#thread : leila

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Mid April, so pre-Ireland LOCATION: Metropolitan Opera House, NYC PARTIES:  Ariadne @ariadnewhitlock, Leila @amonstrousdream and Inge @nightmaretist SUMMARY: Inge takes her two mare mates on an outing to the MET at night. It's sweet. CONTENT: N/A

All in all, Inge was terribly excited. It was a strange thing to feel, this kind of giddiness about a social outing — but she did and it was refreshing. Wasn’t it? To take a pair of mares under her wing (leathery and black) and spend a night with them, pushing the limits of their powers and going where they weren’t allowed to be. The three of them had convened at her studio and then agreed to meet backstage at the Lincoln Center where the American Ballet graced the stage every summer.

She’d done some scouting beforehand, considering some security risks while in the astral, looking down at the location. She’d figured out where the sewing room was, where nice accessories could be swiped and where the carpentry shop was. She’d even found a nice place for food nearby, a place that took low-sodium diets into account and did good pizza. 

She appeared in the dressing room she’d instructed the others to meet her in, seating herself in one of the seats and looking at herself in the mirror. It was dark, but her red glowing eyes didn’t struggle with the lack of light. Lips spread at herself, but her head swiveled at the sound of another person in the room with her. “So,” Inge said, “Where should we go first? The stage? Or in the belly of the backstage?”

—

She was actually legit going to break in somewhere. Except, the Metropolitan Opera offered tours and stuff, right? So this was just a super exclusive tour. That they were taking without permission. Which Ariadne was very chill with. Mostly. Admittedly, she wouldn't have been nearly as chill if she was going by herself, but Inge and Leila (and most especially Inge) knew what they were doing, which meant this would all go off very well.

She’d even worn her ABT sweatshirt (it only seemed right, after all) and had extra-prepped by downing half a bag of gummi bears. When she successfully appeared in the dressing room, Ariadne could hardly contain herself, letting out a delighted squeak at the fact that yes, this was actually happening.

“I mean, stage is cool. But anywhere. I’m just – this is so awesome!!” Ariadne grinned. “Seriously. Wow.” She pulled out her phone. “I need to take the first of a few selfies.” She turned to face Inge and Leila, who’d just appeared. “Do either of you wanna be in this one? Or any of them?” 

___

There were all sorts of things Leila hadn’t let herself dare dream about for a very long time. Places she would not go and would never see, things she would never have the chance to do. Using the astral to sneak her way into the Metropolitan Opera House was not something she thought was possible. But Inge had insisted it was. And after pushing her way further than she’d ever gone before, she reappeared in a dressing room hundreds of miles away. 

The other mare had more second-life experience than herself or Ariadne. Despite being older, there were times where she felt as if Inge was the mother hen of this group of three, guiding Leila and Ariadne in the ways of a world they did not fully understand. Parts of it felt a bit like stretching muscles she had not used in years. Most of her trips in the astral never went so far at once. But it felt strangely good. As if she was finally doing something she was meant to be doing for years. She reached out and poked the dressing room counter, just to assure herself that it was real, before looking at her friends with pure, unbridled glee on her face. 

“We’re actually here…” The statement was a little ridiculous. The proof was there in the walls of the building that surrounded them and the things it housed. Ariadne’s excitement was, as always, adorable. Leila was sure that by the end of the night, her phone would be filled of pictures she’d take of the girl posing about the theatre. “I would be honored to be in a picture. Commemorate the moment and all of that…”

___

There was something very infectious about both their excitement. If she’d allow herself, her mind would travel to days long gone of going out with Vera and taking her out. She’d get so giddy and thrilled about the world expanding. Inge had a feeling both Ariadne and Leila could use some expansion — especially the youngest among them, who probably had lived in that weird, wicked town all her life.

She didn’t search deep within her soul, though. She was here because she enjoyed to have fun and to share it with those she deemed worthy. “I’d love to be in it,” she said, pulling Leila closer so Ariadne could get all three of them in a picture. Inge gave a wide, toothy smile before moving aside, figuring that the selfie had succeeded. 

She glanced between the two mares. “Let’s do the stage first, and then I’ll give you two a little tour,” Inge said, gesturing at them to follow as she opened the door of the dressing room. The backstage was a nice little maze, but she had prepared. It was good to do something like this, to flex her spontaneous muscles and use her mare-skills for her and others benefit, and not just for feeding and feeling safe in the astral. She halted when they’d reached one of the sides of the stage and looked at Ariadne over her shoulder. “Go on, then.”

___

The fact that the both of them wanted to be in a selfie with her was nearly enough to cause Ariadne to faint from sheer disbelief that something like this. She didn’t, though, and figured that was something she could add to her list of ‘things she was proud of’ because she had two people who were like her and who were willingly spending time with her and making everything seem just that much more easy. The picture was perfect, too, though she’d have been hard-pressed to think of it as anything but.

“Yeah, yeah stage sounds perfect!” Ariadne couldn’t keep herself from chirping, from taking such extreme delight in everything that was going on. When she was little, on the family computer, she’d had her parents search up photos of the Met’s stage and she’d stared at it (and ones of the Royal Ballet, too) for hours, knees pulled against her chest, in awe, hoping that one day maybe she’d be able to be on one of those stages. She wasn’t sure how logistically it would be able to happen now, since she’d never age, but right now wasn’t the time to focus on the negative, on the things that made her stomach toss and turn, but instead she could focus on the fact that she was here now, and that was incredible.

At Inge’s suggestion, she slipped past the other two mares and onto the stage, falling into third position before briefly gliding across the stage, stopping in the middle, looking out into the audience. All the chairs, folded up, nearly unreal. Except she couldn’t dream now, so this had to be real. Ariadne bit her lip and glanced back to Inge and Leila, a sudden beam of a smile covering her face. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done, ever, I think.”

___

For a moment, Leila watched. 

There was a different kind of happiness that came with watching someone you cared for utterly possessed by joy. To see Ariadne with such excitement etched in every line of her face… She didn’t need to see the inside of the opera house, didn’t need to know that it looked like the inside of a red velvet jewelry box; she didn’t need to hold the costumes in her hands and run the fabric between her fingers so she might examine every stitch. To watch Ariadne’s joy was enough. More than enough, actually. Leila wished she could trap  the moment in time with the feeling attached, to revisit when things got dark.

It was only when the young mare looked back towards herself and Inge that Leila snapped out of her reverie and stepped out onto the stage. “It really is something else, isn’t it…?” She remembered reading about the opera house’s construction in the news. She’d seen wood engraving illustrations of this place. Then lithographs, photographs, digital images. But never did she think she would see the real thing. The lights would go down, and her eyes would light up, and that was not a safe thing. So despite the beauty, she’d stayed away. 

Inge was the one who had made this possible, who had told the mares that they could actually achieve such a thing. She turned to glance at the other woman, feeling the sting of tears welling in her eyes. All she could do was mouth a small ‘thank you’ and smile.

___

Once, a lifetime ago, she’d taken Vera to see the ballet in Amsterdam. They’d biked there, just the two of them, all giddy and excited to see the production of Sleeping Beauty. It wasn’t really her kind of scene, as ballet was refined in a way that Inge thought she’d find boring — but she’d looked at it the same way her daughter had. Mouth slightly agape, transfixed by the movements of the dancers. The memory sneaked up on her as Ariadne moved over the stage.

It was a memory best banished. She’d come here for some rule-breaking fun, not to be swept up in nostalgia and grief. And so she watched Ariadne and smiled, because it was good to see the young dancer so excited. It wasn’t easy to die and come back, to have something like life robbed from you — even if something better was returned to you. Inge looked over at Leila, followed her onto the stage.

The older mare looked moved, eyes watering as she mouthed a thank you. Inge gave a small nod, “It really is. And with that I mean your technique, Ariadne.” She was a little teasing, but she meant it too. Ariadne could be a ballet dancer all her life. She’d never age out of the job. She’d always be fresh-faced and perfect for the harsh world where mortal bodies gave in. “We should attend a performance one day. We can easily sneak in.” Or buy tickets, but where was the fun in that?

___

She continued to feel a deep sense of joy about everything that was happening, and she had two people who she hadn’t even known a couple years ago to thank for it. People who made her feel like what she was wasn’t something shameful, but was instead something worthwhile. Even if the two of them went about it in drastically different ways, it was a welcomed feeling and one that Ariadne wanted to drink up just like the dozens of cans of Dr. Pepper that she had in her apartment.

