#verdant tea gardens

[modeus-the-misanthrope]

Thinking about post-ending Wounded Wild, where she has her own treant body and stuff.

A Verdant Wild, if you would. I could imagine her being very solemn and quiet. She doesn't leave her area of the Vessels living area unless directly request to by LQ or Shifty. If you visit her she is a good host, sits you down on a small tea table in her garden, drinks a cup with you but lets you do the majority of the talking. She also has a habit of leaning down to better speak people eye to eye, leaving people unaware of how tall she truly is at full height.

Anyone who upsets her can swear you can just FEEL the dissapointment and irritation radiating off of her, despite her having not said a single word. Alternatively her demeanor when she is calm/content is almost therapeutically soothing. The corners of her eyes and mouth have wrinkles on them, and her laugh sounds tired but grateful. Never wears makeup, and her hair is oftem unbrushed, but she retains a sense of almost ethereal beauty.

[veronicaphoenix]

the unmaking of a warrior | part four

Home wasn't a place. Home was Noah.

“Nobody touches him” I declared as Ren approached Noah. Every single person present understood that I referred to my soldier—not my father’s, not the kingdom’s. Noah was my soldier. Mine. 

Pairing: samurai/ronin!noah x fem. reader

Chapter tags: royal family drama, tension from beginning to end, blade to throat, a princess defying the rules and putting her Samurai before anything else, angst/anxiety, comfort, kisses under the rain, and sexual content (bathtub sex, p in v, unprotected).

Words: 8.6k

Cross-posted on AO3. 

THE UNMAKING OF A WARRIOR 

PART IV

The maid adjusted the folds of my kimono, and a sigh escaped my lips, showing my discomfort at the tight garment. The clothing was a delicate piece in white and beige silk, adorned with exquisite embroidery. All of it seemed to tighten around me, emphasizing the weight of the anticipation at whatever that was going on. 

I didn’t know what we were getting ready for. The day had begun with my mother paying an unexpected visit early in the morning. She was followed by two maids. Her orders had been clear, and the two young women directed their efforts toward preparing me for an undisclosed event in the gardens of the castle within the next two hours. Every one of my questions regarding the upheaval that was going on inside the castle’s walls was ignored, and my mother’s silence only made my disquiet grow.  

Something was going on. She refused to offer any solace to her daughter, and the look on her face was fiercer than any time she had looked at me before. Desperation for answers led me to implore the maids, yet the women remained as quiet as usual, and their responses were shrouded in secrecy. The whole situation was exasperating. 

As the final knot of the obi was secured around my waist, the second maid attended  to my hair. With practiced hands, she wove a braid, gathering it into a bun secured at the nape of my neck, each tug of the comb and placement of the clips pulling at me and my anxiety. 

Whatever this was, it was important. This meticulous preparation and ordeal were only reserved for special occasions.  

There was a knock on the door an hour and a half later. My mother was back.  

The knocking was a deviation from my mother’s accustomed assertiveness. She was used to entering rooms without a second to think. Her entrance into rooms was typically devoid of hesitation, an expectation that mirrored her commanding presence. For her, everything was as she wanted it to be, and no one should be doing anything that would beunexpected or uncomfortable to see. 

“Your father is waiting,” she announced with an unwavering tone. 

The maids, standing silently behind me, clasped their hands at the front in display of deference. I took one last glance at them over my shoulder before exiting the room, trailing behind my mother.  

We left the opulent confines of the castle, entering the sprawling garden. The landscape of my father’s grounds boasted in a harmonious blend of Sakura trees, their delicate blossoms painting a serene tableau against the verdant backdrop and the awaiting event that was about to take place. Bushes adorned with fragrant blooms lined the pathways, weaving an aromatic tapestry that had been meticulous taken care of, for this was a sanctuary. The distant quarters of the samurai, marked by austere yet dignified structures, loomed like guardians on the horizon. Memories from last night flooded my mind. Noah’s katana blade at my throat, the drops of water covering his shoulders, the scent of the tea, the passion of each one of his kisses, his fear… The air resonated with the quietude of the Samurai training grounds as we slowly approached, accompanied by four maids and flanked by the soldiers delegated to the castle. The Samurai training grounds were occupied by dozens of soldiers, all of them standing in position. Customary fervor was replaced by an eerie stillness. In regimented rows, the samurai stood facing my father, their imposing figures frozen in a posture of reverence. 

As we drew nearer, it became apparent that my father's gaze was fixed upon a focal point amidst the tranquil assembly. A profound hush pervaded the air, heightening the anticipation as we approached the enigmatic scene at the heart of the grounds.

My father was standing in front of his army and his people, with his back to us. His gaze was fixed on something—or rather, someone close to his feet. Standing at his side but keeping a smart distance was Ren, who looked at me with disappointment, something that I had never seen before. His parents were behind him, also flanked by two huge Samurai. 

My heart pounded with dread as I approached the scene, and the source of my anguish came into view. 

Noah was on his knees before my father, his face down and his wrists tied at the front with a rope. 

A visceral scream tore from my throat before I could reach him. The agony in my voice echoing through the space. 

Even as I lunged towards Noah, two soldiers seized my arms with an iron grip. I fought against their restraint, my screams of protest reverberating through the air. 

In that moment, Noah’s eyes met mine, a silent plea for understanding and rescue at the same time. My father, seemingly unperturbed by the chaos, spoke with an unsettling calmness. 

“My dear, I was waiting for you,” he stated, his composure a stark contrast to my escalating anxiety, fear, and desperation. 

How dare he address me so casually when Noah knelt before him, hands bound on his lap? 

The realization struck me like a blow, crystallizing the horrifying truth: this was a meticulously orchestrated setup. The entire castle, from soldiers to maids, and even onlookers from the nearby towns, knew there would be a tragedy unfolding that day. My threats had meant nothing to the soldiers at my door the previous night. The moment I left the premises in the dark, they had informed my father.

"You can't do this! You can't!" I shouted, my protests fueled not only by the desperate love for Noah but also by the glaring injustice of my father's actions, which strayed far from any semblance of honor or adherence to codes and rules. Instead, he wielded his power with impunity, exploiting his privileged position to mete out punishment as he saw fit. His disregard for ethics gnawed at the core of my being, amplifying the urgency of my resistance against the unfolding event.

“This is my castle, my dear daughter, and these are my soldiers. There are rules, a code they must follow and honor, and those who deviate must face consequences. Today, we gather here so that you can be reminded of these principles, in case you forgot,” he shot me a glance. The rest of his words were directed to the audience. To Noah. “What you are about to witness is a lesson that everyone should internalize. Each person must understand their place,” he declared, chin up. His words were a chilling reminder of the authority he wielded within the confines of the fortress and even beyond, and a reminder that his most formidable swordsman and his daughter had committed a crime. 

A heavy silence hung in the air. I was aware that everyone, from my parents to Ren and his, were aware of why Noah was on his knees. The vast square's collective gaze bore down on us, and even those who hadn't heard the words could intuit the gravity of the situation by observing Noah on the ground and my visceral reaction.

In that moment, I should have felt embarrassed, sorry and remorseful for what I had done. I had engaged in an affair with my father’s most skilled soldier. I had been sleeping with him since I was of age. I had let him touch me in ways that would scandalize the country, allowed him to taste me… 

But such sentiments eluded me, for my composition differed from that of my parents and the assembly. My bones were crafted from the same resilient substance as Noah's.

As the soldiers tightened their grip on me, pain shot through my body, but I refused to yield. With watery eyes, I pleaded for mercy. "It was my fault. Leave him," I uttered, my voice fractured but resolute. Every fiber of my being strained towards Noah, a magnetic force compelling our connection.

Yet, my father's unwavering gaze communicated a stark truth–once the Bushido, the code of the samurai, was broken, there existed no easy path to restoration. The solemn acknowledgment in his eyes extinguished the flicker of hope for salvaging Noah from the impending consequences. The inevitable unraveling of honor and tradition rendered my efforts futile, leaving me entangled in a web of power and consequence within the very walls I called home.

