#this big field of rye and all

[this-big-field-of-rye-and-all]

Depression is over or am I repressing myself as usually?

[this-big-field-of-rye-and-all]

Other day on planet Earth.

On April 22nd, I have a personal interview for the master's degree, and on April 24th, the admission exam takes place. Please wish me luck.

(Also, wish me luck in finding a job to cover the master's degree fees and move out of my parents' house).

tumblr mutual is becoming a scientific collaborator

[pandafishao3]

TEASER Breeding/Lactation

YOU GUYS I went right ahead and did it, didn't I. I wrote an AU for my Milk Farm AU where Steve has Bucky as a private little cow hybrid in his own farm instead of a big factory and I am NOT SORRY. The full thing will be posted during Kinktober but for now, please enjoy a little teaser! I am seriously so excited to share this with you all, I cannot WAIT till Kinktober!

Steve yawned as he poured coffee into a cup and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The mornings started early out on the farm. The sun had just started climbing over the treeline across the golden rye fields, and it made the rustic kitchen warm and cosy. The little cottage had been in his family for generations, but Steve really felt like he’d added his own personal touch to it by re-painting the kitchen a soft green and building a proper dining room table out of sturdy oak wood. The clunky ceramic cups and white, embroidered curtains all spoke of the work of his mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, however. Steve liked the reminder of them, especially now that he was left to manage the farm alone.

“Meow?”

The sound of his cat Alpine jumping on top of the counter and chirping as she trotted towards him made Steve smile. He reached out his hand and she immediately buffed her fluffy, white head against it in a friendly gesture.

“Hi Al. Where you’ve been? Out wreaking havoc in the stables?” he winked at her and she promptly sat down and started licking her paw like she’d never done anything wrong in her whole life. In her mind, she probably ran the whole farm.

Steve huffed out a warm laugh to himself and went back to his coffee. But when he reached into the fridge, he noticed that he was completely out of milk. Oh well. He was heading to the barn anyway – the only reason he was up with the rooster was so he could get the milking done. After pouring Alpine some wet food, Steve took his coffee cup and went outside.

The flannel shirt he was wearing over his worn, patched jeans would be too hot in a few hours, but for now it was just perfect. Steve fondly watched his chicken pick at the corn on the ground as he walked past, and made a mental note to himself to go check on the rhubarb after this. He would need to tinker with the tractor too, since it had been acting up lately and it almost time to bring in the very first harvest of the summer. The barley would be done in a week or so.

But before that, he looked forward to spending the morning with his favourite pet.

“Good morning, my little moo. You up yet?” Steve smiled as he walked into the small barn. In the corner, his two goats and their babies looked up at him lazily and then went back to resting. The kids bleated and then ran out of their hatch to play outside, so Steve was in no hurry to take care of them. They pretty much took care of themselves, and he mostly used them for company and as lawnmowers.

But his little moo was a different story.

“Bucky? Where are you, honey?” he sing-songed as he walked further down the aisle. There, in his stall, his beautiful cow hybrid looked up from the mound of straw and blankets where he slept. His pretty little face instantly lit up in a bright smile and he mooed in that adorable way that only he could. “There you are! Are you still sleeping?” Steve teased him softly and leaned his elbows on the wooden door so he could watch Bucky struggle to get up.

Please let me know if you want any more of these teasers! Love you all <3

“Nooo, m’awake!” Bucky insisted with a cute pout and hurried to untangle himself so he could get to his owner. It wasn’t easy with his little hooves slipping on the floor and his tail getting caught up in the blanket, but he managed to get to his feet and tiptoe all the way to Steve. There, he immediately pushed up against the door and buffed his head against Steve’s chest, cooing happily all the time.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷

Credit for the header: Evangelitaa on Pinterest

[mivolasvivi]

Pennsylvania gothic

- you enter a small mom and pop deli that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 80s. There’s a special for liverwurst and scrapple. The sign outside says “Mike’s Deli” on an A Treat sign, but there is neither A-Treat nor a Mike in the shop. You grab a bag of Herr’s as you wait for your chipped steak on rye. You overhear a conversation by regulars about how shitty and crime ridden the local big city (population- 20k) has become and the vast implications of the closure of the town’s only Dunkin Donuts. You hand your card to teenager behind the counter, and earn a scowl from what is likely his great uncle. He hates it when people pay with cards. Or maybe he hates you for wearing your old high school sweatshirt (it’s his son’s rival school and he WILL hurl obscenities at high schoolers on the football field on a weekly basis in fall). You’re not even sure how much your sandwich costs, since all the prices have been covered up with masking tape at least a few times and never updated. Somehow it’s still under $5.00. As you drive out, you have to wait for a horse to cross the road, and manage to stop directly in a pothole. This would normally phase you, but you’re already mentally prepared for the portion of the road a few miles ahead where the top layer of asphalt just ceases to exist. As you get home, fire flies dot the field as they dance around in the twilight. It’s been a good day, all in all.

[mavigator]

“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.” <- 😂

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Die Roggenmuhme

The Rye Aunt

The Rye Aunt is a female cereal demon and children's fright of German folk tales, who lives in grain fields.

The Rye Aunt wanders up and down in the fields, feeds on the grain and tears out the immature ears. If she is angry with the farmer, she punishes him by drying out his fields. In general, however, the appearance of the Rye Aunt in the fields is a sign of a good harvest. During the harvest, she flees into the last truss. The Rye Aunt receives a share of the harvest, which is either left behind or thrown into the field. This custom is to propitiate the Rye Aunt and bring about a fertile next year.

The Rye Aunt is generally thought to live underground, in the empire of the roots or in a cave.

The Rye Aunt punishes lazy maids, who have not spun off their spinning rocks in the Boxing Week. The breath of the Rye Aunt brings illness and death.

Appearance

The Rye Aunt is often described as completely black or snow-white, and of superhuman size. Her arms are long or made of iron. Her fingers are fiery or iron. It is also said that the Rye Aunt has claws on her hands, which may also be made of iron.

The Rye Aunt has unusually large breasts that are so long that she can fold them over her shoulders. She also has more than two breasts. These can be black, iron, wooden or silver. They are pointed and hard, have glowing iron tips or are fiery. The breasts are filled with tar, poisonous milk or blood.

The Rye Aunt is described as an old womanwith a wrinkled face featuring stinging awns, a crooked nose, and wears glasses. She is sometimes even described as headless or said to have an iron heart.

In addition, she can change her shape, for example into a turtle, a snake, a frog, a wolf, a black cat, a horned animal or a dog with a blanket.

The Rye aunt is often dressed in black, but has also been seen dressed entirely in gray. Her clothes are ragged. Sometimes the Rye Aunt also wears a red skirt, or she wears a red dress and a red cap. Sometimes, she wears blue coat and wide flowing skirts. Often the Rye Aunt wears a white headscarf like a reaper. Sometimes she walks on crutches.

The Rye Aunt is associated with several weather phenomena. When the wind blows through the cornfield, people say that the Rye Aunt moves over the grain. She is also traveling with the whirlwind.

The Rye Aunt appears in particular at midday between 12:00 and 13:00. If she encounters someone in the fields at midday, she kills them or frightens them, casting spells. If she finds women who have recently given birth in bed between 12:00 and 13:00 and between 18:00 and 20:00, she does the field work for them. If she does not find women in childbed at the specified time, a misfortune will happen to the mother and the child.

The Rye Aunt is often seen as a child scare. Her activities as a child-scaring figure are extremely varied.

In their tale no. 90 The Rye Aunt, the Brothers Grimm tell that the Rye Aunt swaps human children with changelings, but brings back the right child if the changeling is not suckled. Elsewhere it is said that she steals illegitimate children at midnight.

The Rye Aunt lies in wait in the field for all those children who want to pick cornflowers in order to scare and punish them. She also lures children into the field by waving her arms. She abducts children by putting them in her big bag or basket, of by taking the children under her wide flowing skirts to bring them to the empire of the roots. She may also pull children to her with an iron fireplace poker and has them guarded by a toad. She leads children astray in the field and lets them starve to death, or she comes with her flock of elves and lays the children on cushions of flowers, whereupon they fall asleep and never wake up again. The Rye Aunt appears as a witch when she casts spells or the Evil Eye on children, She may also appear as a nightmare when she sends evil spirits to disobedient children at night.

Children often have to suck on the breasts of the Rye Aunt. Sometimes, disobedient children get the big breasts beaten around their ears. The Rye Aunt is said to, hug children so tight that they are pressed against her breasts die as a result from suffocation or getting crushed in her embrace. The Rye Aunt also crouches in wolf form, hiding in the grain, and is accompanied by small dogs that lure children into her iron embrace. She is also regarded as the mother of the rye wolves, who eat the children.

