#they don’t live near the market just in the same town

[ceiling-karasu]

Going to visit my parents house, going to drive past the mini market that I heard burned down in the news.

[after-witch]

A Linnet on a Bough [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: A Linnet on a Bough [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: Isolation takes its toll, and you begin to sleepwalk out of the gilded manor Scaramouche has procured for you. 

Word count: 3300ish

notes: yandere, married reader, sleepwalking, isolation, unhealthy/controlling behavior 

Being the spouse of a Harbringer is no simple matter, and you are no simple spouse. 

If you had married someone from  your village, your life would be simple. You would do what your parents had done, and their parents had done, and their parents had done. Cooking and mending and minding the children, and living out your days without ever venturing very far, except on rare occasions that would be something you would treasure forever.

You would grow old within the confines of the village and die surrounded by your children, who would bury you near your own parents and go on to live out their lives much as you had done.

But you didn’t marry someone from your village, and your life is not so simple. Instead, you were wed to Scaramouche. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real, even now, and you pinch yourself to make sure you’re not nursing some long standing fever-dream. 

Who would have thought? Certainly not you. Sometimes you wonder if even he expected to ever make such a match. But he told you that he intended to marry you, and let the words hang in the air, to be caught or cut down with your decision.

You said yes. Really, you couldn’t say no… but part of you wanted it. Yes, you can admit that much. It was flattering, and isn’t it nice to be flattered? Especially when you were nobody. Just someone who trudged to the town well to fetch water for your elderly parents, someone who helped a stranger (Scaramouche, it turns out, was not the helpless waif you’d assumed) and got a husband for their troubles. 

So, no, life is not simple. Both in the figurative and literal meaning of the word. 

And now, wife of a Harbringer as you are, you have grown acquainted with--and acquainted is the only term for it, for you could never say you were accustomed to any of it--certain luxuries. Food, to your liking, whenever you would like it. Sometimes it is even brought to you out of season, the greatest luxury of all. Clothing made with rich materials; ribbons, jewels, the softest of slippers to adorn your feet. Servants and pampering the likes of which you had only heard about in your old life. 

But there is one luxury that you are routinely denied, no matter how much you pout your lips, no matter how prettily you ask, no matter how many tears blur your vision and wet your eyelashes: the outside world.

You’re not meant to go outside, Scaramouche had told you, the first time it became clear that you were not going to waltz out of the stately manor he’d brought you to for the wedding in order to take in the scenery. 

And so… you don’t go outside anymore. Not in the traditional sense. You rest in covered litters with the windows tacked shut and he’s not above smacking your hand if you try to lift up the corners to catch a glimpse of whatever (or whoever) waits outside. Of course, when he’s not accompanying you, your pitiful looks sometimes convince one of the guards to let you keep one flap untouched so that you can take a peek.

But seeing flashes of the world you used to live in are not the same as truly being within it. The ghost of a breeze against your half-hidden face is not the same as basking in the sunshine. Hearing the sounds of life from a village as you’re carried through it is not the same as stopping at a market stall to buy a treat, asking someone how their day is going, and absorbing the hustle and bustle of everyone around you.

There is no substitute for living out in the world. 

You just don’t know how to convince Scaramouche of that fact.

--

There is a fine line between gratitude and ingratitude, between obedience and surliness, and Scaramouche finds that you walk it all too well. 

It doesn’t matter how much he takes away; how much he removes the temptation by tacking up screens or keeping you within interior apartments, free from all the noise and sights and smells of the outside. You still want to go outside. Something about it calls to you, pulling on your sleeves, no matter what he does.

No matter how much he tries to occupy your mind with something different. Better. Himself, most often (for you should be grateful for that) but things that no one else could say he gave them. Gifts. Trinkets. Things that suited your interests, which he knew very well, because he hangs onto every word that comes from your mouth.

Even the ones that drive him mad. 

He loves to hear your voice, nightingale that you are, but sometimes he is so gravely tempted to press a finger to your lips and tell you to hush. 

At least until you learn to stop saying things that grate his ears and the space where his heart should be. 

The pleadings that come so softly and sweetly--but if that was all, he could manage. It’s the way that you weave your thoughts into every conversation like a pattern in a tapestry--remarking on the weather conditions in regions that the two of you might be traveling in, asking if the retinue had encountered certain flora or animals during the journey. You want to know about the world; you want to be in the world. 

Little things, little threads, connecting you to a world that isn’t exclusively him… why has nothing successfully cut them from your grasping fingers? 

--

“They only blossom under certain conditions, you know.” Your voice is soft and lilting, carrying on the one-sided conversation over a shared table of delicate foods. You take bites in between your verbal fascination with the local flora, a subject you’re all too keen to share with him. “The flowers are said to be so lovely that people have wept at the sight of them. And the fragrance…” You sigh a little, and pick a piece of fruit to nibble on. “There’s nothing like it. Or so I’m told.” 

A pause. You glance at him, eyelashes practically fluttering, then look back at your dishes. 

“And… I’ve never seen one in person,” you add as you reach for another helping of fruit. “I wonder what they’re like.” 

Do you think he doesn’t know what you’re trying to do? Looking at him so sweetly, asking how he finds the food, interspersing dinner with notions of flowers blooming right outside the borrowed manor the two of you have been living in for this current assignment.

But he won’t give in. He won’t be manipulated, not even by you. 

Still… that doesn’t mean he can’t try to fulfill this hunger of yours. Much like filling a better, a taste should be enough to keep you from grumbling. 

Within the week, he has some unlucky Fatui tasked with the mission of cutting a fresh bouquet of the very flowers that you were waxing on about so prettily. And you wake up one morning to find them on the nightstand next to your bed, set in a clear vase.

He thinks that you’ll smile, and thank him, and if all goes well, he won’t have to hear any more not-so-subtle hints about your desire to go outside.

But you don’t smile and fling yourself at his feet, thanking him for such a thoughtful, fine gift. You don’t tell him that this is all you need--the flowers he gifts you, the clothes he has painstakingly crafted to suit our form and above all, him. 

Instead your hand goes to your mouth, covering the smallest of gasps. 

And, well, he thinks--you’re surprised. That’s all. That’s to be expected., if anything. You did often complain about the monotony of your days, so a little surprise was bound to get a reaction from you. 

But instead of breaking into a grin and thanking him, your hand reaches out to touch the delicate blossoms. Like they’re going to break. More than that--like there’s something wrong. 

“What is it?” And if there is a snap in his voice,  you surely couldn’t blame him.  You are so difficult to please, and hiding the fact that he wants to please you at all is a tiring chore all on its own. You exhaust him as much as you fill him.

“How much prettier they would be in nature…” Your lips curve downward, a soft frown that feels aimed right at him. “I’m sorry that you cut them…”

Sometimes, you make him want to scream.

He’ll take out his pent-up irritation on someone else. Irritation that is not at you, but with you. Yet not with you as well. It’s all a jumbled mess that he doesn’t want to untangle, and he won’t. He’ll shove it down deep into some cavernous hole, perhaps the one that exists inside of him no matter how hard he tries, and move on with his day.

If only you would stop looking at those flowers like they were broken glass.

--

You’re gone. The space that you occupy (the left half of the shared bed, all wrapped in blankets and often clutching a pillow instead of him, a trait he does not find endearing but does not wish to push on) is empty, bereft of anything but cool rumpled sheets.

There’s fear, at first. Fear that something has happened. Someone has taken you. Perhaps it was Her… perhaps She, of all the unholy things, has slithered past his defenses and snatched you up just to snap another piece from his broken patchwork body. 

It doesn’t have to be Her, though. He has many enemies. And enemies will target your weakest point, and you, you, you. You are exactly that to him. 

So there is fear, yes, that you have been snatched away and perhaps you are already dead, and they took you not for blackmail but for some kind of revenge. To see him wither. 

But then he retrieves the lantern from the dresser and lights it, the warm glow illuminating the silent, heavy room. He can feel his breath quickening, his chest tightening, and he doesn’t know why or what to do with any of it.

It only gets worse when he realizes that there is no sign of forced entry. No broken door-locks, no sprinkles of glass on the rugs, no drops of blood on the windowsill to mark where you might have been dragged through.

The fear ebbs away, replaced by a sour, sickly feeling of betrayal. 

You’ve left him. After all he’s given you. All he’s done for you. 

Yes, he’s taken away your freedom, but you didn’t have the capacity to understand why that was not something to begrudge him for. Freedom was not for delicate things that needed to be kept alive, protected, harbored from the rest of the world. 

He clutches the lantern in one hand and storms out of the room, still wearing his night-clothes. The hallways are dim, barely light by small windows that let in a trickle of moonlight. He listens. 

You couldn’t have gone far, and you’d better hope he catches you himself before morning, because if he has to engage a search party on  your behalf, no one (least of all the Fatui stationed with him) will be enjoying it.

He dismisses one of the guards who spots him. He doesn’t want them involved, not yet. He pushes out one of the side doors and begins to walk the perimeter of the grounds. You might have gone off into the forest, or perhaps you went down the paved path, hoping to find a traveler who might help you.

He is about to decide which option to take when he hears something from behind him, near a half-broken brick enclosure that had seen better days. Were you hiding in there? Trying to trick him? He couldn’t put it past you. 

He braces himself, feeling something thrum through him that made him want to turn away and rush forward all at once, and walks through the open gate of the enclosure. 

And… you’re there.

Sitting in the midst of a garden, some untended thing that was left here by the previous tenants, before it was abandoned and absorbed into the network of buildings useful to the Fatui. And to him, for keeping you in one secure location for months on end.

It was wild and overgrown, and some of the rocks creating the garden path were moss-covered. It’s a wonder you didn’t slip on them, he thinks, and there’s a flash of fear mingled with his irritation. How could you do something as stupid as sneak outside at night, in the dark, and walk into some unknown, overgrown eyesore? 

You haven’t heard his footsteps, evidently, because you go on standing. You’re swaying a little, and your hands brush the flowers. He can hear you talking to yourself, something low and sweet. He can’t see your face but it’s easy enough to imagine that you’re smiling. 

“What are you doing?” There was an attempt, in his mind, to keep his voice level. But it quakes anyway, with fury and irritation and that still-sour worry that you betrayed him in the night.

He waits. You don’t turn around. He thought that, when you heard his voice, you were going to jump like a scared little animal and apologize and try to smooth things over with your teary lashes and pouting lips.

But you don’t turn around. And when you answer him, it’s not a word, really. It’s mumbling. Low. Almost a groan.

He’s had enough. He walks forward until he can grip your upper arm, and moves to turn you around. But you don’t pout or jerk away or tell him that you just wanted to go outside. You’re looking straight at him but he can tell right away that you don’t truly see him at all.

You’re… asleep. 

Standing up, eyes blinking rapidly as if in the throes of some waking dream, in the middle of a garden.

But asleep, all the same. 

He presses his lips together. You were a nuisance. Truly. He should leave you here, let you wake up in the morning cold and shivering and covered in slick green moss.

Instead, he lifts you up. You flail a little, arms jerking this way and that, but it’s easy enough to grip you close and carry you bridal-style back down the hallway (the Fatui stationed in the hall is wise enough to say absolutely nothing as he sees him returning) and continues until he can lay you gently down onto your side of the bed.

You gasp, then, perhaps half-waking. But it’s eased enough when your hands instinctively grab your pillow and curl up with it. 

Before heading back into bed, he grabs a fire poker and slides it through the handles of your bedroom doorway. You wouldn’t be getting out, not in your sleep, anyway.

His dreams that night are fitful.

--

The first thing you realize upon awakening is that you’d really rather go back to sleep, because your dream was lovely. You were in a garden, fragrant and lovely. There was cool fresh air on your face and grass under your toes and sounds, real sounds. Birds and insects buzzing and everything that is forever kept on the other side of walls and windows now.

Over breakfast, you smile, and serve your husband his dishes before you tuck into your own. And is it wrong that you want to tell him about your dream? Is it wrong that you hope it will make him finally let you go outside, even just for a little while?

“I had a lovely dream last night,” you say, smiling with what you hope is sweetness and not desperation. “I was in a garden…”

You don’t see the goosebumps that run up his arms at your words.

--

You sleepwalk the next night. And the next. And the next. He doesn’t know how you manage to get the bar off the door every time, how you evade the guards, how you don’t wake him up… but you do. 

Always going to the same place, the damned garden, with its stubborn flowers and broken paths.

Well. If one vase of flowers is not enough to keep you satisfied (and more importantly, inside) perhaps he needs to take it a few steps further. 

He gifts you more flowers. Bundles of them, baskets of them, stuffed into vases and pots and cracked pans his underlings found in the kitchen storage room. 

And while the rooms of the manor are soon a garden, filled with cloying blossoms and greenery that brings its fair share of insects lurking about, it doesn’t make you stop talking about the world that you’re supposedly “missing” out there. 

Not just the flowers, but the animals. The people. The markets. 

The life, teeming with every little thing, good and bad, that makes up this world. 

Most disturbingly of all: The sleepwalking continues.

What more can he give you without giving you the freedom that would break him apart?

--

It’s not that the sound of a bird in the morning is unusual. It’s just that they are normally muffled, as there are no trees near the window of the bedroom.

But the chirping that you hear now is so close that it might as well be in your ear. Groggy, rubbing away the dust of sleep in your eyes, you sit up…

And find that there is a silver bird cage sitting on top of your dresser, next to a wilting vase of flowers from a few days before. 

It’s a pretty thing. Small and  yellow. A pretty thing in a pretty cage. Another gift from your husband, after the mountains of flowers, the wreaths of blooming vines, the meals, the clothes, the comfort…

--

He can never get used to waking up without you beside him. No matter how many times he easily finds you and brings you back, mumbling and bleary, there is always those terrible, agonizing moments of panic when he thinks: you’ve left him.

But you’re not alone in the garden. 

You’re holding the cage, clutching it to your chest. He wonders what will happen if your sleeping muscles dream of something else; will you drop the cage and let it clatter to the ground? Will the delicate bird inside be jostled so terribly that it dies? And what would he do, then, to ensure that this doesn’t make you even less satisfied with your isolated life?

But you don’t drop it. One thing he has learned from watching you sleepwalk is that you are surprisingly nimble about it. 

He watches, lips pressed into a frown, as you slowly lower the cage to one of the formerly ornate pedestal tables in the garden. It must have been pretty once. Now, it’s mossy and gray and damp. 

It doesn’t surprise him, what you do next. Your fingers, shaking but surprisingly deft, undo the latch on the door and swing it open. The bird inside hops around for a few moments, tilting its head to and fro, before it launches itself into the air and flies away.

You mumble something, sweet and slurry. A farewell, perhaps. Who knows what really goes on in your pretty head when you sleep? 

And it’s his cue to take you back inside. You still fight, just a little, when he picks you up. Flail your arms and legs, until he’s held you tight enough that your muscles seem to accept the hold and relax.

