#underbelly festival

[sparrowlucero]

i have to say i think its kind of baffling when omelas is taken as a very literal trolley problem about a tortured kid instead of, like, pointedly making fun of the common idea that a positive world, social change, pleasure itself, must come with some sort of painful caveat in order for that happiness to hold meaning or exist in the first place... so many interpretations treat the idea of people walking away from a (very obviously hypothetical) utopia with an even more hypothetical evil underbelly as them lazily giving up on reforming Omelas the Real City, rather than them philosophically abandoning the idea that the (again, entirely theoretical) Omelas represents (that pleasure cannot exist without pain).

what is even the relevance of this to the "I would save the kid instead of abandoning it because I actually believe in changing the world" interpretations.

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. (...) Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.

[reaper2187]

Holiday special : Caitlyn kiramman x female reader

The snowfall outside softly blanketed the streets of Piltover, muffling the usual hustle and bustle of the city. Inside Caitlyn Kiramman’s cozy apartment, the atmosphere was anything but calm. Boxes of ornaments and tangled strings of lights were scattered across the floor, a clear sign of the holiday spirit Caitlyn had wholeheartedly embraced. Y/N stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a mixture of bemusement and discomfort.

“Y/N, can you please pass me that garland?” Caitlyn’s voice was chipper, her hands deftly unraveling a string of fairy lights. She didn’t even look up from her task.

Y/N raised an eyebrow and gestured vaguely at the pile of decorations. “Which one is the garland?”

Caitlyn paused, her lips quirking into an amused smile. She glanced over her shoulder at Y/N, who stood awkwardly amidst the festive chaos. “The green one that looks like it’s made of pine needles.”

With a sigh, Y/N reached down, picking up the garland and holding it out like it might bite her. Caitlyn laughed softly as she took it from Y/N’s hands, her fingers brushing against the taller woman’s rougher ones.

“You’re really not into Christmas, are you?” Caitlyn asked, her tone light but curious.

Y/N shrugged, her stoic expression softening slightly as she glanced out the window at the falling snow. “Never really celebrated it. Just another day to me.”

Caitlyn’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly masked it with her usual determination. “Well, that just means I’ll have to make this one extra special. Maybe you’ll change your mind about the holidays.”

Y/N gave a noncommittal grunt, her eyes scanning the room. She’d always been more comfortable in the shadows, in the chaos of Zaun’s underbelly, or even in the heat of battle. This…this domesticity was foreign to her. But Caitlyn, with her infectious energy and warm smile, made it bearable—even enjoyable, though Y/N would never admit that out loud.

“Here, help me with the lights,” Caitlyn said, holding up a long strand of twinkling bulbs. “We’ll hang them around the window.”

Y/N hesitated but eventually took one end of the lights. Together, they worked in a comfortable silence, Caitlyn giving occasional instructions while Y/N did her best to follow them. Despite her initial reluctance, Y/N found herself getting drawn into the task. The lights cast a warm glow across the room, reflecting in Caitlyn’s bright blue eyes as she stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“Perfect,” Caitlyn said, a satisfied smile on her face.

Y/N’s lips twitched into a small smirk. “Not bad.”

Caitlyn turned to face her, a teasing glint in her eyes. “See? You’re already getting into the spirit.”

Y/N snorted softly, her arms crossing over her broad chest. “Don’t push it, Kiramman.”

They continued decorating, Caitlyn’s cheerful chatter filling the room. Y/N found herself surprisingly at ease, her usual guarded demeanor slipping away in the warmth of Caitlyn’s presence. When they hung the ornaments on the tree, Caitlyn insisted on handing Y/N the most ridiculous ones, like a glitter-covered poro and a miniature cupcake. Y/N rolled her eyes but placed them on the tree without complaint, earning a delighted grin from Caitlyn.

As they worked, Caitlyn retrieved a small sprig of greenery with white berries tied with a red ribbon. She held it up, her smile mischievous. “And this,” she said, “is the finishing touch.”

Y/N tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s that?”

Caitlyn’s grin widened. “Mistletoe. It’s a holiday tradition. You hang it up, and if two people find themselves underneath it, they…well, they…”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “They what?”

Caitlyn hesitated, her cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “They…kiss,” she said softly, her eyes flickering to Y/N’s face.

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, a rare moment of surprise breaking through her usually stoic expression. “Why?”

Caitlyn laughed, the sound light and melodic. “It’s just a tradition. It’s supposed to be romantic.”

Y/N’s gaze shifted to the mistletoe, then back to Caitlyn. Her mind worked quickly, processing the information. “So if someone’s under that thing, they’re expected to kiss whoever’s with them?”

“That’s the idea,” Caitlyn said, her voice a little quieter now, her cheeks growing pinker under Y/N’s steady gaze.

Y/N nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Seems like a strange tradition.”

Caitlyn laughed again, nervously this time. She moved to hang the mistletoe above the doorway, stretching onto her toes. “It’s harmless fun,” she said, her voice slightly strained as she tried to reach.

Without a word, Y/N stepped forward, taking the mistletoe from Caitlyn’s hands. Their fingers brushed, and Caitlyn’s breath hitched. Y/N easily reached up and secured the sprig above the doorway, her height making the task effortless.

When she stepped back, she found Caitlyn standing directly beneath the mistletoe, looking up at her with a mixture of nervousness and something else Y/N couldn’t quite place.

“So, does that mean we’re supposed to…” Y/N trailed off, her voice unusually tentative.

Caitlyn’s eyes searched Y/N’s face, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Only if you want to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N’s heart thudded in her chest, a sensation she wasn’t accustomed to. She’d faced danger and death countless times without flinching, but standing here, under a sprig of mistletoe with Caitlyn Kiramman, she felt…uncertain.

Caitlyn stepped closer, her hand lightly brushing against Y/N’s arm. “It’s okay if you don’t,” she said, her voice gentle. “I just…I wanted you to feel included. To feel like you’re part of something.”

Y/N’s gaze softened, her usual stoicism giving way to something more vulnerable. She looked down at Caitlyn, her voice quiet but steady. “I already do.”

For a moment, they stood there, the room silent except for the faint hum of the fairy lights. Then, slowly, Y/N leaned down, her lips brushing softly against Caitlyn’s. The kiss was brief, almost hesitant, but it held a depth of emotion that words couldn’t convey.

When they pulled apart, Caitlyn’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining with happiness. Y/N’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile, a rare sight that Caitlyn couldn’t help but admire.

“Maybe this holiday isn’t so bad,” Y/N said, her voice low but warm.

Caitlyn laughed softly, her hand slipping into Y/N’s. “I’ll make a Christmas lover out of you yet.”

Y/N chuckled, a sound that was both surprising and comforting. “Don’t push your luck.”

As the snow continued to fall outside, the two of them stood together, their hands entwined and the warmth of the season wrapping around them like a comforting embrace. For the first time in a long time, Y/N felt a sense of peace, a feeling of belonging she hadn’t known she’d been missing. And it was all thanks to Caitlyn and her relentless holiday spirit.

Happy holiday y'all. Hope you all had good holidays. Do leave a comment and if you guys have any requests do tell me. BYEEEEEEE

[lynxfrost13]

MUDWINGS

Physical traits

Sharing a close common ancestor with seawings, mudwings are a very large flightless breed of dragon that have adapted to the swamps and mountain borders of their lands. The largest tribe in terms of their sheer bulk, mudwings typically have a chunky build, with fat tails and short powerful legs built for endurance, not speed. Mudwings are ambush predators, choosing to wallow in deeper waters to catch their prey or graze on plants. With iron stomachs and their powerful jaws and tongues, mudwings can eat just about anything they find. Their large canines and gum flaps are mostly used for displays of intimidation, as well as their gills.

Mudwing gills only work during their hatchling years in order to allow the babies to hide underwater from predators who would eat the unprotected newborns, who’s scales are incredibly soft. As they grow older, mudwings lose the functional abilities of their gills but in exchange, grow thick flexible scales that protect their faces and bodies, with their underbellies remaining mostly soft. Mudwings’ head ridges grow into horns that are layered and transition into a neck crest. Many mudwings also sport “beard” ridges on their face regardless of gender, and these serve no purpose but are considered attractive.

Mudwings are semi aquatic and can remain underwater for several hours, their soft nose flaps can close to prevent them from breathing water and their massive lungs can hold great deals of air. To help them detect prey in murkier waters, mudwings also have whiskers on their brows and around their noses,the exception to this is newborns, who’s whiskers grow in as they age. As hatchlings they all tend to be a solid dull shade of any color, but brighter accent colors develop in adolescence.

Customs

Mudwings are a festive tribe, holding annual contests pitting sibling groups against each other in various sports, with a focus on having each sib group demonstrate how well they cooperate with each other. Mudwings also have a deep connection to food and mealtimes, their cuisine is heavily made up of stews and soups and large meals that can be shared, such as meat roasts. Mudwings borrow from sandwing culture and use sandwing spices so frequently in their cooking that they’ve become a staple in every mudwing household. The emphasis on sharing a meal with a guest is also extremely important, to not offer a meal to a stranger is considered a hostile action against that stranger by other mudwings. They appreciate foods from all over Pyrrhia and many merchants from other tribes come to the mudwing kingdom to sell treats and food that would not be welcome in other places due to cultural differences.

Mudwings are also incredible storytellers, with much of their history being passed down through oral storytelling, they don’t keep many written records but instead have bards who’s duty is to teach mudwings about their history and entertain them with song. They swear oaths that bind them to a faithful retelling rooted in truth, but they are allowed to make the stories as poetic as they please. Mudwing bards have traveled across Pyrrhia and some even tell the histories of other tribes. Despite their rich tradition, the other tribes tend to dismiss the mudwing approach, since they see bards as unreliable.

[betweenstorms]

Alright, hear me out, Simon Riley working for Sleep Token as their head of security.

Let me explain.

His life had always been defined by precision and control, by the kind of discipline that didn’t falter in the face of chaos. But retirement had come swiftly and unceremoniously, a necessity more than a choice. The regimented life of the SAS had ended, leaving him adrift in the civilian world, and that felt far more alien than any hostile territory he’d ever set foot in.

Somehow he found himself in the chaotic underbelly of the entertainment industry, a space filled with the metallic clatter of stagehands, the distant roar of soundchecks, and the pulse of a metal band steadily climbing the ladder to global fucking acclaim. And hell, the stage lights, the screaming crowds, the thrum of bass reverberating through his chest, none of it had ever factored into the life he’d imagined for himself.

But life had a funny way of taking plans and shredding them into something unrecognisable.

Simon still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here.

When he left the military he thought he’d bury himself in some quiet corner of anonymity, far from the public eye. Civvy life was cruel to men like him, and for months, he drifted between meaningless gigs, his skill set too sharp for ordinary work, too lethal for the mundane.

Then came the call.

Sleep Token’s manager had been a contact of a contact, someone who knew someone who’d served with him, someone who’d heard about him through the strange network of ex-military types finding unconventional second careers. The irony hadn’t been lost on Simon when he was first approached. A band draped in anonymity, each member masked and named only by cryptic titles, needed security. And who better to protect them than a man who’d spent his life hiding behind his own mask?

Fucking unbelievable.

Somehow Simon had ticked every box without realising it, and before he knew it, he was standing in a smoky room, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans as he sized up the bloody Muppet Show who would earn his salary.

He’d scoffed at the absurdity of it back then.

It wasn’t his scene. Far from it.

And yet, something in him, a combination of pragmatism and the faint flicker of intrigue, told him to give it a shot. He was financially screwed anyway. And the pay was good, much better than what he earned as a high-ranking officer, the anonymity suited him just fine, and the job, strangely enough, kind of aligned with his skill set. Therefore, after a few days of mulling it over, he said yes.

Simon had learned to adapt quickly. This job—head of security, an overqualified bodyguard as he liked to call it—had its own rhythm, distinct but no less intense than the one he’d lived before.

Venues became his battlefields, and he mapped them with a soldier’s precision. Potential threats were assessed the way he’d once scoped out enemy positions. His vigilance rarely wavered, whether he was walking the perimeter of a festival or standing stoic in a dim corridor as Vessel rehearsed another one of his verses. To Simon, these kinds of threats were laughable compared to the ones he’d faced during his service, however, it wasn’t without its challenges. Crowds could be unpredictable, and fame had a way of drawing out the unhinged.

He took to his duties with the same precision and discipline he’d honed in the SAS. The members trusted him implicitly, and that trust was something Simon didn’t take lightly. They called him Riley and treated him like a constant, the way you’d treat the sun rising or the tide coming in.

Reliable, steady, unshakable.

At first, the job was simple enough. The usual security gig, albeit with a touch of bloody theatricality. However, fame has a way of turning everything upside down, even for someone like Simon.

It started subtly.

Fans started to notice him too. At first, it was just a handful of comments on social media, like “Who’s the guy in the black balaclava?”, but it grew from there. They were fascinated by him, by the idea of a masked man guarding a masked band. He was an enigma within an enigma, and the internet just loved enigmas. It wasn’t until Lynsey Ward, one of the backup vocalists, shoved her phone in his face one day that he realised how far it had gone.

The backstage in Paris hummed with a peculiar kind of energy and anticipation that Simon had grown accustomed to since taking the job. It was a strange but one of a kind lifestyle, this one, filled with hurried footsteps, clinking equipment, and the muffled roar of soundchecks vibrating through walls. Simon lingered near the members as they cycled through their usual pre-show rituals.

IV sat in a corner, his mask tilted upward as if in contemplation, while Vessel sprawled on a battered sofa, his makeup halfway done, face a patchwork of metallic hues. II drummed his fingers idly on his thighs, the rhythmic taps almost lost beneath the din, while III sat near the makeup station, enjoying the rare moment of downtime between soundcheck, preparations and the main show, reading something on his phone.

Simon leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his black balaclava masking his expression but not the faint lines of tension in his shoulders.

His sharp eyes swept over the room, mentally running through his usual checklist again that concerned necessary security measures. Entry points, exits, personnel movements, everything was accounted for, everything secure. The monotony of the job had become second nature to him, though he still approached each night like it might unravel at any moment.

Lynsey sat nearby, waiting for her turn in the makeup chair. She was scrolling on her phone, just like almost everyone in the room, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed but her smile mischievous. Simon didn’t notice her at first, he had his priorities, but her voice cut through the quiet hum of activity like a knife.

“Riley,” she called out, her tone playful. “You’ve got to see this.”

Simon didn’t move.

“Busy,” he muttered, his voice low and even.

Lynsey ignored him entirely, already rising from her seat and crossing the room with her phone in hand. “Come on, just watch,” she insisted, shoving the screen toward him. The glow of the phone illuminated her face, her grin widening as she anticipated his reaction.

Simon sighed, an irritated, tired sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“What now?”

Reluctantly, Simon uncrossed his toned arms and stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. The screen showed a video, a quick montage of him, no less. Snippets of him walking through crowds, standing by the stage, his balaclava catching the light just so as if he were a character in some fucking noir film. The background music swelled dramatically, and captions popped up over the footage, saying “If I ever get kicked out of a venue, it better be by HIM. Imagine getting manhandled by those arms.”

Simon blinked, his frown deepening beneath the mask.

“The hell’s this?” he asked, his tone flat but tinged with suspicion.

“It’s a thirst trap,” Lynsey said, as if that explained everything, her laughter barely contained.

Simon stared at her blankly. “The fuck's a thirst trap?”

Lynsey cackled, delighted. “Oh, you’re a relic, aren’t you? It’s a thing on TikTok. People post these little edits when they fancy someone. And let me tell you, mate, there are loads of these floating about. Like, ‘look at this mysterious bloke, isn’t he fit?’ That sort of thing.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “TikTok?”

From across the room, III chimed in, his grin wicked as he leaned back in his seat. “Nowhere to hide, Riley,” he said, his tone teasing. “You’re a proper celebrity now.”

Simon huffed through his nose, a sound that carried more weight than words. He glanced at the phone again, now firmly lodged in Lynsey’s outstretched hand, the screen flashing more of his edited movements cut and spliced into dramatic slow-motion. He stepped back slightly, folding his arms across his broad chest once more, muttering something about “kids and their bollocks” under his breath as he did.

Lynsey quipped, her grin only widening. “Face it, the internet’s gone mad for you. They’ve even got a hashtag—‘#SecurityDaddy.’”

Simon flinched, his head snapping back toward her like she’d just admitted to committing a war crime.

This made IV join the fray, a water bottle in hand as he ambled over. “Oi, show us the goods. I wanna see what’s got good ol’ Riley in a strop.”

