#the man in the stovepipe hat

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Analyzing Photographs

Description, reflection, and formal analysis are methods of visual analysis. These methods provide a structure for viewing, analyzing, and writing about photographs.

1. Description

The first step in visual analysis is description.

Describing an image is a useful technique for looking closely at an image and absorbing its details.

Descriptions should remain objective, discussing what can be seen without drawing conclusions about a photograph's meaning.

For Example: when looking at Lincoln on Battlefield of Antietam, Maryland, it would be appropriate to say, "The tall man in the middle is wearing a black suit," but it would be inappropriate to say "The tall man in the middle is dressed as if going to a funeral." This sort of subjective comment should be reserved for the reflection section.

A description can begin anywhere, but generally it is easiest to begin by discussing the subject matter.

Example: a description of this image might begin with the basic statement, "In this image, three men stand in front of a tent."

Once you have stated the subject matter, simply elaborate on what you can see: "The man in the middle is the tallest and is posed with his hands down at his sides, wearing a formal black suit with a bowtie and a tall stovepipe hat. The man to the left is wearing a worn dark suit and a bowler hat. The man to the right is dressed in a military uniform with bright buttons and epaulets. The tent is pitched on a grassy clearing with trees in the background."

2. Reflection

This section should focus on the emotions and interpretations that an image evokes for the viewer.

Different viewers will react to the same image in different ways, so there are no wrong responses.

Knowing the historical context for an image can be very important for constructing reflective responses.

For this image, it is important to know that the Battle of Antietam was one of the most bloody and brutal battles of the Civil War.

Appropriate comments for this type of analysis include the following: "The tone of Lincoln on Battlefield of Antietam, Maryland seems very bleak. The somber facial expressions of the men, coupled with the barren grass and sparse trees give an overall impression of death and dying. There is also a sense of loneliness about the figure of President Lincoln. Although standing next to two men, he seems totally isolated. He is unresponsive to the camera; rather than making eye contact, he stares distantly off into space, increasing the sense of isolation."

3. Formal Analysis

After looking carefully at an image and considering its emotional and interpretive properties, formal analysis is the next step.

Be familiar with the elements and principles of art, which can be used as a guide in your formal analysis.

The "elements of art" are the building blocks for achieving the "principles of art."

A very good place to start formal analysis is by deciding which elements are most strongly represented.

Example: In the Lincoln picture, the very distinct lines and geometric shapes are immediately apparent.

Upon closer inspection, it is clear that these lines and shapes function to frame and to move the viewer's eye towards the central subject, President Lincoln.

For Example, note the way that all of the lines in the image draw the eye toward the figure of the president. The tent forms an inverted "V" shape directly behind Lincoln, while the vertical tent post and tree trunk in the background further elongate Lincoln's already tall figure, clearly emphasizing Lincoln's figure in the composition.

There are other strongly represented elements as well.

Consider the use of contrast in this image: there is a stark contrast between the white of Lincoln's shirt and his black suit, which further draws our attention towards the president's face.

There is also a sense of balance, with the figures standing to either side of the president in similar poses, like mirror images.

[28dayslater]

iconic terror fashion moments

hickey’s short girl in flares slay

fitzjames in the cuntress white coat with the waist cinched

tozer’s big grey depression sack era

every scene where they make matthew mcnulty wear like fifteen jumpers bc they wanted little to look like a big man but cast some scrawny fucker instead

silna’s permanently bloodstained furs

hickey cutting about the arctic in pyjamas a stolen coat and stolen shoes from two separate dead men

sir john’s leg in the stocking and heeled shoe

hickey’s stovepipe hat

irving in the shibari harness angel wings and skirt pissed out of his mind singing his gay little song for the men

collins big jumper

THE ENTIRE MEDICAL DEPARTMENT IN MATCHING CLOWN COSTUMES COMPLETE WITH MAKEUP

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

May's Strip Game

Whispers and Rumors circulate in all manner of conversation today. Talk of the Royal Beth. Another Red and Gold Gala? No, someone clarifies. The Manager, it would seem, is running a publicity event.

[>Go, for the Scandal and Drama of it all.] [>Go, because of... personal investments.] [>Go, for curiosity's sake. ] [>Go, for lack of anything better to do]

[<Perhaps not.]

Red and Brass. You arrive at the Royal Beth, and are directed to a side room by the staff. As they usher you in, you are handed a small, monogrammed notepad, and a sharpened pencil. Several of the staff, you notice, are giggling. Several more are gossiping. You begin to wonder where the Manager is, that he would permit such behavior, and then you see him.

He stands, tall, if not proud, upon a small, raised stage. There are item tags, visibly attached to his articles of clothing. A quiet, papery rustling indicates there are more, hidden from sight. You decide to take a seat, where you can get the most of whatever spectacle he is going to turn himself into. A fundraiser? He wears the expression of someone who made a decision which they are beginning to suspect they will regret. His smile is tighter than usual, and his eyes held wide as more guests swarm into the windowless room.

"Ahem. Esteemed Guests, I have an announcement." His voice sounds as though a quiet whisper from just behind your ear, rather unusual for a speech given to a crowd this large. "Tonight, The Royal Beth will be hosting a campaign to help with the alleviation of certain costly strains. You, the participants, are to," his voice falters, and he moves to hide his hands behind his back, before regaining composure. "You are to vote upon which articles of clothing of mine you wish to remove. Write your number matching the label for the clothing article on your notepad, and Staff will come to collect."

You notice his articles of clothing. The only visible labels at the moment are a #1 upon his Stovepipe Hat, and #2 upon his Frock Coat.

"Voting may begin."

[>Ask about how you are meant to pay]

Is he certain? "No, no, we don't accept your currency here."

The rules of the game: This is a strip game! I'll draw art of the Manager, you pick which article of clothing you want to see removed from this man, and in 24 hours the vote will conclude! I draw him minus that article of clothing, and a new round of voting will commence! I'll let him get pretty naked, but I'll likely be keeping his drawers on, and one or two other things. No color or ink for the first few days because. I still don't have lining pens yet.

Enjoy, Delicious Friends!

{Part Two>} {Part Nine >>>}

[giriduck]

After many years of research, in his quest to obtain unequaled power, Ganondorf finds the legendary Triforce, hidden deep within a parallel plane known as the Sacred Realm.

Upon contact with the sacred artifact, maniacal laugher fills the ruins—but it does not belong to the man who discovered this forgotten resting place.

An eye at the center of the upper Triforce piece pops open. A pair of arms and legs rapidly grow from the body of the golden triangle, while a brick-like texture ripples and then sets across its surface.

With a giggle, the creature snaps its fingers to summon—and then adorn itself with—a little bow-tie and stovepipe hat.

“Ahh. Much better,” the entity sighs with relief, then turns its single eye toward the man who had awakened it from several epochs of imprisonment.

“Well, hello there!” The creature jovially exclaims as they extend a hand out in greeting. “The name’s Bill.”

[cantsayidont]

"So each year, hoping he will return, we set an extra place at dinner...for Superman!"

In 1984, the 400th issue of SUPERMAN presented an oversize issue with a series of vignettes about Superman's future, illustrated by a selection of different artists (including Frank Miller and Jim Steranko, among others) and interspersed with pinups and little essays by artists ranging from Will Eisner to Moebius.

The story itself, mostly written by Elliot S! Maggin, is unusual, since unlike most "Imaginary Stories," it's not interested with Superman's future (whom he marries, whether he has children, etc.), but rather with his eventual transformation into a mythic figure.

The most interesting of the vignettes is this one, drawn and colored by Klaus Janson. The narrative captions aren't always very legible, so I'll transcribe them after each page.

"So did the legend wax and wane and wax some more across the ages until, inevitably, the career of Kal-El, the waif from a lost world, passed from the realm of legend into myth… And in the dawning days of the Sixtieth Century--the memory of Superman has passed from reverence to ritual…"

"Meet Riley Benedix-- Even to 20th-Century eyes Riley's mode of dress would appear eccentric… Worry not--there is an explanation. The hat, of course, is the stovepipe of Abraham Lincoln, who lived soon enough before the great age of heroes to be included among them… The eyes wear the distinctive spectacles of Woodrow Wilson, who made the world safe for democracy… The shirt is that of Superman, greatest of all heroes, who fought for truth, justice, and the American way… Over Riley's back is an Eisenhower jacket, reminiscent of the hero of D-Day… On his feet are the highwater boots of Kuhan Pei-Jing, who slogged through the ricefields of Asian negotiating to head off a Third World War in the 1990's."

