#speaking of flavor it's always good for a set to have a theme

[dravidious]

The Chainweaving mechanic seems like a neat spin on Surge. At first I thought “well why not just use surge?” but then I remembered that Adventure is in this set, so a mechanic that cares about what type of spells you cast is really cool synergy! There should probably be more cards that use Chainweaving for cost reduction, since casting 2 spells in one turn is hard, so that would be a good fit for commons.

Dedication is neat, mechanics that reward attacking help keep the game moving forward. I'm worried it's a little snowball-y/win-more, but WOTC has been printing planeswalkers for years and just made Siege cards, so I guess that's not a problem. Nice and simple, and the name definitely has good flavor!

Custom mtg mechanics jumpscare

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Fall mansion rambles

I'm just in a fall mood today so I wanted to do some fall-themed rambles because listen, listen, I feel like everyone in the mansion fucking loves fall.

They play different music year-round, and I feel like Liu as the resident jazz lover breaks out his jazz records and just plays them for everyone to hear and it sets the MOOD. The mansion feels so much cozier with the sound of Autumn jazz drifting through it, and it puts everyone at ease.

Then, the DECORATING. They go all out in the mansion for Halloween, and they do a mix of general fall decorations and Halloween decorations, everyone decorating the outside and inside of the mansion until they pretty much run out of decorations. Also, they totally have that one decoration from Target that says "I am Lewis" and he's right at the entrance of the mansion, I will not hear otherwise.

Tim and Slender really break into their fall baking, constantly making new pies and cookies for everyone to eat, and they get devoured. The two of them bake so many fucking pumpkin pies from September to the end of November that it's ridiculous, but every single one is eaten in like a day or two with how many people are in the mansion. I feel like Tim is the drink maker for everyone, and he's always making fresh hot cocoa or something that is pumpkin spice flavored for everyone to enjoy, and it just sets the mood so well. They light the fireplace and just all gather around it eating pumpkin pie and their respective hot drinks and it's the best vibe ever.

Speaking of pumpkins, by the way, DECORATING THEM! I feel like Helen helps everyone every year carve or paint their own pumpkins if they need help, and he supplies all of the tools for it. Slender takes them all to a huge pumpkin patch and lets every single creep pick out a pumpkin or two that they really want and they all have a good time running through the pumpkin fields. I can just see them all sitting together at Slender's long ass dining table, every creep making their own pumpkin. I think they would all be set out on the porch, all stacked together and placed wherever anyone wants theirs to be, and if any of them start rotting they'll make another one to replace it. I feel like Toby gets the most excited about carving and painting pumpkins and I can see him decorating at least like 10 of them by the time Halloween rolls around. If he could he'd do more than that but I feel like he tries not to go too overboard.

Then all the talk of who's dressing up for Halloween, and what everyone is going to be going as. I feel like I could see Trender stopping by and literally offering to make everyone's costumes for them like it's a yearly tradition for him to just show up randomly with a fuck ton of supplies, and I can see Jason pitching in and helping too. The two of them just spend their free time customizing everyone's costumes exactly how they want them, talking and chatting over some tea and the piles of fabric in front of them.

I don't know why specifically, but I just get the vibe that fall into winter is the happiest time of the year in the mansion as a whole, not that they don't have spring and summer joyful times, but I just feel like the vibes are so good that everyone is more relaxed. They're all calm and at peace and content, with less fighting, less sadness, just wonderfully calm cool fall times.

[kittyplushy]

🧸No, That's Not An Excuse🧸

A shorter, fluffier fic. Sam is always submissive to her cat's whims.

Julianne's apartment doesn't speak well to her age. It's soft, round, erased of any edge decorated with a warm coat and decoration. It's uniquely colored and lit, relying on lamps and natural light to illuminate the tiny diorama home. At night the tv glows white as Julianme eats dinner on the short coffee table. She's accompanied by a few guests. On her couch in place of throw pillows are stuffed versions of fish. A mackarel, a salmon, and a swordfish fight for space on the sofa. Julianne eats spicy tuna and eggs on themed bowls decorated with faces of cartoon princesses and fairies. In front of her is a new teddy bear bought on impulse. A Japanese mascot plush she found at a thrift shop that looked particularly charming is added to her ever-growing hoard of strange treasures. The bedroom is already overflowing with soft animals and strange objects on legs and tonight a new one joins them.

The teddy bear had more cartoonish proportions. It was fuzzy but it was sewn with a felt-like cloth of a single, unchanging color. It had a white round belly, yellow paws, and a white, short snout. The bear's cartoon eyes were closed, looking dissatisfied or annoyed. It was just too funny to pass up on. She endeariny looks at it and pretends to share her food with the toy. It reminded her of...somebody. Somebody who did notice the mountain of dolls in the bedroom's floor and lounge chair.

Click.

"Doughface, I'm home."

Julianne walks to the doorway and greets her partner with a hug. She stays in the embrace for a little longer then painfully lets go.

"Sorry I'm late. Had to do inventory tonight."

"It's okay. Sam, there's spicy tuna and eggs on the counter if you'd like. I'll clear up space on the coffee table for you." Julianne hums. She suddenly realizes that she forgot to hide the bew teddy bear. She shuffles around quickly so Sam wouldn't notice. She gathers her dirty bowl on a tray she towed under the table and hides the bear under in its place.

Sam has grown to accept such an odd quirk in their apartment. Julianne revered her passion and direction as much as she could leaving the paint unaltered and letting the wood shine through with the right colored rugs and garnishes. She never painted over any of the prime trademarks of her carpenter's design but customization was a priority to the maximalist artist. A Spartan to her Athenian, their preferences clashed harshly but the fluff was growing on Sam like moss. It's nothing she could change. It's in Julianne's nature.

But she notices. Sam picks up the plush mirror while Julianne prepares her her dinner. She grimaces, then smirks; This is such a funny plush. Too bad it's the FIFTH funny plush this week. She doesn't know of there's more. Sam expected herself to become desensitized to her antics but annoyance is a masked concern, and her partner needs a bit of reminding to be careful with her adult money.

"Hey, I got some flavored beer in the minifridge. Do you want anyth...hing...?"

Julianne's ears fold as she's frozen in place. She grins. Oh no.

"Julianne..."

"Yes, Honey?"

"How much is rent this month?" Sam squints her eyes as she smiles- provoking the poor cat.

"...Four Hundred and Seventy...point-twenty..?"

Julianne stiffly sets down a bowl of hot rice and tuna served in floral dishes. She places a glass with strawberry prints on them next to it, filling it with lemon-honey beer. She watches as the bear eats, her soul wanting to leave its body. She squeezes her plush as the minutes pass.

"Julianne." Sam finally breaks the tension. She turns to her, repositioning herself to appear less tense.

"Yeah. I know...it's just-!!"

"What? You have to give me a very good reason."

Julianne's cheeks turn red. She puts the plush up next to Sam's face.

"He looks just like you when you're mad!" The cat laughs.

"Is that it!"

"Yes! Yes! Look! The resemblance is too uncanny!" Julianne falls back on the ground and laughs. She drowns out her guilt with the sound as she reaches for another breath. But it is true- her apartment now looks like a little girl's bedroom. So colorful. So soft. So immature. But it's just the way she likes it. Nice and cozy; Surrounded by trinkets that remind her of her favorite people.

"Julianne, that's not a very good excuse."

Her reaction isn't as explosive as she anticipated. Just annoyed. Sam thinks these impulsive buys are unreasonable but the felt wraps around her now. It's simply..funny now...She'll humor her as long as she has the patience to. She can't bring herself to really scold the younger woman. Maybe she wishes she had that same innocence at 25, but times were different. Julianne is soft and she needs soft things to survive her edged world. The cat has only proven she could melt her down to her sensitivity, so, she's forgiving her again. For Now.

"And just so you know, I won't be buying you any more plushies from now on. Got that?"

Julianne pouts but obediently nods.

"My money, my choiceee..." She hisses.

.

.

Julianne's interests still follow her around. Suddenly from the corner of her eye, she spots a Hello Kitty sticker sheet by a bookstore window. Then as she drives past a boulevard, she notices balloons in the shape of the bear mascot she bought. There are cute, sugary donuts molded as characters at a chain donut shop. Then after her monthly reset, a flea market takes place on an empty parking lot. The bear curiously walks in, windowshopping through people's trunkload of clothes, appliances, and memorabilia. There was a coat that would have been too big for Julianne but perfect for her in all kinds of colors, but who dresses that way? There's a lamp that's got a mosaic of a swan near lily pads. The bulbs smell rotten. Children fight shoulder to shoulder by this mountain of small toys near a spread of stuffed animals. She was going to ignore the spread until the seller brought out a medium-sized plush of a cat wearing a strawberry hat. It was in great condition with big doe eyes, a peach nose, and orange patches. It wasn't exactly like Julianne but it was close. Before she could resist, she already met eyes with the woman displaying it. There seemed to be women in the same age group as Julianne closeby. There literally was no time to waste now.

Sam could not forgive herself for spending $15 on such a funny thing.

.

.

But then again, this wouldn't be just silly to Julianne. She'll promise her life to you if you gifted her something so big. She's going to brag about it. Julianne loves these small surprises and the stoic seems to still fall victim to the whims of a childlike artist. Inside a white plastic bag is a cat doll wearing her favorite fruit. Sam reassures herself: she's the best girlfriend ever, if that will mean anything to her now.

Instead of bringing out her copy of the apartment keys, Sam knocks on Julianne's door and holds her breath. Now it seems like the tables have turned.

"Wait, I'm here now..." Julianne peeks the door open, hiding half of herself from the hallway, "Heya, forgot your keys?"

"Damnit, yeah. Left them in my truck."

Her arms are folded behind her back. Julianne curiously tries to take a peek. She giggles.

"Hey, do you want me to hold it for you?"

"Just sit on the couch. I just want to tell you something important."

The cat obeys, leaning on the left side while cuddling a salmon doll. She smiles politely as her patience is running thin.

"I think..you want this. Can you close your eyes please?"

Julianne hums and shuts them quickly. Her feet patter on the rug, drumming in anticipation and mystery. She's always receptive to a nice treat, whatever it is. Something soft is laid on her thighs and her hands feel to confirm what it is. It is!

"Uh..open your eyes now..so..what do you think..?"

The cats eyes expand with excitement and adoration staring back at the toy cat in her hands. She's immediately enamoured by the details and the pattern of the doll, feeling its high quality fabric and faux fur, tight beautiful embroidery, and small prints. Then her big eyes look up to her girlfriend who looks similarly bashful and red.

"Didn't you say.."

"Julianne I'm not buying you any more, but that thing almost spoke to me and I'd lose sleep over not getting to get it, so don't expect more."

"Don't get so defensive." Julianne purrs. She gives Sam a tight, warm hug again. Her tail curls around the both of them as she prolongs it. She brings the cat plush next to her own face.

"Does it look like me?"

"No brown patches...But it's wearing a strawberry hat."

"But it does..?"

The bear nods with a warm small smile. She pets the plush's strawberry hat.

"Do..you have a name in mind yet?"

She can't resist making Julianne happy however she emotionally can.

"Harper!"

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Fifteen: When a Man Loves a Woman Previous Chapter: Fourteen Next Chapter: Fifteen Summary: Arthur can't take it anymore. After all that happened in Rhodes, the loss of Kit is too much. So what does a man do when he loves his woman? He goes after her. Warnings: Language, Mature themes, suggestive language Word Count: ~11,900

Arthur feels your hands on his chest as you push him away. This forces your lips to part and he feels the dread of it, knowing it is time to go.

“No…” he groans and he takes your face in his hands. Seeing your smile, he goes in for another kiss, your lips parting to let in his tongue, his breath, with a longing that’s almost painful in its intensity. It tastes of a bittersweet flavor of impending separation, making him lose his willpower to pull away from you.

And just as his lips part, you begin speaking. “We have to go back…” your voice is barely above a whisper, trying to catch your breath. “They’ll be suspicious.”

“Let ‘em,” he says huskily, letting his hands fall down to grip your waist. “It ain’t like I get to spend time with my woman whenever I please.”

“Arthur…” you chide. “You think this is easy for me, either?” You place your hands on his chest again, thankfully not pushing him away. “We’ve managed this secrecy for almost two years. They’re bound to have caught on by now.” Your eyes soon express worry. “Especially that new man, Micah. He’s always watching me.”

Arthur pulls you close to him, his protective nature expressed in the gentle way he holds you. “If Micah even thinks of doin’ anythin’, he won’t live long enough to try.”

You pull away, looking up into his eyes. “Do you think Dutch knows? Hosea?”

Arthur shrugs. “Maybe, but they’ll never know just exactly what all this is.” He leans in and kisses your neck softly. “That I love you.”

He feels the vibration in your neck as you hum, your head falling back. “You’re too good to me,” you moan. “Such an honorable man…”

There have been moments, he will be the first to admit, where it has become too difficult to bear. To have to hold back his desires to touch you, to feel you in ways that you’ve never had been touched before, it can be torture. He’s grateful for the days in camp that he has to keep his distance, for there are times where the mere smell of you sets his blood ablaze with a fire he dares not unleash in the open. But tonight, under the cloak of the trees and the promise of secrecy, he allows himself this small slip into the world where only you and he exist. Where he can at least be near you without the several pairs of eyes of the gang watching him.

"Arthur," you whisper again, your breath catching as his lips trace your collarbone, sending visible shivers down your arms and neck. “Careful…”

And that is your way of telling him to not go any further. Settling himself, he pulls away from you and exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

You card your fingers through his hair, your nails sending chills down his back. “It’s okay…”

He gazes deeply into your eyes, the moonlight casting shadows that dance across your soft features, your plump lips and dazzling eyes. “Kit,” he begins, his voice a blend of frustration and tenderness, “I admit this ain’t easy sometimes. It’s like livin’ with a ghost of someone I can barely touch. But I'd rather have you like this than not at all.” He sees the milkiness of your skin, the red welt he left on your neck, the redness in your cheeks. “You’re a hard woman to resist.”

You tuck your chin, chuckling bashfully. “Arthur, honestly…”

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles tenderly. “Honestly.” As the wind whispers through the long grass, you both stand in silence for a moment, the weight of hidden truths pressing between you like the cool night air. Arthur's hand tightens around yours, and reaches his other hand to brush a stray lock of hair from your face—an intimate gesture that makes you smile warmly. “I guess we should head back now.”

You nod. “Yes, Arthur.”

He lets go of your hand and you both begin to head back to camp. Walking through the trees, the space between you grows wider and wider. It’s what you’ve always done: return back to camp from different directions at different times. Sometimes, Arthur has even left from your meeting places to go hunt or rob a stagecoach, to return after a few days. He’s always liked to hear your plans of secrecy, using your creative ways to develop new excuses to be together without any suspicion.

But he knows you’re right. You won’t be able to keep it a secret forever.

But if being with you has taught him anything, it is that it is all worth it.

***

There has been a thickness in the camp. A restlessness from some members, while it feels like others are twiddling their thumbs. Karen continues to mourn the loss of Sean, and she seems to be taking up the bottle more than normal. Despite Tilly and Mary Beth’s efforts to keep her sober, she shoves them off, sulking and mourning in a corner where she can’t be disturbed.

And Arthur, poor Arthur, is eager to go to Saint Denis, find this Bronte, and get you back.

He’s tried to not take out his frustration on anyone, though his replies are usually short and without feeling.

He sits at the table, hands around a cup of coffee that has gone cold, his face imprinted with a pinched gaze.

And stirring him out of his thoughts, a hand is placed on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees Hosea.

“Arthur, you need to rest.”

The thought of rest makes him angry, and Arthur shrugs Hosea’s hand away. “No.”

Hosea goes to sit down beside him, his voice carrying tenderness and empathy. “I’m trying to do the best I can. I’ve even sent John to go looking, but Arthur…” Hosea pauses. “You’re no use to Kit if you’re too weak to function.”

Arthur exhales. He knows he’s right, but every time he closes his eyes, it’s another dream. Another thought of you and the way you make him feel. “I just can’t sleep, Hosea. We killed all those people, stirred up such a mess…nothin’ is goin’ right.” He lowers his head even more, as well as his voice. “Every time I close my eyes I see her starin’ back at me.”

Hosea nods, his eyes softening with the weight of understanding. "I know, son. I know it's hard. But Kit—she's tough, tougher than most. And if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that she’s out there waiting for us to find her."

Arthur would like to believe that. But after the last time, he isn’t sure how many second chances he’s allowed to have.

He then feels the presence of someone else behind him and seeing the look on Hosea’s face, he knows who it is.

“Is he gonna listen to you, Hosea?”