“Thank you.” If she could’ve blushed, she would’ve. “I have danced since I could like, walk, or even sort of before, so I’ve had practice.” Because even if she reveled in the compliment, there was always a part of her that needed to push away compliments, to push away attention on her, at least direct attention. When she was actually dancing, she could pretend she was all alone and doing it for herself.

“I’d like that. The attending a performance. We could sneak in, yeah.” Even though that wasn’t like, legal, but neither was this and it wasn’t something that would hurt, and she could always get overpriced concessions and some sort of souvenir so that the ballet would make at least some amount of money. “That sounds perfect.”

___

Their Ariadne was practically made to be a ballerina. It was evident in the way she held herself, the way she moved. She doubted that the young mare would ever believe her, but Leila was certain that Ariadne was effortlessly graceful. She was born to dance, as Inge was born for art, as Leila was born for fashion. While some people only had a lifetime to pursue these passions, their curse was given alongside the gift of being able to continue the creation of the art forms they held so dear. 

Inge’s suggestion caught her by surprise. To sneak in… It couldn’t be so easy, could it? To hide away in the shadows while the minds of the audience soaked in the beauty performed before them? Leila had always worried she’d give herself away somehow. That the darkness that would consume the theatre would give her away, red eyes alight; that some unsuspecting dozer might become a meal if she were too hungry… But Inge seemed so sure that it was more than a possibility- it was something they could simply do… 

For the first time, Leila couldn’t help but wonder if all her decades of hiding away from the world had been for naught. The world had gone on, and she could have been a part of it, were it not for fear. 

A strange pang of regret lingered in her chest as she forced her smile to remain intact. She could still experience things now. It wasn’t too late to start living again- she had to keep believing that… “I think I’d like that. I think I’d like that very much.”

__

Inge truly did think that life was better as a mare, but in this moment as Ariadne spoke of her youth she felt a strange hint of melancholy. There was something so easy to pity about the young mare, who was still so tightly connected to her mortal life. In a few decades perhaps that would be over, she was sure, but for now it was at times a sad sight to see.

Which was why they were here, now. Not to think of the sad things that ruled their – and perhaps everyone’s – lives, but to revel in what they had been given. “Most children dance from the moment they can walk,” she said, “Not like you, though.” She meant it. She wanted Ariadne to be confident in her craft, as that would only improve it. One day, maybe, there could be a production that was all theirs — stage decor by Inge, costumes by Leila and choreography by Ariadne.

The future was brighter with undead friends on ones side, that much she knew by now. And even if she were to turn her back on Maine at some point, these two would only be an astral project away. “Then we’ll do that. You can pick, Ariadne, and we’ll go.” Inge smiled. “Come, there’s far more for us to see.” With that, she turned around to guide her friends deeper into the theatre.

[officerfox]

WHERE: Main Street WHO: Leila (@callofthxvoid)

"Hey know this wasn't part of being on duty today, but mind handing a few of these out?" Fox asked handing a small stack of flyers to Leila. Trying to ignore the look Val shot him over Leila's shoulder, making vague motions. He'd promised Val they'd make more of a concise effort to keep Eagan in the loop and show that the force was in their corner. He debated what to say, knowing this case hit a little more personal for her. "Wasn't planning on going to the ball, but might step in for a drink," he admitted.

[iomadachd]

@ifyoucatchacriminal liked for a starter with Neal & Leila

"Two questions, and I promise they're related. One, do I look like a stressed out college student during Finals Week? Two, would you like to get your hands on a Matisse and Renoir?"

[rachelhargrovearchived]

character: Leila Barak @leilabarak

location: Sinners & Saints Valentine's Party

Adjusting the small straps to her angel wings, she felt a little nervous at the way that they definitely made it so that her peripheral vision was blocked by their presence. Which was why when she turned to the side, she felt a small shift and bump. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I hit you?" Rachel turned towards the person, reaching out instinctively to make sure they were okay. A small smile spreading across her face at the woman. It had been only once that she'd ever met her, but she definitely remembered. "Hi, I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Rachel, we met at Farm to Fork."

[thursdaygrl]

closed starter for @moondustlings

jack had left early for once, thinking that with his parents working late and his sister planning to come up tomorrow that he'd get the house to himself at least for a little while. the sunshine and warm air had him in a good mood, he could practically hear the waves of the beach he loved calling to him. of course, the second he parked he noticed leila's car, still running after pulling in surely not more than two minutes before him. he kept his sunglasses on, sauntering towards the driver's side to tap on the glass with his knuckles. he kept his annoyance subdued as he waited for her to roll the window down. "you're in my spot."

[ohwynne]

TIMING: January LOCATION: Muertarte PARTIES: @amonstrousdream and @ohwynne SUMMARY: Leila comes across Wynne at work. Their meeting is interrupted. CONTENT WARNING: N/A

MuertArte had become a multi-purpose space in Leila’s life. It was Metzli’s art gallery, the place she often went looking for them if she had time in her day to sneak away from her shop. It was their home away from home, too. A safe space when one needed it. But most of all, it was a place where art was born, where great work was displayed, and where inspiration could take hold. 

Inspiration. The one thing that she seemed to be lacking most of all. 

It had been weeks since she’d made something. Really made something- not just mended what was old and broken. The gifts she had given over the holidays had been purchased or made months in advance, for fear of running out of time or materials. Since then, the mare had felt as if all creativity had been sucked out of her. She didn’t know why. She didn’t know how. But she could not get her hands to create a single thing. Leila could only hope that staring at art might help find the lost muse.

The winter wind practically carried her through the entrance, the icy chill following her inside with a gust that nearly slammed the door against the wall. She cringed and glanced around, hoping she hadn’t disturbed anyone too much. 

Stupid wind…

It seemed the world went to sleep after Christmas and New Year’s. Wynne had experienced that last year too, when they had still been hopping from town to town. It was nearly a year ago now, though, since they had settled down in Wicked’s Rest and they found themself overtaken by an air of nostalgia as the gallery grew quieter.

They didn’t mind it, though, the quietness. It made the workdays more tolerable, the unease that still sat in their bones easier to accept and work around. But they liked it when people came in, liked the human contact with the patrons whose cheeks burned brightly red from the cold winds. Still, they jumped slightly at the sound of the door slamming shut.

It was easy to scare Wynne, after all. Even with the demon dead, they felt themself looking over their shoulder fretfully more often than not. Looking for the stranger who’d approached them asking for Emilio. Looking for the familiar faces from back home. But it was a new face that entered the gallery.

“Hi, good afternoon,” they said, giving a small smile, “Feel free to just look around, but if you have any questions you can always ask.” Wynne looked at the outside behind the stranger, blinking at a snowman that hadn’t been there before. Had they been so dreamy, that they hadn’t noticed the kids who must have built it?

She’d known Metzli had hired another person to work at MuertArte. Someone other than Rachel, who had seen her face enough times to know not to bother whenever the mare waltzed through the front door. But she hadn’t met the new hire yet. They seemed so… sweet. Friendly. Startled, though, like a deer you stumbled across on a walk. The sharp, spicy scent of that little bit of fear hit Leila a moment later. It made her stomach ache. Later. She could eat later, not now. The mare quickly dug a cinnamon candy from the depths of her bag and popped it into her mouth to dull that pain. 

“Hi there,” Leila’s voice felt strangely loud in the quiet space. She winced at the noise of it, clattering against the walls like an echo. “I’m- uh- I’m not looking to buy, I’m just… I come in a lot to look.” It was an easy enough explanation. The person didn’t need to know that she was dating their boss. After all, she was there for the art. For inspiration. 

She took a few slow steps further into the gallery. Leila had always felt safe in MuertArte. Perhaps it was just knowing that it was Metzli’s that made it feel like a refuge, like nothing bad could never happen within its walls. Her eyes flicked around, scanning for anything she hadn’t seen before. “Have they put up anything new recently…?”

They nodded. Not a lot of people came in to buy, and those that did were often redirected by Wynne to Rachel or Metzli. “Take all the time you need to look around,” they said. This they understood, after all — there was something so nice about just looking at the art. The fact they could do that during work hours was pretty amazing. It was better than looking at the latte art their previous colleagues had made (even if that was also very impressive).

“And if you come in here then let me introduce myself. I’m Wynne.” They didn’t extend a hand, as there was some distance between themself and the patron, but the sentiment was there, kind of. It was good to build up connections with people who visited, Rachel had said. To seem like an open place. Maybe the stranger wasn’t planning to buy anything, but it’d be good if she kept returning.