"Every year Riley and thousands of other history buffs fly hopelessly outdated spacecraft to Arcturus…to the convention of the 'League of Supermen'--for costume parades, sales of ancient memorabilia, parties, and a bit of unabashed fun… Riley's father never understood fun…"

"We join the Benedix family on a night of the year that is different from all other nights…"

"That is a good question, Superman…which you will answer to your own satisfaction soon enough…but for now you are only relatively sure of where you have been. You learned, again, that when the powers you wield are awesome, then the forces that array themselves against you are likewise--when the pulsing blob of chaotic energy nearly entered a star-system close to Earth's…and threatened, but its presence, to skew the orbits of inhabited worlds… Suddenly, not only was the blob of energy gone--but so was the last son of Krypton!"

"Alone, in pain, he found himself swimming through space like a drowning man looking for a life raft…directing himself more through will and instinct than through consciousness--to the blue-green world that has come to be his home. As, not a hundred yards from where the Man of Steel fell…"

"Soon, the stranger opens his eyes, looks around, and wonders…"

"So young Riley Benedix does continue the story of this festive day for his family…and he is the only one who knows that one of the story's main characters is here at the table with them all! It is a story of the days when America was young…and a child who could change the course of mighty rivers came to Earth--to exemplify all that American had and would come to stand for! Some of the story is accurate…some is clouded by the folds of myth and time--but like art and greatness, it is all true!"

"The young man walks the man from four thousand years ago into the sea-breeze of the night, and… For every Miracle Monday after that one, Riley's family set an extra place as everyone else did…but every year through Riley's old age, the food on Superman's dish mysteriously disappeared during dinner! Of course, everyone thought it was a trick--that Riley always teleported it away…but only Riley knew that sometimes legends live!"

Miracle Monday is a recurring holiday in Maggin's Superman stories, celebrated the third Monday of each May. It's explained in Maggin's 1981 prose novel of the same name, in which Superman beats the Devil (in the form of one C.W. Saturn) with some assistance from a time-traveling 29th century historian named Kristen Wells and an unexpected last-minute save from Lex Luthor (who was a very different character in that era and whom Maggin generally presented in a relatively sympathetic light).

(The cover of the novel tends to imply that it's a novelization of the Christopher Reeve SUPERMAN 2, which it's not, despite the glossy center section with photos from that movie.)

Maggin, who was a regular writer of the Superman comics in the '70s and '80s, later returned Kristen Wells in DC COMICS PRESENTS Annual #2 (1983) and #4 (1985), which make reference to the events of the novel.

In any event, the Benedix family's Miracle Monday celebration is very plainly modeled on a Passover seder, with an empty plate for Superman taking the place of the extra glass of wine poured for the prophet Elijah. It doesn't appear they've left the door open for Superman, but his appearance at the open door is obviously intended to evoke that tradition.

There is a lot of Jewish-coded content in the Superman stories of the Silver Age and Bronze Age (from 1958 to 1986) — a lot more than in the Golden Age, unless you really strain, and MUCH more than in the period following the John Byrne revamp begun in 1986–1987, which pointedly did away with most of that stuff — and this is a particularly clear example. In that respect, it's notable that the Miracle Monday seder is expressly an Earth custom; much of what you can most readily identify as Jewish-coded in these stories is associated with the Kryptonian diaspora.

Regarding the story's narrative coda, it may be worth pointing out that while this story has Superman initially thrown through time by a mysterious space phenomenon, the "pre-Crisis" Silver Age/Bronze Age Superman could fly at superluminal speeds, and was capable of both interstellar travel and time travel under his own power. There were some complicated (and irregularly applied) rules about traveling to time periods in which he already existed, but Superman was capable of simply traveling forward in time and then returning to his own time more or less whenever he felt like it, which is how he was able to perform this little parlor trick for Riley. That was one of the abilities that John Byrne removed in the wake of MAN OF STEEL, in the effort to reduce Superman's powers and try to tie them to a specific set of pseudo-scientific rules.

[ladycamillewrites]

Hi theeeeeeere! 😁💗 For your opening event... Something fluffy with this guy? 🥺

Thank youuuu! 🧡

▪️ Gif drabbles day 2 (≈700 words)

Welcome home

“Lucille?” Thomas' agitated voice echoed through the many old hallways and silently whispering wooden staircases. 

No answer. Not a single noise. 

“She must be in London then” the black haired baronet mused, two slender fingers gripping the brim of his equally obsidian stovepipe hat to swiftly slide it down.

“Darling, come on in” Thomas soothing voice coaxed you to step inside the huge, slightly spooky mansion the Sharpes possessed for generations. It was rustic however, craftsmen were working all around the huge house to renovate. 

“Welcome to Allerdale Hall” he cooed stretching his right arm as he happily presented his home to you, the woman he had been looking for his entire life and was sure would withstand Lucille's twisted nature. 

With widened eyes and a coy smile on your rosy lips you looked around your new home, turning and tilting your body as your mind began to imagine how a touch of you would perfectly suit this historical mansion. 

Thomas arms were fast to embrace your waist in a touch of sentiment, his fingers brushing the fabric of your gown as you continued to turn on the spot. You had naively agreed to move in with him after your hurried love wedding in your father's small country estate. Nevertheless, regret was not what filled your heart when your smile grew broader, Thomas loving chuckle coating your excitement with sweet caramel. 

“Whatever is my gorgeous wife smiling about?” your husband snickered before stopping your spin with his big hands hugging your waist tightly but utmost gently. There way the dark baronet treated you had never been malicious, quite the contrary. He was a true gentleman of old class. 

“I love it here” you panted, overwhelmed by all the ideas and unique inspiration you got from the old mansion. This would be a perfect home, you gut told you so. Even if those rumors about the building being haunted by ghosts were true, they would have to cope with your adjustments of facility.

The thought made you giggle, drawing the lean baronet's rapt attention. Your opinion was all that mattered from now on and he would do everything in his might to change whatever was unpleasing to his perfect wife.

“Really? You do?” Thomas asked, a cute shyness embedded in the low timbre of his voice. Those steel blue orbs you had shamelessly fallen for during the first waltz were looking up at you again, happiness and relief adorning those almond eyes. 

“Of course, Sir Sharpe” you smiled cupping his sharp cheekbones before Thomas pulled you in a loving kiss, caressing your exposed collarbone with a soft thumb, the touch so mildly it was rather a promise than an act. The somewhat intimidating-looking man was a sensual lover and preferred to keep your love live intimate. But of course, the two of you would surely find some privacy in the huge master bedroom Allerdale Hall offered. 

“I love you so much, darling” he murmured between loving kisses, each a testament to his honest feelings towards you. You, the new Lady of his household who would finally free him from Lucille's poisonous influence. 

Your delicate fingers stayed intertwined with some of the raven curls as you parted, the very tall man still bowing to you with affection glistening in his eyes like the diamond of your wedding ring. 

“If you wish we shall set up a garden to grow those flowers you so much adore. The new machine I invented did successfully go under contract with a huge company” Thomas grinned proudly but still subtle, staying true to his calm nature as he told you the good news. The baronet was fond of his inventions, a clever man. 

“A garden would be most delightful, my love” you noted, continuously smiling lips placed a sugary kiss on your husband's alabaster cheek before you slipped from his embrace. Nevertheless, none of you let go of each other's hand as if it there was an invisible bond proving your devotion. 

“My love, allow me to show you around” Thomas purred, his expression happy and relieved as he offered you his suit clad arm. Eyes shone bluer than the clear sky, inviting you to explore this new fascinating life Sir Thomas Sharpe was offering you from the bottom of his heart. 

“Welcome in Allerdale Hall, Lady Sharpe” the maid greeted you respectfully using your new title that truly sounded quite becoming…

Thank you @holdmytesseract ♥︎

Taglist; @holymultiplefandomsbatman @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @mochie85 @muddyorbs @loz-3 @xorpsbane @yukio369 @silverfire475 @lokisgoodgirl @mischief2sarawr @assemblingavenger @vbecker10 @huntress-artemiss

[staring-at-my-keyboard]

Rivalry

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

@torturingpeople and I decided that their Dr. Hanna and the Manager would have a burning rivalry- or, more accurately, Dr. Hanna would have one with the Manager who is simply confused and annoyed- because of the similarities of their hotels. This fic was born from that idea.

Atlas is pretty much perpetually at Nightmares 5+ by the way.

OC intros

POV: Tender Pathologist

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

Angst

Comedy

TWs

⇾ drug mention (laudanum)

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

One late evening– exceptionally late, may I clarify, as the only reason I was not in bed was that sleeping, when not a seizure-induced dreamless unconsciousness, was growing increasingly elusive– Atlas entered the hotel accompanied by someone other than Thomas. I was making my rounds wandering about the shifting halls, refusing to acknowledge the gnawing sense of directionlessness that always accompanied my hours in solitude, when the other caught my eye. 

He was nearly stumbling, his cane now seeming to actually be performing its job, and looked about as exhausted as I felt. As I approached him, my eyes caught onto his appearance in one of the several mirrors peppering every hallway. I am not ashamed to write that I was rather violently startled, as I imagine anyone would be if they looked at someone’s reflection to find there was another accompanying them that was very much not present in the real world. The man just behind Atlas, hand on his shoulder, was tall– even taller than Dr. Hanna. He was also enshrouded in shadow, and I was able to make out little more than a stovepipe hat and glaring carmine coat that reached past his knees.