“Trying to, Dutch.”

Dutch pulls a chair and sits on the other side of Arthur. “You need your rest, son.”

Arthur finally brings the coffee to his lips. “So everyone keeps tellin’ me.”

Dutch pats Arthur’s shoulder. “Kit will be fine. She always seems to talk or blast her way out of anything,” he says with a wry chuckle that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Remember how she faced down those bounty hunters in Montana? Walked right into their camp bold as brass." Dutch's voice carries a hint of admiration mixed with bitterness.

Arthur sets the coffee down, untouched again. His jaw tenses as he recalls the echoing gunshots, the scent of blood and gunpowder on your clothes, and how you went to sleep as if nothing had happened. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s got more guts than most men I know.”

Dutch nods solemnly, his eyes drifting off to the lake. “Trust me, Arthur. She doesn’t need you worrying over her. We will go to Saint Denis, and see what we can—”

Suddenly, Lenny’s voice calls out from just outside of camp. “Dutch! We’ve got a problem!”

Dutch and Hosea look out while Arthur turns his body around.

Being escorted by an armed Lenny are two men in suits and bowler hats.

Arthur narrows his gaze, recognizing them immediately. Pinkertons. Agent Milton and Agent Ross, to be exact.

“Not a problem…” Milton says, strutting into their camp like a peacock. “Visitors…” Arthur quickly stands to his feet, watching them closely. “…A solution.” And soon, others from the camp begin to gather, conveying their distrust of the two men walking in here.

Milton stands too boldly amongst men and women who are no stranger to killing. “Good day, fine people.” His eyes wander to Dutch, who remains seated, unperturbed by his presence. “Mr. Van Der Linde…” And then he gazes upon Hosea who comes to stand beside Arthur. “Mr. Matthews, I presume?” Then his eyes meet Arthurs. “Ah, Mr. Morgan, so good to see you again.”

Arthur isn’t falling for this false sense of formality, given the last conversation they had a month or so ago.

And Dutch doesn’t seem to either. He doesn’t even glance the agent’s way when he speaks to him flippantly. “What do you want, Agent Moron?” His voice is smooth, layered with a thinly veiled hostility that only those who know him well can detect.

Milton clears his throat, adjusting the brim of his hat with a gloved hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “We are here on official business, of course. It wasn’t difficult to find your lack of human decency amongst the civilized world.”

That’s when Dutch rises from the chair, moving steady, his voice between a growl and a threat. “This place…ain’t no such thing as civilized. It’s man so in love with greed, that he has forgotten himself and found only appetites.”

“And I suppose that gives you leave to take and kill as you see fit?” Agent Milton retorts, his voice sharp like a blade sliding across a whetstone.

Arthur watches the exchange, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The tension in the air could be cut with that knife. He can feel the angry glares from the others around him, sharing in Dutch’s view of the world around them.

Arthur knows that Milton is far from righteous, too far from heaven to cast judgment.

Milton continues, “You aren’t nothing but a killer, Mr. Van Der Linde, but I’ve come to make a deal.”

“You’ve made your deals,” Arthur says, emboldened by his desire to see Milton off and to focus on his true priority. “I didn’t take it the last time, and none of us will, either.”

Milton narrows his eyes. “I had assumed you were a degenerate, Mr. Morgan, but I never took you for a fool.” He looks at Dutch. “If you were given the opportunity to sacrifice yourself to let the others live in peace, I don’t think you would have the guts to actually do it.”

Then, there is a sudden harmony of clicks, hammers being pulled back as the others standing around pull out their guns.

“I think it’s time for you to leave now,” Susan hisses towards Milton.

He takes a step back, his brow furrowed into a scowl. “You’re making a big mistake, all of you.”

And Dutch, emboldened by the surge of loyalty surrounding him, takes a step toward Milton. “No mistake here, Mr. Milton. You see, we know exactly what we are. But you, you wear a badge thinking it cleans the blood off your hands.” His voice lowers. “Stop following us. We’ll be gone soon.”

Milton’s face tightens, his lips a thin line of restrained fury as he scans the circles of cold steel aimed at him. “I’m afraid I can’t, and when I return I will be back with fifty men. You can run from this place, you fools! But we will never stop until every one of you dies!”

Lenny reaches for him. “Get goin’!”

But Milton pulls his arm away. “Get your hands off me, boy!” And without saying another word, he turns to walk away, Agent Ross following close behind.

They are all silent for a moment, waiting for the repulsive agents to be out of earshot. Lenny, eyeing them, follows after them, undoubtedly to make sure they go. 

Arthur feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Dutch. “Thank you for having my back there, Arthur.”

Arthur nods. “What are we going to do now, Dutch?”

“We leave. We find a way out of here, and get gone.” And seeing the look on Arthur’s face, Dutch exhales. “We will get Kit back, too.”

“Thanks, Dutch.”

“Don’t know why you’re so worried…”

Arthur swallows. “She…Jack said she tried to save him. That’s how they got her.”

Hosea, who has been listening, adds, “It’s clear she risked her neck for him. I have a feeling that Jack was the main target, which leaves the question…”

“Why her instead?” Arthur asks.

“Exactly. John should be back soon, we will see what he has to say.”

“For now,” Dutch says with finality. “We need to pack and find a new place to camp.”

“Maybe I can help.” The three men turn to see Lenny, who has come back from following the agents out. “I know a place not too far from here. A big house. Called Shady Belle. There are some men holed up there, but if we take ‘em out…”

“Say no more, Lenny,” Dutch interrupts and turns to Arthur. “Arthur, you, Lenny, and Javier go and clean up the refuse. We will meet you there once we are done here.”

Arthur nods, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like the hot breath of the southern sun. His heart, still raw and aching for you, fuels his determination to clear out Shady Belle. He leaves to gather his pistols and rifle from the weapon wagon and checks the load.

"You alright, amigo?" Javier asks, eyeing him with a concerned gaze.

“I’m Fine.”

“That isn’t really convincing, but I won’t pester you about it.” Javier claps a reassuring hand on Arthur’s back and after arming up, the three of them mount their horses and they make their way out of camp.

“Follow me,” Lenny calls out and he picks up the pace.

The ride to Shady Belle is laden with a tense silence, the only sounds are the rustling leaves and distant animal calls that resonate through the dense woods. What a mess they are making out of things. Sean, Mac, Davey, Jenny, who else will fall before freedom? Or will death be the end of them all?

He doesn’t know, but Hosea’s warning to leave only grows louder and louder in his mind. But if he is to do that, there’s no way that he is going to leave without you. For there would be no point otherwise.

After kicking up red dust, the humidity making it stick to their horses’ legs, they reach the road that leads into a rundown mansion. They dismount their horses at a distance, and stop at the entrance to the property, a brick wall that acts as a guardian.

Their backs to the wall, Arthur glances around. He sees wagon carts full of dynamite, men standing all around. They look and breathe like Lemoyne Raiders.

He’s had enough of these fellers. Enough of these games that they all play. He’s coming to his own crossroads and he isn’t sure how long he can walk down this path without collapsing under the weight of his own heart. A heart that bleeds endlessly for you, even if he believes you to be lost to fate’s embrace.

Inside, his mind races through the plans, counting exits, and memorizing faces. Beside him, Lenny nods, waiting for him to formulate a plan that will ensure their victory.

And so, with his rifle in his hands, his eyes regarding the two men at his side, Arthur finds his resolve hardening like the dried mud on their boots.

And readies himself for the fight.

***

After removing the bodies and reaping the rewards from their onslaught, Arthur doesn’t meet Dutch and the gang at the front of the mansion with Javier and Lenny. He goes on to Saint Denis to find John. He hasn’t been back, and doesn’t know that they have moved camps.

He keeps a close watch on the road as he heads east. The deeper he gets, the more marshes, bayous, alligators, and odd sounds he encounters. He’s grateful that Montana doesn’t start easily, lest he get thrown off and left in unknown territory.

People he passes by don’t smile at all, a characteristic of this region. It is every man fending for himself.

The trees open up to sandy and wet marshes and he crosses a bridge, under a sign that reads Saint Denis.

In the sky, a plume or dark smoke fills the air, causing Arthur to flare his nostrils in disgust. The foul smells fill his nose and his brow furrows as he takes in the dirty streets and low glares.

He’s here. This is what Milton calls civilization.

He’s far, far away from open country. Land that he loves.

He needs to find John, but upon taking in the city, he can see that this task is not going to be as quick and easy as he had hoped.

It’s been a while since he has set foot in a city as large as this, most of the places he’s been can be reduced to an entry and an exit, with a few buildings in between. If he isn’t careful, he could get lost before even trying to turn around.

He follows the road he came in on, the street passing by trains before leading him deeper into the city.

Now, if he were John, where would he be?

Then it occurs to him, the saloon.

Riding along, he sees a man walking and calls out to him. “‘S’cuse me, partner…” he begins and the man lifts his head to look at him. “Could you tell me where the saloon is? Could go for a whiskey in this heat.”

The man nods, as though agreeing with him. “I know what you mean.” Then he points out in front of him. “Stick to this street until you reach the second corner, then make a right. Can’t miss it.”

Arthur tips his hat. “Thank you.” Then carries on.

He nearly reaches the street corner, when he hears jeering coming from behind him. Looking back he sees an oncoming trolley and quickly steers Montana out of the way.

As it passes, he sees a string bean of a kid hanging onto it calling out to something behind him. “C’mon! Run like the goats got loose!”

And a raspy voice shouts back to him. “You come back here, you little runt!”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s John!

And sure enough, John gallops right past Arthur, riding a new horse.

“Marston!” Arthur calls to him, but it is clear that John hasn’t heard him. Whatever mess he’s gotten himself into, Arthur isn’t about to abandon him. He grips the reins tightly, and with a quick nick of his spur, Montana gallops forward and down the street.

Turning down the street, Arthur catches a quick glimpse of John as he dismounts the horse. The boy must have jumped off the trolley and John nearly rams into a vendor before disappearing into an alleyway.

“Sonofa—” Arthur groans, and swings off of Montana, who whinnies excitedly. “Stay here, boah!” And then he takes off after John.

He tracks him by the wake he leaves behind. Women shrieking and men yelling, “Hey, get back here!” Arthur doesn’t need to ask where a snipe-legged kid and a man with a scar went. All he need do is follow the chaos, John’s typical signature.

Somehow, Arthur starts to find it comical. If he were to go back in time, though he most certainly can’t, he would be in a similar situation. Only, he’d be the young boy they are chasing after. Arthur lets out a cackle, pushing through the crowded street as a vendor hollers, “Watch your step!”

The next alley John ducked into is shadowed and narrow, cluttered with wooden crates and stray cats that scuttle away at the sound of his boots. Arthur slows his pace, narrowing his eyes to adjust to the lack of sunlight, listening for any sign of John or the kid.

He suddenly hears a crash and he runs.

Pushing through a metal gate, he turns his head to the left to see John leaning over the boy as he has a hold of him by his collar. “Give me my stuff, you brat!”

Arthur approaches from the side and sees what the boy has in his hand, John’s hat.

The boy offers it back to John. “Here!”

John rips it out of the boy’s grip with his free hand and puts it firmly on his head. “And Bronte? Where’s he?!”

“Out on Flavian Street…Big House…across the park!” The boy sees Arthur at the corner of his vision and changes his expression. “Help me, sir! This man’s beatin’ me!”

Redirecting John’s attention, he turns to see Arthur walking up to them. “Kinda looks like you deserve it,” Arthur smirks.

“Arthur,” John greets before looking back at the boy with a raised fist. “You better not be lyin’!”

The boy’s eyes widen, looking at the two towering men with intimidating faces. "I’m a good boy, I wash!”

Satisfied, John lets the boy go, letting him fall hard on his back.

Arthur takes an aborted lunge at the kid. “Now, get lost!!”

The boy scrambles to his feet and runs away, disappearing around the corner.

Arthur lets out a chuckle, slapping his leg. “Are you in the habit of chasin’, Marston? Chasin’ sheep, chasin’ O’Driscolls, chasin’ derelict boys?”

“Shut up,” John sighs, kicking a pebble. “Ain’t no way to talk to me after tryin’ to help you get your woman back.” This stops Arthur and he turns to John, who gives him a knowing look. “You really think folks don’t know by now? It’s clear you’re sweet on her.”

But no one knows that you’re his wife, and Arthur will keep that secret for as long as he can. Arthur tries to downplay it, waving John off. “It ain’t just because of that,” Arthur admits. “She’s been with us since the beginnin’.”

“You don’t got to explain it to me, Arthur. She’s been like a big sister to me. I know that if I were gone, she’d do the same for me.”

Arthur nods, the lines deepening around his eyes as he goes to John and pats his shoulder. “Thank you, John.”

And not one for sentimentality, John waves it off. “Ain’t nothin’.” He casts his eyes to the sky, above the roofs of the buildings that stand like tall trees, a concrete wilderness. “It’ll be dark soon.” Then he looks back at Arthur. “We can go see about this house, then we can go back and report to Dutch.”

Arthur shakes his head. He can’t wait that long. Dutch is the one who makes the plans, but it is he and the others that execute them. And as of late, Dutch’s plans have been far from glorious, or successful. “I say we find Bronte and confront him ourselves.”

John’s brow pinches. “Just us? Arthur, we don’t know how many—”

“We will look less intimidatin’ that way. Maybe we won’t have to do any killin’. I’m tired of it.”

John's eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into a reluctant nod. "Alright then, just us two," he agrees, clapping Arthur on the back with a loud smack. "Let’s hope your plan is better than Dutch’s would’ve been."

***

If Arthur is to describe Angelo Bronte’s home, big would be the word to use. Not as large as the mansion they just found in Shady Belle, but it is new, clean, and well-maintained. Fine living, for certain.

John stands beside Arthur as they view it from across the street.

“So, we’re doin’ this?” John asks, clearly still skeptical.

“We are,” Arthur answers with finality. “Unless you wanna just head back to camp?”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Arthur is thankful. Perhaps the experience with Jack has shifted something in that half-eaten brain of his. He seems more sure now, as though he knows what stakes are hinged on their actions tonight, but is willing to help Arthur in his plight. They cross the street, their spurs jingling with each step but settling just as quickly as they are sounded, a silent testament to the subtlety needed for what they’re about to do.

They need to appear inconspicuous, so all large weapons are tucked away with their horses. Arthur, being naturally intimidating, tries to make himself look softer by relaxing his face and his hands.

As they approach the house, they stand in front of the gaze, where an armed man stands behind it. “State your business,” the man demands, his tongue laced with an Italian accent.

“S’cuse me,” Arthur begins. “We’re here to see Mr. Bronte about some…important matters.”

The man eyes Arthur suspiciously. “Such as?”

Arthur has to play aloof. He needs these men to think that he isn’t here to rescue you, it’s possible that they don’t know who he is or who he’s affiliated with. “I hear he’s come across someone…special recently. And I’m interested.”

The man steps closer to the gate, lowering his voice. “Are you an investor?”

Arthur is quite surprised to be handed such an opening, but he isn’t one to shy away from it. “I represent one. You think they’d come themselves?”

He looks Arthur up and down, nodding. “Should have known by your attire.” And with a gesture to another man beside him, the gate is opened. John and Arthur share a look, one that unveils surprise while also communicating, “We better not mess this up.”

“Follow me,” the guard instructs, walking toward the house.

As soon as they step inside, they are greeted by the opulence of dark-stained furniture and gold-framed paintings. They make an immediate left into a parlor and the guard gestures to a sofa right in front of them.

“Sit down. Mr. Bronte will be here to meet you shortly.” And he quickly leaves the room.

Arthur feels it odd that they aren’t being watched, but somehow, it wouldn’t surprise him if they actually were. With careful movements, he sits down on the sofa and John sits beside him.

“Keep your head, Arthur,” John speaks quietly.

Arthur lets himself chuckle. “I was just about to tell you that.”

John fidgets in his seat, unable to calm his jittery nerves as they both wait. His eyes dart around the luxurious room, taking in every detail from the lavish furnishings to the intricate artwork hanging on the walls. "Fancy place," he comments, trying to sound nonchalant.

Arthur nods, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Shoah is."

Sensing that Arthur expects him to stay quiet, John takes the opportunity to scan the room once more, trying to distract himself from the tension building in his gut. "I suppose you want me to let you do all the talkin'?" he finally asks.

Arthur's eyebrow raises in amusement. "Why, you think you got somethin' better to say?"

Feeling already defeated, John turns away with a shrug. "Just askin'," he mutters under his breath. The weight of their mission and the looming possibility of failure weigh heavily on him as he awaits their fate in this opulent setting.