“The man who kneels before me has lost his honor to a crime that has no name,” my father, the Shogun, proclaimed for everyone to hear. “We gather here this morning to bear witness to the Seppuku of this fallen soldier.”

A wave of dread washed over me, and my eyes widened in horror. No! I wanted to scream, but my voice lodged in my throat, stifled by the haunting images that clouded my mind.

Seppuku, the ritual of self-sacrifice, loomed over Noah like a malevolent specter. His hands were bound, and in a matter of agonizing minutes, my father would thrust a dagger into his hands, compelling him to inflict a fatal wound upon himself.

Though we had braced ourselves for the unexpected, this scenario had not been part of our contingency plans. Uncertainty gripped me as I trembled, contemplating Noah's impending future. The severity of the situation clawed at my every thought, leaving me paralyzed in the face of a horrifying fate.

I looked at him with desperate, pleading eyes, silently urging him to resist.

Resist. Don’t do it. We fight together. There’s no me without you. And if you fall, I’ll do so by your side. 

There was no fear on his eyes. Perhaps because as a Samurai he had been training to reconcile with the prospect of this inevitable end if he was ever to dishonor the Bushido. And he had dishonored it years ago. It dawned on me that he might have been coming to terms with the idea of this fate for a long time, a truth he had chosen to withhold from me.

Things were happening too fast, and we had fallen into a trap assuming that time would wait for us. 

My gaze moved to my mother, seeking for help, but the determination in her expression offered no comfort. There was nothing she would do for a fallen soldier. For an immoral daughter. I had disgraced her and the whole family, all our history brought down by one act. 

Love.

I glanced at Ren, hoping for a shred of support, only to be met with a chilling stare that told me how furious he was at me. I had chosen a Samurai over a prince. I had chosen Noah over him. My attention, though, was abruptly diverted as my eyes fell to the second katana he held in his hand. 

I would recognize those cord wraps and that saya anywhere. 

It was Noah’s katana. 

How dare he? 

The sight of it in another man’s hands ignited the fire that had been waiting to be set free inside of me. 

I was disarmed too, like Noah, and I was retained, but I was smart, and no one expected me to be so in such an emotional situation. 

My father signaled to one of the soldiers closest to him, a mere inclination of his head setting the soldier in motion. He advanced towards Noah, carrying a long dagger that was ceremoniously placed on the cold concrete before him. 

“Soldier, you are expected to do the honorable thing now. Honor the code. One more time. The last time. Cleanse yourself,” my father intoned, the weight of his words echoing through the tense air. 

My heart threatened to escape my chest as I shifted my gaze between Noah, my father, and my mother, seeking a glint of help, of hope. Noah’s eyes were on the dagger. I needed him to look at me, to tell me something. I needed a sign. 

Then he looked up. His chin lifted with a resolute grit that mirrored the fire in his eyes, the same strength and determination they had had the night before when he had told me to meet in the forest entry at midnight. 

There it was. 

I let my muscles relax for a second. The soldiers grip loosened and that was my cue. With deliberate intent, I propelled myself forward, taking two long, quick, and purposeful strides toward my father.  

In a heartbeat, I reached for the handle of his katana, securely sheathed at his waist. With a deft motion, I unsheathed the blade, the crisp and metallic sound from the friction between the blade and the inside of the scabbard echoing. The sword wind cutting through the air enveloped me, filling my ears as I pressed the blade against my father’s neck.

The world around me froze, and despite the soldiers positioning their swords menacingly at my back, a fiery determination blazed in my eyes. The tears that threatened to spill were gone, replaced by an unyielding resolve. 

Meanwhile, Noah had risen from the ground, standing tall beside me. I could feel the energy emanating from him—concern, fear, but also the bravery and resolve of a Samurai. One that was about to let that name go. 

“Father, I will not hesitate.”

He uttered my name very slowly, a warning tinged with fear in his voice. Raising a hand to signal the soldiers to stand down, my father was faced with a critical decision. 

Truth was that I didn’t know how this would unfold. Noah and I could either get away or end up dead. I didn’t know how far my parents were willing to go in order to save their daughter. 

“The man you forced to kneel is the one that owns my heart,” I declared. “I love him, father, and nothing will deter me from finding this life by his side.” My throat was dry, and I was scared that my next words would shake. “I did not want it to be like this, but I am afraid there is no other option now. You either let him, and me, go, or I rather face death alongside him.” 

“My daughter…” His words were stained with shock, pain, and anger, a mix that didn’t startle me. There was no space for it in that critical moment. I couldn’t let emotions get the best of me. I had chosen Noah long ago and I wouldn’t hesitate now. 

“I will not apologize,” I sentenced.

His eyes held mine for seconds before shifting to Noah, his oh-so-admired soldier. One of the youngest and most skilled swordsmen in his kingdom’s army. He’d had so many expectations from him…. Everything shed to pieces now. 

Father signaled something to him. 

With his hands bound, Noah deftly grabbed the dagger in front of him and skillfully cut through the ropes that kept his wrists tied. 

“You,” I motioned sharply at Ren, who still stood in position, his stance showing his readiness to strike. When my voice—and tone—reached him, shock changed his face. The blade of my father’s katana remained poised at my father’s neck, forbidding him from turning around and locking gazes with Ren. “Return what does not belong to you. Do not hand it to him,” I ordered. “Leave it at his feet.” 

I saw Ren’s anger and shame revealing on his face. He would never forgive me for that, but I had no need for his forgiveness. I didn’t need it, didn’t want it. In my mind, this marked the end of any future encounters with him—at least, that’s what I thought. We had never had a future. 

“Nobody touches him” I declared as Ren approached Noah. Every single person present understood that I referred to my soldier—not my father’s, not the kingdom’s. Noah was my soldier. Mine. 

I noticed Ren’s hesitancy as he shared a look with Noah. There was an entire book written in the eyes of these two men. When I bore my fiery eyes on Ren’s back, he bent down on one knee, placing Noah’s katana at his feet. Then, he retreated, eyes fixed at his front. I would never know if he was more enraged at the fact that I chose a Samurai over him or that I made him get on his knees before Noah in front of his parents and mine, in front of the entire kingdom. 

Turning my attention back to my father, I warned, “If you attempt to end his life, if you end his life, I will ensure that mine ends with him.”

Both him and my mother comprehended the weight of my words.

Do you want to lose a daughter? Your only daughter?

A sense of relief washed over me as I discerned a certain understanding in my father's eyes, as if he acknowledged now that, one way or another, he was going to lose his daughter that day, either at the hands of his soldiers, or at the hands of just one of them. My soldier. However, my mother was not willing to let me go, and she commanded the soldiers to restrain me. My father quickly intervened to signal the soldiers to stand still.

Only then did I withdraw the blade from his neck, letting his katana clatter onto the concrete. Taking a step back, I drew closer to Noah, feeling his towering presence at my back.

My father's jaw tightened, revealing the restraints he struggled with. "If you set foot outside the castle's premises, you know the implications you will be laden with," he warned, a hint of hope lacing his tone and eyes, as if he believed that a few more words could dissuade me from leaving with Noah.

Redemption might be a possibility for me if we gave up, but not for Noah. I rejected this inequality. Our positions in the hierarchy held no legitimacy in my eyes, and I refused to tread any path that wouldn't place us on equal ground.

"I know very well," I replied with conviction. "I grew up within these walls. I am very well acquainted with every rule."

"Yet, you broke the most important one," my father lamented.

"There's nothing greater worth sacrificing for than this."

In that moment, I gripped Noah’s hand. The squeeze he gave me made every doubt, every fear, disappear from my body for a second. 

As I began to turn around, heading towards the exit with all eyes fixed on Noah and me, my mother's voice pierced through the tension. Her strides carried her past my father, and even with anger simmering within her, her poise remained unbroken. She was the epitome of a perfect queen, a stark contrast to her little princess who had veered off her path.

"You're putting the family's name to shame," she accused.