At my shouted curse Atlas gave a sharp flinch of surprise, before focusing on me and lowering his suddenly-raised guard. 

“What..?” His question trailed off when his eyes tracked to where my own were fixed, but instead of the panic I would have expected he gave a resigned sigh as the reflected man smiled.

Quite unexpectedly (although, what could be expected was indeterminable in that place), the conniving grin turned into something bordering on confusion once he seemed to realize his reflected surroundings. The world, for lack of a better word, blinked, and suddenly Atlas was no longer alone in the hallway before me. The man with him wore an expression of puzzled fascination as he looked around, the hand on Atlas’ shoulder going to adjust his hat, the other wielding a polished cane. The buttons of his double-breasted coat gleamed in the light, and I was oddly drawn to them. As my eyes slowly traced upwards, I found the stranger’s gaze to be boring into me, a smile back on his face.

“Why hello,” His tone was nearly as saccharine as Dr. Hanna’s. “I don’t believe I recognize this place, despite it clearly drawing from my own establishment.”

It took me entirely too long to realize he was referring to the hotel against which Dr. Hanna perceived himself to be in constant competition. It took longer still for me to draw the connection that this was, in fact, the Manager standing before me.

Oh.

Some part of me automatically wanted to call out for Dr. Hanna, but a greater part of me was not in the particular mood to watch someone get eviscerated that evening. Most of me was simply curious, dangerously so, about the character of he who could cause Dr. Hanna such anguish. 

“This is just coincidental, actually.” I said, making a valiant effort to keep my voice from wavering. “And you’d best not let the man who runs it hear you say such a thing.”

“What, the man who sent me this?” The Manager pulled an envelope from some interior pocket, and I immediately recognized the handwriting on the backside. “I would very much like to meet him, actually, to settle this apparent antagonism we share.”

“Do you value your life?” I blurted. 

Out of all the possible reactions to the question, amusement was not one I expected. Nevertheless, the Manager let out an entertained chuckle.

“You clearly do not know who I am.” The voice became something nearly regal in nature, as if spoken by someone that had never been disobeyed nor questioned in a very long while. “Take me to him, this ‘Doctor’ Roland Hanna. I need him to know he shall not be stealing my guests.” The envelope went away before he ran a hand through Atlas’ hair possessively, Atlas seeming to be miles away.

I’m not sure what made me decide that they should meet, nor do I know if I truly thought the Manager could face Dr. Hanna and emerge in possession of all his organs, or if I simply did not care; whatever sentiment seized me in that moment, it led me to guiding the Manager towards Dr. Hanna’s office.

I began rambling, then, and while I do not recall what precisely I talked about I do recall the purpose: distraction. Myself, from what would likely occur. The Manager, from my actions as I gently slipped my arm around Atlas’ own and pulled him away, just slightly. I was not sure of just what the Manager and Atlas apparently shared— only that some wordless, visceral part of me felt Atlas would be far safer out of that orbit, and wanted him to be so.

He did not shy away from my touch but I let go regardless, glad to see he was at least keeping pace as we approached what would certainly spell certain doom for the arrogant man at his side.

“Roland?” I rapped my knuckles against the familiar hardwood, not letting my tone give away the disquiet that had settled in my stomach like a poor meal. “The, ah, the Manager is-“

I could not even finish my sentence before the door was open and eyes bluer than life were piercing into my own. Dr. Hanna’s attention on me was brief, however, for the moment he noticed my company his intense gaze turned to the Manager and became an ill-disguised snarl. His expression smoothed just as fast, and that typical neutral smile with just a hint more malice than usual lifted his pale features. 

“Hello, Manager.”

“I received your letter.”

“Have you, now?” Dr. Hanna exited his office, closing the door behind him before we all migrated to the parlor. “And yet you chose to come all the way here to see me? I am sure I do not need to remind you of what will occur, should you comport yourself in a way superior to your position.”

“Truthfully, I did not come for you, nor this… hotel.” The hesitation before that final word rang out like a gunshot. If the Manager was in any way cowed by the threat, he did not show it; an impressive feat when considering just how graphic Dr. Hanna could be in life, let alone on paper. “I was merely following a rather loyal guest of mine, and was intrigued enough by this place’s appearance to show myself. Your letter only came to mind when I realized where we were.”

“I see.” Dr. Hanna’s speech shifted from clipped to something cloying. “Is that your view of loyal, someone who frequents an establishment other than your own more and more often, leading you to follow like a dog in order to find just what has drawn them from you? Feel free to look around, if you are curious about what constitutes a superior institution.”

The Manager’s eye twitched.

“You do realize my own hotel is viewed as the height of luxury?”

“Of course; I have only just arrived.” Dr. Hanna’s gaze briefly flicked to Atlas. “And I cannot imagine anyone of sense putting much stock in the reviews of madmen— who, as I have come to understand, make up the bulk of your ‘guests’.”

The Manager grinned, not kindly. “There is a reason I collect the mad, and there is a reason I am in tune with the power of mirrors. It must be terribly dull, chaining yourself to convention.”

“Convention? My hotel has infinite rooms, and rather than resorting to cheap trickery of glass or collecting those already slipping from sanity, I myself harm and mold them to my desires.”

The proceeding minutes are ones I do not care to relay, as they were merely the continuation of petty jabs in the same spirit of what I have recorded here. Eventually I had begun to tune out of what was shaping up to be the verbal equivalent of children battling with sticks, realizing that I may not have to witness murder after all; both parties would be far too distracted to take actual action against each other. Dr. Hanna clearly had no need of me— he was not even sparing a glance in my direction (and causing an inexplicable bitterness to tinge the back of my tongue), fully engrossed in tailoring his next words to simultaneously praise this hotel and insult the Manager, who seemed to be doing much the same. 

Deciding that I would not stand idle, and a part of my mind still buzzing with vague worry for the fourth person in our entourage, I turned to Atlas and lightly tapped his shoulder. Seeming to come out of a reverie, he met my gaze questioningly. I cocked my head in the direction of one of the branching halls, earning a nod, and the pair of us set off to escape our respective captors by wandering through our shared insomnia.

“Are you alright?” I asked after a period of silence, Dr. Hanna and the Manager having long faded out of earshot.

“I am, thank you.” Atlas twined his fingers together. “This is far from the first time I have been stalked through mirrors, and it will certainly be far from the last.”

“You assume he’ll live after encountering Ro- Dr. Hanna. Surely you’ve noticed how much Dr. Hanna hates the Manager.”

“Ah. That would explain the rather, hm, disproportionate amount of offense he takes during my less… lucid moments, when I am under the assumption we are in the Royal Beth.”

I hummed, and before I could entirely think through my words my curiosity got the better of me. “How often does it happen, that you slip into delusion? Is it simply due to being reminded of your days under the Manager’s care?”

The moment I asked I wanted to take it back, sure that questions with that level of impertinence hardly served to evolve what I was increasingly hoping to become a sort of friendship. After a slight wince at my own speech I dared to look up at Atlas, who seemed more bewildered than offended, but I could not bring myself to take the questions back. My curiosity is a fierce thing, as it always has been. Fortunately, Atlas was not unwilling to be forthcoming.

“My mind is not what it was, before coming to the Neath.” He was no longer looking at me, instead staring fixedly ahead of him. His fingers were still twisting around each other with what could have been agitation or simply an idle movement of habit. “Even disregarding the persistent nightmares, at some point I simply lost my ability to remain consistently present.” He looked around.

“It is true that this decor does little to help matters.”

I nodded, not sure what else to do. I could sympathize, in a way, with winding up in a situation that seemed to spell certain doom for what once was, if not for the mind as a whole. Something bubbled up in my chest, and I did not like the idea of demanding something of the person by my side without giving anything in return.

“There is a reason that I stare into space on occasion.”

Atlas looked at me with a startled blink, before silent curiosity trumped the confusion written across his features.

“Absence seizures. I am not what I used to be, either.”

Curiosity became sympathy, or perhaps empathy; I could never tell, but with what Atlas would later admit to me I believe it is safe to assume the latter.

Wordlessly, and to my great surprise, they took my hand. I offered a smile, and we continued our maundering journey in a weighty, but companionable, silence.

୨⎯✎✎⎯୧

I have a prequel to this sitting in my docs, I’m not sure if I’ll post it but this works on its own.

[foundtherightwords]

Love in a Storm - Chapter 2

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham (Regency AU)

Summary: A devastating loss threatens the happy marriage of Edward and Christine Munson, Lord and Lady Hurtsfield. However, when Edward is accused of a crime he didn't commit, Christine has to set her grief aside and embark on a perilous journey to prove her husband's innocence.