And suddenly, footsteps approach and a loud voice greets them. “Gentlemen!” Jumpy, Arthur, and John quickly begin to rise, turning to see a well-dressed man with dark hair and dark eyes. The man, Arthur assumes as none other than Mr. Bronte, motions for them to sit back down. “Oh please, please, remain seated.” Hesitating, Arthur and John slowly sit back down. Smiling, Mr. Bronte walks to the sofa across from where they sit and sits down, with three guards standing nearby with guns in their hands. “I was told that your investors sent you here to speak with me. I am quite curious as to what they have to say.” He leans back into the sofa, making himself comfortable. “But first, I’d like to know who your investors are.”

Arthur corrects him. “Well, it’s just one investor, Mr. Bronte.”

After a pause, Bronte chuckles, almost incredulously. “Who is it?”

“Leviticus—Cornwall.” Arthur fumbles with the answer, having to come up with it on the spot.

And Bronte clicks his tongue. “Ah. The oil magnate who is trying to take over the whole…continent!” He laughs, and his men chuckle with him, as if on cue. “Yes, I’m sure he’s got many fingers in every pie, does he not?”

Arthur nods. “Indeed he does. He’s very skilled at dealin’ with people as well as oil.”

Bronte's laughter echoes through the room, bouncing off the expensive oil paintings on the walls. “Of course, of course, but why has he sent you all the way to Saint Denis? There’s no oil in Saint Denis.”

“Well, no, but there are finer things than oil,” Arthur answers eloquently.

Then Bronte’s smile changes, and his eyes reveal recognition. “So you are interested in what I’ve recently acquired?”

“Mr. Cornwall is interested,” Arthur replies coolly. “Mr. Cornwall would like to know what’s so special about her.”

“How did he hear that I have her?”

Arthur goes quiet for a moment, carefully choosing his words. “The best way that I can explain it, while keepin’ my employer’s matters…as private as possible…There’s few things that don’t reach his ear, especially when it comes to where she is from.”

Bronte leans back in his chair, studying Arthur with a shrewd gaze. “Ah. So you do know?”

“Yes, we do,” Arthur confirms.

“And where is she from?” Bronte presses, as though testing him.

“She’s a prized member of a gang, is she not?”

Bronte tosses his head from left to right. “Yes, I suppose she is, but I was hinting at something different.”

Arthur knows you better than anyone, so these questions are almost too easy. “What, the fact that she was in a circus?” he chuckles, as though it is now common knowledge.

“Mr. Cornwall’s sources must be well-informed for him to find that information so quickly. It’s quite a secret!”

“Well, how did you come to know it, Mr. Bronte?”

Bronte grins, eyeing Arthur closely. “You are quick on your tongue, Mister…?”

“Kilgore, Tacitus Kilgore.”

Bronte looks at John, expectantly. “And you?”

“Rip Van Winkle,” he answers without missing a beat.

“Ah. I see.” Bronte pauses then claps his hands once. “So, what does he need my…investment for? What services does he require?”

“Mr. Cornwall ain’t prepared to say until he knows what she is capable of.” Then he leans forward, putting on a mischievous grin. “If you catch my meanin’.”

Bronte chuckles, nodding his head. “Yes, yes, I understand you completely, Mr. Kilgore. In fact, you’ve come at the most perfect time!” He begins to rise from his seat. “I have some other investors here as well.”

Arthur blinks. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Do you?”

Bronte nods slowly. “Oh yes, word travels fast, Mr. Kilgore. She is about to showcase her skills this evening. Would you like to join us?”

Arthur and John share a glance. Then Arthur gives the answer. “We’d be delighted.”

“Very good! Very good!” He pauses a beat as he eyes the two men up and down. “Unfortunately, your attire is not suitable for such a high-class event. It is a very formal affair, you see.”

Arthur stands up, slightly flustered, and John follows suit. “Well, I do apologize, but we came as soon as we—”

Bronte dismisses the apology with a wave of his hand. “Oh, there's no need to make excuses to me, Mr. Kilgore. I will make the excuses for you,” he chuckles. “Now, if you would kindly follow me this way, you will see the precious treasure we have acquired from the marshes of Lemoyne.”

They obediently follow Bronte and his entourage down the dimly lit hallway. The flickering light from ornate lamps cast shadows on the walls, creating an eerie atmosphere. Not a sound can be heard except for their footsteps on the plush carpet beneath their feet.

Arthur's heart pounds in his chest as he feels a sharp nudge in his shoulder and John's urgent whispering beside him. "There's more people," John says, panic lacing his voice. "How are we gonna—?"

"Keep your head, John," Arthur replies quietly, trying to hide his own fear.

"But what if she gives us away?" John asks, his words trembling with anxiety.

"She won't," Arthur assures him, but he fears his own heart will betray them.

They cautiously enter the large room, one side bathed in darkness while the other is brightly lit. The air is heavy with the scent of rich wines and exotic fruits, an ominous sign of the sinister gathering taking place. Two men in sleek black suits stand at one of the circular tables, their presence alone radiating danger and power. These must be Bronte's other guests, and Arthur knows they will not take kindly to uninvited intruders.

Arthur also notices several armed men lining the wall. 

Bronte greets the two men with a gesture of open arms. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! We have other guests that are joining us this evening.” He turns and gestures to Arthur and John. “These men represent none other than Leviticus Cornwall, the wealthy oil magnate. This is Mr. Kilgore and Mr. Van Winkle, come fresh from the oil fields.”

Ignoring the dig, Arthur nods politely to the two men. “Gentlemen.”

Bronte begins by introducing the younger of the two. He’s tall, has a dark mustache, and slicked-back hair. “This is Colonel Alberto Fussar—”

Mr. Fussar suddenly stands, his face contorting into a sinister smile that sends shivers down Arthur's spine. "I am all too familiar with Mr. Cornwall," he says in a low, menacing voice. "We have had quite an...arrangement."

Arthur's throat tightens as he forces himself to move forward and shake Fussar's hand, feeling the weight of their lives hanging on this one false introduction. “He speaks highly of you, sir. Had he known you would be here, he would have come on over himself.”

Mr. Fussar seems to like that remark, as he smiles smugly. “Give him my regards, Mr. Kilgore.”

Arthur nods, and Bronte continues with the introductions, gesturing to an older, stout man whose buttons threaten to pop from his dress shirt. “This is Hobart Crawley, a Confederate major in the war. A grand hero!”

Crawley tucks his double chin. “You flatter me, Mr. Bronte.”

And as if that was permission to quit, Bronte discards any further compliments toward the man and goes right to the business at hand. “Now, I need to remind you, gentlemen, the purpose of the evening. If this investment pleases you, I accept certain monetary donations for my cause,” he chuckles in a near-suggestive way and the wealthy men join him. “Now, keep in mind, that it is first come, first serve, as the Americans say, and she will make you great riches.” Then he claps his hands. “Portatela dentro!”

It is then that a light focuses on the other side of the room and you step out with two musicians.

John grips Arthur’s arm, but quickly lets go.

Your attire is sparse, revealing your alluring body. A long, flowing skirt in shades of gold and red drapes over your curves, with a daring slit up the side that exposes a tantalizing glimpse of your thigh. Your bodice is adorned with a tightly woven, exotic garment, a shimmering gold girdle that matches the colors of your skirt, as it wraps a thin chemise that falls off your shoulders. On your head sits a regal headdress, intricately designed with delicate beads cascading down the sides of your face. Your lips and eyes are expertly painted, enhancing the milky white complexion of your skin under the glow of the lamps. But it is not these adornments that catch Arthur's attention. It is your countenance - eyes cast downwards, mouth unsmiling - conveying a sense of shame, sorrow, and perhaps even defeat.

It is everything Arthur can do to not stand up and go to you, but he knows it isn’t time yet. Instead, he grips the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white.

Keep your head, Arthur. Keep your head!

And Bronte, with a flamboyant tongue, introduces you. “May I present, Dáma Motýl!”

You stand there a moment, your eyes still not looking up. Arthur wants to call your name, to get your attention. He wants you to know that he’s here, that he has come for you. But the lights on Arthur’s side of the room go dim, enshrouding him and the other men in darkness.

Just as you look up.

The musicians begin to play a seductive tune and as though controlled by it, you lift up your arms, bending them, and you begin to dance.

Your movements are fluid, hypnotic, a mesmerizing blend of strength and vulnerability. Each sway of your hips and every arch of your back speaks a silent story of longing and loss. You weave through the shadows cast by the flickering lamp light, each step an echo of your circus days, yet tinged with a feeling of sorrow that only Arthur can seem to grasp.

To the other men, who have immediately grown silent, it is merely a dance of pleasure and seduction.

But as your husband, it enrages Arthur. What did Bronte say or do to you to put you up to this?!

“Superb…!” Crowley gasps. 

Bront emits a guttural chuckle. “She’s also skilled in…other things, of course. But she’s easy on the eyes, which doesn’t hurt.”

Arthur swallows, nearly stammering as he poses a question, afraid to learn the answer. “Mr. Bronte, does she…is she a…?”

“No, no, no.” Bronte shakes his head. “If I understand what you are thinking, the answer is no. This is one of those instances where you look, but don’t touch.” Bronte chuckles, wagging his finger at Arthur. “No touching, Mr. Kilgore!”

The other men laugh and Arthur leans back into his seat. “I see.”

“Are you meaning to say that Mr. Cornwall is looking for something more physical, hm?”

“It’s just a question. Leviticus Cornwall doesn’t leave one stone unturned.”

“That is a true statement,” Mr. Fussar agrees. 

Bronte seems to be swayed by Fussar’s validation. “A wise approach, but people are more likely to spend money on things they cannot have.”

John nods, lifting his brow in a sign of recognition. “A wise approach.”

And Bronte smiles at him, the darkness making his features more sinister. “Indeed.”

It is then that Arthur asks another question. If he can keep Bronte talking, maybe he can dig up some information that will help him later on. “Have you ever met Leviticus Cornwall?”

“Oh, no, I’ve only heard of him. You know, it’s quite interesting how they never show a picture of that man anywhere. Is it because he’s too ugly to show his face?” He begins to laugh and his men and even Mr. Crowley, but not Mr. Fussar, join him. “So ugly that he needs to pay someone to dance with him?”

It is clear to Arthur that Bronte enjoys the backhanded compliment, but he isn’t too afraid to insult someone openly. 

“The only thing Mr. Cornwall likes people to see is his moneh,” Arthur answers. 

Bronte stops laughing and studies Arthur. “Ah, a very-well spoken answer, Mr. Kilgore.”

Suddenly, the music changes. A sharp, jagged melody that shows suspense. All of the men turn their attention to you again, and you have a long stick in your hand, the end of it alight with fire.

“Oh!” Bronte exclaims. “This will be good.” He leans toward Fussar. “This was my special request.”

You move about your side of the room, the trail of fire following you as you spin once. He can see how your hand begins to shake, as you slowly bring the flaming end to your mouth. Then suddenly, in a burst of light and glow, you breathe the flames in a far stream of heat. 

Arthur’s heart catches. He knows while you are drawn to fire, the very same act of fire breathing is what killed your parents. 

But he watches you do it again, dancing on your feet delicately as you turn in the opposite direction and spew flames like a dragon. 

And just as quick as it happens, it stops. In a quick motion, you put the end of the torch in your mouth, extinguishing it, and smoke escapes your lips. 

Bronte rises from his seat, applauding. “Bravo! Bravo! That was perfect, my little butterfly.” Though you can’t see him, he waves you off. “You may go now. Let the men speak business.” A laugh rolls off his tongue and Arthur watches you bow your head and be escorted out by the musicians. The lights return to his side of the room and Arthur’s eyes need to adjust, though still not leaving where you had vanished from his sight. “You seem entranced, Mr. Kilgore. I hope you’ll pass it along to your investor.”

“Indeed, I will.” Then something occurs to him. “She stays here with you?”

“Of course, we must protect her at all costs. She’s very valuable.”

Arthur is quick to ask, “How soon are you accepting investors?”

Bronte seems amused by his question, nearly looking ravenous for the opportunity to have more money and power. “Well, of course, you all need time to think about it.” He clicks his tongue. “Why don’t we…do something a little bit different? The mayor is hosting his ball in a few days, as you all are aware. Would that be plenty of time for you all to make your offers?”

The men nod their heads collectively. “Yes, of course.”

“Very well. I look forward to seeing you all there.”

Mr. Fussar and Mr. Crowley both rise from their seats, bow politely, and are promptly escorted out of the room by two guards. 

John pulls on Arthur’s arm. “Let’s go…”

But Arthur pulls away, walking over to Bronte. “Mr. Bronte, if I may…”

“Of course, Mr. Kilgore.”

“I already know Mr. Cornwall is interested. He trusts my judgment in decisions like these. But, you see, I will have to return to him and let him know before he wires any moneh.”

Bronte clicks his tongue. “Mmm. So you’re wanting to…take out a loan, perhaps?”

Arthur feels himself bristle. The idea of loaning you out is far from appealing to him. “I don’t know what’chu mean by that, but what I was gonna propose, was that we take her with us now.”

Bronte tilts his head from left to right, his brows lifted. “Well, that leaves me short-handed, does it not? I’m going to need some assurances or some sort of collateral before you take my treasure with you.”

“What kind of collateral?”

“Well, there is something that I am…missing and I would appreciate two…brutes like yourselves to retrieve it for me.”

Arthur raises a brow, the tone of Bronte’s voice making it all seem suspicious. “What is it?”

“You’ll know it when you see it. It is in the cemetery.”

Grave robbery? He wants Arthur and John to rob graves in the cemetery? He should have known this would be coming. No matter where he is, there is always a job. Always something for him to do so others don’t get their hands dirty.

But if it can build trust, and if it satisfies him, you will be let go, albeit on a temporary basis. But that will be a problem for another time. What matters is bringing you home with the least amount of bloodshed. 

“And that will be enough to satisfy this…collateral you’re wantin’?”

Bronte nods his head. “As long as you bring her back to the party. That will be the second part of our deal.”

Arthur blinks. He had hoped that he would never have to return to Saint Denis again. “You still want us there? Our thought was to bring her to Cornwall tomorrow.”

“Why, of course! Mr. Cornwall can’t be the only one to experience Dáma Motýl. He will just get her first, and the party is the perfect time for investors to see her in her full form.” He pauses, grinning mischievously. “Unless you just leave her and take her after the party. Your choice.”

“I understand.” He looks at John, who nods, then he looks back at Bronte. “We will take her now.”

“Excellent. Bring me my lost treasure and she’s yours for the next three days.” 

Arthur nods, not saying anything more, and takes his leave. John follows close behind and he hears the steps of two armed guards escorting them out. 

Once they are back into the humid air, Arthur sees how much time has passed. It’s pitch black and while Arthur is disgruntled that another day has gone, he’s glad that this will give them cover as they go to the cemetery. 

“I guess we go now, Rip,” Arthur says. 

“Looks that way, Tacitus.”

They walk out of the front gate and make their way back to their horses. Montana perks up upon seeing Arthur and once he’s close, Arthur gives him a good pat. “How’ya doin’, boah?”

With almost a rehearsed synchronization, John and Arthur mount their horses and ride away from the hitching posts. “Follow me, I know where it is.”

Arthur lets out a chortle. “Been all over town, have you?”

“Shut up,” John snarls.

They ride together for a minute or two in silence. Arthur looks up at the lights, the wires for the trollies that are suspended above their heads. Hardly any trees. There aren’t even any stars in the sky. 

And finally, John speaks. “That was too easy.”

Arthur lowers his head and nods, speaking in low tones. “That’s just what I was thinkin’.”

“You think he’s usin’ us?” 

“He most certainly is. But we need to keep bein’ polite and well-mannered. We don’t want to mess this up.”

John shakes his head, his pinched brow revealing the deep lines of worry etched into his face. The shadows cast over his scars only accentuate his troubled expression. “I feel so uneasy about this, Arthur. I just keep thinkin’ if it were Jack we was tryin’ to get...”

Arthur’s gaze softens as he thinks about the boy and what his fate could have been. “I know. I’m glad he is back at camp. Safe.”

John looks down, letting himself be vulnerable. “I blame myself.”

Arthur looks at John, shaking his head. “You can’t think like that, John.”

“If I had been there to watch him, if I weren’t so…Kit wouldn’t’ve risked herself to save him.”

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh. “If I know Kit, and I think I do, she don’t regret savin’ him.”

“I owe her, Arthur.”

Arthur sighs. “We both do.”

***

They find the cemetery in short order. It feels as though it is tucked away in the darkness, but it isn’t too far from the main business of the city. Arthur and John dismount quietly and try to approach the cemetery as calmly as possible.