The Rye Aunt chases children on horseback or runs as fast as a horse herself. In the latter case, she chases children to death in races. She can also fly and takes children to the sea to drown them there. If she accosts children, they must die.

The Rye Aunt demands that children eat a slice of bread spread with tar. If they do not comply, she cuts off their heads. She also smears children with tar from a bottle or covers their eyes with tar. She also scratches out children's eyes or blows out their eyesight. The Rye Aunt strangles children, twists their necks or cuts off their heads, and also cuts off their necks, noses, ears, or fingers. She also beheads children with a sickle, a knife or a saw. She cuts off the children's legs with a scythe. The Rye Aunt also tears off children's legs.

The Rye Aunt binds children into a bundle with a thread or ties the children to a thread and then beats them up. She pinches children with iron pincers or uses a pinch. She stabs children with pikes, of which she has three, one by the head and one in each hand. The Rye Aunt also stabs children with stalks or drives nails into their heels.

In her hand, the rye maid carries a rod or whip, which is to be regarded as a lightning rod. She also has a sceptre or an iron scourge, which she uses to beat children. She puts children in a nail barrel and rolls them around in it or drags them into a cave and crushes them there with a giant meat grinder. Otherwise, she also crushes children in an iron butter churn.

The Rye Aunt also bites and eats children. To get hold of children, she sets out traps. She slaughters and eats the children or kills and roasts them using her burning breasts and fingers. The Rye Aunt also throws children into a cauldron of hot water or sucks their blood.

All these stories were told children to deter them from wandering through the fields, which posed several dangers, including getting lost and freezing to death at night, encounters with dangerous animals, suffering injuries from farm equipment used on the fields, or merely the destruction of crops and yield loss by walking over the fields.

[chaotic-multi-fandom]

Holden Caulfield

So, I just finished “The Catcher in the Rye”, and it was very different from what I expected. This book has a reputation of being somewhat extreme, and making teenagers more angry, depressed or even violent because of its main character Holden. However, now that I’ve read it, I fail to see why. I can understand why at the time of its publication Holden’s internal monologue could’ve been seen as alarming, specially to adults, but not as much in the present time, and definitely not as extreme as it said to be. He’s also constantly called annoying, pretentious and an asshole, which he sometimes is, but once again, In my opinion, not to the extreme people present him as. I didn’t mind being inside of his head the entire novel, nor did I ever find him as insufferable as most people seem to, and definitely not a monster, if anything I had a lot of empathy and understanding towards him. 

To me, Holden simply came off as a lost 17 year old boy, grappling with grief, identity, and having lost his innocence at a very young age. He’s clearly suffering from depression, and is generally angry and disillusioned with the world, however given his implied experiences it’s only natural, even just the death of his brother prior to the events of the book cold easily explain his behaviour, however there’s definitely other elements, which choses not to reveal, that have contributed to his current state. 

To me, Holden never came off as extreme or violent, at least not enough to be sent to a psych ward or o incite the alarmed response people seem to have to his character. In fact, despite seemingly being done with the world, and not caring about anything anymore, Holden seems to have this constant thrive and need of protecting the world. Despite all of his utterly depressed, frustrated, and negative inner monologue, he’s constantly through out the novel, carrying out these little acts of kindness towards children. He helps two boys find a section of the museum, and explains to them what everything means, he helps a girl tie up her skates at the roller rink, and rubs off nasty messages left at schools so that the children don’t read them, and most notably he does anything and everything for his younger sister Phoebe.

Most of the time, he’s left in awe of the world when he interacts with these children, specially with Phoebe, it’s the only moments were he even says he feels happy. He seems to be impressed by children’s minds, and has this urge to protect and help them every time he encounters one, going to great lengths (such as buying a limited expensive album for his sister) in order to make their days better. Then, he hears a child sing the song that brings the name of the novel “the catcher in the rye”, he sings about a body catching another body in the rye,. When later in the novel he wonders about he’d want to do in the future, the song is the only thing that comes to mind. He imagines that he’s in that field, where children are playing near a cliff, and he’s the one that catches them and leads them away from the cliff, he’s the catcher in the rye. To him, this means saving children from losing their innocence as young as he did. It’s the only thing he can imagine himself doing. 

This truly shows that Holden, is in no way some disturbed violent mind, he’s just a 17 year old child, who lost his innocence at a very young age due to traumatic experiences which he’s only now processing, he’s also going through the grief of his brother’s death, which his parents don’t help with, his mother also suffering from depression, and his father always being away as a big shot lawyer. He’s disillusioned with the world and humanity, because most of his life experiences, and contacts with older role models have been very negative, including the one with his older brother whom he once had a good relationship with, but is now a shame to the family due to his work as a prostitute. He’s desperate for the children around him not to suffer the same fate. 

While he may seem utterly disgusted and done with the world, I think that he actually holds a lot of hope in his heart for his sister Phoebe and all the children he meets. Holden’s problem isn’t that he has no hope left, it’s that he has too much of it no matter how hard he tries to repress it. He holds a hope so great for the world, that he can’t help but stay despite his suicidal thoughts. Holden, fantasises about ending his life several times throughout the novel, but then, as soon as he’s even close to getting sick with a cold for example, he becomes extremely anxious, scared and even obsessive, thinking that he’s going to die, which he desperately doesn’t want to do. Even when he is attacked with those suicidal thoughts, which never last long, he’s always immediately reminded of Phoebe, and realises he couldn’t bare her going through grief. 

Holden desperately wants to stay in this world, and he’s constantly looking for reasons to do so, he’s in awe of the purity and innocence of children, and wishes the world would be kinder and better for them. Holden is lonely angry and depressed, which can result in him acting violently in instances, but essentially, he’s desperately trying to improve the world around him, and repeatedly not giving up on it. As he puts it, he never hates anything for long.

Well, this had been my small Holden rant, however do be aware that, I'm writing this approximately 30 minutes after finishing the book, so my ideas aren't completely settled, and given that I haven't looked AT ALL into actual analysis of the novel, I may be way off, and made a fool of myself but oh well. At the end of the day they're almost no wrong answers when it comes to interpretation, and this is how I personally perceived Holden Caulfield.

[esraabelal]

"I was thinking about something else—something crazy. “You know what I’d like to be?” I said. “You know what I’d like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice? . . . You know that song ‘If a body catch a body comin’ through the rye’?

“It’s ‘If a body meet a body coming through the rye’!” old Phoebe said. “It’s a poem. By Robert Burns.” . . . She was right, though. It is “If a body meet a body coming through the rye.” I didn’t know it then, though. . . . “I thought it was ‘If a body catch a body,’” I said.

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around—nobody big, I mean—except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff—I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and  catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all."

[adelaidedrubman]

wip wednesday..... reader’s choice round-up edition

tagged by my dears @g0dspeeed @simplegenius042 @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @galaxycunt for the wip title game!

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! Tag as many people as you have WIPS.

(stealing wombat’s “all” omission, and organizational system.) below cut because fair warning some of these are nsfw (with descriptive enough titles). (throwing in an extra no pressure due to that) (fics containing nsfw content are italicized) (asterisks = not all of it, feel free to specify sfw or nsfw snippet requested if you’re interested in those titles)

active wip docs (i have worked on some time within the past couple months, there is a reasonable chance these will get finished):

what if the strap could prematurely ejaculate

jestiny’s perfect day

19. a very uncomfortable dinner.......... 2

have faith in christmas

hallmark 2: electric boogaloo

america's sweetheart epilogue

hank meets the man from the big pictures

4. hooked on a feeling

pseudo-abandoned/dead wip docs:

mae'zel post-creche unpleasantness

play stupid games, win stupid prizes*

jenna’s day off*

footnotes to an inferno

field notes

nick rye talks to the union*

JENNA we need to COOK

i was working in the lab late one night*

beach episode

it's joseph's turn to have a bad day

other manner of documence:

my master document (wildfire stray scenes/notes)

hl&s outline + stray scenes (what it says)

darlings graveyard (not wips but deleted or reworked wildfire scenes)

ah dang now there’s counting. no pressure tags out to @henbased @florbelles @lordundying @belorage @theresaruggedroad @derelictheretic @cassieuncaged @schoute @dickytwister @vasiktomis @chickenparm @delicateweapon @corvosattano @jackiesarch @starsandskies @shallow-gravy @nightbloodbix @strangefable @quickhacked @captastra @8bitpizzacoupons

[sincerelywhistler]

CEBALRAI

In the most recent channel anniversary trivia livestream, Erik mentioned he once upon a time ago had plans for a soft Sadism boyfriend character. This is my OC of said boy, Cebalrai!

