me,” he said and the young archeress only slapped his leg, causing him to yelp in pain, before rising to her feet. 

“And what if it does?” She retorted. “Can’t a healer get their fair share of amusement every time some big idiot in distress falls down in the forests and needs assistance?”

“Ah, so you’re a healer?” She turned to her table and began to mix together a concoction. “Yet you carry that fine bow and clearly know how to use it.”

“Indeed… These tonics don’t brew themselves,” she said. “I have to fetch them and as you can see one must have the means to defend themselves if they’re to roam these dense parts of the forest.” She’d thrown away her cloak when they arrived and the hunter started to know the small little scars littered on her shoulder blade. He wondered if defending herself was where she’d acquired them from. “Though, I must say I haven’t had the pleasure of saving a mercenary from the clutches of death from an unknown assailant.” 

“Ah, the pleasure is mine to be saved by a young maiden in the forest and even to be undressed by her,” the hunter said, a sheepish smile creeping on his face. “Perhaps this young maiden would like to tell me her name?”

“Maybe she would,” she said, turning back from the table holding a cup with an odd colored liquid inside. “Or maybe she’d rather just get on with it.”

“Then I’d have to wonder why this young maiden didn’t just leave me in the forest to die.”

“Mmm, perhaps she thought the hunter was a pitiful sight to behold, crushed under a horse, with no means of defending himself against the masked assassin!” She was dramatic yet kept that callous type of speech about her. 

“Ah, so you have a sense of humor.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She said finally and shoved the cup to his lips. “Drink,” she ordered. She was far from tender, but her roughness seemed to only make him pine after her words even more. She was a beauty too, of brown locks kept up and secured by a golden band. Her skin was pale and flushed pink and light freckles adorned her nose and cheeks. Her lips were colored a deep red, her eyes were a shade of blue, no, green, no gray. She was memorizing to behold, at least to him, in all her natural northern beauty. 

“The names Aiden,” he said, wiping the residue from his lips. She only smiled with half-lidded and mischievous eyes, before pushing the boy back on the table. As soon as his head fell back he felt an incredible weight weighing him down.“What’s happening to me?” He asked softly, strength fleeting from his body. “I don’t feel so good.”

“It’ll feel weird at first, but I promise you this is better than the alternative,” the woman said, but Aiden could barely hear her before his eyelids shut and his mind seemed to collapse, all thought fleeing from the forefront. Yet before he succumbed into complete darkness he managed to hear one last thing uttered from her lips.

“Alyssia.”

[mtraki]

I’ve debated whether to post this or not, but I saw this subject as an ask for another writer and figured ‘why the heck not?’

It was a slow Wednesday night when the cowboy came in.

She’d never forget it.  She’d take the memory to her grave.  It was so surreal.  That stereotypical scene from all the old westerns spliced into the small, smokey space of the dive bar named The Dandy Bear Saloon: The door opened and in he came, boots thudding, spurs jangling, black hat tipped low over his brow, covering his eyes.  Everyone stopped and turned to stare-- all five of them, herself included.  She swore the old jukebox skipped, Bob Segar’s ‘Beautiful Loser’ (“a perfect lodger--a perfect lodger, a perfect guest”) playing quietly in the corner for the sixth time tonight.  It was Terry’s favorite and she was having a hard time with her mom and husband, again.

Immediately, the cowboy saw them staring, feeling the abrupt change in the air, and could sense the antagonism.  She’s sure only she could see the briefest hesitation in his stride as he continued toward her where she stood behind the bar.

He’d crossed half the distance with his purposeful, swaggering stride before she noticed the guns.  One revolver slung slow on his right hip, the other across the left side of his belly in a cavalry draw, rounds in the belt between them.  A bandolier across his body and over his right shoulder housed old brass shells for the double-barrel slung over his left shoulder.  At the same time, she noticed the smell.  That was the other thing she’d never forget: if seeing him had been surreal, it was smelling him that made the situation all too real.

He’d smelled like horses, and all things associated with horses, leather, and the inside of the men’s locker room at the gym the week the a/c had been out.

Dick and Roger were watching the cowboy warily, giving her looks she figured were asking if they should call the cops or if she had the situation in hand.  There were only five of them.  If this guy was a psycho, rolling in here with loaded guns, he could kill them all without having to reload.

But she didn’t think he was a psycho-- despite the way he looked, despite the way he smelled, there was something very lucid in his steely blue eyes flecked with green when he leaned his elbows on the bar, looking her in the face.

That was the other thing.  He looked her immediately in the face, deliberately ignoring the generous cleavage provided by a good push-up bra and neglected upper buttons of her blouse.

“Hey Tex,” She grinned at him, quelling her rolling stomach.  He stank like he hadn’t bathed in a year.

“Miss.” He returned quietly, his voice cordial, but his expression was controlled.

“You want something to drink?”

The emphatic answer led her to believe that his evening was going perhaps as well as Terry’s, “Yes.”

“Great.  I’m gonna need you to hand over the iron first, though, partner.  Before one of my off-duty cop regulars rolls in and loses his shit…”

“... Loses his what?”

She beckoned, “No, seriously, hand over your guns.  You’re scaring everyone.”

Turning his head, he looked at the four others.  Dick and Roger stared back evenly.  Terry was gathering up her purse and jacket to leave.  Oscar had his back to the rest of them again, smoking the last nub of his cigarette over his beer.  Obviously none of them were armed.  State law allowed licensed concealed carry, and Clark had a pump action shotgun under the bar just in case, but most people in town just didn’t carry.  The cowboy looked back her way and drew the off-hand revolver with his left hand, sliding it across the bar, grip toward her with one hand, drawing the other with his right to do the same.

They sounded like real metal, they looked real, and when she reached for one to tuck it under the bar, she noted the weight.

“Jesus,” She whispered, “it’s real…”

And loaded.

“Sure it’s real.” He answered quietly, unflustered, still looking her in the eye, though his gaze flicked toward the muzzle of the weapon, as if worried she might turn it on him.

Snatching up the other revolver, she ducked and stowed them under the bar, taking his shotgun-- also very real-- when he handed it over.  The weapons all showed signs of use, but nothing very recent, she thought.  She wondered what kind of insane convention he’d come from.  She wondered how he’d made it down the street without getting stopped by every patrol car.

“Great… So I can get those back to you when you leave, I guess… mister…?”

“... Morgan.  Arthur Morgan.”  He’d said it like he’d debated saying something else.

“Mister Morgan… Unless you’ll let me call you ‘Arthur’?”

“... Sure.”

“What can I get you to drink, Arthur?”

“Anythin’...”

“Don’t say that.” She grinned, jerking her thumb to the full shelves behind her.

“... Whiskey, then.”

“... You’re killing me, Arthur.” And she indicated the shelf of whiskeys.

“Christ!” He sputtered, staring at it as if it were some incomprehensible thing.

“Want me to…” But she didn’t finish her question.  He wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was looking over her shoulder, reading the labels.  She watched his lips move ever so slightly as he did so, and the blood ran out of his face.  She couldn’t imagine why.

“... You okay?” “... I dunno, no more…” Was his very soft confession, voice no longer steady, “... Can y’pour me somethin’?  Please…?”

“Sure.  You opening a tab--” She reached back for a bottle at random--Jack Daniel’s No 7-- and was turning around again when he put two large coins on the bar.  She looked at them, then looked him in his pale face and finished, “... What the fuck is this, Arthur?”

“Money…?” He seemed even more genuinely confused than she was, which only made her all the more uneasy, and therefore irritated.

For a moment, she strongly considered throwing him out or calling the cops-- or throwing him out AND calling the cops-- but then she exhaled slowly out her nose and slid the coins over to inspect them.  They were good sized silver coins, one side depicting a seated woman, the other an eagle with the words “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA” across the top and “420 GRAINS. 900 FINE.  TRADE DOLLAR” along the bottom.  The year for one was 1883, the other was 1875.

The smell was real.  The guns were real.  Maybe the money was real too?  And whereas two dollars in coins wasn’t going to cover what she’d been about to pour him, if they were real, they were probably worth a great deal more.

It was a weird night, and she’d been willing to gamble.

She poured him two fingers and slid the glass over, “I’ll open your tab.  Try that, see if you like it at all.  You mind if I send some photos of your coins to a friend of mine?”

“... What for?”

“To check their authenticity.”

“Authen-- you tellin’ me my money ain’t good here?!”

In her most placating-without-backing-down tone she said, “I’m telling you I don’t know.  Try the No. 7.” “... Check the authenticity…” He muttered, picking up the glass, “Will it take long?”

Pulling out her phone and setting the whiskey bottle down, she snapped a photo of the coins on the bar, turned them over and snapped another, then sent the images to Paul from the pawn shop two blocks down, who knew more about collector coins than she did.

“Nope.”

“... Is that a camera?” He wanted to know before shooting the whiskey.  Then he frowned at the glass. “... What kinda…?”

“Sure.” Shrugging she said, “You don’t like Jack?  I got Jim, Jameson, Makers, Crown, Johnnie, Wild Turkey… I could probably find some Seagrams for you somewhere…”

She went through the whole shelf without finding something he liked.  Meanwhile Paul was texting back that if the coins were legit, they were in fact worth good money, and that he knew a guy who could take a look at them for her.  Curious, she poured the cowboy two fingers of moonshine-- against her better judgement, really, and he announced that it tasted like something he was used to.

“I keep pouring you that, Arthur, it’s gonna be a short night for you and a long one for me.” “Ah…” He waved off her concern, but admitted he’d like to try the Jim Bean again.

She recognized he was drunk when he pointed at her arm and said, “... What’s all over yer skin…?”

“You mean my tattoos?”

“‘Tattoos’?” He echoed, as if tasting the shape of the word, trying to find out if he liked it or not, “... So yer a sailor?”

“What?”

“A criminal?”

“Excuse you?”

“Well you ain’t a princess…” And he grinned at her.

It was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to her, really.

“Only sailors, criminals, an’ royals-- or folk tryin’ t’copy royals have tattoos, I hear tell…” He explained.

She leaned on her elbows, running her fingers along the dark, twisting lines of ink on her forearm, “Well, Arthur, you heard wrong.  Lots of people have tattoos.  You probably passed three parlors on the way here.” “... Strange town you got here…” He confessed, brow furrowing as he fiddled with his glass.

“I guess.  Usually it’s pretty boring,” She raised her hand in a wave as Oscar stumbled out into the night, mumbling about his ride.

“Sure.”

The drinks had relaxed him and put some color back in his face, but she couldn’t help but think she was pouring whiskey for a deeply traumatized man, and that she ought to maybe be calling an ambulance or a police car instead.

“Think we better call it a night,” Roger said, climbing to his feet along with Dick.

Standing back upright, she went for the register, “I’ll close out your tab then.”

They shuffled out their payment-- Roger always paid with Visa, Dick always paid cash-- and Roger kept his eye on Arthur who paid him no mind while Dick leaned in toward her, eyes wide and serious.

“You gonna be okay here, Cat?”

She smiled and patted his arm with her other hand while taking his cash.  They were nice men, both of them with kids not too much younger than herself.  While they often came here together to get away from the noise of their respective houses, they still insisted on trying to quietly look after her.  Whether that was for sentimental reasons, or just to preserve the sanctity of their bar, she didn’t dare say for sure.

“What was that li’l thing…?” The cowboy asked her after the old regulars had left, leaving her alone with him at the bar.

“What do you mean?”

“That mean-faced feller gave you a thing… Din’t look like no money…”

“You mean his credit card?”

Waving his hand at her, Arthur pushed his glass forward, “... Credit from a bank?  With a card?  Can you buy drinks wit’ that?”

“Credit from a lending company-- Wait, okay… seriously.” She laughed at herself, “Arthur, what’s your deal?”

“Whad’ya mean?”

“It’s a good act, partner, but it’s gotten a little stale.  I’m about to close up the bar, so you’ll have to mosey on somewhere else for the night…”

“... Weren’t aware I was puttin’ on…” He sighed and shook his head, “...Y’know a place… a… a hotel or someplace?”

“Sure.  Two or three right around here, closer to the freeway.”