“Oh, yes! It’s over here,” they said, walking past some of the windows (the snowman looked after the pair of them as they moved through the gallery) and pointing further down into the place. “Those just came in, those paintings. I recommend just looking at them first before reading about them.”

Leila liked this new hire. They seemed the right fit for the gallery, a needed puzzle piece. She didn’t know who had hired Wynne- Rachel or Metzli- but whoever had chosen well. “It’s nice to meet you Wynne, I’m Leila.” She refrained from tacking on the bit about her being Metzli’s partner. If they knew, they knew, but she didn’t want to stress the person out. But the name seemed familiar… Wynne, Wynne… It took her a moment before it clicked: Ariadne’s partner’s name was Wynne. “You… I’m sorry, but do you know Ariadne- I’m sure it’s possible there’s more than one Wynne in this town, but…”

She followed Wynne towards the new art only to have the strangest sensation of being watched wash over her. A quick glance out the window nearly made her jump. A snowman? Had it been sitting out on the sidewalk the whole time? Had she walked past and simply not noticed it? It was possible. There was so much snow that the whole world seemed to blend together in one great sheet of white at times. It was grinning in at them, carrot nose pressed up against the glass. Weird. 

The mare attempted to shake off the stoney gaze of the snowman, turning her attention to the canvases hanging on the wall before her. There was no shortage of fascinating art in MuertArte. Leila swore she could sit in the building and stare at the same painting for hours and never get bored. “Very smart,” She added, a small smile curling it’s way onto her lips. “Always better to make your own opinions about art before reading…”

“It’s nice to meet you Leila,” they said. “That’s a nice name.” It was, they thought. The other seemed like a nice person, too, and when she mentioned Ariadne – possibly the nicest person Wynne had ever known – their judgment of the other swayed even more in her favor. “I do!” They beamed and nodded. “She’s my girlfriend.” And there was such pride in their voice as they said it. “How do you know her?” 

It was both strange and familiar to have people follow them and listen to them. At home, this had happened aplenty – especially in the later years. But ever since they’d left, they’d worked hard to become unremarkable, to fade into the background and to keep their words to a minimum. Sometimes they’d tried that at home, but it had never lasted — they were Wynne, their dewisedig, their martyr and savior, and they would never be a wallflower.

But in the confines of the gallery it wasn’t so bad. So they nodded at Leila. “Exactly. Let your own thoughts form and then read what you want,” they said, which was how they had grown to like looking at art. It was a free way of doing it. Wynne turned around and let Leila do her thing, but halted after taking only one step. “That –” Their breath got stuck in their throat. The snowman was pressed against the window, carrot-nose bending against the glass, mouth spread wide. “Miss – Leila – did — do you see that?”

So this was her Ariadne’s partner. The mare couldn’t help but smile as she assessed the individual, their eyes bright and voice welling with pride, as if Ariadne being their girlfriend was the highest honor. Which, if you asked Leila, it was. The girl was the sweetest, and to call her friend, family, or partner was something that should be looked at with the utmost joy. “I thought so… It’s lovely to finally meet you.” 

There were lots of strange things Leila had seen since arriving in town. Weird not-bats in the attic? Sure. Actual Hellhounds? Why not. Possessed turtlenecks! Check! But never in a million years had Leila expected to see a snowman’s face move. It seemed impossible, just a trick of the light. She’d almost brushed off the young employee’s comment- yes, she’d seen it, it was just built strangely. But the fear in Wynne’s voice… The mare swore she could feel it, taste it on the tip of her tongue. 

Her eyes flicked back towards the glass, back to where that snowman had been built oddly close to the window. It had moved since she last looked. The smile was wider, more menacing. It seemed like the brow (if a snowman could have a brow) was furrowed. The carrot nose was now pushed so hard against the glass that it was curving upward. As if on instinct, Leila slowly moved in front of Wynne, an arm stretched out as a barrier. She kept her eyes fixed on the thing as she finally spoke, voice steady and unwavering.

“Wynne, do you happen to know if Metzli has a broom around here anywhere?”

They’d have to ask Ariadne about this Leila, because they were always keen to know about the people in her life. She’d lived in this town all her life, after all, so there were probably a lot of people she knew. Wynne beamed at Leila for a moment, eyes wide and excited. “It’s nice to meet you as well.” Not many more words could be spent on their first meeting, though.

The snowman was there and it was menacing. Wynne spotted teeth in its mouth, rows of icicles that seemed sharp enough to pierce their skin. They were wide-eyed and once again frustrated with how easily they felt fear. They weren’t sure what to do and so they just stood there, waiting for a reply from Leila at their question. Maybe the other wasn’t even seeing it, was that a possibility? Maybe they were just being ridiculous. They felt a tremor shoot down their body, and then Leila moved in front of them. Protective in a way that had been foreign to them for most their life.

They were glad for the other’s quiet certainty, the lack of tremor in her voice. “I do,” they said. “I can — I’ll go get it!” They were glad to have a goal, something to do. They gave one look to the snowman and then rushed to the cleaning closet, opening it and pulling out the broom they’d used plenty of times before. They also reached for the mop and hurried back to Leila, handing her the broom. “There. Um. What’s the plan?” The snowman was moving towards the door now, smart enough to know where the opening was. Wynne clutched their mop a little tighter. 

What was the plan, indeed…

Months ago she would have said that the plan was to simply flee the snowman with the menacing smile and the icicle teeth, bringing the broom with as a means of potential self-defence. Why fight when running away was an option? But she had experienced far too many strange and dangerous things in the past year. Monsters of flesh and bone, alive and undead and somewhere in between. But this? This was snow in a pale imitation of life. This was something she might have concocted to scare a bully in their sleep. This was, frankly, cartoonish. 

And snowmen, as it so happened, could be easily destroyed. If magic, evil snowmen were a little harder to turn into a mound of formless snow, so be it. 

Leila turned to take the broom from Wynne, offering them a comforting smile and a light squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s alright, cher.” She turned back just as she heard the door opening. The snowman had begun to push its way inside. A string of curses rolled off her tongue in growing frustration. Snow had no place inside an art gallery. The ice might melt and damage the work the space housed. “There’s one good thing about snowmen: they fall apart very easily.”

Without another word, Leila marched forward, pulling the broom back like a baseball bat as she went and swinging with all her might at the snowman’s middle. 

The snowman was in the gallery. The gallery Wynne worked for because Metzli had been so gracious to take them under their wing. The gallery they were supposed to guide people through and attempt to keep clean along with the other handful of people that worked there. And though Leila said it was alright, that snowmen fell apart easily they were still caught up on the strangeness of the situation and the fear that snow would get on the paintings.

But with Leila’s determination and the mop in their hand they felt a surge of determination. Inaction was no longer a trait they were comfortable with, even if they sometimes tended to slip into it instinctually.

And so Wynne moved forward as well, swinging the mop and its tangled hairs at one of the snowman’s arms. It broke off and fell to the ground and they swung again, aiming at the midriff. Some snow fell down but then the arm – the one they’d snapped was crawling up the snow body again. “Leila — miss — I – look at that,” they were stammering, from what was both concern and cold. They hadn’t thought that the door opening would bring in so much cold. 

When she had been a little girl, Leila had been fed on a healthy dose of terrifying stories of witches and hags and sorcerers who would curse ill-behaved children and seek vengeance on those who had slighted them in some way. A living snowman was something a bit… out there, though. 

It moved on its own, had glistening icicle teeth, and when one snowy arm fell with a splat on the floor of the gallery, it didn’t dissolve into a puff of powdery snowflakes. Instead, it crawled back up the snowman and reattached itself. The mare stared, slack-jawed for a moment. She’d definitely have to add this to her nightmare repertoire… 

Despite the apparent futile nature of hitting the snowman, the mare took another well aimed swing, this time managing to get a bit of the torso. Instead of abandoning it, the snowman reached down and pressed it back into itself. Well, fuck. “Wynne, please tell me there’s a bucket and hot water around here somewhere..”

It was a blessing and a curse, that Leila had showed up. Wynne would have hated to have had to deal with this by themself, after all, and so they were glad she was here. But on another hand, they didn’t want to be too glad that the other was here, as this was a rather bad situation to be in. Even if Leila seemed quick on her feet and good with a broom. 

They tried to slam the mop against the snowman again but it seemed to not do much. It reassembled. It was like a salamander. They’d never seen it happen, but they’d heard that they could regrow limbs if they were cut off. It had enchanted their world for days and days, when they’d been a child, this nugget of knowledge. They’d thought it magical now, but they knew better these days. Magical wasn’t always good news.