More under the cut:

Here’s a Pinterest board that captures his vibes :)

And a Spotify playlist as well

• Cebalrai (pronounced as “SEB-all-rye”) often goes by 'Ceb' (still pronounced like "Seb”). Beta Ophiuchi, also named Cebalrai, is a star in the equatorial constellation of Ophiuchus. Ophiuchus is the canonical name of Gavin’s steward and I will SOMEHOW absolutely be incorporating that into his story k thanks

• He works for the Department in the mental health field as a psychotherapist, most often with Seers in specific. As a Sadism demon, he’s able to feed from his empowered clients' troubled emotions while counseling them during their personal healing journeys.

• Coincide with that Department role, he is a thread-cutter (a demon who is responsible for cutting the magical threads of empowered humans to Aria). Our beloved Seer, Morgan, stated that, "there very serious mental and emotional repercussions to a decision like [getting threads cut]; it is not one to be made lightly," (Learning About Your Magical Abilities From a Seer). It is Ceb's job to reassuringly assist empowered persons of whether or not cutting their threads is the best decision, subsequently severing their ties to magic in a comfortable setting should they choose to proceed. He’s a soft and gentle presence, a great fit for the job.

• He and Morgan are work buddies :)

• Ceb has a soft spot for humanity, being obsessed with human traditions, culture, history, psychology, so on. The prospect of being mortal fascinates him more than anything. If there’s a non-magic way of doing a task, he’ll take that route.

• Green witchy boi hehe

• TALL MAN!! HUGE BOY BUILT FOR GIVING HUGS THAT SWALLOW YOU WHOLE!!

• Baker of any and all things sweet

• The star's name literally translates to "dog of the shepard”. Reflecting this, Ceb, like a sheepdog/cattle-dog, has a natural inclination to guide people towards their sense of safety and belonging. Task-oriented and loyal until the end of time.

• He loves gardening! Talking to the plants puts his mind at ease. And because he doesn't need to feed his physical body with physical foods, he often gifts his home-grown produce and herbs away to his struggling patients and the few kind coworkers he knows.

• Probably smells like rain tbh

• Cannot do math to save his life

• If he’s not wearing cozy sweaters, he’s in the most ethereal attire because he’s extra like that

• Avid reader! Romance is his absolute favorite genre. But as sweet as he is, bro won't hesitate to go on tirades about how toxic or poorly the relationships in some books are portrayed. Colleen Hoover may be his worst enemy.

• Favorite book is Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

• Hydrangea tattoos to symbolize grace and gratitude. Bein’ a Sadism Demon comes with a lot of baggage, man

• Main love languages are acts of service and quality time

• Lives a quiet life in a secluded, little cottage-like house out on the rural edge of town with his three corgis— LaVern, Maxine, and Patricia (aptly named after The Andrews Sisters, a female big-band & swing vocalist group popular in the 1930s-50s, aka my Ceb's favorite era of music).

• Will try to pet any animal. The opossums by his house know little peace. 

• Rabid for cherry vanilla coca-cola he is an addict

I've got whole documents pertaining to this big dummy, and you’ll be seeing much more of him in the future <3

[khelinski]

Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody;s around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd like to be.

J.D. Salinger

[this-big-field-of-rye-and-all]

I'm reporting from planet Earth, an obvious statement perhaps, but it never hurts to specify.

Things have been a roller coaster in the past few months. Today wasn't particularly tough, but I'll blame any melancholy on the fact that it's Sunday, even if it's about to end.

I embrace people, but I don't feel satisfied. Why? Am I perhaps being too ambitious?

[yohohonabottle]

Memento - In memorial. Smiling sun-Weeping sun

A sunny day, the charming knight and his former charge taking a stroll. Then the "moon" grows abruptly distant, and Valen gets a tour of the sun's memories through him.

Trigger Warning: Depictions of loss, passing of pets and grief, minor violence (smacking into a shelf). I wrote this to process my feelings and honor the memories...and to tell their stories, our story. I posted this, to leave their marks and.. in a way, make them immortal through this fiction-fanfiction. This is not intended for shock value.

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

It was a normal pleasant day in the serene picturesque cottage of Golden Wheatshire, nothing amiss. The sun's warm rays shine on the fields of golden wheat and rye, the air slightly humid and cool as a breeze blows from time to time making the fields gently sway. Valen was enjoying the leisurely, more easy-going day-- Whistling a cheery tune lightly with a content smile as he calmly walks by Pirin's side with steady unhurried strides, hands behind his head.

The Heroic Order knight has no idea why the Magister wanted to go back to the Sun and Moon temple ruins, or at least it seems this way to him, but he didn't mind. And who's he to question the mage, anyway? Besides, they'd pass through Northville and Southville on the way, a little detour from their 'pilgrimage' so to speak.

The talking hamsters of his had brought it up as a suggestion, saying something along the lines of how it'd be nice to check up on some old faces and the magister had agreed (or more like caved in). However judging by the way the ginger knightly-dressed hamster salivated, big bright auburn eyes sparkling with giddy excitement at the prospect of stopping by that sweets shop the four of them had passed by the first time while running around Southville....

Valen simply knew the little acorn-knight's actual intentions about the trip and couldn't help but smile a little, clearly amused as he watches the two hamsters interact with Pirin as the four of them saunter the cobblestone streets of Holistone.

They took a quick stop here and there. Which happened to easily turn to more little detours.

Funny how I've gotten used to those two and their squeaky little voices by now from all the adventures I've had with them and the 'Magister'. In a way, Chippy and Hammie are endearing--The orange and white-furred hamster knight reminding him of a little kid while the white hamster mage was more level-headed... When she's not fawning and squealing over Pirin that is, taking every opportunity to constantly point out how great, all-knowing and mighty Magister Merlin is. Even if it isn't the real Merlin.

Suddenly Hammie stops in her tracks, pressing a pink-gloved paw to her mouth, eyes wide in alarm as if having just remembered something crucial.

Glancing down over at the chubby-cheeked familliar with a slightly puzzled look on his face, the Solitaire pauses in his tracks.

—"What's wrong?"

The white hamster slightly shrinks in on herself, fixing her blue hat and cape, a bashful pout on her face as she admits. And Valen internally heaves a sigh of both relief and slight exasperation. Not sure whether to laugh or facepalm. Really, now-- You'd think a group of Adamant Syndicates had snuck-up and were about to jump them with how she gasped.

—"I forgot to my staff at home.. I'm sorry." Sweet Dura above, this hamster. And just like that, the four of them took yet another detour from their journey to one of the Cassolot's posts, or however the tavern-like spire mounted on a giant long-necked llama is called. Merlin's home. The creature arrives slowly and settles down, and Valen decides to wait for them outside. Once the two pip-squeaks and the magister were done preparing and step out of the spire, ready to head out for the trip-- The swordsman moves to join them.

And so the four of them set out on their journey to their destination, the acorn knight and mage chattering away happily. As for his part, Valen is more than content to simply listen while keeping up with the pace, nodding along from time to time somewhat absently. He wasn't particularly paying much attention to them, drifting in his own mind, keeping an eye on their surroundings and planning ahead. Everything was as usual.

Nothing could possibly ruin this fine clear sky, sunny day.

Casting a sidelong glance down at the quiet star beside him, the dazzling undercover knight's casual smile falters. There's something off...Sure the 'Graveborn' is the quiet and somber type, not for idle talk, but today he's.. Not quite here. Observing the shorter man's profile and slowing his pace to be in-stride, the swordsman creases his coarse brows. Staring ahead with unseeing, listless gaze, the false Merlin keeps mechanically walking. A sense of cold, hollow grimness exuding from his slim form like a heavy billowing cloak. Amidst it, his own irritation etched subtly onto the doll-like pale features of his soft triangular face. The feeling continues to pulsated dully and throb, ripping and rippling through him from the very core. Breathing a sharp exhale through his nose, the felled star stubbornly marches on--Wrestling to shove the sensations off and raise a mental barrier to keep them out.

And yet that chill refuses to pipe down and settle, ebb away from him. The landscape seems muted and shallow, meaningless blur.

Why do you have to always let your emotions rip through me as though they're mine? His lips press into a taut line. Sighing internally. This is nothing new. It's always been this way since his Director and 'half' 'met' him, by allowing his genesis. Willed it--with all the fleeting good and spiraling, lingering bad, and atrocious. Every joy, anger, fear, hope and sorrow... gain, triumph and loss... she'd go through her burst of emotions, that would inevitably seep right into him and rip through from the very core to the whole in full drowning and scorching or elating intensity, sight shared. And he'd be there, in the end, to collect it all and 'archive' it in coalesced memories somewhere in the nexus point of their consciousnesses.

Etch each fragment into the overarching mural, allowing the Player to 'forget' and 'reset' in symbolic 'rebirth' by taking away her pain to shoulder, filter it, himself. One phase or the Sun burns to ash, another rises after time and he's merely the prism, catalyst or conduit for the metamorphosis. The middle point bridging the past and future.

Like extracting a curse from a patient, taking it on his own body and letting his organism neutralize the negative energy by processing it. Leaving the neutral and good energy free.