“... Freeway?”

“This is what I’m talking about Arthur,” She rolled her eyes, “You know what a freeway is.  Do you have some modern money to close out your tab?  I can take anything except a check…”

Frustration started to crease his brow, “Th’hell you mean ‘modern money’?”

“Money from this century, cowboy.”

His finger jabbed the bar wood with a thud by where she’d left the trade dollar coins, “These is from this century!”

Looking him in the eye, she was aware once again of the lucidity in them.  He was drunk, not crazy.  Or if he was crazy, it was a deep-seated crazy he’d operated all his life with.  He also thoroughly believed in the veracity of his words.

“... Arthur, no hotel is going to accept this money.  I can’t put this money in the register.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Because it’s over a hundred years old.”

“What the hell is wrong wit’-- What are you playin’ at?!” His fingers scrambled a minute before he picked up one of the coins to try and read the date, squinting at it in the light and his drunkenness, “... Th-this says ‘1883’.  It’s only seven years old!”

“...Okay.” She said simply, blinking at him. “Forget the tab.  I’m closing.”

He watched her at the register as she closed out the log, swiping her own credit card to zero out the balance.  Clark was going to give her hell about it, but it was just easier.

She’d gambled and it was only right she paid for her losses.

Arthur was still watching her as she started to wipe down the counter for the final time of the night, so she looked at him.  “You need to go.”

“... Right.  Sure.  Thank you… for the drinks…” Unsteadily, he pushed away from the counter, turned around… and couldn’t seem to find the door again. “Um…”

“Oh boy… Come on.”

She walked him out, and he went docilely enough.  The Dandy Bear opened out into the alley, and he still seemed lost, so she pointed him toward the main street and stood there to watch and make sure he left.

He made it to the corner, almost swaggered into oncoming traffic, stumbled back and fell on his ass.  Cursing to herself, she hurried over to make sure he wasn’t hurt and to pull him to his feet.  She really should have called the cops earlier…

“Are you hurt?”

Slowly, in ratcheting movements of his neck, the cowboy looked at her, though his haunted blue eyes seemed to look past her.  He looked at the headlights of the next car coming through, at the buildings towering high above, and then finally at her again. “... My Lord…” He murmured gravely, “... This is Hell.  I’m in Hell…”

“Not quite…” She sighed.  “Come on.  Stand up.”

After getting him up, he took hold of both of her arms, his hands careful, as if he couldn’t trust his own strength, “... Get me outta here, miss.”

She knew that sentiment.  She knew that in her bones.  In the depths of whatever soul she might have.

Get me outta here...

That was how he ended up in her apartment, she figured.

It was a weird night.  She couldn’t explain her logic to herself, it just felt like something she needed to do.  It just felt right that she bring this crazy man home and dump him in her bathroom.  Her family always said she had a self-destructive streak.

He stared open-mouthed at the tile and porcelain, doing a bit of a double-take in the mirror on the wall.

“Get yourself washed up.  I’ll get you a towel.” She instructed.

“... What?”

“Please take a goddamn shower so you don’t make my place smell like death warmed over?”

“... Miss I…” He gestured at the room, then at her, “...I dunno what yer… tellin’ me…”

“...Okay.” She replied in an even tone, “Let’s take this slow, then… You need to wash.  So I’m going to let you use my shower.  Over there.” She indicated the shower stall with the curtain pulled aside, “The plumbing is pretty decent in this building, thank God.  So see this?  This turns the water on…”

She demonstrated, and obediently, water started coming out of the shower head.  Arthur stared at it, then asked, “... Somebody pouring…?”

“What?  No.  It’s the plumbing… The pipes in the walls… Is this seriously a conversation-- Nevermind.  No.  Nobody is pouring.  Look, you can control the temperature of the water that comes out.  This way for hot… This way for cold.  To turn it off, you just push it back in like this.”

“... It’s amazin’!”

“... Sure, cowboy.  Think you can handle that?”

“Sure, I guess…”

“Great.  I’ll find you a bar of soap and a washcloth because I don’t have the energy to try and explain shower gel…”

“... ‘Shower ge’--”

“Exactly.  What about shampoo?”

His blank look told her all she needed to know, “... It’s soap for your hair.  Comes in a small bottle.  I’ll bring you some.  Put it in your hand, massage it into your scalp, rinse it out.  You won’t need a lot.”

She paused, “... You do know how to use soap, right?”

He scowled at her, “Of course I know how to use soap, what do you take me for?”

“... At this point, I have no idea…”

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.  She rubbed her hands together, “... Anyway, I’ll go get that stuff…”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Salvation In Ink

It has been way too long since I worked with my girl, Bella and I’ve been meaning to do something with this headcanon of mine.

Summary: AU where Bellatrix has been banished to the muggle world to get salvation. In order to fill her itch for pain, she takes up a job as a tattoo artist. A job made harder when Hermione walks in.

It buzzed in her hand.

She was growing used to the hum.

It was a constant and daily noise.

And it comforted her.

Bellatrix supposed that the comfort came from a sense of stability. At finally having at least one constant. For as much as she hated her predicament, she accepted resentfully that it was probably doing her some good. For the first time in a long while, her head was mostly clear. Her mind was mostly lucid. And she supposed that it wasn’t so bad, her line of work.

She got to do what she loved.

Even if it wasn’t via her usual means.

These days, muggles came to her seeking pain. She obliged without having a single beat missed. Today’s victim was a man in his late forties. A burly looking man with a bushy red beard and a biker jacket. She knew him well enough, he was loud and rowdy as she and had a habit of asking what business a woman had in this industry.  

She tied her hair back, a task much easier vocalized than put into action. Eventually, she had her collection of unruly curls, remotely tamed and away from intruding upon her sight. With that done, she washed her hands thoroughly. And after that she checked on the needles, they had been sitting for awhile and she decided that they are sterile. She motioned for the man, Kyle to seat himself. He did so after barking another thing or two about how it wasn’t right that such a skinny, scraggly looking woman could do his tattoos better than the best of the men he’d been to in the past.

“And yet you keep coming.” She commented as she brought the tattoo gun to his bicep. Today she would be touching up a tiger tattoo--an old work from a less talented friend. It was a gaudy thing, but she would make good work of it. He may not be a fainter nor a crier but paid her generously to make up for the lack of entertainment he provided.

The orange ink she put under his skin is much more vibrant than what he’d had before, with a tinge of gold ink, it truly stood out. She had a feeling that he wouldn’t be making many more comments about how she wasn’t suited for the job.

All in all, it was good work.

So long as she didn’t think about how she had been stripped of her magic.

How she had been barred from the wizarding world and was confined to this muggle hellhole.

She began sterilizing the needles in preparation for another client. She didn’t have another booking for a few hours. An unusually slow day. Should she get a walk in, she would prolong the consultation process until the needles have been cleansed to her liking.

Bellatrix didn’t expect that drawing out a simple, ‘what kind of ink are you looking for’ would be so easy. Usually people just plopped themselves down and got straight to the point. Occasional someone would ramble on about how, such and such was a depiction of their ex or a tribute to their dead mother and other interesting matters. But the woman who walked in wasn’t that sort.

The former witch was busy drumming her fingers upon the countertop and eyeing her own tattoo. She’d done it herself, turning her dark mark into a reaper with curvy and gnarled scythe and a snake curling around it.

The action had bought her a chance to re-enter the wizarding world should she live out her exile without causing too much of a stir.

Some nights she woke with a faint dread that her master would come to berate her for her disgusting act of disloyalty. For the blasphemy of defacing her dark mark. But he was gone, and for permanent this time.

It was time to release herself.

It was time for freedom.

Bellatrix didn’t notice her until she cleared her throat. “Relax, mudblood, I’m just doing my job. Any screams you’ve heard were completely voluntary.”

“I’m not here to check up on you.” Hermione replied. “That’s not my job.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Then what are you doing here?” Bellatrix frowned, almost certain that she was about to be on the receiving end taunting and mockery.

“This is a tattoo parlor isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Bellatrix confirmed. “Why are you standing in it.”

“To make flower crowns and cupcakes.”

“Down the street.”

“I want a tattoo, Bellatrix.”

The pure blood quirked an eyebrow.

The humor had drained from Hermione’s face. “You’re going to fix what you’ve done.”

“They tell me that, that’s why I’m here.” Bellatrix returned. “Something, something, atone for your crimes and live a... saner lifestyle.”

Hermione’s expression grew duller still. She held out her arm. “You’re going to fix this.” The scar was still heavily prevalent. “Make it into something meaningful and empowering.”

Bellatrix wrinkled her nose, it was one thing to sit idly doing a muggle’s work and another entirely, to actively right a specific wrong she done. Her stomach lolls unpleasantly. She hated the smirk on the younger witch’s face. The smug, triumphant smile. It would seem that just coming into the  shop was a victory. Making demands of someone who ought to be above her was another, larger conquest. Bellatrix did what she does best and retreated behind a wall of jesting and sarcasm. In a falsely cheerful sing song she replies, “the more you pay the more empowering.”

But the mudblood wanted to draw things out and make things as mentally painful as Bellatrix had dealt her physical pain. “You’re going to do it free of charge.” Simple. Clean. Cutting. Such was the nature of her demand.

Bellatrix scoffed. “You’re going to have to pull your wand out and utter an unforgivable if you want me to do that.” She wouldn’t specify if she was referring to crucio or imperio.

“No.” Hermione refused. “You’re going to do it because I told you to.” She fixed Bellatrix with a hard stare.

“Is that right?”

“It is.”

She looked at the clock. The needles should be clean. “I suppose that I can, since you flashed that gryffindor courage of yours. It’ll be nice to see you cry again.”

Hermione followed her without another word and sat herself down.

“So what are you looking for specifically?”

“Nothing so long as it gets rid of this.” She rubbed at the scar with her thumb.

“You’re really going to trust me with full creative control?” Bellatrix perked up rather deviously.

“I trust that you won’t do something that will ensure that you’ll never hex another house elf again.”

Bellatrix frowned. This mudblood was really sucking the life out of her. Hadn’t she a solid form, Bella might have thought her a dementor. She took a moment to work out a sketch. “Do you want to see it?”

“Surprise me, and make it a good one.” Hermione replied. “You getting your wand back depends on it.”

What a vexing human being. “Just sit still and scream very loudly if I hurt you.”  She picked up her tattoo gun and drank in the soothingly familiar buzz.

The mudblood was annoyingly quiet as she dragged the needle across her skin. The only indication of pain or discomfort was a contortion of her face every now and again or a reflexive tensing of her muscles. Once or twice she hissed in pain, a small thing that Bellatrix relished in. At least it was something to tickle her humor.  It was another two hours before she declared, “you’re all done, nice and pretty. You better refer your muddy and half-blood friends.”

Hermione held her arm out in front of her, inspecting the fresh ink. Where blood once marred her skin was an elegant owl. Bellatrix drew the ‘L’ up and connected it to the ‘D’ of ‘blood’ to form the owl’s head and ears. She used the first ‘O’ as an eye and the second to shape the beak. And the circle of the ‘D’ became a second eye.

“An owl?” Hermione questioned.

“You think that you’re smart so I gave you an owl.” Bellatrix shrugged.

She held her arm to the light. Bellatrix clicked her tongue as she decided how she wanted to approach the next part of her work. It had been harder to make something of mud so she took the easy route and drew a few aesthetically placed swirls amid a few feathers and flowers. She replicated the design on the other side of the tattoo.

Bellatrix hadn’t expected Hermione to smile. “This is actually…” she trailed off. “It’s really pretty.”

“If you’d like to put that down, I can wrap it up and send you on your way.”

Hermione held her hand out for Bellatrix to dress. There was something so nerve grating about tenderly caring for and helping cleanse a wound she formerly created. Something degrading, that sent tingles of repugnance resonating up and down her vertebrae. It was appalling.

“Why flowers?” Hermione asked.

“Do you want me to tell you that it was just a random pattern or do you want me to make up some story about how the flowers represent something beautiful budding from something ugly?”

“I’m going to pretend that you put some thought into it.” Hermione smirked. “It almost looks like  you put a lot of effort into this.”