Lynsey eagerly turned her phone to IV, who leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the screen with a wide grin already forming on his painted face. The video played again, the dramatic slow-motion edits of Simon walking through a crowd, his balaclava catching the stage lights as though he’d been directed by a Hollywood cinematographer.

IV let out a sharp laugh, nearly choking on his water.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black paint on them. “‘Security Daddy,’ they’re callin’ you? That’s golden.”

Lynsey snorted and held up another video. “Oh, you’ve got no idea. Look at this one, ‘If he told me to leave the venue, I’d say thank you.’ And here’s another, ‘Is it weird to want to be tackled by him?’ You’ve got your own bloody fanbase, Riley.”

Simon’s gloved hand scrubbed down his masked face as if he could physically push away the madness unfolding around him. “You lot are takin’ the piss.”

“This one’s my favourite,” Lynsey said, clicking on yet another video. The screen lit up with a heavily edited montage of Simon in action—his eyes scanning a crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through a sea of fans, the flash of his gloved hand directing someone to stand back. The video was captioned with “I don’t know his name, but he can ruin my life anytime.”

Vessel, who’d been silent for most of the exchange, finally sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded their head of security with an amused expression. “It’s the mask, mate,” he stated. “It's like catnip. People project onto what they can’t see. You could lean into it, y’know. Like us. Give the people what they want. Maybe throw in a wink next time you’re standin’ by the stage.”

Simon sent Vessel a look so sharp it could have peeled paint off the walls.

II, who had been leaning casually against the wall next to them, joined in with a huge grin. “Yeah, might as well embrace it. You’re part of the act now.”

Simon’s glare intensified. “You wanna end up wearin’ your fuckin’ drumsticks where the sun don’t shine?”

II raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never left his face. “Don’t tempt me.” 

The banter escalated quickly after that.

The room practically buzzed with the gleeful chaos that Simon’s presence had unwittingly unleashed. IV was now scrolling through the comments on one of the fan edits, reading them aloud to the room with unbridled glee, each of them taking the piss out of him in the way only people comfortable with each other could.

Strangely enough, it reminded him of Johnny, a familiar mix of camaraderie and mischief that tugged at a memory he hadn’t expected to surface. It stirred an unexpected pang of nostalgia in Simon, a faint echo of Johnny’s effortless knack for turning every moment into a laugh at someone else’s expense—usually his.

“He could snap me like a glow stick and I’d thank him for the privilege,’” II read out loud, barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this one’s pure gold—‘Not to be dramatic, but I would sell my soul just to hear him say ‘move along’ in person.’”

That did it.

Simon unfolded from the wall with a deliberate grace, his imposing presence rippling through the room like a cold wind sweeping across still water. The breadth of his shoulders, the unyielding lines of his form clad in black, cast him less as a mere bodyguard and more as some silent, vengeful sentinel. His shadow stretched across the room, swallowing the laughter as it reached II and IV, Lynsey’s phone still clutched between them.

“You’ve had your fun,” he rumbled, his voice steeped in the kind of authority honed through years of barking orders in the SAS. “Now knock it off, before I confiscate that phone.”

“Go on, Riley,” IV shot back with a grin, entirely unafraid. “Confiscate me next.”

Simon didn’t dignify that with a response.

He turned away from them, a quiet dismissal, and walked toward the door. His hand reached for the handle, his gloved fingers brushing against the cool metal. But just as he was about to leave, a voice cut through the air again, the familiar, teasing tone of III echoing in the now-muted chaos of the room.

“Don’t forget to give us a little twirl on your way out, Security Daddy.”

Bloody hell.

If this gig didn’t kill him, these muppets just might.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[chronicallyonline101]

"you're two days late!!" actually, no, Christmas is today. what are you talking about? today is the 25th of december. im not lying.

ALSOOO everyone thank @diol0verr669 for helping me write this! And thank @pierslover061 for proof reading it even though its like 11pm and he hasnt even watched jjba p5 yet

A Stupid Christmas

The Dumb Killers Christmas special.

This is a short little oneshot set in the universe of my x reader fanfic: Dumb Killers, you don't have to read it to understand this little oneshot but there may be some references that are difficult to understand!

La Squadra Di Esecuzioni x Fem!Reader ||

Christmas, or, Natale, was no trivial matter. In Italy, festivities began at the very earliest in December with the feast of Immaculate Conception and ended at the start of January. In this month, dedicated to gift-giving and merriment, family was the centre of all love and care. Locals would typically head home to their families; grandparents, aunts, uncles, children and adults all united under one roof to share stories from their year apart. 

In Italy's criminal underworld, this was a long sought after privilege. Family; friends; anyone with the capability of becoming extra baggage was cut off in due time for the safety of both themselves and the one involved within Italy's underbelly. La Squadra Di Execuzioni - otherwise known as The Hitman Team or The Execution Squad - was no exception to this rule. The members of this team had only each other, and though they were an unruly bunch of misfits - contrasting from one another in great leaps - the way they celebrated the festive season was almost domestic. 

"I told you; these colours are tacky!" It was late in the afternoon when Prosciutto's loud, authorative voice cut through the once still air of the hideout. 

Wind howled from the harsh world outside as he battled his way inside the hideout, slamming the front door shut behind him violently. Though the weather was mostly warm, winters could grow bitter in Napoli and as a result, he'd wrapped himself warmly in a snug scarf and hat. 

In his arms, he bore several bags of groceries. Groceries that were quickly thrown to the side when he caught wind of Formaggio and Illuso meddling with the decorations he had so delicately put in place. The shorter of the two, Formaggio, was balancing atop of the other - a string of brightly coloured LED lights clutched tightly in his palms. They looked to the blond like two deer caught in headlights: 

"Put those lights down." He then commanded, tearing the scarf and hat from his body and dashing them to the ground with his supplies before promptly marching toward the two. "How many times do I need to catch you like this for it to get through to you that---" 

"---Oh, come on, Pros." Formaggio groaned, throwing the LEDs to the floor. He brought his hands down to rest atop of Illuso's head. "The rainbow lights are so much prettier, it looks better than those bland ones you have up right now." 

A sneer etched its way into Prosciutto's typically stoic features. "The white lights are elegant. Far more fitting for a a traditional holiday. I'm not going to argue this any more." 

A simple tut and a firm shake of his head was all he needed to showcase his disapproval for the two's mischief. With cracking knees, he bent down to pluck up the LEDs that Formaggio had carelessly thrown to the floor - not caring for the annoyed huff Illuso let out. 

"While I agree the white is softer and more elegant," He began, carelessly throwing Formaggio off of his shoulders. "It's so very bland. Maybe a yellow or pink tint would do better to liven the place up, hm?" 

Both he and Prosciutto chose to ignore the pained groan Formaggio let out and instead looked around the room. 

Prosciutto was firm in his belief that Christmas was a traditional holiday, and as such should be celebrated traditionally. He had decorated the hideout well for the occasion: a small pine tree sat in the corner of the living area, decorated in soft white lights and dark red tinsel, with the occasional baubel and cross hung atop of its branches. He had strung a long green wreath across the banner of the staircase, tied eloquently with silvering ribbons and scarlet berries. Blue and white seemed to be a common theme weaved within his Saintly memorabilia, a showcase of their Latin roots. 

He had let no one else involve themselves with the decorating. He needed everything to be perfect, and in his eyes nobody else on the team was as coordinated and polished and himself. Because of this, all month since putting the decorations up, you, Formaggio, Illuso, Gelato and Sorbet had been trying to replace his traditional dream with something more modern. He resented it, and so while scrunching his nose up into a grimace, Prosciutto shoved the rainbow LEDs into the unprepared hands of Illuso. 

"The white is supposed to look like snow." He shifted around to grab at the items he had thrown to the floor, placing his hat and scarf atop of the coat rack. "Quite frankly, if I saw yellow snow, I'd think it was piss." 

That brought forth a snort from Formaggio, who was still on the floor, and made Illuso roll his eyes. Prosciutto ignored their childish behavior, offering you a nod as you - with wide curious eyes - slowly decended the rotting staircase and entered the main living area. 

"What's going on?" You inquired, tone sweet despite the heavy irritation that hung in the air. 

Prosciutto picked up his groceries. Last minute deals for the dinner he was to prepare that night - typically, he would never be so unprepared, but with the cuts to their budget he would take any chance needed to save a few lira on nnecessities. He chose to brush off the tiff that had occured only a few seconds before, offering you a meagre glance before walking in the direction of the kitchen. 

Your brow quirked at the action. You turned to look at Formaggio and Illuso. "What's his deal?" 

"Ugh, nothing. Just Pissy Prosciutto, as per usual." Formaggio rolled his eyes, his sarcastic comment bringing forth short snickers from both you and Illuso. 

"You two were trying to change the decorations again, weren't you?" Another voice broke through the air, bringing forth a startled yelp from Formaggio. 

Decending the staircase in tow with Melone, was Ghiaccio. He held a bored expression, looking to the three of you with a mild furrow in his brow. "It's getting old now. Try something new." 

"Hey, you're getting old." Formaggio then huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. His words made Illuso wince, as if he knew what was coming next by the way Ghiaccio's expression pinched in frustration. 

"What?" He started, full offense lacing his tone. "That makes no sense! I'm younger than you by several years, which means that in the context of---" 

"---Let's not do this today," Melone hummed, promptly pushing Ghiaccio to the side so that he could hover behind you. You offered him a playful smile, to which he returned gratefully. He then looked to the rest of the group. "Have you lot seen Gelato and Sorbet? I have some information to give them regarding a new hit."

"You're all work, no play." Illuso spoke, a sly smirk spreading across his lips. "They aren't here. They're celibrating at their own apartment - take a break from your job, Melone."

Melone clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His plans to get this job done before the New Year sullied by Gelato and Sorbet's privy to party. Nonetheless, he found Illuso's comment to be demeaning; his lips parted to argue that his focus was what aided the group in their hits, but was promptly cut off by you. 

"What are they celebrating? Is it their anniversary or something?" You cocked your head to the side in curiosity. The four other members looked to you as if you'd just chopped off your own head. 

"(Y/N)," Ghiaccio started. If his brow could furrow any further, it would. "You do know what day it is today, correct?" 

You blinked. Once, then twice, not catching the concerned glances each of them threw each other. "It's Tuesday. Why does that matter?" 

"No," Illuso was the next to speak up. "The day, do you realise what day it is?" He emphasised his words as he spoke, trying to push you into realising just what was special about that day in particular. 

"It's Tuesday. I already told you that!" You huffed at them, clenching your fist in anger. You hated it when they did this - when clearly they knew more than they were letting on, but refused to tell you. When no one spoke, you mulled over what to do next - and then it hit you, you smiled. "It's Tuesday, December twenty-fifth!"

Formaggio lunged forward, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking. "(Y/N)! It's Christmas!" 

And at his words, your eyes suddenly blew wide, shifting to look at Ghiaccio when he began to speak. "And it's Wednesday, not Tuesday. Where the fuck did you get Tuesday from?"

Your lips parted into a curious 'o', eyes blowing wide in sudden surprise at the news they had shared. 

"Wait, it's Christmas?" There was a short pause, the others looked to you as if you had gone insane. When suddenly, you slapped your hands to your cheeks in shock. "It's Christmas! Oh my God! I haven't wrapped anyone's gifts!" 

A hearty chortle left Illuso. "You've left it a little late---" 

But he was quickly cut off by Ghiaccio, who scoffed. "---Eugh, I just hate the whole consumerist ideology behind Christmas." Crossing his arms over his chest, he rolled his eyes to the side. "There's nothing genuine or nice about fighting to see who gets each other the best gifts. It's shitty. I've never liked it." 

"What are you talking about, Ghiaccio?" Melone huffed, pressing a hand to his hip nonchalantly. "It's a nice time to get everyone together." 

"No," Ghiaccio shook his head. "It's expensive and unnecessary. I mean, especially in our situation - we can't afford to be spending so much money on each other." He pointed at Melone peculiarly, a quirk in his brow. "Surely you understand this; weren't you and (Y/N) homeless?" 

The purple one shrugged his shoulders. "Well, yes, but we still had fun." 

His brushy gaze turned to look at you, soft and appreciative. You nodded your head along with his words. "Yeah, there's no reason to be grouchy, G!"

You wafted a dismissive hand in his direction. "Plus! I'll have you know, I spent nothing on gifts this year! They are all hand made!"

"And I had Junior steal mine." Melone nodded his head along with your words, tapping his foot on the floor to contain his excitement. 

Upon hearing the news of your gifts, Formaggio let out an excited gasp. "Shit, really?" He leant close to you, a bright grin spread across his lips. "What'd you two get us!?" 

You huffed. Crossing your arms over your chest and turning away from him in spite. "Not saying." 

"Oh, come on Tesoro, don't you love us?" It was Illuso who spoke next, shimmying closer to your side and placing a delicate hand atop of your shoulder. 

"Nuh uh." You shook your head. The two continued to pry at your mind for a few more seconds before Ghiaccio eventually stomped his foot against the ground. 

"See, this is what I mean, you don't care about the tradition you only care about getting presents! It's bullshit!" He let out a drawn out grunt, utterly disappointed yet unsuprised with how little his team cared for the holidays. 

"But Ghiaccio," You whined, taking a step toward him to grasp at his sweater. "You can't hate Christmas! It's the jolly season---" 

"---Don't get all sappy with me." He brushed your hand away, grimacing with palpable distaste. "This isn't some kids Christmas film; I don't need you to show me the spirit of Christmas, or whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean - I mean, it's stupid. Even if spirits were real, which they aren't, Christmas is a physical holiday and can't have a 'spirit.' It's idiotic and I think you're all stupid for---" 

While he began to rant and rave, you swivelled around to look at your three other friends. Each of them, Melone, Formaggio and Illuso, held expressions of equal concern. 

"You guys," You whisper yelled, teetering closer to them so that Ghiaccio would be unable to hear you. "We need to help him learn how to love Christmas! He's obviously never had a good Christmas before---"

"---What makes you think that?" It was Illuso who cut you off this time, his brow quirking curiously. You had made a rather callous assumption - there were many reasons as to why Ghiaccio did not like Christmas, and yet you seemed confident in your statement.

You hummed, lowering your gaze to the floor. "Well, because... when I was a young child..." 

"We don't need a monolouge, babe." Formaggio wafted his hand in your direction, using your wistfull pause as a means to try and shut you up before you had the chance to start spilling random stories from your youth. 

Fortunately, you had Melone at your beckon call. He glowered in Formaggio's direction, offering him a short slap on the shoulder before blurting out: "Let her talk!" 

"Thank you, Loons." You nodded your head thankfully in his direction. Then, placed your hands over your heart thoughtfully. "When I was a child, I hated Christmas." 

Both Formaggio and Illuso gasped. You nodded your head solemnly. "I know... it's shocking. But, well, my parents hated each other and they'd always spend the entire day arguing! They used to lock me in my room with all of my new toys, because they assumed I'd be busy playing with them and wouldn't be able to hear them fighting..." 

You frowned at the memory. The time you spent with your family was something you tried not to recall; those sleepless nights arguing and sobbing were long gone, and you had a new familia to spend these events with. You had to focus on the good that was happening now, rather than the bad that happened in the past. 

Such was why, when Formaggio let out a small: "That's... sad. What changed?" You let a genuine smile slip across your lips, moving over to grab at your purple friends shoulder and hug his side. 

"Well, I met Melone." You moved up to kiss at his cheek, causing him to grow a little flustered under your attention.  "Even if Santa stopped giving us gifts, living with Melone taught me that---"

"---Wait, wait, wait!" Formaggio waved his hands in a 'stop' motion, his brow furrowing in question. "What do you mean 'Even if Santa stopped giving you gifts,' (Y/N), don't tell me you still believe in Santa?" 

You looked him up and down. "Well... yeah? You don't?" 

Formaggio tried so very hard not to laugh. He should've been given a reward, for he held his breath for so long his cheeks turned red. When he could hold his howling cackles for no longer, he curled in on himself and clutched at his stomach in agony. 

"Pffft-! Why do you think he stopped giving you gifts for Christmas?" Was his question, because it seemed stupid that you'd still believe in Santa. You frowned at his insistent mockery. 

"Well... I killed a guy when I was fourteen, and that's like, a sin or whatever." You shrugged your shoulders. "Santa stopped giving me gifts after that." 