John reaches it first, and finds the gate to be unlocked. Perfect. As he pulls the gate open, it lets out a soft creak, making them freeze for a moment.

They wait. And after a second or two, John opens the gate the rest of the way.

They enter.

The moon, half hidden behind scudding clouds, casts an eerie glow over the gravestones and mausoleums. They tiptoe between the plots, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots and the distant hoot of an owl. Arthur can't help but feel the weight of all those souls long gone; it's a heavy feeling, like a sack of flour strung across his shoulders.

John whispers, almost too low for Arthur to hear, "How are we gonna find anything in this place?"

Arthur nods, his eyes scanning the darkened landscape. "Yeah, I know. But Bronte said we’ll know when we see it.”

“Maybe he just wanted to get rid of us, then do whatever he wanted to Kit.”

This hits Arthur like a brick. “Don’t say that, Marston…”

John’s breath hitches, realizing that probably wasn’t the best thing to say right now. “She’ll be fine, Arthur. C’mon, let’s keep lookin’.”

As they move deeper into the labyrinth of tombstones and statues, a sense of urgency suffuses Arthur’s movements. The ground underfoot is uneven, the threat of stumbling ever-present, but his mind barely registers these physical distractions. His thoughts are consumed with you—your memory like a lantern guiding him through the darkness.

They come near the edge of the cemetery, with a row of family columbariums and mausoleums. That’s when Arthur hears a scraping sound.

“John!” he breathes. 

“I hear it…!”

“Let’s go.”

As they near it, it seems as though the world grows more quiet, a thick suspense as they walk steadily toward the source of the sound.

The sound grows louder, like fingernails scraping against wood, making the hairs on Arthur’s neck stand on end. As they draw closer, the source of the sound becomes clear—coming from behind two large doors.

Someone is in there, undoubtedly with Bronte’s treasure.

Moving synchronously, they flank the sides of the doors, readying their weapons. In the faint light of a nearby flame burning on a mausoleum, they look at each other.

Counting on his fingers, John numbers one, two…

And in a burst of energy, they kick the doors open.

“You boys find my pappy’s watch ye—?!” John’s outburst is cut short when they discover that there’s no one there. Just a series of urns.

That’s when they hear a burst of gunshots behind them.

Great. They’ve been spotted!

Turning around, they find cover behind some gravestones as bullets fly by in their direction.

“I think this was a trap!” John yells.

“You think?!”

Arthur peeks over his cover. Aside from small torches attached to some mausoleums, there is little light amongst the fog. The flashes when bullets rip from their guns are the only indicator of their positions. But if Arthur and John are to make it out of here alive, they will need to fight through these attackers.

Arthur’s mind races, not just with the adrenaline of the firefight, but with the thought that you are still in Bronte’s estate. Could this have been a distraction meant to draw them away from you? The possibility fuels his resolve as much as it twists his gut. He leans out, fires three quick shots toward the last flash of gunfire, then ducks back as a bullet chips the edge of the gravestone near his head. Hearing a collection of moans in the distance, he knows he has hit his targets.

"We gotta move, Arthur!" John shouts, reloading his gun swiftly. The cemetery sprawls out like a macabre maze, and their attackers are using the tombstones and statues as cover—ghosts in the foggy night, eerily silent between the thundering reports of gunfire.

Arthur nods, his jaw set. "Alright, on my mark," he mutters, scanning the inky darkness. His eyes, now accustomed to the low light, pick out shadows that don't belong to tombstones. He tightens his grip on his weapon, the pistol as familiar as the weight of his own heart, aching for the moment he can return to you.

"Three... two... one..." Arthur counts under his breath and then, with a warrior's yell, they dash from behind their cover. Bullets slice through the mist, weaving deadly patterns in the air. Both men zigzag toward their attackers, they see they are no mere shadows; they're flesh and blood, desperate men probably hired by Bronte to keep them distracted. Arthur feels the weight of each bullet he dodges, the stakes higher now knowing you might be in danger. He catches glimpses of his foes—a glint of a gun here, a silhouette darting there.

And as though time has slowed, Arthur raises his gun and annihilates his enemies with dead precision as they flee.

John, in likewise fashion, takes down several others.

The oncoming bullets stop just as they slide behind another set of graves.

“Is that the last of ‘em?” Arthur asks while catching his breath.

John peeks out from behind the tombstone and looks around. “There’s a light, Arthur! In one of the tombs.”

“Probably another trap,” Arthur figures.

“I don’t think so. That is where they was comin’ from…” John rises to his feet and moves in the direction of the light.

“Marston…!” Arthur calls, but the man ignores him. After a moment of hesitation, Arthur grumbles and follows after him. “We better make this quick. I don’t doubt that gone unnoticed.”

The light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the aged stones, creating phantoms in the dark. As they draw closer, the source of the light becomes clear—a small, solitary lamp, resting on a partially opened tomb, its marble lid scantly resting.

Daring to peek inside the tomb, John notices a small, velvet pouch. He picks it up and opens it. “Ho-ly…!”

Arthur hurries to him. “What! What is it?”

John holds it so that Arthur can have a look. And when he sees what’s inside, his eyes widen.

A gold watch, some rubies, and a pair of pearl earrings.

“Treasure…” John sighs. “And my pappy’s watch.”

Arthur allows himself a chuckle and pats John’s shoulder. “Trap or no, this should be enough to satisfy the Italian.”

And suddenly, in the distance, a police whistle echoes from the other side of the cemetery. Arthur curses under his breath.

“Time to go, John,” Arthur hisses, his eyes darting around for the quickest escape route.

“You don’t have to tell me twice…!”

Together, they crouch low and make a dash for the cemetery’s wrought iron gates, their boots pounding against the cobblestones, echoing in the quiet night like a death knell.

It is time to return to Bronte.

***

“We could have had our own carriage brought,” Arthur says while they exit Bronte’s estate. “Cornwall spares no expense for his interests.”

Bronte waves off the notion with a flick of his hand. “It is my pleasure. He can apply the expense to his donation when he wires me my money,” he chuckles. “I do want to thank you for retrieving my belongings. It is difficult when you hire men and they turn out to be complete buffoons. I’m sure Mr. Cornwall understands.”

Arthur makes a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He most certainly does.”

Seeing movement from the corner of his eye, Arthur turns to see a large man carrying you in his arms. You are fast asleep, and this worries him. “What—what’s wrong—?”

“Oh, do not worry, Mr. Kilgore. We gave her a little something to help make your journey easier. She can be a little…feisty.”

Arthur tries to sound appreciative. “Oh, erm, thank you for accommodating us.”

“Where are you staying?”

Hell, Arthur hadn’t thought of that. It wouldn’t be smart to lead them to camp. But he doesn’t know where there would be any—

“The Bastille Saloon,” John answers confidently. “We got two rooms there.” John looks at Arthur quickly and nods, conveying, I got you, brother.

Bronte seems pleased with this. “Ah! Perfect. My men shall see you safely there.”

This makes Arthur uneasy, but if he argues, it might raise suspicion. He nods his agreement, keeping his expression neutral as he follows the man carrying you out to the carriage. John keeps pace beside him, his eyes scanning for any signs of trouble.

Once seated, the carriage moves forward, and Arthur hears Bronte call out to him.

“Remember, Mr. Kilgore! Look, but don’t touch!” And then his laughter rings into the night, soon fading into the night’s fog.

As the carriage rattles down the cobbled street, Arthur sits next to you, watching as the moonlight dances across your peaceful expression. He’s eager to hold you close, but given the urgency of the situation, and John’s watchful eye, he merely adjusts the blanket you are wrapped in.

“Why did he give her that damned stuff to make her fall asleep?” John asks with a snarl.

Arthur shrugs, his eyes not leaving you. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe to prevent her from escaping? From fightin’ back?”

“It don’t matter now.” Arthur looks over at John, determination etched on his face. “We have to find a way out of Saint Denis. We can't risk being followed.”

“They seem to be watchin’ us.”

Arthur nods. “I know. We may have her back, but this ain’t over.”

“It never really is.” The weight of their situation weighs heavily upon them, reminding them of the constant danger they face in their line of work. “I’ll kill ‘em if they hurt my sister.”

The carriage stops right in front of the saloon and John is the first to step out. He nods his head at the driver and eyes the two armed men who have been following close behind this entire way. A couple of men who step out of the saloon eye the carriage, whispering fearfully to one another before quickly making themselves scarce.

Arthur looks to you, still sleeping. He doesn’t know how long you will be asleep for, but he isn’t going to waste any time getting you as far away from Bronte as possible. Carefully taking you in his arms, he maneuvers out of the carriage without fumbling or missing a step in his descent. Your head falls into his chest and his heart catches. Trying to be as calm as he can, he backs away from the carriage and turns to Bronte’s men. “Please give Mr. Bronte our gratitude. We will see him in three days.”

They nod wordlessly, and don’t make any motion to leave.

John tugs on the elbow of Arthur’s shirt. “Let’s go, Tacitus.”

Arthur begins to back away slowly toward the saloon, his eyes still watching the men on horseback. And then, finally, his back reaches the saloon’s front doors and he lets himself in.

Inside, the saloon's clamor dulls to a murmur as patrons turn, their curiosity piqued by the sight of you cradled in Arthur's arms. The air smells of tobacco and stale beer, a stark contrast to the crisp night outside. Arthur navigates through the crowd, his demeanor that of a man on a mission, determined yet cautious. He doesn't speak, merely nods curtly to those who acknowledge him. His eyes scan every corner, every face, looking for signs of trouble. John follows closely behind, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver, ready for any sign of danger.

Arthur reaches the front counter, which acts as a bar while also as a guest check-in. The man, who is in the middle of cleaning glasses, has his back turned.

Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Pardon me, mister, but can we have a couple of rooms please?”

The man’s posture changes as he turns around. “Yes, I believe we—” And as soon as he looks at you, his eyes widen. “My god, is she alright?”

Arthur looks down at her. She does look concerning. He looks back up. “Oh, she’s just tired from the long journey. It’s been a long couple of days.”

The bartender nods his head slowly. “I can tell.”

John begins to exhibit impatience, as he steps as close as he can to the counter and leans into it. “The rooms, mister?”

The bartender, momentarily lost in his concern, snaps back to attention. "Right, of course. That will be four dollars a night.”

Arthur, his hands not free, looks at John pointedly. After a pause, John sighs, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out some cash before slipping it to the bartender. Taking the money, he reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a pair of keys, sliding them across the polished wood towards Arthur. "Room seven and eight, upstairs to your left. You and your…” His eyes look down at you.

And Arthur replies softly, almost tenderly. “My wife.”

“—Wife, can have the largest room, that is eight. And your…friend there can take seven. If you need anything, holler."

John grabs the keys and starts for the stairs, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. Arthur, still holding you in his arms, follows him. As you both ascend the steps, the creaking of old wood under your collective weight seems to echo through the building. The atmosphere feels heavy, laden with the unspoken fears and secrets of all those who have stayed here.

At the corner of his vision, Arthur sees John eyeing him as they walk up the steps. “What?”

“Nothin’…It’s…just that you said she was your wife.”

Arthur furrows his brow, using aggression to dismiss the notion. “People would’ve been askin’ questions if I didn’t say she was.”

And John mirrors his expression, asking a pointed question. “Since when did you care what folks thought?”

“It ain’t about me…” And he looks down at you.

John seems to understand, his expression softening. “Right. I just…just the way you said it.”

Arthur shoots a defensive look at him. “How did I say it, John?”

John shrugs, quick to want to leave the discussion. “I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

“The whole day’s been weird. C’mon.”

They reach the top of the stairs and walk down the quiet hallway. Rooms seven and eight are at the very end and John, with the keys, unlocks room eight.

It is completely dark, with only the moonlight coming through the window. Arthur, once his eyes adjust to the darkness, spots a large bed and carries you over to it. He gently sets you down, and pulls the throw blanket over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. "Rest now, Kit," he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. His touch is tender, belying the roughness of his hands.

Arthur stands there a moment longer, watching you in the moonlit room, then turns to see the shadowed form of John as he stands nearby. “Alright, I don’t know how long she’s gonna sleep, but I figure I’ll get us all somethin’ to eat.” He begins to leave. “You good to watch the door?”

“Outside the door?”

Arthur replies as though he’s stating the obvious. “Yes, John, outside the door.”

John pauses, and Arthur can see the silhouette of his head shaking. “No. You watch outside the door, and I will get somethin’ to eat.”

Arthur lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Bring somethin’ with strawberries, will you?”

“Yes, I will. I know those are her favorite.”

“Thanks, John.”

They both head out of the room. Closing the door behind him, he watches John head back down the hallway where they came. Feeling the fatigue and weight of the past few hours events, he leans against the wall beside the door, his eyes momentarily closing. The corridor is quiet, save for the distant sound of a piano from the saloon below, playing a somber tune that seeps through the floorboards. They're not out of danger, not by a long shot, but for now, this silence is his reprieve.

***

A bone-jarring crash jolts him awake, and he recoils from the wall as adrenaline surges through his veins. The sound came from the hotel room, violent and chaotic—nothing like the groggy stirrings of someone emerging from deep slumber. 

And he had left you alone in there, vulnerable.

Panic tightens around his chest; he didn’t even think to check the windows. What if someone had broken in?

Driven by urgency, Arthur bolts to the door and flings it open. The darkness of the room envelops him, pierced only by a faint glimmer creeping through the window. Heart racing, he whips his head toward the bed.

You are gone.

“No…!” he gasps, dread clawing at his throat as he rushes to the window.

That’s when he hears it—the soft pad of footsteps on the carpet behind him, followed by an unexpected weight crashing onto his back.

The figure is surprisingly light but their grip is ironclad; long nails sink into his flesh like daggers.

Wait, long nails?

“I don’t care that you work for Mr. Cornwall…!” hisses a voice laced with defiance. “I am not going anywhere with you!”

Though low and sharp, the voice drips with a sweetness that sends conflicting emotions spiraling within him. He struggles to speak as your chokehold constricts tighter around him. “K—Kit…!” His breath catches as desperation mingles with the slow lack of oxygen.

But then your grip loosens, and your voice raises. “Arthur…?” The recognition in your tone is a mixture of confusion and relief, washing over him like the first rains after a long drought. 

He reaches for his neck, gasping for air. “Man, thought I’d try not to get scratched again…” he chuckles bitterly.

You quickly release him and go to the floor. Arthur whirls around, his hands reaching out to steady you as the moonlight filters through the window, illuminating your features—hazel eyes wide, face flushed with the remnants of anger and fear.

And your eyes glisten with tears. “Oh, Arthur…!” You let out a soft gasp and cover your mouth. “Arthur…! I’m so sorry…!”

“It’s alright.”

You reach out, your fingertips brushing against his smooth, clean-shaven face. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah. It’s me,” he replies, his voice a low murmur that visibly stirs something deep within you.

You blink in disbelief, and a single tear escapes, rolling softly down your cheek like a precious gem. “You came for me.”

“Of course, I did.” He takes your trembling hands in his strong grasp, enveloping them with warmth as he gently caresses your knuckles with his thumbs. “When a man loses– loves –his woman, he goes after her.”

You blink again, stunned. “What?” your voice trembles and Arthur feels his heart racing with a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of love that had been missing for far too long.

“You heard me.” He’s willing to risk so much in telling you, but it can’t wait any longer. “I love you, Kit. Have for a while, have for a long time. I’ve been so scared since you’ve forgotten…” He bows his head. “We kept it secret for more than two years…until…” Then his voice falls as his lip begins to quiver. 

You don’t speak for a moment and it is almost agony for him, but then you smile. You smile bittersweetly, sympathetically, as you reach up to cup his face. Your hands so gentle, so sweet, Arthur could die now and be content. “I’m sorry, Arthur. What’s in our past…is lost to me, now, but I’ve felt something. A pull towards you, even though my mind couldn't remember.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet room, it echoes like a confession. “I’ve loved you…I do love you.”

Arthur’s face softens, the lines of worry and time smoothing out for just this moment. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he says and lifts a hand to wipe your tear with his thumb.

“I’m afraid I might not ever remember everything, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Arthur's voice is tender, his eyes gentle as he looks at you. "Don't be sorry for things beyond your control, Kit. We've both seen enough to know life don't always give us what we plan for. What matters is now, this moment."

You nod and you lean into his touch. “It’s like we’re starting over, isn’t it?” You say it so softly, posing the question as though you are afraid to admit it.

Arthur smiles at you. “I guess so.”

You search his eyes as you speak barely above a whisper. “So, what do we do?”