He looks down at your bleary, half-awake face. Your eyes tend to close when he carries you. Perhaps your body knows that it’s okay to let them rest, now that someone else is carrying you. Holding you. Protecting you.

A pity that your mind couldn’t understand that fact. 

Sometimes he considers chaining you up at night. It would be the most practical solution. It might even ease his fears every time he wakes to find you gone, and he’s forced to track you down to this nighttime garden that no one else would bother entering.

But there’s something in him, hard and sick, that wonders. If he chains you up, he might just free you in his sleep, like you’ve freed the bird in the cage. 

It’s easier to pretend you aren’t his prisoner when your chains are invisible, after all. 

[escapismmaxing]

rainwing headcanons!! + history rewrite and canon tweaks

physical headcanons!!

they’re kind of small i think, mid sized. very long certainly, i imagine them lounging around in trees like jaguars

maybe THIS is my most canon compliant design actually

manes of long hair aren’t uncommon, but not every dragon has them and very VERY rarely a rainwing will have hair trailing down their spine and ending in a fluffy little tail,, rare but possible

speaking of their tail, it doesn’t really get “thinner” or taper off at the end simply because that’s reallyyy not how prehensile tails work, so while rainwings don’t have thick tails per se, their tails do have a semi consistent thickness

their horns are long and slender, they’re considered very elegant and they usually stay close to the head/neck of the rainwing to not get caught while tree gliding

their frills are HUUUUUGE i'm always disappointed when i remember how small they are in the canon drawings

like NO their frill obscures their neck most of the time, also covers their ears, and it is very prone to being very expressive

the membranes connecting the spines of the frills also come in different shapes!

their frills also sometimes have butterfly like tails where part of the frill near the face hangs really long and thin? if that makes sense. like a swallowtails tail, but on their frills

i also shrunk their wings a little,, still long for gliding purposes but not necessarily wide/tall since those would just get unnecessarily tangled in trees

their little fangs stick out of their mouth,, oh so little

social/family structure,,, 

more communal living!! we love it

rainwings are very communal and lack the family structure of sibs, so they’re comparatively more communal than mudwings

monogamy is slightlyyyy more common, but it’s still not necessarily the norm. rainwings and their polycules,,,

i think they keep track of who their kids are!! sorry but that’s just my belief. i think parents (even if they’re not committed or mates or whatever) will somewhat co parent their kids

they’re incubated all together, but parents keep track of where there egg is and how far along it is and when it will hatch etc, and then they will be there when the egg hatches to make sure nothing goes wrong

even if the parents aren’t there, it is someone’s job to be there and make sure the dragonets hatch successfully, and then they are safely transported to the dragon equivalent of daycare

childcare is such a big job market in the rainwing queendom,,,,

i think depending on the parents, they will raise their dragonets in their home, but these dragonets still spend a LOOOOT of time in the daycare. i think dragonets are just very widely cared for by basically everyone, some pairs of parents just spend a bit of extra time with their dragonets, but they’re never raised 100% secluded from the town

grown dragons will divide the dragonets into age groups and teach them stuff

tree gliding, fruit finding and identification, flower identification, flower drying, leaf weaving/thatching, etc

also oral storytime! very important

grown dragons stay very communal, they don’t really couple off and move into their own “houses”

they have couples and polycules and just kind of go into the next generation, raising the new dragonets in the same communal way

and a history rewrite,,,,

basically i wanted to give them a reason they were so exclusionary in the original five books and this is what came from that

i didn’t like the rainwing racism was like,,, right? obviously some rainwings can be “lazy” or whatever, but the fact that all of them were + not the smartest + not really empathetic was just like,,, not the move imo

maybe about a century before the sandwing war of succession, the rainwings experienced their OWN war of succession, except they didn’t drag other tribes into it and it was kept within the queendom

a queen died and had many daughters who could take the throne, and then the daughters started fighting over this

(this is where it’s somewhat necessary for me to input just a general dragon headcanon,, i think they live for sooo fucking long. like 150 years easy. they don’t mature at 6 they mature at like 25-30. so these wars of succession last for SO LONG because the daughters won’t fuckin die (from old age)!)

so the rainwings fought with each other for ages, and during this war (with a deadly biochemical weapon like their venom) a lot of things like literacy, written history, math, etc, don’t seem as important, so they’re somewhat forgotten because parents are more focused on keeping their dragonets alive and safe

also a lot of scrolls and stuff are literally destroyed

and then this is also the reason for really low literacy rates

post their war of succession, they establish the “court of queens” which is kind of like a voting ruling body, but they don’t always like each other a whole lot and are prone to argue more. also being queen actually DOES mean something (a bit more than a tie breaker)

i’ll align with the book here again that i do think anyone can be on this council, but then queen is chosen from the council members and by the council

and each newly coming in council member does have to prove themselves in their rainwing skills

again, following this war, there was a lot of focus on internal repair rather than fixing relationships with other tribes, so they became very exclusionist as the other tribes saw them

so the stereotype of the rainwing ranges a bit more,, paranoid, exclusionist, lazy, etc

somewhat soon after their own war of succession, the sandwing war of succession breaks out, and they go FUCK NO and hide in their rainforest just trying to recuperate

this is why they’re so self contained when the DoD encounter them

they’re aware of the disappearances, and they’re worried, and they’re putting in measures to try and prevent them,,, but also they do NOT want to fuck with another tribe. please. just let them rest

and they were aware that glory’s egg went missing, but they were like “FUCK one of those snakes got in here” and changed the designs of the hatcheries or something

fitting this into canon

i think it fits pretty neatly?

the general vibe of the rainwings is that they’re all a whole lot more scared/paranoid, but we still see a lot of the chilled out moments where they’re at peace

the council (again) isn’t lazy (at least not all of them)

they kind of exist along a spectrum where different members kind of have different vibes

it’s the same queens from the book, now just on a council

some of them care a lot about the disappearances, but they’re still scared/too cautious to get involved

some of them don’t reallyyy care, and they would rather just focus on the rainwings that are still here, tighten up the border to reduce disappearances and just hunker down

also they don’t have an army, and they consider themselves pacifists and really don’t want to fight anyone or organize an army considering their history

glory becomes apart of the council rather than directly becoming the queen, and grandeur is the official queen

a turnover of the council happens because glory is PISSED and grandeur just lets it happen lol

this is where the group competition fits in like it fits in in the book

so basically glory + the rainwing gang is challenging the council members because she thinks they’re so incompetent

not saying that kinkajou (a child) or tamarin (a child) STAYS on the council, but it’s just the start of the turnover for the council to get more proactive rainwings involved

grandeur takes a shining to glory and lets her lead the invasion as it happens in the book

fashion and jewelry!

although in modern days, rainwings incorporate some very gauzy, light, see through fabrics into their fashion as shawls and such, this wasn’t always the case

for a long looong while, the main components of rainwing fashion was stringing plants across and around horns, wings, tails, necks, etc

the main fashion was the changing scale color and pattern, which still holds up, but now with a little extra flair

jobs

rainwings grow exotic flowers and trade these with other tribes! with tribes that are farther away, trading dried or otherwise preserved flowers is more common since the flowers are indeed prone to dying

rainwings also make perfumes from flowers,,,, like that one fuckass queen she was onto something

their expanse of flowers and fruits also give them access to the most dyes! so any other tribe that produces a fiber frequently works with rainwings to get them dyed pretty colors

also also, rainwings make paints and trade these to other tribes 

rainwings are pretty advanced healers, despite seeming a bit uh,, confused in the books. they just didn’t know how to treat a sandwing stab bc they haven’t dealt with sandwings in ages! but when it comes to other aches and pains and illnesses they have a wide amount of remedies

they also focus a lot on the mind especially after the rainwings are gotten back from the nightwing island

they study the effects of the no sunlight vs sunlight,, they see a lot of mental effects,,, basically they become wellness influencers.. KIDDING but they do start a “mental health matters” type thing lol

along with the healing, lots of potions and elixirs are created for healing purposes, and rainwing small magics (related to my animus magic rewrite, dw abt it, but basically a lot of dragons have the ability to do “small magic”) relates to potions and elixirs and such

rainwings are incredibly good mimics! so after they come out of their shells, they learn other tribe’s languages super easily and therefore are great verbal translators! 

it’s very common for rainwings to work with other tribes on a queen’s counsel as a translator for foreign and inter tribal affairs

history researchers? like of their own internal history trying to recover stuff from pre their war,,

there’s also a lot of biologists/naturalists/dragons who are studying the animals and plants of the forest just for the sake of science

“royalty” and commoners

so, this “council of queens” is established after this war of the queen’s remaining daughters

i truly think this war was devastating, so they start on rebuilding their queendom right away

internal focus, accidentally icing out other tribes

they want to avoid the war happening again, so they stop passing down the throne through daughters, rather any female dragon can petition to join the council

and any GROUP of dragons can petition to remove a queen from the council

it’s a very,,, democratic? system

but it boils down to their being only a little bit of separation between royalty and commoners,, and it kind of doesn’t exist tbh

this along with the really intense communal feelings and being raised communally and raising dragonets with one another,, very close knit tribe

not a whole lot of class strife like icewings or seawings or something

superstitions

there’s a lot of beliefs surrounding different flowers, kind of similar to victorian messaging around flowers

i’m not really sure how superstitious/religious they are tbh,, again maybe a lot of this fell away during the war as more cautionary tales were told rather than superstitious fables or anything

but there is definitely a system of flower messaging

i think they hold all animals in high regard, and think they all have high intelligence (they just favor sloths)

some animals do have certain beliefs surrounding them

seeing an increase of frogs means the rainy season is coming soon, when they start decreasing the rainy season is ending

sightings of pods of dolphins around the coasts means generally good tidings and a positive short term future

i think they do have a lot of pet superstitions?

sloths are pretty common, so nothing super crazy there

but if a dragon has a big, jungle cat, other dragons will view them as very charming/caring, as it takes a lot of work to get a big cat to trust you

small amphibians or reptiles means that a dragon is detail oriented

snails and insects and mollusks are considered like an “old dragon’s” pets

so yeah! rainwings. this still feels weirdly,, incomplete? maybe it’s just because of how much i like them i just want to make them fully fleshed out which they aren’t really here. but i think they’re really cool, i just don’t love their canon all the time. yeah! idk. complex feelings. as always, hit me UP with your ideas anywhere you please i love hearing feedback :)

[annie-creates]

The biggest star

Pairing: Queen Ravenna x reader

Genre: fluff

Words: 1500

Note: It's another International Women's Day so let's celerate with something a little different this time, I got inspired by the Pearl's quote. There's not many Ravenna fics being written so I hope you'll like this one.

With the early morning sunrise you got out of bed ready to feed the few animals you took care of at your parents’ farm and prepare the dough for a fresh loaf of bread. Every morning started like this, ever since you could remember. You took care of your responsibilities and duties, cleaning around the house or taking care of some gardening. Your mother prepared all the goods you were going to be selling at the town market that day and your father tended to the fields and cattle.

“Don’t forget to get all the fresh eggs.” Your mom reminded you as you prepared today’s commodities.

“Yes mother.” You nod, no matter how old she had a habit of reminding you of everything, just to be sure.

The road to the town square was bumpy as always but lucky enough you didn’t live far away enough to encounter any robbers or muggers. There was a stall by stall, your neighbors selling baked pastries or meat. Your family’s business was more in eggs, milk and vegetables. You helped reach, pack and hand over packets amongst packets of goods, happy that today is gonna be a good day for your business. With the money you make you’ll buy other things you weren’t able to provide for yourself like flour or leaven.

“Mother, can I go take a look around?” You begged tired of standing in one place all day.

“Fine, but don’t take too long.” She waved you off.

Your eyes sparkled with joy and you took off exploring the town you knew all too well already. Back when you used to go to school you traveled here by foot almost daily, but since you turned thirteen you were tied up at the farm with work. You’ve learnt to read and count, but there wasn’t much more needed in your life. You lived day by day identical to the previous one and it was incredibly tiring to you. You wanted to see more of this world. Live in all the places the merchants who sometimes visited your town told everyone about.

As you neared a group of women with one of the queen’s guards in the middle, the gathering peaked your interest. It was known that queen Ravenna wasn’t one to visit around or get out of her castle too often, and the same was true for her guard. Sure, some of the lower ranked soldiers always overlooked gatherings like this, but this man’s uniform proved he was ranked much higher and was one of the closest to the queen, so his appearance was certainly unusual.

“Slowly, ladies, you all can take your chance tomorrow.” He commanded the crowd giving out some instruction slips. “Here, you, take one too.”

He pushed a pamphlet in your hand as soon as you got close enough to be within his reach. Reading the few lines written on there, you learned that the queen is looking for a handful of new maids and ladies fitting at the court to keep her company. Could this be the chance you’ve been waiting for? All the ladies chatted around you about how interesting and undeniable chance this was. One that comes only once in life. That got you convinced, even if they didn’t choose you in the end, you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself knowing you passed on such a chance.

When you got home that evening, you prepared dinner with a bit more enthusiasm and ate faster than anyone has ever seen you do before, ready for this day to end so the next one can begin. You took care of braiding your hair before going to bed to have some pretty waves in the morning, cleaning your face and brushing your teeth extra good. As you went to bed, you took a moment to pray to the universe.

“Please lord, make me the biggest star the world has ever known. So that I make it far, far away from this place.” You didn’t know what star you wanted to be, but as far as it got you a different life, you didn’t care.

You could hardly sleep from the excitement for the next day, rising even before the sun could and running around your chores the fastest and best you could. You got out your best dress you only used for weddings, funerals and church visits, hoping it would be good enough for the queen. Will you get to meet her? From what you heard her grace and beauty was like no other, and her magnificence preceded her. Ready for breakfast and to get to the part of town stated at the pamphlet in time, you arrive at the table.

“And where are you going off to in your best dress?” your mother wondered.

“There’s a selection for queen’s escort today in town, I thought I’d give it a shot.” You admitted unsure of your parents’ reaction.

“Queen’s escort? You?” she scoffed. “You better not slack on your duties because of this nonsense.”

“Of course not mother.” You didn’t expect your family to be supportive of your goals but it still stinged.

When you finally arrived at the town hall where the choosing was taking place, there were some more guards and other officiants. You’ve learnt they are the ones responsible for the first selection, picking only a few of the dozens of girls who auditioned to come to the castle and start learning all the tasks that come with living along the queen. Some would be then chosen as maids, some would find themselves amongst chefs or seamstresses and only a few would get the chance to become the queen’s escort. Or you could fail completely and they’ll send you back home as fast as you came.

As they picked and chose what girls to take with them and who to turn down, the lucky ones squealed with happiness and the other ones cried. When it came to your turn, two of the men examined you with eagle eye, finally deciding to let you pass. A big rock fell off your heart so hard it must have been heard through the hall. You were in. You were gonna come to the castle and learn to become one of queen’s closest people. You couldn’t believe your luck. As you stepped in their carriage and let it take you towards your new destiny, you hoped to not let anyone down, especially yourself.

