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tightropenuzlocke · 6 years ago

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Tightrope: a Y Storylocke

Chapter Two: A Gift and a Curse to the Wilderness

Side by side, the resemblance between Grace and Aisling was much stronger, though contrast still existed. Grace was more compact in person than Xoana remembered her, especially next to her daughter who was a head taller and long of limb. But she was just as vivacious and quick to laugh as she’d always been on TV, and had a natural ease about her where Aisling felt high-strung even with the breezy exterior. They smiled the same though—radiating enjoyment and just a hint of mischief.

“Shall we get goin’ then?” It was kind of adorable how Aisling’s accent got stronger around her mother.

“Yeah!”

Aisling gave Grace one last kiss goodbye before practically shoving Xoana out of the front garden to stop their stream of polite farewells. Her Chespin waved frantically until they were round the corner out of sight. The Rhyhorn bellowed after them.

“I always do, Raleigh!” Aisling shouted back.

The Fletching circled them once and landed on Aisling’s shoulder. They crossed the road Xoana would have usually taken to Neuvartault to head for the old route instead. It felt odd to walk instead of drive, but that was the tradition for trainers.

“I thought we’d never get out of there,” said Aisling with a big sigh, but that was all for show.

Xoana wished she could be as genuinely appreciative of the smothering her own parents had poured over her earlier. Of course she had returned all of their “I love you’s” and gave them both the best hug she could muster, but all the while she had been thinking about how to slip out the door.

And here was Aisling trying not to smile at the twittering bird on her shoulder.

“So, can you talk with your Fletchling?”

“The trick is getting him to shut up.” The Fletchling in question cheeped angrily at that and buffeted Aisling’s ear with his wing. “After Cináed found us we battled together for a while until the understanding set in. Same with Raleigh. That’s how I got into training.”

“That’s really cool! Makes sense too. I always thought it was sort of odd to live with pokemon if you can’t talk to them.”

“Didn’t make sense to me either.”

Something tapped Xoana’s leg and she stopped. Froabble looked up at her with his big yellow eyes and blinked—first one eye, then the other.

“Want to come up?” she offered.

He silently inflated the bubbles above his nose once and it seemed like that was all the answer she was going to receive. He’d barely made so much as a peep since she got him. Maybe he would talk more after the understanding activated or perhaps he was simply quiet by nature. She hefted him and held him in her arms.

Aisling waited ahead of them on the footpath to Quarellis. Dozens of these ancient, well-worn trails snaked across the region, maintained to this day for trainers to journey along. This one was wide and sunny, lined with razz berry bushes and stately old apricorn trees. Xoana used to come out here sometimes with her siblings to gather them but not for some time, she realized, not since Clément moved out.

Xoana skipped to catch up. “So, My Queen, did you ever ride like your mom?”

“Oh yeah, I was riding before I could sit up in the saddle. One of my main jobs on our ranch was ‘breaking in’ the baby Rhyhorn.” Xoana inferred from the exaggerated air quotes that this was an outdated term. “It was more like breaking me with how often I got thrown. See, the calves have plenty of power in their charge right out of the shell, but they have to learn form and follow through or you just get launched.” She illustrated this by slapping her hands together and shooting one away from her.

“Wow, that seems dangerous.”

“Eh, a bit,” Aisling shrugged. “It’s not so bad if you wear the gear.”

The way she said it made Xoana think she hadn’t always worn the gear.

“That’s still pretty hardcore.”

“Yeah, I was super into it as a kid and it’s still fun, but it’s not really me anymore.”

Xoana wasn’t sure it was best to probe any further yet. “I guess things come and go. I used to be really into architecture and interiors. Mega nerdy, I know!”

“A little,” Aisling acknowledged. She looked off into the distance, clearly thinking about something, so Xoana let her. Bree bounded ahead, chasing a leaf. Xoana adjusted Froabble in her arms, but there was no way to be comfortable anymore. Maybe she should work out more.

“Do you mind hopping for a bit, Froabble? My arms are getting tired.”

They were getting into town and the Froakie looked down at the cobblestones with distaste. Instead of jumping down, he clambered up over her shoulders and installed himself like a backpack. She giggled.

“That works!”

Quarellis was always a little sleepy right after school let out. The children had dispersed and the tourists who came to see an authentic, old Kalos town had yet to arrive. Most of the shops were closed for a week or two to take a break and outfit themselves for the next season. Froabble leaned over her shoulder a bit to get a better look at the fountain in the square and the Buizel and Panpour playing in it, but stayed where he was.

At this hour, most of the town’s activity was centered around the café they’d met at yesterday and they went in for a boost. Bree bounced excitedly in front of the pastry case when she was given license to select her own treat from the pokemon-friendly offerings and Froabble used his tongue to indicate his choice before the Chespin had even begun to decide. Cináed, meanwhile, eschewed the café’s goods in favor of a sunflower oatcake from Aisling’s pocket. Aisling took her coffee black and got a brioche for herself. She laughed at Xoana’s hot chocolate and croissants but people who thought those breakfast choices were reserved for children were wrong and their souls were shriveled from self-imposed suffering. No one liked black coffee, not really. They were addicts, masochists, liars beyond all hope of redemption.

Aisling was out the door before Xoana had her in stitches. The pokemon were confused but kept pace as Xoana hurried onward so as not to further annoy the grouchy patrons on the patio. Aisling shambled with mirth a half-step behind her and shed a single tear, utterly defeated.

“You make a solid point,” she said when she no longer had to gasp for breath.

Xoana’s steps became bouncy enough to make Froabble finally jump ship—and probably not from the direct line of sugar and caffeine she had just ingested.

They reached the footbridge on the far end of town and Froabble climbed the railing to look down at his reflection in the glassy water. Flashes of white and orange and the occasional ripple of a horn breaching the surface spoke of Goldeen swimming below. Froabble pointed them out to Bree, who fit her head through the bars to look and very nearly got stuck. Instead she landed on her butt and endured something that sounded a lot like snickering from Cináed.

The bridge ended in the hardened earth of the trail that lead through Neuvartault Forest. The dark mass of trees took up most of the horizon to the north, but for the time being the path ambled through tall grass and bushes. A brook that fed the river ran nearby and it’s burbling mixed with the shuffling of the breeze.

Froabble croaked to get her attention and pointed to the water. Should she let him swim? He did need to stay damp but…

“Cináed can watch him,” Aisling reassured her.

The Fletchling and Froakie took off towards the water and Bree stayed behind to guard Xoana and Aisling—a position she took seriously judging by the way she scouted ahead and kept her ears up. There were plenty of wild pokemon about, but none approached them, so the filled the time with conversation. Aisling was surprisingly easy to talk to—not that Xoana ever had much trouble in that department. But she was fun and Xoana didn’t have to work at it. It used to be that way with Serena too.

“So, how long have you known Serena and the others?” The mention of Serena’s name made Xoana worry she’d shared that last thought aloud. But Aisling’s tone was one of failed nonchalance, not prying at an unwitting admission. Xoana let herself feel just a little smug that she had correctly diagnosed anxiety as the motive for Aisling’s coup.

“My mom and Serena’s are friends so we’ve known each other pretty much forever. Hanging around her mom’s gym all the time is what got me interested in pokemon. My parents don’t care for them all that much.”

“Not everyone can be so enlightened.” She was quick with those light, playful jabs.

“We met Tracie and Tierney in primaire. They were already sorta joined at the hip so when I started hanging with Tierney cos of dance, Tracie got pulled into the group.”

“Do you still dance?”

“No,” Xoana sighed, “but it was fun.”

Cináed flew back to them and Froabble emerged from the grass as they neared the trees.

“She started early,” Aisling observed. “She must be pretty good.”

“Tierney’s amazing! She won’t tell you, but she can turn it up!”

“I’ll just have to lure it out of her then.” It might be nice to have some help with Tierney. “Tracie too.”

Oh, right, Tracie. “Um, take your time with her,” Xoana cautioned.

“I will.” She sounded sincere and well-meaning, but the ease and rapidity of her assurance still gave Xoana pause. She wondered if warning her further was wise or if it would only make her more curious.

Xoana’s inner debate was abruptly cut short by a sharp cry from Cináed, who plummeted to the forest floor, wings bound by a thick webbing.

Before they could ask if he was alright, he burned off the bindings with an Ember and wheeled to face his assailant. It was a Scatterbug, but creamy white rather than gray and sparkling where the sunlight hit it—her by the short length of her ruff. A shiny! Xoana could barely believe it. She’d never seen one in person before, not of any species. The Scatterbug took one look at them all and flattened the feelers on the crown of her head. Cináed cheeped angrily and she shrank away from him, but the root at her back prevented further retreat.

“Get ’em Cináed!” Aisling cheered. There was power and excitement in her clenched fists and a light in her eyes as bright as her prey’s glitter.

The Scatterbug shot and missed as Cináed leapt upward with one powerful downsweep. He landed on the Scatterbug’s back and delivered a sharp Peck to her head. She wiggled weakly for a moment, unable to escape, and then prostrated herself in defeat. Cináed only just dodged Aisling’s ball. It barely moved before the telltale green flash confirmed the catch.

“Yes!” Aisling cried and jumped to pick it up. “This one’s got fight in her! Good work, Cináed!”

The Fletchling gave her a little bow and twittered as he flew back to her shoulder. Aisling laughed and hitched the new ball to her belt.

“I can’t believe you caught a shiny! They’re so rare!” Xoana stammered. “And your first catch too.” She almost asked Aisling to let the pokemon back out right then and there, but she supposed she wouldn’t have to wait too long.

“Just lucky, I guess.” She shrugged, but there was a knowing quality to her smile that drew Xoana in. Aisling cocked her head and turned that smile on Xoana. “Why don’t we find a first catch for you too, Marquise? It’ll be a fun surprise for the rest of the crew.”

“Yeah!”

Xoana, Aisling and their trio of pokemon spread out to search, ranging around the woods but never wandering out of sight and hearing of one another. There were at least as many pokemon here as there were in the fields—probably more—but Xoana only caught glimpses and snatches further confused by the dappled light. She hadn’t been under the canopy of Neuvartault Forest in years and it was good to be back. The smell of lichen, dirt, and rotting leaves brought back her outings with Serena. They had built little houses for the wild pokemon and climbed trees and sent bark boats down the brook all while her mother’s Masquerain hovered overhead.

Froabble climbed up a tree to get a better vantage and the Pidgey resting there scattered before Xoana could challenge them. Was it always this difficult to find a wild pokemon willing to battle?

“Marquise!” Aisling called, “I think I found one!”

Xoana hopped a log in her haste and found that Aisling and Bree had pinned a Teddiursa against a berry bush. The pokemon had purple stains around her mouth and on her paws from the meal they had interrupted, but didn’t seem all that perturbed about being cornered. She looked from Aisling to Xoana and chuffed.

“So cute!” Xoana whined.

“Catch her then,” said Aisling in amusement.

“Right! Froabble use Pound!”

The Froakie hopped forward and the Teddiursa put up her juice-soaked mits. Froabble lassoed one with his tongue and wrenched the Teddiursa off her feet. He jumped on her head with both feet and Xoana flinched, but the Teddiursa threw him off and went after him with Scratch.

Xoana fretted for a moment about what he would do before remembering that it was her job to direct him.

“Bubble, Froabble!”

The attack knocked the Teddiursa on her butt and Xoana threw a ball. It rocked twice and was still.

“Nice catch, Marquise!”

Xoana clutched the ball tightly.

“Good job, Froabble! You did great!” Froabble gave her a ribbit. “I think this Teddiursa had the right idea though. Let’s have some lunch.”

They selected a small, nearby clearing carpeted in flowers for their picnic and leaned back against a mossy, fallen trunk. The Teddiursa picked more berries along the edge and came back with an armful to share. Bree eagerly took her up on the offer and Cináed had some with the seeds Aisling brought for him. Froabble busied himself with a nest of termites in one end of the log while the Scatterbug nibbled a leaf on the other end where the shade dulled her glimmer. Aisling and Xoana gabbed and worked their way through the cheese and charcuterie they brought along.

“What are you going to call your Scatterbug?”

“Dáire, I think,” Aisling answered between bites. “It means ‘fruitful’ in Gaeilge.”

“Tierney said Bree means ‘power.’ Going for an auspicious theme?”

“It’s tradition,” Aisling said simply. “What about you? What will you call your Teddiursa?”

Xoana had to think about that for a moment. She whistled and the Teddiursa looked at her.

“How do you like Tessa?”

The Teddiursa cocked her head and Cináed tweeted something to her—perhaps a translation. She smiled and toddled over to climb into Xoana’s lap, then set to licking her paws clean. Xoana scratched her between the ears and she made a chortling purr in response.

“Tessa it is then.”

Xoana looked up to see Aisling, head in hand and smiling at her.

“You’re adorable.”

“Me or the bear cub?” Xoana tried not to sound too invested in the answer.

“Both,” said Aisling after a moment’s deliberation. “You have a way with them too.”

“I don’t know,” said Xoana, looking down at the fuzzy creature melting into her arms. “I think this one might just be really tame.”

“No, you’ve got the touch, right Cináed?” He twittered. “See?”

Xoana wanted to joke or argue that the Fletchling could be saying exactly the opposite for all she knew, but something deeper wanted to just accept the compliment. The two urges battled for a quiet moment and Aisling pounced on the pause.

“That was a great first catch.”

The insolence—how dare she say something so idiotic after her first catch had been a shiny!

“It’s not like I told Froabble to pull that cool move with his tongue. I almost forgot to do anything at all.”