He looks into your eyes and feels the weight of the past lifting, replaced by the promise of a new beginning. He feels a deep resolve the determination not to repeat the mistakes of yesterday. He begins to lean toward you, speaking softly. “How about…?” he starts to say, his breath mingling with yours, but it makes his heart flutter in a way that words seem impossible. 

His lips find yours, hesitant at first, afraid you might break or fade away like a mirage in the desert sun. But you press deeper, confirming the reality of the moment, the connection that defies memory and time. His kiss grows bolder, a silent language of years unsaid, weaving through the spaces between you two.

And as your fingers weave through his hair, the door opens.

“You’d think they don’t know what strawberries are, by how they—” John immediately stops talking as soon as he sees your two forms in the light of the window, still entangled in the gentle embrace. His expression flips from bewilderment to a knowing grin. “Well, it’s about damned time.” And he quickly tips his hat in apology before slipping away, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The interruption breaks the spell momentarily, but Arthur gives a low chuckle, his voice resonant in the quiet room. "Guess I shoulda told you John’s here too," he murmurs, his smile lingering as he gazes down at you.

You let out a quiet laugh, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Maybe," you reply and he can feel the pounding of your heart against his as it still races from the kiss and the sudden interruption.

Arthur knows it is late. And while he has so many questions, you all need your rest before you try to escape Saint Denis. He tucks some of your loose, dark hair behind your ear and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “Get some sleep, Kitten,” he whispers. “We can talk in the mornin’.”

“Okay,” you reply. And hearing you yawn, he takes that as his cue to leave. He gently removes himself from you and heads for the door.

“Arthur…?”

He stops mid-stride and turns to look back at you. He sees your elegant form, even in that simple black dress, you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His heart aches with a longing he thought had died months ago.

“Yes, Kit?” Arthur’s voice is soft, filled with the warmth of the emotions swirling within him.

“Don’t go far,” you say quietly, the vulnerability in your voice almost making him reconsider his decision to leave the room. “I mean…well…”

He turns back to face you. “What, Kit?”

You begin to fiddle with your hair, looking down at your feet. “Can you…stay with me? Not like…I mean…”

Arthur smiles softly, stepping back toward you. "Of course, Kitten," he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring, for nothing else matters but granting this simple request. He crosses the room and pulls a chair close to the bed and you pull back the covers and climb in. Sitting down, he reaches out and takes your hand as you lay down, feeling your gentle fingers in his.

You turn your head on the pillow to face him, looking into his eyes. “Goodnight, můj král.”

And hearing that name flow off your tongue, sets things right in his world, even for just a little while.

“Goodnight, Kitka.”

And he watches you fall asleep. You’re his again. 

Thank you for reading! :D

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

sorry but frankie being the ONLY ONE at monster high who thinks cleo is Cool will never not be my fav headcanon

cleo LOOKS like she's the popular one-

the attitude! the presence! the outfit! the ambition! the kind heart and the CONFIDENCE!! But Canonically Speaking-

frankie's the one made from various famous monsters, hanging with the ghoul kids in school. THEY'RE the one crushing hard on the local organization nerd ("self-proclaimed party princess"),

cleo, miss Number One human enthusiast, who means well but isn't always the best at reading the mood or focusing on priorities

(all of werewolf weekend) (also "clawed and clawdeen?? thank ra my parents didn't name me nefra-een! ugh~!" smiles, realizes no one else is smiling, "...right not the time cleo.")

she WANTS more fame, but mainly spends her time setting up school events, talking with her scarabs, and is starting to tag along with the popular group sometimes

result is THIS

So whatever her song says, i headcanon the vibe in school is more like....

Random Monster High Student:

Oh Cleo? Nefera's little sister, the one who always plays a tree in school plays?

Yeah, she has the funniest, most TRAGIC picture in the fearbook- I hear she has to make herself sneeze all over again whenever she wants to get something at the Coffinbean!

She's head of the dance committee, right? They did a "human themed" dance night once, because of her. And didn't she also organize the after-pep-rally eyescream this year? I think I remember her asking me what flavor I wanted...

Her friends? Um well, she's got these scarabs that are kinds cute. She tags along with Clawdeen Wolf and Draculaura sometimes, but I'm pretty sure she wasn't at that wild Nightmore party the crew had at one of Drac's mansions.

Other than that...

Oh oh wait!

I've seen pics of her hanging out with Frankie, though!

You know Frankie Stein- tall, goes by they/them, wears pretty much nothing BUT school memorabilia, falls apart a lot

I think they built a robot instead of turning in a paper one time, and blank out when remembering something from one of their famous brain bits?

They've got like, bits from almost any amazing monster you could name in the last half century! Monster models, Scareisian monsters, ballet dancers, monster scientists, lawyers. Even a bit from a king of Goreway! They're pretty clumsy but I mean, they HAVE only been alive for less than a year...

They dorm with Drac and Clawdeen- those three are pretty much always a trio, except for fearleading practice and theater stuff.

And yeah, I guess I see them with Cleo pretty often. Frankie, that is.

They sit with her at the creepateria a lot!

Huh. The brilliant franken monster and the second-in-line, dramatic, wanna be queen... I mean, don't get me wrong, Cleo's really nice! And her outfit is AMAZING... Just... I wonder what they even have to talk about...?

meanwhile, Frankie, @ Cleo:

actual canon dialogue: "Any party you're in charge of is sure to be zaptacular! You're so good at parties, and planning things, and picking things, and ah... (flustered) ..making things nicer, and..."

cleo-> decides to sneak into the family tomb. frankie -> PICK ME PICK ME PICK ME PICK M-

also frankie: laughs way too long at cleo's lame pun, tells it it's a good one anyway

also also frankie: goes to cleo for help looking good in their fearbook picture, even though cleo's last photo was a disaster and is the whole reason frankie got nervous about theirs

also also also frankie: "Anything for you, Cleo!"

also also also also frankie, after cleo holds their face and compliments them:

Me: what do they talk about? well mostly frankie just flits with her and is smitten and stuff XD

[inventors-fair]

First Pickable: Typal Winners ~

Our winners for this week are @helloijustreadyourpost, @reaperfromtheabyss and @tanknspank!

@helloijustreadyourpost — Score of a Lifetime

This one is absolutely sold for me. I assume that this is a Capenna-themed card? I mean, considering the scored, I'd say so, so as to avoid the batching that something like OTJ had. All the same, there are a LOT of Rogues there, and a lot of colors. Maybe this could've even been a Treasure, right? But regardless, having a little bit of every color get a little bit of roguishness is pretty much on the nose for what we're looking for mechanically. There was that one artifact from VOW that made a creature unblockable with a bonus for Vampires, but that wouldn't be as fought over. This card, though? I love the evasive theme that everyone would seek if there are indeed rogues, well, everywhere.

And the flavor text is pretty awesome too—which is what fully sells me on the card, because you're expressing a whole lot of possibilities here. The first is that a thief's life is short because of their field of work, but the other is that being "set for life" could just be a temporary measure, and that the rogue would squander it and impulsively go on to the next job—not for the money, but for the thrill. That's a way more esoteric read than I think is necessary, but dammit, it's speaking to me, so I'm going to roll with it. Nobody can stop me!

@reaperfromtheabyss — Sentry's Shortsword

My first thought was that this could be an excellent Kaldheim card, but then I remembered the Artificer example from the beginning of the week, and then yeah, okay, this could also be a more military-oriented card from Kaladesh. That was a really weird thought for me, especially because I remember Kaladesh's dwarves as being pilots and tinkerers, not as much soldiers. But my imagination is running ahead of me. In some ways...isn't that a good thing? Maybe I do like specificity and pounded-into-the-forge worldbuilding. With a set like this, there could be some story behind it to push it in either direction.

That's very cool. That's very cool indeed. As an equipment, this card's on the aggressive and defensive sides, and everyone who's ever played against Danitha in any form knows how much of a pain first strike and vigilance is. Perhaps I'm biased towards vigilance as a mechanic. It's equally possible that vigilance kicks ass and I'm correct and handsome and etc. Don't matter none when a dwarf is swinging at your face. I like the low-to-the-ground implication here, no pun intended, and how you linked the flavor of dwarves with the auto-equip. Like, to me that says something about how they're either readily weaponized or close to the forge? I like cards that make me prone to positive overthinking and this one gets the job done right.

@tanknspank — Sudden Swarming

As an annoying first critique, I will say that I wish the flavor text had been one sentence: "The two kings agreed to clash at dawn, but a neighboring queen arranged a temporary truce." That's about it. The image of these armies fleeing at the behest of a cloud of annoyed bugs is punny, hilarious, and a great use of an underused mechanical space, in my opinion. Does anyone love Fogs? Well, no, because they haven't made a good one in a kajillion years. Is this one of the best Fogs ever? I mean, I think so, but mostly because I'm a jerk.

And also, like, there could be one single Insect or Insect-themed card in this whole draft set, and it wouldn't have any payoff except for this one card, but this one card would be a single sideboard piece in most decks. Someone might want to start building Insects in standard and be disappointed, and/or add it to their Grist commander deck. That's what cards like this should be about, and this is both a hilarious use of the prompt and a great use of this kind of spot overall. Puns don't always get me in design, but this one sure does. A card that stands on its own merits is a card I can get behind.

Runners up 'n coming. @abelzumi

[mikeyforreal]

some random adrian chase head cannons :P

a/n: just some random thought about my favorite crime-fighting goofball :)

cw: fluff, some cussing, a few depictions of violence

miscellaneous hcs

• okay so first off, i know this isn't really a head cannon but james gunn confirmed that the visor in vig's suit is prescription and idk i just love that fact

• anyway, real head cannons now

• i'm like 99.99% sure he has a playlist for when he's on patrol and makes chris listen to it with him

• also, i think he'd have the same wired earphones from like 2014 that came with his iphone 6

• adrian's favorite candy is probably skittles or m&ms because of the fun colors (sometimes he likes to sort them if he's feeling a bit bored)

• i just know he has a collection of vhs tapes that he bought from a secondhand store/had as a kid

• speaking of collections he probably also has a bunch of cd's

• i dunno why but i feel like adrian loves star wars and has since he was little (and also has all the og trilogy movies on vhs)

• definitely has a cheap walmart lightsaber lying around somewhere

• GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY !!!

• i feel like as a kid he loved finding bugs, digging for worms, ect.

• one time he tried eating one, didn't turn out good for him (he couldn't stop throwing up for like 3 days)

• since it's cannon he played/plays dnd, he'd probably play magic, the gathering as well 😭

• i also think that he'd really love the artificial grape flavor ??

• LMAO i think he'd have a little chainsaw keychain lying around somewhere

• def listens to abba, spice girls, and yung gravy

• probably good with kids? he'd set the the house on fire if he watched some but he can keep them entertained at least ?

• manchild (i will not elaborate)

• he reminds me of jake peralta from brooklyn-99

being best friends/in a relationship with adrian

• let's face it, they're practically the same thing

• i justttt know that he made like 10 secret handshakes for the two of you

• his love language is probably words of affirmation, quality time, or touch (maybe all of them, who knows)

• wants to teach you how to play mtg and dnd !!! (please let him teach you he'll be over the moon)

• def has a playlist that he wants to listen to with you

• two words: movie dates

• adrian loves watching movies with you !! even if he's seen it a few dozen times, he'd watch it again just to see your first time reactions :)

• THEMED COSTUMES !!!

• if you're down, he'd want to match with you ever year, something different and cooler than the last

• if you wear glasses, you better bet your ass that he's switching with you 24/7

• you cant go an hour without your glasses getting taken off and replaced with his

• also, i think that adrian wouldn't have the cleanest glasses 😭 you def gotta give 'em a good scrub every now and then

• dr. pepper enthusiast fs

• discounted/sometimes free food and fennel fields

• if you can work from home and go there often just to eat and work, he's definitely spending his 15 minute breaks (and longer than that) sitting with you and chatting

• he's always bringing home leftovers or breadsticks that he stole

• i think adrian has a pretty decent comic collection, and would go to shops with you for dates or hangouts

• he's probably super good friends with the owner (or at least that's what he thinks)

• when he's patrolling, he randomly facetimes you???

• like he has a guy near death and he's having a full conversation with you

• adrian has tonsss of silly and random nicknames for you !! he just calls you whatever you remind him of

• whenever he goes over to your place or vice versa, you two have a special knock that lets either of you know immediately who it is

• one of his ideal dates would probably be going to the park and feeding ducks !! (and him trying to catch them)

• he also randomly makes machine gun noises ?? what's that about ??

• the two of you'll just be chilling watching tv or something and then you hear 'CHCHCHCHC' and see him doing finger guns or whatever

• and when you ask him about it he's just like "what do you mean babe?"

• would probably beg you to get a little cat or a dog

• if you initially say no, he's gonna pull out a whole powerpoint presentation on why you should say yes (and he's wearing his fanciest clothes)

• FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS !!!

• it doesn't matter where or what they look like, if he sees some at the gas station, store, theme park, wherever, he's buying some for the two of you

• your relationship is basically that one scene in bobs burgers scene where tina makes a friendship bracelet for louise and tina's like "oh you don't have to wear it" and louise snatches it and says "no i'm gonna wear it forever, back off"

• proud malewife

• adrian is in the kitchen a lot, always fixing up snacks for you

a/n: let me know if i should make another one of these with another character !

[ac3-silvers]

Is it weird for me to be worried about my latest hyperfixation/plot bunny?

Below the cut is an explaination.

Tl/dr: added a bunch of like pagan themes and my version of “western fantasy” and found family tropes and species bending to a Xianxia/Wuxia setting (MXTX triple fusion) and I’m worried people will find it problematic if I post it. All pagan stuff is also “weird” bc it’s my flavor of it and I add more bits when I write it for stories of any kind. Main guy mostly just acts as a dad and is always running around trying to avoid people who he doesn’t want to find him unless he needs to trade for certain things like fabric because everyone is suspicious of him and it gets worse when they learn he’s an “alternate type of cultivator” and actually foreign and stuff. Like, it’s HIM being assimilated and not the other way around even if he’s sharing like a couple crafts, what he grew up speaking and writing, some recipes and stuff you’d learn if you lived in the wilds and had an arborist-holistic doctor-type for a mom figure.

Edits: added more clarification, main concern is white savior and I’m doing as much as I can to avoid that bullshit but I’m still worried as fuck bc I don’t want to seem like an asshole or something.

Like, I tend to have phases for fandoms, sure, but I also have them for tropes/concepts I like to write.

So I’m in a MXTX/Danmei phase fandom wise, and I’m in a general “fix it before the shit can go south” phase, and now I’m layering on my paganism-in-everything phase once again and writing a “what if all MXTX novels are in the same world… and a very powerful druid-witch dude happens to stumble onto our favorite red-and-black boys and a (good number of) handful(s) of other fucked over kids… which activates his horrible, horrible dad instincts and he adopts every last one of them” thing.

It’s 3 chapters deep, has a bunch of random shit ranging from discussion of languages and their quirks, basic Irish lessons (bc teaching myself off and on for YEARS), pagan/wiccan shit (obviously), handicrafts, hunting, practical foraging and ultra-sustainable farming practices, how major religions stamp out smaller or “bad” ones…

It’s basically just what I write for my Og stuff but I’m not holding back at ALL and it’s MXTX. Main plot is MDZS but Binghe and Hua Cheng are the frustratingly ridiculous older brothers of the family that the dad-character is just sick and tired of listening to them pine and suspicious as hell about who they’re going after despite not wanting to even THINK about his boys being in romantic relationships with ANYONE.

Just… goofy happy but dramatic family shit and cute kids and teens bringing a shitload of foreign mythology and pagan culture and a hefty dash of my personal style of fantasy into the Xianxia/Wuxia world.

I just worry I might get flack for like destroying the culture and setting with… what I write about for the most part outside of like the vast majority of my fics.

Am I going nuts, or is this okay?

Edit for a clarification: I’m worried, as someone mentioned, of a white savior trope problem. I’m mainly trying to get out of that corner I seem to have driven myself in, but generally how it’s going so far is:

- cultivators are suspicious of foreign guy who’s apparently not just some weird merchant, this causes issues

- OC is more just trying to keep the kids he ends up running around with from doing stupid shit like pulling stupid stunts to be with people they declare their soul mates after like one brief interaction (and he fails a lot and gets all “I’m not mad I’m just disappointed. Now eat your dinner and go take a bath, you stink and are too thin again.”)

- major difference for whole setting is just some one off things here and there being introduced and made more common in a warped timeline (mostly just like fiber arts and some recipes and minor things that aren’t as obvious right off the bat like how ginkgo trees are in the same family as poison Ivy and stuff like that)

Generally the entire fic is just very done dad yelling at stupid teenagers for being stupid teenagers and having to dodge people who don’t like the weird wild man and judging him for not being able to read Chinese well and stuff.