So the 'Sun' may be vibrant once more. To rediscover the times by looking back upon the mural of highlights, pick up the memory fragments, when ready to face them. Healed fully.

Thus the cycle repeats itself infinitely. That shadowy menace has put it best back at the chance 'meeting': Two sides of the same coin, always in conflict yet can't without one another.

The pulsations get interrupted by a sharp pang, like a spark suddenly lit again. And sets everything to zero.

Halting in his tracks and shutting his eyes tight with a grimace, Pirin distantly registers the trio's voices call in worry. ("Vanya.? Are you alright?" Concerned, Valen. "Magister!" Alarmed, Chippy and Hammie) Standing completely still, the mage stiffly lifts a hand. Wait. Quiet down. Staring listlessly at the ceiling, lying on the bed in the dining room as a way of connecting with a loved one in search of solace, hugging a shark plushie tightly-- Tears well at the corners of his eyes, jaw clenching as knees feel weak and threatening to give out. The urge to howl at the top of his lungs like a wyvern's shrill roar or scream of a banshee surges hotly in his veins.

Warm, lean and strong arms carefully wrap around his shoulders. 'Merlin' leans on his companion. Loss. Deep, gripping, abyssal. At last the magister finds his voice, keeping it stead, even. It quivers a little. Something bubbles, boils within. Fights to break out. —"My half. She's mourning a loss--I can feel her emotions like mine. I...also see and hear what she does. It's not for the open." In private.

—"...Let's go to the Mystical House, we should have privacy to talk and can get a drink later." Merlin's familiars stay oddly quiet, allowing their presence to be anchor rather than ruining the moment with chatter. Merlin could have a solution, no doubt, too. It almost sets on the tip of their tongues but they refrain from blurting it.

----------

The bell on the doorway of the Mystical House sings merrily, announcing the arrival of people.

Sprawled on the sofa on the lower balcony of the tavern's lounge, the brown-haired archmage lifts her head from the page she's reading. Her features pinch into a puzzled frown, sensing something is wrong. The way her adorable hamsters, so energetic, simply pad over and hop onto the couch by her side without a word only confirms it.

—"What happened?" Looking between her trusted companions, stand-in and the uncharacteristically serious Solitaire, Merlin's confusion grows to mild worry. And a hunch stirs. This can't be related to the--

—"Pirin is experiencing the Sun's grief. We brought him back so he can go through it more peacefully. ...And perhaps find a solution, hopefully." Grim understanding settles on the Arch-magister's visage. So it is. There are no patrons at the House. Standing up languidly from the sofa, Merlin holds the grimoire she's been reading under her arm, speaking in a measured tone. Her steps are quiet as she descends the stairs to the lounge, main room of her home. Matters connected to the Sun and Moon aren't to be taken very lightly. Although this is more about the disgruntled 'Helper' not burning out than his Director.

—"No one will be coming over soon, so we've got the lounge all to ourselves. Go crazy, as they say. And--I've heard oftentimes that sharing a burden helps. Or simply getting it off your chest." You look on the verge to break. It looks like the anguish will turn physical at any moment, the cup overflowing. Poor thing looks like Carolina.

Casually settling down onto the ground, the legendary magus places the tome next to herself and waves a hand to both men to sit down as well so the three of them form a circle. "In all seriousness, there's only so much one can bear. And, selfish or greedy as it sounds from me, I can't run the risk of letting you spiral until reaching metamorphosis...or not emerging from that spiral at all." A pointed look of 'light-hearted' sternness is sent in the vampire's direction. The lost descendant makes a pained grimace in a wince, still remaining standing. Doesn't need to look down at his former escort to know the suave solder echoes this sentiment.

Or that Merlin is voicing a lot of people's collective thought with this line.

With a soft sigh, the stoic and dutiful Moon relents, lowering himself on his knees. Casting a look at the pages of her spellbook, the Magister looks back up and slowly extends a hand. Valen wordlessly clasps it, his other held up for the last person in the link on his left. An ice-cold palm grasps it with a hesitation, eyes closed. Reluctance.

Well turns out Merlin lied. It's not just the three of them. Only muted the bell so it doesn't ding whenever someone enters the spire. Or teleports in the lounge. And had the audacity to somehow snitch. Merlin. I know you're my boss, but I will snap your neck.

A warm, weathered hand takes his, a familiar presence of a certain Captain. The presence of two chieftain siblings, an Earl that perished too young due to chronic incurable illness, a Witch of Flames, a sinister jester that harbors no laughter in the moment. An aspiring scholar, a breezy god of banquets and a determined gem-magic dancer. All people linked to him more than most--Partners, family, friends, nemesis that somehow can't do without him, admirers;

Two opposing elements of light and darkness, for once align to form a strong, sturdy node for a grounding anchor. A protective measure to the circle and a safety net to mitigate damage without taking away intensity. Guidance.

I need every person in the circle to speak in turn along with me second time chant. First time I go alone, third time goes the person sharing with us. The faint hum of magic. Merlin begins first.

Μεμοριες οφ τηε παστ, (Memories of the past, Μεμοριες οφ τηε πρεσεντ, (Memories of the present,) Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς παστ, (Spirit of moments past, Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς πρεσεντ, (Spirit of moment present,) Ρισε φρομ ψουρ δεπτης ωιτηιν. (Rise from your depths within,)

Ρεσυρφαξε το ουρ ξαλλ, (Resurface to our call,) Λετ υς πεερ ατ ψουρ δεπτη, (Let us peer at your depth, Τηρουγη υς εββ ανδ φλοω, ( Through us ebb and flow,)

Σηοω υς ψουρ τρυτη ιν φυλλ. (Show us your truth in full.)

As instructed, each person in the circle uttered a line from the incantation- One starting it and the other echoing it with the next line of that 'excerpt'. The magic, invisible, rises gradually and the world around falls away. Their mind, spirit pulled into a new space slowly beginning to take 'form' with each passage said, bodies remaining still in the Mystical House. Each line tinted by each person's individuality and cadence unique to each and every one of them. From closest to furthest.

"Μεμοριες οφ τηε παστ," (Valen, quietly spoke in careful neutrality) "Μεμοριες οφ τηε πρεσεντ," (Sinbad echoes in low, somber tone.) "Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς παστ," (Alsa murmurs in solemn reverie, a spark of her sunny cheer still resonates. Followed by her brother calmly echoing her verse in grim, carefully kept neutral tone that sounds like a mutter, giving her hand a brief squeeze.) "Σπιριτ οφ μομεντς πρεσεντ." "Ρισε φρομ ψουρ δεπτης ωιτηιν." (Ludovic voices quietly, tone soft yet firm in willing the spell, closing the first passage. A dull, weak pang at the subconscious of the gathered, the very vague outline of images. Like wisps in a fog veil, the blurry distant fragments flash into vivid visions for a second then blur once more.)

"Ρεσυρφαξε το ουρ ξαλλ," (Fay whispers in a solemn murmur of subdued and suppressed excitement, nervousness. Her right hand gripping onto Cassadee's left briefly tightens, body staying stiffly still.)

"Λετ υς πεερ ατ ψουρ δεπτη," (The devoted mage mumbles in reverent serenity of her soft, timidly quiet voice. Restrains herself from shuddering or recoiling in any manner when the clown of Fay's left takes his turn to carry on the spell.)

"Τηρουγη υς εββ ανδ φλοω." (The normally impish Hypogean utters in somberly lowered tone, voice tapered to a near 'listless' whisper. Firm, reinforcing the spell and sealing the second verse. His own magic coils but he wills it to stay aside, not interfere and collide with the Celestial on his left nor taint the incantation. Courteous, serious, for once.)

...Maybe, as much he'd despise to ever admit it--This Merlin, fake as he is and merely contractually playing along with the real one-- has managed to crawl his way and chew out, carve a spot for himself. Not only because it's easy to annoy the huffy little bat, get a good laugh at the blood-sucker's expense or because he stands out as a pawn playing on a different board--But also, because he keeps things here interesting.

Out of all the Merlins to have walked this dull little world, from the Divine war good old days of chaos, the Scuffle with those glowy pomps that're the Celestials, to present days--Pirin, Ioan Hestopeous of the Eclipse bloodline, is the most intriguing by far. For many reasons. The firm neutrality and morally grey approaches being one, fiery, defiant and unbreakable spirit another along with walking on the tight-rope of calling out Celestials and Hypogeans. Worships, bows, agrees fully or disagrees with neither, facing both with a straight face despite his own inner conundrums. A witness, overseer and performer into one. A masterful actor in his own right, something the clown can respect- in his own wicked ways.

And Berial, begrudgingly, gives credit where its due.