As you arrived at the castle and got settled in crowded rooms for servants and valets, another harsh regime started. You spent days and weeks learning and observing all the different tasks performed around the place. Every night you went to sleep exhausted and every morning you had to get up with a smile on your face. But as some of the girls started falling off your hard endeavor started to pay off. After a few weeks you started learning around the queen, your first meeting being unforgettable.

“Good morning.” She greeted you from her throne and you all bowed low. “I see we have some great adepts here. I hope you all will raise to the occasion and become wonderful.”

She was fierce and strong, that much was evident. All the stories of her beauty fell short as she looked like the embodiment of an angel to you. It was a moment you couldn’t get out of your head for a long time and every time your training got hard, you reminded yourself that this is exactly what you’re going through all this for. To serve the queen however she pleases. Her charm and grace hardly left your mind and with every meeting you worshipped her more and more. You were so smitten with her character and glamor you felt like you could hardly breath sometimes.

After two months spent with the queen you all were finally done with your training ready to become permanent residents of the castle. You hoped and prayed wherever they assigned you you’d get to meet her at least sometime. Only being in her company would make you eternally grateful. You didn’t know if you could live it the same place knowing she could be right behind the wall yet never seeing her really. Some of the girls who became your friends over the time were sent to the kitchen, some became maids and charladies. There it was again, the stone on your heart hoping to not be sent home after all your efforts, hard work and dedication.

“And you.” The queen herself stood in front of you in all her beauty. “How would you like becoming my personal escort?”

Your eyes lit up with her offer, hardly believing what your ears were hearing. Little did you know your infatuation with her impressed her and she too enjoyed your particular company. This was going to be the start of a wonderful future for you both.

“Yes, my queen.” You bowed to Ravenna stepping towards your new exciting life.

[bakedbakermom]

Waking Dreamland

Rated T // 4000 words // Read on A03

Angst (oh so much angst) with a happy ending! During my last rewatch I stayed up until 2am crying over the handful of sunflower seeds that Mulder gives Scully when they say goodbye (totally normal behavior right??), and thus this fic was born.

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

Dreamland AU - When Mulder is unable to switch back into his original body, Scully returns to Washington and he remains in Rachel, Nevada. They both try to build new lives for themselves, but how can they endure without each other?

He grows a beard. It’s the wrong color, but thicker and softer than the one he tried to grow in high school, and he’s surprised by how much he likes it, by how much it helps; it hides the unfamiliar chin and gives him something to look at in the mirror besides the eyes surrounded by laugh lines he didn’t earn, the nose that was never broken in a fight with Bobby Scortino behind the gym in fifth grade, the mouth that has never felt the sweet, trembling warmth of her breath. 

This other man’s body hangs on him like an ill-fitted suit, soft from years behind a desk, but the knees are in decent enough shape for him to ease into a running routine that may someday catch up to what his old body could do. He lifts weights at the rec center, slowly replacing the beer gut with lean muscle; and though he knows it will never be the same, at least it’s a change he can control. Exercise helps with his anxiety, which unfortunately didn’t get left behind, unlike his weird little toe and the gunshot scar below his clavicle that he still startles to find missing each morning in the shower.

He joins a basketball league, even starts coaching a couple of youth baseball teams. There’s a girl named Dreama on the Tween Team, a little redheaded shortstop who always has her science textbook in her gym bag and never lets him get away with anything. He feels a near-painful whelming of hope for her, and endless indulgent pity for the gangly, dark-haired boy who trails along after her everywhere she goes, trying to impress her.

If being a Man in Black is hard, then quitting is somehow even harder; they don’t usually let men of his (well, Morris’s) position just hang up their flashy-things and walk out the door. He suspects they only let him get away with it because of the divorce, and because he stays close enough to the base that they can monitor him—dark cars with bland men parked in front of his apartment, a clicking any time he picks up the phone. Not that he has many places to go, not that he has anyone to call. He lingers only on the periphery, keeps only the most superficial relationships, glancing off of other people’s lives like light off a soap bubble.

Joanne kept the house and the kids, of course. He hears through the grapevine that Chris got early acceptance to UCLA, and that Terrance wants to become a screenwriter. Their new stepdad works in the same division that was in charge of faking the moon landing (before NASA managed to pull off the real one) so the kid will probably have an “in” at any studio he likes. He sees Joanne in town sometimes, at the market or the post office or the video store, and she is always smiling. He doesn’t approach her.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just get out of their way.

He gets a job, of all places, at the Little A’le’inn, slinging Alien Ales and Saucer Burgers to townies and tourists alike. It’s not a great job, but he’s had worse; and at least he gets to keep his ear to the ground for any good UFO gossip, even if it’s just the bragging of the test pilots and not hints into the dark heart of the mystery that consumed him for so many years. He has had to mourn for the answers he will truly never find, now, and the irony of being scant miles from the conspiracy theorist holy grail while himself being resigned to more earthly concerns is not lost on him.

He works, he works out, he endures. He slowly accepts that he will live and die in this body, in this prison of flesh that creaks in all the wrong places, in this life he tripped and fell into while it was already in motion. It’s a life sentence, and there is not even the hope of parole on the horizon. 

The constant flow of UFO-worshippers through this bizarre neon honkytonk Mecca has one advantage: he can keep in contact with the Lone Gunmen. All his phone and email correspondence is being monitored, so they’ve set up drop points and communication systems in what the boys colorfully refer to as “meatspace” to get around it. There is a loose tile behind the door in the men’s room with a crack on one side and a hole behind it that they use to exchange brief messages, funneled through the hands of who knows how many anonymous intermediaries. If the crack is at the top, there’s a message waiting for him. He turns it to three o’clock when his reply is ready to be picked up. 

There are protocols in place for six and nine o’clock, but he has yet to engage them.

He never knows which of the patrons leaves or picks up the carefully coded messages, and that’s probably for the best. The Gunmen never use the same courier more than twice, and they switch up their cyphers every few months—usually just as he is getting the hang of one, which is of course the point, but he grumbles under his breath anyway each time he finds a new decoder ring behind the tile.

They’ve talked about securing an email address for him, funnel accounts and spyware countermeasures they could deploy so he could keep in touch with his old life, but there’s only one other person he’d want to talk to, and he thought a clean break would be better.

He has only one picture of her, one the Gunmen had scrounged from his apartment while Morris was busy redecorating. It’s a polaroid he’d taken of her the day they got a new camera for the office. She’s sitting at the desk in front of his poster (god he misses that poster, nothing but ashes in the vent system now), one eyebrow raised in indulgent skepticism while he bounced around like a little kid, so excited to play with his new toy. The flash going off had surprised them both, but not as much as the fact that the picture had come out not just properly focused but also incredibly cute. She had rolled her eyes when he put it in his suit pocket, then on his desk at home, and so it was one of the few things that survived the fire.

He keeps it in his wallet, and tries not to look at it too much. It’s enough—it needs to be enough—just to know she’s there.

Sometimes at night he dreams of her. On the good nights, he dreams of smokey lounges and roadside diners and the hallway outside his apartment. On the bad nights, he dreams of the rising hum of bees.

He wonders if she ever dreams of him.

Time passes, and he rides it like a wave, letting it carry him away from the shipwreck of his old life and wash away what little flotsam still clings to him. News comes through the Gunmen—Skinner’s death, Spender’s, Diana disappearing along with the Smoking Man and his ilk. He does not ask them for news of her, and they do not offer it. 

His mother’s passing hits him harder than he expected, and he asks the boys to send flowers for her grave. He wonders if Morris ever tried to reconcile with her, if he even went to the funeral. If she did. He takes three days off from work and indulges perhaps too deeply in the bar’s employee discount, puking out his guts and his regrets and a shame rooted so deep it rips him apart as it comes up, until he is empty, scraped clean, another thread in the sailcloth of his old life snipped away, never to be mended.

He goes back to work feeling both leaden with grief and weightlessly unmoored, as if gravity hasn’t yet decided what to do with him. He pours drinks, serves Wegman a burger, tries to laugh with the UFO nuts who stop by on their way to the Black (or is it white?) Mailbox, dreaming of Dreamland.

There’s a song playing on the jukebox that he recognizes, though no one can tell him the name or who sings it. It’s the same song that played the first time, when he brought Morris’s wife here a lifetime ago, when he thought there might still be hope. When he thought maybe he could still go home. His vision blurs as he listens, and he blames the Nevada laws that still allow smoking in bars.

I have waited for what seems Like a whole light-year Just to see your face

Something in his chest grows tight, and the other sounds around him fade away.

Now I'm staring at the stars Wondering where you are Wondering if I'll ever see Your face again

The bell above the front door jingles, somehow the only thing he can hear beside the music, and he looks up.

…as long as the sun would shine You would love me Love me And I hope You'll love the sunshine One more time…

He sees her the same moment she sees him, that shock of recognition like the shifting of the plates that bear the continents across the sea. The glass in his hand falls, shatters, and he would leap across the bar and pull her into his arms if his body (well, Morris’s) could just remember how.

All he can do is breathe her name. 

“Scully…”

—

She carries the sunflower seeds in her pocket back to the motel, her hand tingling where his skin had touched hers for the last time. She cries that night, stinging tears and the kind of wracking, unstoppable sobs that make her ribs ache and her throat burn—the kind that Morris can almost certainly hear through the walls, thin as cardboard, and knowing that only makes it worse. He at least has the good grace to keep his mouth shut on the flight home, and she even catches a glimpse of what looks like contrition on his face once or twice.

They part outside the airport and he doesn’t look back. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

She still has enough friends and enough goodwill (or perhaps pity) at the Bureau to salvage her old teaching position, flaying corpses in a room full of wide-eyed students that now all look like babies to her. She wonders how she was ever so young. She wonders at the weight of years, the weathering of time, the subtle changes in the body and mind that build and ebb in a person like sand carried by the tide until one day you wake to find that shoreline has become unrecognizable.

She has felt that seachange in her core, somewhere behind her solar plexus, tugging at her from the depths of his eyes; he has remade her, as she has remade him, shaping and reshaping each other over years and miles and tears and enough bad coffee to bring down the ageless, impregnable cliffs that once surrounded her heart. She staggers now without it, like the nauseating jolt of solid ground after months at sea. She cannot find her footing.

The seeds live in her pocket so long they start to crumble, salt on her fingers day after day as she fiddles absently with them, and she finally moves them into a glass jar that she keeps on a shelf. She opens it once in a while just to smell them, just to feel the sting in her eyes and know that he was real, that they were real; and if she sneaks the jar into bed with her sometimes, if she sleeps with it under her pillow because it’s the only way to keep the nightmares at bay, she tries not to think about it too much.

She tries, for a long time, to move on. She buries Skinner. She buries Spender. She buries herself in jagged pieces that keep rising through the earth to cut her when she least expects it. We bury our dead alive, and she is a woman both haunted and haunting.

She moves through her life without touching it. She teaches, she consults, she moves her mouth and makes the noises that mimic human expression and connection without ever feeling them. It’s grief, she knows, leaving her by turns agonized and numb, screaming and sobbing, and it’s supposed to ease with time; but how can it when the ghost of him haunts not a house but her very cells, and his body lies not beneath the cold, dark earth but walks and talks and sneezes as if nothing has happened at all?

The gossip reaches her, even down in those cold, subterranean labs where she burrows herself away—he’s climbing the ladder with hands that aren’t his, bedding his way through the secretarial pool in a stolen body, throwing away another man’s lifetime of hard-earned misery to grab at that brass ring.

She sees him in the hallways, though she tries not to. To see his face with another person behind it—the smile that doesn’t match the mouth, the voice that hits all the wrong notes, even the gait like his shoes don’t fit, except it’s the feet themselves that are wrong—each time it twists in her gut like a knife. He says hello to her, once, a tentative and distorted echo that leaves her panting and heaving in the women’s room until Holly comes in and asks if she doesn’t need to go home and lie down.

She quits the next day.

Her mother tries to understand, though she has never been able to properly explain just what has happened to this bad pantomime that used to be the man at the center of her world. Maggie hugs her, feeds her, does her laundry when she can’t do it herself. She watches her daughter adrift on the tide and prays each Sunday that she will find some way to turn her ship to harbor.

They attend Teena Mulder’s funeral together, two black-clad figures among the scant handful of mourners who turn up at the snowy gravesite in North Carolina, murmuring thinly veiled poison about poor Teena’s ungrateful son, who couldn’t even be bothered to attend. 

A wreath of lilac and carnation stands beside the open earth, with a tag reading simply “- M.” She traces her finger over it a dozen times, tears freezing on her cheeks.

When they go back to the car, she draws a deep and steadying breath. “Mom—”

“I know, sweetie. I’ll help you pack.”

—

She sidles up to the bar and his heart pounds so loudly in his ears he wonders if she can hear it. Her hair is dark, longer than he’s ever seen it, longer than the intervening months could account for and he realizes she’s wearing a wig; her makeup and clothing are outside her norm, as well—smokey eyes, crimson lips, a t-shirt from some band he doesn’t know, jeans with slashes across the knees that reveal little hints of pink skin as she walks toward him. She’s disguised herself from prying eyes, but he’d know her anywhere. Those luminous blue eyes that glass with tears as she looks at him, the way her right eyebrow lifts and her chin pebbles as she tries not to cry, the watery smile that pulls at her lips when she says, “Buy a girl a drink?” with a hitch in her voice that stakes him through the heart.

There are creatures in the desert, he knows, that go to ground deep beneath the sand, desiccating under the unrelenting heat, and only come back to life in the rain. He has become a creature of the desert, an empty husk curled and hollow; he drinks in the sight of her like the first patter of gentle rain, trying to let it be enough, even as he longs for a deluge to wash him clean and carry him away.

They slip into a booth in the back corner, sipping from twin bottles of local lager, and he cannot stop staring at her. She tells him about her life the past eighteen months, the pain and grief and loneliness that echoes down the hallways of her heart just as it does his. He tucks her words inside himself, as if he could save them, as if they can protect him from the drought that will return after the rain passes, as if they could fill all the empty places left behind when so much of himself has been cut away.

He aches to touch her, to tuck a strand of not-her-hair behind her ear and skim his thumb over the downy softness of her cheek. He almost does, almost takes her hand when she tells him about Skinner, purple and straining and dying in her arms; almost brushes away the tear that drips from her eye when she talks about Spender’s lonely burial, how she was the only one to leave a flower for him.

He is frozen. How can he touch her with these hands that aren’t really his? Would she even let him, or would she flinch away from his stranger’s body? And how would he be able to live after seeing that in her eyes?

But when she moves first, when she reaches across the chipped formica table to lay her hand over his as she says, “I’m so sorry about your mother,” the dam inside him breaks and he finds himself weeping, salt streaking down his cheeks as he clings desperately to her tiny, warm fingers. She is driftwood in a storm, a lighthouse through the fog, an anchor in the heaving sea that surges beneath his breastbone and pours in a torrent from his lips as he tells her everything—the cold and empty nights, the days that pass in a heat that burns but refuses to consume, Dreama and the boy and the way his heart cracks just a little bit more every time he makes a desperate wish for their happiness on a star that might be a stealth-plane. How he feels like he has already died, and is now only an inept gardener tending his own grave.