“Yes! Well, we have a bucket, and we have warm water in the faucet, and I can put the water in the bucket, and then we have a bucket with warm water.” It didn’t really matter, probably. They let the mop clatter on the floor and rushed to the same room they’d gotten it from, turning open the faucet and letting the water run and run until it turned hot as they emptied the bucket. A sponge and a pair of cleaning gloves fell on the ground and they didn’t even worry about having to clean it up later. Their focus was single-minded. They filled the bucket with hot water and sort of ran over to Leila, struggling slightly with the weight of it. Water sloshed over their feet and the floor but it was not an issue for now. The water was slightly soapy but that too, did not matter. “I got it! We should throw it, right? We should —” Wynne scooped up a hand of water and aimed it at the snowman. It melted some snow, as expected. The snow did not regenerate.

“We should – it’s heavy, we should lift it together and — you know!” They glanced at the other with nervous but determined eyes before bending over to get the bucket by one side. 

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

If there was any part of this situation she felt badly about, it was that she was getting snow on the floor of the art gallery. But snow and water could be easily mopped away- hell, she would do it herself after all was said and done and their frosty problem was dispatched. But while she waited for Wynne to return with a bucket of hopefully hot water, Leila stood guard at the front door like some strange, ancient suit of armor. Or better yet, like Gandalf. She’d read the books when they’d been released for want of entertainment. Now, she could simply tell a snowman that it would not, in fact, pass. 

Had the snowman started to force its way further into the gallery, she might have even said it like he did in the movie. 

It was pure relief when she heard the younger person come back. Who knew footsteps and the distinctive sound of water sloshing around could bring such hope? What was better was that when splashed some of the hot water on their snowy nemesis there was a sharp hiss of ice turning to water and steam. Thank fucking god… Without another moment’s hesitation, Leila chucked her broom away and turned to grab the other side of the bucket. She could feel the heat of the water through the bucket, making her cringe just a little. “On the count of three then-” The snowman was getting closer and closer, sludging its way along towards the pair. 

“One…. Two…. THREE!”

They were glad for the countdown. It brought structure to an otherwise unstructured and chaotic situation and Wynne needed something besides the bucket to hold onto. Another thing they were glad for was that the bucket would not be in their hands for much longer — it was hot to the touch, too hot to hold comfortably for a long time. But Leila’s voice shouted the number three soon enough and the pair aimed the contents of the bucket at the snowman.

Hot water mixed with snow and they swore they could hear a sizzling as the snowman turned into water, a puddle starting to form. Wynne backed up in horror as they watched the branches claw at them, at first in what seemed an attempt to fight and then in something more desperate — as if it was trying to hold onto something. They breathed heavily, picking up their mop in case it was needed.

The branches twitched, the way a creature would when dying. Only the bottom ball of snow remained now, all dented and melted, and even that grew smaller with each second. They breathed in and started slamming down with their mop, scattering bits of snow around and pausing only to look at Leila, “Is it — do we, we should get more water, maybe? To make sure it’s fully …” They shivered. “I wish it could just be what it seemed, for once.”

Never had Leila been so relieved to see a melted snowman. It dissolved slowly, slumping to the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving branches and bits of stone in its wake. Wynne brought their mop down on the slush pile, sending bits of cold wet snow scattering with a disgusting thwop. “... Get more water…” The mare moved towards the door, sidestepping the snow where she could before propping the door open.

“You get more water… and… um… and we can wash it out into the street. Then salt it.” She tried not to cringe at the thought of salt coating the sidewalk in front of the gallery. It would make it a lot more complicated for her to visit Metzli when they were in, but at least it would keep the gallery and those within it safe from evil snowmen. Leila shuddered for a moment before adding “Just salt it after I leave, please.”

It was a blessing that the other was here, pointing Wynne in the direction of concrete tasks to do. Sure, they could come up with potential things to do but they lacked the decisiveness in their confusion. Leila’s voice is what made them jump into action, even if she also didn’t seem entirely sure how to handle all of this. They didn’t make employee manuals for aggressive snowmen, after all.

“Okay,” they said, handing Leila their mop and taking the bucket to fill it once more. Flushing the remnants of the snowman (or snowwoman, or snowperson) seemed like the wisest plan. It was while they were doing this that they registered the strangeness of Leila’s request to wait with salting until she was gone. Wynne returned with the bucket, looking at her. “I can throw the water and then you can help push it out with the mop?” There was a moment of hesitation. “I will wait with the salt.” Should they ask? “I won’t ask why but I will wait.”

The snowy remains could be flushed down into the gutters, back down into the water table or as far as the ocean. Let them evaporate for all she cared. But Leila didn’t need violent snow people bothering her town or her people. And if Wynne was both Metzli’s employee and Ariadne’s partner, then they were certainly one of her people. 

She was a bit more than grateful that the child didn’t question the salt. The mare was too wound up to have to explain it- and, if Ariadne was in their life, Leila was certain that Wynne would put two and two together eventually. “Perfect. I’ll leave the mop outside- you can collect it after.” She paused for a moment, eyes flicking darkly over the puddle that now stained the floor. “If anything else comes up… have Rachel call me. Alright?”

It would be rude to make assumptions about the other’s nature, so Wynne refrained — but they had a feeling that Leila would be unable to leave once the salt was put down. Maybe she was like Ariadne, or maybe she was something else that was sensitive to salt barriers. But they were too nervous to ask, too overwhelmed with what had just happened and wanted to just finish their work day.

“Okay. Sounds good.” They were looking at her with wide eyes. It wasn’t too strange to think that maybe she was like Ariadne, right? But to ask outright would be a kind of blunt Wynne never was. “And … I hope that the next time we see each other it’s calmer!” They gave a smile, walking Leila to the door and staring into the town’s streets, wondering what other mysteries might hide there.

[artbyleilany]

The Garden

An exploration on how our relationships leave lasting marks on us.

.

Watercolor, Acrylic, Oil Pastels, and Embroidery Thread on 40” x 30” canvas.

[honysuckl]

Blood in the Water | Leila & Honey

PARTNER : @amonstrousdream TIMING : Current. LOCATION : Darkling Lake. SUMMARY : Inspired by the crabs, Honey pretends to also be turned obsidian. Surprisingly, Leila offers to help. WARNINGS : Self harm (sort of)

Did Honey expect this to work? Not as much as she needed. Her expectations were tempered by piling failures—those jollies around town never amounted to the siren call she needed. Of course, this would all add up. Make itself into a cacophony of oddities when paired with the town’s usual quirks—one too brazen for her family to ignore. That was the hope, at least. But the reality was this was fun. This was funny! She laughed in preparation, though she had certainly done just that. Alongside her were a bucket of paint, ready hands, and a dream. Those crabs had caused a buzz with their obsidian attire. Imagine if something more human-like followed that fashion trend. Cause running fits of terror before the cracks ‘claimed’ them too. Ha! She looked to one such openings beside her. A darkness so blank it invited her to imagine whatever she liked, perhaps even those funny little crabs. But it also invited her inside—hungry and waiting. A simple step would have it closing back up again around her, devoured once more. She scratched at her arm until her own darkness shone: streaks of dripping ebony. Oh, how lucky. Her transformation had already begun.

Honey added more streaks of darkness to herself, though without the need for further injury. Her hands instead scooped out handfuls of the paint—so thick it refused to lay flat on her skin. A perfect texture. She had covered most of her legs when she heard it. That familiar crunching of a human, or something close enough. No no no! Too soon! Weren’t all the tourists supposed to be crowding the beaches of the lake? Get out of the forest, you bawbag! Disappointment of the prank’s premature death was soon replaced with irritation upon recognition. Oh no. It was her. The last she had seen the woman had been that dreadful night. She had hoped it would have been the last. But with Metzli’s insistence, she knew it was only a matter of time. How funny that it was Fate itself who taunted her first with the woman’s presence. Honey let out a growl. “Rach air falbh! Piss aff!” 

When her mind got to be too noisy of a place, Leila had always found her refuge somewhere away from people. She hadn’t really had much of a chance to go out on her own since she’d settled in Wicked’s Rest. There was the shop and her customers that busied her days, and then the friends that had slowly made their presence apparent in her life. Metzli. Ariadne. Cassius… Hell, even Teddy when they found their way into the Party Thrifter’s walls. But for as many things she had to be happy about, it felt as if she had three times as many to be upset about. First, there was the matter with the little dreamer with the dreams darker than midnight who she was determined to at least try to help. And then, there was Honey. Honey, Metzli’s best friend in the world. Honey, who Leila was fairly certain, absolutely loathed her. 