“Believe it or not, I take pride in my work, mudblood.”

“Thank you.” Hermione said.

Bellatrix furrowed her brows. “I only did this because you told me to.” But was that entirely true? There was something satisfying in completing that one. Perhaps it was the same brand of satisfaction that came with redoing her own dark mark.

The prospect of new freedom.

Of making her own decisions, ones that aren’t tainted by her master’s will.

Perhaps it came with her newfound semblance of clarity and semi-peace.

“Wash it thrice a day. No swimming, no excess sun...you have an owl on your arm, I’m sure that you can figure out how to care for a tattoo.”

Hermione took a picture of her new ink. “Do you want to take one?”

Bellatrix gave an indigent sniff. “What is with muggles and taking pictures of everything.”

“It’s called building a profile, Bellatrix.”

“Word of mouth is my profile.”

Hermione inspected her arm again. “You have a very distinct style.” She noted.

Bellatrix nodded. “In most aspects of my life, I do.” She knew that she wasn’t making it easy for the muggle born to compliment her. But she didn’t know if she was ready to accept praise from such a low place. Ready or not, there was a small prickle within her that took well to the prospect. She didn’t return Hermione’s parting words nor gestures. She merely watched as the girl walked away, untethered from past injury. Moving forward in full with aid from the one who’d set her back in the first place.

Victorious, indeed.

Another client stepped in to take her place.

Bellatrix had a feeling that the mudblood would be back.

To her own dismay, she wasn’t entirely off put my the prospect.

[wctkins]

ok yall ive never made a sideblog before so this may go rough but ! u kno what 2019 is about us facing our fears ok. in other news this is my new Child callia ( um hi i’m cali ty’s mun if u didnt know ) . i was gonna write out a whole gr8 intro but honestly got lazy lmfao whats new ?? under the cut is the usual, wanted plots and stats and whateva ok xoxo

BASICS !

name:  callia ( beautiful voice ) bianca ( after her mother ) donatella ( after donatella versace ) watkins ( welsh surname ) nicknames: calli, cal age: twenty three birthday: november 3 1995  zodiac: scorpio hometown: melbourne, australia occupation:  head engineer at a green tech company  hobbies: working out, partying, watching jeopardy, drawing, reading, trying new foods, going for walks in central park family: emil watkins ( iron ore mining magnate ) , bianca watkins ( socialite )  style inspo: kendall jenner, elsa hosk, rachel green, 90′s drew barrymore, bella hadid muse inspo: donna pinciotti, monica geller, tai frasier, mylene cruz, fallon carrington ( career wise )

HISTORY !

ok so if yall haven’t seen the show yummy mummies on netflix gd thats my new addiction / guilty pleasure o shit that show’s hilarious. callia’s family is fully based on carlos and maria ( maria’s this random selfish bitch who’s obsESSED w versace and herself like go watch fr ) so callia grew up wearing only designer, mostly versace and burberry clothing. she didnt rly care when she was a small child but as she started growing up she started like ?? getting shit on by her other for being a regular child & wanting to play when her mom just wanted her to be decor essentially

had a pretty lonely childhood tbh spent most her time with her terror of a mother bc she wasn’t rly allowed to go hang out w other kids & was never involved in school activities. like essentially she only went to whatever prissy academy so her mom could show off her new car or her daughter’s outfits & brag to other moms lmfao

tbh didn’t give a shit about the brands and labels despite their house being covered in head to toe versace everythING she was more interested in sports and actuaL hobbies ?? so she wanted to play sports but wasn’t allowed bc goD FORBID she get a bruise or smth on her perfect skin. so she just started working out on her own in their home gym and found it was a rly good escape from her fam

another method of escape her mother’s grip was by delving into her studies. she was always top of her class and worked so dang hard ( but like also could afford the best tutors and education lmfao) so sis basically could get accepted wherever she wanted to go for post secondary

eventually she was able to convince her parents to let her study abroad for a year in nyc going to stay w her cousin #jessegrove where she was ! finally ! able to escape the clutches of her awful mother and her pushover disconnected father. she told her mother she was going to use the year as research for a career in modeling or fashion or smth bc she knew it’d cater to her moms interests but rly she just needed to get tf out of melbourne and live a normal life

she’s lived in nyc ever since ( since she was 18 - she’s 23 now ) and wanted nothing to do with the expensive brand names she’d grown to despise. so she found herself a condo ( def spent millions on it bc god forbid bianca watkins’ daughter living in anything under 5mil) but didn’t want it to be anything crazy bc she was so over that lifestyle so its def luxurious but very basic and minimal compared to what she grew up with

got into columbia’s earth and environmental engineering program bc she figured she ought to do something good with her smarts and her parent’s money so she went to school to get a degree & got a sweet job at a green tech company where she basically gets to do whatever tf she wants bc she’s the head engineer & makes fat stacks 

PERSONALITY !

during the week goOD luck convincing cal to leave the office like she basically lives there but she loves it ??? or shes at home doing facemasks and binging on reality tv like weekday vs weekend shes a completely diff person

weekends like......u better watch out. having grown up so isolated and sheltered callia has come to LOVE the nyc nightlife scene like she will get blackout one night and be ready to get drunk at brunch the next. shes not usually the life of the party moreso bc she enjoys just being a shit disturber and finds it fun lmfao

experiences maJOR fomo

she rly tries to be nice to everyone stemming from a deep need to have friends and be liked lmfao and is overall v approachable and friendly

can come across as fake tho bc she tries to be so nice she won’t disagree w people unelss they’re waY off from her own ideas

is v politically engaged & cares alot abt the environment so she’s vegan, walks most places, will 10/10 give a ted talk if anyone asks more deeply abt her job

honestly she wears mostly like simple clothing. like she just buys what she likes, whether its at h&m or at prada she has a distaste for exclusively brand wardrobes. def mostly walks around in high top converse and levi’s jeans 

WANTED PLOTS !

roommates ! the apartment linked above has 4 bedrooms so i’d loVE for 3 lil old roomates :’) 

hook ups / fwbs ! all that pent up stress has to come out somewhere lmfao shes tryna get laid at every turn so imma need a bunch of hook up plots ok no specific gender ( unlimited )

best friend ! the mary kate to her ashley, this person understands her inside and out & tbh knows her better than she knows herself. def knows about her crazy mother & can put up w the rants ( open )

friends from college ! they prob have wild stories abt college parties & have seen one anohter at their worst. preferably someone who went to columbia also ( open )

mutual dislike ! they think callia’s annoying and preachy, she thinks they’re rude and devil’s spawn bc they’re not as passionate abt environmental issues ( open )

exes ( she ghosted on them ) ! pls ok pls i need many !!!! cal’s so willing to adapt her personality to fit w whoever she’s with so she prob would be rly lovey dovey and make it seem like they were perfect for each other and meant to be but she low key lied abt everything, her family, her background, her feelings for them, etc. she prob thought they were ok but wasn’t rly into them besides for sex. so eventually she just got so invested in her work she ghosted on them ! i imagine them dating for a while too like maybe a year & they never met her family or rly got to know her bc she was hella guarded ( open ! )

exes ( on good terms ) ! they dated when she was new to nyc - she was like oooh an american they were like ooh an australian & tbh their sex life was gr8 but they didn’t rly have much going except for that so they called it off. they’re still friends & sometimes laugh abt the relationship ( open ! )

current fling ! they’re hanging out , might be moving towards exclusivity but aren’t there yet, its casual ( open ! ) 

sibling like relationship ! she never had siblings so she always felt like that aspect was missing from her life. she prob treats them like a sibling, asking if they’ve eaten and keeping up to date on their life. she cares alot & has good intentions but can sometimes be seen as over protective and pushy ( open ! )

ok yall im tired of writing this shit props to yall who do like literal essays, bullet points are even too much for me. LIKE THIS n ill slide into yo dms ok thanks for coming to my ted talk

[friendlyneighborhoodborg]

Marc Appreciation Week 2019| Day 6: Collab| “Working Together”

Okay, this is actually late.  It is past midnight, technically Day 7.

I am actually posting Day 7 later today, hopefully before the week is out.

Anyway here’s the 6th day, and the only chapter in the dumpster fire to actually follow the prompt given.

Disclaimers were in Day 1.

Chapters:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

AO3 Link

(~3200 biddling words.  Why do I do this to myself?)

           Marc didn’t know what he was.  Today was weird: he didn’t feel girly anymore after last night, but at the same time he didn’t think the “he” suited him today.  He realized this must have been what Alix was talking about before, about non-binary gender.

           Being something that wasn’t a boy or a girl was trippy.  Marc had felt it before, probably, but knowing what it was (which felt obvious now, considering… well, everything he was currently feeling) made it… something.  For all the words he knew, he couldn’t peg one for the experience.

           It occurred that he ought to have been surprised by how quickly he had taken to reconsidering his pronouns.  But then, that’s what his gender did, didn’t it?  Didn’t he always know that his gender did that?  Hadn’t that been such a large source of his anxiety for years?

          And now he was just rolling with it.

          That morning, he had glanced at himself in a mirror, per his usual routine.  His old adjectives, “Not him again” and “Could be worse” were absent this time.  Instead, he had felt heavy.  Overdressed, perhaps, only in his own skin.

          But he could live with that.

          It still stank, because French didn’t have a third-gender pronoun.  That meant that, regardless of his actual self, he had to use male pronouns.

          So, he comfortably got dressed, did up his face in a way he thought would suit him, and left for school.

          Something was different that afternoon.  Alix wasn’t in for some reason, which automatically meant the art teacher (he still kept forgetting his name) was more relaxed.  Juleka and Rose were separated, for once.  Rose was sitting in a corner, feverishly scribbling down notes in her pad.  Juleka was in the opposite corner, reading a horror novel, and her ankle was shackled to a protruding pipe.

          He approached Juleka cautiously, eyeing her restraints warily. “Did, uh…” He glanced up at the teacher, making sure he wasn’t listening.  “Did Alix tell you?”

          “Yeah, she got your text.”  Juleka glanced up meaningfully at her girlfriend, by herself in the corner. “Lucky someone in this club has their head on straight.”

          Marc chuckled.  “I don’t know if we can say that, there’s like one straight person in this club.”

          Juleka smiled for a second, then went back to reading her book. “And where was she, huh?  Crazy overworked, fixing up stuff our last class rep neglected.  Notice she couldn’t drop by all week?”  She calmly flipped the page she was on.  “Once again, Chloé got us into another fine mess that Marinette’s gotta pull us out of.  Again.”

          “What?” said Marc.  “No, I meant… wait, Marinette’s straight?”

          The musician shrugged.  “So she claims.  It is impolite to assume.”  As normal, her expression and tone betrayed little.

          “Biggest shock of my week,” was Marc’s jested reply.  “But I was talking about Nathaniel.”

          “Hm?  Oh yeah.” She pulled up one hand to do finger-quotes.  “‘Straight.’  That’s definitely an adjective that can describe him.  Marc, have you seen the way he draws Chat Noir?”

          “Of course, what about it?”

          “Well, maybe you’re both blinded by the superhero’s skintight leather, but the boy is not that ripped.”

          Rose hummed loudly.  Juleka glanced up at her.

          “I’m not trying to push anything, unlike some people,” she protested.  “I’m merely pointing out that he should have already noticed by now, in a manner he will not pick up on for purposes of dramatic irony.”

          “What’s going on?” he asked. “And what’s with you two?”  He looked at the chain.  “And… that?”

          “She’s on probation,” explained Juleka.  “Until she realizes what she did was wrong.”

          “Probation of what?”

          “Getting to run my hands through that soft, dark hair,” Rose replied for her, rubbing her fingers over the pages of her lyrics.  “Holding her close to me, closing my eyes and breathing in her clove-scented perfume.  Feeling the warmth of a heart matched beat-for-beat with mine.”

          Marc looked back at Juleka.  She was nose-deep in her book, but her forehead was sweating, her knuckles were white, and she refused to look anywhere near where Rose was sitting.

          “Is that why you’ve chained yourself to this pipe?”