“You were nervous, sure, but you kept your head. Most people don’t until they’ve had some more practice—and I don’t mean school. Doing all this stuff out in the wild is totally different. There’s real stakes to it.”

“I guess so.”

Xoana expected it to stop there, for Aisling to be mollified by her acceptance. Instead she tilted her head to catch Xoana’s wandering gaze and pressed onward.

“You’ve got a natural connection and that has a ton of potential. I think whatever you decide, you’ll go far.”

All Xoana could muster in response was a weak laugh as her heart threatened to beat right through her chest and sent her head spinning. Apparently she was susceptible to flattery. That was… useful to know.

“Care to test that theory?”

Wait, what was she doing? Was she flirting back? Was Aisling flirting with her in the first place?? That grin of hers seemed to suggest so, but maybe it was just a standard sort of playful? When did she get so close? Close enough that Xoana could smell her shampoo: honey, pear and myrrh. Was that a friendly lean? A relaxed arm across the log by her shoulder? Was she even gay?

“You want to battle?” Aisling asked for clarification.

“Yeah!” Koffings and Voltorb! She’d blown it sky high—crashed that momentum right into a barrier not even a Rhyhorn could plow through. Wait, no, on second thought the enthusiasm made for great cover. “It’ll be fun!”

Aisling got to her feet. “One v one? Starter versus starter?”

“You’re on!”

Aisling offered her hand and Xoana almost forgot to move Tessa off her lap before accepting it. Xoana swayed from the vertigo. Aisling touched her arm to steady her but if anything that made it worse. She had to get a grip!

“You ready for a battle, Froabble?”

He ribbitted and hopped to her.

“Up and at ‘em, Bree! It’s our first official match!” The Chespin hurried over as Aisling paced back to make room for the fight. “Cináed, make sure Dáire watches.”

Cináed tweeted at the Scatterbug and she nearly jumped out of her skin, but she put the rest of her leaf down and turned to watch.

Froabble gathered his hind legs under him and Bree lowered herself in preparation.

“Pound, Froabble!” Someone move, please!

“Vine Whip, Bree! Snag one of his legs!”

Froabble was shockingly fast—too fast for Bree—but she received the kick to her jaw like a pro boxer and lashed out with a vine from her wrist.

“Get out of there!”

But Froabble was well ahead of her and already leaping back. Xoana never saw the opening, but Bree didn’t miss it. She lassoed Froabble’s right leg, causing him to fall. With a high cry, she grabbed her vine in both paws, tossed Froabble over her head, and smashed him into the ground on the other side of her.

“Froabble!”

Incredibly he got up and took the only avenue left—straight at his opponent.

“Block!” was all Aisling had time to get out before they collided.

Bree got her arms up in time for Froabble to backflip off them. She staggered but found her feet before the next kick and ducked.

“Swing him!”

Bree grabbed her vine again, swung Froabble around like she was competing in the hammer throw, and flung him back at Xoana.

He landed heavily in front of her and rolled onto his face.

“Froabble?”

He gave her the thumbs up but stayed down. She let out the breath she was holding.

“We give!” she called to Aisling.

Bree turned back to her trainer for approval.

“You did great!” said Aisling, crouching down to her pokemon’s level. “Bring it in!”

They bumped fists and Bree wiggled her claws with Aisling this time, looking fit to burst all the while.

Xoana nearly tripped over her messenger bag and snatched it up to fish out a potion and spray bottle. Froabble had peeled himself off the ground in the meantime and she sprayed him down with water first so that he was clean and damp before she applied the potion.

Aisling had a cloth for Bree and tended her outstretched paws, which looked a bit raw from the vine.

“You two were awesome!” she declared enthusiastically. It took Xoana a moment to process that Aisling was looking right at her.

“Hey! I’m supposed to say that! You won!”

“Only because we stole Froabble’s sick move though.”

“That’s true.” She had to accept that one—for her starter’s sake. “Bree can really take a hit.”

“Chespins are tough nuts to crack. I can’t believe Froabble got up after that first slam.”

“Me neither.”

“All it took was your voice calling him.” Aisling squared up to her, leaned in, and tilted her head down to meet Xoana’s eyes, to make sure she was paying attention and wouldn’t look away. “See, now that’s what I was saying before. You’ve had him for twenty-four hours and you’ve already got a bond. That’s something else.”

Xoana blinked and tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. “Thanks,” she forced out—and it felt good. It felt really good. “I wish I had your instincts.”

“That’s practice. You’ll get there.”

Xoana looked down and Froabble smiled up at her.

“Thank you for the match by the way.” Aisling extended her hand.

Xoana took it. “You’re welcome. We should do it again sometime”

The contact lingered—noticeably so. Xoana checked for any sign that Aisling wanted to let go and found none.

“I meant to ask yesterday, but where did you get that lipstick you’re wearing?”

“It’s NAC Aura. Why? Did you want to try it?”

Okay, that was innuendo. There was no way she meant that innocently, not when she said it like that—like she was offering Xoana another bite of her mother’s smoked Gruyère.

What should she do now? Should she escalate it? Was that a good idea? They were sort of like co-workers weren’t they? If something went wrong it would make trouble for everyone. On the other hand, Aisling was gorgeous and Xoana never had an opportunity like this before.

Cináed cheeped and Aisling let go of her hand, laughing at whatever he said.

Without Aisling’s eyes and touch muddling Xoana’s brain, she realized that was probably for the best.

...

The hills east of Neuvartault were bright and lush in the heat of the afternoon. The river was narrower here and rushed through rapids down below them. There wasn’t much out this way and Aisling reminded herself to savor the waving grass and open sky, drink her fill of the calm and quiet. Soon her life would become all gray stone, bustle, and hum.

Unsurprisingly Serena had been very eager to set out this morning after Aisling and Xoana had shown up to dinner last night with new pokemon. Now she was nowhere in sight, having long since struck out on her own. Tierney and Tracie were still nearby on the next rise with Valériane striding beside them, looking for specimens to log. Between Tracie’s strawberry blond bob and Tierney’s stark patchwork vitiligo, they were easy to keep track of.

Aisling should have been watching her pokemon, but her eyes kept wandering to wherever Xoana was. Once again it was worth the glance. Xoana hopped up and down with glee as one of her pokemon took down yet another opponent. Aisling loved the bounce of those girlish tails, how every twist was its own spring, storing and releasing that boundless energy or hers. She looked almost unbearably soft and warm in the pinking light and Aisling resolved to make some excuse to swagger over to her.

“Hey, Aisling!” Cináed swooped around her, snapping her back to the reason she was actually out here.

Her new Azurill had bounced a ways ahead and she shielded her eyes to better make out the sandy shape she was confronting. The pokemon was flat with a pointed tail and turquoise stripes.

“A Dunsparce! Good work, Emer!” Cináed alighted on her shoulder, his job done, and Bree emerged from the grass to see what the fuss was about. “Careful, they’re flighty.”

The Azurill hopped off her tail and crept closer. The Dunsparce looked from her to Aisling and charged, round eyes glowing red. Emer went sailing right over her tail and landed at Aisling’s feet. Dáire ducked behind Aisling’s leg.

“Not this one,” Aisling muttered. Excellent. “Emer use Tail Whip!”

The little Azurill jumped clear of the Dunsparce’s next charge and smacked it with the buoyant orb on the end of her tail. The blow had little effect, which made Emer take a nervous step back, but Aisling saw the telltale shimmer of the Dunsparce’s magic defenses being ripped away.

“Again, Emer!”

The Azurill did as she was told, but the gamble couldn’t hold out forever and the Dunsparce’s next strike hit home. Emer was briefly airborne before disappearing into the tall grass. Cináed took off after her so Aisling turned to her starter.

“Bree, you’re up!” The Chespin planted herself in front of Aisling, cracking her knuckles. “Vine Whip!”

The Dunsparce’s glowing eyes blurred with the speed of its charge, but Bree smacked it aside with a vine. It whirled on her but she repeated the maneuver and then grabbed its tail with another vine and flipped it. Bree pounced on its exposed belly, but didn’t need to. The light of Rage was fading from its eyes.

“Nice work!”

Bree stepped off and the Dunsparce righted itself in time to see Aisling’s ball. Its fin-like wings flared before being swallowed by red light. The Dunsparce did not break out and Bree handed the ball up. Emer wobbled back out of the grass as Aisling perused the catch info on her holocaster.

“You did good too, newbie. Come get a potion.”

Emer didn’t seem to understand exactly what that meant, so Aisling gave Bree a small spritz first. The Chespin leaned in and shook, making a show of how nice it was, then beckoned the Azurill over. Aisling clicked the Dunsparce’s ball and let her out first. She scooted closer and fluttered her wings, letting out a stuttering hiss. It was difficult to read the serpentine creature’s expression, but she seemed happy enough and Bree chittered warmly back.

A shadow passed over as Aisling finished spraying them down. It was Xoana, smiling shyly down at her. Aisling hadn’t found anything conclusive as yet, but she had a feeling and her instincts were rarely wrong.

“How do you like Gobán?” she said, gesturing to her latest catch. The Dunsparce spun a circle.

“So cute! Though not as cute as this little Azurill,” she said, snatching up the pokemon and snuggling her.

Emer let out a purring chirrup and rubbed her cheek against Xoana’s. Aisling couldn’t be sure of what she was saying, so she decided to fill in the gap.

“Are ya sure ya en’t talkin’ about your—”

“The pokedex says Dunsparce are quite rare.”

Aisling wanted to be annoyed at Tracie for messing up her line, but this was the first time she had said anything without being prompted, so she let it slide.

“Does it now? I’ve seen a few before, but they are elusive.”

“Nice catch, My Queen,” said Tierney “Dunsparce are supposed to be lucky, aren’t they?”

Very lucky. “I suppose so.”

“I caught a Riolu.” The pokemon stepped around her legs to greet them. “Gonna name him Laoch.”

“And a fine name it is.” Aisling was a bit surprised one would appear to Tierney, but she still had a lot to learn about her new friends.

“I caught a Fletchling!” Serena was back. “Should be helpful for the first gym.”

Aisling cast upward first, but the bird in question emerged from the grass behind Serena’s Fennekin.

“Wait, are all of these yours?” Serena asked, tracing a circle around Aisling’s team with a swirl of her finger.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You didn’t tell me your Scatterbug was shiny!” she shrilled, pointing and covering her gaping her mouth.

“I’ve been lucky.”

Serena blinked several times and looked on the verge of demanding an explanation Aisling wasn’t going to give. Instead she said: “battle me.” In the time it took that to register, Serena corrected herself. “Why don’t we have a battle? We haven’t had any proper matches yet.”

“Marquise and I battled yesterday, but sure. Two v two?”

Ending with the question made it tough for Serena to go back to the first item, though her eyebrows were clearly signalling her desire to do so.

“Yes, of course.” She gave her head a little shake and paced across the open space to make room for the battle. “Justine.” She pointed and her Fletching hopped nervously forward while her Fennekin sat primly by her side.

Cináed peered suspiciously at the Fletching from his perch in a nearby bush, but said nothing.

“Want another go, Emer?”

Xoana reluctantly put the Azurill back down. She bounced forward on her tail and bobbed up and down while she waited.

Serena gave Aisling a sharp look, probably an attempt to discern if she was being dumb or arrogant, and Aisling made an after you gesture.

“Tackle!” The intensity that was always simmering beneath Serena’s surface flared to life.

Aisling couldn’t help but smile as she ordered Emer to meet it.

The Azurill’s Water Gun went wide as Serena’s Fletchling dashed to the side and scratched Emer with her claws. Maybe she wasn’t ready to win her own battles just yet, but she could make them easier for her teammates. Aisling had her change tack and go for Tail Whip instead.

This time she hit her opponent right in the… nose? Yes, a small black nose attached to a dark-furred pokemon with a short, bushy tail and reddish paws.

Aisling looked to Serena for an explanation, but she seemed equally confused if not more so.

“A Zorua!” Tracie exclaimed. “They’ve only been reported in the deepest parts of the Winding Woods. Though, I guess that Illusion ability would make them difficult to catalogue.”

The Zorua glanced nervously back at Serena’s Fennekin, almost hiding behind her own tail. Félicité’s ears were pinned back and her bottlebrush tail stood on end, but she looked up to her trainer.

“Oh,” she said smartly. “It seems I caught a Zorua.”

“Cool.” That wasn’t much smarter but whatever. “Are we gonna finish this battle?”

“Yes! Justine use—use your dark-type attack!” Not bad for being flustered.

The Zorua seemed almost as shocked to be asked to continue, but leapt back in with enthusiasm. The dark-type move in question happened to be Feint Attack, which meant that Emer didn’t stand a chance. Justine disappeared in a puff of dark mist and reappeared beside her as she struck. Emer scurried back to Xoana’s waiting arms.

Aisling sent in her Chespin without a moment’s hesitation and had Bree cover her more vulnerable underside to receive the next attack, before trussing up the tricky little creature with Vine Whip until she gave.

Félicité was not as easily ensnared and forced Bree back with Ember. The fire was lovely, to be sure, but Aisling had to douse it. Serena sustained her second shock of the battle when Bree sprouted rocks over her body and went for Félicité like a boulder coming down a mountain. The little fox went tumbling and staggered to her feet only to be struck out as Bree came back around.

It was all over Serena’s face: she had never lost before. Aisling was only too happy to give her that sorely needed experience. Xoana’s eyes had blown wide and Emer hopped back out of her arms to congratulate her teammate. Tierney and Tracie looked rather shocked as well. At least they all knew now.