By the end she is crying with him, her eyes so blue he wants to drown in them, and when he stretches his arm across the vast continent of the booth to thumb her tears away, she does not flinch.

She leans into his hand. 

He will never be able to put his heart back together after this, and he lavishes in the agony of it all; it means he is still alive.

—

“Hey, Fletch, you and your lady friend gonna lock up?” Sam, the owner, appears beside them as if from nowhere. “I thought your shift ended at ten.”

He snatches his hand back as if burned, clearing his throat and knuckling his eyes, and she looks around to see that the bar has emptied out except for them.

“Sorry, yeah, I guess I lost track of time. I’ll take care of it,” he says, and she marvels at how this different voice in this different throat still somehow drips with him, a favorite melody played on a new instrument. His sad little smile painted over a different set of lips, the familiar glint in a different color eye, the heat of him just the same through a different skin. 

“Fletch?” she asks, quirking a brow at him when the other man moves away, and he smiles bashfully.

“I couldn’t stand ‘Morris,’ too close to old memories. Besides, sometimes I get to quote the movie.”

“Ever seen a spleen that large?”

“No, not since breakfast.”

He squeezes her hand in a quick little pulse as he rises to begin tidying up, and it takes her a long minute to wrangle her heart back into rhythm.

Could you love someone who looked like that? (What are you talking about, of course not! Five, ten minutes tops, maybe.)

When the counters are wiped clean and the lights turned off, he leads her out the back door and locks it behind them; the stars are shockingly bright in the clear desert night, glimmering like diamonds across a black velvet sky. His cheap truck and her cheaper rental sedan are the last cars in the lot, and they pause awkwardly between them. A tumbleweed with fantastic comedic timing rolls across the gravel.

Finally he takes her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles as if to memorize their topography. “Thank you, Scully. For coming to see me.” 

She opens her mouth to speak but he barrels right past her, the words falling from his lips in a pained deluge: missed you and go home and you deserve more and don’t look back for me and a thousand other ways to say goodbye because he knows if he stops speaking, that will be the end. She feels like she’s back in his hallway, back in that humid bubble of tears and breath where she had been the one begging him to let her go, where she realized she never could.

There are no bees in the desert.

She stops him with a finger against his lips. She cups his jaw, running her thumb along the silk of his beard, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he falls silent in surrender is as familiar as her own face in the mirror.

“I didn’t come here to say goodbye. I tried to grieve you. I tried to move on.” She steps closer, feeling the heat from his body wash against her own, the tide of his breathing pulling her to shore. “I tried to live a life without you. But I can’t. I don’t want to.” 

His hands (well, Morris’s) are in her hair (well, wig), warm and real and who the fuck cares if the fingerprints they leave on her skin aren’t the ones he was born with, who cares if the tears in his eyes are salt from a different sea? It’s all one ocean, after all, and she wades forward into the spray.

“Wherever you are, Mulder, that’s where I belong,” she whispers. Ship to port, a wave to the shore, she fits into his arms as easy as breathing. “I love you.”

His grin is blinding in the starlight, his laugh echoing across the sand as he pulls her tight against him; he lifts her, spins until she is breathless and giggling. He sets her back down on solid earth, presses his forehead against hers and stares into her eyes. “Say it again.”

She runs her thumbs against his lips, and they’re as soft and plump as she imagined, even if the shape is a little off. “I love you.”

“No,” he says. “The part where you said my name.”

She shakes her head, smiling through the tears in her eyes, and stretches up to breathe, “Mulder,” against his lips.

His kiss is the rumble of thunder across the sea, the safe harbor that calls her home.

–

The next morning he turns the tile, skipping right past six o’clock (get me out of here) and straight to nine (get us out of here).

–

There is a house in West Virginia, an unremarkable little affair with painted shutters and rosemary by the garden gate. The couple who lives there use false names when they play bridge with the neighbors, and strange visitors stop by sometimes in the night. If you ever find yourself inside this house, look for a shelf high in the corner of the kitchen, where the morning light flickers through the dusty window. Look for the jar of sunflower seeds, and the crinkled polaroid propped against it. 

Special thanks to @muldxr whose "trick or treat" ask prompted me to remember that I had this fic languishing in my WIP folder; and to @perpetually-weirdening for her encouragement, kind words, and first eyes. I scoured google for DAYS trying to find the name and artist of the song that plays in the Little A'Le'Inn during Dreamland II and apparently it has been lost to time. No one who worked on the show can remember, it doesn't get listed in the episode credits, even Shazaam can't figure it out. Maybe it's an X-File. I'd give credit if I could. Borrowing a handful of quotes from Fletch (1985) and "the part where you said my name" from Ever After: A Cinderella Story (1998), which you should watch if you haven't. I wanted to include a scene of Scully bullying the Lone Gunmen into giving her Mulder's location, but couldn't make it fit. Please feel free to imagine her threatening Frohike with grievous and very specific bodily harm.

[kittiwittebane]

Roommates!

Omg I am so sorry I really though I hadn’t finished it but then I went into it to finish it because I felt bad for not posting it yet and it was done 😭😭😭

Huntlow AU where Hunter and Willow both have to move to a city and they both rent out the same house.

This is original as far as I know. So yeah. Take it.

(It’s a multi-bedroom apartment that the owners said has a possibility of a different person living in the other room.)

---------------

Willow had just moved from her small town of Gravesfield to the large city of Aparo, 1489 miles from her house. She had looked at the renting market and there was a nice small, two bedroom apartment near the centre of the city, for a nice price. However there was one thing. The description said the rent is for the bedroom and the house, and there may be a second client sharing the pay with you in the second bedroom, which she obviously didn’t need. She’d taken the chance and as it turned out, she was living with another guy. Some client who went by Hunter. Hunter Noceda.

Hunter had recently found out he’d gotten a nice deal for a college in Aparo. Without much money, Hunter had to go small. On the market, he’d crossed the two-bedroom house with a possible new friend, as he saw it. Or hoped. The people said there wasn’t a second person in there right now, but with people coming in every week for college, it was unlikely for it to stay that way unless nobody wanted to live with a random person, which would be understandable. He didn’t know if he’d be ok with it. About a month later he found out he’d be living with a girl named Willow. He really hoped she was nice. He decided he’d be a nice person whether she was or not. It would make living with her easier.

Hunter heard a knock on the door and assumed it would be Willow. Both of them were standing at the opposite sides of the door, nervous of who they’d be faced with on the other side. Hunter opened the door cautiously. He gasped. Oh crap, she’s hot. Hunter’s face went red, without any reason. She smiled at Hunter and waved. He was too busy taking in how pretty she was.

“Hi.” she smiled sweetly, waving. Hunter just looked at her. Oh no, this isn’t going well. Willow’s mind raced nervously. Why wasn’t he responding? Did he think she was ugly? Did he really wish she hadn’t rented this place? What was happening?

“Hello?” she asked. The boy shook his head, in what looked like surprise, and Willow tilted her head in confusion. She wasn’t going to question it though. Hunter motioned to her to come inside, and to her surprise, he took one of her heavy bags and her suitcase, leaving her with only her backpack to carry. Jaw open, she continued to her room, where she found a freshly made bed with beautiful white sheets and pillows. She expected to have to make it herself.

“Oh.” she patted the bed experimentally.

“D-do you not like it? I’m sorry I shouldn’t have assumed you’d like the bed made that way, I am really sorry.” Hunter spoke for the first time. Willow turned to him.

“No, I love it! Also, you made the bed?” she asked. Hunter nodded.

“Sorry, did you want to make it? Ugh I have to stop doing that.” he put his head down.

“No, I- thank you.” Willow tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Hunter looked up at her, mildly happy, mildly confused. He smiled at her before leaving the room.

The next day at breakfast time, WIllow groaned with frustration.

“F*ck, i forgot to get food, now I have to go to the store this early.” she grumbled. Hunter came around the corner.

“You ok?” he asked worriedly. Willow’s eyes shot up in shock, but softened as she saw the concern in his eyes.

“I have to duck into the store, I forgot to get some stuff for at least today yesterday.” Willow admitted sheepishly. The embarrassment of forgetting to buy food mocked Willow. Hunter looked at her sympathetically, this had happened on his first day too. Worse, it was raining right now.

“Don’t bother, I have plenty to share.” Hunter mumbled. “If you want to.”

Willow smiled to herself.

“A-are you sure?” she stuttered bashfully. Both of them just stood there for a minute looking like embarrassed tomatoes, chuckling nervously. Without speaking another word, Hunter got out some toast for her.

“Do you have butter on your toast?” Hunter asked. Willow nodded.

“What about a spread? I have strawberry jam, vegemite?” He paused, looking at the vegemite jar. He shook his head and continued. “Peanut butter??” he paused again. “I’m so confused.” he mumbled. “Blackberry jam, Honey, A couple of different syrups, and canned spaghetti.” He finished. Willow shook her head, her cheeks heating up.

“Anything is fine.” she mumbled diffidently.

Hunter made their toast and came and sat down with her.

“So tell me about yourself.” he turned to her, curious.

“Well.. what do you want to know?”

Hunter thought for a moment.

“Common knowledge of a friend.. Maybe?” he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. Willow put her hand on his shoulder.

“I would love to be friends.” she smiled. Hunter looked back at her smiling goofily. She started. “My favourite colour is green. I absolutely LOVE gardening…” and Willow continued to list things that made her happy for about half an hour while Hunter just stared at her in adoration.

“What about you?” WIllow asked, Hunter’s former trance-like state popping like a bubble. He gave her a stunned look before attempting to form a sentence.

“Uh, I like to draw??” he shrugged. Hunter didn’t really know what he liked, as he didn’t really do much in free time. Willow seemed intrigued.

“Can I see one?” she asked shyly. Hunter’s face was washed with a wave of shock and confusion.

“Just because I draw doesn’t mean I’m good at it.” he mumbled diffidently. Willow’s eyes strayed away from him in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” she chuckled nervously. Hunter itched his cheek, and coughed awkwardly. The two avoided eye contact for a bit before Willow’s phone went off. Her eyes darted towards the screen and read the notification.

“Oh no! I forgot I signed up for a gardening club!” Willow groaned in annoyance. She picked up her phone and put her shoes on faster than Hunter had ever seen.

“UUUhh!” Willow wailed frustratedly. “Where is my seedling handbook!?” Willow’s voice became frantic and panicked. Hunter came over to the stressed plant girl and hesitantly placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Breathe.” he murmured comfortingly. Willow brought her hand out and counted to four on them while regulating her breathing. His hand subconsciously started to rub her shoulder. She smiled to herself. Once calm, she looked up at Hunter, only concern sparkling in his eyes. Both quickly realised Hunter’s hand was resting on her shoulder, and he was now the one freaking out. He quickly removed his hand, stuttering profusely.

“Oh, my titan I am so sorry Willow, I didn't mean to-” Hunter’s speech cut off as Willow brought his hand back up to her shoulder.

“It’s ok. It was nice.” She smiled, giggling a bit. Hunter’s face brushed with red, Willow’s brushed pink. Willow then found her handbook and walked out of the door.

Part 2?????????????????

[denimbex1986]

'There are certain kinds of films that really impact me emotionally. One genre is what I will call “Saddest Film I Ever Saw”, and weirdly the Brits seem to have almost cornered the market on this one.

If asked, I usually say the very saddest film I have ever seen is “Never Let Me Go”, the heart-rending British Sci Fi classic based on Nobel-prize winner Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel. Oh, and if that didn’t make you cry, with its trio of Oscar winners and nominees — Andrew Garfield, Carey Mulligan and Keira Knightly — trying to love and live before they are forced to sever their limbs (yep), then the Merchant-Ivory production of Ishiguro’s “The Remains of the Day” has to.

Or your tear ducts have straight up dried up.

And, also from the UK, Saorise Ronan in the insanely sad Dystopian Sci Fi film, “How We Live Now”. Oh.my.garsh. There’s a new one: a distinctly British tale of late love, “All of Us Strangers”.

Gay Love and Heartbreak: Who Knew?

I have read a lot of reviews of this film, and, well, it had a nearly perfect IMDB Critics and Users score. I recently had a debate with some other people who are quite knowledgeable about film, about whether IMDB scores even matter. They eschew IMDB and use Letterbox’d — all the cool kids do, apparently (LOL).

Trust me, IMDB scores matter. Nearly every film I have ever seen that has had an IMDB score higher than 6.5 has been Good, and ones with a 6.8–7.1 score (they hardly ever (ever) go higher than that) are usually amazing.

What critics have keyed on is not that this is a beautiful tale of Gay love, of growing up Gay during the AIDS era and having parents who, in the words of The Fresh Prince, “just don’t understand” (or do they?), and then get killed in a car crash. Although all of that is present. Critics have keyed on the fact that “All of Us Strangers” is a timeless story of love and loss. Period. It could be any pair of people: old, young, gay, straight. It doesn’t matter, because Haigh’s and co-writer Taichi Yamada’s script and direction deliver the goods.

The Progress We Have Made

This film probably could not have been made, or been as successful even ten years ago. But today, when despite the forces of Evil arrayed against LGBTQ+ people all over the world, and especially in the US, Haigh presents us with an achingly beautiful love story between two people, who happen to be Gay Men. And it shows us, sans any prurience, gorgeous scenes of Gay Lovemaking that are the farthest thing from pornographic or even lurid.

And he does this by asking more narrative questions than he ever answers. Which I, personally, love.

Andrew Scott plays Adam, a screen-writer (how Meta) living in a nearly empty apartment building somewhere in London, at some point in time (the recent past? the near future?), who by a simple twist of fate ends up in the arms of Harry, played by Paul Mescal. I have loved Scott ever since his turn as a sexually active Anglican Priest in Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s amazing TV series “Fleabag”, and also love Mescal for, among other things, the critically lauded “Aftersun”.

A Queer Ghost Story?

What makes the narrative so fascinating is that, in parallel with this surprising tale of new love, Adam decides to return to his home town and finds his Mother and Father still living in the house in which he grew up, and still the same age they were thirty years ago right before they died in a car crash.

Why and how this impossible thing is happening provides much of the narrative force for “All of Us Strangers”, and Haigh inter-weaves the yearning love of Adam and Harry with Adam’s need to talk to his parents. You see, he needs to know if they knew he was Gay when he was in school (they did) and whether his Mum approves of the fact he likes Men, not Women (She does).

If you are fully willing to “suspend disbelief” (as Poet Coleridge famously said) then you are all in, and the only important thing is to see how Adam’s dialogues with his Mum (played by the excellent Claire Foy) and his Da (played by the under-rated Jamie Bell) will give them, and him some Peace.