Warnings: childbirth, stillbirth, infertility, angst, false accusation, wrongful imprisonment, legal drama, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter warnings: period-typical attitudes toward women and infertility, some awkward sex

Chapter word count: 3.4k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

London, February 1820

"Your ladyship, please come inside. It's snowing."

Christine was startled by the maid's voice. She looked down and saw that, indeed, snowflakes were sprinkling over her hands as well as the rose bushes and the shears she was using to prune them. They melted almost as soon as they touched her skin. She put the shears away, gathered her shawl more closely around her, and went into the warmth of the drawing room.

"Is his lordship back yet?" she asked the maid.

"No, ma'am. He said he'd meet you at the doctor's."

Christine sighed. They were due to meet a sterility specialist that afternoon, one of the many they had consulted over the last eight months. They had tried every herbal remedy, every tonic, every tincture available. They had gone to Bath to take the water and to Brighton to try sea-bathing, and finally, at Dr. Sinclair's recommendation, they had gone to London and visited physician after physician, listening to their treatises on uterine scarring and defects and imbalance, being subjected to one uncomfortable interview after another, filled with indelicate questions and even more indelicate examinations. She doubted this one would be any different. She knew Edward only accompanied her out of love; he had no faith in these doctors, whom he deemed to be greedy quacks trying to make money from others' unhappiness and desperation. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to see another one, especially one who demanded that they came to him, instead of allowing them to consult him in the privacy of their own home.

At least they could afford the privacy. Christine smiled mockingly to herself when she imagined what her mother would think about having a parade of doctors in and out of her house. But a year ago, during a trip to Naples with her friend Lady Harrington, Mrs. Connyngham had, against all odds, caught the eye of an Italian man. He was untitled but wealthy enough and seemed to dote on her, which greatly made up for any lack of peerage in Mrs. Connyngham's eyes. She had decided to make Naples her permanent home, giving Edward and Christine the use of her townhouse in Hanover Square. Though, to be fair, the house was in Edward's name, considering he had been paying its rent. Still, Christine's relationship with her mother had improved a great deal now that there were over a thousand miles between them.

Later, as the cab rattled toward the specialist's office, Christine couldn't help feeling slightly hurt that Edward wasn't there to accompany her. London had been in chaos since the passing of the late king just two weeks before, and there was a sense of unease on the damp, foggy streets. There seemed to be more police officers mingling about, recognizable by their red waistcoats and tall stovepipe hats. A group of laborers congregating on the curb was roughly broken up by a constable. There was hostility and fear on people's faces, and the usual noises of the city had a threatening note to them.

Christine sighed again and wished she hadn't let Edward convince her to stay in London. In the immediate days after the loss of their son, they had found comfort in grieving with each other, but in the months that followed, the comfort wore off. It became painful to be around each other and be reminded of what they could have had. So Edward had started going out more, focusing more on his charity work. Christine had encouraged it at first, thinking it would benefit him to find other things to engage his time, knowing she was not the best company when melancholy had her in its grips. That was when he decided to spend the summer in London. It would be more convenient for them to seek treatment and allow him to become more involved with reform efforts. For a while, he seemed to have found a new sense of purpose, brimming with ideas, looking as excited as he had back when he'd just started the school in their village, in the early days of their marriage.

Then the riot in Manchester, labeled "the Peterloo massacre" by newspapers for its bloody conclusion, occurred, followed shortly by the passing of the Six Acts. Christine, who did not follow politics at all, was alarmed the day Edward came home with a thunderous expression, some newspaper clutched in his hand. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

"This," he said, tossing the paper onto the table. The headline "SIX ACTS PASSED" jumped out at her, followed by the cartoon of a chained and gagged man wearing tattered clothes. She picked it up and scanned the article. 

"Read the third one, the Seditious Meetings Act," Edward told her.

"Any parties wishing to meet for consideration of subjects connected with church or state should notify their intention by a requisition signed by seven householders, and it should be illegal for any person not usually inhabiting the place where it was called, to attend," Christine read. "Every meeting for radical reform is an overt act of treasonable conspiracy against the King and his government." She looked up at Edward. "What does this mean?"

"It means we are losing our freedom," Edward said grimly.

His mood had changed after that. On the rare occasion that she accompanied him to the drawing rooms of the Hargrove sisters and their friends, Christine could hear him ranting and raving against the Six Acts to everyone and anyone that would listen. And he still went to meetings, despite the harsh law now restricting them. Just that morning, he had gone to meet with the Hargrove sisters to discuss the organization of a free day school in Whitechapel. Christine had nothing against Miss Beatrice and Miss Minerva Hargrove, though she had found them rather intimidating upon first meeting. In their fifties, they had seen too much of the world to care what others thought of them, and quietly but undauntedly, they went about making changes wherever they could, regardless of the law. Christine knew it was unfair and unjust that their charity work, aimed solely at bettering the lives of less fortunate women and children, could now be seen as seditious. She was even glad that Edward had found solace in working with them, whereas she herself couldn't. She merely wished he didn't have to endanger himself while doing so.

She knew this was selfish of her and felt ashamed. There were others who had been through much greater tragedies than the loss of a child, and yet others whose loss of a child had been much more tragic than hers - just look at the Hoppers, whose only son was cut down in his prime in a senseless war. And her husband was out there, helping them. If only he could find a way to help her as well...

***

Christine was ushered into the specialist's consulting room by a maid. The specialist, Dr. Brenner, with his pure silver hair, black eyebrows, and unlined face, looked more like a stage actor than a physician. He glanced at her card and stood up to greet her with a little condescending smile, and Christine immediately knew this would turn out to be another humiliating experience.

"Will Lord Hurstfield be joining us, your ladyship?" he asked.

"I hope so," Christine replied, though without conviction.

"His lordship has been busy, I've heard," Brenner said, smiling thinly. Christine's irritation rose, though she didn't know if it was with the specialist or Edward. Edward had always been vocal about his beliefs, but sometimes, he could be too vocal. He forgot that for all of its largeness and its crowds, London society could feel like a small town, tight-knit and full of gossip. For once, she was glad Edward was not with her. He would not hold his tongue in front of this man.

"My husband's charity work is very important to him," she said.

"Shall we wait for him then?"

"I don't see why, unless you wish to examine as well," Christine said, keeping her voice even. The specialist's smile wavered slightly.

"I can assure you, your ladyship, there is no need for a physical examination," he said. "I do not subscribe to the newfangled, and frankly immoral, notion of some of my colleagues that they need to be intimately familiar with a patient's body to treat them." Then how do you expect to know what's ailing them? Christine thought but said nothing. "These notes from your personal physician will suffice."

He looked over the notes from Dr. Sinclair with a theatrical air, and regarded Christine for a long moment. "I do believe, your ladyship, that your struggle to conceive has less to do with physical issues and more with mental ones," he announced.

"Oh?" She had heard that before.

"The scarring from your stillbirth, as described by your personal physician, should heal by now. And if there is no problem in your marital relations—"

"There isn't," Christine said, her face turning pink. And it was true, at least in the physical sense, though it had taken them months to be intimate again. But she wasn't going to tell this pompous little man that.

"Well, then, it is as I suspect," Brenner said, putting Dr. Sinclair's notes aside. "It appears you are prone to melancholy and hysteria."

Christine knew Dr. Sinclair's notes didn't say that. What they did say, however, was that she had once had a brush with death after ingesting arsenic in a moment of despair and madness. Brenner had simply drawn his own conclusion from that.

"You often take long walks or go horse-riding, do you not?" he asked. It was the first question he'd asked her.

"I thought exercises were good for one's health," Christine said, confused.

"But such restless activity, my lady, is detrimental to your ability to conceive. I can prescribe you some calming tonic, but it is essential that you stay away from any sort of excitement. Keep to your home and your feminine roles."

Christine was losing her patience now. "I am here for your medical advice, doctor," she said, "not to have you tell me how to live my life."

"This is my medical advice. It is well known that a woman's neglect of her calling goes hand in hand with sterility. All those women, running around in the name of good causes and demanding equal rights, willfully rejecting their duties..."

"What duties?" she asked, raising her voice. "How could I fulfill them if I have no child to raise, to care for?"

"You have your husband, and it appears he is more interested in helping other women than helping his own wife," Brenner said coldly.

Christine stared at him, too angry to speak. Finally, she stood up. "I think it is you that are neglecting your duties, doctor. You are not my spiritual guidance, or my father, or my brother. Your duties are to treat my physical ailments. If you refuse to do so, then I must take my business elsewhere. Good day."

She turned on her heel and almost ran into Edward, who burst in at that very moment, his hair wild, his cravat askew, followed by the flustered-looking maid. "Apologies for my late arrival," he said. "What's happened?" he asked, looking from Christine's furious face to Brenner's indignant one.

"Nothing. We are leaving," Christine said, pulling him along.