It's been a long while since any burning star has been brought to Esperia, be it through getting called down or reincarnating as their real self out of their own volition. Most have either moved on to other realms, or chose to forsake their core-- melted to be like the factions known on this world and into plain regular animals, plants.... Pity.

"Σηοω υς ψουρ τρυτη ιν φυλλ." (The gallant deity of indulgence resonates, sealing the spell in full. The blurry, outlines of memories flare into the forefront on the circle's mind, sharpening into cohesive forms. Flashes of fragments stitching together to form a vivid vision within the void they are in.)

And Pirin echoes the incantation from beginning to the end hollowly, voice strained. Exhausted from the agony viciously ripping at him now finally flooding out in the open, swirling together with the magic--

Walking over to the tall cage sat on the guest bed, Rila lifts the gate and puts the green clothespin to keep it secured open. A tiny thrum of uneasy worry pangs when her bird stays on his perch. He's been quiet for a month now, not his usual energetic self. Normally he'd bolt out the door right away... The intuition gets dismissed. Going about her routine, the Sun watches her familiar settle onto her laptop's monitor, ready to hang out with her while she types, watches or plays on it. Moving to briefly leave the room, no call or whistle follow after her back. (Something's wrong... gamma said he stinks earlier.) The thought quickly gets pushed aside, stamped down.

Coming back, her smile of endearment turns mildly amused at finding the parrot perched onto her chair. Padding over to him, she bends down to give him a kiss on the head like usual after cheerfully murmuring his name. A stab of surprise and alarm pierce in the brunette's heart as the bird suddenly jumps on her with loud squawking, quickly climbing to her neck and beaking her fingers as she tries to lightly, gently keep him back a little. Then darts to land between her shelves, standing stiffly at the edge for a moment before shuffling over to the tall photo frame with a picture of her... pausing to gaze at it. At his loving friend in her younger years at a ceremony.

And then turns, sits down on the shelf like a plush toy or as though taxidermized. Standing by the shelf with a worried, strained light frown, Rila hesitates-- then gently taps him on his wing. Unsure of what's wrong, what's happening, what to do. Taps him again....then slowly, reluctantly reaches to wrap her hand, pick the animal up to move him away from there. Something stops her.

If a bird is too stressed, it will die.

I don't want to stress him out more... Catching him will stress him out, he's already in distress..

Reluctantly with heavy heart and sigh, Rila moves away and sits on the guest bed, watching him warily. Fidgets with her phone, mulling over whether to call the shop owner and ask for advice or not. Will he even have anything helpful? Will his advice even hold water? Probably not...

The fiery rosella sits between two shelves completely still, breathing shallowly. Eyes wide, small sounds flitting from its open beak rapidly. His owner eyes him with grave sorrowful anxiousness from her seat on the bed with phone in hand. Scared. Scared for her companion, scared of stressing him out even more and causing his heart to stop, debating if calling the shop owner she bought him from is a good idea. If the man would even be able to help at all-- But I can't just stand and do nothing! ...But what can I- What should I even do? Helplessness, mounting tension of dread, sorrowful frustration bubble, warily watching her poor bird sit on the shelf.

Should I grab him? Move him out of there..? What if I scare him? I can't do nothing..! i can't do anything... please no.. (A small voice wanly reminds of grim reality-- "There are no good avian vets in town. You can't get a proper diagnose and medicine to treat him. Even less afford any of it, your family struggling to make ends meet. Even your firebird was a hefty toll by himself. There's nothing you can do.")

There has to be something I can do. There has to...

A dream creeps itself back to her mind's eye, blending with intuition insisting something very, very bad is imminently to come. A dream of the same rosella standing before her, looking up at her while her quivering and desperate voice endlessly weeps. "Don't die! Don't die! Don't die, I'm begging you! I'm begging you..!"

There is no judgement in the bird's innocent dark, adoring eyes as he continues to look at her, listening to her devastated pleading, her anguished sobbing. The animal seemingly not understanding why his friend is so distraught...or maybe does and wants to tell her 'Don't cry. It's okay.'

---Merlin hugs Chippy and Hammie, watching the viscerally realistic vision mutely. It seems this isn't the first time the Sun had had a prophetic dream warning her of impending danger or loss. Nor the first time her intuition has told her the same, if more vaguely. Judging by the Player's reaction, understanding and knowing what that dream she had not too long ago nor too recently meant. And knowing it's true, it's only a matter of time it inevitably happens.

The acorn mage and knight watch the scene with baited breath, dread, in their Magister's arms.---

The woman's heart thunders, lurches, sinks and clenches. A dream she had vehemently denied, refused to accept holds full weight and had wishfully dismissed as just that--A weird, unpleasant but ultimately baseless dream randomly cropping up some days after the parrot has entered her home and life.

A warning.

A prophecy that Rila kept stubbornly ignoring, fully focusing on bonding with the animal.

Enjoying each day to the fullest--Whistling melodies, talking and larking with the fiery-plumaged bird, laughing at his silly antics as he flies around her room with a squawk or chirp.

Fondly rolls her eyes in feigned irritation as she gets up from her chair to briefly leave the room for a snack, the rosella calling out after her back the name she has given him with proud joy, love-- 'Zhar! Zhari!'-- whistling and squawking. (Where are you going? Come back! Don't leave me alone!) Chuckles at the sight of him gripping the bars of his cage and trying to push his beak through them, colorful wings half open and 'fluttering' in happy excitement--Waiting her return. So happy to see her return, whistling right away when she answers his whistling call.

Something the two of them had sort of established--Whenever Rila leaves his sight, he'd whistle from her room and she would whistle or call back in answer. As if to tell him 'I'm here!' or 'I'm coming!', resulting in a back and forth. When his friend is mad at him, she would leave the room and not answer his calls or whistles for a moment then come back. (And he'd flit around the room restlessly, searching for her. Immediately land on her head when she comes back. Happy, calm and content to be perched atop the 'watchtower', his human back. Rila whistles, and Zhar happily whistles right away from his 'nest'.)

Warmth fills the heart of the 'giantess', watching her 'firebird' hop back on his perch and stand by his water tube, neck craned. Lively, happy, curious, energetic ball of mischief and devious playfulness. A little rascal always up to no good.

Walking over to the side of the tall cage, she sticks a finger through the bars--And Zhar immediately runs over to playfully beak it, puffed up. 'Te-tee!' Waits, following the finger closely as it draws a circle quickly then gets close slowly-- Zhar's beak hits the bars with a 'clang!', trying to catch the finger before it could withdraw again-- Fails. Makes an 'Uh!' noise, the strange giant giggling. The finger comes back, and this time he catches it, squawking and squeaking in triumph as he grips it hard..but then the finger escapes his grasp.

And the looming thing gives kisses, cooing his name warmly with endeared cheerfulness. "Zhari~! Birdy! Who's a pretty boy? You!"

It's been a week since he was brought to this home. But his bowl is always full of food, his water fresh and cage kept clean. The giants have even given willow leaves and vegetables and fruit!

(But it's so much better when the giantess holds the slice or piece through his cage's bars. Always.

Tomato, watermelon, peeled seedless grape, apple, cucumber-- She had cut them up, once, put them in his other food bowl. Said she can't hold them up through the bars while he munches away. Well those pieces were swiftly taken out, and chucked on the newspaper floor!)

A month passes. And then it turned to two--July--August. Almost every day, after noon classes (that he diligently chimed in, whistling the tune he's partially learnt from the family, cheerful or squawks and calls out his own name, makes kissing noises.) his door is lifted up and he'd dart out to do circles around the room, squawking happily. Hang onto the curtains, peer down at what his owner is doing this time on her device, zip to her bookshelf, to her tall chest of drawers and land on the small mirror to play with all the trinkets she's got--And then dart to land right on her head. Hop onto the laptop's monitor, and chew on the wooden Asian dragon on the smaller chest of drawers on the desk. (For some reason she keeps saying not to toy with it, inching her finger to his side as if to give a small 'boop'. And he'd quickly walk away to the other side of the monitor or sometimes puff up and 'Te-tee!' in protest then get gently, playfully booped on the beak. His feathers ruffled affectionately with mumbled 'I love you, you know that?' Followed by larking 'You gypsy.' It was never out of malice.)

The brown-haired giant would have caught, hurt him long, long ago if she wanted to. On the very first day she first let him fly free and attempted to get him off from the curtain-- He'd bit her hand as hard as possible in anger while climbing down onto it. She didn't yell or hit, only grit her teeth in pain but murmured calmly "Come on, boy. There, wasn't so scary and bad. Was it?" No anger or contempt. Humorous, maybe bit unhappy at having been bit. But not angry.

At most only threatened, once, sternly "I won't be nice anymore if you keep this up. I will be mean. I will catch you.", exasperated with him continuously darting away when it's time to go back so he can eat and drink. But it only stayed as a bluff. Patient. It's obvious she loves, adores him so deeply-- And Zhar knew. Could sense it, and loved the human in turn tenfold. She still mistook his hard beaking, kisses, as angry bites from time to time because it hurt. But it's love!