“That was one hell of a ride, no?” Serena blinked at her, holding her bruised Fennekin in her arms. “Thanks for the battle, Comtesse.”

“Of course,” was all she could muster.

“We’ve gotta work on that Rollout, Bree. I think you can turn tighter than that.”

Bree nodded seriously, dusting the remaining rubble off her arms.

“That was some battle!” said Tierney.

“You were both so great!” Xoana jumped in.

Aisling accepted the compliments, but Serena was still too far away. She kneeled and looked over her two battered pokemon as she sprayed them down with a potion.

“Maybe we should train for a while longer before we challenge the gym,” she told them.

Completely destroyed. If Aisling could have given herself a high five, she would have.

#nuzlocke #storylocke #pokemon y #Kalos #wlw #Tightrope #chapter

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lokis-lady-death · 6 years ago

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Interview with a God Pt 2

Link to Part 1

Prompt by @sebashtiansatan the 2k Writing Challence (I hope you like it!!) : I was on my balcony and you started loudly quoting Romeo and Juliet at me and wow, you’re a sap.

Interview with a God Pt 2

A harsh buzzing sounded from the other room. A cell phone ringing to indicate the end of the meeting.

Loki let out a disappointed sigh as he let you break free of his grip. You swirled around to face him but gone. You could hear his chilling voice echo throughout the room when he told you, “I do hate to cut an interview short, but…” His voice was suddenly close to your ear, “I promise to see you soon.”

*****

The ringing was even louder now, putting pressure on you to wake up.

‘Wake up!’

Your eyes shot open as you fell out of your bed. ‘My bed?’ You looked around, your vision focusing. ‘I’m home?’ Still taking in the surroundings, you struggled to remember what just happened. Beside you, also splattered on the floor, was your laptop, flickering on. You scooped it up, eager to see what you had been working on.

‘An email?’

You had sent your article for Sexiest Man Alive to your director at People’s magazine. “Oh no!” you exclaimed. What had you sent? You couldn’t remember writing the article. You couldn’t remember even leaving Tom Hiddleston’s hotel. “Tom…” You felt a severe panic, the memories of the hotel interview replaying your mind. Your incredulous questions. Tom’s breath on your ear. His hand on your thigh. Grabbing you from behind. “No…” you realized. “Not Tom…” Loki had wrapped his arms around you. Pulled you against him.

“What are you willing to do to satisfy your king?” he had asked.

“Oh my god, what did I just write?” you hollard as you scrambled to open and review the email attachment.

To your relief, it was all normal and done perfectly well. No mention of Tom’s flirting. No mention of Loki’s seducing. Nothing.

‘What if it didn’t really happen?’ you reasoned, running a hand over your face. ‘Maybe I just dreamed it…’ The feel of Loki’s hands on you felt so real, but you just couldn’t persuade yourself it was real. You shut down the computer and went back to sleep.

Standing off in the shadows, watching as you drifted off to slumber the god of mischief waited. The ends of his lips curled, knowing there was some fun to be had.

*****

“Girl!” your coworker, Sue, beamed at you as you entered your cubicle. “Girl, oh lord, I had no idea your interview went so well!”

You smiled nervously, confused. “Well yeah, why wouldn’t it….?” But you were stopped by your director, Mrs. Lynn in your chair, her feet crossed on your desk.

“Morning, Ms. y/n.”

Beside her feet sat the largest, most outlandish floral arrangement you had ever seen. Sprouting in every direction, there was no way to even work sitting in it’s space, every line of sight covered by a petal or leaf.

“Um, yes, thank you… Mrs. Lynn, what are those for?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” the director answered, holding out an envelope. “But there is a card.”

Quirking a brow, you took the envelope and opened it.

~~Dearest Y/n, Thank you so much for such a wonderful evening. I cannot remember the last time an interview felt so personal. I would greatly enjoy meeting again to go over the article’s photo lineup with you tomorrow. I will have my agent contact your office with the specifics.

Most Affectionately,

Thomas William Hiddleston~~

You nearly fainted. “Tom Hiddleston is asking for me to meet with him? Again?” You were still dream-hung-over from the meeting itself, still unsure what to believe. You had halfway convinced yourself

The director nodded. “He already contacted me himself to request you meet with him tomorrow evening to go over the details.” She grinned while adding, “The review has been arranged by Mr. Hiddleston at a lovely restaurant.”

“I’m having dinner with him? You cannot be serious…”

“As a heart attack, Ms. y/n.” You and your director locked eyes, her smile leading on that she didn’t know anything more but definitely itching to press further. Instead she stood from your seat. Before you could object, she sharply added, “I already explained to the photographer you will be going over the photos. I also forwarded you the suggestions from the editor for your article. Have it in my inbox by noon tomorrow.”

You could hear Sue hissing like a teapot to keep herself quiet until Mrs. Lynn left.

“What. Happened. Tell. Me. Everything.” She nearly convulsed as she asked.

“Nothing!” you insisted, “Absolutely nothing!”

She didn’t seem convinced, cutting a glare your way as she sank back into her cubicle. “We shall see.”

Letting out a sigh of exasperation, you fought your way to your computer through the arrangement overtaking your desk. ‘What is going on?’

*****

That night after your shower, you buried yourself under every pillow. Dressed in your favorite oversized tshirt and panties, you scanned through the documents. Add a catchy phrase here. Spice up the relationship questions. Incorporate more on his upcoming movies.

You let out a sigh. These weren’t edits, they were garbage. You let out a deep breath, took a sip of your wine, and got to work.

But then you heard something. You stopped typing, listening. Nothing. You began until you heard it again. A voice. Far away. You looked around, but it wasn’t from inside your apartment. It resonated outside. Setting down the laptop, you wandered over to the balcony doors. More words.

When you opened them, you finally heard the words, clear as day, echoing into the night sky.

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief; That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green; And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.”

You would recognize that speech anywhere. You would recognize that voice anywhere. But how?

You stepped out onto the balcony, hearing Loki continue, but more focused on seeing rather than listening. You only had 5x7 feet of space, there was nowhere to hide. Not even furniture to rest on. “How…” you asked.

Leaning over the edge of the railing, you listened, trying to pinpoint it.

That’s when it stopped flowing from all around you and came distinctly from behind. In your apartment.

You covered your own mouth to stifle a scream, startled to see him in the doorway. He finished, “See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand.” He appeared in front of you, acting like he would run his fingers down your face. “That I might touch that cheek!”

Loki towered over you, his eyes glistening like emeralds, his expression curious and sly at once. You felt your heart begin to race, unable to look away from him. He spoke but you didn’t hear it.

“What?” you mouthed.

He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I said you seem distracted, darling.”

“Oh…” you snapped back into reality, moving away from him. “What are you doing here?” Before he could answer, you went on, “Wait, you’re real?” Again you didn't pause, “Holy shit, you’re real. You’re Tom HIddleston. Tom Hiddleston is Loki. Oh my…” His hand covered your mouth.

“Shhhh,” Loki soothed, stepping against you, pinning you to the balcony railing. His other hand cradled the small of your back. “I am here, y/n. And I can assure you I am real.” His smile became almost wicked when he added, “I can prove how real I am if you would like?”

He allowed you to slip out of his arms, watching intently as you never turned your back to him, moving back into your apartment. “I’m not really sure what’s going on here….”

“But you must have some inclination,” he teased, appearing instantly upon you. You fell back, surprised your bed was already beneath you. “Do you any idea how lonely it is to go around masquerading as someone else all the time? Never showing my true self to even those closest to me?”

“Why me, then?” The words left you without your consent, but he didn’t seem offended by the question.

“You’re different.” Loki leaned over you, causing you to scoot further back onto the bed as he moved forward before finally covering you. “There is something about you I find so intriguing. Normally, once I’ve revealed myself, I wipe it from a person’s memory...” He leaned up to straddle you, his weight pressing down on you in a way that was both uncomfortable and gratifying at the same time. You bit your lip as he went on, “But you, my darling, something about you just fascinates me.”

“Is that why you’re requesting me to go over the photos tomorrow? Because you think I’m fascinating?”

Loki nodded. “But this, admiring you underneath me, is massive pleasure in itself.”

Your cheeks flushed as you began to wiggle, but his hand caught your wrists and held them over your head, stretching you across the bed. “Shh shh shh,” he whispered in your ear, “Don’t fret, y/n. You’re safe with me. I won’t hurt you.” He pulled back to where you could see the grin on his face. “Unless you would like me to.”

The air left your lungs as a hand traced down your side, finding the elastic of your panties.

“My, y/n, you are certainly dressed for my company, aren’t you?” The butterflies in your stomach were almost painful, battling between demanding he leave and begging him to go further. Loki’s fingers traced along the strap tickling your skin while he held tight to your wrists. His fingers moved up your stomach and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped you.

It was just the approval he was waiting for, taking the opportunity to seize your mouth with his own. He came down so hard in startled you, his lips keeping yours parted so that his tongue could explore you. Feeling his grip loosen, you reached down to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

Loki dug under you, lifting your ass off the bed to wrap your legs around him. You followed the instruction without hesitation, feeling him lift you up into his arms to better hold you as he kissed you deeper, his hands getting lost around your body, in your hair, under your shirt. You felt so euphoric, the butterflies threatening to spill out of your gut with the sensations you were feeling. His hands went down to your panties and you wondered if he would go further.

But Loki only gave one tight squeeze of your ass, fingers digging in with an animalistic urge he had to fight down. He brought your ear to his mouth and spoke softly, “Oh, I am certain we shall have endless fun together, y/n.” He vanished, but you could hear him finish with, “I will see you at dinner tomorrow.”

Part 3 is up!

Like my garbage? Read more of it! Master List

TAGS!!!

IWAG: @krystynespider @imeannooffensebabybut @tardis-is-mine @m4shtyx @intransittosomewhere @fit-m0mma317 @marvelc00kie35 @youveseen--thebutcher @sherlokiantheatrenerd @kinghiddlestonanddixon

ALL TAGS: @socialheartbreak @kcd15 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @nephalem67 @jessiejunebug

#loki #loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki x you #loki x oc #loki laufeyson #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel smutt #marvel #loki (marvel)#loki angst #angst #elifs2kwritingchallenge

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blackphoenixalchemylab · 6 years ago

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Halloween 2018 Perfume Blends

vimeo

Calling all witches, hags, demons, goat-lovers, and assorted tricksters!

We've truly outdone ourselves with the Halloween 2018 collection, exploring strange new depths in diablerie as well as perfumerie. In addition to many classic treats, we've also got a spooky Chaos Theory, a timely Poe tale storyboarded in scent, a pile of Dead Leaves, a ribald new series of blends inspired by goats in classical art, and more! Never fear -- Trading Post's hair gloss and atmosphere sprays will be coming soon!

You’ll find the full compendium of Halloween scent descriptions below, but BEWARE... You may find more thrills than e'er you bargained for.!

++ HALLOWEEN 2018

ALL SOULS A day of remembrance and intercession. Without the prayers and sacrifices of their families and loved ones, the faithful departed may not be cleansed of their venal sins, and thereby cannot attain beatific vision. On November 2nd, prayers are sung and offerings are made to aid lost souls in transcending purgatory. An incense blend that invokes the higher qualities of mercy and compassion, mingled with the soft, sugared currant scent of offertory soul cakes.

BLUE GHOST BLUES I feel myself sinkin' down I feel myself sinkin' down My body is freezin' I feel something cold creepin' around

My windows is rattlin' My doorknob turnin' round an' round My windows is rattlin' My doorknob turnin' round an' round This haunted house blues is killin' me I feel myself sinkin' down

I been fastin' in this haunted house Six long months today I been fastin' in this haunted house Six long months today The Blue Ghost is got the house surrounded, Lord And I can't get away

They got shotguns and pistols Standin' all round my door They got shotguns and pistols Standin' all round my door They haunt me all night long So I can't sleep no more

The Blue Ghost haunts me all night The nightmare rides me all night long The Blue Ghost haunts me at night The nightmare rides me all night long They worry me so in this haunted house I wished I was dead and gone

- Lonnie Johnson

A ward against evil: bay rum, whiskey, cigar smoke, black pepper, and salt.

BONFIRE TOFFEE Our spin on a traditional Guy Fawkes Night treat: treacle toffee soaked in rich, dark bourbon.

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS A joyous celebration of La Catarina, La Flaca, La Muerte... Glorious, Beautiful Death. In Mexico, death is not something to be feared or hated; She is embraced, loved, and adored. La Muerte is fêted, as the celebrant "...chases after it, mocks it, courts it, hugs it, sleeps with it; it is his favorite plaything and his most lasting love." This is a Mexican paean to La Huesuda: dry, crackling leaves, the incense smoke of altars honoring Death and the Dead, funeral bouquets, the candies, chocolates, foods and tobacco of the ofrenda, amaranth, sweet cactus blossom and desert cereus.

FEEDING THE DEAD A barrel of beer, a pyramid of cakes, and three sticks of incense.

GHOST MUSIC Gloomy and bare the organ-loft, Bent-backed and blind the organist. From rafters looming shadowy, From the pipes’ tuneful company, Drifted together drowsily, Innumerable, formless, dim, The ghosts of long-dead melodies, Of anthems, stately, thunderous, Of Kyries shrill and tremulous: In melancholy drowsy-sweet They huddled there in harmony. Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.

- Robert Graves

Sheets of white musk and lavender curling around a melancholy song of violet root, iris, neroli, and honeysuckle.

GHOULISH Creepy like Creepy and as spooky as Spooky, this is the scent of a black cherry and coconut amaretto confection gently laced with saffron.

