#she's shrewd and quick with her wit

[invinciblerodent]

Even though I'm barely 5-6 hours into this playthrough so far, playing a character like Iona, who is genuinely cunning and insightful (she has to be, with her 17 cha and her insight- and persuasion proficiency), is already proving to be such a fun way to do the Astarion romance.

I was just reviewing the "stargazing" scene I recorded today, and I felt it in the moment too, but especially in retrospect, it's so clear that her genuine charisma just always keeps him slightly off-balance.

He goes systematically through the routines, the tried and true methods (doing something that's generally considered romantic like stargazing, draping himself onto a bedroll in a casual, but inviting, seductive pose, weirdly negging her about her chin?? which is honestly just funny??, standing just a touch too close, giving her a taste of interest but withdrawing immediately, etc.), only.... none of them seem to stick.

At one point he clearly thinks he has her, when she all but purrs about how they should get to know each other, and he seems to take it at face value, ready to pull back to keep her interest, but then.... she laughs???? And tells him she was joking???? His face, for a split second there, it looks so.... blank. The smirk melts off immediately.

This weird look, there for less than a second, is so telling. Especially with the following line being a hollow laugh and a "Hm? Yes! Of course, me too."

(C'mon, we both know you were not joking. I can see the "....shit" behind your eyes.)

Then he excuses himself immediately, and you can almost hear the "WHAT the absolute FUCK was THAT." rushing through his head.

Like... he sees that she's toying with him, calling his bluff, and yet, she doesn't push back, and does it in such a playful manner, one he might even call.... nice??? Is she being nice to him, for failing to seduce her??? Hells, she finds the empty flattery funny, rather than insulting???

Even early on, it really seems as if he's trying to hold onto his playbook, but with a character like her, whose charisma is natural rather than learned, it just... falls flat, it doesn't work. But it also kind of does, because she seems... entertained? Interested? It's frustrating how he can't seem to get a bead on her, yet there's also a little something about this weird uncertainty that makes the game... almost fun for him too. For the first time in a long time, she's not just a target, but she meets him halfway, if not a step ahead.

Her reactions are actually unpredictable, even this early. He tried and failed to trick her, and instead of being furious, it's as if she's egging him on. Instead of "stop that", she's saying "you can do better".

So far, Iona thinks that the reason for all this flattery and coyness is literally just that he's a man with a slightly over-inflated ego, who finds her attractive and wants to get into her pants, but thinks her simple enough to believe his pretty, practiced words. It wouldn't be the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. And she's willing to entertain his game, because, well, why not, you know? It's not like he's bad to look at, or like she's looking for a relationship (she just got out of a 35 year one by setting her house and husband on fire for gods' sakes), sleeping with another be-tadpoled adventurer would just be a bit of mutually beneficial, convenient fun.

It'll not be until the Shadowlands and the whole mess there that she realizes it wasn't "mutually beneficial" at all. That he told her pretty lies, but not because he wanted her to spread her legs, but because he wanted to be important to her- so that she'll protect him.

Gah, this relationship is going to be so fun to roleplay. I'm already having such a good time with it.

There is a Lous and the Yakuza song, "Masquerade", that I keep thinking about with them. Especially the part where it repeats the line "Before you'd speak to me/take off your mask" in French and Spanish in a kind of back and forth, which I feel really works for them.

[artyandink]

𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 | 𝟐

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You were the only one Sherlock ever truly loved, and it was true. No lady ever caught his eye, no woman stole his attention the way your wit and charm did. He supposed it was his own fault for losing you, his own fault that you walked out his door, leaving a young child with him that was now old enough. Old enough to want to find her mother. He wanted to find you. But he also didn’t want to. It meant to face his own truth.

𝐓𝐖: angst, set after Enola Holmes 2, bad father-daughter relationships, child abandonment, heartbreak, stubborn Sherlock, oc!daughter, another oc, stubborn daughter so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, identity concealment

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓/𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: OLDER BY LIZZIE MCALPINE

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 were a maze, a tangled web of cobblestone paths and narrow alleys draped in soot and damp. Clara’s steps were careful but quick as she navigated through the crowded thoroughfare. She pulled her coat tighter, feeling the drizzle seeping through the fabric despite her attempts to stay dry. Every few steps, she glanced at the crumpled note in her hand, one of her father’s letters where he'd once written, in his untidy scrawl, of the case that first brought her parents together: The Manchester Mincer. Clara had read and re-read that line until it was nearly burned into her memory. That case had sparked their partnership—and whatever complicated love they had shared.

Manchester itself was rougher than she’d imagined. In London, she could blend into the city’s flow, but here, the sounds and smells were sharper, more insistent. There was an unfamiliar edge in the voices of passersby, a hardness etched into their faces. Even the children running in the alleyways looked shrewd, eyes flickering from her face to the fine quality of her coat and gloves. Clara tried to look like she belonged, but every detail seemed to mark her as an outsider. She wished, briefly, that she could speak to her father about it, to hear how he'd navigated this city with his keen, merciless logic. But Sherlock, of course, would hardly have noticed his surroundings in the way she did; his mind would have been on clues, his sharp eyes filtering the world only for information relevant to his case.

Clara inhaled deeply and folded her map away. She’d arrived at one of the addresses she'd found in his notes, a narrow lane wedged between tall buildings that loomed over the cobblestones like silent, watchful giants. Her father had mentioned that this was where the investigation began, in a factory district where the Manchester Mincer had claimed his first victim. The nickname alone sent a chill through her; she wondered how you’d had felt when you’d first heard it, if the sheer brutality of the name had set her on edge the way it did Clara now.

As Clara made her way deeper into the heart of the district, she glanced around, her gaze falling on the thick blackened windows of the factories, where exhausted faces appeared every so often, looking out only to retreat back into the darkness. The people here moved differently—heads bowed, shoulders hunched, as if they were forever bracing themselves against the weight of the city. It was easy to imagine her father, with his long coat and sharp eyes, weaving through these same streets, chasing after some elusive hint or cryptic clue. And you… well, Clara could only imagine you, steadfast and fierce, your head high and your sharp mind keeping pace with Sherlock’s.

You’d been fearless, according to the bits and pieces Clara had managed to uncover. You’d fought for the things you cared about with a quiet but unyielding strength, a quality Clara had always admired in theory but felt unsure of in practice. In a strange way, it was your resilience that Clara was looking for in Manchester. Maybe by retracing her parents’ steps, she could find some sliver of that strength within herself.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a voice calling out to her, rough and unwelcoming. “Oi, miss! Y’ lost?”

Clara looked up to find an older man watching her from the shadows of a nearby shop, his weather-beaten face partially hidden beneath a cap that looked like it had seen better days. His gaze was sharp, suspicious, his posture wary. In this part of the city, strangers were rarely welcome, especially ones who looked like they didn’t belong.

“No, sir,” Clara replied, doing her best to sound calm and confident. “I’m looking for information on… an old case. I’ve reason to believe my parents were involved.”

The man’s brow furrowed, his gaze becoming even more guarded. “Parents, eh? An’ just who might they be?”

She hesitated, realizing too late that her usual confidence could draw the wrong kind of attention here. “My father’s Sherlock Holmes,” she said quietly, hoping the name might lend her some credibility. "And my mother… well, she assisted him in the case of the Manchester Mincer.”

At the mention of the case, the man’s expression shifted, a shadow flickering over his face. He glanced around as if to make sure they were alone, then stepped a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That was dark business, that was,” he muttered. “Not many folk want to talk about it, even now.”

Clara leaned in, feeling a strange mix of dread and determination settle in her stomach. “I just want to understand,” she said. “To know what it was like… what they went through.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her. “If yer lookin’ fer stories of yer parents, I dunno what ye’ll find. But if it’s the case ye want…” He shook his head, as though reluctant to continue. “Best look down by the old mill, out near the canal. There were rumors, whispers o’ things happenin’ there.”

She nodded, heart pounding. “Thank you.”

With a terse nod, the man disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Clara alone once more. The canal. That would be her next destination, though the idea of wandering further into the maze of Manchester’s alleys made her hesitate. She steeled herself, drawing her coat closer as she pressed onward, ignoring the strange glances that followed her. Soon, the sound of rushing water filled the air, and she knew she was nearing the canal district.

The canal ran thick with dark water, its banks lined with warehouses and abandoned mills. The place had an eerie stillness about it, a silence that seemed to press in on her as she stepped closer to the water’s edge. Clara could almost feel the weight of the past lingering here, the unspoken memories of the case her parents had tackled together. She imagined her father here, his keen gaze darting over every inch of the dark, narrow passageways; her mother, matching him step for step, determined to see justice done.

As Clara walked along the bank, she stumbled upon a rusted iron gate, hanging crookedly off its hinges. Beyond it lay an overgrown path that wound between the warehouses, leading deeper into the district. She hesitated for a moment, casting a wary glance over her shoulder. Part of her wanted to turn back, to let her parents’ past rest, but the other part—the part that longed to understand them, to feel connected to them—drove her forward.

The path led her to a narrow courtyard, enclosed by crumbling brick walls. The ground was littered with broken glass and discarded bits of machinery, remnants of the city’s industrial past. Clara’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the space, feeling the weight of history pressing down on her. This was a place where secrets had been kept, where shadows clung to the walls and memories lingered in the air.

She could almost see her mother here, standing beside Sherlock as they pieced together the twisted puzzle of the Manchester Mincer. She could picture her father, deep in thought, his mind racing with theories and possibilities. And her mother, a steady presence beside him, her own sharp intuition guiding him forward.

As Clara stood in that silent courtyard, she felt a strange sense of closeness to them, as if she were touching a part of their shared history. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, calm and unyielding, urging her forward, reminding her that strength didn’t come from fearlessness, but from the courage to face the darkness.

Lost in thought, Clara nearly missed the sound of footsteps approaching from the alley behind her. She spun around, heart hammering, to see a young man standing there, his figure half-hidden in the shadows. He was tall and lean, with a wary look in his eyes that reminded her of a fox, poised to either run or attack.

“Yer a bit far from the comforts o’ London, ain’t ya?” he drawled, his accent thick and unmistakably local.

Clara met his gaze, feeling a flicker of defensiveness rise within her. “I could say the same about you,” she replied, trying to sound unbothered.

The young man raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aye, fair point,” he said, stepping a bit closer, his eyes flickering over her in a quick, assessing manner. “But see, I live here. Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen the likes o’ you round these parts.”

Clara straightened, meeting his scrutiny with as much confidence as she could muster. “I’m here… researching a case.”

He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “A case, eh? Yer a bit young t’ be a detective.”

“It was my parents’ case,” she replied, feeling the weight of those words settle over her. “They were… involved in the Manchester Mincer case.”

The smirk faded from his face, his expression darkening as he looked at her with something akin to respect—or maybe wariness. “Aye, I heard o’ that,” he said quietly. “Dark business, that was. Folk here don’t much like t’ talk about it.”

Clara nodded, the gravity of the case pressing down on her anew. “I just… I wanted to understand,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “To know who they were. What they went through.”

The young man studied her for a long moment, his gaze softening slightly. Then, with a small nod, he gestured toward the path behind him. “Come on, then. If it’s answers yer lookin’ fer, I might know a place where ye can start.”

Clara hesitated for only a moment before following him, her heart pounding as they made their way deeper into the shadows of Manchester’s underbelly.

As they walked through the winding alleys, Clara's suspicions grew. The young man kept glancing over his shoulder, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. His posture seemed just a bit too casual, his steps just a touch too hurried. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Instinct urged her to turn back, but she didn’t want to let fear overpower her. She was here for answers—about her mother, her father, and the path that had somehow bound them to this place.

Still, she couldn't shake the prickling sensation at the back of her neck. “Where exactly are we going?” she asked, injecting a note of skepticism into her tone.

“Patience, miss,” he replied, offering a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nearly there.”

As they rounded a corner, Clara saw a low, ramshackle warehouse up ahead, with boarded-up windows and shadows creeping between its narrow gaps. She slowed her pace, her feet reluctant to carry her any closer to the derelict building. But the young man stopped and turned to her, his expression cool, calculating.

"See," he murmured, "here’s the thing about folks like you." His smile shifted into something colder. "You come waltzing through our streets, flashin’ yer nice coat, thinkin’ you’re better than the rest of us. Lookin’ for things you oughtn’t be findin’.”

Clara felt a chill sweep through her, but she held her ground, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. "People don’t just take others' belongings because they envy them," she replied icily. "It’s usually because they lack the strength to make something of their own."

He laughed, a hollow sound that echoed off the narrow brick walls. "You’ll learn soon enough."

He took a step toward her, and Clara's mind raced, instincts finally taking over. She took a swift step back, then another, her pulse quickening as she realized he was moving to cut her off. She bolted.

Clara dashed through the alley, her boots pounding against the wet stones, her breath coming in short bursts. Behind her, she heard his footsteps quicken, but she didn't look back. She veered left, then right, navigating the maze-like streets of Manchester as if her life depended on it—which, she supposed, it very well might.

The narrow alleys opened up into a bustling market square, the crowd thick with vendors shouting their wares and patrons haggling over prices. Clara merged into the mass of people, pushing her way through as she tried to put distance between herself and her would-be captor. She glanced back, catching sight of him threading his way through the crowd, his eyes fixed on her with unmistakable intent.

Clara shoved past a fruit vendor, sending a small pile of apples tumbling to the ground. “Oi!” the vendor shouted, but Clara didn’t slow down. She ducked around a stall selling wool shawls, then dipped down another row, hoping to lose him in the labyrinth of stalls and patrons.