She had been trudging her way through the forest in hopes of ridding herself of some of her worries. The trees would give her comfort. But as her footsteps crunched through rocks and leaves in the April air, she had to do a double take. At first, all she saw was a woman covered in dark, thick liquid- like the blackest paint she’d ever seen, like blood, like Metzli’s blood. She was smeared with darkness that glinted like the goddamned crabs that had decided to live in the alley outside the back of her shop when they could no longer enter the shop itself. And then, the figure spoke, and Leila’s stomach dropped. It was Honey. She really did have the worst luck imaginable… Usually, she would apologize. Scurry off down the path from wence she came. But the bizarre scene that was set out in front of her kept her glued to the spot, mouth agape. 

“Why do you look like the shiny crabs?”

The sun was not as accepting as the moon. Where its acceptance ran short was met with a swift end. Honey had been relying on that prejudice to keep that woman away. But no! Of course Leila would be the sort of vampire to snatch herself up a protection charm. Letting herself prance around wherever she liked, with whoever she liked. Ugh. Honey’s disappointment was quickly replaced with determination. Her eyes made quick to search for the charm. None of the various trinkets strewn about Leila stood out. But those made the best charms, didn’t they? The pendant around Leila’s neck looked especially promising in its mediocrity. It also looked very rippable. She should take it and give it to Metzli. It would certainly serve them much better.

But how quick Honey’s mind forgot, the lure of that plot distracting her from the first. The question was a quick reminder. Yes! Like the crabs! Exactly! Pride of the trick working did cause a smile. A second of amusement before she remembered the source, the present company. Her scowl returned to her face, as the paint returned to her hand. She sent that handful straight to Leila. “Acause I wanna look like the shiny crabs.” Her hand went scooping for more ammunition. “Now piss aff afore I shove this one right down yer damnt throat!” Certainly a waste of the materials—there was still so much of herself to cover! Not that her anger made her considerate.

If there had been any doubt in Leila’s mind that Honey greatly disliked her, the scowl on the woman’s face made it incredibly evident. The mare was a blight, not only on whatever it was that Honey was doing, but on the whole of Wicked’s Rest- or at least the places that Honey frequented. Leila had never wished for darkness so much. The dark was her greatest ally and had been her sole companion for centuries. In the shadow of night, the mare could dissolve into nothingness. She could become nothing in the real world, reflecting what she had felt inside for years. But in the light of day, she was trapped in place. It refracted off her already shimmery skin, made her too visible, and kept her trapped in the waking world. 

A fistful of black paint was hurled in her direction. Leila tried to skitter backwards to avoid the spray, but was too slow. Paint splattered across her shirt, her face, her hair… She was sure, in Honey’s mind, she deserved it. The mare tried not to let her appearance perturb her too much… though, it had been a favorite shirt. If Honey wanted to hate her, fine. She would go…

 She was about to turn on her heels when she started looking at the paint with a bit of a sharper eye. It wasn’t shiny enough. Honey could threaten her all she wanted, but Leila wasn’t about to let a project be done wrong. Without really thinking, she marched over to the paint bucket, pulled out the knife Metzli had given to her, and dragged it across her palm. She held her fist over the bucket and watched as glittering dust fell like miniscule stars into the bucket. It wasn’t like it would kill her to lose it. And at least now Honey couldn’t say that the mare had never tried to be nice… “It’ll be shinier now. More crabby.” Leila said before pulling her hand back to her chest and turning to go. 

When that knife revealed itself, Honey laughed at the ill-placed mettle. “Oh aye, fancy a doin’?" How funny! Perhaps she would have respected the display if it had anything backing it up. Metzli had already revealed the woman’s lack of fighting prowess, so this too would lack the usual thrill. But she wasn’t one to turn down gifts so flippantly. Yes! A fight! Well, for as long as Leila could manage. Honey replaced the paint in her hand for her blade, one that was eager to taste Leila’s blood. But it seemed the only one tasting would be Leila’s own blade. Not an unsurprising action, for Honey herself had done the very same in the past. It amused her greatly to see people’s reactions. She would offer no such repulsion to the display, but the blood itself did make her pause. It lacked the familiar dark ichor that ran through her own veins. That expected night sky was instead just its stars. Glossy. Glimmering. Oh Metzli, that liar! This was not one of bloody nights, but one of dark dreams.

Honey watched the blood join the paint. Those dripped stars relented to the darkness of her concoction, but in stubbornness kept their shine. In doing so, the mixture became an ebony that turned to white at just the right angle. Indeed, it did look… a touch more like obsidian. Honey grumbled. She was too annoyed to feel grateful. Though, she was grateful for the idea it sparked. Leila was keen to help, aye? Let’s see how much energy that assistance of hers had. “Can ye scream? Like the chicken who kens the cookin’ pot. I need eyes on me.” 

She wanted to keep walking. God, did she want to keep walking. Leila knew the woman did not enjoy her presence, and while her name was sweetness, Honey had more sting than a swarm of bees. She’s done her one nice act, she could disappear now like Honey had wanted her to. And yet. Leila wanted to know what this woman was up to. If Honey was going to sit there and paint herself obsidian like one of the crabs, there had to be more going on. And so, rather than continue down the path from whence she came, Leila stopped and turned at the tree line.

Could she scream? She wanted to laugh at the question. She had spent years screaming in pure terror from the dreams gifted to her by some other mare. Those years were followed by nearly two hundred years of making people scream. She hated it, but she was good at it. “I can scream…” Leila replied, hesitation mingled with pure curiosity ripe in her voice. “I can scream so that half the town comes running and all eyes are on you… I can scream and make them think I’m terrified.” The question that followed seemed foolish, but the mare asked it anyway. “Are you asking my help…?” And if so, she added mentally, why?

Honey watched the treeline begin to slowly claim Leila. For one so desperate for presence, this was one departure she did not mind. In fact, it was wanted, despite her questioning. Her plan would be fulfilled regardless. She was well versed in how to get people to scream in all the ways that mattered. Fear, of course, was the second easiest. Still, there was a curious tilt to her head when Leila bit upon the bait. With the passion of a self destructive fish, too! How unexpected. Honey would have been more charmed if not for the bile in her throat. But she could still have her fun. Her lips twitched with amusement.  “Oho, aye?” That twitch turned to laugh. “Piss yer trousers, too, eh? Would really sell it.” A joke that thought itself a dare. Another test for how far that generosity would last her. 

Honey’s fingers played with that concoction beside her. Blood and paint truly became one, turned into a swirling galaxy by the will of her hand. She placed a touch on her arm, for there were far more pressing tests to be had. It settled like all the other smears before it, but with a desperation to shine. A desperation only matched by its yearning for attention. Perfect. Her own was stolen by the question whose answer was as obvious as the glint on her arm. “Naw. Am doin’ one a’ ‘em polls. ‘People a’ the Wicked who can survive the wolf attacks!’” She let the farce ring in the air for a beat before she rolled her eyes. She returned to her chuckling. “Aye. Am askin’ for help.” Then she returned to rehoming the mixture upon her skin.

The woman bit back a huff and a roll of her eyes. Perhaps she’d come off a bit too strong with the whole screaming thing. But Leila was confused and frustrated to say the least. What did Honey want from her? From the first interaction, she was convinced that Honey simply wanted nothing to do with her. First the button fiasco, then the painting evening, now this… Wait… no, she was actually chuckling. Was Honey actually amused with her? Had that been a joke? Her mind was trying to catch up and reprocess whatever the hell this strange encounter was as words kept tumbling out of her mouth. “Don’t think I can do that on cue, but if you’ve got a water bottle, a stain’s a stain.” 

The paint really did look like the shiny crab shells now. Perhaps, she thought as Honey smeared the paint mixture across her arm, it was the one good thing her dusty old blood was capable of. Creating things to scare people. But this time, it wasn’t her doing the scaring- not really… and if helping somehow brought Leila into slightly better graces with the one person Metzli cared about most in the world… well… “Alright, then. What is it that you’d like me to do, exactly, save the screaming and potential soiling of my pants for your own amusement and the selling of my fear?”