          Juleka whimpered a little before answering.  “It’s funny, in a tragic sort of way.”

          “So, what’s holding Rose back?”

          “Pity, mostly.”

          “This isn’t about the makeup thing, is it?” questioned the writer.  “I don’t blame Rose for anything that happened.  I mean, it worked out, sort of.”

          “Yeah, no thanks to me,” sniffed the poet. “If I’d have known…”

          “Hey.”  He approached her and offered his hand.  “Hindsight is 20/20.”

          “Still.”  She rubbed the brimming tears from her eyes.  “I was such an idiot, and you had to go through all of that because of me.”

          “You’re still the first one who listened.  Let’s be honest, that could have gone a lot worse.”

          “I overreacted.”  She looked down and continued to write, though it was mostly an excuse to avoid Marc’s eyes. “I thought I knew what was happening, and I thought I could help.  I was wrong to try and do it by myself without seeing a second opinion.”  Sniffing, she closed the notebook.  “I’m sorry.”

          “Oh…” groaned Juleka.  “So close, Rose.  Come on, I know you can do it.”

          “Do what?”

          “We aren’t be allowed to touch each other until she figures out exactly where she went wrong.  She’s got most of it, but I’m not allowed to tell her the last one.”

          “Okay, but why are you doing,” he gestured wildly at both girls, “this?”

          “Because I don’t have the key and Rose is really trying, bless her.”

          He looked between the two of them a few times, both of them equally miserable.  “I get the feeling this wasn’t your guys’ arrangement.”

          “It was Alix’s,” admitted Juleka.  “We both went along with it.  The chain was my idea, though.  It’s the cruelest and most elaborate punishment ever devised, who do you think dreamt it up?”

          “I mean,” Marc disputed, “I wouldn’t have pegged her specifically.”  Particularly not after their little heart-to-heart yesterday.

          “Never tick off someone with a small body-mass-to-temper ratio,” Rose advised.  “Especially if everyone in her family is an ancient history buff.”

          “What’s that got to—”

          “Look, she knows a little something about torture.”

          “Ah,” Marc commented, thoroughly confused and only pretending to understand.  “You two look like you’re busy, I’ll leave you to it.”

          He quietly took his seat at the back of the room, leaving the two to sort out their issues in peace.

           All things considered, life was pretty good.

          So why was Marc still feeling so anxious?

          Nathaniel crept in through the door with his head down, answering the question.

           “Nathaniel,” Juleka said.  “Unlock me.  I need to go use the bathroom.”

           “Sure thing.”  Nath approached her, holding something else up.  “Brought your headphones, too, you left them in class.”

           “It won’t work.  She’s stuck in my head.”

Rose cast a saddened, dramatic gaze towards the writer in the back. “Pray you don’t become like us, Marc.”

           Marc blushed.  Of course Rose figured it out.  She probably told Juleka, too.

           Yet another thing to watch out for.

           ‘Wait, so is Nathaniel straight or not?’

           Nathaniel joined him at their usual table once Juleka had been freed.  “Hey.”

           “You know,” Marc bet, “one has to wonder if that’s some sort of metaphor for something.”

           The artist burst out laughing, but quickly shut himself up when he realized he was making noise.  “Yeah,” he confessed.  “Probably. But they’re good for each other. Rose helps Juleka’s self-esteem, Juleka keeps Rose grounded.”

           “Yeah.  They really are kinda fun to write.  Speaking of…”

           “Right!  Back to work.”

           “If we end off our comic there, Rose is never going to forgive us.”

           “I know,” expressed Nathaniel, glancing over at the person in question.  She was the only other student who hadn’t gone home yet.  Volume up high in her earbuds, she wasn’t even looking at them. “But this story is way too interesting for one issue.  With a cliffhanger like that, she’ll keep breathing down our necks to make more.”  He blushed, realizing he had gotten ahead of himself.  “I mean, if you’re okay with… I’ve really liked working with you and I want to—”

           “Yes!” Marc blurted with a blush of his own.  “I mean, um, yes.  I would… I would love to keep working with you.”

           “Okay.”  He turned his attention back to the work.  “So, if we end the issue with Princess Fragrance’s reveal, then that’s going to take a full-page panel.”  He drew a border inside another blank page.  “Right, so we’ve got that planned out.  Now to just get cracking on those last few pages.”  He surveyed the pages of blank boxes in front of him, each with a little note of what went in each.  “And we know what has to be said at each bit, so if you want to edit specific dialogue, now’s the time to do that.”

           “Cool.  I’ll get on top of that.”

           Marc’s brain suddenly took a dive, and he hastily tried to delete the previous sentence from his brain.

           Each of them had the plans for everything, so they didn’t see a reason to talk much, a silence Marc respected even if he himself wasn’t comfortable with it.  If it made Nathaniel more comfortable, he could swing that.

           His brain needed to stop it immediately with the double-entendres.

           The two of them worked for another few minutes, with only the sound of their pens scratching their paper.

           Nathan, surprisingly, was the one who broke the silence.  “So… last night you were a girl.”

           Marc exhaled nervously.  He wasn’t wrong, but it still felt weird to acknowledge the elephant in the room.  “Uh, yeah.”

           “Earlier yesterday you were a boy.”

           “Yep.”

           “So…”  Nath bit his lip, which Marc had to avert his gaze from.  “I don’t want to just assume, in case I get it wrong.  What are you now?”

           Marc had been stewing this over while he worked. Truth be told, he found he didn’t actually care as much today.  He knew he wasn’t a boy, and he wasn’t a girl, but… he wasn’t really much of anything else either.

           “I don’t think I’m anything right now.”

           “Really?”

          “Nothing, right now.”  He shrugged.  “I’m just… nothing.”

          “How does that work?”

          “Search me.”  He shrugged once again.  “I don’t have much of a gender today, I guess.”

          “So…” Nathaniel paused.  “It’s like there’s no… asterisks.”

          “Asterisks?”

          Nath winced.  “Sorry. I was trying to be poetic, y’know, like you?  You have this great, flowing… your words are just, they click.  Does that make sense?  It probably doesn’t make sense, forget I said anything.”

          Marc smiled at the compliment, going back to his journal.  “They’re just words.”

          “They’re not, though, alright?” he declared.  “They’re not just words, they’re you! The way you get words to line up, only you can do it that way.  You’re so… smart, and creative, and… your writing style is just great.”

          “Th-thanks.”

          “I mean that.”  Nathan looked away, holding his arm sheepishly.  “You’re great, you’re really…”  He shut his eyes.  “Forget it.”

           Marc blinked.  “What was that?”

           “Never mind.  Where you at?  Panel 9-g, the security guard is revealed to be possessed, Ghostlight comes out, and we need a good, punchy line to start the fight with.”

           “No…”  Marc closed his journal.  “This can wait.  What were you going to say?”

           “Nothing important.”

           “I doubt that.”  He reached over the table and took his hand.  “Nath, whatever it is, it’s important.  You want to say it, say it.”

           Nathaniel blushed.  His mouth opened and closed, flopping like a fish, and he started to sweat.

           Marc looked down and realized oh wait, he was actually holding Nath’s hand.  He instantly let go, which seemed to shock Nath back into coherency.

           “I can’t,” he told him.

           “You can’t?”

           “No,” he restated.  “I’ll just mess it up, just forget it.”

           “I’ll listen.”  This gave the author pause.  “I’ve been keeping up with you for the last week.  I’ll understand what you’re trying to say.”

           His face had determination etched into it. He opened his mouth and began.

           “Oh!” Rose said suddenly, breaking his momentum. “Look at the time, I have to… go make an excuse.”  She scooched off of her seat and sashayed out the door.  “I’ll leave you two alone,” she called back, leaving the door ajar.

           Both collaborators stared after her.  The art teacher glanced in her direction, then he, too, left the room.

Nathaniel and Marc were alone.  Nathan, only a little deterred, summoned back what little courage he had left.

“You…”  He stopped. “You’re my friend, right Marc?”

           “Yeah,” was the immediate, nodding answer.  “I hope so, anyway.”

           “And… I’m your friend, right?”

           “Of course.”

           “You… you’re so much of a better person than I am.” The boy gulped.  “No matter… who you are.  And today, it’s like… I’m so glad I get to see you happy.”

          “Uh…”  Marc nodded again in appreciation. “Thanks.”

          “I mean, look at you, you’re happier, even if you’re still the same person who’s come in to help me with this stupid thing—”

          “Nathan, it’s not stupid—”

          “It is, though, and sometimes it feels like we’re the only people here who care about it.  Only now you’ve changed, and you’re so much more relaxed now, and… And it’s good for you, right?  You get to be so much more confident.  Like just now, when you said you had no gender, you said it and you were sure.”

          “I’m still not really sure.”

          “You sounded sure, and that’s better than I can do.  With pretty much anything.  I’m not strong or witty, but you are. There’s just so many little things, here and there, and I can’t concentrate right.  There’s just so many things about—”

          The sudden halt from the speed at which Nathaniel had been talking gave Marc whiplash.

          Marc looked at him, expecting him to finish what he was saying.

          “I can’t…” he mumbled.   “Just… that’s it, then.  I don’t know how I was going to end that.”

          “You feeling okay, Nathan?” queried Marc.  “I don’t think I’ve heard you talk so much in one go.”

          “It’s…nothing.”  Nath took a deep breath.  “I’ve been trying to… think of things I wanted to say—”  He got out of his seat, turning away.  “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

          “No,” Marc stated, standing up behind him.  “You’re not.  If you need to say something, just say it.”

          “I think—”

          “Go on.”

          “I think you’re—” Nathaniel swallowed his tongue and hunched over, covering his mouth.

          “Nath!”  Marc rushed to his aid.  “Breathe slowly, okay?  Are you alright?  You look like you’re going to puke.”

          “I didn’t say anything, just…”  Nath’s voice broke.  “Please, just drop it, I don’t wanna…”

          Marc couldn’t believe it.  Nathaniel, whose creativity knew no bounds, was censoring himself.

          That could not happen.

          And Marc needed to know.

          “What if I don’t want to drop it?”

           “Marc, please…”

           “What if I don’t want you to be afraid to talk to me? What would you say if you could talk to me?”  He looked into his icy-blue eyes, piercing through with his warmth.  “What if you were about to say what I thought you were going to say?  What if it’s that important that I hear how that sentence was going to end?”  He snatched Nath’s hands from where they had covered his mouth and cradled them in his own. “And what if, by some miracle, I cared about how you felt and what you thought?”

           Nath stared back at him, and both of them reeled from the shock of Marc’s outburst.

           Then Nathaniel slowly started shaking his head.

           “Don’t do this… don’t do that to me,” he murmured. “Stop doing that, you’re going to just regret it.”

           Marc tightened his grip.  “Just say what you wanted to.  Stop putting up all these filters in your head.”  He grasped at something.  “Do the thing about the asterisks.  What did you mean by that?”

          Nath took a deep breath and tried.  “Well… right now, you’re… no gender.  No asterisks.  No added stress.  You’re just… Marc.  Pure Marc.” He scowled.  “I mean… that’s not good, is it, that’s not clever.  Cause you’re not just genderless, are you?”  He wrenched his hands from Marc’s ironclad grip. “Look, you could be a girl and I’d… you’d still be you.  Same for if you end up a boy.  You just get to be you.  And… I like it when you’re you.”  He stopped, looking to Marc for criticism.

           After a moment, Marc smiled warmly.  “That was pretty poetic.”

           “Y-you do it so much better than me.”

           They both smiled.

           “C-can I—” Nath gulped, shutting himself down.

           “What?”

           “N-nothing.”  He shook where he stood.  “Forget it.”

           “No chance.”  Marc wasn’t sure where this courage was coming from, but he didn’t shake it away.  “You don’t have to filter yourself.  I won’t judge anything you say from here on out, you hear me?  It’s the least I can do for what you and Alix have done for me.”

           Nathaniel drew closer suddenly, his hand touched Marc’s cheek, and their lips barely touched.  For a single half-second, their lips brushed against one another, and then Nathan drew back like Marc was a burning stove.

           Both creators were left in a state of shock.