Her heart raced as she slipped between a group of gossiping women, keeping her head down as she scanned the market for a way out. She spotted a narrow path between two carts and darted toward it, only to feel a rough hand clamp onto her arm. She yelped, twisting desperately in his grip, but he held on, a sneer crossing his face.

“Think you can get away that easily?” he hissed.

With a surge of desperation, Clara raised her knee and drove it hard into his shin. He cursed and his grip faltered, just enough for her to break free. She spun around, shoving her way back into the throng. The market crowd was thicker now, and Clara ducked between a row of barrels, keeping her head low as she moved quickly, heart pounding in her chest.

Gradually, the noise of the crowd began to fade, and when Clara finally dared to look back, she couldn’t see him anymore. She let out a shuddering breath, her hands trembling as she steadied herself against a nearby stall. Her lungs burned, but relief flooded through her as she realized she’d escaped. Her heart still pounded, her fear mixed with an unexpected thrill of victory.

Clara took one last, careful glance over her shoulder, then straightened her coat, brushing the dust off her sleeves. She wouldn’t let herself feel shaken; this was her first encounter with Manchester’s shadows, and it likely wouldn’t be her last. As she melted back into the crowd, her resolve only strengthened.

If her parents had met on a case like this, then she would continue to search, no matter what Manchester tried to throw her way.

The streets of Manchester were as unforgiving as ever, thick with the odor of coal smoke and damp cobblestones, and the kind of chill that sank right through the skin. Nick Hawthorne pulled his cap lower, letting the brim shadow his sharp gray eyes as he surveyed the afternoon crowd. Just past the mill gates, the streets were busy with men off work, trudging home with weary, soot-streaked faces, and mothers tugging along dirty-faced children.

Nick’s gaze drifted from face to face, a habitual calculation flickering behind his eyes as he looked for a mark. He’d been good at this for years now, ever since he’d learned that a pair of sharp hands could work as well as any back-breaking job, if you were clever enough to stay out of trouble. He didn’t like pickpocketing—he would have been the first to say so if asked—but it served a purpose, kept a bit of coin in his pocket. Today, though, he hadn’t been lucky, and he was growing impatient.

Then he noticed her. A girl, moving through the crowd as if she didn’t quite belong. Her clothing was too clean, the cut of her jacket finer than anything you'd see from these parts, and she held herself with a calm certainty that was out of place here. She wasn’t hurrying along with her head down or checking her pockets every few minutes to make sure they hadn’t been turned out. No, she looked like she was trying to blend in, but failing.

Nick’s mouth twitched in a faint, humorless smile as he made his way toward her, weaving through the bustling throng with the practiced grace of a street fox. He’d done this a thousand times: the slight brush of his shoulder against hers, his fingers quick as a shadow dipping into her pocket. Her purse was small, surprisingly light, but it was something, and he slipped it out in a single, fluid motion.

But as he began to draw back, a slender hand clamped firmly around his wrist, and he froze.

"Hold on there," she said, her voice calm and unruffled, with a sharpness that belied her appearance. Nick felt a jolt of surprise at her grip; it was stronger than he’d expected, and as he looked down at her hand, he realized she wasn’t some unsuspecting rich girl after all.

He forced a smirk, meeting her gaze with a hint of defiance. "Didn’t think you’d notice," he said, feigning an easy confidence. His Mancunian accent thickened a little as he spoke, a habit he leaned into when he needed to sound less polished and more street-smart. "Figured someone like you wouldn’t miss a few coins."

Clara’s expression didn’t waver, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You’re right. I noticed, and I don’t mind." She released his wrist, and Nick barely resisted the urge to rub it, feeling the sting where her grip had pinched. "But let’s say you’ve caught my attention now. What’s your name?"

Nick hesitated, sizing her up. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone with money to spare, and her voice held a tone he couldn’t quite place, neither fully local nor exactly foreign. It was the voice of someone who’d seen a bit more of the world than just one soot-covered corner of it.

"Nicholas Hawthorne," he said finally, slipping the purse back into her hand. "Nick, if y’like."

"Nick," she repeated, her eyes steady on him. “Well, Nick, I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor?” he echoed, a bark of laughter escaping before he could stop it. This was the last thing he’d expected from her. “That’s a bit rich, seein’ as I’m the one nearly robbin’ you blind.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, with a casual wave of her hand. “A few pence won’t ruin me. But you seem like someone who knows their way around, and I could use someone with… local knowledge.”

Nick’s brow furrowed as he tried to read her. She looked at him with a steadiness that left him unsettled, as if he were under scrutiny, not the other way around. “Look, miss… people don’t just go around askin’ strangers in the street for help, y’know. They usually mind their own.”

“Well, I’m not one for ‘usually,’” she said, her voice smooth and unbothered. “It’s not as if I’ve got anywhere else to go.”

The words hung between them, and for a moment, Nick thought he caught something vulnerable in her expression, something she was quick to hide. But it was enough to stir his curiosity, even if he didn’t trust it.

“All right, what’s the catch?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest as he took a half step back, instinctively keeping his distance.

“No catch.” She shrugged, and the glint in her eyes softened. “I need a place to stay. I can pay. And you seem like you know your way around here. That’s all.”

Nick eyed her warily, trying to decide whether she was being serious or just making a fool of him. But if she had money, he couldn’t afford to be too suspicious. He glanced around, taking in the nearby alley and the curious onlookers who were starting to notice the two of them standing in the middle of the street. “You really don’t have anyone here, do you?”

She shook her head, and he thought he saw a hint of loneliness in her expression. “No. But I do have this.” She held up her purse, a small but obvious reminder of the money he’d tried to take. “So… do we have a deal?”

He weighed his options, feeling a mixture of intrigue and wariness. She wasn’t from here, and by the looks of it, had no idea how unforgiving this city could be. But her offer was tempting, especially if it meant he’d have some extra coin in his pocket by the end of the night.

"All right," he said finally, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips. "I know a place. Won't be fancy, mind, but it'll keep the rain off yer head."

“That’s all I need,” she replied, her face softening just a fraction. “And you can call me Charlotte.” Was it best to lie? Probably.

"Charlotte, eh?" He smirked, raising a skeptical brow. “Seems a bit posh, don’t it?”

"Just Charlotte," she said with a shrug, but the way she looked at him made it clear she wasn’t interested in further explanations.

Nick led her through a winding maze of alleys and backstreets, his feet moving with practiced ease over cobblestones slick with the city’s grime. He was keenly aware of her presence just behind him, the faint scent of lavender and something distinctly foreign lingering in the damp air. She was quiet, observant, but he could feel her gaze on him, as if she were studying him just as closely as he was watching her.

They finally reached an old boarding house on the outskirts of a quieter street, where the clamor of the factories dulled into a distant hum. Nick pushed open the creaking door, letting her step inside first. The building was shabby and dim, smelling faintly of must and the lingering trace of boiled cabbage, but it was safe, and the landlady didn’t ask questions so long as the rent was paid.

“It ain’t Buckingham Palace,” Nick said, a touch of irony in his voice as he watched her look around, taking in the threadbare carpet and chipped plaster. “But the roof keeps most o’ the rain out, and the beds don’t squeak too much.”

Clara gave a faint, appreciative nod. “It’s perfect,” she said simply, setting her purse down on the rickety table by the door. Her calm acceptance of the room surprised him, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity. There was more to her than met the eye, but he wasn’t about to pry—at least, not yet.

“So, what brings someone like you to Manchester?” he asked, leaning against the wall with a casual shrug, hoping to glean something from her that might satisfy his lingering questions.

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. “I could ask the same of you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Ah, well, born and bred, me. Not much choice in it. Not like I had the coin for grand adventures. But you… you don’t seem the type to land here by accident.”

Clara only shrugged, her eyes drifting out the small, grimy window toward the distant skyline of factory smoke. "Let’s just say I needed a change of scenery.”

“A change of scenery?” Nick echoed, chuckling softly. “Well, you sure picked the best place for it.” His voice softened a bit, barely a whisper as he watched her. “There’s plenty to see here, all right… if you know where to look.”

Clara turned back to him, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of understanding in her expression, as if they were both just trying to survive in a city that never paused to make room for anyone’s dreams or second chances. She gave him a faint smile, and he found himself returning it, despite himself.

“Well then,” he said, straightening up and pulling his cap down low once more. “Welcome to Manchester.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” Clara couldn’t help but smile.

He shrugged, not seeming to care, but then he spoke again. “S’ alright. Look, if you need me, you can find me or my mates by The Old Crow. The local bar here, just tell ‘em I know you, yeah? Take care.” He slipped out of the door, shaking his head a little as he closed it.

“What a strange girl.” He muttered as he jogged down the stairs, cap pulled low.

Clara looked after him with slightly raised eyebrows, subtly checking that her purse was still on her person. “What a strange boy.” She mused.

Sherlock paced the small confines of his sitting room, a whirlwind of thoughts and anxieties tumbling through his mind. The shadows of the afternoon loomed heavier than the gray clouds outside, pressing against the tall windows of Baker Street. He had never been one to succumb to worry, yet as he walked back and forth across the worn carpet, he felt a tight coil of dread in his chest. Clara had left the flat nearly two hours ago with little more than a word and a promise to return shortly. But the hours slipped by, stretching painfully thin, and there had been no sign of her since.

“Sherlock, you’ll wear a hole in the carpet,” John remarked dryly from his perch by the fireplace, where he had taken to reading a newspaper, though his eyes were glued to the detective’s agitated form instead. John’s expression was calm, an anchor in the storm of Sherlock’s thoughts, but the concern behind his eyes betrayed him. “She’s likely just lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” Sherlock shot back, his voice rising higher than intended. “In London, the city filled with dangers and distractions? That’s hardly reassuring, John.” He turned sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You don’t understand. She’s not just my daughter; she’s a girl of sixteen wandering about in this wretched city. What if—”

Before he could finish, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door with a gentle knock, her presence always soothing amidst the chaos of his mind. She carried a tray laden with a steaming teapot and delicate china cups, a familiar routine that never failed to comfort both men.

“Now, now, Mr. Holmes,” she said softly, setting the tray down with a careful hand. “A cup of tea will do you good. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Sherlock shot her a glance, his brow furrowed. “I don’t want tea, Mrs. Hudson. I want my daughter to return safely. I need to find her.”

“Sherlock,” she chided gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You know how these things go. Clara is young and adventurous. She’ll be back before you know it.”

“But where has she gone?” he pressed, shaking off her comforting touch as frustration bubbled just beneath the surface. “What if she’s lost? What if—”

“Sherlock!” John interjected, standing up and moving closer to him. “Listen, we’re not going to help Clara by worrying ourselves sick. Let’s think rationally. If she had a specific destination in mind, she would have told us.”

Sherlock paused, his eyes darting away, lost in thought. “She mentioned something about wanting to know more about her mother,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The thought brought a fresh wave of anxiety. “Do you think she—”

“Wanted to seek her out?” John finished for him. “It’s possible, but she wouldn’t be foolish enough to go off on her own without thinking it through, would she?”

“She’s still a child, John,” Sherlock replied sharply, though the edge in his voice softened as he glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who poured tea into the delicate cups with a practiced hand. “She may not fully understand the dangers that lurk outside these walls.”

Mrs. Hudson set a cup in front of each man, her gaze steady. “I believe Clara has more sense than you’re giving her credit for, Mr. Holmes. You’ve raised a smart girl. She knows how to take care of herself.”

“Smart, perhaps, but naïve when it comes to the world outside,” Sherlock replied, finally taking a seat at the edge of the armchair, his body tense. “You know how easily things can spiral out of control in a matter of moments.”

John watched him, concern etching deeper lines on his forehead. “We’ll find her, Sherlock. I promise. Perhaps we should split up and search the neighborhood. I can start by asking around at the local shops—see if anyone’s seen her.”

The detective shook his head, the spark of frustration reigniting. “You don’t understand. She could be anywhere, John. It’s an entire city filled with countless possibilities for danger.”

“Which is why we need to remain calm and rational,” John urged, reaching for his cup of tea. He took a sip, letting the warmth settle before continuing. “If she’s gone looking for answers about her mother, she might have gone to someone who knew her. We should focus our search on people connected to that part of her past.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, the rhythm of his thoughts still storming within him. “How do you suggest we do that? It’s not as if we have a list of people to question. The case is so long in the past, it’s nearly an enigma.”

“Perhaps you can start by thinking about where Clara might look,” Mrs. Hudson interjected softly, her voice soothing like the steam rising from her cup. “After all, she inherited your mind. She’s bound to follow the same clues you would.”

“Which only leads to further complications,” he muttered. He ran a hand across his face, battling the urge to rise once more and resume his pacing. “If only she’d listened—”

“She’s a young woman, Sherlock,” John said, his tone firm but gentle. “You can’t expect her to live under your shadow forever. She needs to find her own way.”

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock replied, frustration seeping through his words. “I don’t want her to live under any shadow; I want her to be safe! She deserves to have the chance to live her own life, away from the darkness that envelops this world. But if she’s out there on her own, then—”

“Then we’ll find her,” John interrupted. “You know we will.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement, her warmth radiating through the room. “Exactly. Let’s not spiral into despair. We’ll sit here, drink our tea, and when Clara comes back, we’ll be ready to welcome her home.”