Well aware, I thought, resisting the urge to vocalize it. No need to add more fuel to the fire.

I caught her quick glance at Noah, who, over his shoulder, met her gaze.

"You're disgracing the entire family for a man who does not deserve your company."

"What do you know about what he deserves? Have you even stopped to consider that every other person under your social status is also human? No, you haven't, which says a lot for a Queen." Noah squeezed my hand intensely, but the words in my chest refused to be silenced. "Are you ashamed of me? Are you ashamed that the princess fell in love with a Samurai?"

"He is not a Samurai anymore," she replied, her delicate chin held high. 

I sensed Noah tensing at my side.

"Answer me, mother."

It took her a while, but she finally did. "Yes, I am ashamed of you."

"Good, then I will have no problem getting rid of my title. I do not want to be a princess anymore. I never wanted to be."

Her expression fell. 

With that, I turned decisively, walking away for once and for all, Noah's hand firmly clasped in mine. A shiver ran up my spine at the fear that someone might unleash their disappointment and rage upon us before reaching the outside.

But nothing happened.

Father remained silent; an acknowledgment taken from my part that meant that this was far from over. He was allowing his most prized soldier to go, to escape—the same soldier who had stolen his daughter, the princess, and he was doing so without shedding a single drop of blood. 

There would be blood, but not for at least twenty-four hours. 

I knew to decipher the language of my father’s eyes. There had been an understanding there that this temporary retrieve was not an exoneration. I was young, but not naïve enough to think that I would have a fairytale ending with Noah. 

The entire kingdom was aware of our crime. Our love. They saw us depart unscathed, unpunished. 

My father could not afford to let his army, his people, believe that the code of honor could be flouted without consequence, and that anyone could enter the family and take away anyone from the royal family. 

There would be repercussions, justice against our crime. 

Silence enveloped us as we stepped beyond the fortress, leaving our honor and the lives we once knew behind. From this point forward, our commitment to honor would only uphold to each other.

The night hung heavy and cloaked in darkness, with clouds veiling the moon above us and the gentle night breeze caressing our skin.

I stood on top of a three-story building in a town not far enough from the castle, taking in the vast expanse around us.  

We had been walking for hours, hiding under the trees on the way, behind walls, scaling buildings to avoid the throngs of people crowding in the streets. As night fell, we sought refuge in the corners of yet another town in hopes that we wouldn’t get caught and taken back to the castle. 

If I turned around, I could see its looming silhouette in the distance, calling to me, calling me to come back home. 

Yet, home wasn’t a place. 

Home was Noah. 

Stepping out of the castle unharmed had been far from a victory. For Noah and me, it had been a respite to prove our strength and resilience towards each other. For my father, it had been an opportunity to spare my life. He gave me a chance, but I was meant to fight for it. It was a strategic move.

He allowed us to leave, a fragile grace, but in a few hours my father, the Shogun, would give green light for his army and any willing pursuers to hunt us down, drag us back to the castle, and impose whatever punishment he deemed fitting.

Not that we would let it happen.

As I stood on the rooftop facing the ends of the city below, with the cold air wrapping around me, I wondered what was ahead. I was aware that with every step we took away from the castle we were one step deeper into danger, where the odds were stacked against us, and the only certainty was that we would be fighting side by side.  

We hadn’t planned this, and we were now navigating our lives with improvisation. One thing was clear, though—we had to move as far away as possible from my father’s kingdom. We had to disappear. 

But my legs and feet hurt. I was cold, hungry, and thirsty. We hadn’t eaten anything since morning, and it had been three hours since we found water by one of the rivers we crossed. I thought I would feel a shot of freedom when the truth of Noah and me would be out, but instead, I felt more trapped than ever, and I felt lost. 

Noah’s fingers delicately grazed the side of my neck, moving the strands of hair that had fallen from the bun aside. It had been hours since I stopped looking like a pretty princess. My court dress was no longer a twelve layers piece. I had removed as many as I could to be able to move freely as we covered ground, not thinking that come night I would feel cold. The hairstyle that the maids had worked so hard on was now a mere average bun that I’d had to redo many times along the way. My skin was covered in sweat, and my lips were dry. His palm cradled my nape, then I felt his cheek on my hair. A moment later, his chin rested gently on top of my head, his hands providing a comforting presence on my shoulders. 

I shivered, his touch always eliciting that response. 

“We can’t stay here,” he whispered. “We have to move.” 

I nodded, acknowledging how imperative it was that we escaped the vulnerabilities of our current location. We needed to reach the mountains and leave the kingdom. 

“There’s a place we can go,” I suggested, attempting to give ourselves a note of hope as I turned to face him. The lines on his face were accentuated under the moonlight. He looked tired. He shook his head as he knew what place I had in mind. 

“It’s the first place they’re going to be looking for,” he claimed.

“Not if she’s in the village house. Nobody knows the exact location of that house except for me—and you. If she isn’t there, we will find a way to break in. We can spend the night there and decide what we will do come morning.”

Noah just hummed, holding my gaze until he agreed. We didn’t have many other options. We could keep moving until we were far, but we needed to eat and rest, and that wouldn’t be easy if we stayed on the streets. 

After we traced a quick plan on how to get there, we started moving again, finding our way through the connected rooftops of the buildings and houses, jumping back to the ground and ushering through shadows and against the wind, following each other’s steps and keeping up with each other’s heartbeat. 

Not thirty minutes into the night, the first drop of rain fell on my face. I looked up to the dark sky. The dark clouds threatening to cover the moon and leaving us defenseless. 

I stood like that for a minute. Noah tugged at my sleeve when he noticed I wasn’t moving, and when I lowered my head, he couldn’t decipher if the water running down my cheeks was the rain or my own tears. 

He watched me intently for a moment, his features turning into ones constrained in pain and fear. A second later, his long strides brought him back to me. He grabbed my face in his big hands and his mouth descended into mine. I melted into him, and I let him restore me. 

“I will fight until my last breath for this,” he muttered into my mouth. 

My breath caught up in my throat. I pulled at the chest sleeve of his black kimono and brought him in to seal our constant promise with another kiss.

After he asked me if I was good to continue and I nodded, we resumed our journey. We weren’t far now, but we had a long stride of path among a forest that wouldn’t provide any light. The clouds and the dense canopy of the trees were not friendly tonight. They knew we had gone against our fate, and they were angry. Or so I thought. 

Five minutes into the path, the trees seemed to open to provide some clearing, and the clouds dissipated right where the moon stood. 

Noah and I were already drenched, our boots covered in mud, our clothes heavy, but we could see the small village where my Grandma’s little house awaited. 

We shared one look, Noah’s lips tugging at one side, hinting a smile, a ray of hope. 

I was too tired to run, so we walked until we stood in front of my Grandma’s gate. 

From the outside, it looked like another typical Japanese village home, its façade embodying tranquility with a touch of minimalism. Green bushes here and there and a magnificent Sakura tree standing sentinel by the main gate. However, this quaint exterior concealed the secrets of my encounters with Noah—the innocent touches we had shared and that turned out into something more, the kisses, the pleasure we had poured into each other… and also the smiles, the laughs, our care and worry for each other, and the small gifts that Noah used to leave on the pillow come morning, reminders of his presence by my side during the night. 

I was just concerned about one thing: my grandmother. As we approached the entrance under the veil of rain, the dim glow of a streetlamp casting a soft illumination, I considered the only two fates we could face in the next two minutes: Either she would deny entry to Noah and report us to my father, or she would usher us in, becoming complicit the moment she chose to shield our transgressions. 

I shared one last look with Noah before I took a deep breath under the rain, my attention wavering momentarily to the façade of the house, its features softened by the ambient rainfall. I pressed the doorbell. 

A part of me expected her to be in her main house, in the city, though the likelihood was slim. Since the passing of Grandpa, she had been staying in the village house more frequently, embellishing in her solitude, in the only place where she had ever been happy. 