More laughter fell from Formaggio's lips. He sounded like a broken bottle of window cleaner, wheezing and coughing from the sheer force of his laughs. When he peeked up at you, he took note that Melone was also frowning, more giggles slipped from his throat. "Melone... do you also...?" 

"Of course I do." The purple one in question nodded his head at the question. "We don't get gifts because we're Hitmen, and so are on his naughty list." 

At this new revelation - that one of the most logical, intelligent and calculated men on the team still believed in Santa - Formaggio fell to the floor in utter shock. Illuso looked to you both with eyes splayed wide. He could believe you, you were stupid, but Melone? It was a surprise. With a furrowed brow, he tried to reprimand you both: 

"You are both twenty three! Why the fuck do you still---" 

"---No, no, Lucy. Let's hear them out." But he was cut off by Formaggio, who hauled himself off of the ground with a wide and devious grin. "Their reasoning is realistic, we are bad people, after all." 

Illuso rolled his eyes at the notion, deciding that this wasn't a battle he was willing to fight - if the three of you wanted to believe this nonsense, then he wouldn't be the one to rain on your parade. 

"What the fuck are you guys talking about." Ghiaccio then grunted, shoving his way into the circle that the three of you had crafted.

Illuso offered him a short, displeased glance. "(Y/N) and Melone and Formaggio believe in Santa." 

And that was all Ghiaccio needed to lose complete and total interest in conversing with the lot of you.

"Oh." He started, lowering his gaze to the floor. His brows furrowed in what was at first question, then frustration, and then acceptance. A loud sigh passed his lips, and he turned away from you all slowly. "I can't deal with you guys right now. I just... can't."

And it was with that, he turned to walk toward the kitchen - where Prosciutto was currently cooking a traditional feast with the aid of Pesci.

As Ghiaccio walked away, a loud knocking sounded at the front of the house. Prosciutto's voice called out to the three of you sternly: "Answer the door!" 

And you wasted no seconds in dismissing your three friends so that you could investigate who was at the door. It was strange to recieve visitors on such a widely celibrated day, most people in Italy were with their families and hardly anything was open. 

As you encroached the door, you could make out the rough silhouette of two figures through the blurred window; one tall and one short, with blond and black hair. A wicked grin spread across your lips - these two were just who you needed. 

"Gelato, Sorbet!" You grinned, throwing open the door with an expression of mischief. "I thought you two were spending Christmas at your place?" 

Stood before you, wrapped snugly in jackets and scarfes and arms lined with presents, were your two best friends: Gelato and Sorbet, who caught immediately the expression of deviance that had settled across your face. 

"Betty didn't pay our utility bills last month, we have no power or water or anything. Thought we'd come and spend the holidays with you lot!" The two shuffled inside the house. Gelato kept a close eye on you as you clipped the door shut behind them. "But something tells me you have a sinister plan...?" 

"Your face is evil." Sorbet then hummed, his brow quirked at you. Staring with palpable question while he placed his gifts down on the ground next to the couch, not bothering to shift them under the tree with the rest of them. "What are you plotting?" 

While he was setting down his stuff, you grabbed Gelato by his shoulders and shook him desperately. "Ghiaccio hates this season! He's miserable! You guys need to help me make him like it!" 

"Is no one else available for this task?" He asked, shoving you off of him with a snicker. He looked to the other three in the room, who remained near the staircase where you had initially been conversing.  

"We think shes should leave it," Illuso reasoned, moving his hands in a 'so-so' motion. "I mean, Ghiaccio is a tough egg to crack. If he hates Christmas then he hates Christmas." 

Formaggio let out a small hum at the notion. "It's ironic that he hates it, though. Considering his stand is the most wintery of them all." 

"Exactly!" You yelped, waving your hands desperately. You used Formaggio's point as an anchor for your reasoning. "We need to make him like it!" 

Formaggio and Illuso looked to Melone for help - they thought that perhaps since he was the closest with you he would be able to sway you against any evil plans, but he offered no reasoning. Only shrugging his shoulders as he watched you plot with Gelato and Sorbet. 

"Idea:" Sorbet finally piped up after a few minutes of thought. "In that film about Christmas, that one guy was really miserable - until, visited by a ghost who showed him how great Christmas is." 

He raised his brows in offer, grinning when both you and Gelato mulled over the offer. You began to nod slowly after a few seconds of thought. "So we need to visit Ghiaccio with a ghost..." 

"Who is the most ghostly on the team?" Gelato inquired, running a hand through his scraggly blond hair. 

There was more silence. Then, Sorbet piped up. 

"...Risotto." He offered, and you nodded your head along with his words once more - confirming with a small: 

"Risotto." Of your own. 

It was with this decision made, the three of you stormed up to his office - giggling and snickering, eager to transform him into what would be a Christmas miracle. 

"Risotto!" You were the first to cry, not bothering to knock as you threw open the door to his office. You had to squint upon entry, for he bathed himself in darkness. Working beneath nothing but a flickering old lamp. 

He flinched at your sudden intrusion, lifting his gaze from his work lethargically. "Mm?" 

You pointed a finger in his direction, marching toward his desk with an authority only you would have to confidence to conjure up against your boss. Behind you, Gelato and Sorbet teetered into the room like vultures - his brow quirked at the sight, realising that the lot of you were likely up to no good.

"Stop doing your work, it's Christmas!" You begged, pressing your hands together in a praying motion. He huffed a breath through his nostrils, gaze flittering down to his work once more. 

"I know, I just need to get these documents---"

"---No! I need you." He was taken aback when you suddenly cut him off, slamming your hands down against his desk so that you could lean your whole body above him.

"...You need me?" Was his small, hushed mumble. His eyes flickered up and down your body, swallowing thickly before he continued. "In what way?" 

"I need you to be a ghost." You leant back, crossing your arms over your chest. "You need to scare Ghiaccio." 

Ah. He should have known you'd have some kind of devious plot. Rolling his eyes back down toward his desk, he pressed a finger to his brow. "Why?" 

"Because Ghiaccio hates Christmas, keep up, Riz." Gelato was the one who spoke next, cocking his head to side as he too encroached his superiors desk. 

A hum of complaint left Risotto, he motioned toward his paperwork. "Okay. Uhm. I'm a bit busy, so..." 

Sorbet let out a scoff at his petty excuse. 

"Risotto, we all know the only reason you're cooped up in here is because you hate social events." He reasoned, taking a confidence that you and Gelato lacked - he rounded the desk and grabbed at the brooding mans shoulders, trying with his best effort to lift him from his chair. "Come on, it'll take like five minutes. Let's turn you into a ghost." 

"This is foolish." He uttered. Yet, to his own utter disbelief, he stood and allowed the three of you to guide him into another room - where you would be allowed to play dress up to your hearts content. 

Devilish laughter filled the air while the three of you dictated Risotto's haunting attire - the first outfit you'd all picked was dark and gruly, hooded with chains and thick boots. But it was too obvious. You next tried something lighter - white and flowy with silver accents, but it was far too bright for a man as hurcelean as Risotto. There was a vast debate between the three of you - over what would be best to scare Ghiaccio with... that was when searching through your closet, you found an outfit that was perfect. 

"I look stupid." Risotto grumbled, body stiff while three grabby hands maneuvered his limbs into the fluffy red and white outfit. "I hate this."

"I think you look hot," You hummed, plucking the black coxcomb from his head and instead placed it atop of yours. He looked like a dishevelled cygnet, frowning when you replced his hat with a big red one. "If this guy came down my chimney, I'd take my clothes off." 

"I'd hit." Sorbet then chimed, taking a step back to admire the glorious work the three of you had achieved. 

Risotto stood hunched over himself, frowning while the three of you cooed and awed at how supposedly 'cute' he looked dressed as Santa.

"Why do you have this...?" He mumbled, picking at some crust that lined the fluff of his red coat. 

You let out a short hum. "Eh... I can't really remember, I think me and Melone were trying out some rolepl---" 

"---I'm taking it off." Risotto shuddered at the thought of what sinful things may have happened in this poor outfit, though he was unfortunately halted by several hands. 

"You can't take it off!" Gelato griped, patting down his outfit sternly. "This is how we're going to convince Ghiaccio to like Christmas!" 

Risotto frowned at the three of you, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said you wanted to scare him." He then motioned to himself. "This... isn't scary."

"New plan," You chirruped, attaching yourself to his arm ajd poking at his cheek. "You pretend to be Santa!" 

He wafted your hand away, frowning unsurely. "That's not going to work. Ghiaccio isn't six he knows Santa isn't---" 

"---Shhusshhh, Santa is real! He's real! I'm tired of everyone saying he isn't!" You pressed your index finger to his lip, shutting him up properly. Your brows furrowed with upset, you were tired of people telling you this. 

Sorbet cackled at the sight, nodding his head along with your words. "Yeah, Risotto, Santa is real. Don't you know?" 

"No."

There was clear hesitation on Risotto's behalf. You frowned - if this plan was to work, you needed him to behave himself. You turned to look at Gelato and Sorbet desperately, hoping that they would have some sort of  solution - to no avail, they only offered you shruggish frowns. 

And when Prosciutto's voice called up the stairs announcing that the traditional dinner was ready, devious smiles befell the three of you. Risotto staggered backward a few steps, moving to grab at his black jacket, but he was halted by Gelato. 

"What do you think you're doing? You need to wear this downstairs." He tossed Risotto's original outfit to the side, snickering evilly. Risotto frowned. 

"I am not attending dinner like this---"

"---But you have to," You plead, tugging at his sleeve opposing Gelato. "For the sake of our team! You have to!" 

Risotto wasn't quite sure how he ended up in this situation - he thought he had authority over this team, but it seemed the three of you were impossible to wrangle. Within seconds you were shoving him out of the door and down the stairs. 

"Look who decided to visit us!" You called out, entering the kitchen with a bounce in your step. Behind you, dragged rather forcefully by Gelato and Sorbet, was the hesitant Saint you had claimed Risotto to be. 

Most of the group had already gathered at the table, ready 

"Oh my fucking God---" Formaggio suddenly blurted, slamming his fist down against the table while laughter bubbled up out of his throat. 

There was a sigh from the seat next to him, Illuso pinched at his neatly plucked brow, utter shock filling his tone as he spoke. "You three didn't..." 

Guiding Risotto toward his chair, you forced him down by the shoulders. Promptly wafting your hands around his body, presenting him like some sort of prize: 

"It's Santa!" 

You and Gelato both cheered. With Risotto settled, sure that he wasn't going to suddenly turn tail and run, you slipped into your seat next to Melone all the while Gelato and Sorbet settled onto their side of the table. 

Ignoring the strange looks the four of you recieved, you turned to look at Ghiaccio, brows raised smugly - only to frown when he let out an alarmed: "What the fuck." 

"It's Saint Nicholas!" You cried, growing irritated that he was so stubborn with his dislike. You eyed him through your peripherals, expression that of stern annoyance. He could only scoff at your insistence. 

Still howling, Formaggio rubbed at his cheeks - they were begining to hurt from how much he had been smiling, and he was out of breath from laughter. He pressed his hands together pleadingly. "Do the laugh, Nick." 

"I'm not doing that." Risotto near growled, clenching his hands into fists. Formaggio near crawled atop of the table, leaning forward desperately.

"Oh, come on, please!" 

Risotto grimaced. He paused for a moment, gaze flickering over to where you were prodding and poking at Ghiaccio. Aside from the obvious few who took humour in Risotto's sudden change, most of the table seemed confused: Pesci and Melone were reacting the best, the purple one had began to dig into his dinner - a traditional lasagna, as was the first meal of Christmas - and only eyed the rest of the group casually. Pesci, for the most part, remained silent; watching everyone with wide, confused eyes.

Prosciutto had yet to sit down with the rest of the group, he was still carrying a tray of food - but he had stopped what he was doing, stood dazed at the side of the table with a furrow in his brow. Formaggio was pouting, he had his hands clasped together desperately. 

Risotto let out a loud sigh. Caving to the demands of his teammates and letting out a quiet: Ho... ho... ho...?" 

And at that, Formaggio began to howl again. Cackling and chortling loudly, Prosciutto sneered in his brutish direction. 

"Risotto why are you---" 

"---Prosciutto, can't you see this is Santa, not Risotto?" Sorbet cut through, offering a 'no-duh' look in the blond's direction. Prosciutto scoffed, placing the tray of food on the table before sitting in his designated seat. 

"Don't be foolish that's clearly---" 

"---Since Santa has decided to join us, we should open our gifts now." Illuso suddenly spoke out, slamming his hands down against the table to garner attention. Formaggio nodded his head along eagerly, quipping out a jovial: 

"Pretty please!" 

Prosciutto shook his head. "No, we need to save that until after---" 

"---But Santa is here now, which means we have to." Gelato then huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Prosciutto's frown could only deepen at the notion. His lips parted to argue against them, but was promptly cut off by you - who stood up in sudden surprise.

"Wait, I forgot to wrap my gifts!" 

Melone placed a hand atop of your arm, cooing out a gentle: "I did it for you. I knew you'd forget." 

A small, soft gasp left your throat. You looked down to Melone gently, adoration seeping into every fibre of your being. He looked to you with equal reprise, a small smile slipping across his lips. If this were some sort of cartoon, the hearts would have likely filled the air between you - but your moment was cut off by Formaggio, who clapped his hands together loudly. 

"Well, let's hand them out!" He blurted, shooing you with his hands. You offered him a sour expression, before promptly slipping out of the room to gather the gifts that had all been bundled under the tree. 

It wasn't an easy task, bringing them all in, since everyone on the team had gotten each other something there was at least a dozen under the tree - but eventually, after many trips, you wrangled them all into the room. 

"Here! Do mine first!" You insisted, flittering about the table to hand them each something. "I hand made them all." 

Then, you stood to the side with your hands on your hips, grinning brightly while you watched them open their gifts. 

Formaggio was the first to tear into his gift, ignoring Prosciutto who griped over the complete disregard the group had for his traditions, and instead grabbing at what was inside the wrapping. "You..." In his hands he held a small grey kitten, made of velvet wool. "Knitted Bonèt!" 

"Crochet, actually." Melone cut in, not bothering to look up from his gift. You'd crocheted him a jumper - it was messy, and he'd known for weeks he'd be getting it since he'd often sit next to you in bed while you knitted away, but he appreciated it nontheless. 

"Whatever! She's so cute! And she doesn't bite me!" He nuzzled his head into the cat, jovial that it wouldn't scratch at him like his real cat. 

Prosciutto, with a frown on his face, delicately peeled back the paper around his gift. "Wow... an apron." He then grumbled - it wasn't a surprise. He got a new hoover for his birthday. Though he did appreciate the detail and effort you'd put into the gift. He looked up to you curiously. "I wasn't aware you knew how to crochet." 

"I wasn't aware you had any talents - other than brutally killing and maiming, of course." Illuso laughed, picking at the small candle holder you'd crocheted him - he always used candles when in the bathtub, so a holder was extremely thoughtful. Though, he wasn't sure how much of a fire hazard the wool one was. 

"Of course I do! Knitting and crocheting is so fun!" You then chirruped, you looked to Risotto, watching him pull out the wool beane you had made for him. It had a bell on top, a bell that fell off the moment he pried it from the wrapping. You frowned sheepishly. "Though, I'm not too good at it... killing is what I'm best at, I suppose. There's a reason I'm a poor hitman and not a rich artist!" 

"You could be one, though." Pesci mumbled, smiling down appreciatively at the little creature you had crocheted him. Out of everyone on the team, he was the only other who knew how to craft these things - in fact, he had been the one to teach you. He was artistic at heart, and it filled him with joy to know you were harnessing this ability for good. Prosciutto had always been very dismissive of it as a talent. "Thank you for this." 

"Most artists aren't rich, it's an extremely underpaid profession." Ghiaccio scoffed at what you had said. He held your gift with his index finger, as if it were ridden with disease. "You made me a helmet...?"

You nodded your head eagerly, wafting a hand in his direction. "A helmet cover! To go over your... stand... thingy?" 

He grimaced. 

"This is stupid." He dashed it down onto the table. "It makes no sense. I'm not going to bother putting it on when I use my stand because when I use it I'm always in the heat of battle---" 

"---Well, I assume it's cold inside White Album, right?" You quirked your head to the side. 

A low grunt left his throat. "Of course it fucking is it's made of ice it's cold---" 

"---Well, I thought hard about this gift! It will keep you warm!" You smiled again. Jovial, despite how much Ghiaccio tried to yell at and dismiss you. His lip quivered at the sight, twitching to spout more hatred in your direction. 