Sitting on her device's monitor and watching her play, he sees Rila pause to look up at him, eyes full of fondness. Warm, tender, unconditional and unwavering, endless love and smile soft. Leaning forth, she gives a kiss to the top of his head--Zhar ducks down, but allows it.

Listens to her loving murmurs, praise. "Handsome, pretty boy. Zhar, pretty boye. Beautiful birdy." Sure, it's not scary to sit on her hand or arm, but perching on her head or monitor is the best. Or on her knee, when she lays down, one knee always drawn up for him to land and perch on, play with the sleeve of her pants or simply rest and gaze out the wide window.

Life in this home isn't bad at all, turns out. It's better than at the shop, stuck in a cage 'underground' with other birds.

Good food, treats, veggies and fruits, toys to play with, fresh water, freedom, warmth and company, love all around, fresh air (when taken out with the cage on the balcony) and many new experiences, sights. ...if the illness that's been nagging him is set aside. It's nasty, but the family is doing their absolute best to make sure he's never neglected, unhappy or uncomfortable. Happy memories...

Suddenly the fiery-feathered bird jumps up to take flight while sitting between the two shelves (Rila's dread spikes, flares into horror, jolting)-- smacks his head on the upper shelf with a loud squawk of distress and flies low, crashing on the ground next to the balcony's door roughly. Rila's alarmed, horrified, voice echoes sharply with the bird's crash, yelling his name. "Zhar!"

The woman immediately rushes to his side, runs to pick him up from the floor- the bird squirming one last time with a squawk then goes limp in her hands.

Rila collapses on her knees, clutching gently her beloved familiar in her palms-- And lets out a loud, wailing cry. Pauses in shock, refusing to believe he's dead as she waits for him to move. "Zhar...? please say something... please move, wake up!" No response to her shaky, tearful plead. But the young woman keeps trying, hoping in vain that somehow her begging the bird to move, to wake up in rapidly deteriorating, quivering voice of desperation.. would revive him.

Five months. Almost six, since he choose her, 'called out' to her at the zoo shop and she took him home. Almost six months of hanging out, whistling, playing together and bonding. Another cry tears itself out the Sun's throat, piercing and riddled with pure anguish. The woman cradling her pet in her arms and slumping. The howl is followed by another, between sobs that sound like laughter-- A wail, a yowl raw with pure grief. As she hugs her parrot to her chest, rocking and running a hand through his feathers. ("Zhar!")

The devastation rips through the spectators' very core, watching the memories unfold in fully vivid detail. Each agonized howl is like a stab. The fiery rosella wasn't just some pet. He was a most closest companion for the Player, a familiar that she loved, adored with all of her heart and soul.

"...gamma...I killed him. I killed Zhar..." Sinbad winces. So much self-blame, self-loathing and misplaced guilt. Believing she had stressed the bird and caused or sped up his passing, added to his pain. None of which is true at all. The little 'firebird' adored her far too much to be scared of her. You didn't kill him. It's not your fault. You gave this bird the best life he could ask for.

Fay hugs Cassadee tightly, misty-eyed herself, the urge to sing and dance-- cheer the weeping catalyst-- flares. But the Hail moon star knows it's futile, this is only a memory. Rila won't see or hear her. The white-haired apprentice quietly hugs her, consoling. Alsa looks over to the duo, tears running down her cheeks, and gently hugs them, murmuring words of comfort. Ludovic stays mournfully silent, closing his eyes.

And this is still relatively subdued thanks to Dionel, Berial and Pirin's magic. The anchor the jester and Celestial set, linking each of them to it so it helps mitigate the damage. Keep them grounded from getting lost by the maelstrom of raw, crushing emotions billowing at them. A fraction of what the Sun is going through.

Pirin stands in place, distantly watching all unfold, arms limply at his sides. Empty. Exhausted. A warm, clawed furry hand lands on his shoulder offering wordless comfort and strength. Stoic as ever. The blazing star leans into Soren's side listlessly. Standing next to the archon, the shadowy clown absently plays with his top-hat, feeling the torrent of grief as if his own. It's....strange, foreign, this searing agony and chilling, cold emptiness. Profound loss. Just as the love--Rila's love-- for Zhar flowed through his being as though the emotions are his own.

Merlin hugs his hamsters tightly, jaw set. Mirael places a hand on her Magister's shoulder, sullenly watching the memory sequence. Merlin's squared shoulders slump, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

The two truly, indisputably, loved each other.

The vision gets mixed up for a brief moment with old memories of another bird's final moments--A violet budgie slowly dying out of old age, ailed by the pains in his infected feet. The little parakeet snuggles up in Rila's cupped palms as though getting ready to sleep or nap, always turning his head to look up at Rila with...love, utter adoration and serene, peaceful calmness in spite of his pains torturing him. As if telling her not to cry, or 'I'm okay.' It's this memory that haunts her still. The memory of the previous bird's peaceful death is contrasted with the new parrot's abrupt passing.

Suddenly Rila is a kid again, coming home.. The second the bird heard the front door open and shut, senses his owner's presence, excited chirps, incessant chatter fills the air. He sounds... younger, too. Restless, flitting around his cage, as soon the girl shows up--He calms down. The memory shifts to a few years later, both little older, with Rila returning home from school and sitting down at the dining table to eat her lunch--A violet little rascal quickly pads over to her.

Scowling, the student gently pushes the budgie back from her bowl but he keeps trying to hop or climb on it. Absolutely trying to eat from it, too, however his owner keeps pushing him back. Warding her lunch. Doesn't deter the lil menace though. (The scene makes Valen smile with a suppressed chuckle. Whatever Rila eats and drinks, her feathery scamp simply has to share too. There were no negotiations about it allowed, it seems. And the parakeet always goes to her plate or bowl specifically, no one else's.) Played 'stylist' with her hair, and looking dang proud of himself, played with cards, stole notes, nibbled at her pen, pencil or paintbrush whenever she writes or draws--And Rila would tense up, hurry to get him away from it. His little feet were smeared with colors, that she washed off. And so many more antics. A fiery, cheeky little hooligan.

The memory shifts to when the rascal is old, resting on his owner's stomach and napping contently under her hand. To when he grumbles in protest at being taken out of the cage but then sleeps soundly in her palm, 'snoring' quietly. If he could purr, he no doubt would be. The time he was out and snuggled up to the woman's hip, angrily grumbling whenever someone tries to disturb him...When the old champ climbed up the big donkey plush and settled into the crook of Rila's neck, tucking his head under his wings.

Almost fifteen years old. Would have turned. Whatever wrongdoings Rila did to him as a kid, he has long forgiven her for. Even though she has not forgiven herself, gnawed by guilt. The vision shifts once more, showing Rila walking out on her balcony with a makeshift coffin in hand and face stained by dried tear tracks. Tired.

Lowering herself onto her knees in front of the tall cage and opening its door, the brunette murmurs soft words in her native to him, to the parrot, as she reaches in and gently picks the lifeless fiery rosella parrot. Holding him in her hand, about to lower him into the shoebox. Voice less raw but having gone listless.

("Come my boy..."), pausing in her movements to lower him into the casket. ..And cradles the parrot close one last time, running a hand through his feathers. Tenderly, lovingly. Soothing, murmuring to the deceased animal in sweet, sorrow tinted voice.

("My firebird...Zhar, my beautiful firebird..."), hugging him for a long moment. Before finally lowering the dead bird into the improvised coffin, still speaking to him.

"Thank you, for coming into my life and being with me. For choosing me. May your next lives be the best, happiest."

A reflection of self-blame in her last words of blessing, for 'not doing enough' and 'not giving a good enough life', as though she could've done so, so much more. As if Rila feels like she wasn't a good enough owner. Devastated frustration at being powerless to help, do so much more for her bird both current and previous.

The vision morphs to showing a shoebox closed and sitting atop the tall cage the bird resided in. The box is lined with colorful tissues inside, a blue paper rose and a big, round owl made of salty bread sit inside by the body. The cold night wind blows on the balcony.

The scene in the vision morphs to Rila, wearing a fur vest, walking out in the night and holding the makeshift coffin as though cradling the bird itself-- most precious treasure. Strides solemn, somber and head held high, dried tear tracks on her face, ignoring the November chill biting her skin. Searching for a place suitable to bury the casket... the young woman picking up nearby heavy, large, stones and roof tiles with unwavering effort. Struggling to carry them back to the chosen spot but refusing to give up, setting them down over the filled in grave with a determination.. like creating a monument. And a way to discourage cats and dogs from digging as it would be too much work. A way to keep the parrot's rest undisturbed by unwanted 'visitors'.