           “Oh… my… God.”  Marc gaped.  “You…”

           “Cute,” Nathaniel muttered.  “I was gonna say cute.  Before.”  He looked down.  “I’m… sorry, I’ll just…”  He made his way to his bag, tripped on a chair, and started to bolt for the door.

           Seeing Nathan start to panic and run away triggered something in him.  He suddenly found a good reason to raise his voice.

           Nathaniel had given him strength.  Now he had to return the favor.

           “Hey, get back here!” Marc called out, and the artist stopped. “I’ve had a crush on you for over a full month now.  You get a do-over.”  Marc surged forward, turned him back around, and kissed him again, this time much more solidly.

           A few seconds passed and they separated.  “You have a crush on me?” Nath said, confused.

           Marc laughed a little at his expense.  “There were times, even just this week, where something you did just completely killed me, stone dead.”

           Nath blinked.  “Do you want to go out sometime?”

          “You see, this is what I’m talking about.”  He pulled him close and hugged him tightly.  “Son of a gun, yes, but don’t give me heart attacks like that.”

          Nath’s arms awkwardly returned the embrace.  “I, uh… I’ve never had a… an actual date before. What’s the, uhm… protocol, here?”

           “Are you serious?”

           “Half-serious.”

           “Well don’t worry.  It’ll be a learning experience for the both of us.”

           We have always belonged together!

           Nathaniel tore away from the embrace, turning sharply towards the door.  “Rose, what the hell!?”

           The little pink devil held the phone up high, volume turned all the way up.  We will always belong together!  Just keep moving on!

           “Sorry,” Rose giggled.  “My hand slipped.”

           The collaborators looked at each other.  Nodding a silent agreement, they chased after Rose together.

Okay.  I don’t have much else to say right now, so... *shuffles away*.

[tapas-and-stuff-productions]

The Deities Project: Part 9

An early notion for the Keys & Kingdoms universe was to divide its world into sections ruled by three pantheons, and those would be the historical pantheons of Greek, Norse, and Egyptian mythology! As it turned out, the 3rd Edition D&D supplement “Deities & Demigods” included stats for those exact three pantheons, and I carefully studied that for guidance on how to reinterpret those legendary pantheons for use in a fantasy world.

And so began this project: drawing all 53 historical deities depicted in that book. Casey Gosselin drew their symbols and Stacy Lord drew the characters themselves. Neither saw the illustrations in the D&D book, but we stuck to what the book claimed as their symbol, their sacred weapon, and very general appearance. The big project lasted from October 2019 to August 2020. Since then, we’ve been putting more research into the real myths and other gods, but these will still form the foundation for the core members of the pantheons and what they’ll look like when the K&K universe begins.

This is an 11-part series presenting all the art anew and talking about the ideas behind it! Presented in the order in which they were done, which is approximately in the order of strongest to weakest according to their rankings in the D&D book. Don’t forget to check out Stacy and Casey’s own pages:

This is for sure a favorite design of  mine! The blue skin with the very pale hair looks awesome, the single-bladed greataxe, the proper bikini armor - and some actual muscles, to emphasize in her final design! Mm-hmm. Probably the most shoehorned a character’s symbol ever became… you can’t embroider fur, what the heck was I thinking?

Skadi’s got a funny backstory - a Jotun who wanted to defect to Asgard, she came seeking to marry Baldur. Odin didn’t want to just give Baldur away, so had her instead choose her husband from a lineup of various bachelor Asgardians while only able to see their feet. She hoped the cleanest pair of feet belonged to Baldur, but they turned out to be Njord’s. It seems she wasn’t happy with Njord, and they eventually divorced and Skadi ended up with Sif’s son Uller - I imagine she was happier there, as Skadi married to Uller seems a bit more “status quo”. Also, one of her domains is skiing. She is the goddess of skiing. People make fun of her for that.

Speaking of Uller, seems he’s on a similar power level to his wife. I believe mythically he’s Sif’s son and thus Thor’s stepson, but, eh, sometimes these tangled myths are worth simplifying, let’s say he’s Thor’s son as well. So… pretty good design, wearing a lot more layers than most, looks pretty adventurous and the colors are nice together. Basically, setting the standard for what more final designs ought to look like. And I love his extra-long silky hair!

Here we have my very favorite deity design in the whole collection! A lot of ideas together I wasn’t sure would work but sure as hell do - such as the animal-headed deities occasionally having human hair, his mace being golf club shaped, his sleepy red eyes, his condemning point, and overall slender frame. Really sweet. The symbol on his belt being the scales of life and death was another ad-lib from Stacy. Totally awesome. And the jackal head symbol is nice! Like Bast’s cat symbol, I figured it represents just a general jackal rather than Anubis himself, as evidenced by their different eye colors.

And we’re out of the lesser gods and into the demigods, in this case not meaning gods of partially mortal descent, but instead gods who have just the bare minimum amount of worshipers to be proper gods; deific beings without enough worshipers are called quasi-gods.

Nike is, er, sort of a Titan, I guess? She and her three siblings are more like embodiments of concepts - she is victory, and the most noteworthy beside her these days is Kratos, who embodies strength, because his name is now well-known as the protagonist of the God of War series… just his name, there wasn’t really much to the strength guy to borrow from.

Anyway, Nike. Kind of an angel of victory! I suppose there ought to be an explanation of some sort for why only a small handful of gods have wings… anyway, Casey and I both counted this among our favorite symbols, I like that sort of Christmas-angel version of her, and making it generally darker in color than her actual self, that feels legit. I specified a “trumpet-shaped mace”, and Stacy clearly didn’t know what that meant, as she made a flail with a trumpet-shaped handle, and I just didn’t say anything because I wanted to get through to the end of this thing, so, this is the other one besides Tyr that I really regret. But much less than him, because besides her weapon, her design is top-notch.

Apep! Sometimes called Apophis. Peppy, to his friends. This fiendish fiery serpent is the enemy to the Pharaonic gods - certainly a very different sort of deity to all the rest. Lots of novelty in his being totally non-humanoid. While usually depicted as a big python with some dragon-like traits, I thought making him a big thick cobra would be a fun new thing! Though since then I have seen him drawn as a cobra in one other place, a cool YouTube channel that explains lots of myths, been a valuable resource. Apep is important as we start out, since he will be the force behind the villains of “Keys & Kingdoms: The Choices”. So, yeah, I’m very happy he turned out this damn good!

[f-nodragonart]

h e wwo i’ve been meaning to do this for a while but !! never had a proper art piece to submit for critique and finally i’ve made a fullbody dragon hell yeah

the legs are kinda wonky and i’m fIGURING EM OUT but yeah this is a take on Flamecaller from Flight Rising

(please ignore the weird cuts in the neck there’s supposed to be fire there)

hewwo!! 

before I start, I gotta say I fuckin LOVE your style here! the detail in the skin textures is exquisite, and I love the way u shaped Flamecaller’s head/neck!

so the main problem w/ the front legs is their connections to the chest. idk if this is a conscious art direction on FR b/c SO MUCH of the art features this mistake, despite varied artists, but FR has a real problem w/ not properly attaching limbs– particularly front legs– to the body. Flamecaller herself is a particularly egregious example of this, as I’ve mentioned in the past, so I can’t rly blame u for following the script w/ her design here

first I shifted the shoulderblades so the bottom points (where the humerus meets the scapula) are closer to the front end of the ribcage where the pecs ought to be. this allowed me to draw more substantial connections between the shoulders and pecs. note how I did this– instead of making a solid line from the arm all the way over the curve of the shoulder, I instead ended the front arm line right at the edge of the shoulder connection, then drew in a small UNCONNECTED curve to indicate the mass of the shoulder under the flesh. extending the arm lines up completely unbroken as far as u did implies 0% connection b/t the arm and the body, so it helps to use less connected curves/lines once the arms reach the body mass, to imply internal connections underneath the flesh instead. I also redistributed the mass of the upper arms a bit, and moved the far arm down/in a bit closer to the chest

also note how the throat doesn’t flow quite as smoothly into the chest anymore, but rather ends distinctly at the indication of collarbones. even in splayed-leg structures where the torsos can merge more smoothly w/ the neck, connections are rarely SO smooth, so this goes double for a non-splayed structure w/ a flexible neck, such as with Flamecaller

as for the wings, I first had to restructure the chest for proper musculature. w/ just abt any ribcage, the front end is gonna be more narrow than the back. this is esp tru for a structure like this, where the front limbs will have dramatically less shoulder muscle mass than the powerful wings just behind. thus, I pushed more of the chest mass from the front to the back. I also just made the chest thicker/longer in general for more support/structure, + I think it matches Flamecaller’s tapering torso better

now, in terms of aesthetics, idk how big u want Flamecaller’s wings to be here. for realism, you’ll want the arm/finger lengths to match or extend a bit past mine, but I can see how u’d prefer ur original wing sizes for the look of this individual piece as a whole. whatever u decide, the proportions WITHIN the wing need some work. the general rule for wing proportions is that the upper arm is thick/short for thrusting power, while the lower arm is long/thin for surface area and supporting membrane. for the fingers, the base sections connecting to the wrist should be the longest/thickest for stability/support, then should get thinner/shorter as u move to the tips, which should be the thinnest/shortest for delicate maneuverability of the edge of the membrane. the musculature of the wing also looks a bit wonky, so I’d suggest looking into bat wing musculature to help get a better feel for it

now kind of a nitpick w/ Flamecaller’s design: the way her front-edge wing membrane attaches down onto the back of her front limbs is SUPER impractical for flight. it would only serve as an obnoxious barrier against oncoming air currents, and rly doesn’t seem to serve any other purpose. whether u keep this for aesthetics or not is whatever, b/c in the grand scheme of anatomical mistakes it’s one of the lesser ones, but I just wanted to let u know

the hind legs suffer from proportion problems as well, mainly in the foot sections being FAR too long. thus, I cut down the foot lengths and lengthened the lower legs a bit as well (while this isn’t always the case, it’s often the lower legs that are longer in quads and even many bipeds like birds). I also shifted the far leg closer to the torso b/c it looked to be floating a bit too far away from the hips. the position of the close leg was HIGHLY awkward, w/ the heel pushed back almost behind the hip, so I pulled the knee down/forward, and the heel naturally followed to a more comfortable position below the hip. this awkward leg positioning is also a HUGE problem w/ FR art, so I can’t rly blame u for following that script either

Flamecaller looks to have ornithischian hips to me, tho she could possibly have saurischian instead, I’m not sure. since I’m going w/ ornithischian, I pulled her pubic bump down a bit past her rump, as seen below (saurischian featured in the top pic, ornithischian featured in the bottom)

also I’m not sure if u made her hind dew claw/thumb into a regular toe on purpose or not, but I just added it back in for canon consistency. I’m also not sure that she actually has a thumb on her wings? it’s a lil’ hard to tell w/ the fold-over of membrane in her ref. it’s on u to keep these features or not, just thought I’d point ‘em out /shrug/

hope this helps!

-Mod Spiral

[rannadylin]

Some canon characters appearing in the Citlatl cast needed portraits to go along with all these orlan OCs of mine. :-D Edér and Aloth are visiting Vi’s hometown in Ixamitl so of course they, too, are wearing Ixamitl clothes. Also, I like drawing Ixamitl clothes with all their fancy embroidery and beads.

Won’t be necessary to type up all the character details since I’m sure PoE players already know who these fellows are, but some notes on their roles in Soul and Shield:

Edér is courting Violet (which is how you know this story is an AU, I guess...) since the end of Clan and Court some months ago: Established relationship, yet still sort of figuring things out. 

Currently in the story he’s mostly just helping out wherever needed with the investigation...plus being on his best behavior since Vi’s parents are still not quite persuaded their daughter should be dating him.

Aloth may or may not have become aware at this point of the particular attentions of a certain recently-Awakened elven rogue in his direction...

In Vi’s worldstate, Aloth suppressed Iselmyr; but I’ve been writing it more as a matter of him taking control of his own life to the extent that she doesn’t interfere as much because he’s less in need of intervention. She’s not as silent as suppressed-Iselmyr seems to be in Deadfire, at any rate, and writing the two of them coordinated is one of the most delightful parts of this fic project.