Then, his gaze flickered down to the gift you had made him. It was stupid; it would never work on his stand and it would only hinder him during battle. Yet... you'd thought about him. You'd really thought about him and likely spent weeks fussing over the creation of it. In addition to this, you were trying your hardest to get him to enjoy himself, despite how stubborn he was. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his head away from you. "Whatever... thank... you..." 

For the most part, you'd failed in your goal of getting Ghiaccio to enjoy Christmas. Though, there was no doubt in saying that he was more partial to it than he had been prior. 

Despite Prosciutto's protesting, Formaggio and Illuso forced the entire team to open their gifts at the table - out of everyone, you seemed to recieve the best gifts despite your insistence that you'd be fine with whatever they threw at you. Formaggio had bought you cat toys to play with his cat, and in addition to that a blanket for which he insisted the two of you could share. Ghiaccio and Prosciutto had both gone out of their way to buy you jewellery, because they assumed that is what you'd like. Meanwhile Illuso offered you a bouquet of roses and a date to some restaurant you had never heard of before. Much like you, Pesci had handcrafted his gift - a painting, which you adored greatly and insisted on hanging up in the living room despite Prosciutto's argument against it. Risotto bought you a few books, because he knew you liked stealing his. And Melone had perhaps been the most thoughtful of the bunch, buying you a multitude of flowers, plushies and nicknacks - he was trying to one up everyone else, and in the weeks prior to christmas had Junior sneaking about the hideout late into the night ensuring nobody was better than him. 

It worked, of course. It always did. You loved anything Melone did for you, because he was your bestest friend. But of course, your love for him couldn't amount to the love you held for the team - even late into the night when the team watched a film together. When Formaggio drank so much he threw up and when Illuso passed out on the couch after one too many wines. As chaotic as they were, you loved them all. 

---

oufh can you tell i rushed the ending for this... i needed to post it b4 new year cuz like two days late is fine but once new year passes then its TOO late yk... anyways... if you liked this pls consider reading my fanfic :3 this is a shameless plug i am shamelessly advertising myself

[nayziiz]

Witness | CL16

Summary: In the shadowy world of Monaco's elite, the Leclerc family reigns supreme. Charles Leclerc, the charming middle son, maintains their pristine public image—until one rainy night, during a fit of rage, Charles does the unthinkable. A young woman witnesses his actions, and her terrified eyes haunt him. Consumed by guilt and fear of exposure, Charles embarks on a desperate search to find her before she can destroy his family’s legacy. As he delves deeper into Monaco's underbelly, Charles must confront his own darkness and the lengths he will go to protect his family.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x OC (name to be revealed)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst

Masterlist

CHAPTER 3

The youngest Leclerc brother, Arthur, was the wildest one. Known for his insatiable appetite for adventure and thrill, he thrived in the vibrant nightlife of Monaco. He had a habit of dragging Charles to parties, clubs, and casinos when Charles would have preferred a peaceful night in with a glass of wine and a good book. Arthur’s energy was infectious, his charm undeniable, and he revelled in the attention their family name commanded.

Tonight was no exception. It was a Saturday, which meant the city was alive with the promise of excitement, and Arthur had already set his sights on the night’s itinerary. He burst into Charles’s apartment, grinning from ear to ear, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

“Come on, Charles! You can’t hide away tonight,” Arthur declared, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “I’ve got us on the guest list at the hottest club in town. Everyone’s going to be there!”

“Arthur, I really don’t feel like going out tonight. I had a long day, and I just want to relax,” Charles sighed, switching on his television and clicking on one of the motorsport channels.

“Relax? You can relax when you’re old and grey. We’re young, rich, and Leclercs! The world is our playground, brother,” Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically, grabbing the remote from Charles’s hands and tossing it onto the couch. 

Despite his reluctance, Charles couldn’t help but smile at Arthur’s infectious enthusiasm. It was a losing battle, as it always was when Arthur set his mind on something. Resigned, he stood up and grabbed his jacket, knowing there was no point in arguing.

“Alright, alright. But just for a few hours,” Charles conceded. “I have some business to take care of tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit! Trust me, you’ll thank me later. There’s nothing like a night out in Monaco,” Arthur clapped him on the back, his grin widening.

Arthur kicked the night off with a rented limo, already downing shots like nobody's business. The air inside the limo was filled with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses as Arthur entertained himself, his spirits high. Charles, ever the responsible one, watched his brother with a mix of amusement and mild concern, knowing how wild Arthur’s nights out could get.

The limo took them to a restaurant, an upscale place known for its gourmet cuisine and sophisticated ambiance. The plan was to have a meal before diving into the night's festivities. As they arrived, Arthur, already a bit tipsy, made a beeline for the bar. Charles sighed, resigning himself to a quiet meal alone.

Charles found a quiet table and ordered a hearty meal, intending to line his stomach properly for whatever the night would bring. The restaurant's dim lighting and soft music provided a stark contrast to the wild energy Arthur radiated at the bar. Charles watched his brother from across the room, seeing him animatedly talking to strangers, charming everyone in his vicinity.

Charles savoured his meal, enjoying the brief moment of solitude. The rich flavours of the food helped to ground him, a small comfort amidst the chaos Arthur had undoubtedly planned for the night. He glanced occasionally towards the bar, where Arthur continued to entertain, his laughter echoing through the restaurant.

As Charles finished his meal, he reflected on how different he and Arthur were. Arthur's zest for life and adventure often pulled Charles out of his comfort zone, dragging him into nights filled with unpredictability. Yet, despite the exhaustion these nights brought, Charles couldn't deny the bond he felt with his brother, a bond that often made him go along with Arthur’s wild plans.

Once Charles was done, he walked over to the bar, where Arthur was still in high spirits, flirting with the bartender and regaling a small group with some exaggerated story. Charles placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, giving him a look that conveyed both amusement and readiness for the next part of the night.

“Ready, big brother? The night’s just getting started!” Arthur grinned, downing another shot before clapping Charles on the back. 

“Lead the way, Arthur. Let’s see what you’ve got planned,” Charles nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. 

The night was still young, and Charles knew better than to underestimate Arthur’s knack for creating unforgettable experiences. From there, Arthur dragged Charles and his friends to his favourite casino, a lavish establishment with opulent décor and a vibrant atmosphere. As they entered, the group filtered through the other guests and diplomats to the bar, the clinking of glasses and low murmur of conversations adding to the casino’s lively ambiance. Some of Arthur's friends gravitated towards the slot machines, their excited chatter blending with the mechanical sounds of the games. Others headed for the roulette table, eager to test their luck.

Charles, however, remained withdrawn from the main group. He slowly made his way around the casino, observing the scene with a detached curiosity. He watched as some fools gambled away their trust funds, their faces a mix of hope and desperation with each spin of the wheel or roll of the dice. The flashing lights and the cacophony of sounds seemed to create a world of their own, one where fortunes could change in an instant.

Occasionally, Charles would take a seat at one of the tables, nursing a drink and simply watching the guests move about the dimly lit room. The casino was a microcosm of Monaco’s elite, a place where power and money intersected in a dance of chance and skill. Despite the bustling activity around him, Charles felt a sense of isolation, his thoughts drifting back to the incident and the woman he was desperate to find.

As he continued to observe, he felt a tug of responsibility and protectiveness towards Arthur. His younger brother thrived in this environment, effortlessly charming everyone around him, but Charles knew the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of their glamorous lifestyle. He needed to keep an eye on Arthur, ensuring that he didn’t get into too much trouble.

Arthur, meanwhile, was in his element, moving from group to group with an easy confidence. His laughter echoed across the room, drawing people to him like moths to a flame. Charles couldn’t help but smile at his brother’s antics, even as he felt a pang of worry. Arthur’s reckless nature was both his greatest asset and his biggest flaw.

She had perfected the art of the serene smile, a mask she wore to hide the turmoil churning inside her. Her hands moved deftly, expertly shuffling and dealing the cards with practised ease. The table was surrounded by a mix of regulars and tourists, their faces a blend of hopeful anticipation and steely determination.

“Place your bets, please,” she announced, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her stomach. She swept her gaze over the players, taking in their expressions, their tells. She had learned to read people well in this job, to see beyond the surface.

The cards were dealt, and she watched as the players assessed their hands. A middle-aged man in a tailored suit tapped his fingers on the table, a subtle signal for another card. Next to him, a young woman with a wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses nervously bit her lip before deciding to stand. The tension was palpable, each decision a potential turning point in their fortunes.

As she revealed the next card, a murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. The man in the suit smiled triumphantly, his pile of chips growing with his win. She congratulated him with a nod, keeping her expression neutral. The casino's glamour masked the desperation that often lurked beneath the surface, and she was all too aware of the fine line between triumph and ruin.

Her shift progressed in this rhythm of bets and deals, wins and losses. She maintained her composure, but the memory of that fateful night lingered at the edges of her mind. Every face in the crowd was a potential threat, every moment a chance for her past to catch up with her.

A sudden shout from across the room jolted her from her thoughts. A commotion at the roulette table drew the attention of the patrons, and for a brief moment, the blackjack table was deserted. She took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment of respite. The noise of the casino faded to a distant hum, and she felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.

But it was a fleeting reprieve. As the players returned, she resumed her role, her eyes scanning the crowd with renewed vigilance. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, not when the threat of being discovered loomed so large.

A new player approached the table, a tall man with a confident stride and an easy smile. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. For a split second, she feared it was him, the man she had seen that night. But it wasn’t. Just another stranger in a city full of them.

“Good evening,” she greeted, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. “Care to try your luck?”

The man nodded, taking a seat and placing his bets. As she dealt the cards, she couldn't shake the feeling that her time in Monaco was running out. The sense of being hunted, of danger lurking just out of sight, was ever-present. But for now, she had a job to do, a role to play in the glittering spectacle of the casino.

She watched as the players made their decisions, her mind drifting slightly as she mechanically performed her duties. The table was busy tonight, a mix of regulars and tourists, their expressions ranging from confident to anxious.

As the night wore on, Charles’s attention was drawn to the excitement at the blackjack table in the corner of the room. The dealer, a young woman with an air of calm professionalism, skillfully handled the cards, her movements precise and practised. Something about her seemed familiar, but Charles couldn’t quite place her. He decided to approach, drawn by a sense of curiosity and an inexplicable pull. As he got closer, the woman looked up, their eyes meeting for a brief moment.

Her heart skipped a beat, a faint sense of unease creeping in, but she dismissed it as the usual paranoia that had plagued her recently. Charles took a seat at the table, his gaze fixed on the dealer. There was something about her, a nagging feeling that tugged at his memory. He watched as she dealt the cards, her hands moving with practised grace. The way she moved, the set of her shoulders, it all seemed so familiar.

“Place your bets,” she repeated, her voice steady but her pulse quickening.

She sensed his eyes on her, a penetrating gaze that made her skin prickle. She focused on the cards, trying to shake off the feeling. Recognition flickered in her gaze, and suddenly, it all clicked in her mind.

Charles studied her face, the way she focused intently on the game. And then, like a flash of lightning, it hit him. Her face. It was her. The woman from that night. The memory of her terrified expression, her wide eyes frozen in shock, came rushing back. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding as recognition settled in.

“Hit or stand?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly as she met his eyes again. The look in his eyes made her stomach drop. It was a mix of shock and realisation, a look she had seen before, in a dark alley under the rain. Charles swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his composure.

“Stand,” he said, his voice rough with the weight of his discovery. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, the woman he had been searching for, now standing right in front of him.

She dealt the next card with trembling fingers, her mind racing. He recognized her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tension that now crackled between them. Her carefully constructed world began to crumble, the walls of safety she had built around herself now seeming paper-thin.

The game continued, but the atmosphere at the table had shifted. The other players sensed something was off, casting curious glances at Charles and the dealer. She forced herself to focus, to complete the hand, but her mind was spinning with fear and uncertainty.

While she was frightened, he was overwhelmed. He wasn't sure how to approach the subject with her without scaring her any further. He wasn't a horrible person and he hated the fact that she caught him at such a brutal moment in his life. He kept watching her, his mind racing with thoughts of how to handle the situation. He couldn't speak to her openly about it in front of so many people, so when the game ended and she quickly rushed towards the staff rooms, he caught up with her.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he called after her.

She stopped and hesitantly turned around. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she seemed ready to bolt at any second.

“I'm not quite sure how to go about this, but I would appreciate a moment to speak with you…privately,” he tried to keep his voice as gentle and non-threatening as possible, aware of the tension in the air.

She looked around, clearly nervous about being seen talking to him. Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—fear, curiosity, and a sliver of defiance. She had seen him at his worst, and now here he was, confronting her in a way she hadn't anticipated.

“Why should I?” She asked, her voice shaky but with an edge of determination.

“Please,” Charles said, lowering his voice even further. “I just want to explain. I need you to understand that what you saw was not who I am.”

Before she could answer, her manager strolled by and spotted Charles and her.

“Mr. Leclerc!” Her manager bellowed, interrupting the two.

She had to stop her jaw from falling to the ground when she heard his last name. Leclerc? The realisation sent a shiver down her spine, and the pieces of the puzzle began to click into place. This man, the one who had haunted her nightmares for days, was one of the notorious Leclerc brothers.

“Is there something Marie or I can assist you with?” the manager asked, his tone shifting to one of eager politeness.

“Marie?” Charles repeated, turning to look at her with a mixture of surprise and recognition.

“Yes, sir,” she nodded.

“No, thank you. I, uh, was just looking for the restroom,” he lied, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him.

“Right this way, sir. Marie, you can return to your station.” The manager smiled, oblivious to the undercurrents in the exchange.

Charles gave her a lingering look before following the manager down the hall. She watched them go, her heart pounding in her chest. The shock of his identity and the suddenness of the encounter left her reeling. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before heading back to the blackjack table.

As she resumed dealing cards, her mind raced with the implications of what had just transpired. Charles Leclerc now knew her name, and she knew his. The stakes had just gotten infinitely higher. She had seen a side of him that no one else had, and now he was aware of her existence in a way that made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

She had to figure out what to do next. Reporting the incident seemed even more complicated now, knowing the power and influence the Leclerc family wielded. But staying silent felt like a ticking time bomb. She was caught in a dangerous game, and she had no idea how to play it.

For Charles, the encounter left him equally unsettled. As he walked towards the restroom, guided by the manager, he couldn't shake the feeling of fate's cruel irony. The girl from that night was named Marie, and now she worked in a place he and his brothers frequented. He needed to speak to her, to explain himself properly, but the opportunity had slipped away.

Once he was alone, he splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He had to find a way to reach her again, to make her understand. The fear in her eyes haunted him, and he couldn't let things remain as they were. Not knowing how she might react, not knowing if she might go to the police, was a risk he couldn't afford to take.

He returned to the casino floor, his mind made up. He would find Marie again, and this time, he would make sure they had the conversation he so desperately needed. The game had begun, and he was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.

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

Taglist: @headinthecloudssblog

[leafnighthybridwolfsbane]

Sandwing Headcanons

(Info below the cut)

I had fun drawing this one! I nearly forgot one of the back legs, so that was interesting. I kinda based this one on red sand and the mesa/badlands. This one is a bit more simplified than the others, but honestly it was a nice break from doing more detailed designs.

Tribe Headcanons

The black sclera and cheetah-like marking helps them see through the blazing haze the sun creates on the sand. Especially sand that is nearly white.

The tufts of fur on their ears helps keep flies and other insects away from their ears.

Sometimes a Sandwing will grow a beard and resemble a Bearded Vulture, though this is extremely rare in the tribe. Maybe 1 in every 10,000 of them get the genes to be able to grow one.

Some Sandwings are also born with retractable fangs like a venomous snake's.

The bearded plates on their necks can puff out as an intimidation tactic.

They also can cry blood as a way to scare off oncoming dragons that might try to kill them if nothing else works.

Their scales match the palette of the sands that they hatched in. This means different natural sand colors can influence the color of a Sandwing's scales. It is near impossible to have them hatch the color of dyed sand. When it does happen, they are considered defective.

Sandwings are the third largest tribe in general, beaten by a a few hairs by the Nightwings.

Their wings are made for long distance travel, making staying in the air for long periods like a walk in the park. They are only beat by Skywings when it comes to flight time between landings.

The top of their wings are colored the same as the sand they hatched in. The bottom coloration of their wings matches their lighter colored underbellies.

Sandwings have the easiest time getting freckled scales due to their length of time in the sun.

Sandwings tend to show emotion though music, dance, and their festivals. Most dragonets are even pushed to learn something to help with one of those three things instead of actually feeling out their emotions.