The distant clicks of locks being undone reverberated through the air. A cautious voice, carried by the wind, emanated from the entrance door to the gate in the garden. 

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Grandma,” I announced, rising my voice just a little. There were other houses next to and in front of her, so discretion was paramount. 

Grandma said my name in a questioning tone.

“I need your help,” I added, the rain intensifying the weight of my plea. 

The gate opened, revealing Grandma silhouetted in the darkness, shielded beneath a black umbrella. Her discerning gaze shifted between Noah and me—two young people; a princess and a Samurai, soaked and weary from the rain, a silent plea etched in their drenched appearance. 

We bowed our heads.

There was no need for me to explain. She knew. Of course she knew. Her eyes lingered on Noah, until I extricated my hand from the sleeve of my kimono and grabbed Noah’s, stating that he was the choice I would always take, whether someone would help me or not. 

Grandma, still as I’ve ever seen her, stepped aside. She let us in and subtly closed the door behind us. 

In the entryway, we took off our waterlogged boots. We didn’t say anything. We waited in the quiet space like two scared kids until Grandma’s presence guided us without the need for words. She gestured towards our clothes after taking us all in under the light in the house. We must have looked terrible in her eyes, not only due to our appearance but because of what we had done. 

Without preamble, she instructed us to get cleaned up and dry, her voice low and calm. She would leave a pile of clothes that we could change into by the door of the bedroom I occupied whenever I stayed there with her. 

We walked upstairs, her small figure close behind, and she vanished briefly as Noah followed me into the bedroom only to return promptly with some old clothes in hand. She left them on top of the vanity and retreated, only stopping for two seconds to indicate that one of us could use the shower in the bathroom at the end of the corridor. 

She slid the doors shut, leaving us alone. 

No words passed between Noah and me. As we stood there, Noah strangely out of place. Exhaustion was evident in both our postures, and yet he took charge. He guided me to the cushioned stool by the vanity, insisting that I sit. Fatigue settled into my bones, making compliance an easy choice. Noah knelt in front of me, and with utmost tenderness, his hands started massaging my feet. When I made mention that I’d do the same for him, he shook his head. 

“I’m used to journeys like this. My feet are fine.”

“But it would bring you some relief,” I insisted. 

“Not today,” he replied, a small smile playing on his lips as his fingers expertly worked on the tired muscles of my feet. “You need to change out of these clothes, have something to eat, and sleep. Or you’re going to faint.”

My shoulders sagged. He was right. While we were there, I would rejoice in the fact that I had him all to myself and that he was offering to relieve some of my pain and distress because I was aware that once the sun rose, we would be out on the run again, and I needed to be in peak condition to keep pace with him. No matter how much training I had endured and how much Noah himself had trained me; I was still a princess, raised as one, an my stamina paled in comparison to that of a Samurai like him. 

“Did you ever want this life?” I suddenly inquired. Noah lifted his eyes and looked at me from under his eyelashes, trying to decipher my expression and the motive of my question. “As a Samurai?” I specified. 

I knew Noah had been born in a family with a longstanding Samurai lineage, but like me, we’re not always content with the life that’s given to us. As a child, I thought my princess existence was perfect, surrounded by servants and having every wish fulfilled at a moment’s notice. Until I saw the Samurai training grounds from up-close for the first time, and laid eyes on the boy sparring in the center of it. That day, I learnt from my mother about the rigid social class restrictions surrounding our world. No one was allowed to marry someone from a different status, much less one below yours. My perfect life fell apart. I wanted Noah, and I couldn’t have him. 

He took a few seconds to reply, finishing his task on my left foot before shifting to the right. He placed it on his knee and said, “I wanted it for as long as I thought there was no other life. Then I saw you in the castle gardens when you were eight. I saw you growing up. I saw your smile every chance we crossed paths. I knew that smile was only for me, and I knew there was another life, then.”  

It pained me every time I thought that I had put Noah into this mess, that I had made him fall for me. No matter how many times he told me that it wasn’t like that. Despite his reassurances, my heart ached because all I wanted for him was happiness, and maybe he was truly happy with me, but were the implications and dangers that came with it worth it?

As if he could read my thoughts, he spoke, “I don’t regret a single moment that has brought us here.” 

He didn’t need to reassure me and yet, hearing his words poured liquid relief through my body. He kissed me, cupping my cheek. I held back a tear and I kissed him back, feeling the wet strands of his hair slip between my fingers when I cradled his face in my hands.

Assisting me to my feet, Noah gently guided me toward the bathroom where the water had been running and filling the bathtub. Shedding my wet clothes, I left them carelessly piled on the floor, indifferent to the possibility of never seeing them again. I had to remember to pride myself on for managing to make it so far from the castle grounds wearing that. 

I stood naked in front of the bathtub, my long, wet hair falling over my chest. The rhythmic drumming of raindrops on the rooftop lent a ceremonious tranquility to the room. I stared at my moving reflection in the water until it vanished beneath the growing bubbles.  

Noah’s fingers traced the contours of my lower back and encircled my waist, silently urging me to get in the water, worried that I might catch a cold if I continued to stand there, naked and damp. 

Still wearing most of his clothes, he took my hand and helped me in the bathtub. 

My hand tightened on his when as he attempted to withdraw, and I pleaded. 

“Please, be with me.”

A flicker of concern crossed his features. His eyes never fell from my face even though I was naked—a testament to the self-control ingrained in the warrior he was, the lessons learnt retained even after he had let go of the title of a Samurai.

“We’re not alone.”

“It never stopped you before,” I countered. 

“She knows we’re here,” he whispered, his face stern. While I understood he wanted to be respectful, I couldn’t help but stand firm on the belief that we were beyond the need for such decorum. 

His thumb stroked the palm of my hand. 

“It’s just me and you in this room,” I replied. 

My pleading eyes? He could never win a battle against those. 

He undressed quietly, placing his clothes atop mine. 

I waited by standing in the bathtub, letting the warmth from the lavender-scented water start soothing my feet and swollen ankles. Once naked, Noah approached the bathtub and stepped in, positioning himself at my back. He lowered himself down, bending his legs because they were too big to fit in the tub. His hands touched the sides of my thighs, a cue for me to lower myself, too. I would be safe there, in the relieving water, under the foam and bubbles, in his arms. 

I sank myself down until the water and bubbles enveloped my chest. I settled against Noah, his arms quickly coming around me and grazing my stomach. It took me some time, but eventually, I began to truly relax in the cocoon of warmth, bubbles, and the reassuring embrace of his arms. 

When I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, it felt as if an eternity had passed since the events from that morning.  

Feeling the weight of my body easing into a gentle descent, the tension in my shoulders surrendered to a much-needed respite. Noah’s fingers continued their dance on my skin, offering a soothing balm.

Soon enough, my head was laid against his shoulder, his lips grazing the skin on my cheek, the spot under my ear and my earlobe, his hands fondling my breasts in a delicate manner, his fingers tracing circles around my belly button, and then, moving south.

I gasped when he traced the first circle around my clit. 

“It’s just you and me in this room,” he repeated my words ever oh so quietly. “Focus on that. Just… feel me.”

I complied without a second thought. I needed to barricade the events of that morning for a while, at least while I was there in the water. I focused on the scent of the lavender soap, on the feeling of the warm water enveloping me, the floating sensation, and the masculine body behind me. His touch was making its way towards every corner of my body, soothing my skin by tracing caresses around my neck, down my chest, in my belly, my womb, and then below. 

Noah was probably battling against his own distress, but he was better than me at managing emotions, and perhaps this was for the benefit of both of us. We had made it to the village house. We were allowed a little breath before the knot was tied around our necks again. 

He worked me up so slowly. The touch of his fingers igniting a fire in my lower belly that only fueled up by the kisses he peppered down my neck and shoulder, his other hand holding my neck and guiding it towards him, forcing me to give him access. I moaned with my eyes close, giving in to him, the sounds coming from me camouflaged under the rain drops. One of his fingers slipped inside of me and I bit my lip. It was so slender and long that when he curled it and touched that spot inside of me that drove me insane, I startled, and some water overflowed from the bathtub. I heard him hum in my ear, and I felt his cock getting harder at my back. 