Slowly the vision fades away, the Sun weeping over the two graves and hugging her father. "My boys, my beautiful boys.." One last dream, the same as in the prophecy warning of Zhar's passing. This time, her devastated voice sobs to him, to Rio, to both of them "I love you!" through tears. And just like last time, there is no trace of judgement or accusation in the eyes of the 'firebird'. Nor the budgie's. Both look at their owner with the same deep, profound, unwavering love, longing and adoring affection as in life.

"We know. We love you too."

The vision ends, the void dissipating and the world comes back into focus. What sits on the ground at the heart of their circle, are tiles like stained glass, the happy memories from Zhar's short life. The emotions of the Sun vanished, leaving the group as they slowly move to get up and shuffle around the lounge. To share a drink, shake off the tragic memories. Move on with their own routines, the 'crisis' averted.

Pirin remains kneeling on the ground, taking a deep shuddering breath and slowly exhaling, carefully picking up the tiles. The transition won't be long--The next day after the funeral, that version of the Sun would've died away with the grief and a new, 'blank slate' reincarnation will take her stead. 'Reset'. 'Reborn.' Still will love her familiars will her whole being, every single ounce of her soul... But will no longer weep, rather smile. Like nothing ever happened.

As she picks up the tiles of her bright moments with them.

Merlin watches the dutiful, sullen Moon pensively for a long moment.

"Will this cycle repeat? Get a bird, bond then weep and go through symbolic death-rebirth?"

"Yes."

"Why..?"

"Only the Sun knows for herself."

---

Somewhere, out there, a bright phoenix flies freely--Whistling a half-learned merry melody, calling his own name like in victory. Proud and happy, accompanied by a smaller bird made of stardust. A little 'stray' star, soaring alongside the bigger one of eternal flames, chattering and snickering.

Unbound, happy and healthy as they can be, forevermore. Two companions that would soon join the Moon, watching over their Sun vigilantly. Just as she watched over them. Forevermore. Together, never to be separated again.

[sapphobolide]

FFXIVWrite Day 6 — "Halcyon"

Mor Dhona turned cold with the season, but inside the Rising Stones it was warm. Laughter and eager talk bubbled in the soft lantern light, free chairs were in short supply. Food was not, however. The air swam with the scent of apple tarts and squash soup, their ingredients fresh from Gridania, mashed popotoes and butter from Thanalan, and hot La Noscean spiced wine. Bowls came empty to a cauldron of Coerthan mutton stewed with lemon thyme and left full, and a crate of Lominsan blood oranges sat open for any and all to take. The headquarters of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn had never seen such a celebration.

And there was plenty to celebrate, to be sure. The Doman refugees, who had arrived in Revenant’s Toll well after planting season when every other state in Eorzea had turned them away, had successfully pulled a risky buckwheat harvest out of the rocky soil of Mor Dhona. According to the skywatchers, they would have just enough time to sow their crystal-studded fields with rye, barley, and winter wheat before the frost came. The seed, along with many of the foodstuffs that went into the Scions’ feast, had come from Gridania and Limsa Lominsa—shipped to the Scions in thanks for the slaying of primals that had threatened each land. Not to be undone, Ishgard had sent shipment after shipment of wood and stone to see Revenant’s Toll through the winter, so grateful were they to be relieved of the primal threat. Gifts even came from the Sultana from time to time, priceless bundles of pepper, ginger, anise, and cloves.

But for all those victories, it was the newest excitement that seemed most infectious—Moenbryda’s plan to slay an Ascian. She was the most recent arrival to the Rising Stones, but Moenbryda had fit in the way that a bow fits a quiver of arrows. The big woman filled the room like air, her voice the wind, the avalanche of her laugh so transfixing none could run from it. The other Scions orbited her like a host of blushing Dalamuds, the red in their cheeks not entirely from the wine.

Caswyn watched it all from afar, a mug of mutton broth in her hands. Behind her prowled the cat-sized vessel of Midgardsormr, a spectre only those with the Echo could see. Her thoughts wrapped around her like a cloak, sheltering her from the squall of merriment blowing through.

The scrape of a stool woke her attention. Tamsyn sat beside her, a cup of her own in hand. There was space enough between them to fit the things they did not talk about; the bitter fight they had had over letting Lady Iceheart go, the sobbing breakdown that had overcome Tamsyn in the boat back from the Keeper of the Lake. The secret they had kept from all but Minfilia—that the father of dragons had stripped them of Hydaelyn’s blessing. And yet, for all that had come between them, there was a surprising comfort here, at the edge of the festivities. They were alone, together.

Tamsyn nodded at the giant in the room. “They’re all a little bit in love with her, aren’t they?”

Caswyn pondered her for a while. She smiled, and followed her gaze. “Save Papalymo, perhaps.”

“Thancred’s going to make a fool of himself.”

“He already has, he and Hoary both. It’s only a matter of time for Yda and Y’shtola and Urianger, if Moenbryda stays.”

“Urianger has it the worst of all, though they’d hate to hear me say it. At least Minfilia is smiling again.”

Caswyn looked at the Antecedent, laughing at one of Moen’s boasts and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Too much had weighed on Minfilia of late, from the invasion of Elidibus into the Waking Sands to the disappearance of the Isle of Val. The latter had driven a friend of Caswyn’s to imprison himself in magical slumber, for a number of ages only the Twelve could know. “It is good to see,” she agreed.

Tamsyn appeared to make up her mind. “I hope she stays. I think she’s good for them.”

“We will have broken hearts eventually,” Caswyn warned.

“There always will be.” Tamsyn smiled at her, sadly. “But for now, things are good.”

[hidden-clue]

I was looking up poisonous mushrooms, for foraging purposes, and I stumbled into one called 'Ergot fungus', and I thought, wait, I know this word, I've heard it somewhere. It went on to say it causes 'ergot poisoning' and it clicked - ergot poisoning from Midnight in Salem!

It turns out ergot fungi is a fungus that infects rye, wheat, barley and other cross-species of cereal, it grows inside of them like a little black worm. Then if the cereal is consumed, it poisons people. It does cause psychosis, seizures, migraines, nausea, vomiting, but the long term effects are as bad as gangrenes - skin falling off, loss of body tissue, limbs rotting and falling off, and in the end, death. Midnight in Salem did NOT impress just how intensely deadly this is.

There were outbreaks of ergot poisoning in the middle ages, and in the 19th century, and the effects were horrifying. People eventually figured out that ergot can be sterilized by placing the yield in a brine solution, deep plowing the infected fields and rotating crops.

There's an interesting article on wikipedia discussing whether the symptoms of ergotism were blamed on the witches during the witch trials in Salem, all of the symptoms were mentioned in the records. However it was concluded that the symptoms were already known by then, and would be recognizable as ergot poisoning, so it was not the case. It was interesting to find Salem directly on the 'ergot poisoning' wikipedia page!

It's making more sense now why Nancy was asking around who was eating cereal-based products and why ergot was used as a plot device, it was after all, connected to witches and to the history of Salem, and also a big problem in the middle ages.

Now would ergot also infect water from some infected plants being put into the water supply? I have no clue, that part is a bit far-fetched, but I am glad the poisoning wasn't as extreme as it could have been. Insane to want to revive such an awful plague.

Sorry for talking about Midnight in Salem! I still play it for Halloween so I wanted to share the extra knowledge I just gathered, getting real-life knowledge from Nancy Drew games still is one of my favourite things.

[amandacanwrite]

Mother of Pearl ☼ The Hallowed Wilds ☼ Chapter Two

POV ;; Ezra ☽ 10 y.o.

Summary ;; Ezra risks a forbidden journey into The Wilds and meets the strange witch Aurelia for the first time

Warnings ;; Graphic description of a broken bone, light gore, mentions of death, child injury, mentions of blood.

Author Note ;; I am someone who doesn't get triggered by much, but it's very important to me that anyone who reads my work doesn't become inadvertently triggered because of my writing. While these early chapters are quite light, this story does get dark at times. If you ever notice something I should have issued a content or trigger warning for, please reach out to me so that I can properly apologize to you and add the warning to the list. That all said, let's hop in!!

Don’t go into the forest, that’s what everyone had always said.

But I had to. I couldn’t explain why, I just needed to go in there. I knew I needed to.

I’d known people who had known people who disappeared in those woods. Went into that copse of trees that always seemed in bloom, always alive. Usually, it was during the harsh winter months, when fields were barren and game knew to chance hiding out in The Wilds rather than risk winding up as stew or leather shoes.

Some part of me knew that whatever lay hiding behind the tree line wouldn’t hurt me, though. The forest wouldn’t gobble me up like it had the others; the hunters, the fools, and the prideful older boys trying to impress the girls they were courting.

It was the perfect day for it. Ma was away midwifing for the Rileys and Pa was working on a big project somewhere up the mountain road. Neither would be back for a long time, and The Wilds were so insistent that day. It whistled for me like a Ma did at sundown, promising warmth and dinner—only it was morning, so maybe breakfast instead.