Sandwings are considered the best ambush predators out of all of the tribes due to their tails and lack of outward showing emotions. A lot of assassin groups either are lead of Sandwings, made up of mostly sandwings, or are purely made of sandwings.

Most tribes mistake them for being an angry tribe. They're not. They're a vengeful and ambitious tribe. If a perfectionist could be put into a single tribe, it would be the Sandwings. They hold their pride high, but not on a faulty pedestal.

Their patience is unmatched, even by a Nightwing's standards. Having them angry at another dragon is silent, but it oozes into the atmosphere is a scarily silent way.

On a lighter note, Sandwing scales are warm to the touch, like a heated rock on a mid-summer's day. They're unfazed by the chill of an icewing's scales.

On that note, fire scales were once such a common ability in Sandwings that Sandwings used to be their nickname. They used to be called Sunwings.

Their spine sail is to help them regulate their internal body heat.

Lore Headcanons

One of their greatest exports in the past was their assassination services. The Scorpions Den used to be this mystical den of assassins before it became a place for what most of the tribe would consider "Undesirables".

Festivals dedicated to the longest day of the year are full of joy and laughter. Their hard, almost completely unreadable, outward expressions melt into this calm and most of the time happy celebration.

It took several centuries for Sandwings to show the array of emotions they do now. Some say that it was because a cowardly queen had used her subjects in a manipulative way that broke the tribe of feeling anything. Others say it was almost like an animus curse. No one really knows.

Survival is their main priority due to them having this sixth sense of having a strong gut instinct about what another dragon will do. Though they are getting better with trusting other dragons under the current queen's guidance.

Current exports include tanned hides and poisons. With their aloof nature, business is done upfront. They take trades and deals seriously, so backing out with enough time or a good excuse means you aren't cut off. They tend to talk to other Sandwing traders, meaning a dragon will not be able to scam others, or waste their time. Scammers are killed on sight. There are no questions asked.

Betrayal upon one is betrayal of all. Sandwings, no matter their position in life, will back one another unless they have done something egregious. Family units are commonly not broken, but in recent years it's not unknown of.

Keeping a singular bone of one family member, be it blood or not, is considered a sacred thing to the individual Sandwing. It means that dragon was extremely important to them. It is sacrilege to take or destroy it. This is the highest form of disrespect and other Sandwings will plot the dragon's death if that Sandwing doesn't kill the dragon.

Sandwings take marriage seriously before the ceremony, but all marriages are considered another festival that has been known to last weeks. A honeymoon isn't necessary due to the weeks long festivities. This is the longest another dragon will see a Sandwing be open about their emotions.

Drawing Inspirations

Their bodies resemble an American Short Hair. These cats give the best build that would be similar to a Sandwing.

Sandwings having primarily desert reptile patterns would be the best, but other desert/savanna/badlands animals would work as well.

The behaviors resemble a more strict regimen household where showing emotions would cause the inhabitants to be severely reprimanded.

Bearded dragons/toads are great for references for the expansion of the neck plates expanding.

Wings of Fire Headcanon List

Skywings

Icewings

Mudwings

Leafwings

Hivewings

Silkwings

[zweis-fr]

like..... i don't even hate ancients indiscriminately i think they're a fun sidecar to the big bike ride of flight rising. to those that enjoy them godspeed muchlove. i just think they've been plagued (hehe) by some rather unfortunate implementations over the years.

like the same limb same body problem. there's a reason why 2/3rds of my G1 ancients are aberrations.

or staff's response to multigaze (which is a full price vial for ancients btw) clipping through the selling-point-feature line-breaking terts being "yeah we don't plan to fix that"

or the marketplace being clogged for SO long before they realized what a problem it was to have 10 copies of underbelly for each ancient.

and of course the point i will keep reiterating until i die... that they don't even have ancient skin and accent discounts. you will have to pay, full price, for the most expensive part of the site (specifically blueprints), if you want to DRESS UP your dragon at all. outside of the slow drip feed of ancient skins in festivals. festivals that have only opened 4 additional slots despite having what, 30 new possible winning bases in the past 4 years??? and not reducing THAT price for ancients either?????

[operationtimeguard]

sable ward lore

Sable figured she had to be adopted. No way was she the progeny of her insanely perky mom and her grinning, golf-playing, frat boy of a dad. They didn’t understand the first thing about her. No one in Greenvile did. Except for Mikaela. They were fast friends since third grade. Up until then Sable had no friends. She wasn’t into ponies or dolls or tea parties with teddy bears. She liked bugs, lizards riding bikes and dirt cloc fights.Her favorite holiday was Halloween and Mikaela was the only one who didn't think she was crazy when she dyed her hair purple in eighth grade. Sable's mom was furious. Her dad didn't even notice. Mikaela went with her to the mall when she got her ears pierced and helped her pick out her first tattoo. An occult symbol hidden in a place her parents would never see. Mikaela declined to get her own tattoo. She flirted with the dark side, but she didn't live it. Not like Sable. The dark side made sense to Sable, and she reveled in it. Partly because it freaked out her parents and teachers. Partly because it felt like who she was. Some called her a goth because of the way she presented herself. But she wasn't into labels. She loved horror movies and found the occult exciting. It made sense to her. She knew that the shiny suburban world of her mom and dad had a dark underbelly. They were afraid to confront their fear, so they pretended everything was perfect and that they would live forever. But Sable knew better. Death stalked us all and no one was getting out alive.

Mikaela got Sable a job at Moonstone. Probably the only place in town that would have hired her. She took classes at the local college and produced a guerilla radio show on the shortwave in her attic. All Things Wicked This Night was about the world's dark underbelly. The occult. Urban legends. Horror. And often there were heated discussions with Mikaela about the horror movies they'd catch at the only theater in Greenville. Mikaela liked her horror with a little comedy, but Sable liked it meaner. Scarier. Bloodier. She relished the gore. Enjoyed the terror. Liked to feel the adrenaline rush. And their debates were entertaining to say the least.

When searching for inspiration for her show, Sable would take walks in the cemetery with all the statues and headstones of early settlers who had founded the town as a sanctuary for those escaping persecution. She often talked about that history on her show, and she formed a theory that the uncanny sightings and disappearances were somehow linked to the town's history. One caller suggested the town was built on top of a fracture. The caller went on to describe a fracture as an overlap between worlds. Another caller said these fractures were created by an ancient cult devoted to forgotten demons. Another caller defined fractures as a cosmic buffet for an elder god that fed on pain, fear, and misery. And one caller even argued that it wasn't a fracture but The Unknown, a mysterious creature that consumed anyone who dared to imagine it. All the theories made for fun and inspiring debates, and she loved nothing more than to discuss real-life horror until the horror became personal.

One evening Sable had challenged Mikaela to tell a real horror story at Moonstone's Annual Halloween Festival. Scare the crap out of people. Stop dancing around the horror and embrace it. Tell a story about The Unknown. Make them imagine it. Make them believe The Unknown will show up on stage. Nothing terrifies an audience more than a show that could potentially kill them. Mikaela laughed at the idea and declined the challenge because she was working on another story with her roommate. 

But a strange, black fog had taken Mikaela during her performance and Sable felt the icy hand of guilt grab her by the back of the neck. She was convinced that she had somehow sent Mikaela to her doom. Did The Unknown take her? Did she try to define The Unknown? What about her roommate? Her roommate disappeared as well. But then she realized Mikaela's story wasn't about The Unknown. It was about something else. Another dimension. A dimension filled with terrifying creatures, sadistic killers, and endless horror.

This was not The Unknown.

With this realization, Sable began to investigate other disappearances in Greenville. Before long, she realized most of the disappearances occurred at the theater or somewhere close by. Investigating further, she discovered the theater was built over the ruins of an old, one-room schoolhouse that had burned to the ground in the 1920s. Somehow the students couldn't get out and everyone perished in the flames. Feeling close to an answer, she continued her research and discovered two teenage brothers had recently disappeared from the theater. Elias and Elan. The only witness, their younger sister, Ellen, was committed to an institution after ripping her eyes out. And so, pretending to be a relative, Sable went to talk to Ellen who admitted she and her brothers had been trying to steal old movie posters from the storage room behind the movie screen. She then described a secret door in the basement and a passageway that led to another Place.

A dark place.

A cold place.

An evil place.

Stay away from there, she begged. Stay

Away.

But Sable wasn't about to stay away.

Not after that story.

Determined to see Mikaela again, Sable hitched a ride to the theater and soon found the door behind the movie screen. In the darkness she jimmied the door open with a crowbar and headed down a creaking, wooden stairway to the dank cellar. A light switch activated flickering fluorescent lights that illuminated a room filled with broken theater seats and old movie posters dating back eighty years. She searched the sprawling basement and found a thick wooden door hidden behind a poster of the original Frankenstein. She pushed and shoved the door open to reveal an endless circular stairway descending into perfect darkness. Using a penlight to navigate, she descended for ten minutes before she noticed the cold, black fog rising from the lower depths.

The same cold, black fog that had taken Mikaela.

Sable considered running back up the stairs to where she would be safe. But then she thought about the terrifying creatures and the sadistic killers and the endless horror, and she quickly decided she wasn't going to let her best friend have all the fun.

[garglyswoof]

Fragile Things

ao3 For @kastleexchange Come What May Day 1, "What Could Be" The first thing they say to each other in Daredevil: Born Again. Please note i have no clue what canon is anymore, except (hopefully) in terms of characterization. She knows it can’t last, like it’s a truce the world has temporarily granted, fragile and held together by the most tenuous of things. A house of cards, really, and she eyes it warily, even as Matt’s let down his own guard now that Fisk isn’t around. No one has stepped up to the plate to organize criminal activity on the scale Fisk had managed, his empire ran haphazardly by lesser minds, as lesser threats.

So yes, Matt has let them in more, her and Foggy, now that his nightly excursions seem almost too easy. Not that they don’t leave him bruised and battered, but he seems less afraid of pulling his friends in when there’s not a criminal mastermind behind them, just poor attempts at the throne.

Still, she‘s tense that whole spring, into summer, then the fall, waiting and watching that house of cards. The Jack of Hearts looks a little bit like Foggy, who’d grown a goatee and then shaved it off in favor of just a mustache despite Karen needling him mercilessly for it.

“Karen, I’m going through my eras of TV Hunk. We’re in the Tom Selleck phase, do you know how many women swooned over his mustache? I will not be bound by societal changes.”

“Does Marci like it?”

He glances sidelong at her, pauses then lets out a defeated sigh. “Yes, or you know it would be gone in 30 seconds.”

“Ok I’ll work on her. Every time you come into the office I picture you sliding across the hood of a 70s muscle car like you’re in Magnum P.I. and I can’t take you seriously.”

“Reminds me of that time when Fr--” Foggy stops himself, but she knows.

“Yeah,” she says softly, her eyes flicking up to meet his gaze then leave it. “Yeah it does.”

It would be a lie to say she didn’t think about Frank, but Murdock, Nelson and Page had been a good distraction this last year. Setting up the firm, finding a new office in the Kitchen, and just playing serious legal catch-up to the two avocados at law were enough to keep thoughts of him to a dull roar (she’d bought them little namesakes, glass-blown ones with painted-on sunglasses and a mustache, from a stall at one of those weekend art festivals that were always popping up around the city).

Still, at night when she tosses her keys on the side table and the lonely weight of her quiet apartment settles into her bones, she thinks of him. Of how he couldn’t look at her in that damned hospital room, eyes darting, of how he pushed her away with his own stubborn, selfish aims. Yeah. Yeah, she’ll have a lot to say to him, if she could. 

But he’s been gone this past year, or maybe just terrorizing some other part of the country’s criminal organizations. Like she’d thought earlier, New York was missing some of its seedy underbelly these days. It’s why it worked, this house of cards.

It comes crashing down that Thursday night. 

It had been a good day, Matt heading into court in the afternoon, Foggy finally breaking the industrious quiet by announcing he’s always wanted a putting green in his office. 

Somehow that has evolved into a three-hole miniature golf course where the final hole is a ramp to Foggy’s blown-up face from an old political poster with the mouth cut out. Karen’s sides hurt from laughing as the city settles into the dark of evening. 

“Wow, you really suck at this,” Foggy laughs.

“I did not know I needed to practice -” she bursts into giggles -”putting a ball - oh god - p-putting a ball into your m-mouth”.

Foggy loses it too until a text buzzes both their phones. They both sober up from the laughter, each thinking the same thought as they reach for their mobiles. Matt’s been gone too long.

Sure enough, it’s a text from him, and Karen’s heart sinks from the vagueness of it.

Won’t be able to make it out tonight. You two have fun and see you in the a.m.

She looks up to see Foggy’s expression as he studies the words on the screen like an Ancient Text, the backlight and the now dim light in the office lending him a haggard expression. It's the first time she’s seen it in a year.

“He’ll be okay, Fogs.” She isn’t sure she believes it, but she says it anyway. She doesn’t think he believes it either, but he smiles all the same. She marvels, not for the first time, at how trauma is a form of time travel. Because despite the progress of this past year, her and Foggy both remember Matt, before, and they are right back there again in an instant.

Foggy’s expression almost breaks her heart as he nods and takes an absentminded last putt, the ball rolling up the braille legal book ramp and straight into the picture’s mouth.

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

Karen hasn’t changed a bit, despite all that’s happened, and she knows this is a bad idea but can’t stop herself all the same. She’d said goodbye to Foggy at the office doorway, mumbling something about cleaning up the casserole dish from one of their recent sliding scale (if you could call it that) clients. Foggy had been on the phone with Marci, but had paused - Karen’s heart aching with the kindness of him - for a moment, holding his hand over the speaker.

“You sure?” He'd mouthed before speaking in a whisper. “This isn’t about Matt, right?”

She’d shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t going to lie about that, at least. “Maybe it is, but it’s okay. I just want to have some time to think, and scrubbing cheese off this casserole dish will sadly give me time.”

He’d left then, with one worried glance backwards. She’ll have to keep an eye on her phone tonight, she’s willing to bet he’ll at least text to check in on her. 

It had been the silences from Matt that had scared them the most. She isn’t doing that to Foggy.

Still, she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t approve of her rifling through Matt’s files, her notes, and the Bulletin trying to triangulate where the hell Daredevil is off to tonight. She figures it out when she sees the line in the local crime beat from last week, from a paper she hadn’t yet let herself start reading again until now. 

Ex-FBI Officer Charged with Death of Priest, FBI Officer Escapes From Prison

She drops the paper and scrambles to her desk, pulling out the drawer that holds her purse, shaking, and grabs her gun, her breath ragged in the quiet of the office, the gun almost sucking the light out of the room, matte black. She stares at it for a moment before raising it in both hands, her feet unconsciously shifting apart to ground her. She feels the trigger under her finger, safety still on, she knows, and she presses the trigger once, twice, three times, over and over until her face crumples and she slides to the floor. 

She doesn’t give herself much time to let the pain rule her, she never does. If Bullseye is back, then that’s what Matt is looking into, and she knows he’ll need help despite not wanting it. Not to mention she has a score to settle with that psycho. Her hand shakes as she locks the office up until she stares at her fingers, willing them to calmness.

The church still looms taller than her faith, which isn’t hard to manage, she thinks wryly. The night holds an early fall chill, a breeze off the river teasing the hairs at the nape of her neck where her hair is pulled into a low ponytail. Quiet rules the street with the church lit gently by low exterior lights as she eyes the windows and tries not to think about the past. She’s almost about to give up, thinking that she’s guessed wrong, when she sees the heavy front door shift. A figure darts through, too broad-shouldered to be Matt, she thinks, then the door shuts without a noise and she’s staring into a face lit lowly for just a second before the man ducks into the shadows. 

Frank. She’s frozen there, on the sidewalk, and she knows it’s the stupidest thing for her to do so she darts off the path onto the grass that edges the church’s lot. She’s not sure if he’s seen her, and can’t spot him anymore in the darkness, and she has a moment to think - god how on earth did he just disappear like that? before he’s in front of her, finger to his lips at her impending shriek of surprise, his face familiarly blood-spattered and sporting an almost goofy grin. It doesn’t make sense, any of it, and she stares at him in confusion as he tugs her hands into his, holding her out like he wants to look at her, take stock, that grin lowering like a sail as his eyes grow more intense and how can he be so casual and what is going on and -

“Ma’am,” he says, his tone teasing. 

She relaxes, because there can’t be any danger here if he’s acting like that, but then tensing back up because honestly, what the hell? 