Yet I’m still worried about white savior issues… because they’re an issue.

[cryptidsurveys]

Sunday, December 29th, 2024.

Do you believe you’ve met your soulmate or one of them?: I don't really believe in the concept of soulmates, but playing along… In a non-romantic sense, I would say my dad is one of them. I have also met people who (either at the time or in hindsight) felt like lessons, tests, or catalysts for change.

When did you last have grape juice?: I have no idea. I'm not a big fan of grape flavored things.

Have you learned anything today?: Not really.

Have you been to any parties here recently?: I guess that fundraising event back in July would count as a party, but no, I haven't been to anything recently. I'm not much of a party person.

Are you good at reading body language?: Honestly, not really. I see what I want to see. Or rather, what my anxiety wants me to see. <- Same. I encounter similar issues when trying to read people in general. It's often through the lens of my own fears, so it's not always accurate.

How many hours of sleep did you get last night?: I'm not sure. I had a bit of trouble sleeping during the middle of the night and also woke up earlier than I would have liked.

What were the last 3 emojis you used?: Probably a heart and some Christmas themed emojis.

Is it currently warm where you live?: It's 49*F. So kinda chilly.

Do you use Facebook?:

Do you like the smell of coconut?: Yesss. Speaking of which, Paul made gift bags for everyone at the shelter and mine included some coconut body lotion. Smelled sooo good.

Do you prefer longer or short socks?: Medium?

What size shoe do you wear?: Around an eight.

Chocolate or Vanilla ice cream?: Chocolate.

Do you or anyone you know have sleep apnea?: I don't. I don't think I know anyone who does either.

Where is your favorite place to be?: Either at home in bed or at the Mountain Park.

How many times have you fallen in the past year?: I don't think I've fallen at all, but I almost slipped while getting out of the shower the other day.

Do you like to leave your window open at night or do you use a fan?: I like leaving it open during the warmer months. There comes a point in summer when I basically never close it until the nights start getting cold again.

Is there a celebrity you dislike for no reason other than they annoy you?: Naw. I don't pay enough attention to celebrities to develop a genuine dislike for them.

If you find a spider in your home, do you set it free or kill it?: These days, I tend to just let them do their spidery thing. Whatever that is.

Would you say you’re addicted to social media?: I'm definitely addicted to YouTube, but I don't know whether that counts as social media or not because I just watch videos and read comments; I don't actually post anything or make any comments of my own. When it comes to Instagram and Tumblr, I enjoy sharing photos and taking surveys, but I wouldn't say I'm at the level of an addiction.

How many pets have you had in your lifetime?: Including all the fish we had when I was a child…a lot.

Do you sunburn easy?: Yeah. I got a sunburn on my face the last time I went to the Chili Festival. It was in late September, and we weren't even there all that long.

Of all the houses you’ve lived in, which was your favorite?: Probably this one.

Do you or would you ever use online dating?: I've never tried online dating. I can't see myself doing so either. I'm sure there are some great people on dating apps, but the whole process just seems so overwhelming. Maybe that's just where I'm at right now, though. Idk. Like I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate social situations in general. A romantic relationship feels like a boss level for which I'm woefully ill-equipped.

What do you wish you could get paid for?: Existing? Doing pointless side quests like petting every cat I encounter?

What did you get into trouble for as a kid?: Nothing super serious. Mostly just fighting with my sibling or generally misbehaving.

What’s something good that has happened here recently?: Three kitties at the animal shelter are going to their new homes today. <3

Do you remember the first time you’ve ever driven a car? How did that go?: I think my first time behind the wheel was with my mom in a parking lot. Pretty sure her car was a manual, so I probably struggled with that.

Who did you last say “I love you” to?: My dad.

When did you last feel beautiful?: I guess fairly recently.

Are you currently frustrated over something?: I was frustrated over some fresh coworker nonsense, but now I'm just kind of like…who cares. It's not my problem to solve. I can stay on the fringes and go with the flow and let them do whatever they're gonna do.

Would you ever like to travel to Ireland? Or have you ever been?: I've never been, but sure, I would like to visit.

Have you ever had a yard sale?: No.

Do you enjoy going to yard sales or garage sales?: I did when I was younger.

Do you know someone with a big ego?: No.

What color is your most used blanket?: I have several blankets on my bed and they're all used about equally. They're also a bunch of different colors, so it would be annoying to try to list them all.

Does it annoy you when people type in all caps?: Can't say it annoys me because I always have the option to scroll on by. I understand that some people have vision issues and I wouldn't fault someone I knew if they had to communicate like that, but when it comes to random internet comments I'm not obligated to read…welp. I usually don't.

Do you like gummy bears?: Eh.

Where is your favorite place to grocery shop?: We shop at Walmart.

Have any plans for the day?: Just the animal shelter in the morning. Relaxing and doing nothing much for the rest of the day.

[isagrimorie]

I really love House of R's breakdown of the Ahsoka show. Listening to the breakdown I like their point that maybe the reason for the gap in knowledge about Ahsoka and Sabine's relationship is that this is a mystery that both old fans and new watchers would see together.

I do think we will get flashbacks to the moments of Ahsoka first taking on Sabine as an apprentice to the end why she walked away from Sabine.

Another thing I realized about the table setting in the first two episodes is that they're setting up that Ahsoka show might be set more in the unknown regions outside of their current galaxy.

I actually like that we're getting more into different lore for Ahsoka, more alien, more mystic and that by going to the Unknown Regions we might get to avoid the oft criticism about 'always returning to Tatooine'.

But most of all, I love that we might be exploring different kinds of Force Users, and the show might end up touching on an ancient society that predates both the Night Sisters and the Jedi/Sith.

But also speaking of Lore, I love how Baylon Skoll and Shin Hati were named after the two wolves from Norse mythology.

Skoll is the name of the wolf Who follows the shining priest Into the desolate forest, And the other is Hati, Hróðvitnir’s son, Who chases the bright bride of the sky

= the Eddic poem Grímnismál

And that Morgan Elspeth is a confirmed Night Sister. Night Sisters of Dathomir are often called Witches because of how the Night Sisters utilize the Force like magic.

In the Clone Wars, Grevious massacred the Night Sisters.

Ahsoka's had dealings with a Night Sister before -- Asajj Ventress and Darth Maul and Savage Oppres were also from Dathomir.

But also, Shin seems to have some reservations about Morgan after she learns Morgan is a Night Sister.

I also love the sense that Ahsoka is more mystical and science fantasy than the other shows. This show doesn't shy away that it's about space wizards and space knights.

Sometimes I feel current Star Wars (and some fans) are ashamed that Star Wars is basically a show about sword and sorcery but in space.

I also really like that if The Mandalorian is a Space Western, Ahsoka is very much the Space Wizard Samurai and Din's aesthetic (or the Mandos in the Mandalorian) is more like Space Cowboys and Vikings, Sabine represents the Japanese-flavored aesthetic of her part of Mandalore.

But also I love that the lead character is the grumpy samurai master, usually in anime/manga we see stories more from the point of view of the student seeking the master to teach them once again.

Very much borrowing from the influences of Samurai movies. Also, Kanan has done this (in other Western media-- Zuko and Iroh from Avatar and Korra from Legend of Korra).

For both Kanan and Sabine, this signifies commitment -- Sabine has mentioned before that she kept her hair short because it helps her wear her Mandalorian helmet.

Sabine letting her hair grow long meant she has set aside her Mandalorian heritage, she's been in a holding pattern, possibly since the day Mandalore fell (again). It's possibly another reason why Sabine is so reluctant to celebrate.

Yes, she helped save Lothal but what does that matter if she couldn't even save her own homeworld?

Almost every character in this show lost their families, their home worlds, and their people.

I also like how Ahsoka the show is also about the Good guys winning the war, they've all been busy fighting the war that now there's peace what do Ahsoka, a soldier who has been fighting since she was a child, and Sabine, a child who is from a culture that reveres war and warriors, do now?

Hera is the only one with a clear idea of what she wants to do -- and that's to build a better world and tomorrow for her son.

But for Ahsoka and Sabine?

I feel like Ahsoka and Sabine's theme music is Wait for It:

Life doesn't discriminate Between the sinners and the saints It takes and it takes and it takes And we keep living anyway We rise and we fall and we break And we make our mistakes And if there's a reason I'm still alive When so many have died Then I'm willin' to— Wait for it...

[contemporarybardess]

Help Wanted || Elora & Alistair

Location: The Sugar Pot

Timing: Current-ish

Parties: @deathsplaything & @contemporarybardess

Triggers: Parental death (mentioned), Partner death (mentioned)

Summary: Elora goes into The Sugar Pot wanting some tea after a rough day, leaves with far much more.

Well this was just fucking peachy. Elora had gotten a tip on a revolutionary treatment for her hand that might be able to restore function to it, and she gets fucking rejected. Something about candidates with a longer duration of disability being favored first. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t born disabled, but a recent injury should have just as much weight as those who have been managing the burden their entire lives. 

She was upset, and she always began shaking when she was upset. She needed something to calm her nerves. While she loved a good cup of coffee, it would do nothing to relax her in this moment. As she walked down the street, she saw a sign for a new shop she hadn’t seen before. 

“The Sugar Pot”, she muttered under her breath. She could use a nice cup of hot tea to steady her nerves. 

As she entered the store, she was greeted by a man behind the counter wearing dark glasses that completely obscured his eyes. She appreciated the apothecary theme, and figured if the tea was good this might already be a new favorite spot of hers. She approached the counter, hoping to see some sort of menu that she could order off of. 

As the door opened to the shop, the bell attached to the door jingled, alerting Alastair that there was a customer. “Welcome in!” He greeted her with a customer-service-grade smile. “If yer new, the shop is set up for you to pick out some flavors, and then we mix and pack it for you. The menu is below me if you’re looking for a certain brew.” He patted the counter he stood behind. The menu was on the wall of the counter. 

The menu consisted of herbal blends sorted by white teas, green teas, black teas, oolong teas, and fruit tisanes. “We’ve got floral, citrus, fruity, sweet, and umami teas.” He explained as a woman stepped out of the curtained back door. She closed the back door rather loudly as to alert Alastair to her presence. “In front of you.” She spoke to him, which caused his attention to shift from the sound of the bell ringing on the door to directly in front of him. He didn’t quite look directly at Elora, nor did he turn his head to look at the woman who had stepped behind the counter. He looked in their general direction without looking directly at them. 

“Thank you, looks like a big selection” she said to the man behind the counter. She could tell from the dark glasses and the way he wasn’t quite looking at her to speak that he must be blind or have some sort of serious vision impairment. She saw his assistant emerge to redirect his focus so that he had a better idea of where she was. 

“I think I’ll have the ‘Pear With Me’ please!” she went to point at the sign, a strange thing to do when speaking to a blind man but it was habit for her. She forgot, as always, that pointing with her left hand was an impossibility, and she was left with more of a three fingered gesture towards the area of the sign that displayed her drink. She quickly pulled her hand back, being glad the man couldn’t see her mistake. While there was certainly no shame to an injury, she didn’t want any form of weakness to be perceived by people in this town. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen this place before. Don’t usually come to this side of town, I was just out here running errands. Do you get a lot of people over here?” 

She wasn’t familiar with Old Town yet, she didn’t have much reason to stop by until today.

Alastair smiled, nodding his head. “I like to give my customers a lot tae choose from. If you have too little, then what fun is that?” His tone was jovial but almost as if it was practiced to be that way. As Elora gestured to the sign, Melody, the assistant shopkeeper, frowned. She leaned over to Alastair and whispered into his ear. “Left hand, potential medial nerve injury.” She pulled away from the man, who had already turned around to find the correct blend, slipping his fingers along the glass jars that held the herb mixtures until he came across the one that said “Pear With Me” in bold letters. He plucked the jar off the shelf, and Melody grabbed a cup and tea bag, scoping the mixture into the bag. 

As Melody set to preparing her drink, Alastair turned around with an almost ghoulish smile that quickly drifted back to a practiced politeness. “Oh, we’ve been here for about three years now.” He spoke with a nod, his hand drifting over the old-style register and feeling the buttons before pressing down on the correct ones to ring up her total. “Busier during the mornings and weekends, get some wanderers from time to time throughout the day, though. We have enough regulars to keep the business afloat.” After he finished speaking, Melody turned around to hand the cup of hot tea over to Elora with a friendly smile. “Alastair and I opened up the shop together.” She further explained, taking over the register with ease. “Your total is 5.48.” She added. 

Alastair tapped a finger on the counter. “Tell your friends about us! Oh, and we’re hirin’ if you know someone looking for a job. We hire all kinds here!” He grinned wickedly, as if trying to let her in on something without saying it aloud.

There was a certain charm to the man’s Scottish accent. Elora had noticed the pair whispering, but couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Didn’t they know whispering was rude. Especially in front of a paying customer! 

“Well it’s good you have a steady stream of business. Nowadays it’s hard to keep a good business going. Guess I’d be considered a ‘wanderer’, eh?” she said teasingly. “Well I’m glad to hear you’ve been here for a while, means what you sell isn’t shit. So how long have you two been together” she asked, careful to gesture with her right hand as she moved it between the two of them. 

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been in the market for a good job. If you take ‘all types’, maybe I could put in an application?”

Alastair’s smile turned from friendly to genuine as Elon’s called herself a wanderer. “An’ there’s nothin’ wrong with that either. Best people I know are wanderers themselves” he gave a nod. When asked how long they’d been together, his smiley turned to a disgusted look. “Oh, I’m far too gay tae be with ‘er.” He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper towards Elora. That earned an eye roll from Melody, who knelt beneath the counter. 

“Oh ye are, are ya?” Alastair remarked, tilting his head to the side with a grin. Melody popped back up, sliding the application towards Elora with a smile. “Melody here helped me out when I lost my sight.” He explained. “Been business partners since I moved here three years ago. Anything other than that is strictly platonic. Like I said, definitely too gay for that.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “New to the area, then?” He asked, curious to learn more about the prospective hire. 

Since her colony’s fall, Elora had never been anything other than a wanderer. Just another soul passing through; here today and gone tomorrow. Hearing there was nothing wrong with that was certainly reassuring. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to assume,” she uttered, feeling herself starting to blush. She very often made assumptions about other people, and sometimes those assumptions lead to embarrassment. 

“I came here a couple months ago. I’ve uh…been off to a bit of a rough start. That goo outbreak certainly didn’t help things. Not a lot of places that are busy when half the town is completely unnavigable. But yes, I could really use some extra income. Well, any income, really.” 

She felt the inevitable follow up question of where she was before coming next, so she decided to pre-empt the man. She could tell by his manner of speech he was probably from somewhere in Scotland. 

“Grew up in South Carolina, very remote small town.” If you could even call it a town. “Decided I should try branching out a little bit. So I moved out and decided I’d try my luck up here.” She decided to leave out the tragic backstory. Not exactly appropriate for a first encounter, especially with a potential employer. 

Melody rolled her eyes and whacked Alastair in the arm. “Don’t mind him, he’s ridiculous.” She spoke as she took payment from Elora, charged the card, and handed it back to her. This earned a wide grin from the man in response, who seemed quite proud of himself. As Elora said she had a rough start to moving to Wicked’s Rest, Melody frowned, then spoke up. “Well, we are in a position where we need someone, so maybe Alastair here can talk to you about the position while I tidy up in the back.” She suggested, nudging the man so that it was less of a suggestion and more of a demand.

As the blonde passed the curtain and into the back room, the flash of something small toddled across the room as the door shut behind her. “She likes you,” Alastair told Elora with a knowing smile. “If you are rather interested, the position is for a barista. Our recent employees left because they wanted to focus on school, and we allow them to have summer jobs and over their breaks. We’re looking for someone who would be willing to work full-time. A thud came from the back, drawing Alastair’s attention toward the noise, but then he let his head drift back to the direction he last heard Elora. 

“The goo has most definitely made things harder for people to navigate to our shop, but I think that makes it the perfect opportunity to train someone who may not have prior experience.” He smiled, trying to let her know as slyly as possible that he would be interested in her working for him. “Though I do feel bad for the victims of the goo, I try to see things in a positive light when I can.” He then added, deciding it was not the best look to say he liked the goo. He didn’t. He’d been sleeping there at the tea shop because of the goo.

After all of her applications and interviews, it couldn’t be this easy, could it? Had she finally found stable and long term employment? Well, as stable as you can get in this town. The pair seemed kind enough, and she was certainly never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Really? It’d be great to work here, especially full time. I do have some barista experience too! Another small mom and pop shop back near where I grew up.” One that didn’t look too closely into validating I-9 documents like a bigger coffee chain might have done. 