I was getting close, but a feeling of guilt washed over me, and I decided it wasn’t going to go like this. Struggling against him, I turned around until I could straddle him. He was surprised for two seconds. Quick enough, he understood what I was doing, and he grabbed my waist, helping me up to let me sink into his cock one inch at a time. 

I wrapped my arms around his neck and held onto him for dear life. His arms tightened around me, his face sunk in the space between my shoulder and neck, his moans swallowed by the skin on my clavicle. 

With our desperate motion, the water in the bathtub began to ripple and spill over, a minor detail we paid attention to. During those precious minutes, we clung to each other as though they were our lasts. The uncertainty of tomorrow hung over us, the future unknown. So, we held onto each other tightly, we kissed with raw emotion, our mouths crashing primally and in a sloppy way. Noah bit my lip and I sobbed against him. He was so hard inside of me that I wondered if he wasn’t just another part of me, an extension of my body and soul. 

“There, baby?”

I muffled a moan on his shoulder, the way he called me “baby” setting me free. 

I orgasmed around him, grabbing him and holding onto his shoulders as my hips jerked up against him. A seconds after, while I was coming down from my high, his hips snapped forward with a deadly pulse, his growls kept only for my ears. His fingers dipped into my hips, he lifted me up, slipping out of me, and he released into the water, wailing a contained growl that he struggled to keep low. 

My heart raced, the rapid beats echoing the anxiety that had been simmering within me. Before I knew it, tears streamed down my face, my neck seeking refuge in the curve of Noah’s embrace, arms tightly wound around him. 

He tightened his hold on me, one of his hands moving to my hair to smooth it down with consistent brushes. He encouraged me to let it out and I did but I felt somewhat stupid. Being a crybaby wouldn’t lead me anywhere. Noah, however, reassured me that we were allowed to be honest, to show how raw we felt. We had done something unpardonable; we had taken a decision that would change—that had changed our lives entirely. I could breakdown—in fact, he was expecting me to do so, to spill tears. He was there to catch me when I became vulnerable, and that didn’t make me any less of the strong woman he was proud of. 

I had feared losing him today. 

I had feared not feeling his dear, comforting gaze on me again, the hint of a smirk on his lips as we caught each other in the distance.

I had feared not being enveloped in his warrior arms again, in his masculine scent and warm. I had feared to never again share another night cocooned in the safety of his body, hearing his angelic voice luring me to sleep.  

But that fear didn’t hold victory yet, and I was being held by my soldier while the rain poured outside, our bodies connected in the most human and beautiful way possible. 

As my breath and composure returned, Noah gently moved strands of hair away from my face, studying me for a fleeting moment before pressing a tender kiss to the tip of my nose. Returning the gesture, I planted a lingering kiss on his wet lips.

Exiting the bathtub, now properly washed and dry, I settled into the stool positioned before the vanity mirror. Noah took it upon himself to untangle and brush my hair, despite my protestations that it wasn't necessary. He should take a breath himself, but he insisted on doing my hair, and so in the end I couldn’t deny him. 

I was still wrapped in a towel, but he was dressed in an old white shirt that had once belonged to my grandfather and that appeared oversized on him. You can just imagine how big my grandfather had been. The sweatpants were grey, and they were a bit short on Noah, given that in terms of height, he was way taller than my grandfather had been. 

Noah walked downstairs ahead of me to meet my grandma and present his gratitude for her generosity. When I stepped out of the room, covered only in long white socks from Grandma and a plain, short sleeping gown that she had kept from her younger years, I could hear their voices filtering through the thin walls and open doors. 

Grandma had prepared a pot of rice and soup. In the kitchen counter there were also a couple of plates filled with recently cut vegetables. 

“May I offer my help?” Noah asked. 

Grandma shot him a glance that implied any assistance he provided was likely a consequence of the trouble he had stirred. Nonetheless, she directed him to the boiling kettle and handed him two porcelain tea cups along with three small bamboo boxes containing tea leaves. 

He eyed them with curiosity. 

“There is no… Is there Jazmine tea? It’s her favorite.”

Grandma smiled warmly, then. She was so small next to Noah. She pointed towards a high cupboard and Noah opened it. With ease, he retrieved another tea box from within.  

“So, you do know my grandaudhther, I see.”

Noah’s confusion was evident. He was smart enough to remain quiet as the Midai spoke to him. Her husband, my grandfather, had been Noah’s father’s master before he passed away in the battlefield.

“A man that pays attention to details is a man to keep,” she told him, a playful, comforting smile on her lips as she continued busying herself. “However, the only help you can provide now is by taking care of her,” Grandma stated, settling the boiling soup in two separate bowls. She stopped to look up intently at him, her voice turning stern, somewhat worried, too. “She is a princess. She has always been. That should not change in your eyes even if she’s given up the title for you.”

“I do not take her for granted,” Noah said, his voice laced with determination. Not the one of a Samurai but of a man in love.  

“You’ve been in love with her since you were a kid, haven’t you?”

The question, accompanied by my grandmother's penetrating gaze, would have unsettled most men. Not Noah. He was not ashamed of his heart’s truth. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time he responded, I had made my way downstairs. I remained still in the corridor. From my vantage point in the distance, I could see Grandma’s features softening the more she looked into Noah’s brown eyes. 

“I remember how you used to look at her from the Samurai training grounds,” she continued. She stared at him as if she could travel back in time just by deepening her gaze into his orbs. “You still look at her the same way.” 

Her smile grew, as if a warmth had spread through her being. The revelation dawned on me: She had known all along. She had noticed the reciprocated interested between the kingdom’s princess and the highly skilled samurai long ago. Yet, she had chosen not to utter a word to me, never cautioning me to adhere to the kingdom’s code and my royal position. 

“Freeing her from that life’s restraints is the only time I’d put her in harm’s way. If I have to spend the rest of this life fighting for her freedom and happiness, I will, even if it costs me my life.” 

“Well, make sure you stay alive,” she put a hand on his shoulder. “She needs you.” 

I stepped into the kitchen, and the pair of eyes fell on me. Grandma’s smile was as beautiful as she was, with all her wrinkles and years. Noah was serious, but he did cocoon me to his side as I approached them. With an arm around my waist, we stood still in front of Grandma. 

“Grandma, I didn’t mean…”

“Yes, you did,” she cut me while she arranged the bowls and small plates in a wooden tray. “Not the time now. First, you eat.” 

Obliging, we followed her lead, carrying the rest of the food to the adjacent dining room. The table was set in silence, and we began to eat. My hunger was evident, and I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of embarrassment at the desperation with which I devoured the warm soup and vegetables. Noah stifled a small laugh at the sight, a subtle expression of relief at seeing me eat.Noah nearly stiffed a small laugh at the sight of me. Nevertheless, he was relieved to see me eating. 

Thirty minutes later, Noah was in the kitchen, diligently washing dishes while Grandma and I finished clearing up the room where we had eaten. As we worked, I took a deep breath, my feet still aching.

“Grandma, are you disappointed?” I asked her, holding a water jar in one hand, the other palm supporting its weight underneath. 

“I am,” she responded. She got up from the floor, where she had been kneeling to wipe the surface of the square table, and faced me. “You took it upon yourself to bring him here without my consent, breaking rule after rule just so that you could have a piece of heaven at your hands. You know how special this place is for me. I gave you shelter whenever you needed since you were a child. And you used my kindness to bring a Samurai into my house. This is my sanctuary, my dear. It’s always been.”

My eyes itched. I had never wanted to dishonor her. Anyone but her. I guess I had really been too selfish when it came to Noah. 