Currently in the story, Aloth is most interested in the part of the investigation that involves interfering with whatever the Leaden Key are up to in the region, though they’ve had little progress on that since he helped Lenneth fight off one of their attacks and then the whole group - well, most of the group - fought off another attack in the Tlacu marketplace. Aloth has assisted Anselm a bit with looking for LK clues in various unsolved cases but that’s been a dead end so far. So he’s also been accompanying Lenneth, sometimes, on her visits to temples in an attempt to remember more of what Glynis - her Awakened life - knew; Aloth’s also been, along with Violet, a voice of experience and empathy in helping Lenneth learn to deal with her Awakening.

Behind the cut, some of my favorite scenes so far for these two in the story:

Aloth

Think she’ll lead us stret to the hooded fyndes? Iselmyr suggested hopefully.

Aloth couldn’t discount the possibility. There had to be more Lenneth wasn’t telling them, and he had noted how earnestly she argued for the pursuit of the animancer, even if it meant leaving the Leaden Key (coincidentally, or conveniently?) unchallenged. But for the moment, Lenneth seemed to be leading them nowhere directly, but taking a most circuitous route, as if she knew she was being followed.

Fortunately, Aloth had a fair bit of experience with tailing and being tailed. Ferretting out the Leaden Key around the Dyrwood had been much simpler when they kept coming after the Watcher. In his attempts to shut down their well-hidden operations since then, he’d had to learn their tricks more thoroughly than even when he had been one of them. Iselmyr had little patience for these subtleties -- but she could also be remarkably perceptive when he let her take the lead, and keeping up with a mark as slippery as this one seemed to appeal to her competitive nature. Between the two of them, Aloth managed to keep Lenneth in his sights, just barely, as she skirted the temple district, blended with the crowds in three separate marketplaces, doubled back through alleys, and traveled rooftops through a seedier district that turned out to be the home of the Adra Antelope.

Aloth watched her vanish into the inn, not by the front door under the weathered sign painted with the inn’s namesake animal in garish green as far as it could be from the actual color of adra, but through a second-story window. He crept a quick patrol up and down the streets overlooking both that window and that door, waiting to see by which she would emerge. As he turned the corner, he caught sight of a familiarly hooded figure lurking across the street from the Adra Antelope’s entrance. The sight made Iselmyr crow with joy. Our quirry! Ga’on, let’s take this’n oot --

Aloth bade her wait. Pausing as if to take his bearings at the crossroads, he counted three more of Iselmyr’s hooded fyndes watching the building. I don’t think she’s here to meet with them, he grudgingly advised Iselmyr. And I don’t think it’s us she was avoiding, with that route.

Iselmyr drew his attention to a fifth lurker, now creeping down the inn’s wall toward the same window Lenneth had entered. Fye, that’s yin she’ll be hard pressed ta avoid. Let’s take that’n oot, fer a start.

Aloth concurred, already finding the page in his grimoire and beginning to summon the spell. With the last arcane word, the figure on the wall froze in place, halfway through the window, then suddenly peeled away from the wall, his petrified form no longer able to grasp the handholds, and plummeted to the street below.

“Lenneth?” She turned to find Aloth lingering in the parlor too, wringing his hands and hesitating to look at her.

“Yeah?” she prompted softly, coming to sit in the chair next to him.

“I…” He met her eyes briefly. “First, I owe you an apology. For my rudeness when we first met.”

“Oh.” She chuckled. “You know, I really don’t blame you if you didn’t trust me. I was lying about why I needed to find Grigor, and anyway, I’m hardly the most trustworthy sort.”

“I’m not certain I agree,” he murmured before meeting her eyes again. “Look. About your Awakening. You’re in good hands now, you know. Violet knows what she’s doing, as much as anyone can, in these matters.”

Lenneth smiled. “That’s...good to hear. Thank you.”

Aloth nodded. “It helps that she’s a Watcher, of course, and that she’s experienced an Awakening herself. But it’s not just her own Awakening. She has a way of...of collecting people like us, it seems,” he finished with a slight laugh and a sudden tension, clasping his hands together so that the fidgeting stopped.

Lenneth gasped and grabbed at his arm. “Wait, you too?”

He shrugged, confirming it with half a nod and half a smile. “Me too.”

“Really? Oh, that’s -- No, you have to tell me more now. What’s it like? How long have you…?”

Aloth’s smile turned wry. “Do you ever ask just one question at a time?”

“It would take longer!”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Okay, for starters, have you been Awakened long? Longer than me, I assume.”

Aloth nodded. “Most of my life. Since I was a child.”

Lenneth’s eyes widened. “What’s it like?”

“Terrifying, at first. Confusing. But, once I understood what had happened to me: annoying, mostly,” he said. “Which is why I spent most of my life fighting it. I’ve...come to terms with it, more or less, largely thanks to the Watcher’s influence, and it’s not all bad, there are some advantages, but it’s still often annoying, that intrusion of a presence that just doesn’t really fit with this life.”

“Same,” Lenneth sighed. “I mean, it’s sort of intriguing to think that somewhere deep down I might actually know what’s going on with the light out there,” she waved at the window, “but there ought to be less awkward ways than springing memories on me like that, right?”

“If only.”

Time passed, not easily marked by the night sky in its current condition, as Lenneth drew out more and more of Aloth’s story and he grew more at ease with telling it. So they were deep in a recounting of how he had come to terms with Iselmyr after so many years spent resisting her Awakening, when Aloth interrupted his own story with an involuntary yawn and Lenneth couldn’t help but echo it.

“Sorry,” she said. “Guess it’s later than it looks, and all that.”

“Indeed,” he winced. “I apologize for keeping you from sleep like this, especially with as much damage as you took before we reached you in the fight today.”

“No, it’s fine,” Lenneth assured him. “Honestly, thank you for this. I’m glad we got to talk. It’s...such a relief knowing it’s not just me, you know?”

Thanks to her sudden vise-like grip of his hand, Aloth had a moment’s warning. This allowed him to, none too clumsily, catch Lenneth when she gasped and her knees suddenly gave way there in the birthing chamber. “Lenneth?” he began to call to her, “Lenn--” but broke off as he realized that what was happening was probably just the thing they were trying to achieve. So he caught her and carefully hefted her over to the nearest couch. Well, birthing couch, technically, he supposed. But it would have to do.

“What’s happening?” the little priestess worried at him. “Is she all right? Did she trip? Is she --”

“Fine,” Aloth insisted, to himself as well as to the priestess. “She’s fine. Just a spell -- this sort of thing takes her sometimes -- climbing all those stairs, perhaps,” he fumbled.

“Oh, heavens,” the priestess breathed out in what sounded suspiciously more like delight at the drama than concern for a woman’s well-being. “Here, lay her down. She’s breathing, isn’t she? Make sure she’s breathing.”

She was staring straight ahead, still squeezing his hand for dear life; but yes, she was breathing. Very deeply breathing, in fact. “She’s fine,” Aloth repeated.

“Does she need a physician? Oh, it’s a shame we don’t have midwives on staff here these days. Of course I suppose it’s not a midwife she needs, but a proper physician -- unless,” she cast a hopeful glance at the catatonic Lenneth. “Is she with child?”

Aloth felt his face warm and avoided more than a glance out the corner of his eye at Lenneth’s petite form. “Not...not that I’m aware of, no,” he managed.

“Oh, what a shame,” the priestess sighed. “For a moment I thought -- well, I hoped the light in the sky might have heralded such an event! The first birth at the Sky-Mother’s temple in generations! Ah, well.” She patted Aloth’s arm, then Lenneth’s. Then she frowned at Lenneth’s continued stillness. “Perhaps I should go for that physician after all.”

“I really don’t think that will be necessary,” Aloth insisted, studying the flickering of Lenneth’s eyelids. “But could I trouble you for -- for some refreshment? For when she recovers, that is. She…” His memory flashed to that morning, at the Haven’s edge, when he’d observed Xipil sitting with her through just such a vision as Aloth hoped she was having now. “She does find a bit of chocolate to be very restorative, at these moments.”

The priestess smiled kindly. “I have just the thing. Wait right here.” And with a flutter of her feathered headdress, she darted back up the stairs.

“As if we were going anywhere else,” Aloth muttered under his breath when she was well out of hearing.

A minute passed, then another. Then Lenneth’s eyelids fluttered again, and with a gasp, she sat up, still clutching Aloth’s hand.

“My baby!” she croaked with the voice of a woman whose cries had for hours flown to Hylea under her midwife’s care. Panting for breath, she blinked slowly, looking around in bewilderment at the underground chamber. Her eyes met Aloth’s. She blinked once more, and then quietly asked, her voice fading back to its normal register, “Did...did I just have a baby?”

“You most certainly did not,” he answered with a wry half-smile, untangling his fingers from hers as her grasp finally relaxed. “But I think, perhaps…”

Her eyes went wide as she finished the thought. “Glynis did.”

 Edér

Violet came back to herself as she slowly became aware of the sound of a heartbeat. Not her own, she realized after a moment. She was warm, and cozy, as if waking up from a nap, but also there was movement, and quiet, familiar voices surrounded her.

She drew breath and blinked her eyes open to see Edér looking down at her, first in concern and then with a relieved grin. “Hey honey,” he murmured. “There you are. All good now?”

She stirred, looking over her shoulder to see that she was in his arms, held against his chest in a bridal carry, and they were walking through the streets of Citlatl again. Ahead, she saw Audie arguing with Anselm in low voices. Behind, she heard Yolotli questioning, then Lenneth in reply, and Aloth sounding curt and strained.

“What happened?” Violet asked quietly, looking back to Edér.

“Typical Watcher stuff, at first,” Edér reported. “Then you just dropped. Out cold. Couldn’t rouse you.” He held her closer and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “It was like one of them nightmares you used to have. Scared us all.”

“I think I’m out of practice,” Violet said. “I don’t remember getting so caught up in a soul like that before. When it came to the end, it was -- it wouldn’t let me go. Like its desperation overtook me.”

“Well, there’s some in the party,” he nodded in Audie’s direction, “as just about took a piece outta Anselm for putting you in harm’s way like that.” Indeed, it looked like Anselm was not to hear the end of it anytime soon. Audie’s grudges were legendary; she’d barely come to terms with Anselm’s treatment of Violet years ago, even after months of his friendly association with the family at Caed Nua. “Aloth and me, we figured you’d snap out of it like usual. But we’re on our way back to the house, just in case.” The tension in his voice, and relief at having her awake to hear this report, belied his calm dismissal of the episode. Violet wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Edér stroked his beard, stepping closer to the Haven. “So it’s just some magical hoard sort of thing? Storing all the power? Think it’s actually dangerous, up this close, or…?”

“Well, it may be,” Aloth began. “To condense so much essence in a confined space, that could…”

But before he could finish his thought, Edér was poking at the Haven with the edge of his sword. “Huh,” said he. “Don’t feel anything much.”

Aloth blanched as Edér switched to poking at it with a finger. “Be careful. It could --” But too late: With a brief shout, Edér brought up his shield and barreled straight through the barrier to the other side. He turned around to grin at them all even as they were still drawing sharp breaths to cry out. “Huh,” he said again. “Tingles a little. Long as I’m not on fire, seems okay?”

Anselm crossed his arms, regarding the man with a smirk. “No fire that I can see. The state of your hair suggests a bit of static, nothing more. Please don’t go and get yourself killed, though. There’s no way I could explain that to Violet.”

Edér nodded sheepishly, running a hand through his hair that did little to actually smooth it down, then walked along the edge of the Haven for a few steps, inspecting it from the outside. “Looks about the same over here. Hey, Aloth. Can you cast something through it? A missile or something?”

Aloth frowned. “At what?”

“Well, not me,” Edér said. “Promised not to get myself killed. Rock over there’ll do. Just to see if a spell goes through.”

So Aloth obliged, lifting his grimoire again and summoning a small bolt, then a larger one. Both sailed cleanly through the Haven and impacted against the target rock, the first in a flash of light and scattering of splintered stone, the second in an explosion of dust as the whole rock shattered.