Sherlock met her gaze, the concern in her eyes serving as a balm to his frazzled nerves. She had been a constant source of comfort since Clara’s mother had left, and even though he tried to push her away at times, he felt a flicker of appreciation for her presence. She had always cared for him like a mother, tending to him during times of distress.

“I should have been more careful,” he said at last, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease ever so slightly. “I should have protected her better.”

“Clara is capable, Sherlock,” John reassured him. “You’ve raised her well. She’s intelligent, resourceful, and she knows how to navigate this world—probably better than you give her credit for. Trust in her abilities, just as she trusts in yours.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied, pouring himself a cup of tea and cradling it in his hands as if the warmth might seep into his troubled thoughts. He took a sip, the taste familiar and comforting, though it did little to quell his unease. “But it’s the unknown that worries me.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concern. “What’s truly troubling you, Mr. Holmes? Is it Clara’s safety or your own guilt? You can’t keep blaming yourself for every little thing that goes wrong.”

He looked down into his teacup, swirling the liquid in thought. “It’s a mixture of both,” he admitted. “I thought I had moved on, that I could raise her without fear of repeating the past. But it seems I’ve failed.”

“Not at all,” John said firmly. “You’re not responsible for what others choose to do, Sherlock. You’re doing your best to be a father to her. Clara knows you care deeply, and she’s going to come back. We just need to wait and have faith in her judgment.”

“Faith.” The word hung heavy in the air, filled with irony. Sherlock chuckled darkly, the sound laced with bitterness. “Faith has often proven to be a foolish endeavor in our line of work. It’s facts I prefer, not wishes.”

“Facts can be maddening, too,” John countered, his patience unwavering. “But you’re right in wanting to find the truth. We all are. Just remember that you’re not alone in this.”

As the minutes ticked by, Sherlock found himself quieting, the conversations around him flowing like a steady stream while his mind finally began to settle. He took a deep breath, letting the scent of tea mingle with the air in the room. Perhaps it was time to put aside his own fears and let action replace his worry.

“You’re both right,” he said finally, setting down his cup. “It’s time we got moving. We need to gather information. If Clara’s left in search of her mother, then we must find out where she might have gone.”

“Where do we start?” John asked, the faintest glimmer of hope igniting in his eyes.

“Let’s check the local libraries and archives,” Sherlock suggested. “If Clara is anything like me, she’ll seek out information. We may find a clue there—something she could have learned about her mother’s past.”

“And if that doesn’t lead us anywhere?” John questioned.

“Then we’ll expand our search to the places she might frequent,” Sherlock replied, his voice firm with purpose. “We will find her, John. I refuse to lose her.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly, her heart swelling with pride. “I’ll pack a few biscuits for you, just in case you don’t find her right away.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He could still hear the underlying worry in her voice, but it was a reminder that he had allies in his corner.

As they prepared to leave, he turned to John, a newfound resolve hardening in his expression. “We’ll follow every lead. I won’t rest until she is safe, back under this roof where she belongs.” Then it hit him.

Manchester.

Clara stepped out into the bustling streets of Manchester, the air thick with the smell of coal and the sounds of industry echoing around her. The vibrant market stalls lined the cobbled streets, their colorful awnings a stark contrast to the drab buildings surrounding them. She felt invigorated by the energy of the city, but the weight of her mission pressed heavily on her shoulders. She had come to uncover the truth about the Manchester Mincer, the infamous case that had intertwined her mother’s fate with that of Sherlock Holmes. Now, she needed to piece together the remnants of that dark history.

As she wandered through the throngs of people, Clara stopped at a nearby stall that sold fresh produce. The vendor, an elderly man with a weathered face and gentle eyes, looked up as she approached. “Can I interest you in some apples, love?” he asked, his voice warm and inviting.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me,” Clara replied, her curiosity piqued. “I’m looking for information about the Manchester Mincer case. I heard it was quite a scandal back in the day.”

The man’s expression shifted, a shadow crossing his features. “Ah, that old tale,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “A dark time for this city, that’s for sure. My wife used to tell me stories about it. It was said there were a few blokes who got caught up in it, but they weren’t the only ones involved.”

“Do you remember any names?” Clara pressed, her heart racing with anticipation. “Anyone who might have been persecuted?”

“Old Murphy was one of them, I reckon,” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “He owned the butcher shop on Cross Street. Never did have a good reputation, mind you. Rumor was he dealt with more than just meat. But in the end, it was the wrong man who paid the price.”

“Why was he wrong?” Clara asked, intrigued by the story.

“Because it was the wealthy who often had the power to shield themselves,” the vendor replied, his eyes glinting with something that bordered on bitterness. “They got away clean while the poor took the fall. That’s the way it always goes, isn’t it?”

Clara nodded, feeling a surge of determination. “Thank you, sir. This is really helpful.”

As she continued on her way, she reflected on the vendor’s words. The injustice of it all lingered in her mind, fueling her desire to uncover the truth. She approached another stall, this time a woman selling handmade hats, her shop vibrant and colorful. Clara introduced herself and explained her quest.

“I heard you might know something about the Manchester Mincer,” Clara said, watching the woman’s reaction closely.

The woman’s brow furrowed, her hands stilling for a moment. “That case brought a lot of fear to our community,” she said, her voice low. “I was just a girl then, but I remember the whispers. They said the murderer had ties to the upper class. There was one party that everyone talked about. It was the talk of the town, you know.”

“A party?” Clara repeated, intrigued. “What can you tell me about it?”

“It was held at the Blackwood estate. Quite the spectacle, they said,” the woman continued, her eyes distant. “Fancy dresses, music, and a guest list that read like a who’s who of Manchester society. But after the case broke, people started to wonder what really went on behind closed doors.”

“Did you know anyone who went?” Clara pressed, sensing that this was a significant clue.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have been allowed near,” the woman replied with a chuckle. “But I heard my cousin, Margaret, was there. She saw things—things that were never mentioned in the papers. You might want to ask her. She still lives near the park.”

“Thank you! That’s very helpful,” Clara said, her mind racing with the possibilities.

As she continued her exploration of the market, she approached a group of men huddled by a corner, their laughter booming over the din of the market. They stopped their banter as Clara approached, eyeing her curiously.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to muster confidence. “I’m looking for information about the Manchester Mincer case. I’ve heard it involves a man named Murphy and the Blackwood estate.”

The tallest man among them, broad-shouldered and brimming with bravado, leaned in closer. “You’re not scared of that old tale, are you, lass? Most folk don’t want to dig too deep.”

“I’m not scared,” she declared, meeting his gaze steadily. “I want to know the truth.”

“Truth, eh?” he chuckled, looking around at his companions. “Well, there was plenty of truth hidden in that case, lass. Murphy might’ve been the butcher, but he wasn’t the only one with blood on his hands.”

“What do you mean?” Clara asked, her pulse quickening.

“There was talk of a woman involved. Beautiful, they said. Had the ear of the powerful. I can’t recall her name, but she was always at the parties,” the man replied, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “She held sway over the men. They did her bidding, and if she wanted someone silenced…”

“Who was she?” Clara pressed, her curiosity piqued.

“I wish I could tell you, but it was all hushed up,” he said, shrugging. “You might check the taverns. They know all the secrets, or at least think they do.”

“Thank you,” Clara said, grateful for any lead.

With renewed purpose, she made her way toward the nearby tavern, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out onto the street. The dimly lit interior was filled with the scent of ale and smoke, and Clara felt her heart race as she stepped inside.

The patrons glanced at her with mild curiosity, but she focused her attention on the barmaid, a stout woman with a no-nonsense demeanor. Clara approached her and leaned against the bar. “Excuse me, I’m looking for information about the Manchester Mincer. I’ve heard there are some interesting stories from this area.”

The barmaid raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “You’re not the first to come digging, lass. This town loves a scandal. What do you want to know?”

“Anything you might have heard about the case,” Clara replied, leaning in closer. “I’m especially interested in the Blackwood estate and the people who were involved.”

“Ah, the Blackwoods,” the barmaid said, her expression growing serious. “Rich folk with their secrets. They had their hands in everything, I hear. But don’t go getting yourself tangled in that web. There’s a lot more at stake than a few lives.”

“I can handle it,” Clara insisted, her resolve unshaken.

“Fine,” the barmaid said with a sigh, glancing around as if to ensure no one else was listening. “Word was that a young woman—one of the Blackwoods—had a lover. He was a nobody, a laborer. Rumor has it they fought about something important, something that could ruin them both.”

“Do you know his name?” Clara asked, her heart pounding at the thought of a romantic scandal being tied to the Mincer case.

“No one knew for sure, but I heard it might’ve been one of the factory workers,” the barmaid replied. “Always seemed a shame for someone so lovely to be caught in that sort of mess.”

“Thank you,” Clara said, taking in all the information. She scribbled notes in her little book, piecing together the stories she had gathered like fragments of a larger puzzle.

Leaving the tavern, Clara felt the urgency of her quest. With each person she spoke to, she could feel the story of the Manchester Mincer coming together, but she sensed that there was still a vital piece missing.

As she walked through the market once more, she spotted a man selling newspapers, and her heart skipped a beat at the thought of potential leads. She approached his stall and scanned the headlines. One newspaper caught her eye: Upcoming Masquerade Ball at the Blackwood Estate—This Saturday Night!

Her mind raced as she processed the implications. The ball would be a gathering of the elite, a perfect opportunity to dig deeper into the world of the powerful who had once danced amidst the shadows of the Mincer case. Perhaps there, she could discover more about the mysterious woman who had captured the attention of the wealthy and the man whose life had been marred by the darkness of that night.

“Could I take a look at that paper?” Clara asked the vendor, pointing to the article.

“Of course, love. It’s a big event this weekend,” he said, handing it to her with a smile. “You planning to attend?”

“I might,” she said, her mind racing with the possibilities.

As she read through the article, she learned that the ball would be held in honor of the estate’s new heir, a celebration of their return to Manchester after years abroad. This would be the perfect chance to gather information and perhaps find the connection that eluded her.

Clara took a moment to breathe deeply, gathering her thoughts. She knew what she had to do: she would find a way to attend the ball and uncover the truths hidden within its walls. The air was thick with anticipation, and she felt a sense of purpose swell within her.

Returning to her lodgings, Clara couldn’t shake the excitement coursing through her veins. She needed a plan. The ball would be her gateway into the world she had only heard of in whispers. There, she could find the answers she sought and perhaps even face the ghosts of the past that haunted her mother and Sherlock. The Mincer case had been a turning point in their lives, and now it was her turn to unravel the threads that tied them all together.

With determination, she began to prepare, her mind already racing with the possibilities that lay ahead. Clara was resolute; she would not rest until she uncovered the truth and brought it to light, no matter the cost.

Clara awoke the next morning to the distant sounds of the city—horse-drawn carriages clattering over cobblestones, vendors shouting about fresh produce, and the faint, echoing rhythm of machinery at work. As she pulled on her well-worn dress, her thoughts raced back to her mission: she needed to attend the masquerade ball at the Blackwood estate, but for that, she needed a way in, and more importantly, a companion to keep her grounded in this unfamiliar world.

She had just stepped out of her modest lodgings when she spotted a familiar sight: a group of young men gathered outside the Black Crow, the local bar that always seemed to buzz with life. Among them were Nick’s mates, Charlie and Tom, their laughter ringing through the morning air as they leaned against the weathered brick wall, playfully jostling each other.

“Oi, Charlie, did you see the way she looked at me?” Tom boasted, puffing out his chest as he glanced in Clara’s direction.

“Oh please, mate. She was looking past you,” Charlie replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s the jacket that’s got her confused. It’s like she’s staring at a walking scarecrow!”

Clara approached, rolling her eyes at their antics. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she called out, her voice laced with playful sarcasm.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” Tom said, stepping forward with an exaggerated bow. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There’s no pleasure here,” Clara shot back, trying to suppress a grin at their obvious flirting, even if it did make her stomach turn a bit. “I’m just here for the entertainment, not to be the subject of your jokes.”

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Charlie chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “We were just trying to make your day brighter! You must be tired of dealing with grimy blokes from the factories.”

Clara raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I deal with enough ‘grimy blokes’ without your help. But tell me, have you seen Nick? I need to talk to him.”

“Nick? Why would you want to talk to him?” Tom asked, feigning surprise. “You could do so much better, you know.”

“Because I need his help, you oaf,” she said, exasperation creeping into her tone. “Besides, he’s the only one around here who isn’t too busy trying to impress me with their endless bravado.”

“Yeah, well, Nick isn’t exactly known for his charm either,” Charlie joked, nudging Tom. “But I suppose he’s got that whole ‘brooding hero’ thing going on.”

Just then, the door to the Black Crow swung open, and Nick stepped outside, his demeanor instantly shifting the atmosphere. He wore a threadbare coat, its edges frayed but still stylish in a way that suited him. His hair was tousled, and his steely gray eyes narrowed in irritation as he surveyed the scene before him.

“What’s this? A circus?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you lot are finished flirting with the lady, perhaps you can return to the important task of throwing rocks or whatever it is you do to amuse yourselves.”

Tom held up his hands in mock surrender, while Charlie grinned, unphased by Nick’s brusque attitude. “Relax, Nick. We’re just being friendly.”

“Right. Friendly. Or is it just your idea of charm?” Nick replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Charlotte doesn’t need your ‘friendly’ nonsense. She’s got enough to deal with, I’m sure.”

With that, he turned to Clara, his expression softening slightly. “What’s up? You look like you’ve got something important to say.”