He must see it in her face because he rumbles an apology. ‘M’sorry. Just…seeing you like that, reminded me of…” he trails off, dropping her hands to tug at his hood in mimicry of his beggar routine. That happened forever ago, but he still remembers. So does she. “And you’re still all heart, I don’t even need to ask.” 

Something about the way he says it, almost proprietarily, pisses her off. Her eyes flash in the shadows they’ve found themselves in, pulling deeper in as a car passes and breaks the silence with loud, low bass.  “Yeah, Frank? What clued you in there?” 

She wants him to say it. Doesn’t want to have to spell it out.

His head punches back slightly, taking the blow. He changes the subject, or maybe it’s still the same one. “I came back as soon as I heard. The church’s been clean so far, surprised though. Guy like that usually wants to win where he lost.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Karen admits. “So what’s with the blood?”

He touches his face, as if reminding himself. “Research.” 

She almost laughs. 

“Where’s Red?” He rasps out.

“This was me trying to find him,” she says and watches his face soften out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m sorry, Karen.”

She waits, staring down at where the grass, wet from the day’s watering, sticks to her sneakers.

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t there for you when he came after you the first time. Fuckin' killed me to hear about it. Killed me to know you were hurt and scared and I wasn’t around to help.”

He’s not saying the right things, but they’re still good ones. She smiles a timid smile, glances up and lets him give her what he can. She’s got a year of therapy on one Frank Castle under her belt.  “It’s okay, Frank.”

She knows he wants to say more, say something about the hospital. She pulls him in for a hug, kisses his cheek in a spot bare of blood. Maybe she’s the one that isn’t ready this time. 

“It’s okay.”

She feels his lips on her neck, a brief chapped kiss, before he pulls back and stares into her eyes like he’s trying to solve her mystery.

“I just want to find Matt, Frank. Make sure he’s okay.” 

Maybe he hears it in her voice, the unspoken later, maybe he just senses the urgency.

“Alright then, let’s go.” He grabs her hand again, pulls his hood up with another. She’s so in shock that she doesn’t move until he starts tugging. He looks back at her, casually throws back, “You’re going to do it anyway. At least I can keep an eye on you this way.”

It both pisses her off and makes her smile. Her feelings are never black and white for Frank Castle, but it definitely seems like he’s accepted some things about her, at least. She squeezes his hand that dwarfs her own, callused and warm, and follows him away from the church, into the heart of the city.

[secondaryartifacts]

The 2001 premiere of Mulholland Drive brought together director David Lynch and stars Naomi Watts and Laura Elena Harring, celebrating what would become one of the most iconic films of the early 21st century. Originally conceived as a television pilot, the project evolved into a feature film after its initial rejection by network executives. Lynch reworked the narrative, blending mystery, surrealism, and psychological depth to craft a cinematic masterpiece. Mulholland Drive premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in May 2001, where Lynch received the Best Director award, marking a significant milestone in his career.

Set in Los Angeles, the film delves into themes of identity, ambition, and the dark underbelly of Hollywood. Naomi Watts, in her breakthrough role, delivered a mesmerizing performance as Betty Elms, a hopeful actress entangled in a web of intrigue. Laura Elena Harring portrayed Rita, a woman with amnesia, whose enigmatic presence drives much of the plot’s mystery. Lynch’s direction, combined with Angelo Badalamenti’s haunting score, created a dreamlike atmosphere that captivated audiences and critics alike. The film's nonlinear storytelling and surreal elements became defining characteristics, solidifying Lynch's reputation as a visionary filmmaker.

Following its release, Mulholland Drive garnered critical acclaim and multiple awards, including an Academy Award nomination for Best Director. It has since been celebrated as a cinematic masterpiece, ranking on numerous lists of the greatest films of all time. The collaboration between Lynch, Watts, and Harring became a cultural touchstone, embodying the essence of avant-garde cinema. The 2001 premiere marked the beginning of the film’s enduring legacy, as it continues to inspire filmmakers and audiences with its enigmatic brilliance and exploration of the subconscious mind.

via The Shrouded Past

[lynxfrost13]

SKYWINGS

PHYSICAL TRAITS

Skywings are the biggest dragon breed due to their great height and additional wingspan. Tall and lanky, these dragons are accustomed to life at high altitudes, with many living in mountainsides and other rock faces. Their wings and claws are built for gripping the rough stone of their homeland. Skywings have an incredibly strong grip that is also very effective when hunting prey.

At the base of the skywing skull is where the main horns grow, with a base growth plate being protected by an upturned part of the skull. From this original plate horn segments will grow off of the base or each other with age. Skywing horns never stop growing until death. Additional facial horns grow in a similar fashion as the skywing matures, with hatchlings displaying bumps where the most prominent horns will come in. With age these dragons tend to grow more elaborate scale patterns and horns, with chin spikes/ridges, eyebrow, and cheek ridges being the most common.

As hatchlings, skywings have no underbelly scales, and the scales they do possess on their backs are incredibly soft and flexible. Hatchlings break out of their well protected shells with an egg tooth that falls off a few days after they break free, and it’s typical for heavier facial ridges to develop where the egg tooth was. Skywing hatchlings cannot produce fire of any sort until they reach a few years of age, around when their scales harden and fill in the underbelly area (roughly 3-4 years).

The fire produced by skywings is the hottest of any dragon breed, which could cause serious damage to any dragon’s body due to the heat. To combat this, skywings evolved to have cooling vents on their necks. Several flexible scale plates can open up along each side as the dragon breathes fire, allowing for excess heat and pressure to escape without harming the dragon. To help cool their mouths, skywings also have two additional sets of “nostrils” that serve the same purpose. Despite the common misconception, skywings cannot smell from these sets of nostrils, and their overall sense of smell is average.

CUSTOMS

Skywings have a huge culture around the upkeep of their horns, since they never stop growing they do need maintenance. What began as simple horn trimming ages ago grew into much more. Skywings style their horns in various different ways, and trends in style pop up here and there. Horn painting and carving is common, but there are a wide variety of modifications that skywings apply to them as well. Jewelry is popular, but draping horn jewelry tends to be avoided since it can be a hassle in the air. Overall jewelry and body decoration is incredibly popular, with skywings using light metals, beads, and fabrics in everyday wear.

Skywing cities are situated in cliff faces or mountainsides. These cities hold huge terraced gardens, ensuring that their citizens have a local spot to gather food. It’s also common for most skywing homes to have their own personal gardens, whether decorative or for additional food. These cities tend to have few walls, they’re not needed due to natural protections such as the altitude and surrounding mountains. The Sky Palace was the only city to be heavily fortified under Queen Scarlet, while the rest remained as they were. The openness of skywing cities has also made the ones along the borders into large trading hubs with lots of intermingling.

Skywings refuse to eat birds of prey out of a deep respect for them, as well as a belief that when a skywing dies, the part of them that remains on earth becomes one of those birds. To honor their memory, skywings hold an annual weeklong celebration in the spring, celebrating the births of new hatchlings (both dragon and avian) where they compete in racing games and the like. Their love of festivities has led to them adopting from mudwing culture, and in recent years they have even begun to adopt their own version of the bard, which is more focused on the storytelling aspect rather than the history.

[synokoria]

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!!! Whether you celebrate or not, here's hoping you've had a good year and wishing you a better upcoming one!!

These images are sneak peaks at images from the upcoming Christmas Otome Fan Book (that we hoped to have finished this year but that's clearly not happening so ...)

As a special treat here's a an unedited extra related to everyone's favourite eccentric doctor from Christmas Otome for anyone interested in reading that:

I glanced at my watch in irritation as I made my way towards paeds. There was still an hour before midnight, but if he wasn’t here then I wouldn’t have time to check anywhere else. Why couldn’t he just stay at home? No, that’s a stupid question - when had he ever made my life easy?

???: “Cantankerous old codger.”

I felt my lips pulling into a fond smile at the thought of him. I’d only been gone for a month but it felt like longer - probably because he couldn’t be bothered to return my calls or texts. He really could turn sulking into an olympic sport. My smile froze the moment I saw him swaying to the festive music coming out of the hospital speakers while belting out the lyrics and stopping only to take large gulps out of a vodka bottle. He hadn’t noticed me yet thanks to my position and I spent a moment just drinking in the sight and his melodious voice.

It was only the reminder of my deadline that had me clapping to get his attention before he could launch into another song. The speed at which he spun around wide-eyed would have been comical if he hadn’t almost toppled over in the process. I was by his side helping him stay up before I’d even registered I’d moved.

Shippe: “You?”

???: “Merry Christmas to you too, Shippe.”

He shrugged my hands off and plopped himself into a nearby seat looking for all the world more like a petulant teenager than a distinguished doctor. I ignored his show of pique and sat down beside him - after decades in his company this was par for the course, really. I took the bottle from his hands and gulped down a swallow only to choke on the unexpected taste. I glared at him through my coughs while he stared at me like I was an idiot.

Shippe: "It's just water."

???: "Why's it in a vodka bottle?!"

Shippe: "It's more fun that way."

That statement was so - so him that I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. God, I’d missed this screwball. He looked away uncomfortably.

Shippe: “Why are you here?”

???: “You know why I’m here - you weren’t at home. Why are *you* here?"

Shippe: "There was no reason to go home."

???: "I'm not a reason to come home?"

Shippe: "You weren't home."

???: "You knew I was coming back to spend Christmas with you."

Shippe: "How was I supposed to know that?"

The sentimental answer was that I always have and always will but I knew that wouldn't be enough for him so I used the practical one instead.

???: "The same way you always do - you check my bills, you phone airlines pretending to be me confirming my return date, you hack my email account. You psycho."

Shippe: "..."

???: "You're telling me you didn't?"

Shippe: "..."

???: "Why?! The one time I expected it of you and you-"

He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing erratically.

Shippe: "I was afraid of the answer."

The vulnerability openly showcased by that admission stunned me. This was a person who preferred to hide behind wordplay and sarcastic jokes, not one that would willingly show his soft underbelly.

???: "You… You had to know I would come back to you."

Shippe: "You went to visit your family without me."

I remembered, then, that we'd argued about it, but then we'd always argued about these sorts of things. It really hadn't struck me as anything out of the ordinary at the time.

???: “I always visit them without you - you hate my family gatherings. You once likened it to giving yourself a lobotomy with a rusty spoon.”

Shippe: “It really does feel like that. Your dad-”

There it was - the jokes he used when things became too emotional. Was he really this bothered by it? Why? As much as I wanted to push the subject, I knew that wasn’t the way to deal with this - not yet anyway.

???: "Your team said you spent your entire vacation time pretty much haunting the hospital."

Shippe: "... I need to assign them more work if all they do is tattle to mommy."

???: "Shippe."

Shippe: "There was work to be done."

???: "There's always work to be done; it's a hospital. You were supposed to be on leave."

Shippe: "I was on leave."

???: "... You do understand that being on leave means *not* taking on new cases, right?"

Shippe: “Well, what was I supposed to do for a whole month then? You weren’t around.”

???: “Okay, I’ll concede that you don’t actually have many hobbies outside of work but you could have gone home at least once. I left you frozen meals in the freezer and the answering machine is pretty much full with messages from me.”

Shippe: “... ”

I waited for an answer - he might have been stubborn but so was I.

Shippe: "I was afraid to find out you'd moved out."

???: “Why would I move out?! I pay the bond! I'd kick you out!”

Shippe: "You're too soft to leave me on the streets even if I deserve worse than that after the things I said."

I tamped down on the urge to tell him that he didn't deserve to be alone; all that would do is make him try to prove me wrong - to push and push the boundaries until something makes me hate him as much as he thinks I should. It wouldn't even be a conscious decision on his part - just his brilliant contrary mind gnawing on what he sees as a fallacious statement.

???: "Since when has this been about what you deserve?"

He made a surprised sound. Good. Any deviation from the script he's spent our time apart simulating in his head was a step closer to bringing him out of the pit he's dug.

???: "I stay because it makes me happy. I can leave you at any time."

Shippe: "No, you can't."

My lips twitched at his automatic response. He'd hate it if he ever realised how much insight our years together have given me into his contrary mind.

I doubled down on my chosen course.

???: "I absolutely can leave. I just don't want to."

Shippe: "No. You -"

There it is - that spark of clarity as he's forced to analyse why he's so certain I can't leave.

Shippe: "You're just as dependent on me as I am on you. I'm the only one you're comfortable enough to be real with instead of putting up that saintly act."

Codependence wasn't the way I'd have chosen to put it but he'd shy away from anything more sentimental.

???: "Is that so?"

Shippe: "It is. I'm your safe space."

'My home - the one place I will always return to - where I can be my truest self' is how I would have phrased it, but he's not wrong.

He leaned his head against my shoulder, seeming a lot more tired now, like he'd taken off a great weight and could finally rest.

Shippe: "You missed the Christmas party. You would have loved it - I had the nurses dress up as Mrs Claus."

???: "I saw the photos in the staff chat. That outfit of yours was something."

Shippe: "I knew you'd enjoy that. Weirdo."

I might not be able to see his face but the grin in his voice was unmistakable.

???: "We're both weirdos."

Even this standing Christmas 'date' of ours seemed to highlight that. After all, neither of us even celebrated the holiday.

But this was just us and I wouldn't have it any other way.

[mcalli-fr]

My Trickmurk Haul

I managed a lot this Trickmurk. I am officially completely fucking broke. No money in my Vault and 30kt to my name.

Gene projects completed:

Fully regened Clan Leader. Speckle/Stripes/Circuit > Soil/Trail/Underbelly

Finished my Pastel Aether pair (both Twinkle/Flicker/Underbelly, all 6 genes, 2 breed change scrolls)

Finished my Eldritch Undertides (Both Soil/Blend/Runes, all six genes, used my Clanbound Undertide scrolls from ages ago. Algae had Silhouette Scroll applied already when purchased)

Finished my Stormcloud Auraboa (Mochulus/Flair/Paradise, Mochulus/Flair/Capsule. All six gene genes, two breed change scrolls)

Bought and completely remade Shadow Knight (Banescale > Ribbon/Cinder/Underbelly Ridgeback)

Completely remade my Triple Orca (Bogsneak > Ribbon/Cinder/Ringlets Dusthide)

Finished my Two Handed Gatekeepers (all six genes, 2 breed change scrolls, one silhouette scroll, reflection scroll was a gift)

Misc Accomplishments/Projects started but unfinished:

2 Lair expansions, now at 115 total Lair slots 2 HibDen Tabs purchased for further organizing Bought Giraffe for Tafii Bought Everlux scrolls for Quizzical and Karale Wrote lore on all HibDen tabs Put intro and info in Clan Profile (non lore) Bought Project: Shores Bought breeding pair: Goal is White/White/Spruce Bought Winter Scene/Vista before the season changes Bought nearly every Trickmurk skin Bought all Festival Items + 3 Trickmurk scrolls Wrote lore for Mandrik Began lore for the Gatekeepers

I think that's everything. This has probably been my most successful holiday in terms of the sheer amount of use I got out of the amount of treasure I've been saving. I used Trickmurk for its discounts from start to finish and now I'm finally broke. Time to start over.

[xandriagreat]

The Snow Dragon Snake | Chapter 1

Prologue | Last chapter | Next chapter

Author’s note: I am SO sorry that I haven’t updated this story. I have been busy the past few of weeks.

Notice/warnings: sneaking, magic, hitting/knocking out, crying, threats, lying (for a good reason)

▪▪▪

Inside the castle of Los Arenelle, in the evening, 7 year old Prince Mason “Moe” Clawson was playing with his friends; 8 year old Prince Cedric and 4 year old Princess Florence Lights, the prince and princess of the Northern Kingdom.

They’re visiting with their parents for the festival that happened today.

The princess and two princes were playing in the hallways, chasing each other as they talked about what they saw at the festival.

They were already in their sleep clothes ready for bed.

“The festival was a lot of fun!” Florence said with a giggle.

“I enjoyed it.” Cedric said, “I liked the flowers, food, dancing, and the history play.”

“I enjoy all of those too!” Moe said with a smile, laughing softly.

Then the young wolf prince looked at his friends while they played

Cedric has golden pale scales and white underbelly. On the center of his forehead was his magicmark. It was a snowflake.

Florence has golden yellow scales and has spot-like-freckles that were shaped like small suns on her face.

As they continued to go down the hall, they went past the conference room, where parents were talking with each other.

They heard the dragon snake siblings’ parents from the other side of the door, asking, “Arranged marriage?”