Our house was just next to the giant fields of rye that separated Dewbury, so it’d be easy for me to sneak out without nosy town-folk tattling on me.

I packed up a bag with some charcoal, my sketchbook, and some bread, just in case I got hungry. It had snowed a lot the night before, so I put on my good boots and my thick coat and the scarf Grammy knitted for me for my birthday. Then, on the way out the door, I put my lucky cap on because I was going to need all my luck if I was going to go into the most dangerous place out there.

But I wasn’t scared. I know I probably ought to have been, but I wasn’t. Something about it felt right. That’s all I could say on the subject.

I left home with my supplies and made my way to that giant rye field. The rye was always ready to harvest, even in the winter, but we weren’t supposed to take any of it. Ma says that rye belongs to the witches. So even when people are hungry and desperate, they don’t cut the rye and mill it into bread or hunt in the forest beyond it.

When I reached the field, I waited there for a while, looking across it. I thought that maybe if something bad was lurking over there in the forest I’d be able to see it and maybe try another day but, the tree line was so far away—too far.

I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and took a deep breath.

Then I took the first steps into the tall grasses.

They came up to about my waist, and they tickled in a way I wasn’t accustomed to in the fields belonging to the Maysels down the road. I let my hands drag against the swaying plants and felt a weird tingling like I’d touched some stinging nettle—only without the pain and itching. It set my heart to beating so loud that I could hear it in my ears.

As I got closer to the trees, the weather changed. The winter winds calmed down and a warm breeze took their place. By the time I reached the inside of the tree line, it felt like spring. Fresh, but balmy—and I’d started to sweat.

Still, I couldn’t think much about how warm I was, not with this forest around me.

The Wilds were…like no forest I’d ever seen. Not even in spring or summer. The ground was damper, the greens were greener, the smells were stronger. Even the ambient noises in the woods were louder. Birds singing trilling songs, the chittering of squirrels, the scurrying of little feet.

I looked up into the trees to see if I could find any of the creatures in question. Maybe I could stop and sketch them. When I did, I saw how massive the trees really were.

Pa told me once when I asked him about why we grew trees for lumber that it was ‘cause the trees in the forest were so old that cutting them down was a little sad to do. Pa said some of them were as old as Grammy.

These trees were so tall that they must have been twice Grammy’s age—maybe even three times! I heaved out a breath as I took it all in.

The heat of the forest finally got to me, though, so I took off my coat and my scarf before I sweat through them and near froze on my walk back home.

And then, in the periphery of my vision, I saw the flash of something—white as snow and just about my size. I started, heart going into my throat.

I turned to face it and saw her.

Ma had a hairpin in her things that she wore for funerals and weddings—she said they made the decorations on it out of mother-of-pearl. This girl looked like they carved her out of mother-of-pearl, too.

She was pale as a ghost with a light rosy blush like a doll’s. Her hair was just as white, tumbling down to her shoulders in wild curls. Her eyes were the most colorful thing about her, green on the outside with a bright flare of amber in the middle, like she had sunflowers in her eyes.

She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

And then I looked down and saw her…

She was only wearing her underthings.

My face heated like I had a fever and I quickly looked away, because gentlemen didn’t look at girls when they were underdressed. I was going to offer her my coat because that was something gentlemen did, too. But the strange girl ran.

“W-Wait!!” I called after her, and then I was running too.

Maybe it wasn’t proper but, I wanted to ask her some questions. I wanted to see if she was a ghost or a witch, or maybe just a person who lived here and we all just thought no one lived here this whole time.

But lord, she was so quick. If she ever came to Dewbury, she’d beat all the kids when they raced and win every game of tag. She zigged and zagged through trees like she knew where each one would be. I realized as I noticed her bare feet that she might very well know every tree in the forest, after all.

I was worried I’d be lost at the end of this, but I was more worried I’d never see the pretty girl ever again. It felt like this was something I had to do—felt like she pulled me along on a string with her.

The woods vanished from around me. There was only her, getting smaller and smaller as she left me behind. I was so desperate, my heart felt like it was squeezing in my chest, I wanted to cry almost.

“W-Wait! Please!” I called.

The trees packed closer to us and I stumbled over them. I watched in awe as she leapt over dense networks of roots and running streams of water. She ran straight into a thicket of thin, young trees and they merely moved aside for her, like a crowd parting.

It was magic.

She was one of them. She was one of the witches of The Wilds.

I thought I should turn around and run back to where I came from right then, but my feet kept moving—kept chasing after her.

She bounded up the trunk of a great oak tree, and I followed her like a fool. Even in this, she was faster than anyone I’d ever seen. I was so focused that I paid no mind to how high up I was climbing. When I finally looked down to place my foot on a knot of wood, I saw how far I was from the black ground below me.

I panicked, and when I tried to scramble for safety, I lost my footing and plummeted.

The fall was so fast that I didn’t really register it. I heard the deafening crack of wood beneath me and wondered if the wood had punctured my lungs with how I struggled to breathe. And then I felt pain—hot, sharp pain exploding out of my right arm and found it hanging at a strange angle under my shirt sleeve and I realized that the crack I’d heard wasn’t wood at all, but my bone breaking in my body.

I let out a wild scream, hoping that somehow my Ma would hear it and come help me, come save me from this stupid forest and the stupid witch that made me fall so badly.

I hugged my arm to my chest. Blood seeped into my shirt as I wept. I couldn’t tell if the pressure was hurting or helping.

I couldn’t think of anything past the pain, not of being lost or getting home. Every thought was about that injury. That was until she finally spoke.

That bell-like voice cut through all the pain, and I looked up to see her staring down at me.

“Boy!” she called, unphased by the gore.

“What?” I sniffed.

“Why are you in The Wilds?”

The question surprised me—enough that I loosened the pressure on my arm. My broken bone moved, and I felt nauseous with the wave of pain that passed through me. I ground my teeth, eyes squeezing out a few tears that slid down my face and into my ears.

“Can you please get help? Please?” I begged.

“My sisters won’t help you.” She said.

Again, she seemed unbothered by how hurt I was. I kind of hated her for not caring, for not seeing how badly I needed the help. What if my cut got dirty, and I had to lose my arm? The Colonel said that’s how he lost his leg in the war.

I didn’t want to lose my arm—even if it wasn’t my drawing arm, I liked my arm.

She was climbing down from the tree. The canopies above me were spinning like a top.

“Why are you here?” she asked from the lowest branch, one I couldn’t even reach.

I sniffled as black edged my vision. Distantly, I heard her land near my head—I wondered if I’d throw up all over her pretty white shift. I tried to focus on the expanse of blue skies above me and breathe.

I don’t know how long had passed before I woke next, but I did wake again. The cold winter air woke me. Soft, familiar hands brushed hair out of my face—Mama’s hands. Mama came to help me in the forest.

“Ezra, Ezra wake up, sweet boy,” she begged, “Lord, he’s cold as death. Isiah, go get blankets.”

I opened my eyes and looked up to see my Ma looking down at me real pale. She heaved a shaky breath and patted my cheek a little.

“Oh, thank goodness, stay awake now, baby boy. Your father’s getting some blankets to warm you up. Why in the world did you come out here with no coat on?”

“No coat?” I croaked, my voice a shell of what it usually was. My mouth was so dry.

I did my best to wet it with my cottony tongue, swallowing with some effort. I looked around and realized I was lying on a fresh flurry of snow, rather than the warm damp mud I remembered laying in as I cradled my arm.

Sitting up, head spinning, I gasped.

“M-Ma!! My arm!!” I said, lifting it.

I braced for the pain to shoot through me, but it didn’t come.

My arm was completely fine—the only thing that kept me from thinking I’d dreamed all of it was the fact that my shirt still had blood on it—it soaked the arm of my shirt, frozen stiff now, and there was a cold stiffness over my heart too.

She looked at the blood and nodded, as if having already checked my arm and my chest to make sure I wasn’t hurt.

“Did you get in between some critter and its lunch?” she asked me.

I looked at her and had to think about what she was asking me, then I looked toward the forest.

The witch must have… healed me and gotten me back home somehow.

I was still staring at the forest when Pa came back and put a heavy wool blanket over my shoulders and rubbed some warmth into me.

“C’mon, Ez, let’s get you back inside and light a fire. Get some brandy in you.”

“You have to be more careful out by the field, Ezra. You know critters out here act strange, especially during this time of the year,” Ma said.

“Sorry mama, I wasn’t thinking,” I said arranging my features just guilty enough to be convincing. “I won’t go near the fields again.”

Except I would. I would go back into that forest the very next chance that I got to see that strange girl again. I’d made it out fine once… I was sure I could do it again.

Probably, anyway.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

@eldritchx

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