***

It was only when they were in the relative privacy of the hackney cab that Christine unleashed her fury on Edward. "Where were you?!" she hissed.

"I'm so sorry. The meeting ran later than I thought..."

"I've never been so humiliated in my life!"

"What did he say to you?"

"He didn't ask me a thing. He simply decided, after one look at me, that he knew all about me, all about our life. He blamed me for being restless, for not keeping you at home so you could impregnate me—"

"He what?!"

"Not in so many words, but the implication was clear."

"Of all the impertinent—"

Edward half-rose from his seat to stop the cab, but Christine pushed him back. "What are you intending to do, challenge him to a duel for insulting me?" she said, exasperated. Edward opened his mouth to speak, then decided against it and sat down apologetically.

Suddenly Christine felt as if all her strength was drained out of her. She slumped against her husband. He wrapped his arm around her, and she snuggled closer to him. "I'm tired of it, Edward," she said. "Tired of doctors and their probing and prodding, tired of all the medicines and potions. Let us go home."

Edward didn't answer, and she glanced up at him. He was looking out the cab's window, his brow furrowed in thoughts. "Edward?"

He turned back to her with a quick smile. "Yes, dear?"

Suspicion immediately reared its head in Christine's mind. Edward never called her dear, except when he had something to hide. But she knew better than to ask. He would always tell her of his own volition in a day or two.

"Let us go home," she repeated.

"We are going home."

"No, I mean home to Yorkshire. To Hurstfield."

His face was unchanged, but the arm around her shoulder stiffened slightly.

"I know you still have a lot of work here," she said. "But we can go home, can't we?"

"Of course. Give me a week or so to make sure the school is set up and the Misses Hargrove can continue without me, and we'll go home."

"Thank you," Christine said and leaned back against him. But his arm remained rigid, and he kept his eyes out the window.

***

Edward remained distracted over dinner. Though she tried not to let Dr. Brenner's judgmental words affect her, Christine couldn't stop herself from mulling over them as she watched Edward across the table. He did look more wearied than she'd remember, his hair tangled, his eyes dimmed and sunken, and she felt a pang in her heart. Had she been too focused on her own grief and neglecting her husband's?

Later, she found him in the study, going over their account books. Back in Yorkshire, where the estate was much more vast and difficult to run, the accounts were the domain of Edward and his steward, but here in London, he left the running of the household to Christine, so she was surprised to find him looking at them. "What are you looking for?" she asked, eager to be of help.

Edward jumped and hastened to put the book down. "Oh, uh, nothing in particular. Just want to make sure the accounts are in order before we go home, that's all."

"I can do that, you know."

"Yes, but you've had a trying day."

Christine lingered by the desk, rearranging the already neat papers and quills and inkstand. "Edward, what would happen if we could never have another child?" eventually she asked.

Edward gazed at her for a moment, then reached for her hand and pulled her down on his lap. "We've been over this matter before, Christine," he said. "It is of no importance to me."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his chest. How comfortable and safe it was to sit like this, in his arms and with his lips on her hair. If only that was enough to chase away all the pain and the doubt. "But what about your inheritance?" she asked. They had gotten married so that Edward could inherit from his great aunt, whose will stipulated that he must have a wife and produce an heir.

"I rather hope that you would want to have children with me because you're madly in love with me, not because you're worried about the inheritance," Edward said, glancing down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. But upon seeing Christine's beseeching look, he sobered up. "I'd give it back, if it came to that," he said.

She was stunned. "You would?"

"Yes. Hurstfield is prosperous now, we can afford it." He kissed her forehead. "I married you for you, remember?"

"I thought you married me to secure your inheritance," she teased.

"Well, that was a nice bonus too." He smiled, sliding his lips down her cheek to her mouth, and for a moment, while she kissed him back, it was as if nothing had changed between them. Then the kiss became more pressing, more eager, and his hand started moving under her wrap, under her nightgown, and Christine tensed up, not from anticipation, but apprehension. Though it had been nearly two years, she still remembered the pain all too well - the pain in her body, and the pain in her heart. Involuntarily, she turned her head to the side.

"Is—is everything all right?" Edward asked.

"Everything is fine," she said, reaching up to caress his face. "Let us go to bed."

He leaned down to kiss her again. Then, putting his arms under her, he picked her up and carried her to their bedroom, his lips never leaving hers. As he put her down on the bed, she forced herself to focus on the kiss, on him, his soft lips, his hair entwined in her fingers, his familiar smell, his warm hands touching her in all the places he knew she liked. But her mind kept wandering. Every time they made love now, she both hoped and feared it might result in a child. Perhaps it would this time, this time, or this time. But what if it did result in a child? Could she carry that child to term? What if the child died as well? Could they face that pain once more?

She tried not to flinch when he slid into her, but Edward must have noticed and paused. "Are you—" he said, his face wavering above hers. "We don't have to—if you're not..."

"No." As much as she feared a pregnancy, her desire for it was stronger. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Don't stop." They couldn't afford to stop.

She kissed him, trying to sweeten the act, but it didn't help much. She wasn't sure if this could be called lovemaking. There was something mechanical about it, two people having become so familiar with each other that there was no longer any newness or excitement to their touches. Before, she had taken comfort in that familiarity. Now it felt almost... dreary.

A coolness on her skin lifted her out of her reverie, and she realized Edward had withdrawn from her. She didn't even know when he had finished. Now he was sitting up, looking at her. The flickering flame of the candle kept his face half in shadow, so she couldn't fully make out his expression. There was sadness there, and something else too. Guilt? Disappointment? With her or with himself? She couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He brushed his lips over her temple, before blowing out the candle and lying down with his back to her.

***

When Christine's breath had steadied, Edward gently turned around so he could watch her in her sleep. She looked so fragile, with her hands inert on the counterpane, the bruised lids covering her eyes, the fine lines of pain etched on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes like cobwebs, lines that a thousand kisses and touches could never erase. There was so much he wished he could tell her, so much he wanted to share with her. It had been on the tip of his tongue when they left the specialist's office, but then he had seen the way she'd covered her pale face, the way her hands had shaken with futile rage and exhaustion, and the words had died before they could reach his lips. He had always prided himself on being truthful in his marriage, but this was one truth he couldn't burden her with. She had been through enough. No. This trouble was his to bear alone, and bear it he would.

Chapter 3

A/N: No, this Dr. Brenner is not the same Brenner in canon. Some other ST characters (or, rather, their Regency equivalents) are going to show up later, but in this case, I just ran out of names :))

[tessellated-sunl1ght]

Fallen London sketchdump part 1 out of ????

I’ve been drawing for this game nonstop for days now o_o

[Image Description: a series of 4 pencil drawings.

The bottom right is a shaded, shoulders-up drawing of my character Atlas, a masculine-leaning black person who is slightly hunched over and staring forward at the viewer. His hair is done in locs that are lightly pulled back, with some strands hanging down over his face. He is wearing a suit with a waistcoat and bolo tie around a winged collar. He has a slight, stricken smile on his face and his pupils are jagged. He is saying “I SEEK THE NAME”.

The bottom left is a loose full-body sketch of Atlas with his knees drawn up and his arms resting over his knees, one hand gripping the other wrist. He is wearing a horizontally-striped prison uniform and has manacles around his wrists and ankles. His hair is messy and undone. He is looking forward and slightly to the viewer’s right at someone sat in front of him with the same uniform and combed hair, faced away from the viewer and leaning sideways, saying “we’ve been here long enough”.

The upper left is a sketch of the upper left quarter of the torso of someone in a suit. A carnation is pinned to the lapel.

The upper right is a shaded, shoulders-up drawing of Atlas faced away from the viewer and staring into a mirror. His locs are done in a beat top bun and he is wearing a shirt and waistcoat, with a bolo tie around the stiff collar. His reflection, facing the viewer, is looking worriedly to his left, where a widely-grinning man in a suit and stovepipe hat only seen in the reflection is leaning over his shoulder. The man’s eyes are hidden and his hand is snaking over Atlas’ other shoulder. End description.]

(I hope my description was up to par)

[morgana-ren]

https://www.instagram.com/p/C0rX6RIBuZH/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

Wanted to share the pic but also ask about fashion for your ocs! What's their style like??

Lmao the shirtless vests always get us. That and the tattoos. I am a fiend for tattoos, I will tell you that.

Alright, this is as good as a time as any to say that Nighty dearest (Nightmare) for various lore reasons, has changed his name. He is Corvus now. It fits him for a lot of really long and convoluted reasons but anyway, when you see me referring to Corvus I am referring to he who was Nightmare. I am trying to get the hang of it, please help me not confuse myself.