It Gets Weird, then it Gets…

And why do they need that? Because, and this not a spoiler, they are all probably Dead. Jamie Ramsay’s gorgeous, yet unintrusive, Cinematography establishes a dream-like visual language in which we simply follow along both the Love Story and the Ghost Story, and really don’t want it to end.

But, alas, the story needs to go somewhere, and in the third reel Adam comes back to the Apartment Building to find Harry dead in Harry’s apartment. Again, not a spoiler, as it is never clear if any of the few characters in the film are actually alive in the first place.

As they lie together on his Bed, the shot of the two of them starts to shrink against a white background, eventually collapsing like a Neutron Star. Queue tears — bawling, really.

Question posed? Yes. Answered? Brilliantly, no.'

[bestreviewguy]

Don’t be deceived when people tell you that Marvels new show, “Echo” is like the others. It is in a different location, the writing is paced different and the overall atmosphere are a total different change than anything we’ve seen. This is a nice change, it even somehow manages to be different than the 2021 show “Miss Marvel” which some like and others didn’t. I believe this show will have the same amount of levity in that regard. In this show, we are viewing the world as Maya Lopez played excellently by Alaqua Cox. She resides in New York. Yet under certain circumstances I’m avoiding going into due to spoilers, she travels to Tamaha Oklahoma. As someone who lives relatively close to this town, it was quite nice to see someone who lives in the same realm as the Avengers, doing Avengers things so close to where I live but that is strictly bias. Regardless, she travels their and re-connects with her heritage and culture via past lives. In prior lives, she has trained and become a warrior with the ability to use super strength. What is interesting however, is that while Daredevil has enhanced senses, yet cannot see, it is established VERY early on, Maya AKA “Echo” has enhanced senses, yet cannot hear. She is mute yet communicates with sign language. This brings up an issue I have with the show that is detected early on, as if you have seen any of the John Wick films, (while drastically different than this) I do wish it was handled in that regard where subtitles where incorporated into the film itself. This show does not show subtitles, leaving the audience to sort of figure it out for themselves. While this works in the first 2 to 3 episodes, by the final fifth episode it makes the story somewhat hard to follow. While Disney+ has excellent subtitles as always, for someone with slow internet, it would not correspond correctly and was very hard to follow. Around the 5th episode very important plot elements occurred which I did not understand at all because the subtitles where down. Something that could have been fixed easily with a CGI approach of words on the screen. Similar to what the John Wick franchise did, especially in the third film. Speaking of action scenes, every one in this show from the first episode, all the way to the final fifth episode, are done EXCELLENT. It makes the show worth the watch. If nothing else, the action scenes make this show worth watching alone. One in a roller skating rink, to my personal favorite, the battle between Daredevil and Echo in the first episode. Speaking of Daredevil, he’s not in this, their is ONE SCENE with him. It is very much Maya’s story. What is interesting however is the antagonist of the film is Wilson Fisk. Episode 3 ends with a large cliffhanger, as he at one point was Echo’s guardian. This makes a very interesting and tense approach to the hero vs. villain dynamic. A very “outside of the box” approach to the extremely over used, good guy vs. bad guy dynamic, that is saturating the super hero market nowadays via “Superhero fatigue.” I will say, the scene with Daredevil is done perfect and at the very least watch the first episode to see everyone’s favorite lawyer again. I’m getting chills typing this just thinking about how excellently handled the character is done in this show. As far as my biggest complaint with the show, it’s very hard to follow, your so focused on the plot which is derivative of the action scenes complimenting it, all the way until the final episode, which makes the ending a bit mediocre, leaving a sour taste in the audiences mouth. Every action scene is near perfect, yet every plot scene is very much not, and theirs a lot of plot points. The plot is interesting enough to hold the show together but in the end, your really just wanting to get to the next fight scene, making each interaction between the characters feel like a drag. In the end, Echo is a enjoyable watch, but not a stand out. The plot is forgettable but the action is not. I’m going to give Echo, a 5 out of 10.

+Great action

+Kingpin steals the show.

-Hard to follow

-Forgettable finale with no pay off hardly.

-Some dialogue issues.

[vizu-al]

Quilted Flowers: 1940s Albanian & Epirot Recordings from the Balkan Label LP Limited Edition

Ajdin Asllan was born in Leskovik near the present-day southern border of Albania on March 12, 1895. At the age of 30, on July 12, 1925, he married a girl named Emverije, who was one month shy of her 16th birthday, in her native town Korçë, about 80 miles north. He arrived in New York by himself less than a year later on September 20, 1926, and when he filed his Declaration of Intent to become an American citizen in 1928 as a resident of Detroit, he gave his occupation as "musician." Emverije joined him in New York City on July 27, 1931. Asllan appears to have made his first recordings in November 1931 as a clarinetist on four songs issued as 12” discs by Columbia sung in Albanian by K. Duro N. Gerati. In January 1932 he recorded again, this time singing and playing oud on three Columbia 12”s along with several Albanian singers and the violinist Nicola Doneff (born March 21, 1891 Dichin, Bulgaria; died July 19, 1961 New York). In 30s Asllan launched an independent label called Mi-Re (roughly “With New” in Albanian) Rekord primarily to release his own recordings, but it stalled out after about 6 releases. In October 1941 he accompanied a Greek singer and songwriter named G.K. Xenopoulos as an oudist along with the beloved Greek clarinetist Kostas Gadinis and accordionist John Gianaros for the Orthophonic subsidiary of Victor Records run by Tetos Demetriades. The trio of Gadinis, Asllan, and Gianaros cut another four sides for Orthophonic May 1, 1942. Shortly thereafter, Asllan relaunched his label as Me Re with the help of Doneff and then quickly renamed it, more generically, Balkan. Gianaros came in as a business partner, and Balkan released scores of records, some of them seemingly selling thousands of copies in the mid-40s, but Gianaros split angrily with Asllan after just a few years over money problems. By 1947, Doneff had trademarked the Kaliphon label, which drew from much of the same roster of New York musicians of the Greek- and Turkish-speaking performers as Balkan and apparently collaborated in distribution, marketing, and manufacturing into the 1950s, but some business distinction had been drawn. A third label, Metropolitan, was launched and became at catchall for further Greek, Turkish, Armenian, and Ladino material by New York players, but it's not clear who was in charge or how things were divided up. Maybe Metropolitan was started by Asllan as a separate business to dodge the taxman or old creditors? We don’t know. All three labels shared a standard black-on-red color scheme that, it would seem reasonable to guess, was based on the Albanian flag and Asslan’s original, core purpose as an artist and impresario. Adjin and Emverije lived during the 1930s into the 50s first at 143 Norfolk St. and then at 42 Rivington St. (where Asllan opened a record shop), in Manhattan's Lower East Side, where Eastern European Jewish immigrants surrounded the small Albanian community and Turkish-speaking Sephardic Jews, and abutting Little Italy and a strip of Greek coffee houses on Mulberry Street. He worked within a network of primarily Turkish- and Greek-speaking performers in New York and released recordings prolifically made both locally and overseas through the 40s and 50s. He corresponded with his brother Selim (who sings on track 1, side A, later worked on the radio in Tirana and co-founded the National Ensemble of Folk Songs and Dances) back home, who was able to secure masters of Albanian performers recorded in Istanbul and Athens along with performances by Turkish- and Greek-speaking stars including Rosa Eskenazi and Udi Hrant (both of whom subsequently made extended visits to the U.S.) Greeks and Armenians had, even at the low ebb of immigration during the 1940s-50s, substantial immigrant populations in New York and around the country - Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, and many other cities. Those markets kept the Balkan label afloat for nearly 20 years. But Asllan also issued about 40 discs for the Albanian-language market ca. 1945-50 (at which point he retained a 500-series numbering scheme for them, picking up where he’d left off with his Me Ri label a decade earlier), including both folk music of southern Albania and choral music, much of the latter anti-Fascist Communist songs. In addition, three discs were issued as part of Balkan’s Greek series of uncredited musicians from Pogoni and Konitsa, towns about 30 miles south as the crow flies from where Asllan was born. The total Albanian-speaking population in the U.S. at the time was less than 10,000, and many couldn’t afford record players. But despite the small market for Albanian-language songs, he made sure to release discs for his countrymen. It was a time of immense political and social turbulence in both Albania and Greece, and the sense of duty to music is palpable in his work. Balkan’s business model was haphazard. Its numbering system, if one can call it that, indicates a tendency to start a series, then add to it - or not - sporadically, driven largely the question, “can we sell 500 of these? (And if so, can we sell 1000?)” The last Balkan 78s were issued around 1959; a few LP releases appeared around 1960, more than 20 years after Asllan released his first discs. We know he visited his native home and family in 1951, 25 years after having become American. He died in New York in October 1976. He had no children, save the records. ========= We have so far been able to trace a biographical narrative of only one of the other immigrant performer among those who play on this collection, Chaban Arif, who apparently sings on track 9. He was born May 22, 1899 in Berat, Albania, attended school through the second grade, and arrived alone at Ellis Island on November 2, 1920 at the age of 19 under the name Aril Shaban. His intention upon arrival was to meet up with a cousin, Mahomet Hajrules (who, in turn, had arrived only six months earlier under the name Mehemet Airula) in Southbridge, Massachusetts. However, there was a family of four from Shaban’s hometown on the same steamship who were headed to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (via a stop first at the south Philadelphia home of a relative), so Shaban wound up in Pittsburgh. He filed his first papers to become a U.S. citizen in Canton, Ohio in 1925, but he had returned to Albania in June of 1928, where he married an 18 year old woman named Nadire, and by 1931 had returned to Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, where he was working at the Duquesne, Pennsylvania Carnegie steel mill. (When his cousin Mehmet Hajrulla filed his Declaration of Intent to naturalize as a U.S. citizen in 1937, he was a widower living on Braddock Ave. in Pittsburgh and working as a painter.) The 1940 census found Shaban Arif relocated to 55 Clinton St. on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, about seven blocks from Adjin Asllan’s place on Rivington. Arif told the census enumerator that he worked 60 hours a week, 52 weeks a year for $916 a year (about $17,000 a year in today’s money) at the counter of of a restaurant. The man he listed on his WWII draft registration card as his closest contact was named Kardi Braim, who gave his country of origin either as Albania and Macedonia on different documents, had himself worked for a brick manufacturer in Erie County, Pennsylvania in addition to a string of other laboring jobs and worked at the time at Stewart’s Restaurant. It would seem reasonable to guess that both Shaban Arif and Kardi Braim were in Adjin Asllan’s limited social circle of Albanians in the neighborhood in the early 1940s when he recorded on this song. The $1 that the disc cost could have represented three and a half hours of labor at the restaurant. We know nothing else of Shaban Arif’s life except that he died in New York City in September, 1971. (Kardi Braim died in 1978.)

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

Hi,

I’m Paty and Im from Mexico. I’m planning a 1w trip to Italy for next year (my tickets are for September), this would my first time in Italy and I was wondering if you can give me some tips and guidance about where to visit. I have only 7 days so I want to get the max of my time there but at the same time enjoy my trip 😁. I’m on a tight budget but I’ve reserved some money for sightseeing and of course for eating great Italian food.

The first stop of my trip will be Barcelona and from there I’m planning to fly to Italy, so I still don’t have tickets for the domestic flights.

Anyway thanks

P.S you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to ☺️.

Hello!! I'm really happy you have the opportunity to visit my country ^-^ Barcelona is also really beautiful, the Sagrada Familia is honestly the single most-jawdropping place I've ever been in but also the rest of the city is so pretty. Go to the Boqueri market for snacks and smoothies!

So, Italy . . . it really depends on what you want to do/focus on? It's September so it's still summer, if you want sea and beaches then you need to do to the south. If you want to sightsee and visit the historical cities and museums and stuff, well, there's historical cities and museums and stuff everywhere, but you might want to focus on the center and/or north. If you are willing to spend a bit more money on transportation, then you can buy fast train tickets (Freccia Rossa trains) that connect the big cities in short amounts of time, so you can, say, fly to Milan, visit Milan, take the fast train to Florence, then take the fast train to Rome, then take the fast train to Naples . . . but of course the fast train tickets are a bit expensive (the Milan-Rome trip is 50-60 euros for reference) so you might prefer to stay in a smaller area where you can travel via regular trains and not lose too much time. In which case I'd suggest Florence and the surrounding areas in Tuscany.

(It also really depends on whether you're like me and when you're on a trip you get possessed by a demon who wants to See All the Things And Walk Everywhere, or you're more or a normal human being.)

As someone who lives near Milan I'm quite partial to that city, but, well, one must to to Rome at least once in their life, right? Florence is a gem. Venice I usually forget when I do this kind of recs because my experience was quite negative, but only because my brother is a wheelchair user and the city is not quite accessible if you are not familiar with it, but, I mean, it's considered one of the most iconic and beautiful cities in the world for a reason.

Naples is a city I sooo want to see more of because I went on a shitty badly organized trip with my school a long time ago, but there are some incredibly beautiful places if you know where to look.

Palermo, in Sicily, is one of the best places I've ever been in imo, but of course Sicily being an island it might be a bit of a hassle to reach on a time-restricted schedule. But honestly, if you just want to see beautiful places and visiting Thee Famous Cities is not a priority for you, you could just make a trip around Sicily and be thoroughly happy with it. (September is still warm, but it shouldn't be as scorching as July and August are, so it should be fine to move around.)

The region Puglia is also soo beautiful (the "heel" of the boot but also reachable by fast train, so it can be a valid alternative to Sicily). I've never been to Calabria but it must be worth seeing too, possibly though less equipped with good/fast transportation because of its geography and stuff.

Let me know which things you're most interested in, and I can totally help you plan your trip more in depth!! If you're interested in, you know, ~less famous but still worth visiting~ places in stead of The Big Famous Cities, we can also consider that too. (Some people totally prefer smaller towns to bigger, more touristy cities, which is valid.)

Also let me know if you're interested in things like art museums, archeological museums/sites, nature/parks or more urban areas etc.

[genedara]

A Bad Idea

Run, run, run, run.

You haven’t changed anything yet. You haven’t changed their futures. You - you haven’t saved any of them.

Close your eyes, Bev.

Fuck you!

If you don’t believe, close them. And see.

((The following contains subject material that may be triggering to some. Themes included: graphic violence and scenes of disturbing imagery. Read at your own discretion.))

Genedara let out a soft sigh as she closed the front door to her store, Mystical Enchantments. She slid the bronze key into the lock and twisted it to the right, engaging the deadbolt and locking the door. The key was slipped into a pocket in her trousers and her other hand was pressed up against the door. A magic circle roughly three feet across flared to life as mana was pumped into it, activating the seal that kept her business safe from external threats, effectively raising a barrier around the building. With her store locked up tight Genedara pulled her folded up white cane and flicked it open. She turned to the right and started the short walk to a quiet spot near the Trade District, the preferred spot for her lunch break. The city was rife with activity today, the Trade District packed to the brim with adventures seeking out new gear for their journeys. Gene made her way through the crowds, sweeping her cane from side to side. Most people were aware enough to stay out of her way but occasionally someone would bump into her.