So the mares can piss. Good to know. Did that make dreams a type of liquid? A wondering for another time, for the present called for a different kind of fluid. “Nooo. No water on me. Well, no yet. Soon be aplenty swishin’ ‘n swashin’ all ‘round me.” Good performances needed a grand finale! Especially if any hoped to be at least a whisper in this sort of town. Many made quick to remove any off the lips, replacing them with supposed ‘facts’ and ‘normalcy’. Oh, the werewolf downtown? Yeah that twere just a big doggie! Or a really dedicated cosplayer! So many truths nowadays were kicked under the rug known as ‘cosplayer’. Honey’s little jolly would instantly be discarded just the same, deemed as paint on the skin. Which was fair, for it was the truth this time! But what if the woman screaming of obsidian jumped into the waters… only to never return? Of course those who liked to hush would find their explanatory normalcy. But it would far less easy. 

What is it that you’d like me to do. Oh, they both knew the answer to that, didn’t they. Honey gave Leila a knowing look, one that spoke for her. I want you to leave. Not the situation specifically, but the entire town. No, the entire state! But she knew any encouraging action for that want had its consequences. Metzli’s fondness was both Leila’s curse and blessing. “Is all I need. Got all else all good ‘n ready right here. Once am done, gonny go screamin’ on down yon hill.” Her head motioned towards its direction. “Will keep runnin’ on past all the duckies playin’ in that big ol’ pond. You be there to help give their eyes ‘n ears guidance. Then- splash! Poof! Am gone into the waters. Foooreeeever. Well. ‘Til the moon pops up.” In the time it took to explain her plan, she had finished covering her arm. That left the other as her only bare limb left. So close. “And you, eh. Whatever. Leave? Swim? Leave? Dinny care. Is a nice day for all sorts.” Which made it so perfect. So many waiting eyes. 

Leila didn’t need Honey to speak for her to know the answer to what to do. She was starting to get the feeling that the woman would love nothing more than for Leila to be swallowed up by the earth never to be seen again, or be sent running to another continent, or simply stop existing all together. As long as she was there, she posed a threat to Honey and her relationship with Metzli… She had never wanted to hurt anyone. Not in a million years. But her existence was constantly hurting someone, now- dreaming and awake. She swallowed down the lump in her throat threatening to make useless tears start. No use. 

The mare watched as her blood mixed with the black paint slowly covered Honey’s body, transforming her into a dark and shimmering thing. If it had been Leila sat there covered in paint and blood, she would have been no more intimidating than a puppy or a wet cat. But Honey… Honey was already a force of a person, but with her crab-like disguise, she was down right fear-inspiring. To be on her bad side was already scary enough. By some miracle, Honey only asked her run. Scream and run. And, obviously, make enough of a show that people came running to look at the goop covered creature that would dive into the lake. 

Leila had no idea why Honey was so determined to scare people into thinking she was a crab, and if she was being frank, she didn’t care. Two favors for a woman who would much rather the mare simply disappear from Wicked’s Rest altogether.

There was emphasis on the word leave. She didn’t believe for a moment that Honey didn’t care if she came back or not. The fact that she had suggested it twice spoke volumes enough. Run and make a scene and then get out of here. “Fine… I can do that.” Leila ripped at the fabric of her shirt with a cringe- thank god it was just a shitty t shirt- and tied it around her hand. She didn’t need people asking questions about why she was leaking glitter instead of blood. “I’ll make a scene and get out of your hair. Whenever you’re ready.”

Honey wasn’t blind. She was well aware the effects her antics had on Leila, and wanted to see every last drop of that delicious irritation. While she wasn’t one to play with her food, it was instances like these she made an exception. Like a cat with a ball, she just couldn’t help herself! But when the irritation turned to sadness, when she could see those tears wanting to show, her joy turned unsettled. Always swayed by the emotions of those around her, that look made quick with Honey. Sadness and quilt and mixture of confusing feelings. As dark as the paint on her skin, yet it had her face softening. Before those feelings could fully have their way with her, to turn her face and heart to mush, she forced her attention solely on that paint. There was no point in amusing those thoughts. If she wanted to be successful, to scare that wee thing away, she needed to be comfortable with a few tears. Yes. With a huff, her expression settled back to ambiguity.

With Honey’s full attention, her second arm was quickly consumed by the paint. That made all limbs accounted for. Now it was time for the icing on the cake! Some paint was slapped onto her neck, with a few bleeding out onto her chin. As if the obsidian slowly consumed her, with her head as her only salvation. But for how much longer? Aye! That’s the question she wanted to leave in all the bystanders’ heads. With the paint added, all that was left was to let it dry. Like a fledgling still learning to fly, her arms flapped with abandon. Maybe if she kept it up, she really could have flown. Though, it wasn’t her turn to go running just yet. She looked pointedly at Leila. “Well. Go on, lass. Wait for me by the waters. Trust ye ken when is time for the screamin’s.”

It really was the most bizarre sight the mare had ever seen. 

A grown woman, potentially just as old if not older than herself, smeared with black paint and sparkles, flapping her arms like a chicken whose feathers had been significantly ruffled and was trying to take flight. What only made it worse was the fact that Leila knew the barbed words that the other undead woman had a knack for. It took all of her strength to keep a bewildered giggle from burbling up and escaping her before she could stop it. That was the absolute last thing Leila needed. If she laughed, she was quite certain that she wouldn’t have to worry about Honey and Metzli anymore, because if Leila laughed, she might become a pile of glittering dust twirling about in the afternoon breeze. 

Eyes as sharp as daggers turned back on her, and the mare felt herself standing a little straighter. As if she were toeing some invisible line that Honey had set into place. She let go of a little sigh and turned on her heels, marching back down towards the water. At least she was sure that Metzli’s friend was getting a great big kick out of ordering her around… or maybe she would just enjoy the part where Leila was running away and screaming. Either way, she would put on a show to help Honey. If not for herself, then for Metzli’s sake. 

Back to the trees Leila went, this time fully claiming her. Good riddance, to her and the mess of feelings she wrought. In the absence of voices, Honey’s ears returned to the whistling winds. This company too offered its help, and soon those winds had the paint dry. With the paint secured, it was her limbs’ turn to settle. Settle into motionless, as if carved from true obsidian. She forced them at an angle, stiff and stubborn, with only the hips offering any sort of momentum. A carving come to life. Oh, but one more finishing touch: the touch of privacy! She threw on a pair of glasses—her one last act of fluidity. Then, she ran. Sort of. Her self-inflicted rigor did not allow much aptitude. Oh, but her voice was free to do as it pleased. Her screams silenced any of the surrounding critters, leaving only her shrieked panic. 

“The obsidian! The obsidian got me!” Honey cried, paired with blubbering nonsense. It all rushed out of her mouth in a great mess, the same as her body down the hill. Down to where the trees parted upon her first sets of panicked eyes. Only the eyes followed as she continued, for fear turned their own bodies to rigor. If only they had learned to move against it the same as her. Though her arms were stuck in an eternal bent and her legs refused to bend at the knee, her hips were quick. She moved as fast as the shifting glint on her skin. The crowd gasped and cried with each of her step. She could have laughed, but she disguised it as yet another scream of incoherency. Screaming and stumbling and shining, she finally found herself upon a ledge. It was here that the crowd remembered they could move. Oh, but it was far too late for that! “Obsidian!” The paint shimmered one last time, bidding the audience adieu, before a well-placed trip sent her into the waters. Never to return. 

The woods swallowed her whole once more as Leila trudged back down the leaf strewn path. The sweet earthy scent of spring was kicked up with every step she took, willing herself further and further away from an incredibly complicated situation. For a moment, there was painfully familiar solitude. The trees, tall sentinels staring down at her while the birds that called their boughs home fell silent as she crossed their path. Alone. She had been alone so often, and yet she had never stopped to consider how much it bothered her. If Honey had her way, Leila would be out of town by evening, never to bother her or Metzli again. But… Leila swore she felt the trees pull in closer. Alone again. No, no, not again…

The mare stumbled forward along the path and started to run. Right into the presence of people. Ordinary, normal people. The scream that left her mouth was something ancient. Fear. Real and true fear. But it wasn’t the false fear of the Glimmering Obsidian Honey monster that burst through the brush moments later, shrieking before she stumbled into the depths of the lake. It was fear for the life she had finally escaped coming back for her. She kept running away, and all the while, the fear of loneliness nipped at her heels like a hound waiting for the kill…

In the waters Honey remained. Down in the depths, she found her temporary home. If only it had a window to the shore above, but all she was allowed was trickles of light. She yearned for more—to see the scene that followed her splash. Her imagination supplied what the eyes could not. She could see so clearly the following stampede that made a vacation into a war; it was as if she never left. It all entertained her as she waited. Waited and waited and waited down in the depths. Waited until the streaks of light disappeared, leaving her in the dark. A darkness that knew no up or down, left or right. It had no end, yet pressed against every surface. So empty, so suffocating… That was enough of that. When her head breached the surface, the moon greeted her in its wonderful glow. In the privacy of night, she could finally laugh. 