“Okay,” Edér nodded, “so that looked about right. Now come cast one from this side.”

Aloth paled. “If I can. I’ve expended a fair bit of my grimoire’s resources already today, and if the Haven interferes with its recharging…”

“Just one,” Edér insisted. “Got an idea about this thing. And don’t worry, it’s safe enough to step through. Makes your hair stand on end, is all.”

So Aloth drew a deep breath and plunged through to the outside, where Edér greeted him with a friendly slap on the back. As he drew out his grimoire again to find a suitable spell, his eyes widened. “Hm. It’s...That’s interesting. It has recharged somewhat.” He glanced over to the Haven. “Passing through this thing...perhaps the essence held within remains accessible so long as the grimoire, too, is within its bounds.”

Anselm’s eyebrows raised. “Good to know.”

Aloth walked along the Haven’s edge to a place a few yards away from those still standing inside its bounds and again launched a spell from his grimoire. Without impediment, the arcane bolt sailed forth at his gesture towards the wall of light, but this time, rather than passing cleanly through as the previous spells had, it crashed against the Haven with a flare of light and a shriek of inanimate wrath.

Edér looked around the group with a satisfied smile. “It’s a shield,” he interpreted, hoisting his own, more mundane shield in demonstration. “City can fire magic out, but no one can fire it in.”

Lenneth looked from the group on the inside to the two now on the outside of the Haven, and back again. “Okay, but is it just for magic? Can you two get back in?”

Edér’s smile faded to a concerned furrowing of his brow. “Huh. Hadn’t thought of that.” He approached the Haven and once again poked at it with his sword, then gingerly pressed his shield against the barrier. “Seems okay,” he said. From there it was a matter of once again poking at it with a finger before he finally gathered confidence, raised his shield before his face, just in case, and stepped back through.

He stood for a moment, slowly lowering his sheld and glancing back over his shoulder at the Haven. Aloth fidgeted on the other side and called out, “Well?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Edér said. “Still tingles a little, and it’s -- it sorta slows you down, going through that way. Like walking through porridge. But it wouldn’t stop anyone. Come on back.”

“I’m going to take lunch up to Mother and Papa,” she began, lacing her fingers with his and biting at her lip. She glanced up to him, and the corners of her eyes creased with tension. “Come with me?”

It took him a moment to grasp why she looked so nervous about lunch, or about visiting her mother like they’d come here to do in the first place, or why she’d need Edér to help when he hadn’t as yet even met -- “Oh,” he said as comprehension dawned, gathering her hands in his and drawing her closer. “Ah. Course, Vi. I’m with you, sweetheart. Nothing to worry ‘bout. Gonna go fine.”

She giggled -- a brittle sound, not her usual light bubbling of amusement he so loved to hear -- as he bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “Now you sound more nervous than I feel,” she said.

“Nah, it’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Just...y’know, anytime I’ve gone to meet a gal’s parents, officially and all, it always sort of...goes to pieces, somehow. If I mess this one up, I’m sorry. I love you, and I’ll be on my best behavior, but…”

Violet smiled and threw her arms around his waist, resting her cheek to his chest. “I already expect this one to go to pieces, dear Edér. But it has to be done all the same, doesn’t it?”

“And now’s as good a time as any,” he agreed, holding her close. “Least with expectations like that, nothing much’s gonna disappoint you, huh?”

[elisaenglish]

All the Difference in the World

It seems almost contradictory to think of shining a light on dystopias. And there’s a certain element of “Why should we?” when history offers a damning surplus of cautionary tales and the future beckons with innovation yet too murky to fully judge. Here we are at the pivot. The pendulum swings without a concrete place to land and opinion drowns consideration. Meanwhile, the clock ticks on; we vacillate like a metronome as spectacle draws attention.

Thus, herein lies our quandary. We can speculate, but we can’t know. We can weigh, but far from settle. Literature presents some longed-for clues, except less discerning eyes are prone to over-simplify the essentials.

After all, non-literary figures frequently cite Orwell as science fiction’s most incisive voice and I agree that there’s grain of truth there. But I can’t help but feel somewhat sorry for poor old George, languishing in his premature grave, largely misread and far too easily utilised to justify all manner of dubious agendas. Quote-mining? Never a good idea. It’s like taking the moral high ground; there really is only one way to go. As for the ghost of the writer? There are two words you need to embrace: context and oeuvre. And in this case, I suspect he’d also like his name back. Because anyone of sober mind really would.

So if not Orwell, then who? If not a partial analogy, then where resides completion? And I hesitate at this juncture because parallelism is never an exact measure and variables come and go. Still, it feels safe – and by ‘safe’ I mean ‘absolutely fucking terrifying’ – to place our bets on Brave New World.

Not entirely original, I know. You could argue that it’s a bit mainstream, a bit staid, possibly a bit done to death. I could trawl obscurity to find something – well, obscure. But no, because what would be the point? Huxley, to use a technical term, knows his prophetic shit.

And ninety years later, here on the brink of some digital abyss, it looks a lot like we’re living it. Or at least we will be, before the next half-century’s done.

Of course, the world was negotiating its own horrifying pre-show in 1931. Lest we forget, communism and fascism were entrenched on the eastern and southern flanks of Europe. Meanwhile, Nazism was on the rise in the crumbling Weimar Republic and the Great Depression took its social and economic toll on the entire globe. In the midst, however, Huxley drew together a vision of a political model that had evolved civilisation beyond war, or famine, or plague, or suffering. A place of continuous peace, prosperity, where the government artificially, by means of advances in biotechnology and social manipulation, keeps everyone in a permanent state of contentment so that no one ever has any reason to rebel.

Control through love and pleasure, we see, is far more potent than that acquired through fear and violence. A whole population anaesthetised, and on and on they beg for another, and another hit. Familiar, isn’t it? And somehow under your skin because unlike 1984, it isn’t as easy to pinpoint what makes this scenario the worst of the worst, or even just one of them.

We turn, then, to the novel’s climactic moment. John the Savage, having lived all his life on a remote reservation in New Mexico and symbolic of the authentic and passionate mindset eliminated in the name of ‘benign’ tyranny, is brought before Mustapha Mond, the World Controller for Western Europe and the only other man in London to know anything of Shakespeare or God, or it must be said, freedom:

““My dear young friend,” said Mustapha Mond, “civilisation has absolutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of political inefficiency. In a properly organised society like ours, nobody has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise. Where there are wars, where there are divided allegiances, where there are temptations to be resisted, objects of love to be fought for or defended—there, obviously, nobility and heroism have some sense. But there aren’t any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving any one too much. There’s no such thing as a divided allegiance; you’re so conditioned that you can’t help doing what you ought to do. And what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant, so many of the natural impulses are allowed free play, that there really aren’t any temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything unpleasant should somehow happen, why, there’s always soma to give you a holiday from the facts. And there’s always soma to calm your anger, to reconcile you to your enemies, to make you patient and long-suffering. In the past you could only accomplish these things by making a great effort and after years of hard moral training. Now, you swallow two or three half-gramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your morality about in a bottle. Christianity without tears—that’s what soma is.”

“But the tears are necessary. Don’t you remember what Othello said? ‘If after every tempest come such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death.’ There’s a story one of the old Indians used to tell us, about the Girl of Mátsaki. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morning’s hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy; but there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldn’t stand the biting and stinging. But the one that could—he got the girl.”

“Charming! But in civilised countries,” said the Controller, “you can have girls without hoeing for them; and there aren’t any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago.”

The Savage nodded, frowning. “You got rid of them. Yes, that’s just like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them... But you don’t do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It’s too easy... What you need is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here. Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an egg-shell. Isn’t there something in that?”

[…]

“There's a great deal in it,” the Controller replied. “Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.”

“What?” questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.

“It’s one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.”

“V.P.S.?”

“Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It’s the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences.”

“But I like the inconveniences.”

“We don’t,” said the Controller. “We prefer to do things comfortably.”

“But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”

“In fact,” said Mustapha Mond, “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”

“All right, then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.”

There was a long silence.

“I claim them all,” said the Savage at last.”

So it is that he rejects the ‘blessings’ of modernity and retires to the wilderness to live out the rest of his days as a hermit. Having tried – and failed – to incite rebellion in those shackled by the system, he has learned from their apathy that they cannot be saved unless they possess inside them the will to liberate themselves. Such instincts are instilled in us through the multiplicity – not least of all, our stories, our art. Without them, we are husks of our generational selves, perhaps never to be salvaged.

True to form, as we see in these our days now, John is eventually hounded to death; his novelty of antiquated longings yet more fuel for a public driven rabid by consumerist lust. But so, his soul remains:

“He was digging in his garden—digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death—and he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true—truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams?...”

What death? What purity? What dreams? And of course, what strength?

Choose your dystopias wisely, you could say. But nonetheless, choose. As Huxley writes in his essay Drugs That Shape Men’s Minds, “Generalised intelligence and mental alertness are the most powerful enemies of dictatorship.” We are the intuitive solution; we are the nuanced light. And for all of Miranda's mistaken claims, we might live to “see how beauteous mankind is.” Just be wary of the distractions.

[forged-through-trials]

The snow was white and cold when I got out of Bruma following my last chat with Jorundr. In all honestly, the location Jorundr marked for me wasn’t that far from the gate, and I suspect that the City Watch’s notorious laziness is the only reason they hadn’t found it yet. Oh well, their loss. That gold will be mine! As I trudged through the snow to find the chest in question...

...and as I rounded a rock, a figure approached me. I recognized them right away, even out of his uniform; it was Horse’s Ass Tyrellius Logellus. But what could he have been doing here? Tyrellius: “I’m here for Jorundr’s gold.” Trials: I stomp a foot. “...oh for Hist’s sake! How did you even hear about it??” Tyrellius: “You really should be more careful when you talk in the dungeons... the sound tends to carry. Jorundr’s such an idiot!” Trials: “Preachin’ to the choir, there, pal. I wanted to talk in code but oh, no, he was all like: ‘Don’t call me stupid, lizard. *Punch!*’“ Tyrellius: “I’ve taken care of Arnora. She won’t be around to point the finger.” Trials: “You bastard! Surely she put up a struggle!” Tyrellius: “Yeah, and it tickled.” Trials: “...I never said she’d put up a good struggle.” Tyrellius: “And that leaves only you as the last loose end...” He drew on me, and I drew my own sword as well. Without Ruin to back me up for this one, the two of us danced back and forth through the snow, our sword clashing, sparks streaming every time our blades met, and his breath drawing steam in the air as we traded swings. Then I caught him in a slip, and knocked his blade away, before using the extra reach of my longer sword to catch him in the neck. He gurgled as his throat filled with blood, dropping his sword, clutching his throat, before crashing into the snow, dead.

Pausing to catch a few hot breaths of my own, I was free now to retrieve the treasure. Not a terrible haul, nearly five-hundred gold coins, a few gems, some rare books and a few pieces of jewelry. I’d prefer if I could’ve gotten this haul without so much bloodshed, but here we are.

I rushed back to Bruma to check on Arnora. Surely enough, as Tyrellius promised, he had ‘silenced’ her. There was nothing I could do, as she was already long dead by the time I arrived. A sorry end. Thief or no, snitch or no, she didn’t deserve this. And this puts me in an awkward position, too. If anyone saw me visiting Arnora over the last two days, the guards may start asking me some uncomfortable questions. I quickly retrieved Ruin, who, understandably, had  lot of uncomfortable questions of his own. Ruin: “Trials, it’s been almost two days! Where have you been?” Trials: “I’ll explain on the road. Right now, no talkie, more walkie! Grab your things.” Ruin: “Why are we leaving town in such a rush?” Trials: “Because I may have been involved in a scheme that resulted in two deaths.” Ruin: “..." Trials: “...self-defense, I swear!” Ruin: “I believe you, I just...” He sighed, and took a swig of mead. “But I really can’t leave you alone for even a minute, can I?”

Before we left Bruma, I took another job from the Gold Horse Courier notice board, this one taking us back to the Imperial City. That way, if anyone asked why was leaving Bruma in such a hurry, I could say it was because I had a delivery to make. And so we rushed out of Bruma, even though it was already late, and raced down the road back toward the IC.