Clara hesitated, the weight of her request settling heavily in her stomach. She had never been one to ask for help, especially not from someone like Nick, whom she barely knew beyond their odd encounters. Yet, she had to try. “I do,” she said finally, her voice steady. “I need you to be my escort to the ball at the Blackwood estate.”

Nick blinked, clearly taken aback. “You want me to escort you to a ball?” He laughed, a genuine burst of incredulity. “Is this some kind of joke? You must know I’m not the sort of chap who gets invited to fancy parties.”

“I’m serious,” Clara insisted, her tone firm. “I need someone to go with me, and you’re the only person I know who can handle the absurdity of the situation without falling to pieces.”

“Why me? I mean, surely you’ve got other options,” Nick replied, still skeptical.

“Because I can’t trust anyone else. You’re the only one who isn’t a pretentious git and won’t be intimidated by their wealth,” Clara explained. “Besides, you’re familiar with the area and might even know some people there. I can’t do this alone.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think I’ll be useful at this ball? What do I know about high society? I’m more accustomed to dodging factory foremen than dancing with lords and ladies.”

“You’d be surprised,” Clara said, her tone earnest. “You’ve seen the way these people act. You understand their world, even if you don’t belong to it. Plus, if I’m to uncover the truth about the Manchester Mincer, I’ll need someone like you by my side—someone who can keep their head when everyone else is playing the fool.”

There was a moment of silence, and Clara could see the wheels turning in Nick’s mind. She wondered if he was considering the implications of what she was asking. “You really want me to come with you?” he asked, skepticism lacing his words.

“Yes,” she affirmed, meeting his gaze with sincerity. “If you agree, we can figure this out together.”

He paused again, glancing at Charlie and Tom, who were now watching the exchange with mild interest. “Alright,” Nick said finally, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “But if I’m going to this ball, I’m going to need a bit of time to get ready. I can’t show up looking like I just crawled out from under a wagon.”

“Deal,” Clara replied, relief flooding through her. “We’ll meet in the late afternoon and plan our approach.”

“Fine, I’ll see you later then, Charlotte,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk as he turned back to his mates. “Try not to scare off any more chaps with that charm of yours, alright?”

Clara rolled her eyes, but the playful banter was a welcome distraction. 

Clara moved through the streets of Manchester, her gaze flickering from the factory buildings stretching upward, dark against the late afternoon sky, to the narrow alleys she passed, each offering a glimpse into the labyrinth of the city. The market’s din faded as she ventured farther into a quieter part of town, her initial certainty beginning to waver as she realized she’d strayed from the bustling main streets. For a moment, she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to retrace her steps.

But as she took a turn, the buildings grew closer and the street narrower, her footsteps sounding hollow in the empty alleyway. Shadows loomed high and dark around her, and the once-bustling city felt suddenly silent and isolated. She walked with purpose, hoping to find her way back, but her instincts sent a ripple of caution through her, the hairs on her neck rising as she heard footsteps behind her.

Before she could react, a low voice spoke up from behind her, rough with an edge of malice. “Look what we have here,” it sneered. Three men emerged from the shadows, blocking her way forward. Another two closed in behind her, sealing off her escape route.

Clara’s heart thudded, but she took a steadying breath, schooling herself to stay calm. She didn’t let her fear show; instead, her expression turned defiant, meeting each of their eyes in turn. She’d been taught by the best, and she knew how to defend herself—but five men would be a challenge.

“Out for a stroll, are you?” one of them mocked, a twisted grin on his face. He took a step forward, arms wide as if to usher her deeper into their trap. “Not the safest part of town for a pretty thing like you.”

Clara clenched her fists, calculating her odds. “I’m not lost,” she said coolly. “And I’m certainly not helpless.” Her voice was calm but carried an undertone of warning.

“Oh, she’s got fire,” the man said with a chuckle, his companions echoing him in jeering laughter. They inched closer, forming a tighter circle.

Clara knew the moment would come soon. She steadied herself, her fingers flexing as she prepared to throw her first punch, when a sudden flash of movement from the alley’s entrance caught her attention.

In an instant, one of the men was yanked backward, his grunt cut off abruptly. A second figure dropped beside her, then surged forward. Clara’s heart leapt as she recognized him—Sherlock.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed the nearest man and flung him against the alley wall, his movements precise, cold, and effective. Another lunged at him, but Sherlock sidestepped, catching the man’s arm and twisting it with enough force to send him stumbling to the ground. The other two men exchanged glances, their bravado shrinking as Sherlock turned to them, his gaze icy, daring them to try.

One of the men advanced, hoping to catch Sherlock off-guard, but Sherlock sidestepped again, a swift uppercut sending the man reeling backward. Within seconds, the gang scattered, stumbling away as Sherlock loomed over them, his eyes as sharp and unyielding as blades.

Clara watched, speechless. She had seen her father in action before, but something about his resolve, his focus in that moment, filled her with awe.

Once the last of the men had disappeared into the shadows, Sherlock turned to her, his eyes narrowing. There was no hint of relief on his face. Instead, his mouth was set in a tight, angry line, his gaze piercing as it held hers. For a moment, he said nothing, his silence more intense than any reprimand.

“Clara,” he said finally, his tone clipped, almost dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Clara swallowed, opening her mouth to respond, but his words cut through the silence, stopping her.

“What possessed you to wander into this part of the city alone?” he continued, his voice cold and measured, though she could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Are you aware of the danger you’ve put yourself in?”

“I was gathering information,” Clara replied, lifting her chin defensively. “I had to find out more about the case, about—”

“Information?” he interrupted, his brows knitting together in disbelief. “You could have been hurt—or worse. Is that worth the ‘information’ you thought you’d uncover?”

Clara’s pulse quickened as the weight of his words sank in. She’d expected him to be frustrated, but not this level of barely restrained anger. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he held up a hand, silencing her.

“Do you think this is a game, Clara?” he demanded, his voice soft but heavy. “Some youthful adventure that allows you to play detective without consequence?”

Clara’s eyes flashed with defiance. “I’m not playing at anything. I wanted to understand what happened with you and—” She caught herself, swallowing the name that had been on the tip of her tongue: her mother.

“Understand?” His voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its edge. “And did you think I wouldn’t notice when you suddenly disappeared without a word? You think I wouldn’t have known you’d be here?”

“How did you?” she managed, frustration slipping through her resolve.

“I know you, Clara. And I knew you’d come here, to this very place, because of your… curiosity.” He took a sharp breath, searching for control. “Manchester holds answers you want. But answers are nothing if you’re not here to hear them.” His gaze, though still stern, softened at the edges, carrying the weight of a father’s worry.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, and Clara’s defenses softened as she realized the depth of his fear.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her tone more vulnerable than she’d intended. “I just… I felt I had to know. To understand what happened here, where you and… where everything began.”

He exhaled, his expression tightening, yet there was a flicker of something else—perhaps understanding or even empathy. “You think I don’t understand that, Clara?” he replied, his voice gentler now. “I know the need to uncover what haunts us. I understand the pull of answers, the desire to illuminate every shadow. But you have to understand that some darkness fights back.”

Clara nodded, the weight of his words settling over her. She could feel the tension between them easing, though the intensity in his eyes remained.

“Do you know why I keep my distance sometimes?” he asked softly, surprising her with the unexpected shift in his tone. “It’s not because I don’t want you involved. It’s because I fear that if I show you too much, you’ll run headfirst into these very dangers, thinking you’re invincible.”

She looked down, her expression softened. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I wanted to follow in your footsteps. To understand the things you’ve done, to see the world as you see it.”

Sherlock’s gaze softened further, a look of something like sadness or regret passing over his features. “You already see the world in ways few others do. And I don’t want my ghosts becoming yours.”

Clara hesitated, absorbing his words. Then she met his gaze. “Maybe I don’t need to inherit your ghosts. But I can’t pretend not to care, or pretend that the mysteries you’ve uncovered don’t call to me too.”

For a long moment, Sherlock was silent. Then he stepped closer, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “Then understand this, Clara: If you’re going to seek answers, you’ll need more than courage and skill. You’ll need to temper that courage with patience and know when to let go. It’s a hard lesson, and one I had to learn the long way.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of his words and the warmth of his hand, a touch that was both comforting and grounding.

“I’ll be more careful,” she promised quietly. “And… I’ll let you know before I disappear next time.”

A faint smile crossed his face, a flicker of relief melting the tension in his expression. “That would be much appreciated,” he replied, the slightest hint of humor in his tone. “Come on, let’s get you back.”

They walked in silence for a moment, his presence a silent reminder of both his worry and his respect for her determination. As they made their way out of the narrow alleys, Clara stole a glance at him, feeling a surge of gratitude—and a deepening respect—for the man beside her.

For all his walls and his icy demeanor, he was her father, and he cared more than he would ever openly admit. And, despite her own stubbornness, she knew that his anger was born out of fear—a fear that came from a love she could now see clearly.

As they neared the familiar streets, the tension fully eased between them, and Clara couldn’t help but murmur, “I didn’t expect you to follow me here.”

Sherlock’s expression softened, a warmth in his gaze that was rarely visible to anyone but her. “Then you still have much to learn, Clara. There’s no place I wouldn’t follow if it meant keeping you safe.”

She looked up at him, feeling a deep, quiet gratitude.

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐔𝐏:

Nick’s eyes darted away from hers, uncertain of how to respond. No one had ever looked at him like that, not with the quiet admiration he saw in her eyes. To mask his discomfort, he gave a small, awkward laugh. “I reckon the lads back home wouldn’t know me like this.”

“Oh, you’d certainly turn a few heads.” She took a step back, giving him an appraising look. “There’s something… dignified about you, Nicholas. This suit just brings it out.”

He snorted, brushing off her compliment with a wave of his hand, but the way she looked at him made his heart pound. “I’m just a lad from the mills, Charlotte. You don’t need to pretend I’m more than that.”

“But you’re not just anything,” she said, her tone firm. “You have intelligence, wit. This suit doesn’t make you more than you are; it just lets others see what I already know.”

Nick’s eyes widened at her words, his chest tightening at the sincerity he heard in her voice. He wasn’t used to such kind words; his friends were more likely to poke fun than pay compliments. He stared down at the polished shoes, feeling a little like an actor unsure of his role. “I dunno if I’m cut out for this,” he murmured.

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

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@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99 @autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

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@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @d3ndroslim3s @phantomtea19 @homewreckingwreck @annoyance-for-u

@i-have-no-life-charlie

[blurbfics]

There'd Better Be a Mirrorball | Azriel x OFC [part four]

Summary: Time skip. Cassian decides Eowyn could benefit from a little extra training. a.k.a., let the slow-burn begin

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: swearing, sexual implications, male/female sparring, shy!Azriel, use of the word "ginger" to refer to Eris

Minors, do not interact.

a/n: thank you so much for accompanying me in this journey! let's figure out where this story is headed together, shall we?

part three

Masterlist

"I just kept hoping, I just kept hoping

the way would become clear.

I spent all this time

tryna play nice and fight my way here.

See, I've been having me a real hard time

but it feels so nice to know I'm gonna be alright."

Alabama Shakes, This Feeling

CASSIAN POV

He knew, from the moment he woke up, that today would be a good day.

Knew it when he woke up with his mate’s lips wrapped around his cock, knelt with her ass up from between his legs as she looked up at him, her gray eyes lit with knowing mischief as she roused him in his second favorite way of waking up (second only to his gaining of consciousness from between her thighs, a game they liked to play– how long until Cassian realizes he’s being suffocated by his mate’s pussy?)

Knew it when he went down to breakfast, to find his usual porridge, the gruel made better when his mate added those tiny dashes of cinnamon and allspice she’d been obsessing over since Eowyn began to introduce a myriad of spices she assured didn’t carry empty calories and made everything taste better.

But getting punched in the face? That solidified his assessment for the day.

The sound of bones hitting flesh was not an uncommon sound in the training ring. After all, that was what they were there to do. But the sound of Eowyn’s small but fierce fist connecting with the side of his jaw echoed through the ring with such a thunderous smack that everyone stopped what they were doing and focused only on them.

When he saw Eowyn’s wide, almost fearful eyes, the only part of her face revealed from her coverings, the only thing he could do was grin in reply. “Think you can do that again?” He challenged, moving his jaw side to side to relieve the familiar ache.

Instantly, the fear disappeared as she remembered that this was what they were here for and she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

It had been a few months since the young priestess had joined their little group of Warrior Priestesses, as he liked to call them. Although he had to admit he was rather partial to his mate and her friends, Eowyn had been quick to sneak her way into his limited list of favorite people. The girl was strong, both in character and when it came to the constant drilling they did. She was determined and always hyper-focused, never hesitating to repeat a motion or new move again and again until she got it right— did so, with little to no complaint, as well.

She was funny in a strange way, sharing that dry wit that he always came to associate with his mate, one of the reasons he believed the girls got along so well. And she was incredibly smart. He had no need to see her septganiums to know that, she simply oozed a certain sense of knowing. One had only to take a look at her deep dark eyes (in the rare and far between occasions she didn’t cover her entire head, that is) to see that shrewdness in her eye, as if she was in on a joke with the world at everyone else’s expense.

But most of all, she was fast.

The first time he’d seen her and Azriel go at it during their hand-to-hand combat sessions (as she was the odd-fae out when the females paired off to spar), he hadn’t hesitated to insert himself, practically trembling with excitement as he proposed a trade with his brother. Azriel could train with the three Valkyries, as they were honing in their sword-fighting and everyone knew that swordplay was Az’s area of expertise, while Cassian gave Wynnie a whirl, he had said, winking at the priestess whose only reply was to jut out a hip and rest a hand on it in an endearingly sassy way.