So, Reaver wears his typical rich people shit, fine satins and suits, but worse. Imagine the gaudiest shit you've ever seen, and add a huge stovepipe hat onto it. He's got the long double-buttoned coat, with the silk shirt, the vest with his dumbass insignia, the stupid gold pocket watch, all of it. He tends to dress somewhat monochromatically, preferring white and black, but he will sometimes dip into red and brown for accent shirts. He dresses very similar to how he does in canon, but with a little modern flair. He gets made fun of the most ny the others, but he does not care. He thinks he looks impeccable, and the fashion magazines are inclined to agree (or they'd be bought out, gutted, and their editor killed.)

He prefers his hair pitch black, gelled and cut clean, a bit longer in the front with a coif. It fits perfectly under his stupid hat. his bang slops down on his face when he sleeps and it reaches his chin and it's very funny. He's very clean cut, no beard, no mustache. How could you see his handsome jaw line if he had a mustache? (His words, not mine.) Don't forget the heart he has tattooed on his cheek.

Astarion tends to dress very similar to how he does normally. He prefers the finer things, but he's not gaudy like Reaver is. Occasionally Corvus and Reaver will dog on him for dressing in 'ye olde doublets' but eventually it got to him and he stopped wearing them as much (he still thinks they're fashionable and comfortable though.) Think his camp white shirt, tight pants, and high boots. Usually he's fairly casual, but always fashionable in the way you'd expect a vampire lord to be. He is partial to Corvus's clothes and that means leather. If he's going fancy, he might borrow a thing or two from the other lads, but mostly, he's very relaxed, so formal gear is different. Not quite as slutty as Corvus is, but still very suggestive vampy clothes.

Astarion keeps his hair mostly the same, but is open and partial to trying new styles. Same silvery hair, same elaborate styles. Clean cut as well. It looks longer than you'd think when it's wet or unstyled.

Corvus dresses like a prostitute started dressing like a pirate that started to buy into the act. Flowing, deep, revealing shirts, pants that are so tight that it's amazing he can move, velvet outer coats with filigree and intricate designs, and huge hats with feathers when he's feeling fancy. This man will call you a slut while you can see his whole ass chest and every curve and outline of his lower body. He does the 'whore' thing with his rapier-- you know, when you limply rest your hand on the hilt. He's willowy and tall, and he dresses like every pirate captain you've ever seen if every pirate captain was an unaware whore. Loves leather pants, and gets them custom with the tail slot for him. Loves loose, flowy shirts that bare his entire fucking upper body. Linen pants. You know, pirate boy shit-- if every pirate was a gigantic whore. He will dress in the finest he can when he wants to, but the lads and their formal gear are a bit different than their 'lounging about' outfits.

He'll have his silver hair back and braided with a lovely little matching ribbon, usually. Or just put into a low ponytail. He keeps his hair longer than Reaver and Asto, but not necessarily long. He's usually clean cut facial hair wise, unless it's one of those aus where he is just so exhausted that he cannot be assed to shave.

Ilya hasn't aged a day mentally since he turned 36. He prefers expensive long silk robes with metal cuffs and accents. This man dresses elaborately even when he's just sitting around the house doing nothing. He has one in every color. Sashes in every color. Jewelry in every color. He has special battle robes that offer a bit more protection. Just fucking robes and loose pants. When he's lounging lavishly, he'll just leave it open with his bare chest, because he's just like that. He has his hat in a multitude of colors. He has a huge closet with robes of all kinds. Bell sleeves. Regular sleeves. Sleeves with hidden compartments. Satin robes. Silk robes. Velvet robes. Robes that trail for six fucking feet behind him. He doesn't like jackets and shirts. When he goes in public, he will pretend to be a foreign dignitary. You will never see this man in one of Reaver's outfits. He's partial to leather pants because he likes the look, but mostly, it's his dumbass robes.

Ilya keeps his dark hair long. Very long. Waist to hip area usually. Brushed meticulously every day, cared for impeccably. Braided and pinned and kept beneath his hat when he's going out. Put into a bun or a braid or a low pony tail when he is at home or training. He will keep it loose sometimes, but it just depends. If you're trying to grow your hair out, you are going to hate seeing this man every goddamn day with his immaculate locks. Long and thick and slightly wavy and full. He's an asshole.

[hannahmationstudios]

For the ask game! 🪲🎨🧩

Thank you my love! :> ❤️❤️

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

Thank you for actually forcing me to sit down and write, haha! More than 50, but most recently added to my RDR2 WIP:

He could not help noticing, looking at him now, that the man was too well dressed to be out here in the middle of nowhere – his clothes were immaculately pressed, with not a single grass stain or speck of dirt on his starched collar and cuffs.  His shoes were freshly shined, his stovepipe hat freshly brushed, his buttons polished and gleaming in the firelight, and as Arthur turned his gaze up again, he found the Strange Man’s steel-black eyes already staring back at him across the campfire.  There was an inhuman hollowness to his gaze, Arthur noted – an eerie void into which only darkness reflected – and he felt a sudden shudder run up his arms, his chest tightening like his ribs were closing in around his heart like a cage.

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

I honestly don't know that I can pick one right now. There are so many wonderful pieces out there that have inspired me in so many different ways. We're so blessed to live in a world where so much beautiful art exists that I can't even pick a favourite, haha.

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

Giant walls of text with little or no grammatical editing, stories with multiple characters speaking in the same paragraph, or anything written in script format (X: blah blah Y: blah blah).

Answering asks from this fic ask game here!

[sixty-silver-wishes]

For the Caligari fanfic ideas, maybe Jane’s thoughts after she runs from the tent/before Alan’s funeral or maybe Cesare doing the fortune telling act (it could be anyone’s question, not just Alan’s) from his POV?

yk what? you'll get both :) first one is here, and I'll do the second one tomorrow!

-

"Are you all right?" Francis asked, holding his hat in his hands. "What-?" Jane startled, looking up. She breathed, wringing her long hair between her fingers. "Oh. I'm- I'm fine; I just-" "I know," Francis said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. "I'm not ready to go either; I don't think I ever could be. He was- he was everything to me, and..." He blinked back tears. "I'm going to find whoever did it. Tonight, after the funeral, I'm going back to the fairgrounds, and I'm not leaving until-" "Don't!" Jane gasped, louder than she'd intended to. "Please, don't go back there."

"And why not? I know that- that man has something to do with it; I just need proof." "Francis, you really shouldn't. Please."

"Our best friend was murdered. I don't care what may happen to me; I'm going to avenge him if it's the last thing I do."

She straightened her back. "But I care about what could happen to you," she said. "You're my only true friend left. My father is handling the case; we've already done everything we can to help. I miss Alan too, but if I lose you..." "You're not going to lose me," he said, and reached for her hands, when she flinched away.

"Oh- I'm sorry," he said, drawing back. "No, no," she apologized. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- I don't know what just came over me..." But she did know. She knew why his touch suddenly frightened her, despite how much she trusted him. She knew the look the old man in the tent had given her; she'd seen it in the eyes of too many men in town before. When he leered at her from underneath the brim of his stovepipe hat, all his yellow teeth bared in a crooked crescent moon, she noticed how the saliva dripped from his lips like that of a wolf eyeing an unsuspecting hare. His theatrical gestures and showman's inflections barely disguised his ravenous intent, his wandering gaze leaving her feeling exposed, despite the heavy shawl over her modest dress. But even worse than him was the thing in the cabinet- it was so gaunt and pale, she thought it was a corpse at first. And yet, it wasn't its skeletal frame, or its spiderlike fingers, or even its piercing eyes that haunted her, but the way it had been propped up in the box like a mannequin in a display window, presented to her with a flourish of its master's hand. A frozen scream was trapped within its eyes, and she knew that the wretched creature, too, had been goggled at, paraded about and sewn up into silence. It was her greatest fear made manifest, suspended between life and death for all to see. "Jane?" Francis said, snapping her out of her thoughts. "Y-yes," she answered, still halfway in a daze. "I was listening." "Something's wrong," he narrowed his eyes, "isn't it? You don't look too good, and you haven't been acting like yourself. I know what happened to Alan is hard for both of us, but I'm getting worried about you." "I'm fine," she lied. "Where were you today?" "I was... I was preparing to go into mourning," she said, feeling her stomach twist with shame. "As is customary." She wanted to tell him where she'd been, but couldn't. If he found out what had happened, he'd only want to go back, and she wouldn't let him do that. And how would he feel if he'd known she had gone out on an investigation of her own? He'd want to protect her, she knew. To him, she was made of porcelain and silver threads, far too beloved to break. "I know you're scared," Francis said. "I'm scared too. I don't want to see the priest, or any of the people there, or the coffin- oh God, he's going to be in a coffin," he choked.

Jane stayed silent, afraid that if she said anything, she too would start crying. "We... we don't want to be late," Francis continued, wiping his eyes. "We're supposed to read some of his poetry there, remember?" "He would... he would like that a lot," Jane managed. "You're right," Francis nodded. He offered her his arm. "You- you don't have to take it if you don't want to. I understand." She reached out a shaking hand before taking it, and raised her other hand, suddenly remembering Alan wasn't standing on her left. They were never going to walk home together like that again, with her arms intertwined with both of theirs as they talked and laughed and never once considered the impossibility of forever. Alan would never again write another poem, or still her anxious nerves with his earnest optimism. There was an emptiness by her side, an imbalance that she could sense. The entire universe was off course, because Alan wasn't supposed to die.