Along the way, we observed another one of those Doom Stones. Ruin was awed by it, and suggested I give it a try... I’d already tried one, and wasn’t eager for another case of Brain-Freeze... but the Stone promised gifts befitting a thief... and so I took the plunge. Doom Stone: “Marked by a special fate, you rule your desti--” Trials: “SHUT UP AND KNOCK IT OFF WITH THE ICICLE-BRAIN!” Ruin: “...who are you speaking to?” Trials: “THE STUPID, GLOWING ROCK!” Doom Stone: “...well now I ain’t doin’ it.” Trials: “OH FOR FREEZIN’ OUT COLD!” After suffering quite a bit of ice-brain, I finally convinced the stone to grant me it’s blessing. I then kicked it so hard I think I broke a toe, and snow proceeded to fall off of the stone and bury me. After Ruin dug me out, we continued, further down the road. With the Imperial island in sight, we were waylaid by a Marauder, seeking to rob us both... until we kicked his butt so hard that he gave up.

Rather than die, he surrendered and asked for parley, where upon I proceeded to rob him for everything he carried. How the Turn Tables! Hey, I figure, if he’s got nothing to rob people with, he gets to keep on living and he’ll be less of a threat to other travelers on the road. Win-win for everyone all around! It was almost dark before we reached the Imperial City, but still bright enough that the shops were open. I managed to hit up Shady Sam once more, and picked up a better set of lock picks. Then Ruin and I managed to get to the Market District to sell off the loot from that Marauder we robbed.

After that, I took us to the Gold Horse Courier office to deliver that package and pick up another one. I decided our next stop ought to be Bravil, as I remembered that Kud-Ei was an expert in Illusion, and a little more knowledge of that school of magic could really help my work with the Thieves Guild.

Before we had a chance to leave the, we were stopped by a Mage’s Apprentice. She simply said that she was ordered to play courier and deliver a note to me, and once it was delivered, she accepted her fee--which I knew from personal experience was a pittance--and she was on her way.

Cracking open the note, I found it to be a note from a “Bothiel”. It concerned a stolen shipment of Dwemer artifacts from Morrowind. The items in question were necessary to repair the Imperial Orrey. The note listed that the last known location of the bandits who’d stolen the items in question was “Camp Ales” which was... considerably out of my way. I resolved to stow this information away for now, and Ruin and I may go after the job later when we’re in the area.

[matildainmotion]

What if Self-Love is Not About the Self? By Natasha Fowler and Matilda Leyser

This blog is a collage.

A collaboration

A conversation between my words -Matilda’s- and….

….Mine, Natasha’s

It’s a blog about looking after yourself, ourselves, and how I, you, we go about doing that.

It is in two parts. You can also listen to the blog if you go HERE:

PART ONE:

First, to introduce ourselves:

Matilda: I am a mother, writer, theatre-maker, co-director of Mothers Who Make, wife, daughter, insomniac.

Natasha: I am a friend, a lover, a guardian, a wounded human. I am a White woman, descendant from my ancestors. I make art, share what I know and raise children.

We met at an international MWM meeting.

I’m trying to finish a draft of my novel by Christmas, so I am not writing any blogs. Instead, I send an email to Natasha, in Amsterdam….

Hi Natasha, Please let me know if you wish to write a MWM blog for the month of November. The only requirement is that it ends with a question, relevant to the theme of mothering and making, that can become the focus for the month’s meetings should people wish to take it up. Let me know….. Matilda

Thank you, Matilda, yes. I started work on the self-care article yesterday. I’m going to edit today and share with a few friends. I can commit to having it to you by Wednesday. I hope you have a good steady day of eating, working, caring and resting. I have stretched, washed and consciously dressed but my teeth are not cleaned yet (3/4 of my morning routine). Time to get off emails! Natasha

Late Wednesday, I receive Natasha’s first draft. I see it come into my inbox at nine pm, as I am about to read bedtime stories to my daughter – I think, ‘I won’t read that now, or I won’t sleep.’ I close down my laptop.

I don’t sleep anyway. One of the worst things about insomnia is the radical loneliness – an irrational sense that no one else in the world is still awake.

The next day, tired, wired, I read Natasha’s blog. I know I am a word control freak -I have been known to edit, and re-edit, a text message - but I feel uncertain about publishing Natasha’s draft in the MWM blog spot. I want more mothering and making in it. This also seems a very dubious response- to invite new, diverse people to write a blog and, when they don’t sound like me, to want to edit them to make them sound more so…..and yet, at the same time, I think there is something valid in wanting to look after the particular space that MWM holds, in meetings, online, in writings. After dithering for a few days, I email Natasha –

Hi Natasha, first a disclaimer: I am not in a great place right now. My chronic insomnia has become acute and I am not functioning well, so my critical faculties are pretty ropey! …But would you be willing, to include a little more about your mothering and making in the writing….?

Hi Matilda, It makes sense to me that my approaches and the boundaries of the blog are having a conversation. I am curious about why I don’t talk about mothering and making in a way that meets the criteria. I have an imaginative block for what that’d look like - which tells me I’m categorising the requirement differently to you. It’s a familiar thought cul-de-sac that comes with this Neurodiverse mind I operate in.

Neurodiverse. It’s a term that is relatively new to me and suddenly tremendously potent: at the end of September my son at last received an autism diagnosis. “I get it,” he said when my husband and I told him, “My brain does this” – he drew a detailed picture in the air of different, curved and diagonal connections between invisible points of meaning– “And other peoples’ do this,” he said, drawing a series of straight, right-angled lines.

Hi Natasha, as part of my learning in this area I would be very interested to hear a little more about how you name and describe your neurodiversity. Please send me a few lines articulating your sense of it - why does our exchange feel like ‘a familiar cul-de-sac’ to you? Tell me more about the cul-de-sac and the other streets and highways of your mind :-) Thank you again for your openness, integrity, and all your work on this. Matilda xxx

The cul-de-sac I talk about is a place I get stuck when I've been given a task and I have no imaginable concept of what that would look like. With a long conversation and lots of back and forth clarification, I would probably discover that I do know what you're talking about but I learned a long time ago not to try and clarify everything so precisely, it was not practical/ possible and probably led to people being annoyed by my questions.

Part of my response to the task is to think "but I made the writing - that's the making" and "I am a mother, so if I speak, I'm speaking from the experience of mothering".

In the end I understand the labels autism/ADHD/dyslexia/neurodiversity to be bureaucratic necessities in a world obsessed with 'normal'. The necessary diversity of human experience is medicalised, categorised in order for us to get the money from the system that is needed to exist in the system. I am disabled by what I live in and my race/class/gender identity have protected me from that disabling being far more consequential.

I can’t and don’t want to argue with any of this. I feel dismayed at the idea that my requirements for the MWM blog might actually in themselves be exclusive. I don’t feel good about wading in and making Natasha’s voice more acceptable within my idea of what the text should sound like. So, I think instead I will be transparent – I will leave her words as they are and add some of mine – put in the mothering and the making that I feel the need to include. As it happens, Natasha’s chosen theme, of the need for self-care to be a process that takes place as a collective, community act, could not be more relevant to my experience of mothering and making this month.

Here we go then….

PART TWO:

Natasha: I ran out of self-love this summer, overwhelmed by stories of all my faults, what I’d lost and not done. I spent too much time subject to a cruel inner tyranny. I held onto the idea that I could take care of the situation alone. That I could create the self-love I needed. I could not. I needed to depend on something beyond my self. Although I had vowed to love myself first only two years ago, I was now raising questions about this individualised ideal of self-love.

Matilda: Take care, people say. I still struggle to do this. I sit on the stairs at 3am. My husband is asleep. My son and daughter are asleep. They are 8 and 4. I am 46. I ought to be able to rest too - how can I possibly take care of them, if I cannot take care of myself in this fundamental way? Self-soothing is a skill that babies, some say, are meant to have learnt after only a few months. I tell myself this when I get to the sobbing stage at 4am. I fantasize about a mother figure– not my real mother who is 79 now, also in my care, also asleep – but some great giant of a mother coming walking through the woods outside. She is coming to take me up in her arms, hold me against her, above the trees, hold me, grown as I am, until I fall asleep. Because tomorrow I have other people to take care of– the children, my mother. And I have another chapter of my novel to write. I know I cannot write when I haven’t slept.

Natasha: I finally gave up the idea that self-love is my sole responsibility. I began to accept the dependence that exists, the vulnerability of my well being. My self-love became communal. Just like the child raising that I do along with my partner, our friends and family; just like the neighbourhood garden my wee boy and I joined in preparing for winter last week.

But how did I end up believing self-love is something I have to do by myself? Born in 1978, independence and individuality were highly prized values when I was growing up. To be able to do things yourself without help was a given. To be free of the demands of a group was important. The myth of singular heroes was all over the culture, from lonesome superheroes to introvert inventors and brave explorers. The heroes saved the vulnerable, and the vulnerable were symbolised as young, straight, thin, white women. The stories of everyone around the inventor and all that they did were edited out. The people who were there before the explorer even set his foot down were erased. The values of independence of individuality, invulnerability are seeped into my bones.

Matilda: Did you sleep? My husband asks me in the morning. I shake my head. He is worried. I am worried. I don’t know what to do. I have tried so many things. I tell him I might put a post about it on the Mothers Who Make Facebook group– “You should,” he says. “That’s what it’s for.” True. I started it, but I find it hard to reach out for support. I have a kind of pride, almost a snobbery, that has often stopped me sharing. ‘What’s on your mind?’ FB asks me – so many things, but I don’t want to place them in that white public space. It feels immodest to do so, to turn my life into a headline. But the truth is, I am afraid.

I recognise this. It is also why I find it hard to share my work. I hold onto it. I have been working on this novel for ten years, and hardly anyone has read it. It is the same reason I edit, re-edit text messages. I do not let people see the mess. The missed comas. The words out of place. I feel safest when sealed off, private, when only carefully crafted images of vulnerability are revealed. And yet, when I am sobbing at 4am, all I want is company. A giant mother. Someone, anyone, to see me, to see the mess of me.

Natasha: I am communally made. My ideas of who I am, what I do, what is the value in me are made during my relationships. Maybe I always knew that like the self-hate I was carrying, my self-love was a communal responsibility. I suspect there is something about the experience of being a mother in my culture that helped me forget. It seems to be an experience that isolates and calcifies our individual sense of responsibility. The International mothers who make calls were part of my communal self-love recovery. Getting to turn up to a new group and hear me tell my story and listen to so much good company. I hope we might all give and receive the love that we need to maintain a sense of our self being loved. I hope we are all learning what we need to learn to be able to do that.

Matilda: So I did it – I put the post on Facebook. I need some help, I wrote, I don’t sleep and I can no longer blame my children for this. My children are sleeping – I am not. Many of you reading this, may have seen it and responded. It was extraordinary for me to see such a huge number of compassionate, wise, responses so fast. Humbling. Profoundly helpful – not just the resources, but the act itself of reaching out and finding so many hands writing back. After only an hour, I went online to look and I could see the wavy line that appears when someone, somewhere is in the process of typing something. A real person out there, taking care. Not just one. Over a hundred. A giant number of mothers.

I wrote back to Natasha:

P.s. The amazing response I received to my insomnia post rather wonderfully proves your point - we don’t have to do this self-care thing on our own. Xxxxx

Don’t have to – can’t even – whoever you are, how ever your mind works, however brilliant you are, however vulnerable, however divergent, however alone you feel.

It sounds so simple. So obvious. We are interconnected. All the streets link up, even the cul-de-sacs have passages leading onto one another. There is no such thing as social distancing. Physical distancing, yes, but social – two metres apart between your thoughts and mine, your experience and mine, your words and mine – is just not possible.

Here then is Natasha’s, my, your, our question for the month:

How do you understand self-love, is it clearly something you must do for yourself? Or something you share? or maybe you practise other ideals of compassion? Maybe you carry some communally made self-hate too? How do you sustain yourself when overwhelmed?