He hadn’t missed the way his brother’s jaw clenched in annoyance despite his otherwise unmoved face, as he merely nodded once, stilted, and left them to spar. He also hadn’t missed the fact that he could often feel his brother’s penetrating gaze on them whenever Cass had to physically adjust Eowyn’s elbows or whenever he landed a slightly-too-hard blow upon the young priestess (who actually took the jabs with much more grace and sportsmanship than others he knew— I’m looking at you, Rhys— he called out into the open void of his head in case the High Lord was eavesdropping).

But today of all days, Eowyn’s training had paid off. Months of hard training and half-taunting her had culminated into the perfect moment where she had landed a concise and heavy blow to his jaw, in a manner much too fast and skilled for him to catch immediately.

He had never been more proud of her.

Surprise gone, she smirked at him from under her covering, eyes glinting with mirth, “I’m about to drop you like a sack of potatoes.”

Grinning back, he got in position, wings ruffling slightly and beckoned her to try.

—

Although no one had the remotest intention of allowing any of the Valkyries near the upcoming Blood Rite, Cassian and Azriel had decided that the obstacle course from the previous year had been an invigorating and perfect team-building success.

The Valkyries, both the new and the slightly more experienced, continued their tradition at the end of each training session to attempt to cut the ribbon, not so much as the true Valkyrie rite of passage, but out of respect and tradition for their predecessors. The obstacle course had been something that was itching at Cassian’s brain again and he was looking forward to seeing what this batch of Warrior Priestesses could do.

Thus, he had dragged Azriel over to the kitchen table that same night to begin to brainstorm possible courses for the girls that didn’t overlap with what they had done before. Thankfully his brother was an endless pit of ideas, some more fatal that others, but all so concise that Cassian knew Azriel had been planning this for much longer than he thought.

Yawning behind his mug, Cassian inspected his brother before taking a sip from his lavender and chamomile tea, yet another addition to his routine influenced by Eowyn. The reminder of the young female brought a sudden idea to his mind.

“What do you think of Eowyn?” He asked his brother casually, trying to remember if he’d ever seen the pair interact beyond the basics of training.

Azriel, to his credit, didn’t choke on his own tea, exactly, but Cassian— not the most observant by nature but also not an idiot— noticed the way his brother seemed to tense, his breathing halting before painstakingly exhaling out the smallest hint of a shudder, his eyes suddenly fixed on the fruit at the center of the table.

“What… do you mean?” Azriel asked slowly.

Cassian chuckled lightly, a little confused as he looked at his brother in a way to say what do you think I mean? Just exactly what I asked.

“She punched me in the face today,” Cassian stated obviously, as if that hadn’t been the talk echoing through the mountain all day long. His brother looked up at him and blinked, face blank. 

Cassian took that as encouragement to continue, although he found himself slightly concerned at the fact that he had to spell it out for him. “She’s skilled. And she works hard, wants to work hard,” he emphasized. “I mean she hasn’t said anything to me, but I think some extra training would do her good.”

“You want her to train more?” His brother seemed to gather his composure, and although his strange behavior sparked a little tendril of interest in Cassian, he let it go for the moment.

“I want you to train her more,” Cassian corrected, placing his clasped hands on the table in a manner he’d seen Rhys do one too many times.

“Why don’t you do it?” Azriel bristled.

“Because I have courier duties with what’s-his-ginger-face.”

“And you assume I have nothing better to do with my time? Weren’t you assigned that job specifically because I was too swamped with work?”

“But all that shit with Briallyn is over and done with, and we haven’t heard a peep or anything related to Koschei in months,” he took another sip of his tea, making a mental note to send Eowyn some flowers or something. He’d quickly gotten addicted to his night tea, almost as much as the fancy roasted beans she liked to grind together and brew for him and the other girls whenever Nesta had them over for lunch. “That is, unless you want to take back your place and deal with that pompous asshole?”

Cassian thought about it. “Actually, that does sound better.”

“No,” Azriel spoke with such finality that Cassian could only stare at him. Azriel cleared his throat, “you know I can’t stand that prick.” He looked away and sighed, “alright, I’ll train her.”

“If she even wants to,” Cassian chuckled. “I know you don’t stay here as much as you used to, but you should consider coming back here if she agrees. And don’t start with that ‘I don’t want to intrude’ bullshit. Wynnie hangs around here all the time and we barely even see her.”

“That’s because she’s always in the greenhouse.”

“And how would you know that?” Cassian couldn’t help but prod, disregarding his earlier decision to leave things alone. Azriel only motioned to his shadows, eyebrow raised. Cassian continued, although with no small amount of doubt at his brother’s nonchalance. “You know, it’s actually been pretty nice having her around. Granted, she’s always talking to herself, but she’s got good taste,” he brought the tea cup up in mock salute.

“You don’t have to convince me, I already agreed to train her” Azriel rolled his eyes.

But there was more there. Cassian knew his brother, knew him better than anyone other than Rhys, who could quite literally enter his mind, and he knew there was something there, something simmering under the surface.

He only hoped no one got burned in the process.

“Alright, alright,” he raised his hands in surrender, “we’ll ask her tomorrow then.”

—

As he settled down for bed after taking a long and quite enlightening bubbly bath with his mate, he listened as she shared the details of her day with him. Nesta’s back was to him as she sat on the bed, hands expertly plaiting her hair into a long loose braid as she recounted her day, asking him about his own as they had come to do as part of their nightly routine since they solidified their mating bond.

He shrugged as he told his wife about his day, tactfully avoiding his plan to reconstruct the obstacle courses that she and the priestesses hated so much, but recounted everything else, including his idea to have Azriel train Wynnie.

He noticed, as he noticed every fluttering eyelash and breath his mate so much as took, the way she tensed up slightly, back still to him before she swung her finished braid over her shoulder and settled into her side of the bed, eyebrow raised questioningly at him.

“What?” He asked immediately, “you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s going to complicate things, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?” He frowned, “has she complained to you? Am I being too hard on her?” He asked, suddenly thinking back to his interactions with Eowyn and trying to decipher if she ever expressed any discomfort or displeasure by the training. But damn, it was so hard to tell without being able to see her face properly.

“No, it’s not that,” his mate assured, immediately, knowing her mate well enough to know he’d spiral into a hole and start overthinking his friendship with all the priestesses while he was at it. “It’s just that..” she trailed off slightly, gray eyes turning up to think about her words, “you know… Gwyn hasn’t spoken a word to Azriel since you let it slip that he hated the dagger she gave him-“

“I apologized for that!”

“-yes, but she hasn’t spoken to him for two months. And Azriel has barely even noticed,” she huffed. “But do you know who Az can’t seem to take his eyes off?”

He knew this. Of course, he knew this. He had felt Az’s eyes on them on more than one occasion, and he knew well that his brother seemed to have a thing for unattainable and uninterested females.

He only frowned, not needing to answer.

“And Gwyn has noticed. Of course she’s noticed, she watches him like a hawk.”

Cassian settled into bed, pulling his mate into his chest. “You think there’s something going on between Az and Wynnie?” he mumbled to her.

“No,” Nesta said immediately, settling further into the spot between his shoulder and neck that she’d claimed as her own. “Wynnie wouldn’t do that to Gwyn.”

Cassian hummed, mind turning before coming to a decision. “But we can’t meddle in their business, Nes. I think Eowyn would really benefit from more training and I can’t do it myself, otherwise I would.”

“I know,” his mate sighed sleepily, “I’m just saying it’s going to be a proper mess.”

—

After training, a session no less grueling than the rest, but not quite as backbreaking as the obstacle courses they were going to face in the next few months, he called Wynnie over after her daily attempt at cutting the ribbon.

The practice had become a staple in their daily training, and every day the priestesses would stand before the ribbon, swords raised in their preferred manner of combat and would slice the swords down with precision, if not quite the necessary finesse required to cut the ribbon clean off.

“I know, I know, ‘it’s all in the wrist,’” she huffed when she approached them. 

Despite his own suspicions that his brother held a special interest in the young priestess that went beyond a trainer/trainee status, he hadn’t truly considered why until his conversation with his mate the previous night. After his mating bond with Nesta— no, after meeting Nesta, even while she was still human— he hadn’t bothered to look at females in any other way that wasn’t purely platonic or inconsequential. 

He knew Eowyn was a rather pretty fae, of course, even despite the scars she kept well hidden, but he’d never seen her as anything other than his mate’s friend. As his friend.

She was of average height, neither too tall nor too short. Her clothes were no different from the rest of the priestesses, if perhaps only darker tones, and she often wore what he thought were skirts but were only very loose pants that allowed for unrestricted, if only heavier, movements. She also lacked the circlet and stone placed upon the center of the forehead that most, if not all, priestesses wore, even over their face coverings.

He’d seen her face only a handful of times when he "accidentally" walked in on the females having their bi-weekly lunches, and although he couldn’t pinpoint every feature exactly, not wanting to be caught staring at her, he knew she was pretty and had possibly the darkest eyes he’d ever seen.

And perhaps it was that. Her eyes. So dark and expressive and full of knowing that had his brother in a trance, for when she approached Cassian and Azriel wearing only a mask-like covering over only the bottom half of her face— her eyes shining bright from the exercise and dark hair pulled away into two braids down her back, a few stray hairs rebelling against their captivity, his brother only stared and didn’t say. A single. Word.

“So, what do you usually do after practice?” Cassian asked casually, feeling the need to ease them into a conversation that truly shouldn’t be all that difficult to have.

She gave him a weird look, one eyebrow raising slightly, “Unless I’m needed at the library, I like to go to the greenhouse while the sun is still out and tend to the plants. Then I go back to the library and work,” she looked at him questioningly, “why?”

“How would you feel about a little extra training?”

She snorted, “you’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not,” he said seriously, glancing at his brother from the corner of his eye to see if he had anything to add, but his brother’s gaze only remained fixed on the young priestess, taking in the unfamiliar sight of her dark hair. “We think you could really benefit from a few extra hours of one-on-one training and-“

“Am I doing that badly?” she asked, eyebrows furrowing, “I thought this was all just to create a routine. To destress and gain strength and all that.”

“It is” he assured immediately, “and on the contrary, you’re doing great. We can see how hard you’re working and all the effort you put in, and we just wanted to offer you some—“

“You come back to the ring sometimes. At night, when everyone’s in bed,” Azriel spoke up, if perhaps a bit softer than was normal for him. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

If she was surprised that he knew about her late night prowling, she didn’t show it. Her dark shrewd eyes scanned his face before meeting his eyes. “Sometimes,” she replied in the same tone.

“This could help you with that, if our group training isn’t enough,” Cassian added.

She considered their words for a few seconds and crossed her arms over her chest, finally nodding slowly. “How would it work? I just stay here and train with you both for another hour or..?”

“Well, it would just be Az, mostly. Maybe if I get a day off, I could stop by for a bit” Cassian clarified, “and we can work around whatever routine works best for you. If you’re needed at the library on any day, you can just let us know and we’ll figure something out.”

“To start, would you be willing to stay for another two hours, maybe three times a week?” Azriel asked.

She considered it for a second and then sighed, “alright. I can’t say I’m looking forward to getting my ass handed to me by the Lord of Shadows, but that should work out fine.”

Cassian snorted a laugh, glancing over at his brother to see his lip barely twitch in amusement and his ears turn red. Lord of Shadows, huh? Maybe not so unattainable and uninterested, after all.

“We start tomorrow,” Azriel said, a smile barely grazing his lips, hazel eyes shining bright.

part five

disclaimer: image is not mine. i found it on pinterest :D

taglist: @lilah-asteria @a-courtof-azriel @honk4emoboyz @feyretopia @mrsjna @buttermilktea11 @bravo-delta-eccho

[manygeese]

Look, I love Percy Jackson. I love the movie and board game Clue. Without further ado, I give you

PJO/HoO CHARACTERS AS CLUE PLAYERS

Just gonna do the 7 for now, maybe Yvette and the other npcs later

LEO AS WADSWORTH

Wadsworth is nothing if not a theater kid. He’s got oodles of whimsy and the energy levels to match. And he’s annoying and sassy as hell. Who else is as dramatic, quick witted, and hyperactive as Wadsworth? Leo freaking Valdez. Nobody else’s knees could take all that running around a murder mansion trying to find a murderer. Therefore, Leo Valdez is Wadsworth.

PIPER AS MISS SCARLET

Miss Scarlet is a businesswoman. It just so happens that her business is sex work (and secrets). She’s a murder suspect, she’s a girlboss, her coping mechanism is making jokes, she’s Piper McLean. Not only does Piper’s role as a daughter of Aphrodite fit Miss Scarlet’s profession, Piper would be just as shrewd and stealthy, use everything to her advantage like Miss Scarlet. Therefore, Piper McLean is Miss Scarlet.

FRANK AS COLONEL MUSTARD

Colonel Mustard is a military man, as you can tell from his title. Frank is the son of the god of war. And while the Colonel isn’t particularly good at war (cough war profiteer cough), who better to cast Frank as? I can also see Frank being so caught up in the moment to say some of the stupid things the Colonel does in the movie. Colonel Mustard has some A+ lines. Therefore, Frank Zhang is Colonel Mustard.