As she and Francis walked towards the cemetery, it felt as if the sun itself had been murdered before its time, red-hot blood forever trickling from the fatal wound.

[pennylaneblue]

Chapter 1. The Rainbow

"We have been waiting for too long, you know..."

The lights of the city were brimming, looking like tiny stars as they both loomed over them at the lookout.

Zephyr took a drag of her cigarette, the tip of it barely hanging on as she stuttered "Plus it's fucking cold man... how much longer do we need to wait?"

She didn't even turn to look at her friend. It was fucking cold, but Zephyr had been complaining non stop for the past 15 minutes. "He said he will be here soon" was her stern response. "It's only been a couple of minutes. You need to chill."

Zephyr stood up from her improvised rock chair. "I should have brought a coat"

"Yeah you should have".

"Well I thought that by now we would be getting smashed at the Rainbow '' she said glaring at her as she rubbed the top of her legs, barely covered by her shimmering pantyhouse. "It's always the same with Anthony, if he couldn't pick us up he should have just said so''.

As soon as she mentioned his name, almost as if she were invoking him, the two girls saw a pair of headlights speeding up the dark hill. Loud music blasting through the broken speakers. The red car drove up to their spot, and a dirty blonde haired man got out. He was wearing a ridiculous hat.

"Ladies" he said with a smirk.

"You're late" The black-haired girl said, rushing to get into the backseat.

"Only by a little" he dismissed Zephyr with his hand. And then he turned to look other girl. "So Jenn, what do you think?" He raised his eyebrows as if signaling the hat on his head.

"I should give Slash a call and tell him you stole his hat" she teased him slightly, also walking towards the car and opening the passenger door.

"As if he wants anything to do with you after the incident at the Riot house last year" he said getting back into the driver seat. "And I'll have you know that Slash's top hat it's a Homburg, and this beauty here is called a Stovepipe.. it's a common mistake".

He backed the car into the curve, the low bass of the random rap song still wreaking havoc on the speakers. Jennifer glared at him as she turned the volume down, "I can't hear shit in here" she muttered.

"Sorry mom" Anthony rolled his eyes as he sped down the Hollywood hill, his long hair flowing with the wind. "So how did you two end up here, huh?" and then he added "Maybe I should start charging you for gas money..."

"Maybe we should charge you for rent for all of those years you were bumming out on our couch." Zephyr said, sticking her head between the front seats. "Plus is noneya"

"Noneya?"

"None of your damn business" she stuck out her tongue.

Jennifer smiled as she remembered the unremarkable story of how they got stranded in the hills after their weed contact fell through. But she knew Zephyr wanted to play it up a bit to get his nosey ass upset. "You would kill us if you knew," she added, pretending to be concerned.

"Nah I ain't falling for it, you idiots are messing with me again. You probably just got kicked out of some random's mansion after Zephyr stole their coke"

"That's oddly specific... are you speaking from past experience Ant?" Zephyr leaned back into her seat, and rolled down the window as she lid up another cigarette. They were now entering the city, the lights now looming over them.

Anthony ignored her, he glanced towards his right side. "So Jenn, have you talked to Blackbyrd lately? I have been getting some concerning calls, something about burning down my house" He was trying to laugh it off "Was hoping you could put in a good word for me, pretty please?"

"I don't know dude... I heard he was pretty pissed after you guys let him go" Jennifer added while she touched up her makeup in the mirror. "I haven't really seen him since last year, and wasn't planning on it actually..." He looked a bit concerned, so she gave him a friendly smile and added "But I'll ask Debbie to get him to chill.. you shouldn't worry too much".

"Nah I aint worried" He said trying to look nonchalant "I have better things to worry about."

"What about that new guitarist DH brought? What's his name again?" Zephyr asked, and she looked as if she were already drunk, laying down on the back seat and smoking her cigarette.

But Anthony didn't get to answer as at that moment they almost ran into a garbage truck. Anthony hit the brakes so quick and strong that Zephyr was thrown into the air, and Jennifer felt her friend's head slamming against the back of her seat. "Fuck" she exclaimed massaging her forehead "I almost swallowed this shit". She threw the crushed cigarette into the car's ashtray.

"Should have worn a seat bell" Jennifer smirked at her.

"Man, Anthony is right, you really are acting like a mom lately, did you have a secret kid or something while you went away?" She spat back, Jennifer just rolled her eyes at her.

In the meantime Anthony was trying to appease a very angry Chinese old lady, who came up to his window. Apparently he had run over her sidewalk sign in front of her antique's shop, when trying to avoid death with the truck. She didn't speak English very well and Anthony had resorted to giving her all the spare cash he had in his wallet. "I'm so sorry ma'am, that truck came out of nowhere."

Jennifer glanced outside, she could spot the Rainbow's colorful sign only a block away. "I'm gonna head out, you coming?" She asked Zephyr who nodded enthusiastically "Ant, I'm sure you can figure this out right?" She smiled playfully at his frustration.

"Fine, get out, leave me if you want" he was being dramatic. "Tell Flea I'll be a little late, I'm sure you can explain."

"Will do" Jennifer quipped as her black heel boots stepped into the pavement. Zephyr's usually straight hair was all messed out as she got out of the car too. "Here" Jennifer said, trying to brush her hair a little with her hands.

"Don't even bother girl, what I need it's like six shots of tequila right this instance". She stood up straight and walked confidently as if she hadn't almost suffered a brain injury.

Jennifer followed suit, holding her faux fur coat closer, as the autumn wind wrapped around them. There was a big line outside as per usual, but Zephyr just walked up to the front door as if she owned the place.

"Hey gorgeous" she told the bouncer "How you doing tonight?"

"Miss Zephyr. Miss Lola" he nodded to them sheepishly. Jennifer smiled at him. "It's good to see you Eric, is your sister here tonight?"

"Yeah, she was hanging out upstairs I think". He answered as he stepped aside to let them in,. they were greeted by the collage covered walls of the entry hall, with pictures ranging all the way from Marilyn Monroe to Ozzy.

The whole place was crowded as usual. The red leather booths filled with people drinking and smoking like there was no tomorrow, and the pathway to the main bar on the left was also packed. She tried to zoom in to see if she could spot anyone, but Zephyr beat her to it.

"I see DH!" She exclaimed and pulled Jennifer through the people, almost crashing into a waitress. "Sorry!"

"Shit Ilianne, slow down, this is a new coat and I would prefer to not have it covered in beer by the end of the night". Zephyr looked at her horrified by the use of her real name, surely about to complain. "Oh don't start, no one heard that, it's too loud.. Come on, I'll buy the first round of shots".

They headed slowly towards the bar, where a young man with dreads was waving at them. "My dear Darren" Zephyr acknowledged him flirtatiously, pecking him on the lips, as per her usual demeanor with everyone who crossed her path.

"Rough night?" He said looking at her still messy hair and handing them both a beer.

"Oh you have no idea, it's been an absolute odyssey. We almost got mugged and gang raped at the hills."

Jennifer almost snorted the sip she just took "That's fucking crazy" she exclaimed at the other girl "How do you even come up with this kind of shit?" Then she turned to DH "We did almost get into a car crash with Anthony though".

"What for real? Where is he?" He looked around worried.

"Probably fighting with an old lady about some broken sign or something" Zephyr added and then directed her attention towards the bartender "Hey Mick, another one please" she said holding up her now empty beer bottle "Oh and miss Starr here mentioned something about some shots, amiright?" She said to Jennifer, emphasizing on her fake name.

DH looked at Jennifer, seeming confused. She shook her head. "Anyways, I'm supposed to relay the message to Flea. Any ideas where he could be?

He looked towards the stairs next to the bar. "Last I saw him he was going up with Kat and John".

"Who's John?" Zephyr asked while drowning down her second beer, already looking kinda tipsy.

Jennifer was about to excuse herself to go upstairs, but as she turned around she almost bumped into Flea. "Hey, I was looking for you".

"Please tell me Anthony is here, Lindy has been waiting like an hour for him" he asked her, looking tired, his usually joyful demeanor nowhere to be seen as he kept looking behind his back, hoping to see his friend come in.

"He will be here soon... let's just say he got into some issues while parking the car" Jennifer said trying to calm him down.

"Yeah parking it straight into a garbage truck" Zephyr retorted, and Jennifer glared at her. Flea looked too stressed for that type of comment.

"Did something happen?" Jennifer asked the curly blonde, passing him a beer.

"I don't know man" he sighed "Lindy said he has some important news but we all needed to be there..." He turned around "Fuck where the hell is John now?" He turned back at the group. "Man, everyone keeps disappearing on me." He looked straight at DH "Don't you go anywhere".