“But I will not blame you for what you did,” she continued, making me frown in surprise. “You liked that boy and fell in love with the man he turned out to be. I won’t reject your choices because choices set us free. I didn’t have a choice. I was forced to marry your grandfather, and I never got to experience real love,” she walked closer to me, and with her free hand, she took mine, removing it from its place under the water jar. “I am happy that you did. The sacrifice that man has made for you… The one you have made for him… It can’t be put into words, but maybe one day someone will write about it in history books. You’re changing history, my dearest girl. This man loves you beyond this life.”

“So do I.”

“Then, do not let him go.”

An hour later, I was fast asleep in Noah’s arms, tucked against his chest and covered with thick, soft sheets as I descended into a myriad of dreams. 

Come morning, dreams would turn into nightmares, and we would have another battle to fight. 

Readers tagged: @thescarlettvvitch | @girlfromrussia-universe

Drop me a message if you'd like to be tagged in future updates :)

[cloudfox42]

Baizhu x Reader: A unique green tea

The gentle tinkle of the doorbell cut through the quiet murmur of Bubu pharmacy, drawing Baizhu's attention away from a delicate concoction he had been preparing.

"Welcome to Bubu Pharmacy," Baizhu greeted, his voice as soothing as the aromatic herbs that perfumed the air. "How may I assist you today?"

Intrigued by the peaceful ambiance and the soft, ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from the pharmacist, you hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I was wondering if you might have any green tea," you inquired.

Baizhu's eyes lit up with a gentle, knowing smile. "Ah, seeking solace in a cup of tea, are we?" he mused. "I believe I have just the thing. But, if you'd permit me, I'd like to offer something a tad more ... unique."

Curiosity piqued, you nodded, your weariness momentarily forgotten. Baizhu led you through a maze of shelves laden with jars of all shapes and sizes, each filled with mysterious substances, to a small, secluded table set by a window overlooking a lush, hidden garden.

As you settled into the comfortable silence, Baizhu brewed a pot of tea with an almost ceremonial grace. He poured the emerald liquid into two cups, the aroma comforting and yet unlike any tea you had ever encountered.

"This is a special blend of mine," Baizhu explained, "But your quest for green tea has inspired me. Have you ever wondered about the endless possibilities that nature holds, especially for those attuned to its deepest secrets?"

Sipping the warm tea, you felt a sense of tranquility wash over you. Emboldened by the serene environment and Baizhu's kindly demeanor, you ventured a question. "Have you ever used your Dendro powers to create something new? Perhaps a new kind of tea plant?"

Baizhu's eyes sparkled with a mix of surprise and delight at your question. "A fascinating idea," he mused, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Without waiting for your response, Baizhu stood and beckoned you to follow him into the garden. With a gentle touch and a few whispered words, Baizhu's hands glowed with a soft, verdant light. Before your astonished eyes, a small, unassuming plant began to sprout from the rich earth.

"This," Baizhu announced with a hint of pride in his voice, "will be our tea. Unique to this moment, shared between new friends."

As the plant grew, so too did the bond between you and Baizhu. You spent many an hour in the garden, watching the tea plant flourish, your conversations meandering from the properties of herbs to the mysteries of the world.

When the time came to harvest the leaves, the tea you brewed together was unlike any other – infused not just with the essence of Dendro but with the warmth of newfound friendship.

[furowrites]

Patronus Charm + Amortentia Hogwarts Legacy Headcanons (ft. Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt & Garreth Weasley)

i am reviving this account, it turns out :) 

my credentials for these headcanons? i watch the hp movies every time i’m sick, and i’m halfway through the books. there you go

my writing has grown a bit rusty, please forgive <3

Sebastian Sallow

I am adamant about Sebastian’s Patronus Charm being a wild horse; specifically a wild one, regardless of breed

There’s something about the untamed pride and stubbornness about horses in the wild that make them very suitable to be his Patronus

Also wild horses have extremely finicky and complex social hierarchy and behaviors, so in my opinion, it really works

I believe the scents Sebastian would smell in his Amortentia include a dash of cinnamon, plain and simple; a dusty puff that surges from a book that hasn’t been opened in years; and the burn of brazier coals

(We know Sebastian is always sneaking around, and he is often overcome with the rush of adrenaline and triumph after being successful in his mischief, whilst braziers light the paths of the night, be it along Hogwarts dungeons and passages, or pathways cutting across the highlands)

(He has mentioned before how his parents had instilled in him an appreciation for books, and that in addition to his particular penchant for slipping into the Restricted Section, I conclude the clammy, dusty smell caught within a dated book may hit a weak spot for him)

(This might be a quite biased perspective, but cinnamon tends to be a spice that one very occasionally sprinkles on their food or drink, and he believes it takes a specific type of rowdiness to add it onto one’s tea, or butterbeer. When he was but a wee little third-year, Sebastian overheard a few older Hogwarts students in The Three Broomsticks—who all happened to be girls he found quite pretty—and one of them jokingly said something along the lines of “only fine-looking women put cinnamon in their butterbeer.” For some reason, it stuck with him forever)

Ominis Gaunt

It took me a while to figure this one out, but then it hit me like a train: his Patronus is a swan!

It’s almost so obvious: swans move with such grace and elegance, both in flight and on water; their feathers are soft and add great quality to many accessories

They also mate for life and are very devoted partners, which I believe to be very plausible for Ominis

Swans have always been a symbol of romanticism, and I happen to think Ominis can be, once he is close and comfortable enough with someone, quite doting and romantic

To Ominis, Amortentia has a verdant, grassy must; it also has delicate, flowery hints; and lastly, the smokey trail of a train

(It would perhaps be easy to assume Ominis would smell something like bergamot, or jasmine, which he could easily associate with the afternoon tea at the Gaunt estate; however, I believe due to the hurt that regularly came with his family’s company, it would be more likely for him to find solace in the scents he could attribute to the presence of those who lived around him; for instance, fresh garden trims left by the greenskeeper, or the hay being shoveled by the stableboy)

(Listen, if there’s one thing Ominis is unapologetically a spoiled, rich kid about, it’s tastefully-scented silks of linen or robes, placed neatly at the end of his bed, and whether it’s honeysuckle or violets or lemongrass, he can definitely find it wafting somewhere in his Amortentia)

(When Ominis was young, the first time he rode a train was rather dreadful—it was so, so loud, what with the chooing and chuffing and the buzzing crowd—but by the time he was to board the Hogwarts Express for his First Year, he had grown to love it; thus the faint, smokey trace of creosote in there)

Garreth Weasley

His Patronus Charm is shaped after a magpie, and there’s several reasons behind this logic

First, magpies are very clever, unafraid of mischief, and they can laugh!

They’re notorious thieves by nature, too (lol)

Also, and more crucially, in my opinion, magpies receive widely ranging interpretations in European folklore; according to a superstitious, traditional nursery rhyme, ‘One for Sorrow,’ magpies are said to be an omen for wildly differing things, depending on how many you come across (‘One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told’)

I interpret Garreth to be someone quite misunderstood by his schoolmates—cherished by some, detested by others, and everything in between—he’s funny and talented, and he has the kind of effortless charm that you either wholly captivated by, or it peeves you to no end

For Garreth I only have two distinct smells I firmly believe he would find in Amortentia (perhaps the constant inhaling of potion fumes has worn his nose quite a bit): apple cider and asphodel leaves, and these are a bit straightforward in my reasoning, as he himself is towards what appeals to him

(the sour, sharp smell of fermented apples easily conflates with that of butterbeer, but is slightly sweeter. During the summer breaks between his first few years in Hogwarts, apple cider was the only ‘experiment’ his family allowed him to get away with at home, and so it is inevitably reminiscent of early mornings where he would rush through breakfast in order to burst into his family’s shed to check the results of his work)

(asphodel grows in Hogwarts grounds, and its leaves and roots are used in the creation of potions such as Wiggenweld and Draught of Living Death, both of which take a practiced, precise hand to perfect)

i'd love to hear your feedback! and if these inspire you at all to include them in your own writing at all (pardon my being presumptuous), i would ask that you please tag me! i would be immensely flattered!