HAZEL AS MRS PEACOCK

Mrs. Peacock is a tad bit kooky. Her favorite dish is monkey brain soup. Her husband is an American official. She faints a lot and screams even more. She may or may not be a murderer. I can’t put my finger on it, but Hazel just oozes socially awkward/oblivious and would definitely pull the sort of stuff Mrs. Peacock does in the second ending especially. She’s got that supposedly harmless but actually a serial killer swag. Therefore, Hazel Levesque is Mrs. Peacock.

PERCY AS MR. GREEN

I’m gonna be honest, this is probably the weakest connection but I’m going for it. Mainly because I cast Annabeth as Mrs. White and there’s this one scene in the movie where he offers to show her a supposedly impossible sex position. Percy as Mr. Green + Annabeth as Mrs. White + one weird ass scene=Percabeth. Honestly, I can’t see any of the Seven doing stuff like Mr. Green does it and Percy was the last one I had to cast so. Percy is Mr. Green.

JASON AS PROFESSOR PLUM

He’s gay. He’s timid. He’s named after the color purple. What more could a guy want? Although Jason doesn’t have amazing POVs, I know when a character is meant to be another one and this is a match made in heaven. Professor Plum even sort of looks like Jason’s description in the books. I can SEE Jason as Professor Plum in the movie, I can HEAR him saying “MrS. pEaCoCk WaS a MaN?????” or some dorky shit like that. Jason’s gay, a lil shy, and he loves the color purple. Therefore, Jason is Professor Plum.

ANNABETH AS MRS. WHITE

Mrs. White was tragically widowed… five times. In the immortal words of the woman herself, “Husbands should be like Kleenex: soft, strong, and disposable.” Annabeth has the cunning to get away with five (ALLEGED) murders. Annabeth has that weeping widow, secret murderer energy. She lives a lavish life due to her husband’s being cut short. Also, Mrs. White is one of the funniest characters in the movie, and some of her lines are things Annabeth would say ironically so I’ve connected the dots. Therefore, Annabeth is Mrs. White.

Let me know if you want me to elaborate or cast Nico, Reyna, or anybody else :) I can also draw them as their characters if this gets enough notes soooooooo lemme know if u want that

[luck-and-larceny]

The (Anti?)Hero's Aspect - Malika Bajihri

( BOLD always or almost always applies  | |   italics are situational or occasional )

accepting | adventurous | altruistic | amiable | benevolent | bold | brave | caring | charitable | cheerful | chivalrous | compassionate | courageous | courteous | courtly | daring | decent | disciplined | doughty | dutiful | dynamic | empathetic | energetic | enthusiastic | erudite | fair-minded | faithful | fearless | forthright | gallant | generous | genuine | gritty | graceful | gracious | gutsy | happy | honest | honourable | incorruptible | innocent | intelligent | intrepid | jovial | judicious | just | kind | knowledgeable | likable | lionhearted | loyal | loving | magnanimous | merciful | mighty | mild | moral | nice | noble | non-judgemental | obliging | open-minded | orderly | philanthropic | polite | principled | proper | quick-thinking | quick-witted | quixotic | rational | realistic | refined | reasonable | reconciliatory | reliable | sagacious | saintly | seemly | shrewd | self-reliant | self-sacrificing | sensitive | smart | sophisticated | spirited | stalwart | steadfast | stoic | strong | suave | sympathetic | teetotal | tenacious | thoughtful | tireless | tolerant | tough | trustworthy | unassuming | uncomplaining | understanding | unflappable | unyielding | useful | valiant | virtuous | vigilant | warm-hearted | whimsical | wise | witty | worthy | xenacious | xenophilic | yielding | zealful Sooooo, yeah. Not especially heroic. She's fun though? I know it doesn't say anything about striking through any words, but some of these just really need to be marked for how not her they are.

Tagged by @faustinebellamy (thank you! I'll do this for all my alts later too~)

Tagging: @dumb-hat, @zhauric, @tough-bit-of-fluff, @simplysoriya, @unabashedrebel, @rylen-ashworth, @fair-fae, @sasslett, @vahalia-cress-ffxiv, @archaiclumina, @its-the-val-pal, @musesofawolf, @amorthonblackwood, and yoooooou! I tried not to add people I've already seen tagged (besides dumb-hat who has to deal with it), but if you have already been tagged or have already done this I'm sorry!

[mejcinta]

Complicated And Manipulative Father–Daughter Relationships.

I really enjoy how Alicent and Otto scenes emphasize how Westeros nobility fathers can manipulate their daughters to the point of believing they have broken free when they are in fact still playing into their father's power games.

Like in episode 9 when Alicent calls Otto out for using her like a pawn in her childhood, then goes on to declare Aegon will be crowned in the public eye (a more genius plan Otto had not thought of)....ugh!, that was chef's kiss.

"In certain lights you remind me of your mother," Otto said, with a smug look on his face. He was pleased that his coaching had come full circle, creating a shrewd quick-witted Queen of his poor, delicate little girl. A vulnerable, innocent, grieving girl he SHOULD have protected but instead preyed upon to secure an important position for himself and his House in the game of thrones.

I would like to see father-daughter scenes like these with Rhaena and Daemon, but as a contrast to the Otto/Alicent manipulation game; as Rhaena slowly realizes she can never match up to Daemon's standard of a worthy Targaryen.

Unlike Alicent, Rhaena is freer and eager even to please. There's a naivety there, but also a deep desire to gain Daemon's recognition. It's a manipulation game of sorts, but rather different from Alicent's.

Daemon was as much a plotter as Otto was, using his children like political pawns in the Game he was losing as a result of being relegated in the line of succession when Rhaenyra was named heir in his stead.

When Laena could not grant him sons he swiftly moved to Rhaenyra (a more eligible catch in terms of proximity to the Throne that would go on to give him trueborn male heirs).

We are shown that he treats Rhaena disparagingly compared to Baela, who hatched a dragon and was skilled more or less in combat.

Rhaena will later be sent to the Vale for lack of a dragon (I hope they make some changes to this) and had to grow up without the validation and unconditional love of her father as a result of not meeting Daemon's set standards of Targaryen power.

This could help explain why Rhaena later made choices Daemon would have frowned upon were he alive, marrying men of considerably lower social standing from the Vale and Oldtown (Corwyn Corbray, a widower and Garmund Hightower, a third son); men from regions that Daemon despised with a passion for his tainted history with the Royce's and the Hightowers.

I'm eager to see if the writers will grant Rhaena and Daemon an angle in season 2, to explore their complicated father-daughter relationship just as they did beautifully with Alicent and Otto in those few impactful scenes.

It would be a missed opportunity if they do not.

[caswensworld]

…so I gave Carlos a little sister. Idk, I thought it was some good way to honor Carlos and Cameron. I don’t know what came over me but I like what I came up with

Side note: I do love how Peder confirmed that not only will the Rise of Red have a tribute to Cameron, they’re gonna have it in the beginning of the film!

Christa De vil is the teenage daughter of Cruella De Vil and Carlos little sister. She's a sassy, chic bad girl with a heart of gold and an eye for fashion...and trouble

Long, wavy hair, split into a dramatic black and white gradient like her mother. The top half is black, fading to white at the bottom. This is a deliberate choice, a rebellion against her mother's side-by-side split. Dark brown eyes, sharp and intelligent, with a glint of mischief and defiance. Tall and lean, with a surprisingly muscular build from years of back-alley brawls and self-defense. 

Christa is the epitome of 'bad girl' cool. She's confident, outspoken, and unafraid to challenge authority. Her wit is sharp, her insults are cutting, and her style is impeccably curated. Beneath the sassy exterior lies a shrewd mind. Christa is a master manipulator, using charm, intimidation, and her sharp wit to get what she wants. She's a natural leader, able to rally people to her side even when they initially resist. Despite her tough exterior, Christa has a strong sense of loyalty and a deep love for her brother, Carlos. She's fiercely protective of him and would do anything to keep him safe. This compassion extends to those she deems worthy of her trust, but she's quick to turn on anyone who betrays her. Christa has a natural talent for fashion, inheriting her mother's eye for style and design. She dreams of starting her own label, a testament to her creative spirit and ambition. Her street-style outfits are legendary on the Isle, inspiring countless imitations. Christa is unafraid of anything or anyone. She's fought her way to the top on the Isle, earning the respect of both her peers and her enemies. She never backs down from a challenge, and she's always ready to fight for what she believes in.

**Background**

Christa grew up in the shadow of her infamous mother, Cruella De Vil. While her mother was obsessed with furs and dog-napping, Christa found solace in fashion and the company of her older brother, Carlos. She spent her childhood witnessing her mother's cruelty and learned to navigate the treacherous waters of the Isle of the Lost. She honed her street smarts and fighting skills, becoming a formidable force in her own right.

She never succumbed to her mother's darkness, instead forging her own path. She never developed a fear of dogs. She used her mother's fashion sense as inspiration, but she rejected her cruelty, choosing to express herself through creativity and compassion.

When Carlos was sent to Auradon, Christa felt a profound loss, but she refused to let it break her. She channeled her grief into her fashion, using her designs to express her own rebellious spirit and to honor her brother's memory. She built a crew of loyal followers, a motley crew of outcasts and rebels who admired her strength and embraced her unique style.

**Other Relevant Information**

Christa has a deep understanding of the Isle's underbelly and its hidden networks of power.

She is a skilled fighter, using her agility and street smarts to defend herself and her allies.

She possesses a keen eye for detail, a talent she uses to her advantage in both fashion and manipulation.

[aldrawsstuf]

Zodiac Signs as Deities (Part 2)

Libra the Just is the seventh Lord of the Zodiac and the goddess of Unity, Justice and the Sky. She is a goddess known for her fairness and wisdom.

Her ardent followers learn from her to pursue equality and justice in everything. All beings, whether they be heavenly or mortal, are required to follow the laws that she established. The gods and goddesses alike gather to the court of the sky to seek the advice of the goddess of justice. Her judgment is definitive and her insight unparalleled. She is a sympathetic and compassionate goddess who is always ready to hear the cries of people who have been wronged, despite her harsh and unbiased exterior.

She is the guardian of the oppressed and the pursuit of justice. Libra extends her power over the world of mortals since she recognizes that justice is not always administered equitably in this domain. The goddess will not stand with those who try to exploit the laws to control and oppress others.

Scorpio the Oathkeeper is the eighth Lord of the Zodiac and the goddess of Blood, Oaths, Secrets, and Death. A God who values in loyalty and faithfulness.

She imparts to others the idea that life and death are but two sides of the same coin. Scorpio also holds the view that all actions have repercussions, whether positive or negative, and that one should be ready to deal with these effects head-on. Her domain is the realm of the Dead, which is connected to the land of the living by rivers that meandered over the world. Rivers of life and souls flowed into and out of her realm, nourishing the spirits of the dead and leading the spirits of the living to their eternal resting place, respectively.

Though she has a terrifying reputation among mortals, she is actually a reasonable goddess who, provided they have lived honestly and kept their promise, grants people who have passed away a pleasant afterlife. And yet, as a warning to the living, those who have sinned greatly or betrayed others are punished for all eternity in her domain.

Sagittarius the Keen-eyed is the ninth Lord of the Zodiac and the god of Wildlife, Hunting, Exploration and Prophecy. A god who constantly seeks adventure.

His philosophy encourages his disciples to live fearlessly and wild lives. His sphere of influence transcends the wilderness and reaches into the hearts of individuals who are willing to go in search of adventure and the truth. Small conversation and idle banter are not Sagittarius the Keen-eyed's style. Instead, his brief but impactful words guide his devoted like lights in the night sky. His wisdom comes from innumerable experiences, both happy and sad, so when he talks, people pay attention.

He rewards people who follow his teachings with a keen eye and a quick wit, gifting them the ability to navigate even the most treacherous of terrains. He, however, will punish those who desecrate the wildlands or disrespect the creatures that dwell within them.

Capricorn the Steadfast is the tenth Lord of the Zodiac and the god of the Land, Time and Order. He believes that order is the foundation of society and prosperity.

He teaches his followers that regularity and toil are necessary for gain. He is often called the Father of Time by his worshippers, for it is he who tames the wild forces of time and space, bringing order to the chaos. He gave mortals the ability to carve out a life from the endless cycles of nature, creating cities, roads, and fields.

He blesses people who work hard and live honest lives, granting them health, wealth, and prosperity. However, he also demands that they respect the natural order of things and use their gifts wisely. Those who disrupt the balance, whether through greed, laziness, or hubris, soon find themselves the target of his wrath.

Aquarius the Shrewd is the eleventh Lord of the Zodiac and the god of Knowledge, Illusions and Magic. A god who loves knowledge above all else.

He instills in his people the value of using, studying, and comprehending the environment they live in. He established the laws of magic and is the patron deity of magicians. He taught mortals how to wield magic and granted them the capacity to do so. His dominion is large and complex; it is a magical and illusionary world where the boundaries between reality and fiction are blurred.

He rewards those who share their knowledge with others, who strive to push the boundaries of what is known and unknown. He also punishes erudition when it is used for selfish or malevolent purposes, as he believes that knowledge should be shared and used for the greater good.

Pisces the Dreamer is the twelfth and final Lord of the Zodiac and the goddess of the Ocean, Dreams and Love. A goddess who is known for her whimsical nature.