“I understand what you mean” Elora said, nodding even though it served no purpose. “Gotta find the silver linings wherever you can see them”. She immediately bit her tongue in frustration at her words. Definitely not off to the best of starts, but he didn’t seem like the type to be easily offended. “So to speak, of course” she added on, hastily. 

“The goo’s been an absolute pain for me too. Most of the streets are completely unnavigable and my side of town is far away from pretty much everything. If it weren’t for my gymnastics training I wouldn’t even be able to get groceries.” 

Gymnastics training, supernatural agility, po-tay-toe po-tah-toe.

“Anyway, I’d be ready to start whenever if you’re serious about hiring me!”

Alistair stood there for a long, quiet moment as he debated whether or not to crack a joke at his own expense. “Where ye can see ‘em, nice.” He muttered with a crooked grin on his face. “Gymnastic trainin’? Bet that’s absolutely come in handy with all of it. Poor Brutus was leading me in weird patterns an’ I had no idea about the goo at first until someone kindly pointed it out to me. I thought my dog had gone rogue.” He shook his head, snapping his finger down at his hip, which caused Brutus to sit up in his bed and lazily walk over to Alistair’s side. “Y’ have a problem working with dogs?”

It wasn’t that Alastair had a bleeding heart. He didn’t. With what he did for a living, he couldn’t afford to. But when someone obviously struggling to get by in town just waltzed into his shop, he couldn’t just turn them away, now could he? So that’s how he ended up feeling bad for the woman before him. And if she said she had experience, then… well, that was just a helpful addition now, wasn’t it? 

Alastair couldn’t help but smile in amusement as she talked about seeing something. He didn’t say anything, but he was already coming up with a multitude of different responses in his head. He drummed his fingers against the counter, knowing Melody had already given him the go-ahead, meaning it was entirely up to him. He hated being the one to make decisions regarding hiring and firing. He tilted his head to the side, deep in thought. She was friendly, she was available to work full-time, and he could use a day off every once and a while. “Yeah, alright.” He finally said, letting his head turn back. “I do have a weird question, though.” He spoke, tapping his finger against the counter again, this time more in nervousness. “I need t’know what you know about the supernatural.” He spoke, gripping Brutus’s harness. “See, I heal people.” He further explained. “The methods I use are…” he trailed off, trying to find the words to use. “Different than what you’d find in a hospital.”

While Elora was a bit mortified at misspeaking, at least the man seemed to take her slip up in stride. It probably wasn’t the first inappropriate comment he had heard regarding his blindness. 

“Right, my gymnastics training. Comes in handy when you’re moving around rooftops across town. You’d be surprised how bad the goo situation is in Worm’s Row.” 

She looked over at the dog, who looked like such a good boy. But she knew better than to try and pet him, working dog and all that. 

“He seems like a very good boy doing great work. You both could’ve been swallowed up if he wasn’t on his guard!” 

She was momentarily overjoyed when she heard his very casual acceptance to allow her to work there. This quickly went away as he asked her about what she knew of the supernatural. She was a bit hesitant since they were in a public space, she never knew who could be listening in. Eventually, however, she decided to answer the man’s question. She was all too curious about his “unconventional methods”. 

“Well, I know that there are creatures that exist who aren’t exactly what they seem to be. Some friendly, others very much not. I also know that magic does exist, and can also be used to help or harm someone at the user’s discretion. Also nasty goo that turns people into statues, can’t forget about that.” 

She withheld that she was supernatural of course. Some old school apothecaries and other potion brewers still harvested siren organs for certain concoctions. She didn’t want to end up on the man’s grocery list, blind people were still dangerous after all. 

“Please, do tell about these methods of yours.”

Alistair sighed, knowing he’d have to explain it sooner rather than later. He’d much prefer if he could control the narrative before Elora found out for herself. As Melody came out of the back room, the spellcaster tugged on the harness, speaking “doras cùil,” which caused Brutus to walk toward the back door that Melody had exited. “Mind the store,” he spoke to the blond as he passed her, pulling the door open again and holding it out for Elora. 

As they entered the back room, the first thing that could be noticed (by those with sight) was the circular, emerald rug on the floor with sage green sitting cushions around in a circle. “The Law of Equivalent Exchange,” Alistair spoke after the door had closed, “means that I cannot heal without doing harm to another.” Brutus guided Alistair to the middle of the rug, then sat obediently at his side. “My family comes from a line of necromancers. Instead of raising the dead, I use it to heal people.” Brutus stood from his owner’s side and walked to the door on the far side of the room, then sat in front of it. “Beyond that door is what I use to heal those who need it or even deserve it.” 

He paused for a moment, waiting to see if she had any questions. When Elora said nothing, he continued. “The bigger the injury, the better the sacrifice must be. I can’t just use a lab rat for a sacrifice when the person has been stabbed through the chest. It has to be an exact exchange. While I, luckily, don’t deal with larger scale injuries, sometimes the sacrifice needs to be greater. People who have done harm, people that deserve punishment.” He pointed to the door again. “That’s who I keep beyond there.” 

Brutus watched Elora with a curious gaze, as if he knew more than a normal dog should. Alistair stood still, waiting for the woman to speak or run. If she ran, well, that’s what Melody in the front of the shop was for. If she didn’t, then maybe she’d stand a chance after all. “You wouldn’t deal with this,” he added on. “But you would have to deal with them coming into the store asking for me. If you decide to work here, know that when I’m not working, I live above the shop, so I’m only a phone call away to get here as soon as possible.” He tilted his head to the side and raised a brow. “So. Thoughts?”

Elora, quite frankly, didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, this man was a healer, and could do beautiful work for those who deserve it. On the other hand, someone else would need to be hurt. Elora, unlike those she grew up with, had a very firm “do no harm” stance. Still… harming those who were bad to benefit those who were good would end up as a net positive, right? She glanced down at her left hand, wondering if she herself would be considered “deserving”. 

“Who determines who’s ‘deserving’ and who’s ‘bad’?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow in spite of serving no purpose towards who she was speaking to. “Are we talking biblical, eye for an eye type of punishment? Murder a murderer, cut the hands off a thief? Or is it more cutting open someone with overdue parking tickets? I understand the concept of give and take, but I’m a bit uneasy at the concept of one man playing judge, jury and executioner. I don’t know your judgment.” She let her words hang in the air for a moment, debating if she should really allow herself to try and benefit from a clear moral gray area. 

“However, if you can prove to me that more good is done than harm, I’d be happy to help people find their way over to you. As fate would have it, I’m a bit in need of healing myself.” she said, raising her left hand up again. “Some kind of nerve damage to my left hand, at least that’s what the people at the hospital told me. Said there’s nothing they can do at the moment. The issue is, I’m a musician, so I sort of need my hands. I would love for you to help me, but only if nobody truly… undeserving gets hurt.”

This had been about the most selfish Elora had been in years. She felt as though she were making a deal with the devil. But if they were truly bad people, didn’t she deserve to have a fully functional body more than they did? 

When Alistair hadn’t heard footsteps running away from him, he was surprised. He was expecting Melody to have to wipe the poor girl’s memory of the last several minutes and have her go on her way, but she was asking follow-up questions instead. How curious. He thought about her question, mulling it over in his head, chewing on his lower lip as he tried to formulate the correct words in his head before speaking them aloud. “We’re talking more biblical, aye.” He answered, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t go out an’ find ‘em myself, mind.” He added, pointing towards his sunglasses. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it, quite frankly. But these people, they’re killing people for fun, not survival. Living in excess at the expense of the innocents, that sort of thing.” He waved a hand, then let his arms drop back down to his sides. 

He listened as the woman tried to rationalize why she deserved to be healed, even after knowing what she knew. He was always fascinated by the mental gymnastics people had to do in order to feel better about the decisions they were trying to make. Alistair had resigned himself to being a bad person a long time ago, so the only times he truly grappled with a sacrifice was when someone was dying in front of him. Like that lady from the other day who had been stabbed in the chest. He’d felt bad about it for a little bit, but not enough to stop him from following through.

“If it’s your left medial nerve you want healed, I can do it. You need only ask.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders and a gesture with his left hand. “But there’s no going back once it’s been done. And I require payment for my services. Something valuable that isn’t money.” His face went stoic as he crossed his arms over his chest once more. “If I sacrifice something, I ask my clients to do the same.”

In her brief time here, Elora had learned that there certainly were bad people in this town who killed just for fun or personal gain. She’d honestly be doing the town a favor if she helped dispose of these types of people. 

Her blood ran cold at the mention of a sacrifice. He was already doing great harm, and possibly even killing people for his “magic” to work. What more would a sacrifice do? Is it necessary or was this just some what to get his jollies by seeing how desperate someone is to be healed? She nervously ran her right thumb over the ring her mother had given her as a teenager. She had stolen it off the body of an unfortunate human woman who had wandered too close to their colony. At least, that was what she was told at the time. 

“What do you gain from doing this? Is it out of the goodness of your own heart? I mean, if that were the case, you wouldn’t be asking for a sacrifice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the healing, but you seem like this isn’t your first time negotiating an equal sacrifice. Speaking of which, could you say that you’re making a sacrifice? You’re not really losing anything, just throwing some other unfortunate soul into the fire.”

Her ring was the only thing she really had left of her family back home, but she also knew it was the only real thing of value that she had with her. She had no other jewelry or clothes that cost more than $10, and she doubted a laptop would be of much use to him. Besides, she had her suspicions that he was speaking of a different kind of value anyway. After all, he sentimental items certainly did fit the theme of sacrifice much better.

Alistair’s stoic gaze soured as she questioned him. “What do I gain? I gain something important to the person. If what they need healing, and it is truly worth it to them, then that’s what it takes.” She was poking holes into his already flawed logic brought on by his own trauma. “I have sacrificed myself before.” He spoke, voice distant and far away. He pulled off his glasses, and the glamour he’d put on himself drifted away. Instead of the man's unflawed skin, a large burn scar covered his right eye and across the bridge of his nose. “I’ve sacrificed enough.” He snarled, then put the sunglasses back on, and the glamour was back up. There was no trace of the scars on his face the second he concealed his eyes. 

He blinked behind his glasses, and he saw the man sending a ball of fire right at Mikael’s head. Alistair remembered the horrible screams that accompanied the blast. He remembered having to choose between saving the man he loved or the man who tried to take Mikael away from him. He chose to save his beloved. He remembered the agonizing pain of burning flesh as he desperately attempted to reverse the damage that had been done, but it was too late. Mikael was gone, and he had failed.

He blinked, and he was back in the back room with the girl who accused him of not knowing sacrifice. “You don’t know true sacrifice. No one does.” He snarled, dropping his hold of Brutus’s harness as he paced around the room, desperate to get the visions of that night out of his head. “Either you want it or you don’t. Either you can live with the knowledge, or you can’t.” Alistair stopped pacing, shaking his head. “The people that come to me are desperate enough to make that call for themselves, deciding the exchange is worth it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “There’s no such thing as healing someone without sacrifice. The laws require that magic maintain an equilibrium. Nothing comes without a price. You either pay the price or you don’t.” He tilted his head to the side, waiting for an answer.

In asking her questions, Elora couldn’t help but notice she hit a major nerve within the man she was speaking with. While he had seemed very jovial and friendly up until this point, that demeanor completely changed as he showed her his burn scars. He had been using some type of glamor to conceal the scars before, but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. 

“I’m sorry…” she said quietly. The whole rant had really let her know that he was no stranger to sacrifice, he knew the pain of losing something very important. “I guess I assumed that you were born that way. I have a good talent at putting my foot in my mouth… a lot.”

She still contemplated her answer to the man. On the one hand, could she really knowingly cause harm to somebody else for her own personal gain? But on the other hand, the sacrifices the man speaks of can’t be chosen or taken lightly, since he clearly knew all too well what sacrifice means. His loss of sight started to make her nerve damage seem extremely minor in comparison. 

Without another word, she removed her mother’s ring from her finger and took the man’s hand to place the ring in his palm. 

“My mother’s. All I have left of her. I’m willing to pay the price. I’m willing to do what it takes. I think I’ve learned enough about you to where I can trust you now. I didn’t mean to bring up any…harsh memories for you.”

Alistair huffed indignantly, shaking his head at the girl. “Afraid not,” was all he said in response. “So it would see you do.” He noted. He took a moment to stand there and re-compose himself. He could still see Mikael in his mind, see the happy moments along with the last. It was the happiest memories that now hurt him the most, he found. 

He felt his hand touch the metal object placed within it. He closed his hand, feeling the material around until he was able to identify it as a ring. He hummed, then held it back out. “I’ll need a couple of days to prepare what’s needed.” He told her as he handed the ring back. “Hold onto it until then.” His voice was soft as if he didn’t want her to part with the ring. “Come in on Monday with your hair tied back. Melody will get you set up on training and food safety.” He spoke to her with a raise of his brow. “When you come in, I’ll see to it that your hand is fixed.” Alistair pulled on Brutus’s harness and instructed him to bring him to the door and pulled it open, ushering the woman out of the back room.

“I’ll see you Monday.” He said, then paused for a beat before adding, “Enjoy the tea.”

[erabundus]

@frozenambiguity &&. said... Rant time! Now that Ren has the opportunity to trace a new path for himself, does he still have the wish to encounter Ei in order to get closure? Or does he prefer to view his past as a finalized chapter in his story and live his life on his own terms?

it's  honestly  a  really  tricky  subject  for  him  —  because  on  some  level,  there's  a  part  of  ren  that  desperately  wants  to  be  acknowledged  by  ei.  that  has  always,  always  been  an  ongoing  theme  with  him,  regardless  of  which  flavor  of  scrunkly  we're  talking  about.  it's  really  important  to  note  he  has  NEVER  hated  her,  even  after  she  abandoned  him  —  he's  always  directed  that  frustration  he  feels  inward.  she  didn't  want  to  keep  him  because  he  was  too  fragile  —  because  as  a  god,  (  he  assumes  )  strength  was  the  only  thing  that  mattered  to  her.  this  inadvertently  warps  scara's  entire  perception  of  how  gods  are  meant  to  conduct  themselves.  a  lot  of  his  posturing  during  the  sumeru  arc  can  be  attributed  to  him  just  trying  to  follow  this  example  ei  has  unintentionally  set  through  her  actions.  he's  effectively  roleplaying  his  warped  idea  of  a  deity,  and  to  some  extent  it's  kind  of  funny  but  also  very,  very  sad.  (  see:  calling  himself  small  and  ugly.  )

scaramouche  wants  to  become  stronger,  wants  to  fulfill  the  purpose  he  believes  he  was  born  for  so  he  can  show  ei  that  she  was  wrong  to  discard  him.  he  will  resort  to  any  means  necessary  to  FORCE  HER  to  acknowledge  him  —  up  to  and  including  ascending  to  divinity  to  stand  on  equal  footing ... and it still didn't work.

suffice  to  say,  this  places  ren  in  a  very  strange  position.  he  understands  now  that  his  self-destructive  ambitions  were  foolish,  but  there's  still  a  part  of  him  that  continues  to  yearn  desperately  for  CLOSURE.  at  the  same  time,  he's  enough  of  a  realist  to  understand  it  really  isn't  possible.  even  if  they  had  the  opportunity  to  speak  face  to  face,  what  kind  of  words  could  they  possibly  exchange  to  ease  centuries  of  suffering?  he's  carried  this  pain  for  so  long  —  the  wounds  have  been  allowed  to  fester.  there  has  never  been  a  point  in  his  existence  when  he  hasn't  known  the  hurt  of  this  perceived  betrayal.  from  the  moment  he  gained  consciousness,  the  first  thing  ren  heard  was  that  he  wasn't  good  enough  to  perform  the  task  his  creator  expected  of  him.  he  has  grown  and  developed  around  this  knowledge,  this  idea  that  he's  too  fragile  and  inferior  like  an  ivy  vine  entangling  itself  in  a  fence.  at this point, even  if  ei  was  granted  full  knowledge  of  everything  he  had  endured  —  what  would  that  change?  she  could  VALIDATE  his  suffering and his strength,  but  that  would  ultimately do  little  to  ease  his  pain.

he  would  like  to  say  he  wants  nothing  to  do  with  his  mother  because  he's  done  clinging  to  the  past,  but  the  truth  is,  he  knows  it's  pointless.  he  will  never  have  closure.  he  will  ALWAYS  have  to  live  on  with  this  trauma  —  and  perhaps  there  might  come  a  day  where  he'll  be  able  to  make  it  hurt  less,  but  ei  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  it.

all  in  all,  it's  a  really  tragic  situation.  he  still  doesn't  hate  her,  but  he's  also  recognized  there's  no  chance  they'll  ever  be  able  to  establish  any  real  sort  of  bond  —  that  ship  has  sailed,  if  it  even  EXISTED  to  begin  with.