The three friends stopped and looked at each other before walking over to the door to listen in on the conversation. Before they could hear anything more, Gwen Redd, one of the servants, walked over to them.

“There you three are.” Gwen said as she walked over to them.

The princess and two princes looked at her and waved at her. “Hi, Gwen.” Moe said while the siblings said “Hello, Ms. Redd.”

Gwen smiled softly at them when she got to them. “It’s time for bed.”

The princess and two princes pouted. “Aw…” they said together but nodded, start to follow her to guide them to their rooms.

◇

It was almost an hour and a half, and Moe was still awake.

The festival earlier was so much fun and exciting that the young wolf still had some excitement and some energy from the festival earlier, wanting to play with his friends.

So, he got out of bed quietly and sneaked out of his room, quietly going down the hallway to the guest room where Cedric was sleeping.

Moe quietly opened the door and went into the room, looking at his sleeping friend.

Cedric was sleeping peacefully in his bed, a small smile on his face.

Moe looked at Cedric and quietly went to his bed, a big smile on his face. “Ce-ce! Wake up!” Moe said, jumping on Cedric’s bed and shaking his friend awake. 

Cedric woke up and looked at Moe with a tired deadpan look. “Moe, go back to sleep.” Cedric grumbled tiredly.

Moe pouted at that. “But Ce-ce! I’m still awake from excitement! So we have to play!” Moe said dramatically, flopping on Cedric, who was unbothered by this.

“Then go play by yourself.” Cedric mumbled sleepy, carefully and tiredly pushing Moe off himself and off his bed.

Moe landed on the floor with a quiet thump. “Ow. I'm ok.”

The young dragon snake hummed as he was about to go to sleep.

The wolf pup just lays on the floor, staring at the ceiling as he starts to think of a plan to get his friend out of bed and play. 

He gasped excitedly when he got an idea. 

Then the wolf pup got back on top of the bed, flopping onto the half asleep young dragon snake again.

“Do you want to build a Snowman?” he asked mischievously with a smug look.

Cedric fully woke up and looked at Moe with the same smug look before nodding. “Alright, you got me.” he said, before getting up.

Moe smiled big and clapped softly before getting off the bed and then he paused. “Should we wake up Florence?” he asked, looking at Cedric.

Cedric shook his head as he got out of bed. “No. She’s normally a deep sleeper.” 

“Ah, I see.” Moe hummed, nodding. 

Then both princes smiled at each other before going to get ready to play.

𖤓◇

Cedric and Moe giggled quietly as they quietly went down the hallways and quickly went to the ballroom. 

Moe was wearing winter boots and a winter coat over his sleep clothes while Cedric just had a night robe over his sleep clothes.

When they got to the hallway of the ballroom doors, a guard turned around the corner and spotted them.

The two princes jumped when seeing the guard, starting to panic.

“Uh-! Hi?” Moe started, waving awkwardly at the guard. “I can explain!”

The guard walked over to them, taking off the helmet, revealing it to be Misty Luggins, the captain’s teen daughter. “Prince Mason? Prince Cedric?” Misty asked, looking at the both of them. “What are you two doing up late?”

“Oh! Misty!” Moe and Cedric exclaimed as they looked up at the young guard. “We- uh… Play?” the both of them looked at each other, trying to come up with something. 

The young guard got to the two young princes, who stared at her with nervousness as she knelt down to be at their level. 

Then Misty smiled softly at them. “If I let you both go and let you do what you’re planning to do, I won't tell on you both if you both don't tell on me.” she said quietly to them. “Sounds like a deal?”

Moe and Cedric looked at each other before looking at her and nodded with a smile.

Misty stood up and then put a finger to her lips, as if to say ‘Shh, it’s a secret’.

Moe put a finger to his lips while Cedric put his tail to his lips, showing that they got it.

Misty chuckled softly, put her helmet on and she turned around, walking away and leaving the hallway.

Moe and Cedric start to giggle again as they go to the ballroom doors, quietly opening the doors.

Cedric and Moe entered the ballroom, still giggling quietly as they closed the doors and went to the center of the room.

“Do your magic! Do your magic! Please!” Moe giggled, holding Cedric’s tail for a moment before letting go.

Cedric laughs and starts waving his tail a bit, summoning his magic. Then snowflakes suddenly burst forth and dance on his tail, forming a small snowball. 

Moe’s eyes widened and shined when seeing the small magic snowball.

“Ready?” Cedric asks the wolf pup with a chuckle.

Moe looked at the young dragon snake and nodded excitedly.

Then Cedric throws the snowball high into the air. The snowball bursts out and snow flurries around the room. 

“This is amazing!!!” Moe exclaimed excitedly, dancing about as he caught some flakes with his paws.

“Watch this.” Cedric said with a smile. Then he stomps tail and a layer of ice suddenly coats the ballroom floor, forming a giant ice rink. 

Moe starts to slide on the ice, laughing as he moves on the ice.

That made Cedric chuckle softly and gently pull Moe, skating with him.

When all the falling snow was on the ground, the two young princes started to play in the snow. 

Moe and Cedric skated around the ballroom, threw snowballs at each other, and slid down snow banks together.

Then they start to build an anthro animal snowman. They made an anthro snow-piranha when they were done.

Cedric went behind the snow-piranha, putting a blanket over the shoulders like a cape before dropping down out of sight, which confused Moe.

“Hi, I’m Pepe!” Cedric said in a silly accent voice, almost giving the snow-piranha its voice. “I like warm hugs!”

That made Moe giggle and hug the snow-piranha. “I love you, Pepe!” he exclaimed happily, gently nuzzling the snow-piranha.

Both princes giggled and took a bit of a break of playing. They laid down on the snow, looking at the ceiling.

“Your powers are really awesome, Ce-ce.” Moe said, looking at Cedric. 

“You think so?” Cedric asked, looking back at Moe.

“Yep!” Moe said with a giggle, sitting up while still looking at his friend. “You can make it snow anytime you like! Like… If you’re in the mood of building a snowman, you can make it snow and build one instead of waiting until winter or going somewhere that’s cold and far from home.”

Cedric thought for a moment before humming and nodding in agreement. “I see your point.” he said, sitting up right.

Then Cedric looked at himself before looking at some of the snow banks and then using his magic turning some of them to tall snow peaks.

“What are you doing?” Moe asked curiously, tilting his head to the side.

Cedric looked at his friend when he was done turning snow banks into tall snow peaks. “I’m just setting up some target practice for me to practice my snow and ice powers. Since I’ve been told to practice my powers when using my powers.” Cedric explained, pointing at the new snow peaks before making some small ice orbs. “Want to help me set up?” he asked, picking up a few of the ice orbs

Moe nodded excitedly and got up to go over to help by picking up the last few of the small ice orbs.

The two princes continued to play in the magic snow by carefully climbing up the snow peaks and placing the ice orbs on them before carefully sliding down.

They were giggling when it was all set and ready.

Then Cedric starts practicing his powers by shooting out his ice and snow powers, knocking one of the ice orbs off one of the snow peaks.

While Cedric was very focused on practicing, Moe noticed that one of the ice orbs slid down off the snow peak. 

The wolf pup walked to it and picked it up, looking at the snow peak it once was on. 

It was one of the taller ones.

“Hm…” he hummed softly to himself before starting to climb up the snow peak.

Cedric knocked off a few more ice orbs with his powers and was now looking if there were any more left. He noticed that an ice orb appeared on the tallest snow peak.

Believing that he can knock it, Cedric flicked his tail a few times to warm up a bit before summoning his magic up again. “Hey Moe! Watch this!” Cedric calls out with a big smile, letting out a big icy blast of his magic to knock the orb. But then his smile faded and eyes widened in fear when seeing Moe pop up on the snow peak, holding the orb in one paw.

Moe looked around to see what his friend wanted him to see and then all of a sudden-

SMACK!

Cedric's magic accidentally strikes Moe on the left side of his head. 

Moe yelped as he tumbles down the snowbank and lands in the pile of snow.

Cedric stared in shock at what he just did to his friend with his powers. 

Then he snapped out of it.

“MASON! NO!” Cedric screamed, quickly slivering over to where Moe landed and pulled him out of the snow.

Moe was unconscious when Cedric pulled him out of the snow. “Mason?” Cedric asked worriedly as checked on him.

Then Cedric gasped when seeing where the part of the magic struck on Moe’s head as a small streak of Moe’s fur turned white. It went over both his left eyebrow and eye, like a scar.

Cedric didn’t know what to do and started to cry loudly. “MOTHER! FATHER! SOMEONE! HELP!” Cedric cried, holding his friend close.

As Cedric cries, the snow peaks collapse onto each other and the ice on the floor becomes thicker as the room gets a bit colder.

Then the ballroom doors burst open and Cedric looked up to see King Marcc and Queen Estelle, his parents, along with King Vincent and Queen Lilith, Moe’s parents.

“Cedric! What happened?” Estelle asked, worriedly as the four grown ups quickly went to the young princes.

Cedric was trying to stop crying, when the grown ups got over to them. “We were playing and… It was an accident…” Cedric said, tears still running down his face. Then he looked at his unconscious friend. “I’m sorry, Moe…”

Lilith quickly took Moe away from Cedric, holding her son close and looking at him. “He's ice cold!” she gasped, looking at her husband.

Vincent was in shock before he slowly looked at Cedric, anger flames in his eyes. “What have you done?!” he shouted at Cedric, growling as he showed his sharp teeth.

Cedric started to cry more. “I’m sorry!” he cries in fear, curling up.

Estelle held Cedric, comforting him. “It’s ok, Cedric.” she reassured him, gently rubbing his back.

While Estelle comforted her son, Lilith and Vincent looked at Marcc as he slithered to them.

“Let me see him.” Marcc said to them. “I can remove most of the magic, even memories of magic to be safe…”

“What? Why not remove all of it?!” Lilith asked angrily, holding her son close.

Marcc looked at her with a glare but calmly replied, “I can remove most of it because the magic that hit your son is from a snow dragon snake, not a mystic dragon snake.”

Lilith and Vincent stared at him before letting him look at Moe.

Marcc carefully took Moe from them and gently laid him on the snow before looking at his son and asking, “Did he get hurt anywhere else or just the head?” 

Cedric couldn’t speak, so he shook his head and tapped his own head as he clinged to Estelle.

Marcc nodded in understanding and then looked at Moe. Then Marcc started to chant a spell, his golden yellow scales turned and glowed a dark mystic blue, as he put his tail over the wolf pup and started healing him the best he could. When he was done chanting, the dark mystic blue faded back the normal golden yellow.

“I’ve done what I can to heal him. To be safe, I even removed the memories of magic and changed them a bit to be safe… But don't worry, I made sure he remembers the fun. He just won’t remember this night.” Marcc explained

Cedric slowly slithered over to Marcc, looking at Moe.

Moe looked like he was sleeping and he had a small smile. He still had the small white streak over his left eyebrow and eye.

Cedric frowns sadly as he looks up at Marcc. “He won't remember what my powers are?” he asked, worried.

Marcc looked down at Cedric and nodded. “Yes. But the original memories will return to him again, one day.”

Cedric was about to slither to Moe but stopped when Lilith quickly picked up Moe and held him close, glaring at Cedric. “You’re not going to touch him, you monster!” Lilith growled.

Cedric whimpers in fear, slowly back away before quickly slithering out of the room. 

“Cedric!” Marcc and Estelle called out after him.

𖤓

Cedric was in one of the Los Arenelle castle’s dungeon cells, hiding.

It was a full wall to wall stone cell with a big metal door. There wasn’t much in there but two metal benches, some chains that connect to the floor, and a cell window where you can see the water of the fjord and see the ships coming in and out.

Cedric laid on one bench, curled up as he tried to calm down.

He was alone there for a while until he heard the cell door open and Estelle saying, “There you are, Snowflake.”

Cedric lifted up his head and looked over to see Estelle at the open door, slither over to him.

“Is Moe ok? Did I ruin everything?” Cedric asked as he sniffed, curling up a bit more. “Did I break the alliance of our kingdoms?”

Estelle looked as she sat down next to him on the bench. “Yes, Moe is ok. He’s still sleeping, now in his room. No, you didn’t ruin everything or break the alliance of the kingdoms.” she reassured him, comfort in her voice as she shook her head. “What was said from Lilith and Vinncet to you was very wrong and shouldn’t have been said.”

Cedric stares at her for a moment before looking down, still feeling bad for what happened.

Estelle looked at him before asking, “Want to talk about what happened?”

Cedric was quiet, unsure of how to explain what happened.

“It’s ok if you’re not ready to talk about it.” Estelle reassured him again, about to put her tail on his back to rub it.

Cedric quickly moved away from being touched, not wanting to hurt anyone.

Estelle frowned sadly at him as she slowly retracted her tail from him. Then she took something out of one of her dress pockets.

Cedric looked over to see that his mother pulled out a white rectangle glove size box. “What’s in the box?” he asked, looking at the box and his mother.

“It’s something for you. It will help you.” Estelle said, smiling softly at her son.

Cedric looked at the box, reaching out to open it but hestiants and retracted his tail. “Can you open it for me? Please?” Cedric asked, looking at Estelle.

His mother nodded and opened the box, showing a light blue tail glove with some red lining.

Cedric tilted his head to the side, confused, when seeing the tail glove before looking at Estelle as if she could explain it.

“This glove will help you. It will help you keep calm when wearing it, along with your powers.” Estelle explains, gently picking up the glove. “It will help you practice being calm with your powers.” Then she looked at her son and asked, “Want to try it on?”

Slowly, Cedric nodded and offered his tail to his mother.

Estelle gently slips the glove onto Cedric’s tail and gently pats it.

Cedic started to feel a bit calmer when feeling the glove on his tail. He took in a calming breath and sighed, “Thank you, Mother.”

Estelle chuckled softly and gently rubbed his back with her tail. “Now then, want to leave the cell?” she asked, putting the box back in her pocket and getting off the bench.

Cedric thought for a moment before nodding, getting off the bench.

The both of them slithered out of the dungeon and down the hallway.

At one point, Cedric asked, “Mother, do I have to wear glove all the time?”

“No. You can have it off when you’re in your room or practicing your magic.” Estelle answered “But one day you will have the glove off when you stand before your people when you are crowned king. Understand?”

Cedric nodded as he looked at her.

"One question, Cedric. Did anyone see both of you before you two played?" Estelle asked as they continued to go down the halls.

Cedric thought for a moment before shaking his head and said, "No."

As they were about to pass the ballroom, which still had some snow, they heard a young voice shout, “SNOW!!!” and then a loud PLOP!

Estelle and Cedric looked in the ballroom to see Florence playing in the snow.

She was giggling and having fun, her small suns shaped freckles glowed as some warmth started to come into the room from her power, melting the snow.

Cedric and Estelle couldn’t help but chuckle softly at Florence playing.

Meanwhile in the conference room, Marcc was talking with Vincent about what happened.

“Marccus! Your son almost killed my son!” Vincent shouted Marcc, anger in his voice.

Marcc looked at Vincent as he continued to sit down in one of the chairs, his face calm but there was some anger in his eyes.

“It was an accident. Also, be glad that it was the head, not the heart.” Marcc explained calmly, being reasonable.

Vincent glared at Marcc, bearing his teeth as he growled.

“Your son better control his powers or this alliance is over!” Vincent warned with a growl.

Marcc looked at Vincent with a deadpan look. “We will make sure that Cedric practices his magic so this won’t happen again.” Marrc explained, a deadpan look still on his face. “But if we break the alliance, Los Arenelle will be at risk from the plagues and deadly illnesses that are now happening.” Then Vincent’s anger faded into fear as Marcc smirked a bit and asked, “Do you want that to happen?”

“No…” Vincent said, shaking his head.

Marrc hummed and nodded, still smirking. He was about to get out of his seat but then stopped when Vincent started, “Alright… But you need to do something.”

“What is it?” Marrc asked, unsure and feeling a bit uneasy.

Vincent looked down at him and said, “I want you to do your magic, make everyone of Los Arenelle forget that your son has the powers to do an ethereal winter.”

Marcc was surprised and worried by this. “What you’re requesting of me is that you want me to use my magic on everyone of Los Arenelle, almost millions of people, so they forget that my son has snow and ice powers?” he asked, worried in his voice.

Vincent started to smile darkly and nodded. “Yes. But I don’t want to forget what happened.” Vincent added, a growl in his voice.

Marcc stared at him with worry for a moment before sighing and having a stone cold look on his face. “Alright… I'll do it. I'll just need to go to the tallest tower and do the spell up there to make sure I get everyone. But I will need some food when I'm done.” he said as he got out of his seat.