Love, she tells her followers, is as erratic as the deep ocean's waves. Invoked frequently when pleading for divine intervention for matters of the heart, she is revered as the patroness of lovers. The domain of dreams and nightmares is likewise under her authority. She shares the jurisdiction of the seas with Cancer, but her domain lies in the deep, uncharted waters, where the most potent dreams and nightmares dwell.

She cautions against being too attached to any one person or object, but she also honors those who seek love with ardor and determination. Pisces understands that love can bring both exhilarating highs and crushing lows, and that it is in the nature of the sea to ebb and flow.

[oh-take-this-longing]

The Hero's Aspect - Adelaide Azmerien

( BOLD always or almost always applies  | |   italics are situational or occasional )

accepting | adventurous | altruistic | amiable | benevolent | bold | brave | caring | charitable | cheerful | chivalrous | compassionate | courageous | courteous | courtly | daring | decent | disciplined | doughty | dutiful | dynamic | empathetic | energetic | enthusiastic | erudite | fair-minded | faithful | fearless | forthright | gallant | generous | genuine | gritty | graceful | gracious | gutsy | happy | honest | honourable | incorruptible | innocent | intelligent | intrepid | jovial | judicious | just | kind | knowledgeable | likable | lionhearted | loyal | loving | magnanimous | merciful | mighty | mild | moral | nice | noble | non-judgemental | obliging | open-minded | orderly | philanthropic | polite | principled | proper | quick-thinking | quick-witted | quixotic | rational | realistic | refined | reasonable | reconciliatory | reliable | sagacious | saintly | seemly | shrewd | self-reliant | self-sacrificing | sensitive | smart | sophisticated | spirited | stalwart | steadfast | stoic | strong | suave | sympathetic | teetotal | tenacious | thoughtful | tireless | tolerant | tough | trustworthy | unassuming | uncomplaining | understanding | unflappable | unyielding | useful | valiant | virtuous | vigilant | warm-hearted | whimsical | wise | witty | worthy | xenacious | xenophilic | yielding | zealful

Lol. It felt weird not to bold or italicize any of the words that make someone seem approachable or friendly. I promise she IS those things after you get to know her, but she just really isn't until you break through her icy shields.

Tagged by @faustinebellamy (thank you! I'll do this for all my alts later too~)

Tagging: Anyone who sees this and wants to. If you see it here, please tag me when you do it!

[storyofwhoiam]

Allimafrity "Allima" Walzyhl

[Tiefling, 40-70, warlock (Pact of the Tome), cis woman, she/her, bisexual, fc Gina Torres]

Allima’s infernal heritage is unmistakable. She has large, straight horns; her deep black eyes, lack any visible sclera or pupils; a four-foot long, thick tail swings behind her, and her pointed canine teeth contrast with the sophistication of her attire. Allima dresses in fine, well-tailored clothes, often complemented by exquisite jewelry. Every detail of her appearance is meticulously calculated.

Her father, Zsulaw Walzyhl, was a shrewd courtier and diplomat. The Walzyhls were determined to rise in status, and Zsulaw instilled these ambitions in his daughter from an early age. She learned from him that charm, intelligence, and connections were the keys to advancement in the world.

Her quick wit and sharp tongue can be disarming, but they also serve as a shield against her insecurities. Despite her confident, often flirtatious exterior, Allima harbours deep fears about her status which fuels her relentless drive to secure her legacy. Although Allima is ambitious and willing to manipulate circumstances to her advantage, she is not cruel for the sake of cruelty. Her primary focus is on her personal advancement, but this ambition is tempered by a desire for genuine love and loyalty.

The Walzyhls' expectations propelled her forward but also set a high bar for her success, a burden she felt acutely. She cultivated relationships with influential courtiers, including diplomats, scholars, and politicians. Her connections provided her both status and scrutiny. Allima sought out the Archfey, making a pact in return for power. In exchange for magic and influence, Allima performs occasional services for the Archfey: the Archfey’s whims often pulling her in unpredictable directions.

Her ambition made her paranoid, and she became increasingly distrustful of even her closest allies. Allima’s relentless pursuit of power also caused her to overreach at times, resulting in costly mistakes and enemies she underestimated. Allima’s eventual downfall came when her influence grew too visible. Enemies, jealous of her rise and wary of her manipulations, conspired against her. She was arrested on fabricated charges. It took several years for her to escape imprisonment and go on the run.

[rriavian]

Hello.

You know, if you wrote a book about your version of Corintheus based Dreaming analysis, I would love to have a paperback edition of that ( i love paperback 💖)

Anyway, i probably have told you quite a number of times that, my favourite moment of Baiting the Trap is Corinthian nibbling Dream's earlobe in the library right before Lucienne. Also, i have stated it enough times that,one of my favourite Corintheus prompt is Lucienne's reaction to the Corinthian-Dream dynamic.

So my question is:

When Lucienne was asked to be dismissed from the Library right after the above mentioned scene- what was her immediate range of feelings? Was she hurt that Dream allowed someone as disobedient as Corinthian to be so shamelessly invading his personal space before her presence? She is the most loyal most sacrificing subject of Dream realm. She deserves to be treated with dignity and decency. And being compelled to watch a private kinky moment like that isn't quite decent for Luci. I am not sure if I could make it clear. In my mind, Lucienne is ace. I assume she wouldn’t be comfortable to witness anyone’s unwarranted private moment. Let alone Dream's. The closest analogy is : an elder daughter being bound to watch her ever so dignified father's new shrewd gf trying to show off a glimpse of what they do in their private moment. So, was Lucienne hurt? Or angry? Or shocked? Or confused? Or all together?

Eventually, what was her personal thoughts about Dream- Corinthian relationship when she overcome the initial shock?

I have two more supplementary questions. I will send them eventually. Answer whenever you want to. Or feel free to not answer at all, if there is an upcoming fic shading light on this plot.

Much love💖💖

<3 oh if I wrote a book there would be so much I’d put into the analysis!

That moment in the library is definitely one of my favourites too, and one of my biggest narrative regrets is that there hasn’t (yet) been more Lucienne in the series. Her reactions to the dynamic are very important narratively, and very very interesting given her relationship to both Dream and the Corinthian. So I was happy to get a question about it! This is also something I’d thought about when I was writing so will probably come up at some point, but at the moment my answer shouldn’t spoil anything :)

The aftermath of the scene in the library links directly to the one between Dream and Lucienne in Courting the King, where there's a bit of tension before it’s resolved. There was worry when she left, some anger (at the Corinthian), but no confusion. I don’t think Lucienne was hurt—maybe a little bit of wounded pride—because while protective of Dream/the Dreaming she also respects his right to decide how to run his realm/respond to an insult against him. I think they both verbally negotiate where the boundary of that is. There’s a balance there and I think Lucienne’s stubbornness can, like any strength, work against her in certain situations.

There’s a wonderful parallel in how both her and Dream are incredibly alike in how they can be very stubborn, very prideful, so in many ways they’ve always understood each other.

What happens in both this scene and the one in Courting the King is that they are examples of Dream’s way of being like ‘I respect you greatly but you need to let me handle this’. It’s not an insult against her capabilities, or her role, nor a dismissal of the worthiness of her opinions (Dream is quick to rebuke the Corinthian when he precedes to insult her). It’s a demonstration of Dream taking his own responsibilities very seriously (I am the King and I will deal with this) while also making it clear that this is additionally a decision of personal agency.

Dream doesn’t need someone to step in and take away his choice of whether to accept what the Corinthian is doing or to punish him for it.

The privacy of the moment is definitely a factor in his decision too. Dream knows very well that the Corinthian is trying (and succeeding) to get a rise out of Lucienne. He knows that the Corinthian is using it as a way to finally feel like he’s won, to get pleasure from the context of how disrespectful it really is, to find a sneaky way to achieve what Dream is still denying him. That links something else too - while allowing this change to a sexual relationship is a decision that Dream has made (and the myriad of reasons within that is an analysis in itself!) that doesn’t mean it’s one any one else has agreed to see, that they’ve agreed to be made a part of.

The Corinthian tried to make Lucienne a part of it here, and Dream dismissed her to protect her, to make it clear that this fight was to remain private.

It was very much done out of respect to allow her dignity. To treat her with care. Dream is refusing to be remiss in his duties as King, as her friend, as someone who loves her dearly, by allowing her to be used as a pawn in a power play. And so Lucienne wasn't hurt because she understood why Dream did what he did even if she doesn't know all of the reasons why.

Lucienne being ace is definitely a reading I like! I’m also ace so that’s an interpretation I very much lean towards, though in some ways I read Dream as ace too haha.

As for her thoughts on the relationship, I think that will need to unfold as the series continues, but right now I think Lucienne is looking at Dream like ‘I support your right to choose sexual partners/forgive criminals even when it’s obvious you have terrible taste in men’. She’s pretty convinced that the Corinthian is going to betray Dream/the Dreaming again and—as shown in that scene in Courting the King—is being very cautious about keeping an eye on his behaviour in the Dreaming.

You are wonderful as always and I hope you enjoyed reading this <3 Feel free to send any questions at any time! Some might take longer to answer than others but I do love answering asks about these things :)

[spacemagicandlaserswords]

The Clone Wars 2x14 ‘Duchess of Mandalore’ Reaction

This first Mandalore-Obi-Wan/Satine-Obitine arc started out so well. 2x12 ‘The Mandalore Plot’ was an absolute hoot. One of my favourite episodes so far. 2x13 ‘Voyage of Temptation’ wasn’t quite at the same level but still had some fantastic and hilarious moments. And then everything just felt like it fell completely flat in the final episode of this Mandalore arc.

We’ve just been introduced to Satine, who we very quickly get to know as an exceptionally capable, hyper competent, dedicated and principled leader. She’s smart, shrewd, quick witted, intelligent, and has the nous to best Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Great Negotiator himself, whenever they flirt verbally joust. The Satine we know is there at the start of her appearance in the Senate, where she delivers the absolute banger of a line that is “You would trample our right to self-determination.”  

However it all goes downhill from there when the recording plays and she gets all flustered and upset. Now that is understandable given that she has the lives of her people at stake and she has just discovered that her deputy minister and supposedly good friend has betrayed her while in the middle of the Senate. Yet we’ve seen Satine maintain a level head and remain collected in the face of peril, threat and adversity before so why did she suddenly lose that composure in the Senate? It feels a little too much like leaning into the ‘women are too emotional to be leaders’ nonsense. Even with everything that’s happened, I really couldn’t understand this sudden 180 on Satine’s character. Also, a recording? Of course it’s fake. Though this is an audience perspective looking in, and there was no proof that it was doctored so of course Satine has to go off and find said proof. I did enjoy how much she was pissing off Palps though, and how much he couldn’t show it. Anytime that happens is deeply satisfying.    

Then we get to Obi-Wan and Satine having their first real proper fight. The whole thing just seemed really unnecessary. I really was not impressed with Obi-Wan basically barging in with advice and telling her not to be hysterical. Sexist much? I guess this is one of those times where I have to remind myself that this episode aired over 13 years ago and so this is another example of how TCW has aged. Younger nerd me would still be pissed at that though so it doesn’t excuse it. Also, how is 2010 13 years ago?! I can see both of their points of view, even if Obi-Wan really didn’t go about delivering his in a considerate manner. In a way, they’re both right and they’re both wrong. Nothing good comes of it and then the Death Watch promptly tries to assassinate Satine, which gives you some idea of how well her day is going.

All the smarmy politics nonsense that happened after this was utterly frustrating. Hopefully that was the point because what else could that have been apart from an assassination attempt?! The speeder of a visiting political leader crashes into a building and that isn’t suspicious? I also really don’t like how the Republic thinks it can just march on over and decide what’s best for planets under the guise of helping. Sounds very colonial of them but then that’s probably the point. Just because the Republic might think they’re helping doesn’t mean they actually are. Especially when the people and elected leader of said planet have specifically stated multiple times that they don’t want them there. I can think of a lot of real world parallels that this is echoing. Another example of TCW tackling difficult, more nuanced topics. Though I’m beginning to realise that for all TCW is held up as fairly decent to good writing in Star Wars, there’s still plenty of ways that it also disappoints.    

Satine has to find proof of the recording being doctored so of course she goes to the Coruscant underworld and of course her day gets even worse and she ends up framed for murder and is now a fugitive on the run. She’s got a hilarious unsubtle royal red hooded cloak on as a disguise, complete with ornate gold detailing. How is that fooling anyone? And then we had the chase sequence, which was utterly ridiculous. It was so laughably bad it reminded me of the speeder bike chase from The Book of Boba Fett. 

I’m putting this tangent here immediately so that I don’t get hate for this. I want to make it completely clear that I enjoyed The Book of Boba Fett. There were some absolutely fantastic parts of the series. I think the highlight for me was the physicality Temuera Morrison brought to his acting and to Boba. He imbued so much of his Māori culture into Boba and You. Can. Tell. It was amazing. I loved it. There’s a video interview where he talks about this and I wish I could find it because it’s fantastic and definitely worth a watch. TLDR I enjoyed The Book of Boba Fett. Sometimes it feels like I’m one of the few who actually did. That said, I can completely recognise that there were quite a few elements of the show that were lacking, along with some decisions that were just ridiculous. Just because something is enjoyable doesn’t exempt it from critical thinking. Sidelining Boba in his own show and turning the back half of the season into The Mandalorian Season 2.5 was particularly grating. There were also parts of the show that unfortunately just didn’t land, and the speeder bike chase was one of them. It was supposed to be a speeder chase. That implies speed. The word is there in the name of the vehicles. Yet the whole thing looked like it was trundling along at about 20km/h, almost as if in slow motion. The chase sequence of Satine in this episode had the same vibes. It just seemed ridiculous. Everything happened so comically slowly. Clones are trained from birth and created with the sole purpose of being the perfect soldier and here they are bumbling around Coruscant like a pair of incompetent buddy cops from a dated British comedy show. There’s only so much you can suspend disbelief and it really didn’t feel believable that a pacifist royal could continue to evade a whole cavalcade of pursuers that included two highly trained genetically engineered soldiers and a Mandalorian Death Watch assassin.