THE HAG The Hag is astride, This night for to ride; The Devill and shee together: Through thick, and through thin, Now out, and then in, Though ne'r so foule be the weather.

A Thorn or a Burr She takes for a Spurre: With a lash of a Bramble she rides now, Through Brakes and through Bryars, O're Ditches, and Mires, She followes the Spirit that guides now.

No Beast, for his food, Dares now range the wood; But husht in his laire he lies lurking: While mischiefs, by these, On Land and on Seas, At noone of Night are working,

The storme will arise, And trouble the skies; This night, and more for the wonder, The ghost from the Tomb Affrighted shall come, Cal'd out by the clap of the Thunder.

Black musk, bay leaves, galangal, bourbon vetiver, blackcurrant, and rum.

THE HARE In the black furrow of a field I saw an old witch-hare this night; And she cocked her lissome ear, And she eyed the moon so bright, And she nibbled o' the green; And I whispered 'Whsst! witch-hare,' Away like a ghostie o'er the field She fled, and left the moonlight there.

A leaper between worlds, the tiny trickster; she soars through liminal spaces, dancing in the strange shadows of dawn and twilight.

Warm fur and mandrake root, blue sage and tall grasses, honeysuckle-tinged moonlight, carrot seed, comfrey, and dandelion.

HUESOS DE SANTO On All Saints Day, Spanish families visit their loved ones in the cemeteries, keeping vigil throughout the evening, saying prayers for the dead. Family burial plots are cleaned and tended, and graves are adorned with gladiolas, chrysanthemums, and roses. Bone-shaped pastries called Saint's Bones, or the Bones of the Holy, are baked and shared in honor of the souls in Purgatory, and to remind us of those who no longer share our repast, but with whom we one day hope to be reunited with again.

Orange-glazed cake, dotted with anise seed, and filled with custard, set beside a bouquet of celebratory funeral flowers.

INSIDE THE GOLDEN AMBER OF HER EYEBALLS A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else can ease him, charges into his dark night howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Sleek black fur and gleaming amber shining in the shadows, a rumble of myrrh, and claws as sharp as ti leaf.

LAMBS-WOOL According to William Shepard Walsh, the Gentleman's Magazine for May of 1784 stated, "this is a constant ingredient at merrymaking on Holy Eve." He also quotes Vallancey's etymological speculation: "The first day of November was dedicated to the angel presiding over fruits, seeds, etc., and was therefore named La Mas Ubhal, -- that is, the day of the apple fruit, -- and being pronounced Lamasool, the English have corrupted the name to Lambs-wool."

A popular holy day beverage in 18th century Ireland: roasted apples mashed into warmed milk and ale, with nutmeg, sugar, ginger, and clove.

MAGNIFICENT AUTUMN By what a subtle alchemy the green leaves are transmuted into gold, as if molten by the fiery blaze of the hot sun! A magic covering spreads over the whole forest, and brightens into more gorgeous hues. The tree-tops seem bathed with the gold and crimson of an Italian sunset. Here and there a shade of green, here and there a tinge of purple, and a stain of scarlet so deep and rich, that the most cunning artifice of man is pale beside it. A thousand delicate shades melt into each other. They blend fantastically into one deep mass. They spread over the forest like a tapestry woven with a thousand hues.

Magnificent Autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds. He comes not like a hermit, clad in gray. But he comes like a warrior, with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.

The scene changes.

It is the Indian summer. The rising sun blazes through the misty air like a conflagration. A yellowish, smoky haze fills the atmosphere; and

A filmy mist,

Lies like a silver lining on the sky.

The wind is soft and low. It wafts to us the odor of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had washed them out. Orange, yellow, and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue. The birds, too, have taken wing, and have left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter of an eavesdropping swallow, not the carol of one sweet, familiar voice! All gone. Only the dismal cawing of a crow, as he sits and curses, that the harvest is over, – or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel, – the noisy denizen of a hollow tree, – the mendicant friar of a large parish, – the absolute monarch of a dozen acorns!

Another change.

The wind sweeps through the forest with a sound like the blast of a trumpet. The dry leaves whirl in eddies through the air. A fret-work of hoar-frost covers the plain. The stagnant water in the pools and ditches is frozen into fantastic figures. Nature ceases from her labors, and prepares for the great change. In the low-hanging clouds, the sharp air, like a busy shuttle, weaves her shroud of snow. There is a melancholy and continual roar in the tops of the tall pines, like the roar of a cataract. It is the funeral anthem of the dying year.

A scent that wanders through the Ages of Autumn, from the last green leaf to the first breath of winter.

MIDNIGHT BONFIRE Lighting the path between worlds, the beacon at the threshold: night-blooming jasmine, smoldering maple leaves, a cluster of patchouli and blackened ti leaf, black sage, and pinewood smoke.

PUMPKIN CRÈME BRULEE With vanilla bean scrapings.

PUMPKIN DUST Shavings of white pumpkin rind and honey powder.

PUMPKIN MUSK AND BLACK OUDH A strangely romantic, disturbingly erotic perfume.

PUMPKIN TOBACCO Sweet black tobacco infused with dried pumpkin and soaked in bourbon.

SAMHAIN Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.

SAMHAINOPHOBIA The Fear of Halloween

Menacing Haitian vetiver, patchouli, and clove with a shock of bourbon geranium, grim oakmoss, and dread-inspiring balsams pierce the innocuous scent of autumn leaves.

SCARECROW TURNED PHILOSOPHER Once I said to a scarecrow, “You must be tired of standing in this lonely field.”

And he said, “The joy of scaring is a deep and lasting one, and I never tire of it.”

Said I, after a minute of thought, “It is true; for I too have known that joy.”

Said he, “Only those who are stuffed with straw can know it.”

Then I left him, not knowing whether he had complimented or belittled me.

A year passed, during which the scarecrow turned philosopher.

And when I passed by him again I saw two crows building a nest under his hat.

- Kahlil Gibran

Corn husks waving on an autumn breeze, beams of amber sunlight, hay bales, and late summer wildflowers.

SUCK IT Sexy and suckable: black cherry brandy.

THIS WAN WHITE HUMMING HIVE And where should the living feel alive But here in this wan white humming hive, As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold, And one by one they creep back to the fold? And where should a man hold his mate and say: "One more, one more, ere we go their way"? For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night, When the living can learn by the churchyard light.

White patchouli leaf, beeswax, ambergris, and pale incense.

WHEN COLORS ALL TO BLACK ARE CAST In night when colors all to black are cast, Distinction lost, or gone down with the light; The eye a watch to inward senses placed, Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,

Gives vain alarums to the inward sense, Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny, Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense, Doth forge and raise impossibility:

Such as in thick depriving darknesses, Proper reflections of the error be, And images of self-confusednesses, Which hurt imaginations only see;

And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils, Which but expressions be of inward evils.

- Lord Brooke Fulke Greville

Ink-black musk and dried blackberries, midnight opoponax and sweet labdanum.

THE WITCH BRIDE A fair witch crept to a young man's side, And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.

But a Shape came in at the dead of night, And fill'd the room with snowy light.

And he saw how in his arms there lay A thing more frightful than mouth may say.

And he rose in haste, and follow'd the Shape Till morning crown'd an eastern cape.

And he girded himself, and follow'd still When sunset sainted the western hill.

But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side, Weary day!-the foul Witch-Bride.

(Aw, c'mon, Allingham. Foul is a pretty strong choice of words, dontcha think?)

Pale and lovely, with eyes belladonna-wide: hemlock blossoms and ghostly nightshade veiled by wisteria, white frankincense, black amber, and narcissus resin.

YIPE In the vein (GET IT?) of Boo, Suck It, and Spooky, this is a gushing font of sweet bloody black cherry cream and crushed dried blackberries.

++ ALL HALLOWS CHAOS

Turbulent, disordered beauty: sensitive to initial conditions, topologically mixed, and approached by periodic orbits with abandon. A dynamical system expressed through scent.

Each bottle of Chaos Theory is truly unique, a fragrant fractal, and an exercise in the joy of chance and uncertainty! Each is a one-of-a-kind, utterly random combination of scents, the composition of which is based on whim, mood and gut instinct. Each bottle is numbered, and each bottle is unique.

Hail Eris! After a long hiatus, Chaos Theory is back!

This year, the aforementioned chaos is expressing itself through decidedly seasonal metaphors associated with gathering the harvest and welcoming the “dark half” of the year. Is it comfort you seek, or incantations whispered through a tear in the Veil? Thanks to the options below, you don’t have to choose — you can have it both ways! This is an exercise in the joy of chance and uncertainty! Each bottle is a one-of-a-kind, utterly random combination of scents, the composition of which is based on whim, mood and gut instinct.

Most common allergens have been omitted from the experiment. No pennyroyal, no nuts, no cinnamon, no cassia. Regardless, if you have any sensitivities, please do not participate in Chaos Theory. The contents of the oils are not recorded [that’s the whole point!] and we will not be able to answer questions about specific bottles of CT:VIII or guarantee that an allergen is not present in your order.

By purchasing CT:VIII, you agree to absolve Black Phoenix of any responsibility related to an allergic reaction to one of the oils in this series. Please make a responsible choice, and use caution and discretion when ordering. This is intended to be a fun, exciting project.

Each CT:VIII scent has a base inspired by one of our favorite ‘Weenies, in wildly varying proportions:

ALL HALLOWS CHAOS: PUMPKIN SPICE

Variety is the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.”

― William Cowper, 1785

Forget about the War on Christmas — the year’s most contentious seasonal battle is actually waged over this inescapable melange of palate-massaging flavors. We’ve got the formula down pat, and invite you to join us in a mad-science experiment: Just how far can we bend it before it breaks?

ALL HALLOWS CHAOS: SAMHAIN

“Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos.” ― Mary Shelley, 1831 This Samhain, we’re reveling in the desecration of a classic blend: “Damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.”

++ HALLOWEEN: MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH

Art by Tenebrous Kate

Words by Edgar Allan Poe

THE RED DEATH The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal --the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

Splatters of red musk, bruise-purple violets, vetiver, and pimento.

HAPPY AND DAUNTLESS AND SAGACIOUS But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion.

Imprisoned in frenzied joy: ribbons of raspberry and red currant streaming through thick goat’s milk.

IT WAS FOLLY TO GRIEVE, OR TO THINK The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think.

Ginger-squeezed champagne with crushed diamonds, orange blossoms, and peach blossoms.

THERE WAS BEAUTY, THERE WAS WINE The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death."

Gushes of black and red wine splattering damask rose and white pear, engulfed in thick clove incense.

A MASKED BALL OF THE MOST UNUSUAL MAGNIFICENCE It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

Opulent golden oudh, red benzoin, and bitter almond.

A GIGANTIC CLOCK OF EBONY It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

The chiming of the clock: ebony wood and black pepper, narcissus blossom and tuberose, clanging with dull, heavy opoponax and thick olibanum.

THE TASTES OF THE DUKE WERE PECULIAR But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

The swirl of a thousand glittering vices: absinthe and laudanum, opium poppy and neroli, star anise and black currant, whip leather and iron shackles, gilded vanilla flower and King mandarin.

GLARE AND GLITTER AND PIQUANCY AND PHANTASM He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm -- much of what has been since seen in "Hernani." There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions.

Delirious fancies such as the madman fashions, arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments: orris absolute and leather contorted by cherry and orange blossom.

A MULTITUDE OF DREAMS There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these -- the dreams -- writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps.

A blackened lavender mist, thick with opoponax, licorice root, and benzoin.

ALL IS SILENT SAVE THE VOICE OF THE CLOCK And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away -- they have endured but an instant -- and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods.

Dreams writhing to and fro, bubbling up from half-subdued laughter: pink peppercorn, jasmine sambac, and cypress bubbling up through half-subdued white lavender, stabbed through with streams of red musk and black currant.

THE NIGHT IS WANING AWAY But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments. But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life.

Night-blooming jasmine and cereus reflected through ruddy musk and crimson amber.

THE SOUNDING OF MIDNIGHT UPON THE CLOCK And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise --then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

Terror, horror, and disgust: a bowel-churning sweet clench of myrhh and green musk in a pool of suffocating black moss and a shock of white cognac.

THE SCARLET HORROR In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood --and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him -- "who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"

Blasphemous mockery: blood musk and vetiver.

A GROUP OF PALE COURTIERS It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly -- for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker.

A sycophant’s polished stench: green musk fougere, lime, and rose-tufted wig powder.

A CERTAIN NAMELESS AWE But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple -- through the purple to the green -- through the green to the orange -- through this again to the white -- and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him.

Death unimpeded: bone-white sandalwood, dry cognac, and chilled ambergris accord.

A DEADLY TERROR THAT HAD SEIZED UPON ALL It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all.

He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry --and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

The wild courage of despair: a screech of blood orange and a splash of blood entangled in a corpse-mask of tattered white sandalwood stained with balsam and a grime-crusted winding sheet.

ILLIMITABLE DOMINION OVER ALL And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

Darkness, Decay, and the Red Death: blood musk and black tobacco, birch tar and bleeding cypress sap.