[dylan-westwick]

character: Leila Barak @leilabarak

location: Stomias Point; Bighorn Hills

Dylan always loved fair food, and although she had a feeling that it wasn't going to be as good as anything she could get in the South, it still was making her mouth water. "That funnel cake is lurin' me in like not other right now, Leila." She admits as they finally got inside. "I know technically we should go do rides first before eatin', but damn does that smell good." She laughed softly, unsure exactly what Leila was interested in doing there. "Do you wanna do rides first?" She could be flexible and they had two hours so Dylan figured at some point she'd get to have the funnel cake.

[starfilledsky2810]

A thread of Palestinian businesses to support!

Link to Sunbula

Link to Soap

Link to Hanmade Palestine

Link to Palbox

Link to Shop

Link to Paliroots

Link to Taita Leila LTD

Link to West Bank Apparel

Link to Kufiya

Link to Nōl Collective

Link to MEERA ADNAN

Link to Fyrouzi

Link to Tatreez on Tea

Link to Hilweh Market

Link to Darzah

[thefvrious]

@magicveiled sent 3 and got -> the nobodies by marilyn manson

Leila was a little airy, a lot in her head, that was just the way things were. It was difficult to get her head out of the clouds unless it was for a role. She understood her celebrity status but also understood it was fleeting — that people didn't love her for who she was but for who they thought she should be, who they hoped she was: the perfect projection of her. "When we're dead, they'll know just who we are." She said, blinking those big eyes as if she's just come up with something profound. She's always been strange that way, and yet it seems perfectly normal for her to say such a thing seemingly out of the blue.

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Current, after this PARTIES: Leila @amonstrousdream and Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Leila's home SUMMARY: Inge shows up to comfort Leila, but the other ends up comforting her in stead as they speak about motherhood. CONTENT WARNINGS: Child death

Though the role of supportive friend often saw Inge dragging her people out to a club or something else indulgent, she knew tonight was not the night for such things. And so in stead she found her way to Leila through the astral, bringing along a bottle of a sweet white wine. She was polite enough to knock on the door of the room Leila was in, to not just pop in completely unannounced.

She wished, not for the first time, that Cassius was here. He was better at these sensitive things.

In stead she gave a half-hearted smile as the door opened, reaching in for a half-hug and a kiss on each of Leila’s cheek. “Alright,” she said, “Let’s wallow in our misery together, shall we?” She wiggled the bottle. “With this guy.”

Everything hurt. Not a single blow had been landed on her, and yet Leila felt as if she was a breath away from dissolving into that fine shimmering dust that she was composed of. For as valuable as they were, sometimes it was a curse to have feelings. She thought she knew pain, thought she knew fear, too, but now both sensations felt entirely new and a million times worse than they ever had. 

When the knock at the door came, the mare didn’t know whether she should feel relieved or miserable. At two hundred and twenty-six years old, she should have been able to handle situations like these alone. After all, she’d spent two centuries in solitude. But when she forced herself up and opened the door, it took her strength not to burst into tears. 

She hugged Inge tight- probably tighter than she ever had before. “You are a saint,” Her voice wobbled slightly as she pulled back. “Thank you for coming so quickly…”

Leila pulled her into a hug and Inge returned the gesture after half a (not-)heartbeat, tucking a curl behind the other’s ear as the embrace ended. She took the other in properly, noting the wobble in her voice and the expression on her face. 

“Come on,” she said, moving in and closing the door, pulling the other along towards the couch. The bottle of wine was discarded and ignored for a moment as Inge sat the other down and sat next to her, taking Leila’s hand. She was better at the physical proximity than knowing what to say — she was enraged, that much was certain. But that anger was best not acted upon, considering how she’d ended up stuck on a wall last time she’d tried. 

She gave a soft squeeze. “I think you’re putting the weight of the world on your shoulders, Leels.” Responsibility had never fit her well. She preferred to breeze to life, to skip away at the sight of trouble, but here she was. In Wicked’s Rest, still, with more hunters closing in on her and her kin. “Do you want to talk?”

At least she wasn’t alone anymore. Hurt was a close cousin to fear, both finding ways to crack the mind and soul into nothing but shards and fragments of themselves. It was worse, being alone. But she was lucky to have a friend in Inge. Leila wished that she’d met the woman decades ago… maybe then she wouldn’t be so fragile. 

She let herself be pulled back across the room to the couch. The house had felt so deathly quiet for weeks. Most of the time she didn’t mind the silence, the solitude. But today wasn’t that time. The mare was grateful to have company, grateful for a hand to hold in the midst of the category five shit storm that had unleashed itself on the family she’d pieced together in Wicked’s Rest. 

If she were in a better state of mind, she might have chuckled at the little nickname. Instead, the mare’s dark eyes were fixed on some distant spot as the words churned deep inside her. It took a moment before Leila could force words to come out, her throat clenched so tight to keep tears away. “I finally have a family here… I have wonderful people in this town. And two young women who call me something like a mother. Something I never thought I would get to be. I died and became this. One I can’t keep safe at all, she keeps getting nearly killed by the slayers who see us as monsters that don’t have souls… and another who told me to leave when I tried to check on her. After I promised I wouldn’t leave her. She insisted I leave and I left to give her space, and now she’s… she’s blocking Metzli, and she’s ignoring Ariadne, and I feel like I can’t breathe because nothing I say or do can help- I can’t help… I can’t-” The dam broke, and the sob that Leila had been holding in swallowed up the mare and her words. 

Two hundred years and all she had amounted to was a monster and a failure. Ironic, that she could have all the time in the world and still not be enough.

Leila spoke of motherhood as something that had been robbed from her after she had died and that she had found again in Cass and Ariadne. Inge was not sure what to make of the statements, what to say to console her, especially not when she started to cry. So in stead she pulled her close while her own stomach contracted, pulling Leila’s face to the nook of her neck and shoulder so the other mare would not have to see her expression.

It took a while for her to form a response, to push pass the rock that formed in her throat at the topic at hand. “You know, Leila,” she began, “That’s what I think it is to be a mother. You cannot always keep them safe. You cannot always protect them.” And she was not thinking about Ariadne or Cass or any of the younger people in town who had to face hunters — but she thought of Vera. A young Vera, crying inconsolably. An older, teenaged Vera wrought with heartbreak. An old Vera in the hospital. “Most of the time it feels like falling short, but that’s what it is. The most you can do is be there.”

And Inge had not been able to do that. She’d grown distant and absent, had traveled the world once Vera was old enough – or so she thought – to stand on her own two legs. She had lied and kept secrets, in the name of protection, but had driven a wedge between herself and her daughter. To even start thinking of Ariadne as a child of hers would be preposterous, an insult to Ariadne and herself. She wanted to shake Leila and tell her to stop doing that exact same, to save herself from this self inflicted curse. She swallowed in stead and reached for the bottle of wine, letting Leila go. “It’s never enough, what you do. But you do it. And that counts for something.”

She hardly noticed herself being pulled in to rest against Inge’s shoulder. This strange heartache was like being human all over again. It was like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and every cell of her was unraveling itself. Leila had been given some… strange gift, a second chance by the universe, and yet seemed to fail over and over again. But there was comfort in the crook of Inge’s neck, in the gentle embrace of a friend… of a sister. 

And then, Inge began to speak.

She forced herself to steady her breaths just so she could listen. The words that left the other mare’s mouth were a surprise. Each one seemed to have a deeper story attached- one that was not spoken of and yet persisted as a part of Inge. As if motherhood was not simply a concept to Inge, rather, it was something she had experienced first hand. Leila slowly lifted her head from the crook of Inge’s shoulder, sniffling (like some pathetic little thing, Leila, really-) as she studied her expression… her words…

“It counts for something…” She repeated those words, trying to taste them on her tongue. She hoped that, somehow, her failures still counted for something. But it felt like it counted as a loss. With a push to her feet, Leila trudged to grab some glasses that she had abandoned nearby, knowing the promise of company and drink were coming soon. “You… you don’t have to answer this, but it sounds like you’re speaking from experience…”

“It does. It matters,” she confirmed. Leila got up and somehow it was cold, for a moment, as if there had been any bodily heat shared between their bodies before. Inge was relieved for it, for the absence of the other mare and her proximity. She’d undressed a part of herself that she preferred to keep clothed, a side of her that had truly died years and years ago and then died again in that hospital.