Eventually the crowds thinned out and Genedara was able to escape the hustle and bustle of a busy market. She walked parallel with the canal and stopped when she was at her favorite bench. A handkerchief was removed from a pocket that was used to wipe the bench off to avoid sitting in a puddle. Satisfied the bench was safe to sit on, she pocketed the handkerchief and sat down and set down her lunch box to her right.

“Nice part of town, isn’t it?” a woman asked, having approached Genedara without making a sound.

The elf let out an annoyed sigh, having hoped to avoid people until after she had eaten. Business had been booming as of late and as a result Genedara hadn’t had time to eat breakfast or lunch the past few days. Coupled with twelve hour days, she was running on fumes. She did her best to avoid sleep, fearing that if she were to lose consciousness the Thing would come out again. Ever since she had learned of the Thing living within her, Gene only slept in short bursts.

“Yes,” Gene snapped back. “Is there something I can do for you? I don’t have a lot of spare time and I’d rather be eating my lunch than providing small talk for a stranger.”

“Jeez, no need to be a bitch,” the woman said quietly. “I just wanted to talk with you. I figured we had a lot to talk about.”

“We have nothing to discuss,” Genedara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Begone, I am hungry and not in the mood for whatever you want.”

“You can try to banish me,” the woman said in unison with a second, deeper voice. “But He has commanded I speak with you. I am going nowhere until I have said what needs to be said.”

Genedara snapped to attention, her body going rigid as she channeled Arcane magics through her body, activating her Arcane sight. Standing before her was a woman in her early twenties with light brown hair styled into a bob. She had brilliant yellow eyes and a set of horns growing from the sides of her head, a set of leathery wings folded up behind the stranger.

“Who is this? Why are you hiding in the guise of a Succubus?” Genedara asked the strange woman.

“A Succubus? As if. I’m more like you, you see. Same background. Dead kids, dead husband and oh woe is me,” the woman said, making a crying motion with her hands. “I am the First.”

“The first what?”

“The First. The first host. I found Him sealed away in the Heavens, a prisoner as old as time itself, the last of His people.”

“What do you want with me?” Genedara asked, abandoning all hope of eating her lunch.

“He knows what you’re doing. Or rather, what you’re trying to do,” the woman replied as she dropped down to a flat-footed squat. “He knows you’re trying to seal him away in a staff. He wanted me to tell you that it won’t work.”

Genedara sat there in stunned silence. She had hoped that the Thing wouldn’t be able to observe what she was doing while she was in control. She had assumed that everything would be okay so long as she didn’t fall asleep. It dawned on her that she was out of her league and was on a path of destruction rather than one of salvation. If He knew what she was doing, would it even be worth it to try? Is doing nothing to stop things really her only option?

“Won’t know until we try,” Gene said, trying to feign confidence. “Your friend may be strong but he has not faced anything like me before. I’ll learn your weaknesses. I have a long life ahead of me and have more than enough time to figure out a way to end you. I will not go down without a fight, that I can promise you.”

“Fight all you want,” the woman said with a shrug of her shoulders. “You wouldn’t be the first person to resist Him and you certainly won’t be the last. I admit, He is scary at first. I was scared too. Spend a few eons with Him and you’ll change your mind. Soon enough you’ll find comfort in his presence, just as we all did.”

“All? How many of you are there?” Genedara asked.

“Hundreds. Thousands. It’s hard to tell,” the other woman said with another shrug of her shoulders. “He’s been around for a long time and has met a lot of people who wanted to be apart of His journey. We are him and he is us. We are one.”

“And that is what is going to happen to me?”

“That depends,” came the woman’s reply as she stood back up, abandoning her squat. “Work with us and you will continue to live. Keep on resisting and he’ll return you to the state he found you in twenty years ago.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Genedara asked, her eyes never leaving the stranger’s form. “What state was in twenty years ago?”

“Lady, you blew yourself up. You turned your body into a fine red mist when you set that bomb off. Your body was vaporized. Just… Poof, gone! Boy, was that a show. You’re quite the accomplished mage, being able to pull a spell like that off.

“We saw the whole thing, you know; we followed Arthas for his entire journey. Kylona was host back then, that little psychopath. I’m sure you’ve seen her work in your dreams by now. But anyway, the perfect little prince went and did his thing. We watched your house collapse with your family inside. Heartbreaking, really. One moment you have the perfect life and the next it’s all taken away. So sad. The perfect host, a woman defeated by life but too cowardly to take her own life. That’s okay. You’ll have an eternity to come to terms with the death of your crotch goblins.”

“What did you call my children?” Genedara snarled as she rose from her bench. “Insult my children again and I’ll vaporize you.”

“You could try,” the woman said with yet another shrug of her shoulders. “Not gonna do anything. For you see, I’m not really here. You’ve been talking to yourself this entire time. What, didn’t you see the people who walked by giving you the hairy eyeball? Oh. That’s right. You’re blind. My bad!”

And then the woman was gone, vanishing without a trace. Genedara was left there, alone, her lunch abandoned. A couple could be seen walking away in the distance, having passed by just a moment ago while she was having a discussion with the air. Feeling like a fool the elf gathered up her lunch and started fast walking to the city gates.

Ever since Genedara discovered the Thing living inside of her, she had started having horrible nightmares. She knew now that those were not mere dreams but actual memories of her body committing atrocious acts in the name of this Thing. In several of these dreams a pair of twins were seen actively interfering with the Thing whenever they ran into each other. They were the only group of people to consistently avoid dying at the hands of the Thing. Be it through sheer luck or skill, Genedara needed those twins now.

It was time to pay them a visit.

------

“Babe,” Cassian said, roughly shoving Kallard’s shoulder. “Babe, wake up. Who falls asleep cooking?”

Kallard let loose a mighty yawn, closed his eyes, extended his arms and legs and did a mighty stretch with a soft groan. He reached up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sitting up in his lawn chair. Kylona had her nose stuck in some book, wrapped up in a blanket near the fire and Marilini was in the tent drying the wolves off after their afternoon bath.

“I wasn’t cooking anything, I’m smoking meat.”

“Well, you smoked the meat into charcoal pucks,” Cassian muttered, pointing at the now ruined food. “Why don’t you leave the cooking to me, yeah? I want to actually eat today.”

“It’s true, Kal,” Kylona chimed in without looking up. “You suck at grilling.”

“Whoa, hold on there. I thought you all loved my steaks.”

Kylona just laughed in response.

“Shut it, Shortstack,” Kallard snapped back.

“Uuugghh,” Kylona groaned, finally looking up from her book. “I hate that call sign you know.”

“And I hated mine when I got it. Suck it up, buttercup. Embrace the suck,” Kallard said with a wave of his hand.

“Well, your call sign actually makes sense. You’re a fucking rascal, Kal. You’re always up to no good,” Cassian chimed in, elbowing his husband in the ribs. “You’re a menace.”

“Bullshit! I’m not always scheming, right sis?!”

“Leave me out of this!” Marilini shouted from inside the tent. “Shut up and make me some food!”

“FINE! I’ll make us some stir fry you lazy fucks.”

“It’s your turn to cook, dumbass!” came Mari’s reply.

It had been a few months since Kylona was saved by the Felmanns and she couldn’t have been any happier. Finally, for the first time in her life she was surrounded by people who not only respected her, but loved and wanted her around. The Felmanns were a rough bunch but they had their hearts in the right place. Kallard may be abrasive and offensive but deep down he was a kind man who would die for his family. In the weeks that followed Kylona’s rescue she had been formally adopted by Cassian and Kallard and had taken on their last name.

They spent practically all day together, either training, shooting the shit or just quietly existing around each other. Cassian was finally caught up on recent events due to him missing a good ten years of history. Kallard was working Kylona hard, running her through what he called Boot Camp. Every day for a good portion of the daylight hours was spent training and readying Kylona for future conflicts. They had even given her one of the four revolvers the family used, officially making her a Felmann.

“What meat do you bums want?” Kallard ask the group, tossing vegetables into a large wok. “We got chicken, pork and a few shrimp left over from last night.”

“Chicken!” Cassian and Marilini said in unison.

“Chicken it is. Grub’ll be rea-” Kallard had started before a bomb went off roughly one hundred feet from the camp; someone or something had triggered their early warning traps.

Marilini came flying out of the tent, tossing a double barrel shotgun in her brother’s direction before slipping back inside. Kallard snatched the weapon out of the air and cracked open the breach to check it was load before snapped the barrel back into place. Kylona abandoned her blanket and book, tossing both items aside as she popped up to her feet, drawing her revolver as she moved. Unlike the others Cassian did not arm himself and instead took up position next to his husband.

“Watch it be a deer,” Kylona muttered after a moment of silence.

“Ain’t no deer comin’ out here. The Murlocs to the south keep most prey species away which also keeps the predators away. Things know to avoid an area when they see their buddies dropping left and right,” came Kallard’s reply.

Kylona opened her mouth to reply but instead snapped her jaw shut when a woman stepped out of the forest and into the clearing where the Felmann camp was. She held her hands up in the air, palms facing the group in an attempt to show them she was not armed. The woman wore clothing fit for a Gilnean noble with platinum blonde hair pulled into a tidy ponytail. Her milky white eyes gazed at the group, radiating a soft blue. It was the same elf who had had been terrorizing the area for as long as the Felmanns were there.

“The fuck do you want?” Kallard asked the elf, keeping the barrel of his shotgun aimed at her head. “Last time you showed up you tried to kill us. You got thirty seconds to explain yourself.”

“I am not here to fight,” the woman said calmly, keeping her gaze on Kallard. “I know that I have tried to harm you in the past and I want to make it absolutely clear that I will not harm any of you this day. I am here to explain myself and see if you would be willing to offer me aid so we can put this part of our lives behind us. Please. I cannot keep Him contained forever. He must be dealt with.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Kallard spat. “Ain’t no he or him. It’s you. It’s always just been you.”

“I am possessed. You haven’t spoken to ME once. The entire time you were talking to HIM.”

“Yeah, and? Go see a fucking Priest!” Kylona shouted at the woman. “We’re not exorcists or holy men.”

“Well, there is one holy man here,” Cassian said, looking at the woman. “I don’t know your history with my family but I am willing to at least verify what you are saying.”

“What?! No, we’re not helping her!” Kallard snapped back, looking at his husband briefly. “Cass, she’s been killing people left and right. You’ve heard the rumors! What about that church full of people that up and vanished? Or what about that farmhouse that was painted with blood? That was all her! She’s just using this possession bit to garner sympathy for her.”

“Kal, hun, I’m a Paladin. We help people, even those who have tried to harm us. I would be breaking my oath if I were to turn her away,” Cassian said softly, placing a comforting hand on Kallard’s shoulder.

“Please,” the woman begged. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. These hands are covered in enough blood. Help me end this.”

Without waiting for Kallard’s permission, Cassian stepped forward and approached the stranger. He offered her a kind smile and gestured for her to lower her hands before doing the same for his family. Kylona hesitantly lowered her revolver but Kallard kept his shotgun trained on the woman. He did a half circle around the elf and his husband, keeping the former in his sights.

“Ignore him,” Cassian told the elf, reaching out with his right hand. “I’m just going to do a quick probe. If you are telling the truth then I will detect two souls within you, which we all know isn’t normal. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

“Alright, you may run your test,” the elf said, letting the Paladin’s warm hand rest on the top of her head.

The smile never left Cassian’s face as he closed his eyes and focused for a moment. Thanks to his training as a combat medic and a Light based healer, it didn’t take long for him to see the truth behind the woman’s words. There was indeed two distinct and separate souls residing within the woman. Her soul was strong and steeped in magic but the other had a sinister energy to it. Whatever it was, it knew what Cassian was trying to do, a hint of amusement rising to the surface. Cassian gasped and withdrew his hand, feeling as if he had touched a hot pan on the stove.

“She’s telling the truth,” the Paladin said first looking at the woman and then down at his hand. “Whatever else is inside of her is wicked.”

“Now do you believe me?” the woman asked, keeping her gaze on Kallard, the obvious leader of the group.

“Do I believe you? Yes. Do I trust you to roam free around my family? No. What’s to stop that thing inside of you from taking over now and killing all of us? What are you doing to keep it contained? Doesn’t it know you are doing this? Surely it’s not going to sit there and watch us lock it away.”

“Kal, chill. Let her explain herself,” Kylona chimed in, looking over at the man that she now considered to be her adopted father.

While the others were distracted with their ethical debate, Marilini sneaked out of the tent. In her right hand was a large, open shackle. Several runes had been carved into the shiny metal, each one giving off a dull blue glow. Without warning, she leaped at the elf and tackled her to the ground, forcing a cry of surprise and pain as the two women hit the ground. Th elven woman felt the cold metal of the shackle close around her neck, sealing itself with a soft click.

“That’s better,” Kallard muttered, dropping down to a squat as Mari rolled off of the elf. “You feel that? That’s an anti-magic collar. You ain’t castin’ no spells or fuckery. Had this made special, just for you.”

“Are you done? Pretty sure we established that it wasn’t me who hurt you,” the elf said with a face full of grass, not wanting to move and anger the veterans.

“Nope, not done,” Kallard said, poking the elf with the barrel of his shotgun. “I don’t trust you. You can say what you came here to say without your magic.”

“I already told you what I needed to say. I need your help if we are to deal with this problem. Do you think He’ll stop with me? He will come after you next. You’re the one he wants to move to when I die. He wants you to serve as his host, Kallard,” the elf told the group as she rolled over and sat upright.

“Yeah, and? I already knew this, lady. What can you do to prevent that from happening? You gonna wave your hands and make all of our problems disappear? Why the fuck should we trust you?” Kallard asked the woman, anger seeping into his voice. “I have half a mind to blow your fucking head off and be done with this bullshit once and for all.”

“Killing her won’t solve your problems,” said a calm, almost soothing disembodied voice.

The campfire exploded in a giant ball of fire before becoming a giant, flaming pillar. A pair of shiny, silver eyes appeared in the center, gazing out at those assembled before it. Kallard looked up at the fire but kept his shotgun trained on the elf. He narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin with a free hand.

“Oh, wow, look at that. You led it right to us. What a fucking surprise!” Kallard muttered as he roughly shoved the elf with the barrel of his shotgun. “Stupid cunt. Gonna enjoy this.”

Kallard shifted his index finger from the top of the trigger guard and wrapped it around the trigger. Without another word or approval from the others the first shotgun shell was fired, a deafening boom ripping through the camp. A high pitched whine laid over a low buzzing noise came from the elf as the buckshot made contact with a barrier placed around the elven woman. Once the energy had dissipated the small metal spheres fell to the ground, leaving Kallard to sit there staring at the woman with an annoyed expression.

(( Recommended listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdlvgIFdNZU ))

“You mortals never think before doing something, do you?” the voice asked Kallard, the shiny silver eyes locked onto the veteran. “Genedara is safe so long as she remains my host. Try to harm her again and I’ll end you, Kallard.”