Listen to Poe’s complete tale here, on our YouTube Channel:

youtube

++ PICKMAN GALLERY 2018

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: ARKHAM’S PICKMAN GALLERY ACQUIRES CURIOUS COLLECTION OF GOAT ART, DEEMED ‘GREATEST OF ALL TIME’ Greatest Of All Time: Portraits of Genus Capra on view at the Pickman Gallery from September 22 to December 28, 2018, Arkham, MA — On view from September 18 through December 28, 2018 at Pickman Gallery, Arkham, MA, Greatest Of All Time: Portraits of Genus Capra. Greatest Of All Time is guest curated by the Santa Fe Art Institute’s Antonia Vasquez-Thackeray, who also holds a degree in Livestock Science. In this first-of-its-kind exhibition, Mx. Vasquez-Thackeray explores the social co-evolution of humankind and goatkind, a history which stretches back at least 10,000 years. Researchers note that goat remains have been found at archaeological sites in Western Asia including Jericho, Choga Mami, Djeitun, and Çayönü. Via their innate curiosity and horizontally-pupilled eyes, goats have enjoyed a unique view of human civilization, and our ancestors’ myths and legends have proven us nothing if not fearful of their scrutiny. “Our projections in terms of goat consciousness and goat archetypes have eclipsed anything a goat might tell us about us, or itself,“ Vasquez-Thackeray writes in the introduction to her upcoming MY GOAT, MY INQUISITOR, a salvo against the bias and anthropomorphism that has infected the relations between these two closely interrelated worlds -- but which carefully does not disavow the propensity for deceit, diabolism and witchcraft within the Caprian mind. Greatest of All Time consists of works hand-selected to commune with our species’ most recent common ancestor. About this evolutionary MacGuffin, Max Robinson, Ph.D. Molecular Biology and Biotechnology & Evolutionary Genetics, University of Washington, has written: “Millions of years ago, there was some kind of animal that eventually evolved into both goats and humans. It probably had claws rather than hooves or hands. It had a liver, four legs, eyes, and a brain, just like humans and goats still do.” Unfathomably, a lineage extends directly from that ancestor to this season’s exhibition, which will serve as a family reunion of sorts: several goats from Vasquez-Thackeray’s personal herd will be in residence as docents throughout the duration of the show. (Their reactions to the art as well as to the guests will be recorded via motion-capture and analyzed by individuals from SFAI, MIT, and, by special request, members of Arkham’s Thousand Young Lodge.

A BOAR AND A GOAT 18th century Russian lubok, illustrator unknown Red amber, frankincense CO2 absolute, green fig, labdanum, King mandarin, Atlas cedar, and bitter almond.

A HOARD OF CREATURES WITH THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS BEFORE A TAVERN Cornelis Saftleven Peru balsam, leather, castoreum accord, frankincense, and hay.

A YOUNG BOY AND HIS BROTHER SEATED ON A GOAT Christoffel Pierson Polished mahogany, copal resin, Java sandalwood, teakwood, and Sumantran patchouli.

AN ENCAMPMENT OF SHEPHERDS Tassili N'Ajjer, 4000-1500BC Tonka bean, red clay, rose tobacco, and oudh.

ANIMAL ALLEGORY Cornelis Saftleven Dust, dry incense, parchment, and tobacco leaf.

BOY WITH GOAT IN A LANDSCAPE Rudolf Koller Grapevine and ivy, olive blossom, lavender, cypress, bay leaf, honey myrtle, Tuscany sage, and jasmine sambac.

CABRAS Giuseppe Palizzi Black pine, white sage, creeping ivy, and wild juniper.

EEN SATYR Jacob Jordaens A heavy, animalic musk with cognac, fir balsam, grapevine, black cypress, patchouli, honey, and copaiba balsam.

THE GOAT AND THE VINE Harrison Weir Golden apples, cedar and redwood trellises heavy with grapevine, beeswax, hemp, vanilla benzoin, and bois de rose.

THE GREAT HE-GOAT Francisco Goya Haitian vetiver, Egyptian amber, carnation, black musk, pomegranate, patchouli, and smoked ginger.

HALF-HUMAN, HALF-MONKEY BARBERS SHAVING A GOAT Engraving by G. van der Gucht after J. Wootton Bay rum, hay, dried alfalfa, aftershave, and cork stalk.

JACOB WITH THE DAUGHTERS OF LABAN

Louis Gauffier Lebanese cedar, chamomile, frankincense, and cinnamon.

JUPITER NOURISHED BY THE GOAT AMALTHEA Engraving by Jacques Jordaens Goat’s milk, nectar, ambrosia, and honey.

LITHOGRAPH OF A MOUNTAIN GOAT H Weir White sandalwood, black pepper, muguet, agarwood, labdanum, and 3-year aged patchouli.

RUHENDE ZIEGE MIT KITZCHEN

Johann Christian Reinhart Brown musk, leather, castoreum accord, white cedar, amber oudh, and clove bud.

STUDIE EINER ZIEGE Pieter Boel Sweet labdanum with clove, tobacco absolute, and guiac wood.

TWO SHEEP AND TWO GOATS RESTING TOGETHER IN A FIELD A. Ducote Sweet vetiver, bourbon vanilla, and wool.

VENUS PANDEMOS Venus Pandemos Hay, rose otto, red benzoin, torch smoke, and pink carnation.

THE WITCHES’ RIDE

Otto Goetze Red roses and vetiver with cashmere incense, rue, and cauldron spices.

ZOE AND THE GOAT

Lorenz Frølich Caramelized patchouli, cream, and thick golden honey.

++ HALLOWEEN: POMEGRANATE GROVE

About the pomegranate I must say nothing, for its story is something of a mystery. - Pausanias

POMEGRANATE GROVE: ALICE

POMEGRANATE GROVE: DORIAN

POMEGRANATE GROVE: EMBALMING FLUID

POMEGRANATE GROVE: MOROCCO

POMEGRANATE GROVE: SNAKE OIL

++ HALLOWEEN: PILE OF LEAVES

Every leaf tells a story.

DEAD LEAVES AND MAPLE SAP

DEAD LEAVES, BLACKBERRY, AND RED PATCHOULI

DEAD LEAVES, GREEN COGNAC, IRIS ROOT, AND WHITE LEATHER

DEAD LEAVES, SWEET MYRRH, LEATHER, GREEN POMELO, AND RED CURRANT

DEAD LEAVES, BOURBON VETIVER, NAGARMOTHA, AND VANILLA ABSOLUTE

DEAD LEAVES AND RED CARNATIONS

DEAD LEAVES AND PUMPKIN SEEDS

DEAD LEAVES AND SCOTCH

DEAD LEAVES AND WARM SUGAR COOKIES

DEAD LEAVES, SWEET OAKMOSS, WHITE SAGE, AND CHAPARRAL

DEAD LEAVES AND VANILLA INCENSE

DEAD LEAVES, APRICOT, AMBERGRIS, AND TOBACCO

DEAD LEAVES AND COFFEE BEANS

DEAD LEAVES, BLACK TEA, AND TOBACCO LEAF

DEAD LEAVES, MAGNOLIA CHAMPACA, AMBERETTE SEED, PERU BALSAM, AND SUGARED CHESTNUTS

DEAD LEAVES, RED WINE, AND BLACK OUDH

#halloween #perfume #halloween perfume #dead leaves #goats #edgar allan poe #poe #the masque of the red death

69 notes · View notes

virmillion · 6 years ago

Text

Some Kind of Magical - Chapter 8

Chapter 7 / Chapter 9 / Masterpost / ao3

Warnings: Blood mention (not severe), food mention, fighting a monster animal, let me know if you have any more

Words: 4708

The last time Roman was awake this early, Pib had accidentally set their shared room on fire with a flaming fox experiment. They swore the mixture was controlled and the equations foolproof, but the charred remains of Roman’s closet door said otherwise. Long story short, Roman was out of the house before the sun rose, and he did not much appreciate it.

They don’t share a room anymore.

“Thyrrak, in the name of all that Ceth gazes upon, I am going to hang you by your feet on the board if you don’t pay attention.” Myjhyrr Pentheon taps a pencil on the board meaningfully, drawing a circle around an equation. “The answer, if you would.”

“It represents the average change in velocity from time ‘t’ equals three to time ‘t’ equals seven.” Roman allows a bored tone, perfected through years of practice, to slip into his voice. He may not understand a word of what he’s saying, but sure as Ceth shines bright in the night can he fake it. If nothing else, it’s nice for people to think he’s smart and focused, even if he’s more concerned with running his thumbnail over the folded piece of paper in his pocket.

“Oh. Okay. Well, yes. Very nice, Thyrrak. Thank you.” With a wink and a shrug, Roman’s attention returns to the notes on his desk. Entirely blank, mind you, save for the lazy doodles in the margins. To even call them doodles is mostly lip service—they’re more like vain attempts at putting pencil to paper while fighting the urge to fall asleep. In case it wasn’t blatantly obvious, Roman is losing that fight. Miserably.

Roman continues to lose this fight several times over, his eyes nearly crusted shut by the time lunch rolls around. Thinking back to that lost breakfast apple, his stomach floods with hunger and remorse. He should have at least grabbed a banana to go with it while he had the chance, since Pib is certain to tear through them all once they find the basket, leaving Roman empty handed.

When he finally makes it to the trudging lunch line, all of the bananas are gone. Such is the way of life.

“Thanks so much,” Roman says, pulling his loaded tray from the counter. Making his way to the usual table, he swerves his shoulders to and fro in a desperate effort to keep the precarious stack upright. Just as he reaches his seat, the whole thing crashes down, containers and utensils flying every which way.

“Need some help there?” Patton asks. He sweeps an arm over the table, knocking debris from past uncleaned lunches aside. “Here’s your fruit cup, your milk carton, and your obligatory napkin that no one uses.” Roman barely manages to grunt his gratitude, which his tired mind assumes to be an acceptable medium of appreciation. “How’s your day been, kiddo?”

“Everything sucks and I want to go home.” Propping his chin on the table, Roman slouches and listlessly drags a spoon in circles around his styrofoam tray. “Why were you and Logan up so early, anyway?”

“That’s on a need to know basis,” Logan says, appearing out of nowhere with his own tray. “Do you need to? No.”

“Maybe you should leave the wordplay to Patton,” Roman says. His opinion loses all credibility as Patton bounces in his seat.

“Logan, you just made a joke based on the pronunciation of hodoprones!”

“I think you mean homophone, and no, I did nothing of the sort. You’ve no evidence to insinuate the mere possibility that I, a well-respected member of society, could ever even fathom doing such a thing, let alone carry it out.”

“The lad doth protest too much, methinks,” Virgil mutters. He drops into the seat beside Patton, ignoring the hope on Patton’s face and turning to Logan. “Admit you made a pun and move on with it.”

Patton bites his lip, glancing at Virgil’s hands as he picks at a tray full of sandwiches, fruits, and chocolate chip cookies. “Virgil, I wanted to apologize for—”

“Water over the bridge, Pat.”

Logan holds up a finger, tilting his head to the side. “It’s supposed to be water under—”

“I know what I said.” Virgil stabs at a piece of fruit, clearly not interested in pursuing Patton’s apology.

Never one to be outdone with topic jumps, Roman talks over Logan’s frustrated rambling on the semantics of idioms. “More importantly, why hasn’t my question been answered? Waking me up that early has to be, like, some sort of crime. Punishable by giving me a cookie.”

Virgil smacks away Patton’s hand, which is already extended to offer one. “Your reward for surviving such an atrocity can be me not murdering you in your sleep, of which you obviously need so much.” The threat is accompanied by a truly fearsome transfer of food from tray to mouth.

“Oh, I’m so scared.” Roman raises his hands in mock terror, idly wondering whether Virgil can tell how much genuine fear his threat incurred. When he lowers them once more, his fingers come to rest on the outline of the folded paper in his pocket. He jolts.

“Says the guys who didn’t think to come back and get me.” Virgil raps the table, trying to swallow around a thick wad of cookie dough as protests erupt from everyone else. “Hold your horses, be stable, quit horsing around and what have you, I know you knew I’d get here eventually. Nothing personal.”

Patton takes a shot at dominating the conversation again, allowing a brief reprieve for Virgil to eat his lunch in peace. While the latter sets about peeling a banana—much to Roman’s chagrin—Patton changes topics. Roman’s protests about the apparent reappearance of the banana basket after her went through the line are ignored. “So, we’ve survived this much of the school year already. How are we gonna make it through the rest, and who do I need to schmooze to get us there? I’m armed to the teeth with candy bundles, and I’m willing to part with at least three. Maybe four, if someone else tosses in a few brownies for collateral.”

“Start by saying hello to this kid. Hope you guys don’t mind.” Logan gestures with his elbow as someone shuffles up to the table, their shoulders looking more like oversized earrings than independent body parts.

Roman, for all his outer glory and self importance, can’t find it in himself not to let his gaze linger on the newcomer. Their hair drops long and straight to their thighs, which would probably sound more impressive were it not for their barely scraping the bar at five feet tall. The dark green shock streaking the otherwise obsidian hair is rivaled only by the faint twinkle of mischief in their sage green eyes. They brush their hair aside as they draw near, revealing a parade of piercings marching up their ear. Where the line ends at the lobe is a lime green T.

“Everyone, this is Trilyo. Trilyo, this is Virgil, Patton and Roman.” Logan points at everyone in turn, shuffling his belongings aside when he finishes. Roman reaches for his pocket—and the paper inside—as discreetly as he can, trying to think of a polite exit strategy.

“Hi. Just so, um, just so you know, the T means, uh, it means to call me Trilyo. And they. Please.” In a voice hardly above a whisper, they continue, “on S-days, it’s Sage and she. Oh, and, um, Helsyirr and he. For H-days, I mean.” Their words gain strength as they start to defend themself from unasked questions. “If people want to get on my case about those things, then I’d, um, I want to make it less difficult than I—than it has to be.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Roman says, “but feel free to take my seat. I actually just remembered, I’ve got something to take care of. With someone. Somewhere else.” He slides his chair out, patting the seat like an invitation for Trilyo. “Don’t let these guys starve, okay? I hear that’s not always the best first impression. Don’t quote me on that, either.”