Obi-Wan meeting up with Satine, at what I assume was the top of Umate, was also hilariously ridiculous. Two hooded figures in the most populous public space on Coruscant? That’s not suspicious at all! Though there might’ve been a little bit of an acknowledgment of this in Obi-Wan’s line “Nice disguise.” I did love the moment where Satine grabbed Obi-Wan by the front of his Jedi robes and dragged him away from where they were sitting. I’m realising more and more that it’s the little moments that really make the characters and the show. Also, these moments are often a lot more fleeting than I thought they’d be. There’s a similar one at the end of the show where Satine and Obi-Wan both look out over Coruscant through the window of the Chancellor’s office. I was expecting this to be a longer scene with conversation and a moment between the two of them. But instead it barely lasts a few seconds before the credits roll. 

I will admit that Satine handing herself in as a distraction to allow Obi-Wan to get into the Senate building was particularly gutsy. So the episode is at least bookended by the Satine we know. I’m almost up to the next Mandalore arc in season 3 and it’ll be interesting to see how that goes. I also have so many episodes that I’ve watched and need to write about and Ahsoka comes out August 23 and I still have to get through seasons 3-7 of TCW and all of Rebels before that starts. Why have I done this to myself? *cries* I may have to revise my approach to these recaps again but I want to get through these ones first before I try changing things again.  

[starrysnowdrop]

The Hero’s Aspect

Hali Aloke ✨🌊

(( BOLD always or almost always applies | | italics are situational or occasional ))

accepting | adventurous | altruistic | amiable | benevolent | bold | brave | caring | charitable | cheerful | chivalrous | compassionate | courageous | courteous | courtly | daring | decent | disciplined | doughty | dutiful | dynamic | empathetic | energetic | enthusiastic | erudite | fair-minded | faithful | fearless | forthright | gallant | generous | genuine | gritty | graceful | gracious | gutsy | happy | honest | honourable | incorruptible | innocent | intelligent | intrepid | jovial | judicious | just | kind | knowledgeable | likable | lionhearted | loyal | loving | magnanimous | merciful | mighty | mild | moral | nice | noble | non-judgemental | obliging | open-minded | orderly | philanthropic | polite | principled | proper | quick-thinking | quick-witted | quixotic | rational | realistic | refined | reasonable | reconciliatory | reliable | sagacious | saintly | seemly | shrewd | self-reliant | self-sacrificing | sensitive | smart | sophisticated | spirited | stalwart | steadfast | stoic | strong | suave | sympathetic | teetotal | tenacious | thoughtful | tireless | tolerant | tough | trustworthy | unassuming | uncomplaining | understanding | unflappable | unyielding | useful | valiant | virtuous | vigilant | warm-hearted | whimsical | wise | witty | worthy | xenacious | xenophilic | yielding | zealful

This wasn’t surprising, as obviously I wrote Hali to be not only a WoL, but also a kind-hearted, compassionate healer who sees the good in people and tries to help others as much as she can. Some of these don’t fit Hali, mainly because she’s a healer first and foremost, so she’s not physically strong. Hali can be pretty impatient, overly emotional, and has trouble handling her fears sometimes, so she’s got plenty of flaws to go around as well!

Tagged by: @mimble-sparklepudding Thank you so much for thinking of me!!! 🥰💖

Tagging: I’m not sure who’s been tagged and who hasn’t, so if you’d want to do this and you haven’t been tagged yet, consider yourself tagged!

[usagirln12003]

Emily Davis: Hogwarts AU

Emily Davis is a Pureblood witch that was born on the 15th of December 1986 and started attending Hogwarts on the 1st of September 1998, being sorted into Slytherin House.

She has a Black Walnut wand with a Dragon Heartstring Core.

Her Patronus is Non-Corporeal.

Her favorite subject is Transfiguration and her least favorite subject is Potions.

She was one of the Slytherin Prefects of her year.

Emily is described by her fellow Slytherins as intelligent, resourceful, and persuasive. According to her friends, she loves fashion, dislikes not getting her way, and dreams of getting a job as style editor for the Daily Prophet.

With a passion for fashion and a clear sense of style, Emily believes keeping up appearances is important and enjoys being the center of attention. She's not afraid to drop some serious cash on a piece of designer clothing, and also not afraid to let everyone know it. Still, Emily is more than just looks. She also has a shrewd mind, a penetrating wit, and a power of persuasion about her. These attributes have helped her both achieve ten O.W.L.S. and attract a large group of friends who enjoy her company despite her often sharp tongue.

Emily displays a tough exterior, but there are traces of a hurt, vulnerable person beneath. While she's not always quick to vocalize her feelings or own up to her mistakes like her personal involvement in the tragic prank that happened at the end of her fifth year, she does still show sadness over the disappearance of her friends Hannah and Beth, particularly when she comes across their "missing" posters. She even references how she and the others joined the search for the twins after their initial vanishing, further showing that she cared for them. Josh has suggested that Emily's harsh bravado is merely a front that belies her lack of confidence. What's clear is she doesn't like feeling powerless, so when things don't go her way, she gets to work to change the situation to better suit her. Despite her strong-willed nature, she looks to others to attend to her needs, particularly when she's feeling exposed to danger.

According to Josh, Emily's greatest fear is failure. Chris shares this fear, but while he displays this trait with inaction, Emily manifests it in forms of aggression. This is most evident with regards to her feeling over the breakdown of her and Mike's relationship. After the two split up, she was upset to find her ex-boyfriend dating her close friend Jessica. Emily felt hurt and betrayed and responded by entering into a hasty relationship with Matt. Her decision to continue her studies despite having lost the interest primarily comes down to a few motivations: give off the appearance that she is over her breakup, shame Jessica amongst their friend group, sow discord between Jessica and Mike's budding romance, and possibly win Mike back.

This mindset leads Emily to commit several mean-spirited and manipulative actions throughout her sixth year such as instigating a fight with Jessica when they first meet up at the Hogwarts Express, lying to Matt on the way to the castle, and generally belittling those around her. As the events of this year occur, Emily is quick to take action, but unable to put aside some of her base instincts. As the end of the year spirals out of control, she continues to lash out at others particularly Matt even when he's trying to help her. The culminating act comes when Emily is attacked by a strange creature and the group begins to panic over what effect the bite will have on her; Ashley demands Emily leave the school, but Mike goes as far as to pull his wand on her. Ashley ultimately learns that the bite is harmless, but in an act of violence, Emily directs her aggression against Ashley and strikes her. When fleeing from the creatures later on, Emily even tries to gain an advantage and trip Ashley up so she can get to safety.

Overall, Emily possesses what can be considered a narcissistic attitude. She contends that she is "never wrong" and whenever challenged, she has a talent for redirecting conversations and digressing in order to get a one up. Her fear of failure leads her to exploit others to accomplish her goals: she benefits if they succeed at the given task, but if they don't, she has someone to blame besides herself. Despite this, Emily proves to be a very capable individual when she's pushed. While isolated and forced to rely on her own abilities, she displays physical strength, feats of agility, excellent problem-solving skills, and a cool-headed focus during a time of crisis. However, when she rejoins others, her old habits are quick to resurface.

[1morefairytale]

The Hero's Aspect - Saachi Medvyed

( BOLD always or almost always applies  | |   italics are situational or occasional )

accepting | adventurous | altruistic | amiable | benevolent | bold | brave | caring | charitable | cheerful | chivalrous | compassionate | courageous | courteous | courtly | daring | decent | disciplined | doughty | dutiful | dynamic | empathetic | energetic | enthusiastic | erudite | fair-minded | faithful | fearless | forthright | gallant | generous | genuine | gritty | graceful | gracious | gutsy | happy | honest | honourable | incorruptible | innocent | intelligent | intrepid | jovial | judicious | just | kind | knowledgeable | likable | lionhearted | loyal | loving | magnanimous | merciful | mighty | mild | moral | nice | noble | non-judgemental | obliging | open-minded | orderly | philanthropic | polite | principled | proper | quick-thinking | quick-witted | quixotic | rational | realistic | refined | reasonable | reconciliatory | reliable | sagacious | saintly | seemly | shrewd | self-reliant | self-sacrificing | sensitive | smart | sophisticated | spirited | stalwart | steadfast | stoic | strong | suave | sympathetic | teetotal | tenacious | thoughtful | tireless | tolerant | tough | trustworthy | unassuming | uncomplaining | understanding | unflappable | unyielding | useful | valiant | virtuous | vigilant | warm-hearted | whimsical | wise | witty | worthy | xenacious | xenophilic | yielding | zealful

Worthy feels like a weird one here. Worthy of what? Wielding Mjolnir? I've bolded it because if you asked her "Are you worthy?" she wouldn't question it like I did, she'd just say "Of course I am!"

Saachi is my most "Hur hur hur I'm a big damn hero!" Though she probably wouldn't add the "Hur hur hur" to it; that's director commentary.

Tagged by @faustinebellamy (thank you! Get ready to be thanked on every alt's posting of this. Let me know if you'd prefer to -not- be tagged). Also tagged by my main at luck-and-larceny.

Tagging: Omigosh anyone who wants to do it! If you saw it on this blog, please tag me when you do it!

[royallyxmessy]

{santiago cabrera, 45,cismale, he/him} we are so glad to see you safe, PRINCE MIGUEL DOMINGO formerly of VENEZUELA, currently operating as a royal advisor of BRAZIL! it’s dangerous out in the world these days, but i hear that you are QUICK-WITTED and ADAPTABLE enough to handle it. just don’t let your PRIDE bring you down! stay on your guard, because with your secret being at risk for exposure, you wouldn’t want everyone to find out YOU ARE PRETENDING TO BE LOYAL TO BRAZIL BUT SECRETLY YOU ARE JUST WISHING TO GO HOME. {betty, 32, EST,she/ her}

Facts

Name: Miguel Domingo

Birthday: May 23, 1726

Title: Prince of Venezuela (second son of the former king), Royal Advisor of Brazil

Traits: Quick-witted, shrewd, adaptable, proud

Family: father: Raul Domingo (deceased), mother: Eva Domingo, brother: King (unnamed) Domingo, wife: unnamed Domingo, son: unnamed Domingo

Act 1

What luck came to the royal house of Domingo, rulers of Venezuela when their twin sons were born; an heir and a spare all at once. After years of trying to conceive with his first wife, the king had remarried and managed to conceive at the ripe age of fifty-four. The country was elated and the king finally settled into his reign after years of questioning. From infancy, the boys seemed locked in some battle of skill; they traded their milestones back and forth. Miguel's brother may have walked first, but he spoke first. His brother could hit harder, but Miguel could string a bow like lightning. While their mother assured them that they were both special, both wonderful in their own ways, their father saw such competitiveness as a useful tool and fostered it in his sons, pushing them to compete so that each became capable in his own fashion. Still, Miguel never held illusions that he would be king, even if, in his own opinion, he would be the smarter choice, with his brains over his brother's brawn.

The crown was a competition that Miguel knew would go to his brother, but there was a competition even more dear to him as both young men fell for the same woman. Her beauty, though it was beyond compare, was not the trait that spurred the young prince forward, but her intellect. For a youth who was often considered the smartest in the room, he finally found himself humbled. When she assented to be his wife, Miguel felt he was the luckiest man alive...when his son was born, he felt that luck doubled. Tides change, however, and the prince would soon find his luck had run out.

Act 2

Miguel's son was only months old when Miguel's father passed; the king had grown old as his sons had matured. Though he died beloved by his people, their new ruler had seen a different side to their former king. A life of competition had polished ambition and envy into the new king and he took the throne with an eye towards conquest. He decided to kill two birds with one stone, ordering Miguel to insert himself as a spy within the Brazilian court for five years to sew dissent and garner information on the political landscape. In the meantime, the king tried to court Miguel's wife without Miguel's knowledge. Five years, though, passed too quickly and by the end of the time, though Miguel had made friends in the Brazilian court and earned himself a place of trust, he had toppled no one and his brother had not managed to woo his intended. Thus, he decided to take a different tact. Miguel's secret was spilled to the king of Brazil and the ruling king of Venezuela washed his hands of his twin. Miguel would doubtlessly be killed and the king would be free to woo his widow.

That was not what happened.

Due to some loyal servants and a well-timed letter, Miguel was able to reveal himself to Antonio rather than allowing for the surprise. Whether it was simply the value of Miguel's shrewd advice or the friendship built between the two men, Miguel was imprisoned, but not killed. He had never truly conspired against Brazil (his fondness for King Antonio had never allowed it) and had often acted to the country's benefit; it was enough for mercy, though he could not be allowed to go free...yet. He became an indentured advisor, working to pay off his debts, his lies. Though he has spent over a decade away from home, his heart has never forgotten. Secretly, he hopes that his wife has waited, that his son has grown up well, and that he will have vengeance on those who have wronged him...if only he can free himself from Brazil without breaking Antonio's trust. If only he can use the time to come back stronger, strong enough to pay his brother back for his treachery.