[loreholdlesbian]

Eventide Draft Booster Challenge

With every new released set, I like to make a custom booster pack of cards utilizing the themes and mechanics of the set, meant to play around with the themes and mechanics of the set, creating a pack of cards that one could reasonably expect to open in that set. You may notice that Eventide is a 15 year old set and is not quite “a new release”. I was playing around with weird -1/-1 counter designs, and that led me to some shadowmoor flavor, and I just got really enamored by the plane and decided to make a pack. (Funnily, not many of those weird -1/-1 counter designs made it into the pack, but c’est la vie.) And I had the time for it, since I’m skipping over the lord of the rings set since im not familiar enough with the material.

Rare

Sorrowsfeaster BBBBB

Creature- Elemental

Trample Sorrowsfeaster enters the battlefield with a -1/-1 counter on it for each symbol in the mana costs of permanents you control that isn’t a black mana symbol. (For example, if you control a permanent that costs 2B/G and one that costs 2UU, it enters with four -1/-1 counters.)

9/9

Art

Shadowmoor block had a lot of pip-heavy costs, as does black in general, so I thought a card like this would be a cool way to really make you go all in on black would be a fun riff on chroma, a mechanic in the set.

Uncommons

Embersoul 1R

Enchantment- Aura

Enchant creature you control

Chroma- Whenever enchanted creature attacks, add R for each red mana symbol in its mana cost. Until end of turn, you don’t lose this mana as steps and phases end.

Art

Speaking of chroma. I decided to use chroma in a way that encourages you to use it with high-pip cards, not just lots of cards, by caring about individual permanents. With the hindsight of devotion now existing, this seems a good direction to take the mechanic in.

Bog-Raiser Hag B/GB/GB/G

Creature- Hag

When Bog-Raiser Hag enters the battlefield, creature cards in your graveyard gain retrace until end of turn.  (You may cast a card with retrace from your graveyard by discarding a land card in addition to paying its other costs.)

3/2

All bones lost to the mud are hers to play with.

Art

This is not a card that would have existed in eventide. Only instants and sorceries had retrace (which I recently learned is because until very late in development, retrace let you cast your lands as copies of the card, and at the time only instants and sorceries could be copied.) That’s one of the big tensions with this projects; it’s based on a challenge from GDS3, so one of the big goals is to show off and do new stuff which is hard when staying bound to the set. With retrace, I erred on doing something new.

Moonlit Path

Land

Moonlit Path enters the battlefield tapped.

As Moonlit Path enters the battlefield, choose a color.

Whenever you cast a multicolored spell, if you spent only a single color to cast it, you gain 1 life.

T: Add one mana of the chosen color.

Art

This land is meant as a reward for playing a monocolor deck with a lot of hybrid spells in it. I don’t think it’s super strong, but i think it’s decent enough for draft purposes, personally.

Commons

Paranoid Brandishing W

Instant

Chroma— Target creature gets +1/+0 for each white mana symbol in its mana cost and gains first strike until end of turn.

Kithkin farm tools are always kept sharp.

Art from [[Sharpened Pitchfork]]

Here’s the last chroma card of the pack. In the theme of chroma encouraging high individual pip counts, a combat trick felt like a good common usage. If you’re able to get this on something with a triple pip it’s great, but even the bare minimum of first strike and maybe +1/+0 is fine.

Aspect of Raven 1U

Enchantment- Aura

Enchant creature

Enchanted creature gets +1/+1 and has flying.

Retrace (You may cast this card from your graveyard by discarding a land card in addition to paying its other costs.)

Art

Here’s a simpler, common appropriate usage of permanent retrace. I intend this to be part of a cycle of retrace auras. Auras have always had a card advantage problem, and retrace can help mitigate that.

Scavenging Selkie 1U

Creature- Merfolk Rogue

1, T: Draw a card then discard a card.

1G/UG/U, Q: Return to your hand target card in your graveyard that was put there from your hand or library this turn. (Q is the untap symbol.)

1/3

Art

Shadowmoor block used hybrid in a few ways, not just in mana costs, and I wanted to as well. This uses a weird regrowth-y effect to upgrade from looting to card draw.

Sink into the Muck 1B

Instant

Exile up to three cards from a single graveyard.

Search your library for a basic Swamp card and put it into your hand, then shuffle.

Art

This card is intended as part of a cycle of “cantrips” that search for the respective basic, to play up the monocolor theme and play into retrace later in the game. This particular card also acts as graveyard hate, to combat retrace.

Pernicious Paranoia R

Enchantment- Aura

Enchant creature

Enchanted creature attacks each combat if able.

Whenever enchanted creature deals combat damage to a player, put a -1/-1 counter on it.

Art

-1/-1 counters running willnilly around an environment tends to make things get smaller as the game goes on, when generally magic plays better if things get bigger as the game goes on, so it can come to an end. This is why we’re unlikely to see more heavy -1/-1 counter environments. This card, I hope, helps move the game along in an odd way. They have to attack with it, so even if it gets small enough that attacking isn’t worth it, tough luck. And because it hurts the creature when it hits players, you’re encouraged to let it hit you which might make the game go a bit faster. (It also means, if it’s a lil too big to kill, you can let it through and then kill it with a blocker next turn, which I think is fun)

Hostile Canopy 1G

Sorcery

Choose one-

Put a -1/-1 counter on each creature your opponents control with flying.

Creatures you control without flying get +1/+1 until end of turn.

The forest does not take kindly to those who try to escape its grasp.

Art

Green -1/-1 counter cards are tough, since it’s not supposed to be good at killing stuff, but it can kill fliers no problem, so that felt like a good place to start. I also gave it the pump effect, cause its effect felt a bit niche for a common, and this felt like a good alternate mode.

Candleshadow Eminence 1W/B

Enchantment- Aura

Enchant land

As long as enchanted land is a Plains, it has “T: Exile target card from a graveyard.”

As long as enchanted land is a Swamp, it has “T: Target player loses 1 life and you gain 1 life.”

Art

Here’s another card intended as part of a cycle, like the existing cycle in the set of auras that gives a reward for being color A and a different reward for color B. Same intention, but with a landier focus (and less of a reward for being multicolor, since both are tap abilities)

Noggle Smuggler 2U/RU/R

Creature- Noggle Rogue

At the beginning of combat on your turn, target creature with power 2 or less can’t be blocked this turn.

Persist (When this creature dies, if it had no -1/-1 counters on it, return it to the battlefield under its owner’s control with a -1/-1 counter on it.)

3/2

Art

This is another card looking to use -1/-1 counters to make the game faster. When it dies and comes back smaller, that allows it to target itself with its effect. Definitely a bend, but one I’m okay making.

Scrappy Hobgoblin 3R/WR/W

Creature- Goblin Warrior

Scrappy Hobgoblin has double strike as long as it has a -1/-1 counter on it.

Persist (When this creature dies, if it had no -1/-1 counters on it, return it to the battlefield under its owner’s control with a -1/-1 counter on it.)

3/3

Art

Second verse same as the first, another attempt to make -1/-1 counters move the game along. This started as a card I made months ago, but since eventide was strictly enemy colors, I switched it to R/W, and then I didn’t quite like that, so I changed it to the double strike ability you see here which plays quite similarly.

Bramble Blade 2

Artifact- Equipment

Whenever a green creature enters the battlefield under your control, you may attach Bramble Blade to it.

Equipped creature gets +1/+1 and has trample.

Equip 2

Art

A color reward to play into the monocolor theme, you know the drill. Probably part of a cycle of Equipment.

Firebane Scarecrow 3

Artifact Creature- Scarecrow

Lifelink

Wither red (This creature deals damage to red creatures in the form of -1/-1 counters)

2/2

Its fieldsiblings fell to boggarts’ arson, but the boggarts did not laugh for long.

Art

Part of a cycle of color hate scarecrows that all wither their respective color and have a second ability that plays against that color’s strategy. I thought this limited form of wither could be a fun evolution to it, one that I could see if wither ever came back today, and color hate was the version that made the most sense with set themes.

[bibliophiliaxvignette]

Santa here again!

as a fellow Gwynriel simp I love all the wonderful things you said about them! they really do suit each other so well and your headcanons and theories are perfection (Azriel with a nose ring is unbelievably sexy (makes me wonder if he has any other piercings elsewhere😏)). also, I hope your classes went well and good luck if you have any tests/exam!

my next questions have more to do with the smutty fic that shall be in the works (my next little message to you will be about the art)!

do you like a lot of plot when reading smut fics or just jump straight into the sexy times? also, do you prefer fics to be set in canon or an AU? lastly, would you like the fic to be holiday themed?

I think that's all the questions I had about the fic for now (got to keep some of this a surprise even if I am HORRIBLE at keeping gifts a secret)!

for some more general questions because I am dying to know more about you: what got you into reading? would you say Gwynriel is your favourite out of all the ACOTAR ships? if you could live in any of the courts (ignoring who the High Lords are) which one would you choose?

-your secret santa🎅

Oh Santa, I love hearing from you! What a treat. I hope you’re having a lovely Halloween if you celebrate! My classes are going well! Ramping up for the busiest part of the semester!

(You bet your cute butt Az has got piercings in other places 😏)

I feel like I like some plot to care about the porn if you know what I mean lololol I like to have a feel for the characters and their history together and that’s what makes the smut good a lot of the time.

I do have a soft spot for AUs, especially modern AUs! But I think canon can be so sweet too! Whatever you have more fun writing, I’ll definitely have fun reading either! And I would love to have some holiday flavor in there!!

Wow, I’m having a hard time figuring out what got me into reading. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic and had a love for romance in media and the romance novel is just the purest form of entertainment for me 😂 so I’ve been reading since I was old enough to read my first romance novel I think.

Oh man it’s so hard to say. I adore Gwynriel. But I also love Feysand! And Elucien! But I do think Gwynriel speaks to me the most!

I would definitely be an autumn court girlie. To live in perpetual fall…I can imagine anything better. The colors, the food, the fashion, the vibes *chefs kiss*

[odiaremixdj]

Odia Remix DJ: The Ultimate Guide to Rocking Your Next Party

Introduction

When it comes to electrifying any event or gathering, music plays a crucial role in setting the mood. For those who love the vibrant and diverse beats of Odisha, nothing can beat the charm of Odia remix DJ tracks. Whether you're hosting a wedding, a cultural festival, or just a weekend party, Odia remix DJs bring the perfect blend of traditional and modern sounds to keep the crowd moving.

In this article, we will explore everything you need to know about Odia remix DJs, including their growing popularity, the best tracks to include in your playlist, and how to choose the right DJ for your event.

What is Odia Remix DJ?

Odia remix DJ is a genre that combines traditional Odia music with modern beats and electronic dance music (EDM). This fusion creates a unique sound that resonates with both the older generation and the youth. The remixes often include popular Odia folk songs, devotional tracks, and film hits, giving them a fresh and energetic twist.

Why Odia Remix DJ is Gaining Popularity

Cultural Connection: For Odia-speaking communities, these remixes provide a sense of cultural pride and connection. They bring a taste of home to any celebration, making them a popular choice for events within Odisha and among Odia diasporas.

Versatility: Odia remix DJs are not limited to any specific type of event. From weddings and birthday parties to college fests and corporate events, they can adapt to any occasion, offering a playlist that suits the mood.

High Energy: The combination of traditional music with high-energy beats ensures that the dance floor is always packed. The infectious rhythm and familiar tunes keep everyone engaged and entertained.

Top Odia Remix DJ Tracks You Must Have

If you're planning to hire an Odia remix DJ for your next event, here are some must-have tracks to include in your playlist:

Rangabati Remix: A modern take on the iconic Rangabati song, this track is a crowd favorite.

Namita Agrawal Devotional Remix: Perfect for events with a spiritual theme, this remix brings a new vibe to classic devotional songs.

Mu Je Eka Pagala Banjaara Remix: This romantic track with an upbeat remix is sure to win hearts on the dance floor.

Aei Jhuma Jhuma Remix: A lively track that combines traditional Odia beats with contemporary music.

Sambalpuri Folk Remixes: Incorporating traditional Sambalpuri rhythms, these remixes are perfect for adding a regional flavor to your event.

How to Choose the Right Odia Remix DJ

When selecting a DJ for your event, it's essential to consider the following factors:

Experience: Look for a DJ with experience in performing at events similar to yours. They should have a good understanding of Odia music and be able to read the crowd to keep the energy high.

Portfolio: Review their portfolio and listen to samples of their work. This will give you an idea of their style and versatility.

Equipment: Ensure that the DJ has high-quality sound and lighting equipment. Good equipment is essential for delivering a professional performance.

Reviews and Testimonials: Check online reviews and ask for references to get feedback from previous clients. A reputable DJ will have positive reviews and a solid reputation.

Customization: A good DJ should be willing to customize their playlist according to your preferences. Discuss your favorite tracks and any specific requests you have for your event.

Conclusion

Odia remix DJs are a fantastic way to infuse energy and cultural flair into any event. With the right DJ, you can ensure that your guests have an unforgettable experience, dancing the night away to the beats of Odisha's rich musical heritage. Whether you're in Odisha or part of the global Odia community, embracing the fusion of traditional and modern music through Odia remix DJs will take your celebration to the next level.

So, get ready to groove, and let the beats of Odia remix DJs make your event one to remember!

[inventors-fair]

Outstanding Charges: Crime Winners ~

Our winners this week are @corporalotherbear, @curiooftheheart and @izzet-always-r-versus-u!

@corporalotherbear — Raucous Celebrators

For a common design, this is a pretty good corner case, and once more I'm pleased with the kind of designs that Battlebond 2HG play has to offer. The ability to confer with a teammate is one of the best advantages that 2HG has over other formats, and even then, in Commander or similar formats the ability to cast two spells and get a free Shatter isn't anything to shake a stick at. Situational, yes, but necessary—in a way that probably comes up more often than not in the formats where it'd be played.

I think this is one of those cards as well where the name, flavor text, and abilities give rise to an idea of the art and mood without having to explicitly spell it out. I can quite easily see the brightly painted faces and the hooting-slash-hollering that would be taking place here. We don't need to see the sighing Sylvia or even the aftermath of the destruction; the implication of an arena already in the process of being decimated is enough. It gives a little bit of humanity to the world, in the sense of connections between our Earth's sports fans and the crowd here rushing the stands. I really love how you've got that subtle story there that's funny, flavorful, and quite polished overall. You know, it just struck me: this card can show either the joy of a winning team, OR the anger of a losing team. Great work.

@curiooftheheart — Jaywalk

I was tempted to just put "10/10 no notes" and have that be the end of the commentary. I've never laughed so hard at a submission, and I really have nothing to add that this card doesn't already demonstrate. Perfect name, perfect vibe, perfect modes, perfect flavor text. I think when I shared this in with the other judges, Florence mentioned that this pedestrian was having a really bad day if they're getting hit with every vehicle at the same time.

Maybe there's something to say about limited? I dunno, it's a removal spell in the right shell and a perfectly adequate combat trick otherwise. Perhaps there's something to be said about the "crime" aspect being, like, situational, but that's not eve what this contest was about. You demonstrated perfectly the kind of fine balance between dark humor and utility. I'll be thinking about this submission and sharing it around for quite some time.

@izzet-always-r-versus-u — Graverobbing

And today I learned about the word "fossor!" I love learning new words, and this card's pretty standard for what we're looking for in a way that elevated it with the other kinds of grave-themed submissions; there were a few this week, which I should've expected, honestly. What I like about this card in particular is the versatility of it and the simplicity that comes from the choices. You gotta have creature cards in graveyards, but maybe you only need one. Double Raise Dead ain't nothing to shake a stick at, but you need the double black pips, so there you go—and blockers slash bodies is important as well.

This one is on the higher end of complexity, but in a world where multi-paragraph commons exist (looking at you, Sticky Fingers), this one isn't the hardest to grok, in my opinion. You gotta pick creatures, yours go back to hand and your opponents' make Zombies. Ain't so bad, right? It could be an uncommon, but that would be situational with the set's gist. Flavor text here is fun, too—it's worded well and reads great. Actually, I love how the Imperial aspect speaks to the nature of the world where the political positions have their backstabbingly-oriented nature no matter where you are. That's how you speak to a greater world without massive amounts of exposition. Phenomenal job overall.

Runners coming up! @abelzumi