As soon as he’s through the doors and out of the building, Roman allows himself a disgusted groan. If he’d sounded any more stiff or closed off, Trilyo probably could have mistaken him for someone’s parent, trying to seem cool with the kids having none of it. Were it not for the unwitting damage control his friends would have to do now, Trilyo would probably never want to speak to him again. That’s the only foreseeable outcome within reason, as far as Roman is concerned.

He draws his jacket closer against the faint breeze, careful not to crumple the paper in his pocket any more than it already is. Whenever fall decides to officially announce itself, he’ll switch over to a heavy coat, but until that happens, a stubborn pout is all he can offer. The stubborn pout quickly turns to a displeased scowl as someone else appears at his side. Roman allows his eyes to slip shut, curious if it might deter any unwelcome conversation.

“Hey, Roman.”

Evidently not.

“Hey, Than.” His words are hardly more than a mumble, drowned out by a sudden gust of wind, which promptly whacks him in the face with a leaf. “Don’t tell me it was you.” The paper crinkles in his pocket.

“So you found my letter, I gather?” Than’s footfalls are accompanied by the soft crunch of dead grass under his feet. The breeze echoes his words. “The grass is going away quite quickly this year.”

“Don’t make me say it.” The answering silence is prompt enough. “Ceth, man, you’re really gonna make me say it?” More silence. More wind. A storm cloud grumbles in the distance. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not even mad. I don’t even care. The river reaps souls and swallows hopes.”

“All because it flows backwards.” Than exhales, an almost laugh that Roman doesn’t return. For all of the hassle Virgil’s been through with Than, the guy sure is thorough.

Roman has long since learned to take pride in his acting skills. Be it hiding a grade to not disappoint Pib or hiding a TryMyts to avoid disappointing his parents, he’s gotten arguably decent at putting up an unshakeable front. The latest obstacle from Than, however, has provided considerably more difficulty. Nothing Roman can’t handle, of course.

Coming home to a cold house has always been Roman’s reality. Operating separate from his family has always been Roman’s reality. Working his tail off for no reward has always been Roman’s reality. Finding random letters in his bag, even, has always been Roman’s reality—he’d once offered to be the middleman for hopeless romantics around the school. Long story short, the service petered off around the time he entered his junior year. Everything from senseless pining to obsessive stalking, he’d helped facilitate and, when the situation called for it, de-escalate.

Unmarked letters would appear on occasion. That wasn’t Roman’s concern. His concern was more in the contents of this particular letter. Sealed with a silvery dragon silhouette and scrawled in gold ink, he would have had to be a fool not to open it. Even now, knowing he was the recipient of thoughtful scribing from the likes of Than, Roman can’t really say he regrets opening it.

“The grass is going away

Quite quickly this year,” I’ll say

So just for me

If you’ll agree

Kindly answer in this way:

I know the line may fit many tropes

And writing this makes me seem a dope

But kindly answer

Thou fair romancer

“The river reaps souls and swallows hopes”

Roman smiles to himself, the harsh wind yanking him out of his ponderings. He holds up the letter from his pocket between two fingers, examining the crisply pressed fold. “You know, writing ‘tomorrow at lunch’ at the bottom was really ambiguous. What if I didn’t know where to go? What if I didn’t find it on the right day? Why are you demonizing the river?” Cracking an eye open, he glances at Than. “And ‘fair romancer?’ Really?”

“Don’t attack the messenger, I just needed a clever way to let you know that the magic is going haywire in more places than just the barriers by that zburator cave.”

“Yeah, I already—” Roman’s other eye shoots open as he whips his head around to stare at Than. “You saw the cave? How did I not see you? When were you there? By the brightest flickers of Cethyphyirr itself, Than, what happened to your face?”

Than grins, running the back of his fingers over his scarring cheek. “It’s healing nicely, don’t you think? I suspect it’s something to do with all this wind, making new barriers, sending rivers flowing backwards, all that manner of speaking.”

“Get to your point, Than, because I know you didn’t lure me out here to flirt over your limerick skills.”

“To tell the truth, I knew you weren’t about to talk to me of your own volition.”

“That’s fair.”

“But with the reversed rivers and the increased zburator activity, not to mention the storm situation over there, I figured someone with more swaying power than me ought to know.” Roman shuts his eyes again, quite finished with the painfully slow progress of said impending clouds. “Logan would have been my first choice, him being so smart and all, plus our mutual connection through Virgil, but I’d never get the chance to talk to him, even if I wanted to. He’s rebuffed every attempt at conversation I’ve ever made since he started talking to Virgil, so I was hoping you might be willing to—”

Roman backhands Than’s chest, halting whatever he was trying to request. At Than’s protests, he hisses a shushing sound. “Did you hear that?” The building behind them remains calm, save for the regular lunchtime bustle. The same dead grass making the same crunching sounds under the same relentless wind. “It sounded like a yell.” In the hushed silence, a distant shout. Roman casts a pained glance back to the school, from which the warning bell to end lunch chimes. Without giving himself a chance to reconsider, he shoves past Than and sprints in the opposite direction.

The few scraggly trees ringing the school property offer virtually no resistance as Roman surges past them. With the almost imperceptible cover of the leaves between him and the building, he traces his way around to what’s essentially the school’s backyard. By sheer luck or mere happenstance, he manages to avoid the hawk eyes of the teachers, who always seem relatively Kryntyk-bent on corralling everyone into a ridiculously cramped building. This has never quite made sense to Roman, who’s always been of the mindset that open doors allow for an open mind—that’s the polite way of giving his opinion, at least.

“You know,” a voice mumbles at his shoulder, “the teachers don’t care as long as you tell them you’re just skipping for TryMyts stuff. You don’t need to sneak around.”

Roman nearly leaps out of his skin, delivering a harsh elbow to Than’s stomach. “Warn a guy next time, why don’t you? And shut up for a hot second, I lost the source of the shouting.” As if in answer to his latest observation, the faint calls return, more of an echo than a discernible voice. Roman feels his ear twitch. “This way.”

With reluctance abundantly evident in his posture, Roman tugs Than along behind him, heading for the line of full trees closing the circle of dead ones. The yells crescendo, almost tangible by the time Roman yanks Than through the last of the green. Just on the other side stands a trembling Trilyo, their back to the boys. They raise a shaky hand before them, and that’s when Roman notices the demonic mockery of a bird perched on a branch above them.

“Why in the name of Ceth itself is a jynthykryk on school grounds?” Roman whispers, his voice a hushed mixture of awe and horror. Calling the creature would be flattery at best, and detailing just how utterly wrong it looks would be an offense in and of itself. Roman’s strongest repulsion is, always has been, and always will be that glaring quintet of eyes, the perimeters just barely distanced enough not to be a trio. Even if the one in the middle, alight in hues of gold, weren’t staring them down, the four framing it are unnerving enough on their own. They’re less like four pupils and more like two diamonds split through the middle and crammed into four separate sockets. All are gold, all are angular, and all ar staring intently down at Trilyo as if they were its next meal. Its head cranes at an unnatural angle, showing off its glinting silver beak in a gaping yawn, which reveals five teeth that may as well be knives crowding around a five-pronged golden tongue. The latter flicks in and out, in and out, as those piercing eyes size up Trilyo.

“Okay, you get Trilyo out of here, and I’ll go for the jynthykryk,” Roman murmurs. He regrets phrasing it like an order the moment the words leave his mouth.

“Are you kidding? Bossing me around?” Than huffs with what Roman finds to be an unnecessary amount of self importance. “I think not. Back it up, buddy, and take after me.” With his arms over his head, Than barges in front of Trilyo, easily commandeering the jynthykryk’s attention. “Over here, you pathetic excuse for a bird! What, did Ceth forget what a bird looked like when it spat you out of the sky?”

Grabbing its attention was the wrong move. Waving his arms about was the wrong move. Daring to make a sound in the first place was the wrong move. Taking all of this into consideration, the absolute worst thing to have done was to compare that monstrosity to a bird, especially to its face. Whether it understands words is largely unimportant—the wrathful gleam in its eyes is far more concerning.

With a sickening screech, it flares up a wing, showing off a coat of razor-sharp black feathers tipped in silver. The prongs crowning each wing boast gold talons, sharp enough to make Roman’s stomach hurt just from looking at them. It rises on stalked legs, which end in prickling gold claws that could easily tear out Roman’s throat at a moment’s notice. He swallows thickly.

“Get down!” The words rip out of Roman before he can stop them, his mouth reacting before his brain can finish comprehending what it doesn’t want to register. At another screech, the jynthykryk takes wing, swooping down from the trees to claw at Trilyo’s head. Tha shoves them to the ground, throwing his body over theirs like a shield. With his best imitation of bravery, Roman gives a shout, throwing his arms up to snag its attention.

To Roman’s dismay, it works.

The creature whips its head toward him, careening down from the sky to snap at his hair. Roman ducks, catching the plumage of its blade of a tail in his fist. Shards of glass would score his hands less, but it’s enough to faze the animal.

For a moment.

Than is no help whatsoever, still yelling directions over a clearly terrified Trilyo. In one of his rare moments of silence, during which Roman is still screaming bloody murder, they manage to scrabble under the cover of the trees. The leaves shimmer at the edges, just enough to declare the presence of magic. Taking this in stride as the reason for why no teachers have come to investigate the hollering yet, Roman returns his focus to Than and the jynthykryk.

As it ascends for another diving attack, Roman waves Than to his side, ignoring his protests and curses. “If we coordinate our idiocy, we might actually survive this thing, but that isn’t gonna happen unless you work with me and we get our acts together. So look up, keep up, and don’t you dare shut up, not on your life.” Roman wills the fires of Kryntyk into his eyes as he draws Than in by the collar. “If you endanger even one life in that school then so help me, as Ceth is my witness, I will end you. Go.”

He shoves Than back into the clearing, and he waits. Its feathers shower shreds of leaves down as it literally slices through the enchanted trees, its five eyes all focused solely on Than. Perfect for Roman, who darts out at the last possible moment and latches onto the sharp tail with all his might. The jynthykryk screeches, such a horrible sound to grate against Roman’s ears as it whips into the air. Than watches, stunned just before the point of silence, as it lifts Roman higher and higher, so high up that a fall could very well be deadly. Such is a fact of which Roman is all too aware. He digs his nails in deeper, yanking out more knife feathers as the tail whips him around. Too focused on keeping a tight grip, Roman hardly notices his ears ringing as his teeth knock together—certainly an ache he’ll feel tenfold later.

That’s when the tail snaps back up, too fast for him to adjust, and he loses his grip.

Roman feels himself tumbling through empty air, the only purchase his hands can find being the loose blade feathers he’s crushing in a death grip. As the ground rushes up, too fast, nowhere near fast enough, he can just barely make out Than’s voice, splitting the air to reach him. Having no idea what he’s yelling, Roman curls into a ball and sends out every prayer he can think of to Ceth, to another Ejnathryk, even to Kryntyk. How the enchanted trees have gone unnoticed for so long, and still work to this extent, is beyond Roman. He allows himself to uncurl a little as the jynthykryk speeds past him, its eyes locked onto the still ranting Than. Still screaming. Still diverting attention. Just like Roman asked.

Roman shoots out a hand, snatching the creature by its tail once more, but he’s prepared this time. As the trees thicken with the rising ground, he hooks his shoes around what looks to be a sturdy enough branch, and pulls up with muscles he didn’t even know he had. The jynthykryk hesitates for only a moment before beating its wings with a renewed vigor. The branch snaps.

Spurred on by Than’s incessant yelling, Roman manages to right his head, this time bracing his sole on the next branch and not waiting to yank. The one oversized feather in his left fist, shining in various hues of silver and gold, lashes about dangerously. In all likelihood, this is just an identifying feather—identifeather, he wants to joke, but no, this isn’t the time—a feather that indicates the jynthykryk’s gender. Nevertheless, something tells Roman to pull it out. He can’t.

The branch bows under the added force of a teenager fighting a demon monster bird, coming far too close to breaking for Roman’s comfort. That fifth gleaming tooth, curved and poised to attack, gets ever closer to Than’s face, which is bright red for a number of reasons. As the silver beak creaks open and the slithering tongue flicks toward Than, the feather bites jewels of red from Roman’s fingers. He could let go. He should let go. He does not.

As he screams out to “duck!” from the deepest recesses of his throat, finally, finally, the feather comes out. Roman finds himself launched into the air as his potential energy shatters into kinetic chaos, his stomach taking refuge in his throat. The jynthykryk, obviously unprepared for the sudden shift and the loss of a relatively significant feather, crashes beak first into the dirt. Than. who managed to listen to two whole instructions, is crouched over himself not three feet from where the creature’s scrabbling legs poke out of the ground. This is when Roman remembers that he is not, in fact, on the ground yet. By some miracle, the last branch he’d hassled was close to the dirt, but that little tidbit doesn’t keep his gut from trying to consume itself as he hurtles back down. Than breaks Roman’s fall—against both of their wills.

Trilyo appears from between the trees, their streak of green tangled in the surrounding leaves. They dart out to meet Roman, snatching the prominent feather in a sleeve-covered hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d managed to hang on to it, instead rolling over to hold his stomach and groan. Than follows suit, burying his face in his knees as he curls into a ball.