“Okay,” Kallard said with a shrug of his shoulders before firing the second shot. With that done he tossed the weapon off to the side and rose to his feet. He reached out with his right hand and caught something that Marilini tossed in his general direction. In his hand was a grenade packed to the brim with Azerite, a weapon strong enough to vaporize anyone foolish enough to remain within its blast radius.

“You’d kill everyone here just to get me?” the voice asked Kallard. “How delightful.”

“Nah, just you and this cunt,” Kal grunted as he hitched a thumb back at the elven woman. “What’re you gonna do this time? You gonna spook us again? Oooooh so scary.”

“You will fear me when I am through with you,” the voice boomed, losing the sense of calm it carried just moments ago.

From the fire emerged a figure with its skin removed with bone-like armor plating covering the vital parts of its body. The creature stood over six feet tall and was built like a professional fighter. Its body was lean and muscular with spikes jutting forth from its chin. A wicked grin was forever etched into its features with no visible eye sockets. The creature took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, blowing a thick, black smoke from deep within its body.

Something took hold of Kallard and dragged him forward and then up into the air. He thrashed around mid-air, trying his hardest to fight against the invisible hand that was holding him in place. Cassian took a few steps backward and took in a deep breath, calling upon the Light. Kylona didn’t waste any time and opened fired on the fleshy creature. The barrel of her revolver kicked upwards as she dumped all six rounds into the thing’s chest, having barely made a dent in its thick armor plating.

“You will all fear me,” the creature roared.

“Fuck you, I bow to no one!” Kallard shouted back. “Stupid bitch! Fight me like a man!”

One moment Kallard was shouting obscenities and the next he was screaming in agony. Whatever was holding him in place simply tore the man in two, discarding the two halves as if they were trash. Kallard’s intestines spilled out of the gaping hole in his torso, dead before he hit the ground. The rest of his internal organs joined his intestines, his heart giving one final beat before falling still. His gaze was locked on Cassian, he husband’s face the last thing he saw before being brutally murdered.

“KAL NO!” Kylona screamed, eyes wide with shock.

Marilini hissed in pain and clutched her chest, her face dark red and beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. She took a few steps forward, stumbling towards her brother as her body grew weaker and weaker. Her body would then give out, the remaining twin hitting the ground with a pained yelp. A single hand reached out and grasped her brother’s body before she too fell limp, dead without a scratch.

Kylona stood there in stunned silence after watching two of her closest friends die. She stood there motionless, eyes locked onto the corpses of the Felmann twins. Tears flowed down her cheeks as her knees gave out. She collapsed onto her knees and covered her face with both hands and softly sobbed. After finally meeting people who actually cared about her had been a blessing, something Kylona had never had in her life. But now they were gone, nothing more than two sacks of meat.

Cassian on the other hand was not stunned into silence. A column of bright golden light shot downward from the heavens. The Paladin held up his hand and a large, glowing mace appeared out of thin air. With a roar he charged forward, bringing down the mace on the creature that had so effortless killed the two people who meant the world to him. He was filled with a righteous fury, knowing the Light will allow him to act upon his grief.

The creature ducked out of the way of the magical mace and stepped off to the side. The thing stood there, basking in the suffering that now radiated from the remaining two Felmann family members. Knowing the grieving Kylona wouldn’t be joining the fight, the abomination turned its full attention on Cassian.

A pair of brilliant golden wings exploded from Cassian’s back and spread open, giving the paladin an impressive ten foot wingspan. The fury of the Light burned in his eyes, trails of magic drifting off from the corners of his eyes and into the cool air. He continued his advanced on the abomination, swinging his mace around with ease. But, despite his best efforts, Cassian would be unable to harm the thing that killed his husband.

Whether it was due to his grief blinding him or if it was simply due to being overpowered, something was preventing Cass from doing anything substantial. After a few minutes of one-sided combat the paladin took a few steps backwards, breathing heavily. It had been a while since he had called upon the Light in such a fashion, the effort practically draining the man.

“It won’t be today, it might not be tomorrow, but I promise you this,” Cassian gasped. “I will kill you.”

“You will try,” the creature said, letting out an amused chuckle.

And then it was gone.

Sensing the worst of it was over, Genedara relaxed her posture and eased herself out of the fetal position. She sat up and looked around, expecting a bloodbath. Instead the camp was clean and free of any bodily fluids and internal organs. Neither Kallard or Marilini were anywhere within sight nor inside their tent. The elf looked around with a frown, unable to sense the twins presence anywhere hear them.

“Where are they?!” Cassian screamed as he took hold of the elf’s neck, hoisting her off the ground. “Tell me where you took them!”

“I didn’t take them anywhere. Did you fail to see me curled up on the ground?” Genedara snapped back.

“Why the hell did you come here in the first place? If you knew that thing was going to do this then they did you come here?!”

“I thought you could help me!” Genedara shouted back.

“Yeah, well, look what that brought us,” Cassian said, defeated. He dropped the elf and turned away from her and into the tent. “You ought to leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“LEAVE!” Cassian and Kylona screamed at the same time.

Genedara looked at the two, their rage and sorrow the result of her poor decisions. Had she not come all the way out here the twins would most likely still be present. There was no indication that the creature was nearby or hiding within her again. The elf reached up with both hands and rubbed her eyes, feeling agitated and defeated. She looked between the two once more before turning around and silently making her way back home, not bothering to say goodbye.

“What do we do?” Kylona asked no one in particular.

“I’ll take Bao and search the forest. You take Kun and do the same to the west. They couldn’t have gotten far,” Cassian muttered. “We have to move fast.”

“I know that, Cass, but it would be really fucking stupid to just rush into this. What are we even fighting? What the fuck was that thing?”

“I don’t know what it was but I do know this: I’m going to kill it and save my family. Kallard ripped through time to save me and I’ll be damned if I don’t put in the same effort to save him and Mari.”

“Wait,” Kylona said, turning to look at Cassian. “What do you mean he ripped through time?”

“I died ten years ago. I was slain in combat during our Pandarian tour. Kallard went back in time to the point where I had just been given the lethal blow and brought me back here,” Cassian told Kylona, finally tearing his gaze away from the tent and over to her. “He broke every rule in the book to save me.”

“Then let’s do the same. Let’s do something so stupid they’ll write about it in the history books,” Kylona said, a grin spreading across her face. “C’mon, Cass. Let’s bonk our heads together and come up with a plan. No point in standing around with a thumb up our asses.”

Cassian smiled down at the shorter woman and pulled her into a tight embrace. The two stood there for a moment, holding each other and processing what had just transpired. After a couple of minutes the two sat down next to the fire and started their planning. At first the pair split up, each one taking one of the wolves into the woods, hunting the twins’s scent. But, despite their best efforts and after an entire day’s worth of searching they met back up at camp and collapsed into their chairs. Neither of them had any clue as to where the twins were but Kylona and Cassian wouldn’t let that stop them. After a quick meal and a short nap the two returned to their search.

------

Kylona and Marilini were suspended in mid-air. Their feet were bound together with iron shackles, their hands tied and shackled behind their backs. A thick wad of dirty linen had been shoved into their mouth and a blindfold pulled over their eyes. Neither of them were conscious at the moment, locked away in a magical coma. The creature stood before them, gazing deep into their bodies and admiring their tainted souls. This is where they would remain, locked away in an unknown basement in some unknown area, trapped in a slumbering state.

And so the hungry god feasted upon their doubts and fears, gorging itself on their grief and rage. And what fine meals they were.

[makairodonx]

Journey to the Island of Thule

10-year-old Bort and his 8-year-old sister Pika both lived together as orphans in the quaint town of Medellinberg, which stood upon a snowy desert surrounded by vast swathes of pine forest before the cragged Gates of the Far North. Their parents had once told them of a mystical island where an old king who had a great, white beard and long, red robes lived with a huge army of little elves who built wooden toys that he magically gave out to each and every child on Yuletide night…but strangely he was not coming these days…

And when Bort and Pika were just about 5 or 6 years old, their father and mother both perished in a deadly blizzard during their arduous trek to find the legendary island of Thule…But that would not stop the two, brave, determined siblings who had to fend for themselves for many months in order to survive from finding the mythical Island of Thule themselves.

So one night at the Winter Market, a place that the two siblings went for sightseeing, Bort and Pika tried to convince anyone standing at the little shops clustered around the towering Yuletide Tree to help them on their journey to find the legendary island.

“Can anyone help us find this island that lies in the far northern corners of this world?” Bort asked.

“Both of our parents have died in their journey to find it,” Pika cried, “And we don’t want to suffer the same fate as they!”

But alas no response ever came from the grownups towering above the heads of the two little children.

“So it looks like we’ll have to take the quest in our own hands,” Bort said. “And we must stay true to each other when no one else is willing to help us…”

With those words, the two siblings left the dimly-lit town and passed the Gates of the Far North under the cover of darkness. Soon they climbed the huge, snowy hills that loomed beyond the town, and plodded their way through the great pine woods. And it was there that Bort and Pika, with the had to be extra careful, since they spotted bright, yellow eyes glowing among the trees and were soon attacked by packs of hungry wolves,but soon the children were saved by a reindeer herder who allowed them to ride two of his animals, and he led them out of the pine forests and out into the vast, snowy desert that lay near the edges of the Great Northern Sea.

Bort and Pika were soon trodding across a great, white desert of ice and snow for weeks and weeks. They braved a terrible blizzard together, the same one that killed their parents a few years ago…but soon in the met a polar pear as they continued to trek across the snowy plain. “Kemu is my name,” he said to the children, “And I know all the glaciers and other landmarks of the Great Far North! So hop on my back, and I shall soon lead you all to where the Island of Thule truly is.”

So the bear took Bort and Pika across the vast desert of snow and ice, fed them walrus meat in order to fatten them up and keep them warm, and swam them across the great, frozen Northern Sea. And soon enough, under the green-and-red-and-purple flames of the Northern Lights which flickered across the starry night sky, Kemu at last he led the children to the island of Thule, which sat at the coldest and highest corner of the known world.

And in the middle of the frozen island the two children went to the palace of the Great King of Thule.

“Why were you not able to come out and give gifts to the children for this Yuletide night?” Pika said to him.

“It is because I’ve broke one of my legs in a sleigh accident,” said the Thule King, “and that was why I’m able to ride my sleigh tonight….”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Bort said. “At least my sister and happen to be the only children who’ve showed up at your palace…”

”And we’ll both give you a the biggest gift of all!” Said Pika.

The little girl and her older brother both gave the King of Thule a big hug, much to his to his joy, and soon the elves gathered around the siblings in a huge crowd and offered them a wide variety of their wooden toys and crafts.

“We ask not for any toys from you elves, if you will,” said Bort, “but for a button of your robe and two strands of hair from your long, white beard.”

“Sure you may, if that is your wish after all those weeks of fighting wolves and blizzards that you and your sister have had to endure to find my magical island realm!”The King of Thule smiled.

And thus, with much determination and perseverance, Bort and Pika were finally able to accomplish something that their deceased parents failed to achieve…and that was the mission to find the mythical Island of Thule.

[nickgerlich]

A Convenient Truth

Next time you are in your vehicle, take a look around and start counting how many convenience stores you pass en route to your destination. They are on practically every street corner, and there are often two or more sharing the same intersection. C-stores are among the most necessary of retail establishments today, especially since most now sell gasoline.

It wasn’t always this way. The first 7-Eleven opened in 1927. It and the ones that followed were tiny by today’s standards, did not sell gas, and were not beholden to street corner locations. Often they were in the middle of a block, which now seems ill-conceived in that it could not attract people from two streets.

Today, c-stores are much larger, have much broader selections of merchandise, sit on two or more acres, and may have a bank and/or fast food co-branded outlet inside. There are more than 150,000 of these today, and without them, most of us would find our lives increasingly inconvenient.

But there’s a growing chain that is spreading out of Texas that challenges the notion of what a c-store is. Buc-ee’s, with 58 units spread between here and Florida, considers itself a c-store. It’s just that their stores don’t look at all like a 7-Eleven. Oh, and they’re going to break ground soon in Amarillo.

The new store here will be 74,000 square feet and sit on 20 acres. Need gas? An array of 120 pumps will be there from which to choose. While it is not quite the biggest unit in the chain—the biggest is in Sevierville Tennessee with 74,700 square feet—it’s not far behind. But an even bigger one—75,000 square feet—is planned for near Ocala Florida.

Is it truly a c-store, though? One for thing for certain, it is not a truck stop, because trucks are not allowed. RVs are welcome, but you can’t spend the night. How about we just call them travel centers then? Given the location on Amarillo’s east side (near where US 287 branches off I-40), it will be among eight legitimate truck stops, meaning that travelers will have a plethora of choices. It’s little wonder why some people consider Amarillo to be a truck stop town.

As a marketing prof, I stand in amazement every time I stop at Buc-ee’s. No, it’s not because I am buying food or merchandise. To me it is crazy how Buc-ee’s has developed a cult-like following, and people will interrupt their travels for an hour to shop and dine there. They have shopping carts, something you don’t see in a c-store. Perhaps their biggest claim to fame is clean rest rooms. They are immaculate.

Although the chain dates to 1982, it is only in the last five years or so that it started its explosive growth, as well as venturing out of state. A large portion of the merchandise is private label foods, along with a wide variety of souvenirs ranging from t-shirts to plush toys.

And umbrellas. I confess. I bought one, not because I wanted to show my allegiance, but rather because I was trapped inside their St Augustine Florida store when a downpour broke out. It was either buy an umbrella, wait it out, or get drenched. I gladly forked over $15.

So powerful is the Buc-ee’s brand that it sometimes spawns other retail, hotels, and dining in proximity. Take the Terrell Texas store, for example, which is situated near where US 80 breaks off I-20 east of Dallas. The area has blossomed from just Buc-ee’s to three hotels and a variety of fast food and retail choices. All because of a c-store that attracts hundreds of customers each hour.

Given their popularity, I am surprised they have not adopted e-commerce. Their website is pretty basic, much like you would have seen in the late-1990s. This is a golden opportunity missed, because specialty clothing, toys, and packaged foods can easily be sold this way to folks not lucky (I suppose) to have a Buc-ee’s nearby. Then again, Trader Joe’s has followed a similarly austere marketing program with great success.

I have monitored social media reactions lately concerning the groundbreaking, and noted that some folks wondered why Buc-ee’s did not build on the west side, closer to where much of Amarillo lives. But Buc-ee’s is not building this for Amarillo people. No, it is building it for travelers. And all this at a time when QT has arrived in Amarillo, along with the return of Circle K, adding even more c-stores—and more in keeping with the typical size—to the mix.

I am pretty sure that when c-stores arrived on the scene nearly a century ago, no one could ever imagine how the genre has evolved, especially with Buc-ee’s. I’ll be watching for them to open in Amarillo, and will no doubt pay a visit. I won’t be going to shop but rather to people-watch. I’ll bring the umbrella just in case.