[neonthewrite]

Bowman of the Garden

Another GT July prompt is done! This one is "Garden", and any readers of Bowman of Wellwood might recognize that title symmetry. We have a brand new AU featuring Bowman Leafwing, living in a very different environment than the beautiful Wellwood forest. I do want to explore more of this AU, as it's very different from Bowman's origins. For now, enjoy a small sample of it!

~~~

Bowman Leafwing eyed the back of the Big House, where the humans sat talking and drinking their tea on the patio. It was a morning ritual of theirs‒tea on the patio, discussing their plans for the day. As the self-appointed scout sprite of the garden village, Bowman kept an eye and ear on these discussions every morning. If they planned anything out of the ordinary, he’d know.

It was a Wednesday, though. Not much would be on the schedule, and they confirmed it with their chatter, overheard from one of the bulky stone planters where Bowman hid. A normal Wednesday, meaning they’d go inside after tea and then be gone at Jobs all day. In the afternoon, the Lawn People would come by and cut all the grass in the yard with their awful loud machines.

So long as they didn’t mess with the landscaping or the greenhouse (and they never did), the wood sprites of the garden didn’t mind.

Soon enough, the humans finished up their morning tea and shifted in their seats. Satisfied that no more news of the day was forthcoming, Bowman backed away from the edge of the planter, further among the protective leaves of the fern growing there. Keen eyes peered out from the leafy cover that matched the leafy wings on Bowman’s back, and as soon as the humans had gone back into their tall, ivy-covered house, he turned away.

Tall boots of supple bark and sturdy cloth gave him quiet steps among the mulch and soil until he reached the other side of the planter; a basin big enough for a human to curl up in, it housed a verdant fern to break up the monotony of the lawn. Bowman, four inches tall and brown-skinned with deep green hair, blended right in among that curated vegetation. His dedication to the morning routine, to keeping an eye on those giants-of-the-house, kept him safe, but it also kept the others safe. If the humans talked of plans that could affect the denizens of the garden, Bowman Leafwing was the first to know.

Today, there was little to report. From the planter, there was a moderate stretch of empty lawn before the lush growth of flowers and grasses and shrubs covering the back third of the yard, mostly unbothered by human intervention and thriving all the same. 

Among that chaos was home, where his little cousin and her mentor could use their gifts to tend to the plants, where his aunt and uncle could sing with the birds, arrange the litter of leaves and twigs like a miniature forest floor. No one spotted them there, for no one thought to look for a wood sprite, small and made to blend in among the greenery.

Bowman eyed a flowering shrub standing taller than the grasses and flower patches around it, as innocuous as any plant, and spotted a fellow sprite on one bough with ease. With one gesture, he confirmed they saw him, too. Raising his hands and wings, Bowman sent his report, or what might count as one, using silent signs that would look like leaves shifting in the breeze.

No news, good news. Lawn People later. Safe another day.

The other sprite acknowledged the report and ducked out of sight. Bowman smirked. That was his job done. If anyone wanted to find him after the morning scouting, they would have a task ahead of them.

One final glance at the Big House confirmed again that the humans had gone in and no one was watching. Bowman’s wings fanned open and his smile widened, and then with a leap and a powerful flap he was in the air, darting upwards like a leaf on a gale.

They had it pretty good, there in that garden. The verdant months gave them plenty of cover outside, plenty of resources, lots of sun on their wings. The winters in the greenhouse were cozy and close, without worry of the snow or the icy winds. They were safe from humans who never wanted to question why the growth in their backyard was so lush, year after year, and safe from worry over dangerous animals thanks to the nearly-overgrown wooden privacy fence.

Beyond that fence, though, was wilder land, not nearly enough to be a forest but full of life all the same. That less-tamed, wooded area, with its dappled sunlight and thick foliage and only the occasional reminder of the nearby humans, was Bowman’s goal. He darted over the garden, over the fence, and something wild welcomed him there.

Back the way he came, the Big House still stood peeking through the trees, but Bowman ignored it for the woods before him. In the other direction, someone else’s big human house would be waiting, but he wouldn’t get that far. He knew to stay closer to safety.

If he asked anyone else, he wasn’t really supposed to leave the garden without making it known. Bowman chose which rules to follow, and no amount of reminders had changed that over the years.

As he ducked and weaved around branches and through golden sunbeams, wind whipping through his wild hair, things felt right. Bowman belonged in the air. His wings, honed every day in his races among the trees and over the Big House, practically sang with elation. Every sunbeam they drank up spurred him to fly a little bit longer. His were the fastest wings around, and no member of the garden village could wrest the title away from him.

[syneilesis]

[fic] There is No Heaven

There is No Heaven

Ikemen Vampire | Vlad/Comte de Saint-Germain | T | 1k words | ao3 link

The mansion remembers your longing. Your memories become ghosts living in its walls.

A/N: Happy New Year! This is my last fic for 2023 yay! And it's a little different: it's from Comte's POV, but in 2nd-person pronoun. I've always wanted to try that. This was supposedly for the Halloween but I didn't make it in time. Fortunately, I've made it before 2024 starts! lmao

Unbeta'd. I just want to write more vampire ex-boyfriends, yaknow?

Early on her stay, Mitsuki asks, “Are there ghosts in the mansion?”

Sebastian nearly snickers as he pours their tea, but he's professional enough to curb the urge.

You watch the girl squirm and frown, fragile little thing, and take a sip of the freshly served tea. The garden is bright and beautiful in this time of day, the flowers colorful dots scattered in the verdant space. A little beyond that, the mansion windows glint and glare under the sunrays, and a silhouette glides through one of them, a dazzling glimpse of silver hair and billowing black coat. The figure pauses and glances, and from this distance you can still see the slice of rose-red gaze, almost amused in its crescent shape. You close your eyes and swallow the tea. It's tasteless and lukewarm in your throat. You hum.

“I wonder.”

+

People may try to forget and they may become successful, but the mansion does not.

It does not forget.

+

Sometimes, you still see afterimages of him in the halls, like a memory that's become a ghost to touch the edges of your longing, dead but never buried.

+

Perhaps it's your lingering regrets, but the mansion remembers its owner, the one from several human lifetimes ago, silkthin voice spilling from full, red lips, almost a caress, almost a plea.

Come with me, Abel.

The hallways had echoed the words, pulsed with every syllable, like heartbeat trying to escape its ribcage. His hand, bony and pale and sure, flowerstem fingers confidently outstretched in your direction. And in that moment you almost did take his hand, your body twitching towards him, pulling you in. But the glow of his rich-red eyes slowed you into hesitation.

And what will you do then, Vlad? And more importantly: What will you make me do?

Because all of this – everything – would lead to his dream, aspiringly pure but aspiringly frightening, and it had become a point of contention about the means to achieve it. You had thought that his dream, indeed, was an admirable thing, and at one point you would have also been glad to take a part of it and make it yours, too. Vlad was (is) beautiful when he's determined and dreaming, a radiant god descended from the heavens to spread his blessing amongst the mortals.

But that's the thing about gods, wasn't it? They had the power and they had the freedom. They could do anything they wanted. Dreamed of. Even to the pain of others.

+

The library is where he lingers the most, and where he had spent a lot of time aside from the gardens. This, a whole eternity ago. His hands – carved ivory, beautiful but deadly – trailed along the spines of the books in the shelf situated in the innermost corner of the room. It's where the oldest books reside, one of which waxes lyrical about flowers and their signifieds. It had been Vlad's favorite. Read it the most, his rose-gaze blossoming each time he turned a page.

The book is still here, untouched for centuries. Every spring you stand in front of the shelf at the innermost corner of the library, and the book of flowers is still here, coated in dust.