Without so much as a warning to either of the boys, Trilyo latches a hand around the blades ringing the jynthykryk’s neck and frees its head with ease. Trilyo doesn’t even allow it the mercy of one final screech before the plunge the feather tip into its center eye. The creature vanishes with less flair than a puff of smoke, leaving only the sharpest dagger of a feather in Trilyo’s hands. Every other blade-edged feather, from those in Than’s hair to the ones Roman stuck through his skin, every last one disappears. Trilyo turns to head back to the school.

“Woah, woah, wait, don’t you think we deserve an explanation?” Than demands. He lurches to his feet, curving over his core as he grabs feebly at their shoulder.

“The biggest and deadliest feather is, um, it’s the only thing that can destroy jynthykryks, and it has to be their own, in the, ah, in the center eye. Make it a set of six to split up the continuity of the, um, the quintets to destroy the creature.” Trilyo tosses their hair over their shoulder. “Everybody knows that.”

“Okay, but why were you dealing with a jynthykryk in the first place? How did you even know to go through the tree line? Ceth’s sake, Trilyo, I literally just saw you at lunch not twenty minutes ago!” Roman wrings his hands together, wishing he had enough strength left in his arms to tear his hair out.

“What, you’re really stuck on that? I don’t want to—I mean, I’m not about to just give it away. I don’t want to worry about people, um, about other people stealing—taking, I mean, taking my TryMyts idea. I can’t exactly have that, now, can I?” Ignoring Than’s demands and Roman’s pleas, Trilyo leaves.

“I guess that could’ve gone better,” Than admits. “But it could’ve gone a lot worse, too. For one, the majority of my face is still intact. At least, what was intact to begin with. I’d rather not think about how much worse it would be if I hadn’t already lost feeling from all those burns.”

“What Trytsu are you even aiming for, Than?” Roman turns from where Trilyo was to scrutinize his companion, ignoring how his knees ache from kneeling. It hurts too much to stand. “I know it’s out of nowhere, but it’s a fair question. I wouldn’t call that rescuing the creature, it definitely wasn’t hands off, and I’d be lying if I said that constituted actual fighting. If anything, you just covered for me. What Trytsu do you honestly believe is right for you?”

Than shrugs, letting his hands drift to his shoulders. “Maybe I’ll stick with undecided, work with Virgil and Myjhyrr Senthyirr. Don’t forget, impossible though it may be to believe, Thriyv did have a life before he walked into yours.” He pauses on his way to the trees, one hand resting on a trunk. “And I really hope you’ll pass on that stuff about the magic going haywire. I’m sure you and your friends can do way more with it than me.”

Roman watches in silence as Than vanishes, gone just like any trace of the jynthykryk. Something in him wants to call after the guy, to demand an answer, to apologize for misjudging him, to thank him for his help, but no. Roman says nothing. Alone again, still picking feathers from his skin, he goes inside.

Chapter 7 / Chapter 9 / Masterpost / ao3

#sanders sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #blood mention tw #food mention tw #fighting tw #some kind of magical #labhwrites #mine

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dolly-decadatia · 4 years ago

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12/3 S.C notes Chap 7 continued

South- fire 🔥: the element of transformation, of passion and change, success, health, and strength. An oil lamp or piece of lava rock can be used as well.

West: water 💦- a cup or bowl of water can be placed in the west. Water is the realm of the emotions, of the psychic mind, love, healing, beauty and emotional spirituality

The altar should go in the center (according to Scott) but you have to be flexible about the amount of space you have. Some of us have to place it in a corner or against a wall. I for one currently live in a shitty trailer and will be moving into a tiny rv once my lease is up. It behooves me to not fixate on “my altar MUST be dead ass center in the circle.” A lot of us probably have similar poverty related space constraints.

Generally the altar is set up facing north (but see my thoughts above).

Take his altar set up with a huge grain of salt. He’s gendered it. He says the left is goddess, the right god and he’s gendered inanimate objects to reflect cis genitalia and assigned them to the left or right. Cis pussy to the left, cis dick on the right. It’s not so much transphobic as it is just weird and creepy. I probably want to completely design my own altar lay out to avoid this weird dick and pussy fixation. I need to double check how LaVey had his set up. It’s been a really long time since I actually practiced Satanism and I don’t remember his set up. I know he has a straight up phallus on his supply list but imo having. A representation of genitalia that looks like genitalia is less weird and creepy that randomly deciding Wands and athames are cocks and cocks somehow automatically are male. I think LaVey’s phallus was supposed to represent lust or something. Idk, I need to reread it. Don’t quote me.

If you’re working magic in the circle ⭕️, all necessary items should be within it before you begin, either on the altar or beneath it. Never forget to have matches handy, and a small bowl to hold the used ones. He says it’s “impolite” to throw them in the censer or cauldron but until I see someone I respect say that I’m ignoring it.

Chapter 8: The Days of Power

Here, I’m copy pasting notes I already took from the internet while I was waiting for the book to arrive. I skimmed through Scott’s chapter to see if there was anything to add but there wasn’t. These are my first draft of what May end up being my holidays/ Sabbaths/ whatever I choose to call them. They’re not done so don’t judge them too harsh yet:

“Wheel of the year” ideas

January- New Years

February- Valentine’s Day

March- bad things happened to me-day of healing ?

April- wedding anniversary and t date

June- my birthday

Aug- partner’s birthday

October- Halloween and dating anniversary

December Krampusnacht

9 in total this draft

Does not seem seasonal at all so “wheel of the year” isn’t a great name at all.

I do like some of the seasonal things but I’m having trouble figuring out how to incorporate them. Even when I was Wiccan I didn’t understand the significance of celebrating an agricultural cycle.

Wiccan wheel:(copy pasted with commentary)

Yule- When is Yule: December 20-23

Themes: rebirth, quiet introspection, new year, hope, setting intentions, celebration of light

In most traditions, Yule is the Sabbat that begins the Wiccan Year.

(I think January 1st makes more sense to me. As far as the winter holiday goes- I resonate with Krampusnacht and there’s nothing about Krampus that screams “new year” to me.)

This is the Winter Solstice—the shortest day and longest night we will experience in the Northern Hemisphere.

Yule, a fire festival, is a time of celebrating the return of the light. From this point forward, the days will gradually grow longer again, until we reach the height of the Sun’s power at the Summer Solstice.

Although we will still see comparatively little of the Sun’s light for several more weeks, this Sabbat reminds us to have patience—the waning half of the year is over, and warmth, growth, and light will reign again!

(This part resonates with me because I have seasonal affective disorder and the light returning is very meaningful personally.)

it is a relatively quiet, indoor holiday, as people gather within the warm shelters of their homes to be merry and give thanks. As a Yule ritual, many decorate their altars with evergreen branches, such as cedar, pine, hemlock and spruce, as well as bright sprigs of holly, pinecones, and other festive winter flora.

Food for simple feast/ gingerbread and ???

Candles are paramount to this Sabbat, of course, with Yule traditions emphasizing the colors red, green, white, and gold. Images of the Sun are also appropriate. Those lucky enough to have a fireplace can burn a sacred Yule log, but you don’t need an actual hearth to brighten up your home with candles galore! Interestingly, many traditions which are generally thought of as belonging to Christmas—including the Yule log, a decorated tree, wreaths, and even caroling—are actually rooted in pre-Christian pagan traditions. So it’s quite likely that you’ve already been celebrating Yule for years, with or without your knowledge!

Imbolc- This cross-quarter day—midway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox—is a welcome milestone for many who eagerly await the warmer months.

(So do I need to celebrate the coming warmth in December? Wouldn’t this make more sense- or would it make even more sense to wait for the spring equinox to really say “fuck you”’to winter?)

celebrated on February 2nd. As a holiday celebrating beginnings and renewal,

(Seems like a beginnings and renewal holiday would be relevant to me but maybe I should do that on my t day)

Imbolc is often chosen as a time for initiation, whether it be through a coven or through a self-dedication ritual.

(Also seems like a tday thing) It is also a time for ritual cleansing after being shut indoors, largely inactive, for the past few months. (My t day is in April when spring is either here or near and that imagery can make sense then too) The ability of the Sun to cleanse and purify is recognized in various ways. Some people light several candles in each room of the house, or, in a more modern version of this tradition, turn on every lamp to set the old energy “ablaze” with the power of light. Some Witches will leave their ritual tools out in direct sunlight as one of their Imbolc traditions to cleanse and charge them—particularly metal tools and treasured crystals or mineral stones.

Traditional candle colors for Imbolc are white, yellow, orange and red, and altar decorations include fresh Spring flowers, besoms (small decorative ritual brooms) and figurines or images of young animals.

(The stated foods are all Imbolc specific and don’t make sense for me turning parts of it into my tday festival)

Ostara- (there do not appear to be any themes in Ostara that would be relevant or useful to my practice)

Beltane April 30 or May 1

Themes: passion, mischief, sensuality, sexuality, (rawr) beauty, romance, fertility,(eew) vitality, abundance

Celebrated on May 1st, Beltane marks the transition point from Spring to Summer. This is a heady time of lust, passion and fertility, marking the return of vitality to both the Earth and the Sun. Blossoms on the trees are giving way to robust leaf growth, young animals are growing into maturity, and the daylight continues to lengthen and strengthen as we move toward the full power of Summer. Love and commitment are themes of this Sabbat, along with abundance and creativity. Handfastings are traditionally held at Beltane.

(Wedding anniversary is April 14. Can possibly borrow some Beltane themes for that)

Beltane is a very sensual Sabbat in many traditions, celebrating sexual energy

One distinct custom in England and elsewhere that has never died out entirely is dancing around the Maypole—a tall, wooden pole said to represent male virility. Typically, people gather flowers and green branches to decorate the Maypole, or else use brightly colored ribbons. Many groups incorporate this tradition into their Beltane celebrations.

Fire is also a big focus at Beltane—so much so that many places host a Beltane fire festival. In ancient Irish culture, from which the name of the Sabbat is borrowed, people lit giant sacred fires on this day to purify and protect their cattle from illness. The cattle were driven between two fires to ritually cleanse them and connect them with the Sun. It was also considered good luck for people to jump over a bonfire at this time, and this is another Beltane ritual that is often found in celebrations.

The word “beltane” actually comes from an ancient Celtic word meaning “bright fire,” so it’s highly appropriate to include fire of some kind in your festivities. If, like many Wiccans, you don’t have the means to build a fire either indoors or outdoors, you can still decorate your altar with images of fire. If you have a mini-cauldron, place it over a few scraps of red and orange paper for a symbolic fire right on your altar!

Other ways to celebrate Beltane include making a “wedding feast” . Breads and cereal grains, oatmeal cookies and dairy foods are all traditional Beltane treats. Include seasonal spring vegetables as well for a true feast. Gather flowers and green leaves to decorate your altar with. Many people like to create a “mini-Maypole” for their altar and decorate it with ribbons. If you have long hair, braid it as a symbol of the union between (my partner and I) weaving in some wildflowers or tree blossoms if you like. Traditionally, couples would spend the whole night outdoors, romping in the fields and forests, but if this isn’t practical, take a long walk with your sweetheart somewhere out in nature. The important thing is to make sure you spend some time outdoors on this day! (we like nature and we got married on the beach so this is very useable)

Midsummer June 20-22 (oh hey thats so close to my birthday!)

Themes: abundance, growth, masculine energy, (love that for me) love, magic

This is the longest day and shortest night of the year, marking the pinnacle of the Sun’s power to fuel the growing season. From here on out, the Sun will set a little earlier each night until Yule, and so we recognize and give thanks for its warmth.

The crops are reaching their full maturity and the forests are bursting with lush growth. In just a few short weeks, the harvest season will begin, but for now we pause to celebrate the manifestation of what was planted in the early weeks of Spring. The warm sunlight is a welcome contrast to the cold and dark of Winter, and we bask in its comforts. T

To celebrate this Sabbat, you can decorate your altar with summer flowers, herbs and fruits, and summer colors like yellow, green and blue. This is a traditional time for rites of re-dedication as well as divination related to love and romance. Keep at least one candle lit throughout the day to honor the Sun, and if possible hold your rituals at noon, when the Sun is at its highest point in the sky. Have an outdoor picnic feast to bask in the warmth of the day, and eat fresh fruits and vegetables—ideally from a farmer’s market or harvested from your own garden. This is a good time for magic related to masculine energies and any situation that needs to be “fired up” in your life.

Lammas: August 1 or 2

Themes: first fruits, harvest, gratitude, benevolent sacrifice, utilizing skills and talents

(I don’t know what to do here. When I was Wiccan, this was one of my faves because I am obsessed with autumn but all the mythology here in the description is harvest related and I am not a farmer or about gratitude. Gratitude is lovely and I want to incorporate it into my practice but doing gratitude amongst the fall foliage aesthetic makes me think of American Thanksgiving which is super gross. This is going to need a lot of thought.)

Lammas rituals are related to harvest and gratitude, and recognizing the manifestations of our intentions that have unfolded so far during the course of the year. Bread-making is a common way to mark the holiday, as it represents bringing the seeds of intention into full fruition. People also might make a corn dolly—a traditional poppet made from straw—for use in ritual and magic. Decorate your altar with the colors of summer and fall—yellow, orange, red, green and brown. Use harvest imagery like scythes and baskets and, of course, loaves of bread. A Lammas feast should definitely involve bread, as well as late-summer fruits and vegetables, corn, and other grain dishes. Spellwork related to securing abundance and a happy home is particularly powerful at this time.