Dr “Fill ‘Er Up” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[welzie-art]

What's It Like To Be An Artist On Maui

What Its Like to be an Artist on Maui

Maui is a magical place where artist from all over the world come to visit and absorb the inspirational and creative energy. The Valley Isle offers everything a creative person needs to express theirselves through art. You will find every type of fine artist here on Maui from painters of all mediums, like myself, ceramics, glass, muralists, wood, traditional Hawaiian mediums, sculpture, photographers, reclaimed art, and so much more. 

I want to dive into what its like to be an artist here on Maui and why so many artists choose Maui as their place of creativity and refuge. For myself, being an artist here on Maui is a relatively new experience. I spent all of my professional art career on Oahu, Hawaii, where I went to UH Manoa, started out in the art markets and developed my career with other amazing Oahu artists. In 2010 I had my first experience showing my work here on Maui and got a little glimpse into the Maui Art world. Read more about that experience here. 

In June of 2019 we opened our first Maui art gallery at the Andaz Resort Wailea, The Welzie Art Gallery. This was a giant step for me as an artist and changed the course of my art career. After 3 months of being here on Maui, my wife and I fell in love with the slower pace and the bustling art scene. Running our gallery from Oahu just didn’t seem like the way to go. Once we found a warehouse space to create my studio, We were ready to make the move to an outer island.

Its been 4 years since making the transition to Maui and I have come to realize Maui is an amazing place to be an artist. 

Here Are My 5 Reasons Why Being an Artist on Maui is Amazing

Reason 1

 The pace of Maui is slow, which makes everything not stressful, but at the same time it is not so slow that time seems to stand still. For me, I need a little tempo to life and Maui Has the perfect balance. Its so convenient to be able to get to all the art stores, hardware stores, galleries and everything you need all within a short 20 min drive. With no traffic. The mellow pace of the island just reinforces a mellow and happy artist, which is exactly what I need to create my happy art.

Reason 2

There are so many galleries on the island with so many towns being little creative hot spots. This is great for any artist because it allows them to show their work in multiple areas close to home. 

Hana, which is out on the east side of the island is very secluded and lush, where you will find the artists who need to get away from it all and create in their own little jungle world.

Paia is the small surf town on Maui’s north shore where you will find the surfing artist from all over the world who balance their creativity with their passion for riding waves in the world class surf surrounding the area. Yogis and hippies help contribute to the art scene in Paia, giving the area a very rootsy vibe.

Wailuku is getting brighter and brighter everyday as the small town nestled around Iao valley has created Small Town Big Art, an organized effort to seeing the community grow through art installations and outreach. STBA brings artist from around the islands and around the world to show their work and inspire the local community.

South Maui, where my studio and art gallery are, seems to be quickly becoming a major arts center on the island. In Kihei near my studio you will find artist, photographers, framers and creators starting to gather. There are now over 5 art galleries in South Maui, as well as a 3rd Friday event which shows artist works. The Four Seasons has artists showing their work daily in the lobby, The Andaz Wailea has created the Artist in Residence Program where I am the resident artist (I don’t live on site) It’s safe to say South Maui is definitely becoming another strong art hub in the Maui art community.

Makawow/Upcountry

In this upcountry town you will find a handfull of galleries with a country vibe. Nestled on the slopes of Haleakala, you can look out over the island while wearing a jacket and cowboy boots. You will find beautiful landscape painters such as Jordanne Gallery and others. It's such a different vibe up on the mountain and is a great example of the diversity in culture on Maui.

Lahaina,

The art Mecca of the Hawaiian islands, The gathering place for all Hawaii artists. With so many galleries and art culture in Lahaina, its hard to say there is a more artsy town than Lahaina. As Lahaina rebuilds I think and hope that all of us Maui artists know how important it will be to make sure the art scene of Lahaina town comes back and shows more local artists than ever before.

Reason 3

Like all the Hawaiian islands Maui is absolutely beautiful. If you’re an artist that gets a recharge from nature and getting away from it all, then Maui is like a constant reset button. Jumping into the clear, warm blue waters or looking out over the edge of a massive cliff on a hike, Maui can recharge your soul every single day. For myself as a creator, the ocean has always been a big source of inspiration. A good surf, snorkel or ocean swim would always get me in the right head space to create something happy and fun in the art studio.

Reason 4

Now this may be a controversial topic but one of the reasons why Maui is great to be an artist isa because so many people come to visit Maui every year and Maui is known for its art culture. As an artist you always want more people to see your artwork, and having new people come and visit every week allows for the artist to spend more time creating artwork and less time having to travel around showing their work. It is more like a “If you build it they will come” mentality. We as Maui artist get to make what we want to make then have the ability to show it to lots of new people right on our door step.

Reason 5

Maui has so many programs embedded into the Maui community to help facilitate the Arts. For example the Maui Arts and Cultural Center that shows artwork, theater and music. The Hui No'eau Visual Arts Center in Makawow which has art programs and gallery space. Maui Open Studios which organizes Maui artist to open their studios for art collectors to visit their creative space. Small Town Big Art, which I have mentioned before that brings artists of all kinds from all over the world to help bring creativity and inspiration to the Wailuku area. Maui truly is truly an art island paradise.

There are so many reason why Maui is an amazing place to be an artist. For myself, anywhere in the Hawaiian islands is an amazing place to be an artist. Hawaii breaths energy and mana and for someone who needs some creative energy, Hawaii is the place to thrive. Any artist in Hawaii with the ability to make a living here is truly fortunate. I am so fortunate to call Maui my home and to be a part of this Maui Art Community.

Aloha,

Welzie

[theretirementstory]

Bonjour à tous, looking back on summers past and remembering my reconnaissance drive to Vitry-le-Francois. At the station,this monument to the 39,642 Jews transported from this one station to the concentration camps listed. The photo at the bottom, of the two hands trying to meet, is a very moving sight, it really underlined the cruelty of wars, separating families and the loss of so many lives. Yet here we are today still seeing the same thing not just in Europe but in Africa and Asia. Will human’s never learn!

So back to the present, where I am currently cooking a couple of beetroot, picked from my garden yesterday. I have also had my first couple of spring onions 😀, ok so they were not very big but I just wanted to try them and they were quite delicious.

We have had lots of rain this week, still not filled my dustbin/water butt mind you, but every little helps. Today is due to be cloudy with a maximum high of 23c, I am hoping to go outside and tidy up the potager, only beetroot still growing in there at the moment. My strawberry plants are dead as doornails, but that’s ok as I will buy new plants next year and hopefully enjoy lots of berries from them. Before the rain I finally managed to get outside and move the bearded iris from the troughs, where they have been for two years, into the garden to fill in a huge gap near to my neighbours fence. I have decided to make that a plan for next year, to fill in large gaps with large and small plants. The garden can look good when the daffodils, tulips and iris are flowering but I don’t have a lot of summer colour and my autumn/winter colour may be sadly depleted this year as the gardener “kindly” sprayed weed killer onto the periwinkle and into the area where the cyclamen are. I really hope that they will have survived but I am doubtful.

My neighbour across the way, brought me a courgette last weekend then turned up with another two on Thursday……. there is only so much courgette a person can get through and as I had previously had two from Marlene and one from Monique, it’s a bit of a “feast”. I am hoping to deliver two to Maud as I know she uses them.

Monique came to visit me and she read through the booklet on what I can and can’t do after I have had my “BEAM” chemotherapy. Meals have to be freshly prepared, not reheated so no food from the freezer, I am not allowed to do any housework so it seems I will need help. I cannot go to the cinema, visit large shopping centres etc and I need to wear a mask when people visit my home. Monique said she could come and do shopping for me and leave it on the doorstep. All this has to be done for one month (that will be a long month).

The weather has had a big effect on things due to take place this week. First of all I visited the photographers, it was pouring down and I got soaked so came home before next trip out, that resulted in another soaking as did the third trip of the day! The late night market was due to take place on Friday but it was cancelled due to the really heavy rain.

Today I am having a telephone call with my friends in Bristol, it will be the first call since April so a lot to catch up on! No doubt we will be discussing the weather and browsing some poems I came across this one which seems quite apt,

“A Beautiful Day” by Francis Duggan

“In the blue sky just a few specks of gray

In the evening of a beautiful day

Though last night it rained and more rain on the way

And that more rain is needed 'twould be fair to say”

I am hoping that “The Trainee Solicitor” will leave his books long enough to do a little work in the garden although I fear he may be seduced by the Car Boot sale in town and the Saltburn Food Festival.

“The Daddy” has had his daughter since Tuesday evening when she finished school, his son arrived on Friday morning and they have had some fun days out. Clothes shopping with daughter and then a visit to Stewart Park. A visit with both to a soft play cafe and then a trip to Beamish Museum. His son goes back to his Mum on Monday but Daddy and daughter have more adventures to have until she goes back on Friday.

So now it’s my turn to go….. see you next time!

[space-cops]

my latest weird little fucked up dream because I had to post it somewhere with more than a paltry 200-something character limit

i wasnt the person in the dream but it was first person pov. I HAVE TO SET THE SCENE BECAUSE IT'S RATHER EXTENSIVE??? there were five of us living in the same house. it was a great big, very old victorian style-ish home with many, many floors. i don't remember how many but we didn't use the higher floors. everyone in the house was vaguely together in some sort of relationship? i think?? the bonds were definitely more than friends in some cases but it was really vague idk. on the bottom floor (b), two people lived there and they had lived there the longest. the two people who lived in the bottom floor mostly kept to themselves and we all were okay with this. they weren't mean or anything they were just sort of anxious and liked their space. i was closer to one of them than the other, but they were still very standoffish despite this and i was chill w it. they had lots of books and decorated the area in very soft, pale colours. there was a piano and i remember being told it was never played. it was very open and had lots of natural light. i knew in the dream i spent many evenings there reading with them and having dinner. the next floor up (1) lived a young man who used a wheelchair. he had the entire floor to himself but spent most of the time in his room, which was a typical sort of gamer-y room. several screens, dark but clean, lots of different forms of media. he was quiet and sweet, and i noticed he would watch me more often than the others. i knew in the dream setting we spent lots of weekends playing games together. the next floor (2) was where i lived. it just. was a house. i don't remember how it was decroated specifically but there was a particular hallway with a window at the end. it had a radiator beneath it. the bathroom was located on the left, and my room was on the right. the walls were sage green and the floors were a dark natural wood. i cooked a lot for everyone in the house and was always bringing food to everyone. i did not spend a lot of time on my floor. i seemed to be everywhere but my floor and I do not know why. the 2 floor ups (4) lived a woman who played the piano and sang and it was the softest purest sound i'd ever heard. i remember waiting at the open window at the end of my hall to hear her play in the morning. i used to bring her fresh fruit from the farmer's market in town, but the dream never left the house? if that makes sense. I do not know what was on the third floor. I did not go to the third floor. Nobody went to the third floor.

The house was beginning to fall apart. I knew it was starting to fall apart. We were having problems with the water periodically, and i was keeping up with fixing it myself but it would always act up again in a week or so. I noticed a slightly raised part of the floor by my radiator, just a small corner by the pipe leading into it. the problem was duly noted and would be fixed later. I went down to the bottom floor to visit the two people there. One of them had died. They died in the night. Their body was laid down on the floor and the other person was curled up next to them, and i remember begging for them to get up, to let me call the police, to let me do something. They were not speaking, they just stayed next to their housemate, staring at them. I remember thinking that they were dying too, and there was nothing i could do. I was told to leave, and hesitantly did. On my way out, I noticed part of their floor was buckling near the plumbing. "Oh, this is worse than it was last week." I went upstairs to the next floor. He was packing everything up. "There's water, somehow. I'm making sure everything is packed in case something goes wrong. Can you help me?" I helped him, packing everything up neatly except for a handful of things he wanted to risk for his own ease and entertainment in the meantime. I remember sitting on the edge of his bed, facing a window, which was open for the first time and he said "You never sit there. Are you okay?" and I shrugged and told him I was okay. He said "You look so different in the light." I laughed it off. As I was leaving I noticed some of his pipes were actively leaking and thought, I have to go downstairs to turn the water off right now, but for some reason I did not. I went to my floor to start making everyone dinner, and that's when my pipes started leaking. I noticed it by the window first. Water was coming out from under the bathroom door but I couldn't open it to see how or why. I couldn't open my bedroom door to start moving anything Important up onto the bed. The water had to be going down into the floors beneath mine and instead of worrying about my stuff, I started worrying about everyone else. I went down to f1 and started bringing his stuff up to the third floor, knowing that the problem was the worst on f2. it took hours, but I got it done. The wood flooring was buckling so badly I had to carry him and his wheelchair out and i brought him up to the third floor. He was worried about staying there, but I assured him it was okay. "You care so much." I went down to the bottom floor. It was full of water but it was so clear and it was so bright down there that I couldn't see anything. I kept calling out to the person down there and I wasn't getting an answer. I tried walking through the water but I could barely move in it. I remember begging for them to come out, to come find me, to let me help them, and they still wouldn't answer. I managed to get to the water supply and turned it off, but I had to go back upstairs. It was very cold, and I remember the combination of how bright it was versus the bitter cold made me uncomfortable in like. a non physical way. the vibe was really scary. The woman on f4 did not answer me, and she wouldn't open the door. She kept singing and playing but wouldn't come out to help. None of the lights were on on her floor, but I never noticed any damage either. The problem only reached my floor. I got f1 set up on f3 and once everything was set up, we started talking about our housemates on the bottom floor. "We have to leave them there. They are gone. Please don't go back." but I knew I had to go back. I kept seeing them laying on the floor together and I had to help. "You cannot go back down there until there is no water. You can die." And I did not go back. I called someone to help with the water and they came out a day later. As it usually goes with dream logic this was fixed in like a week. Everything completely back to normal. At the end of the week, I stopped listening to my housemate and went down to the bottom floor. The repair people didn't say anything about the people living there but at this point I knew that where they lived was separated from the utilities, so to speak, so they probably never ran into any of them. They never asked what was in the other rooms down there. I opened the door and I don't? Remember what exactly I saw at first? But there was almost nothing in there. It was empty, and cold, but so bright. The piano was gone. The furniture was covered in this white? stuff? I remember thinking it was a fungus or something? And eventually I entered the part of their floor where I had found them last and the two of them were still there, on the floor, with their blanket. I rushed over and the housemate that refused to let me help was staring, open eyed at the ceiling. I thought they were dead. Half their face was covered with the blanket. Suddenly they blinked, looked back at me, and started sobbing. I fell on my knees and pulled them from the blanket into my arms and they were soaking wet. "You came back for me. You came back even though he told you not to. You still love me? Are you mad at me? I couldn't leave, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you." And the way my heart hurt, the way my entire person was in this horrible physical pain from the amount of emotions I felt holding my housemate was what exactly how i woke up feeling and I literally never ever ever want to feel that way ever again :)