'Where am I gonna go?" DH laughed as he leaned into the wall. "You need to relax, if it was truly serious stuff, Lindy would have wanted to meet at his office instead of here."

"Agree" Jennifer added "Let me go look for Anthony, I need a drag of fresh air and some delicious nicotine anyway". She squeezed herself between the people surrounding the small side room, and headed back outside. She trembled as the wind hit her, having forgotten how cold it was outside.

She walked over to the brick wall, the names of all the bands who had graced this place written into it. Possible one of the most iconic walls in all of LA.

"It's about 100, in case you're wondering?" a voice said behind her. "The names of the bands, I mean" he added kind of sheepishly. The voice belonged to a young man, with a baby face hidden behind an out of control curly mane.

"Oh so you have counted them?" She asked sarcastically "What are you, some sort of groupie?"

"Fuck no. '' He said defensively, without even thinking about it. She raised her eyebrows at him, looking amused and surprised, and his face turned red, he was trying to back track his words. "Not that that's a bad thing, I mean I don't think it is. I just.. I have heard about you, you know. You're kinda famous around here."

"Oh so you are now implying I'm a groupie?" She said as she took off her green coat, and sat down on the sidewalk.

"I didn't mean it like that..." he said, shuffling his hair.

"No it's okay, I guess that's true to a certain point. Or at least it was... it's been a while." She sighed, glancing at the wall again.

"You don't look that old," he took out a cigarette and sat next to her. Jennifer took one out of her own pack too.

"Well I think it's a combination of me looking younger than I am, and also, that in hindsight, I started "living" way too early" Jennifer reminisced as she leaned closer to John so that he could light her cigarette. She inhaled softly, looking at the dancing flame of the green lighter, before she sneaked a brief glance up to his face. He had really nice brown eyes. "If I'm being honest, I had no idea what I was getting myself into, I was only 12 years old when I came to LA... and I was swept away by everything, all at once.”

He smiled fondly, looking at the bystanders around them. People wearing extravagant clothes, smoking and laughing, as if there wasn't anything else to care about in the world. There were a couple of people on roller skates, and a boom box party going on in the parking lot next door "Yeah, this city has a way of doing that..."

It felt like the minutes went by as they stayed in silence, just observing the ambience outside. And then Jennifer remembered. "Oh shit, I forgot, I'm supposed to be looking for someone" She excused herself, throwing away the cigarette and standing up in a rush. "I didn't catch your name..." she said looking back at him.

"John" He looked happy that she asked. "It's been a pleasure miss Lola Starr '' He bowed with his head and hands in a silly motion and she laughed. She wondered if maybe she should give him her real name, but he had already turned around and went back inside before she even had a chance. Jennifer stood there looking like an idiot, feeling a bit strange as she thought about the interaction. John seemed like a pretty sweet kid. She shook her head to get some clarity, and looked around to see if she could spot Anthony.

[finerandbonnier]

The Splintered Dreamer

Chapter Five of Lucian, just before the fall

[AO3]

A totally unrelated series of recollections, half remember truths, and outright fabrications regarding London shortly before the event that would come to be known as the Fall and that hold no greater meaning or significance.

Archie woke with a start, his skin clammy and his undershirt uncomfortably stuck by sweat to the hollow of his back. It was the dream again. The one that floated in the back of his mind. He had other dreams of course. Dreams of home, of Glasgow in the winter and snowflakes melting on his sister’s hair. Dreams of far-flung locales inspired by the books he read, wind catching the canvas of a tall ship as soldiers in scarlet coats bustled across the deck or the scent of foreign cooking on a hot breeze as he walked along a dusty road. But no matter how his dreams started inevitably they would shift before the end to the same familiar but half-remembered scene.

A terrible secret. A betrayal. A theft in the night. The cobbled stones shifting beneath his feet as though they were waves on a great sea, wet and glistening in the moonlight. A hand at his back, holding him steady. A hand at his back, pushing him to the floor. His head swimming from drink or drugs or something else. An imploring voice that wasn’t his own emanating from his throat as he sounded words he couldn’t understand across a tongue heavy with the taste of whiskey. A struggle. Being dragged. Being lifted. Being carried. A locked door opening and leading to a dark hallway. Red symbols that hurt to look at carved into wallpaper. And above all else the one throughline that centred itself in his mind. He had to warn them. Warn London. Warn him.

If only he knew who it was, this mystery man who occupied his sleeping thoughts. He had a vague sense of someone tall with broad shoulders and the colour blue, but the face of the man remained frustratingly out of reach, trapped behind a haze of dream fog impenetrable to his waking self. At first he’d tried to force the image to the front of his mind. The futile attempts had only served to leave him with a splitting headache that had him reaching for his medical supplies. Then he tried subtler methods, confident that if only he could ignore the thought for long enough it would make itself known to him in time. Dreams can be fickle he thought, try to catch them and they’ll slip through your grasping fingers. Better to wait and let it come to him.

Except it never did. And so the cycle would continue, the desperate mission of his dream, it’s urgency hounding him into the waking world and the emptiness that followed, that disquieting feeling that he had forgotten something of grave importance that he could not shake until he dreamt again.

On his best days it was almost easy to discount the dream, to face it down with facts and logic and turn it into a small thing that he was foolish to exhaust so much mental effort over. The dream was just a dream. Plenty of people had bad dreams in the Neath, Archie knew that better than anyone. It was nothing a little laudanum wouldn’t fix if he had any to spare. On his worst days it was hard to tell where the dream stopped and reality started. He would walk along the Thames asleep in his bed at Mrs. Chapman’s and wake to find himself beside the Stolen River. He would turn a corner on a street in the Neath and then be walking along a London road above, fresh air ruffling his hair and alcohol on his breath surrounded by gentlemen in fine clothing.

There was another man too when he got that bad. A smiling man in a stovepipe hat and a coat with bright brass buttons and eyes too old for his face. He listened to Archie’s ramblings with the patience of a doting parent and somehow never made him feel like he was going mad. Or more accurately, he made it seem like going mad was the sanest thing of all.

Archie shook his head. He had more pressing things to focus on. There was a city full of patients to attend to down in the Neath that relied on him being lucid and fully present, not caught up in his own head. He moved to the small washbasin Mrs Chapman had provided for his room and splashed a little water on his face. He was a doctoral student from Glasgow who had been training in London when it fell, he reminded himself.

He had never stood on the deck of a ship off the southern coast of Africa. He had never walked through an open-air market as the scent of turmeric filled his nostrils. And he had certainly never staggered through the streets of London in a desperate attempt to warn Harjit Singh.

[leam1983]

More Vampire Thoughts

Imagine an anti-Interview of sorts. Let's go back to my Not-Schreck from earlier, the genteel, well-heeled and adjusted one, and imagine how that went.

The interviewer's a little baffled. No soliloquies, no lamentations on centuries of loneliness, no self-pitying. "I found that tricorn hats and stovepipes worked wonders for my ears' pinnae," the vampire admits. As long as I kept it on or doffed it back on fast enough, nobody really noticed much of anything. I came and went, sampled people on occasion, made some friends, annoyed some people..."

He shrugs. "Like you do, basically."

The interviewer frowns. But he looks so old! Didn't people notice anything?

The vampire laughs, the sound of it frank. "You forget, my friend, that it wasn't that long ago that someone in their fifties looked and felt venerable to most of everyone else. As far as most of everyone was concerned, I was anywhere between fifty to seventy-two years old. I've only had to act the part of a distinguished old man of later years for about the past five decades or so. Even with that in mind, people don't ask that many questions. The body starts to warp out of shape, past a certain age, so who's to say pointed ears and visible buck teeth wouldn't just be poor results of my own genetics?"

He gestures casually. "I keep my nails clean, I shower every night, socialize just as frequently... Grief is a constant companion, that much is correct; but everyone grieves at least someone or something else in their lives, my good sir. You learn to cope, over time, and realize that the spirited child you protected became your fractious ward, then your apparent daughter, your pupil, your wife..."

He sighs, even if the sound isn't exactly saddened. "You realize the value of mortal choices, and find dignity in watching one of your beloveds go to their grave in peace and total self-consciousness. You soon realize you'll see this often. The tragedy returns, each time - but love is a vine that isn't easily uprooted. I still have my great-great-great grandchildren close to heart, and they love their oddball grandpa in complete sincerity."

The old vampire smiles. "The old stories you tell yourselves are twaddle, honestly. With the right support system, undeath isn't so bad."

[nebraskaenergy]

American Icons

That is what one can call an iconic picture. Itis also very American. It recalls scenes from our history. It recalls a day in 1864 when Jubal Early was attacking the outrr works of the defenses around Washington DC. A tall man dressed in black wearing a stovepipe hat stood on the parapet watching the Confederates shoot at him, until a private looked up at him and said, “Get down you damned fool…