(see what I mean? What do I do here? Also I just glanced at the date and its early august which is hotter than the surface of the sun in the modern south where i am trapped. It doesn’t start feeling autumny down here until mid november. This one needs a lot of work)

focus their celebrations on giving thanks for their skills and talents as well as for the grain harvest, but the emphasis is on gratitude all the same.

Mabon: September 21-24- Autumn (or Fall) Equinox.

Themes: harvest, gratitude, abundance, balance, preparation, welcoming the dark

(wait, how is this different from lammas? I think this is the one I was actually thinking about when I said “this was one of my faves when I was actually wiccan.” My bad. Ok, I’m dumb but in my defense why do they have 2 back to back autumn colored gratitude holidays???)

Mabon falls on the Autumn Equinox and is the second of the three harvest festivals (Lammas, Mabon, and Samhain). Just like Ostara on the opposite side of the Wheel of the Year, at Mabon the days and nights are of equal length. Though temperatures may still be warm during the day, summer has truly come to an end. The leaves on deciduous trees have begun to turn colors and fall to the ground, (not in my state, homie) and there is a chill in the evening air. The days were longer than the nights until this moment, and after this the nights will begin their reign.. In these modern times, most of us are not involved in agriculture, but we can still take a moment to rest from our labor and relax, appreciating all that we have. It is a time to recognize the need for balance between work and play.

But how should you celebrate Mabon? For starters, Mabon rituals can include decorating your altar with acorns, pine cones, seasonal fruits and nuts, and/or a few of the first colored leaves that drop from the trees. (yes this was deffo the one I was thinking of, not Lammas) As with Lamas, harvest imagery like scythes and baskets can be used. (no wonder I mixed them up. They’re practically twins.) Candles and altar cloths in autumn colors like rusty red, orange, brown, and gold are appropriate. If you have a feast, whether solo or with others, include seasonal vegetables like onions, potatoes, carrots and other root vegetables. Spellwork related to protection and security is appropriate now, as are workings for self-confidence, prosperity, harmony and balance. If you are one who struggles with seasonal depression during the fall and winter months, (YUP) use this time to set an intention for inner peace and strength. You might make and charge a talisman for this purpose, to accompany you through the next two seasons. (OOH i LIKE THAT)

When is Samhain: October 31 or November 1

Themes: death, rebirth, divination, honoring ancestors, introspection, benign mischief, revelry

The third and final harvest festival on the Wheel of the Year is Samhain, observed on October 31. This Sabbat marks the end of the growing season and the beginning of Winter, which must be prepared for now in earnest. Herbs are dried for winter storage, fruits and vegetables are canned and preserved, and root vegetables are dug up and stored so they may nourish us through the cold months. The word “Samhain” comes from the old Irish and is thought by many to translate as “Summer’s end.”

While the cycles of life and death are implicitly recognized at every Sabbat, Samhain is when the necessary role of death is formally honored. The nights grow noticeably longer with each day. The God retreats now into the shadows of the dark season, symbolically dying back to the Earth before being reborn again at Yule. Many Wiccans and other Pagans consider this to be the most important day on the Wheel, a time when the veil between the spirit world and the mundane world is at its thinnest. Our ancestors and loved ones on the Other Side are said to be more easily able to visit with us and make their presence known at this time.

Samhain is arguably the most visible Sabbat in the mainstream world, thanks to the parallel holiday of Halloween. Many of the Halloween traditions celebrated in contemporary cultures today have grown out of customs dating back to pagan times. As far back as ancient Greece, people were leaving offerings of food to their ancestors, which is echoed in the modern tradition of trick-or-treating. The practice of leaving root vegetables hollowed out with lighted candles inside, to guide spirits visiting on Earth ultimately led to today’s jack-o-lanterns. Witches, of course, have always been part of mainstream Halloween lore.

. We also honor our ancestors and invite them to visit with us. You might decorate your altar with pictures of your deceased loved ones in addition to fall foliage, apples and nuts, dried herbs and even jack-o-lanterns. Many people will leave a plate of food and drink out for any spirits who happen to wander by. Samhain is one of the most powerful nights of the year for spellwork and divination. Magical workings related to just about anything will receive an extra boost, but waning-moon work will have the most potent effect. Banishings, protection spells, clearing of obstacles and astral projection are particularly favored. Scrying, tarot reading, rune casting and any other form of divination you practice will bring you very clear results, as well as possibly a visit from an ancestor or spirit guide. Be open to doing inner work as well—reflecting on what you’d like to let go of and what you’d like to improve in yourself over the coming year.

(Ok now I’m going to be repetitious and re paste my list of significant dates and combine my thing with the wheel if applicable. Ran out of time midway through that so I’ll put it into tomorrow’s study notes)

#atheist witch #witch journey #beginner witch #secular witchcraft

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dfroza · 5 years ago

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they didn’t have cars back then, and so He rode a colt

i drove a stick shift Dodge Colt back in the 90’s that was an extra car that belonged to my former father-in-law don (who had a son he named don just as my dad whose name is don did the same by naming me back in ‘73)

and the colt mentioned here was ridden into ancient Jerusalem which is read about in Today’s chapter of the book of Mark that ends with a question mark (?)

(chapter 11)

[Entering Jerusalem on a Colt]

When they were nearing Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany on Mount Olives, he sent off two of the disciples with instructions: “Go to the village across from you. As soon as you enter, you’ll find a colt tethered, one that has never yet been ridden. Untie it and bring it. If anyone asks, ‘What are you doing?’ say, ‘The Master needs him, and will return him right away.’”

They went and found a colt tied to a door at the street corner and untied it. Some of those standing there said, “What are you doing untying that colt?” The disciples replied exactly as Jesus had instructed them, and the people let them alone. They brought the colt to Jesus, spread their coats on it, and he mounted.

The people gave him a wonderful welcome, some throwing their coats on the street, others spreading out rushes they had cut in the fields. Running ahead and following after, they were calling out,

Hosanna!

Blessed is he who comes in God’s name!

Blessed the coming kingdom of our father David!

Hosanna in highest heaven!

He entered Jerusalem, then entered the Temple. He looked around, taking it all in. But by now it was late, so he went back to Bethany with the Twelve.

[The Cursed Fig Tree]

As they left Bethany the next day, he was hungry. Off in the distance he saw a fig tree in full leaf. He came up to it expecting to find something for breakfast, but found nothing but fig leaves. (It wasn’t yet the season for figs.) He addressed the tree: “No one is going to eat fruit from you again—ever!” And his disciples overheard him.

They arrived at Jerusalem. Immediately on entering the Temple Jesus started throwing out everyone who had set up shop there, buying and selling. He kicked over the tables of the bankers and the stalls of the pigeon merchants. He didn’t let anyone even carry a basket through the Temple. And then he taught them, quoting this text:

My house was designated a house of prayer for the nations;

You’ve turned it into a hangout for thieves.

The high priests and religion scholars heard what was going on and plotted how they might get rid of him. They panicked, for the entire crowd was carried away by his teaching.

At evening, Jesus and his disciples left the city.

In the morning, walking along the road, they saw the fig tree, shriveled to a dry stick. Peter, remembering what had happened the previous day, said to him, “Rabbi, look—the fig tree you cursed is shriveled up!”

Jesus was matter-of-fact: “Embrace this God-life. Really embrace it, and nothing will be too much for you. This mountain, for instance: Just say, ‘Go jump in the lake’—no shuffling or shilly-shallying—and it’s as good as done. That’s why I urge you to pray for absolutely everything, ranging from small to large. Include everything as you embrace this God-life, and you’ll get God’s everything. And when you assume the posture of prayer, remember that it’s not all asking. If you have anything against someone, forgive—only then will your heavenly Father be inclined to also wipe your slate clean of sins.”

[His Credentials]

Then when they were back in Jerusalem once again, as they were walking through the Temple, the high priests, religion scholars, and leaders came up and demanded, “Show us your credentials. Who authorized you to speak and act like this?”

Jesus responded, “First let me ask you a question. Answer my question and then I’ll present my credentials. About the baptism of John—who authorized it: heaven or humans? Tell me.”

They were on the spot, and knew it. They pulled back into a huddle and whispered, “If we say ‘heaven,’ he’ll ask us why we didn’t believe John; if we say ‘humans,’ we’ll be up against it with the people because they all hold John up as a prophet.” They decided to concede that round to Jesus. “We don’t know,” they said.

Jesus replied, “Then I won’t answer your question either.”

The Book of Mark, Chapter 11 (The Message)

to be accompanied by inspiration and wisdom from Today’s reading in the Psalms and Proverbs beginning with the lines of Psalm 7:

Song for the Slandered Soul

A passionate song to the Lord

To the tune of “Breaking the Curse of Cush, the Benjamite,” by King David

God! God! I am running to you for dear life;

the chase is wild.

If they catch me, I’m finished:

ripped to shreds by foes fierce as lions,

dragged into the forest and left

unlooked for, unremembered.

God, if I’ve done what they say—

betrayed my friends,

ripped off my enemies—

If my hands are really that dirty,

let them get me, walk all over me,

leave me flat on my face in the dirt.

Stand up, God; pit your holy fury

against my furious enemies.

Wake up, God. My accusers have packed

the courtroom; it’s judgment time.

Take your place on the bench, reach for your gavel,

throw out the false charges against me.

I’m ready, confident in your verdict:

“Innocent.”

Close the book on Evil, God,

but publish your mandate for us.

You get us ready for life:

you probe for our soft spots,

you knock off our rough edges.

And I’m feeling so fit, so safe:

made right, kept right.

God in solemn honor does things right,

but his nerves are sandpapered raw.

Nobody gets by with anything.

God is already in action—

Sword honed on his whetstone,

bow strung, arrow on the string,

Lethal weapons in hand,

each arrow a flaming missile.

Look at that guy!

He had sex with sin,

he’s pregnant with evil.

Oh, look! He’s having

the baby—a Lie-Baby!

See that man shoveling day after day,

digging, then concealing, his man-trap

down that lonely stretch of road?

Go back and look again—you’ll see him in it headfirst,

legs waving in the breeze.

That’s what happens:

mischief backfires;

violence boomerangs.

I’m thanking God, who makes things right.

I’m singing the fame of heaven-high God.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 7 (The Message / The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 46]

God on Our Side

For the Pure and Shining One, by the prophetic singers of Korah’s clan

A poetic song to the melody of “Hidden Things”

God is our shelter and our strength.

When troubles seem near, God is nearer, and He’s ready to help.

So why run and hide?

No fear, no pacing, no biting fingernails.

When the earth spins out of control, we are sure and fearless.

When mountains crumble and the waters run wild, we are sure and fearless.

Even in heavy winds and huge waves,

or as mountains shake, we are sure and fearless.

[pause]

A pure stream flows—never to be cut off—

bringing joy to the city where God makes His home,

the sacred site where the Most High chooses to live.

The True God never sleeps and always resides in the city of joy;

He makes it unstoppable, unshakable.

When it awakes at dawn, the True God has already been at work.

Trouble is on the horizon for the outside nations, not long until kingdoms will fall;

God’s voice thunders and the earth shakes.

You know the Eternal, the Commander of heavenly armies, surrounds us and protects us;

the True God of Jacob is our shelter, close to His heart.

[pause]

Come, gaze, fix your eyes on what the Eternal can do.

Amazing, He has worked desolation here on this battlefield, earth.

God can stop wars anywhere in the world.

He can make scrap of all weapons: snap bows, shatter spears,

and burn shields.

“Be still, be calm, see, and understand I am the True God.

I am honored among all the nations.

I am honored over all the earth.”

You know the Eternal, the Commander of heavenly armies, surrounds us and protects us;

the True God of Jacob is our shelter, close to His heart.

[pause]

The Book of Psalms, Poem 46 (The Voice / The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 11]

Song of the Steadfast

For the Pure and Shining One, by King David

I am already in the soft embrace of the Eternal,

so why do you beckon me to leave, saying,

“Fly like a bird to the mountains.

Look! The wicked approach with bows bent,

sneaking around in the shadows,

setting their arrows against their bowstrings to pierce everyone whose heart is pure.

If the foundations are crumbling,

is there hope for the righteous?”

But the Eternal has not moved; He remains in His holy temple.

He sits squarely on His heavenly throne.

He observes the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve, examining us within and without,

exploring every fiber of our beings.

The Eternal searches the hearts of those who are good,

but He despises all those who can’t get enough of perversion and violence.

If you are evil, He will rain hot lava over your head,

will fill your cup with burning wind and liquid fire to scorch your insides.

The Eternal is right in all His ways;

He cherishes all that is upright.

Those who do what is right in His eyes will see His face.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 11 (The Voice / The Passion Translation)

to be concluded by the starting lines of chapter 7 of the book of Proverbs for november 7:

My son, live according to what I am telling you;

guard my instructions as you would a treasure deep within you.

Stay true to my directives, and they will serve you well;

make my teachings the lens through which you see life.

Bind cords around your fingers to remind you of them;

meditate on them, and you’ll engrave them upon your heart.

Say to Lady Wisdom, “My sister”;

recognize that understanding is your best friend.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 7:1-4 (The Voice)

with the same lines mirrored in The Passion Translation:

Stick close to my instruction, my son,

and follow all my advice.

If you do what I say you will live well.

Guard your life with my revelation-truth,

for my teaching is as precious as your eyesight.

Treasure my instructions, and cherish them within your heart.

Say to wisdom, “I love you,”

and to understanding, “You’re my sweetheart.”

“May the two of you protect me, and may we never be apart!”

my personal reading in the Scriptures for november 7, the 46th day of Autumn and day 311 of the year:

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