She unscrewed the bottle of wine and let the other’s words hang in the air. This was when she was meant to confess, to lift the veil once more, but in stead she waited for the glasses to be placed down so she could fill them. Leila offered her the room to not answer, to keep her memories and past lives close to her chest. Inge wasn’t sure what to do — because to not answer, to evade was to confess all the same. She filled the glasses of wine and took one, taking a sip and letting the bubbly, sweet-yet-sour liquid pass through her esophagus.

“I had a daughter. Before … I died and came back. She was eight, when it happened.” She pulled her legs close, ankles hitting the ridge of the couch. “I tried, to be good. To be good a mother. Sometimes I think I was. Sometimes it was … you know, how it is. To become what we are.” The nights filled with terrors and then having to dole out that same terror to continue living. “But I don’t want to blame my shortcomings on that alone. Because I did, you know? Fall short. I think sometimes it was inevitable.” She took another sip. “She was magnificent, though. Despite it all. Not because of, not — I would never think myself so arrogant. But I think I did good, in some areas.”

The glass of wine in her hands felt sharply cold, and Leila clutched it closer like it would shock her out of her foolish tears. It was her sole focus until the moment Inge’s voice filled the space once more. Only this time, she did not offer advice. She offered the story behind the advice. 

Had. Had a daughter. Not have. 

Oh. 

The mare pieced the puzzle of Inge together slowly as she recounted bits of her tale. A mother who lost her life and then returned to her daughter, trying to raise a girl when her own existence had changed so dramatically. Eight was so young to lose a mother. When she had been eight, Leila had still been hiding behind her mother’s skirts or escaping into the orchard to be hidden in trees. Even if Inge had come back, it couldn’t have been easy for either party… especially on nights where her little girl's mind wove terror instead of sweet dreams. But that sort of loss… it was unimaginable, what Inge had gone through. And yet, she still persisted. And yet, she was still here. 

She wanted to say she was sorry. Or that she was sure Inge had done a good job, that she had been a good mother, that she had done her best. Instead, Leila rested a hand gently on Inge’s arm. There were no good words. When words did come out, “I’m sure she was spectacular… what was her name, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

Leila did not argue with her. Leila did not apologize for her loss. Leila let a small silence linger and then asked a question that was like a soothing warm drink after a cold winter day. A comfort, a mercy. Inge took it and sat with it for a moment, resisting the urge to drain her glass and fill it a second time, and this time to the brim. Memories were sharp and jagged. Vera had died in a hospital room. Ariadne had been almost murdered recently. Failure was even sharper. 

“Vera,” she said. She leaned into the touch for a moment. She wondered what Leila would make of it, this past she kept sheltered. If she would take it as a warning. It could happen, after all. Ariadne could die. Cass could die. And though they were less likely to slowly wither away of disease, there were plenty of other threats hanging over their necks. 

And no, Inge would never claim that they would have to stop loving. To live an immortal life without love was impossible — but the risk of loss weighed heavy. “Her name was Vera. She was … yes, she was spectacular.” She did drain her glass now, taking hold of Leila’s hand. “I did not come here to speak of her. It’s you tonight is about, no?” 

In the life of a mare, memories were a gift. What were dreams and nightmares- the natural ones- more than a tangle of thought and memory weaving themselves together in a tapestry that could only be seen by one? Leila did not need to share in a dream or a memory to know the love and loss that Inge kept locked up deep inside. It was an honor to know the past. An honor to hear the name. And it was a beautiful name… Vera. It meant faith, or truth, if she was remembering correctly. It occurred to her as she listened that perhaps to know Inge’s truth was to know Vera, if not in person, then in memory. 

There was pain in being a mother. To love was to know pain- it was an inescapable truth. But it was better to have loved… far better to love than to shield oneself from the scars. She gave Inge’s hand a tight squeeze, words having abandoned Leila for the moment. She loosened her tongue with a long sip of bitter-sweet, slightly effervescent wine. “I think…” The mare leaned forward, taking the bottle and refilling Inge’s glass, “I am very lucky to call you my friend, Inge… Very lucky.” Without another word, Leila tucked herself back in beside the woman, letting her head rest on her shoulder. 

To be a mother was to know heartache. But at least it did not have to be something carried alone.

Leila refilled her glass without her needing to ask and then tucked herself close to her. Inge still felt that warmth, the one that was akin to the hot chocolate after a cold winter day – this too was a memory, a sensation of a life long passed – and she pulled up her legs, wrapping one arm around the mare. Words fell short, as they often did, but she had this. It seemed Leila understood that, too. 

“Well,” she said, drawing a circle on the point of Leila’s shoulder, “I consider myself quite lucky to call you a friend, too.” And perhaps tragedy would strike either of them. Maybe a hunter would inevitably chop off one of their heads before the decennium turned, or maybe Ariadne would finally be caught in a trap she could not get out of. But for now there was this, and that counted for something. Much like motherhood, this was the best they could be — there, for one another. She let out an exhale that served no purpose, took another sip from her glass of wine and squeezed Leila’s shoulder. “Thank you, for asking and listening.” 

[alllnights]

     ₊ ˚ ⊹  ❥    wide grin takes over her lips as she hears the other words. not many people believed in her, including herself. then again, not many people knew what she did. didn't like divulging to too many people. "you really think it'll go that well? i'm so nervous." / @bedevileds, cont from here.

[iomadachd]

@ifyoucatchacriminal asked for a starter with Jack and Leila

Take Me First - Bad Omens

It's effortless to play the role of eye candy. A pretty thing on a wealthy arm in a fancy dress. High-end escort she might be, but she's nowhere near their level. She blends in well enough, but she's still made her escape to the open bar at the first opportunity.

She throws back the first glass of champagne and grabs the second, and she knows no one else has batted an eyelash. Plenty of lush socialites at these.

"And I'm drowning in a dream that I can't escape. If I could wake up I'd hesitate... maybe. There's not enough champagne in the world," she mutters, studying the glass.

At least it's the good stuff.

[nymphiism]

she was right. everything she was saying, was right. " i know, mi amor. " his voice is soft and quiet at this point as he looks down. " i just need some more time. i've got kids you know... i can't just rip their lives apart like that. " he tries to explain. " if you want this to work, i need you to be patient with me. " brown orbs move upwards. " please, mi amor. "

her eyes looked away from him and her arms moved to cross over her chest. she wasn’t giving into it, “so, when, enzo? when are you going to leave her for me? i’m tired of being the other woman.” she sighed and looked back up at him. “it’s not fair. i keep hoping for more and i’m starting to think that it’s never going to be more.”

[offwilds]

“They’ll never apologize. You have to know that.” w/ leila

Sharp violet eyes cut as fine as any silver or steel as they slip from the fire blazing at the hearth where potions are being brewed to rest upon the sorceress she's known for too long a time now. Nereinne does not move to stand, nor does she move at all, from where she's sat near the fire, swathed in black velvets and with her face shadowed with her ire, her everflowing rage - her eyes, cold, crushed ice, huge and dark as the eyes of some neiad; she is cold and expressionless, streaks of energy pulsing and streaming off her small body as the wrath inside of her mounts, and as it swells and rises, so does her self-restrain wane, causing her Chaos to overflow, to thrum around the both of them as a living, pulsing thing, summoning forth the powers flowing in Leila's own veins, hungered for the world: for the satiation of their own desires, their own purposes, their own ends. The enchantress observes her in silence, narrowing her violet eyes, a strange glimmer in her gaze. "Their apologies would mean nothing to us, Leila. I would care nothing for their remorse or their banal excuses. They have delivered death where death was not yet due. It is an offence that should be fairly met with retributive justice. If this Lodge is good for any thing, it should be this. " she offers, her voice filled with the shadows of her restlessness, and she is soon pulling herself off her seat, moves to withdraw the silver bowl from the fire, watching as the liquid inside of it - blood-red and sizzling - spits and frizzles; she sets it aside upon the table where Leila stands near, says, "pass me the yarrow." her gaze intent and full of something cold and dangerous as she begins to make the potions, fleetingly casting her eyes toward the other mage as she, too, moves to lend a hand for the preparation of the potions they'll be requiring.

@vengncfm