“Why?” Vincent asked, confused.

“To eat. Sometimes, when Dragon Snakes do some big magic like what you requested, their energy gets drained and sometimes Dragon Snakes either just be hungry or very tired, close to passing out.” Marcc explained, adjusting his black cloak over gray robes before slithering out of the conference room.

▪︎▪︎▪︎

Tag list (if you want to be tagged, please let me know): @mslack69058

[eddie-redmayne-italian-blog]

New Article Interview!!

Tonys Roundtable: Rachel McAdams, Kelli O’Hara, Leslie Odom Jr., Sarah Paulson, Daniel Radcliffe and Eddie Redmayne on Broadway Paths, Parts and Pet Peeves

The talented sextet — nominated for 'Mary Jane,' 'Days of Wine and Roses,' 'Purlie Victorious,' 'Appropriate,' 'Merrily We Roll Along' and 'Cabaret,' respectively — sat down with THR ahead of the 77th Tony Awards.

BY SCOTT FEINBERG

Ph. JESSE ILAN KORNBLUTH

Eddie, you grew up in England but made it to New York when you were still very young… EDDIE REDMAYNE I was a kid of the ’80s in London, which meant the mega-musicals were a massive deal — the [Andrew] Lloyd Webbers and the [Alain] Boubil and [Claude-Michel] Schonbergs. The first theater I saw — I was aged about 7 — was Cats, and I remember the sets, these gigantic tomato ketchup things, and then it would turn in the round, and then suddenly cats appeared at my feet and scared the living daylights out of me. And I was completely seduced. PAULSON That’ll do it. REDMAYNE Exactly, some ’80s leotards and some cracking songs — talking of which, Cats: The Jellicle Ball is about to start here! PAULSON Sign me up — to watch it! [Laughs.] REDMAYNE But I remember, I instinctively just loved it so much. My parents, for my birthday, would take me to see one of these shows, and — this is slightly embarrassing to admit — I remember I would weep at the interval because I knew I only had half of it left. As far as New York was concerned? We were brought up on American culture, so seeing this city, it was the zenith of aspiration. When I came in my early teens or whatever, I remember coming to Broadway, and to this day, as we walk on the way to work from the subway, you walk past Times Square, and it just has this thing, doesn’t it? It’s electric, and it’s vibrant, and it never loses that “Come on in!” Its pulse is pulling you in. And so yeah, it was always something that I aspired to.

Eddie, in Cabaret you play The Emcee at the Kit Kat Club in Berlin as the Nazis come to power. The show has been around since 1966, and the film version came out in 1972, but your version is, from what I’ve gathered, very deliberately different than prior incarnations with Joel Grey, Alan Cumming and others. And you have your own long history with it… REDMAYNE I played The Emcee when I was about 15 years old at school — which feels a bit inappropriate now, I think. I didn’t know Cabaret when I first did it, so I watched the film and listened to all the recordings and was just stunned by it. It seduced me. It moved me. It made me laugh, and it made me think, “That’s what I dream of when I go to the theater.” And even though I didn’t necessarily understand all those things when I was a kid, it really stuck with me. Then, I did it again at the Edinburgh Festival when I was about 19 in a production in this grimy venue; we were out flyering every day trying to persuade people to come to the festival dressed in latex and PVC, and then at night we would do the show at 8:00 in the evening, and it would finish at 11:00, and then we’d have half an hour and do another show. And then the people who created that venue at the Edinburgh Festival — they’re called The Underbelly, and it became their business, these site-specific comedy shows — became really successful in London. About nine years ago, they asked me, “Would you ever consider doing this again?” And since then I’d seen every production of Cabaret that I could touch. I saw the Sam Mendes production in Barcelona, in Spanish; I’d seen Alan do it with Emma Stone so stunningly here; I’ve seen the Rufus Norris production; and I just love it. So, when they approached me about doing it, I thought, “I would love to, but only if we’re going to do something that hasn’t been seen or a new take on it.” And I’d just seen this production of Summer and Smoke in London, directed by Rebecca Frecknall, that had blown my mind — it was so poised, and it was stunningly designed by a guy called Tom Scott — so I went and spoke to Frecks and she said, “I’d love to do it.” But at this point, we didn’t have the rights. It’s impossible to get the rights to Cabaret — everyone dreams of doing it! So it became one of those pipe dreams that was never going to happen. But, even at that stage, we wanted to do it site-specific, so we’d found this old music hall in London underneath a train station in Angel, which basically now looked like a concrete car park in the shape of the Globe Theatre, and we thought, “If we could take people down fire escapes, and then the show could turn into Bergheim afterward and into a club, could that be interesting?” Then COVID happened. Afterward, the producers, ATG, who had jumped on board, said, “Look, we’ve got all these theaters that have been sitting empty. Could we ever take the experiential idea of taking an audience to an evening where, once they step over the threshold, they pass dancers and musicians and get discombobulated into a world where, by the time they reach the show proper, they’ve left all their troubles behind?” And I’ve always loved the backstage of theaters and seeing the grime and the grot behind the presentation. So that’s what we dug into.

And on Broadway, you guys basically invite people to arrive at 6:45 p.m. for what you call a prologue, and for over an hour before you ever show up onstage, bars are open and dancers are dancing and a whole vibe is created — it’s really its own show. REDMAYNE The dancers are extraordinary. Our choreographer, Julia Cheng, comes from a clubbing background, so one of the things we’re trying to do with the show is, although it’s very specifically set in its period, the echoes are so tangible now, and so the dance vocabulary is from waacking, from voguing, from contemporary club culture in the same way as the costumes. We’re not going, “This happened then; it can never happen again.” The costumes refer to contemporary fashions. There aren’t lots of Nazis in Nazi uniforms. It’s all trying to go, “Wait. There are regressions, things that we’ve talked about now, powers and rights being taken away and pulled back, and the loss of individuality.” Hopefully, the evening makes you think.

REDMAYNE I certainly agree with you about the physical costs. What I find interesting about doing Cabaret in the musical theater world is it demands a different set of skills that I’ve not necessarily harbored all my life and trained all my life. And whilst I look forward to serving this extraordinary piece every night, I’m filled with fear of whether technically I’m going to be capable to serve that. My wife, as I was having a complete meltdown in the lead-up to doing this, was back in London and reading Andre Agassi’s memoir [Open] — O’HARA Oh, it’s the best memoir! REDMAYNE And there’s a passage in it in which he talks about going to a musical on Broadway and how he relates to musical theater people because it’s that monastic, athletic living of having to eat, sleep and breathe something. My wife was sending it to me basically going, “Come on, you’re like Agassi!” But I’ve found that nothing upsets me more than when I have to go onstage to serve this stunning score in this extraordinary part in a beautiful — or I hope it’s a beautiful — production, and you are worried that you don’t have the facility to serve it to its full potential.

Does your ability to handle the demands of these parts vary depending on specific days of the week?

PAULSON Can I ask a question? Does anybody else loathe when people come on a Tuesday?

MCADAMS Yes!

PAULSON I hate the Tuesday show! When you come to see me on a Tuesday, I am so upset. People are like, “Lady, this was the time I could come…”

I would have assumed that on Tuesday, having had Monday off, you’re at your freshest…

O’HARA No. You’re not warm.

PAULSON A Tuesday, to me, I just feel like I’m finding my sea legs for the first 20 minutes of the play.

MCADAMS Yeah, you only had one day off, but it feels like a month.

O’HARA Tuesday’s not a good day. Don’t come on Tuesday.

REDMAYNE Guys! We need people to come on Tuesdays! [laughs and then jokingly continues] It’s my favorite night of the week!

RADCLIFFE It could go either way. It either feels like, “Oh, I’m back and I feel fresh,” or “I feel like I’ve never done the show before.”

Right. When I saw that, and ever since, I have said, “This is the greatest voice I’ve ever heard.” It was a great show. But it didn’t last very long. You never know what goes into these things — I read something where Leslie said that if Hamilton had come along five years earlier, who knows if even it would’ve clicked. It may be about just catching the zeitgeist. So I just wonder the degree to which you guys think about these things…

ODOM I’d love to hear you [O’Hara] talk about it because I —

O’HARA Why? Because this one closed too? [Laughs]

ODOM When I came to see you guys, man, did I love it so much.

O’HARA Listen, this musical was about alcoholism. Deep, dark alcoholism. And a love story, but riddled with this third player, right? So it wasn’t for everybody. I knew that it wasn’t the most commercial thing. It was an art piece, and I was so proud of that, actually. And we’re lucky that it had a space on Broadway for even a minute. But what killed me is that I felt like the population that needed it — us all being the daughter or having had that mother or knowing that father or whatever it was — I was worried that we hadn’t reached them. I sometimes worry that the business can be very formulaic, especially in how we sell things. And I was concerned that we weren’t reaching the audience, the whole new generation of sober-curious people, and people that don’t usually come to theater, or whole organizations that thrive and survive on sobriety or that need to have the conversation constantly or to see themselves in a story.

We were being told to sell it as a love story. We were deceiving people as they walked in the door, and I’m saying this out loud because it was one of the most painful parts of the process for me — to be doing that much, to be giving that much of my heart, and being so satisfied by the performance, and then I would literally have someone every single night come and see it and say, “Oh, I had no idea it was about alcoholism.” I jumped back on social media when we got the closing notice and started trying to promote the show, sweating, just to get more people in front of this beautiful piece of work. And I felt sad and angry because there was a time when that wasn’t your job as much; your job was to do eight shows a week with all your heart. But it felt like, “Gosh, I should have been more of an influencer. I should have been having things on the sidewalk [like Hamilton did].” And I started to get desperate because when you work on something for 20 years, and you know how special it is… But then you have to check yourself and say, “It’s special to me, and that doesn’t always translate to special to the larger community.” But it’s painful. When you’re in something that means the world to you, and it’s closing, it’s heartbreaking because it feels like a death.

REDMAYNE There’s something interesting that I’ve noticed, and that’s the extraordinary difference between doing a commercial play in the West End and on Broadway. The idea of grosses being announced and your makeup artist knowing them every Tuesday and telling you? In London, I had no idea. But here, as a producer on Cabaret as well, I had to say, in the producer meetings, “I’ll sit on all the calls, but I don’t want to know.”

With our remaining time, I’m going to give a few prompts and ask you to say the first thing that comes to your mind. To begin with: Excluding family, whose attendance at one of the performances of your show has meant the most to you?

PAULSON Laurie Metcalf.

RADCLIFFE Martin Short.

REDMAYNE Joel Grey.

MCADAMS Linda Maskell, my high school drama teacher — the reason I’m here.

ODOM Kathleen Battle came to our last performance, and I fell on the floor.

What’s the most unusual thing in your dressing room?

RADCLIFFE A small plastic basketball hoop that was left by Alex Edelman, who was in the show before ours. He said, “Do you want to keep it?” I was like, “Yeah, obviously!”

PAULSON I had a fan send me what looks like a taxidermy dog that is an identical replica of my dog. Everyone walks in the room, and they’re like, “Your dog is so calm!” I was like, “This is not a real dog.”

REDMAYNE Mine is something that looks like a loaf of really soft white bread, but it’s a stress ball. It was given to me by Jamie, who does my wigs. One day I was so in tears that she was like, “Eddie, you need some anger bread.”

What’s the most annoying thing that audiences, or at least some members thereof, are doing these days?

ODOM The cell phone thing. We had one crazy show where we had three or four cell phones going off. When you hear the first one, you should think, “Oh, shoot, let me actually turn mine off.” But there was a second one. And a third one. And it was in the first 20 minutes of the show. And so I did have to stop the show and say, “There’s grace in this moment. There’s amnesty. Let’s really do it [turn off all phones].”

PAULSON Good for you. God, I love that you did that. There is this thing of, “Let’s just be here together, all of us. You do your part. I’ll do mine.” I do feel like there is an alchemy every night, depending on what the audience is bringing and what we’re bringing.

O’HARA Oh, sure. They’re the final collaborator.

PAULSON Yes, they are the final collaborator.

MCADAMS I think people don’t realize that. I think they think you can’t even see them. I thought I wouldn’t be able to see them, but I can see everything. I can see when you’re sleeping. I can see you when you open your phone to see what time it is.

PAULSON I think the most annoying new thing that’s happening is everyone seems to have their cell phone in their lap, and so there’s all the phones dropping on the floor. And at the Helen Hayes, where we started, there’s no carpet, and so it would just be like [makes clanking noise]. Now, at the Belasco, you just hear this dull thud onto a carpet.

Eddie, there’s a lot of people that are getting smashed at your show, right? Is that an issue?

REDMAYNE “Come to Cabaret and get smashed!”

O’HARA “Especially on Tuesdays!”

REDMAYNE We do have a few vocal people. There was a moment last night when Gayle [Rankin, Redmayne’s Tony-nominated co-star], who is extraordinary in the show, was singing “Mein Herr,” and she got to that bit, “And I do, what I do, and I’m through, toodle-oo” — and literally there was a woman like, “Oh, my gosh, I love the ‘toodle-oo’!” [Laughs.] So occasionally, you get a good vocal Cabaret support.

MCADAMS Just a question. I remember someone — was it Jack White? — was asking people at concerts to put their phones in lockers or something. Has that happened on Broadway?

PAULSON They did it during Take Me Out because of the nudity. They did that. So, I know it can be done, and I would love to know why we don’t just do it. Just put your phone in a cubbyhole —

MCADAMS We’ll charge it for you.

PAULSON Would that be some cost-prohibitive thing to implement?

RADCLIFFE At Merrily, it’s been OK. I think being in a musical covers a lot — I’m sure stuff’s happening during those songs, but I can’t hear it. But since we’re here, my two favorites: On Equus, there was seating onstage, and I was onstage the whole time, and if I wasn’t in the scene I would just go back to sit on one of these four blocks — it was supposed to be my room at the hospital. And there was one night when I got to my block in the first scene that I wasn’t in, and two girls in the seats just started talking to me, just full voice, while Richard Griffiths and Kate Mulgrew were doing a scene behind me, just going, “Dan! Dan! Look up here!” It carried on through the whole first act. And then I was like, “I don’t need them to leave. But can they just go into the main auditorium so that they’re not just trying to speak to me through the show?” And then my other favorite audience member? I was doing Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in London, and this dude came in, sat down, and, through Josh McGuire’s first monologue as Guildenstern, which is incredibly complicated, took out a footlong sandwich, wrapped in tin foil, unwrapped the whole thing, ate it in its entirety and fell asleep for the rest of the first act. But then in the second act, he was the most attentive audience member — jumped up at the end and clapped. I wanted to be like, “Wait, did you have a good time?” “Yeah. I had a dinner, had a sleep and saw half of a great show.”

If you could snap your fingers and make it so, what would be the ideal number of performances your show would offer per week?

RADCLIFFE I don’t want to make myself unpopular, but I like the grind.

ODOM I mean, listen, the ideal would be six, right? Six or seven.

PAULSON I think the Wednesday matinee is the one I would chuck. Because when you start the Tuesday week, and then you’ve got that matinee right away? I would like to do seven with no Wednesday mat.

O’HARA I would do anything to have two days in a row off.

REDMAYNE When you get two days off, your voice can really recover.

MCADAMS Oh, fuck that Tuesday show. [Laughs.] To get the Sunday or the Sunday night-Monday-Tuesday stretch off — I mean, I might actually leave the city and go somewhere where there’s nature.

Last one. If you could play any role on the stage that you have not played before — somebody’s listening — what would it be?

PAULSON I would like to do The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?

REDMAYNE Oh! Which I would love to see you in. That was the first play I ever did in London, and you would be magnificent in that part.

RADCLIFFE I’ll know it when I see it.

REDMAYNE I’m exactly the same. I’m much better when people tell me which part I should play.

ODOM Someday — and it ain’t soon — I want to do Lear.

And the Purlie musical maybe still?

ODOM It could happen.

Rachel? Are you going to come back for more after this?

MCADAMS Not next year! [Laughs.] I would love to star in any musical, but that will never happen. So this is just all pipe dreams. But yeah, anywhere I could sing. I started out doing Disney musicals at theater camp, and I was so bad that the teacher said to me, “You know, you might be really good in the Shakespeare camp,” and sent me on my way, and it was devastating. But it was the right thing in the end.

full interview here!!

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/lifestyle/arts/tony-nominations-roundtable-rachel-mcadams-daniel-radcliffe-eddie-redmayne-1235918192/