What kind of flower should I plant today? Vlad wonders next to you, the lilt in his voice tickling your ears.

“Maybe something bright, something hopeful.”

Something hopeful, huh. The words don't echo, but they latch onto the wooden shelves, absorbed by crust and old papers.

Then his voice gets closer, almost like a lover's whisper, the dip of his head next to your ear, parting like a secret:

Hopeful like how you promised me the answers to all my questions?

You whip your head to the side – the cold shock propelling you to tell him that he's wrong, that he misunderstood. That the promise still burns the marrow of your bones and leaves your blood inchoate with waiting.

But you whip your head to the side, and all you see is air, lonely and burdened with failure.

+

“I think there's a ghost in the mansion,” Mitsuki says, come summer.

The teacup freezes millimeters away from your expectant lips, and the girl flusters with wary embarrassment.

Regardless, you indulge her. “Is that so.”

“I'm serious! Last week, in the playroom, Arthur, Dazai-san, and Isaac were playing cards. I was there watching them. I cheered when Isaac finally won, and then somebody said congratulations – except nobody said that among the four of us!”

“And then what happened?”

“Dazai-san suggested it was a ghost, but Arthur and Isaac refused to believe it. Arthur wanted to investigate, but Dazai-san turned it into a ghost storytelling session to frighten poor Isaac.”

“That's unfortunate.”

There were never invisible eyes watching you whenever you lounge in the playroom. Vlad always prefers when you're in solitude – in the library, in the garden, in your bedroom – so your attention falls completely on him. The mansion sighs whenever Vlad smiles at you, and you almost ache to take the step forward.

“Comte … Is there really no ghost in the mansion?”

At the gazebo, Mitsuki's eyes are wide with childlike curiosity, and underneath the glistening impatience, there is fear. She must have grown up listening to stories of spirits and their lingering attachment. Some vengeful, some poignant. Some unable to let go. What are ghosts but imprints of someone who has unwillingly left?

Vlad was never unwilling when he walked away – it was always you who were.

“There isn't any ghost here, ma cherie,” you tell Mitsuki after sipping your tea. “There are only stubborn memories.”

+

Come with me, Abel, Vlad murmurs against the skin of your neck later that night in your bed, right above your jugular vein.

The mansion is always a little emptier during summer, as most of the residents prefer to go out and bask under the sun. And though it is emptier, it's during summer that the mansion is at its most alive.

Come with me, Abel, he repeats, in your ear this time, his tender voice caressed into a sorrowful plea.

The mansion purrs, ripples with its own longing.

I'm not a god, and I can't make you do anything.

All I wanted was for you to take my hand.

I'm still waiting for you to fulfill your promise.

“Vlad,” you whisper, neither plea nor curse.

On the bedside desk the clock ticks on, with no answers to give.

[heralds-bah-commune]

lvl 5 Leafeon fictive with lots of transids, xenogenders and xenopronouns, transmasc please ^^ rest is up to you!

hi dear! lvl 5 packs were closed when you submitted this, so we lowered it to lvl 4 rather than toss it out. here's your leafeon pack!

a new flower has blossomed! 🌹

leafeon, transids, xenos, transmasc ... [LVL 4 PACK]

══════════════════

name(s) ;; leafeon, leif, rowan

pronouns ;; they/them, he/him, vey/vem, verd/verdant, spring/springs, green/greens, grass/grasses, paw/paws, h3/h1m, th3y/th3m, h-/h-m, evo/evolve, poké/pokémon, game/games, ve/vir, 🌱/🌱self, 🌿/🌿self

age ;; 24 (in human years), 4-12 (age regression)

species ;; leafeon (transSatyr)

gender(s) ;; transmasculine, leafeonboyfriend, grasstypegender, genderactor, epographic, leafeonic

orientation(s) ;; cupiosexual, panromantic

role(s) ;; emotional protector

source ;; pokémon

sign-off(s) ;; [🌱]

══════════════════

hex code ;; #ccfd7f (light yellow-green)

personality ;; nerdy and aloof. he has a lot of passion for his interests, but doesn't express it, to look cooler. they are calm, level headed, and intelligent.

bonus info ;; has pseudomemories of being owned by a grass-type gym leader

══════════════════

likes ;; green tea, houseplants, puzzle games, sarcasm, fantasy genre media

dislikes ;; the colour red, being told what to do, rare meat, coffee

possible front triggers ;; gardening, being judged for interests, wearing a lot of green

══════════════════

cisid(s) ;; eeveelution, cisDomesticated, cisOwned, grass type, age regressor, sunriseQueer

transid(s) ;; transVegetarian, transFeral, transSpecies (transSatyr), transPopular, transHipster, transBlogger, transLocation (transForest), permaForestLocation

kink/fetish/para(s) ;; autobiastophilia

[botanikos]

Jillian has arrived at Stolas' home, looking up at the tall owl with big wet eyes before rushing to the prince and pulling him into a tight hug. "If anythin' happens to me tomorrow, I jus' want ya to know how happy bein' ya friend has made me, sweetheart."

@copaceticjillybean

Slender arms fold around her, tightening until she is pressed flush against his frame. He wanted to keep her there, ensnared and hopefully, safe. But Stolas knew even he has limits, and if anyone had a plan of sorts, it would be Jillian. Hands move to cup her face, soft thumb brushing the tears from her cheeks.

"No, no. Nothing can happen to you, Ms. Fitz. Do you understand me? Our friendship has yet to grow into a verdant and lush garden where we can enjoy tea, and wine, and gossip about our latest reads. This is not your end. This is not our end. Promise me, you won't be rash? Take any and every precaution, won't you?" The owl leans down, features solemn and torn as he presses their foreheads together with a low and sad chirr.

[elains]

✾ chapter 2  — magic

❧ Summary: The way Elain and Lucien discovered their mating bond was perhaps not ideal, and the road towards falling in love and accepting their feelings full of thorns — but throughout challenges and adversity, they have made it work. Now, eternity awaits them.

A series of connected ficlets for Elucien Week 2023, set post the end of the series when all villains are gone, following episodes of Elain and Lucien's sometimes quiet, sometimes agitated, life together.

For @elucienweekofficial

Read on Ao3! • Chapter one

 Built on the shores of a glistening turquoise sea, Haemera was a thing of beauty: the lower city rested on white sands like shells on a beach, painted in bright white colors and with gilded roofs. The quays of the rectangular harbor speared the calm, deep water of the sea, where ships from all over the world came to moor, seeking knowledge only the Day Court held. The libraries and the palace district themselves, as well as the Temple of the Risen Sun and the sprawling estates of the nobility, lay perched atop the cliffs, ever-haloed by the blazing sun.

Velaris was the City of Starlight, but Haemera was the City of Sunlight — the entire metropolis shimmered in different colors as the sun rose and set, yellow and orange and pink and purple. When the sun was at its brightest, the white paint seemed to reflect all the colors of the rainbow.

Yet, for all its beauty and bustling activity, Elain and Lucien had elected to move away from it. After years in court, they wanted their own private space, far from prying eyes. Phoebe and Helion had not been keen on the idea, discontent to part with their son and daughter-in-law, but eventually, the four of them came to an agreement.

So Helion gifted them ownership of the Red Palace and all its surrounding lands. It was located on the outskirts of Haemera, far enough that the city walls and its lights were no longer seen, but close enough as to be reached by winnowing once. The construction stood on the slope of a hill flanked by sprawling vineyards and olive trees, a ruby set against the verdant earth, its intricate mullioned windows and latticed walls making for an airy but intimate space.

And the courtyards. The Red Palace had more courtyards than Elain knew what to do with, fountains and pools of water with ivy climbing the elegant columns and archways. They were positioned strategically to allow sunlight and the salty breeze to sweep in, and she could not wait to make every one of them more beautiful than the next. 

She had, of course, immediately invited Nuan to see what mechanical improvements she could think of for the Palace's irrigation systems.

“This is insanity,” Nuan said with a shake of her head, taking a look at Elain's elegant handwritten scrawled all across the parchment. 

Elain huffed, shifting in her seat. “Well, no need to be so blunt. It's merely an idea.”

“An insane idea.” Nuan put down the parchment and removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It has been tried before, you know? In the continent, in the long lost fae city of Ashnan.”

“I do know the legend, thank you very much. Ashnan, the City of Pillars, whose fae dug too deep and too hungrily into the sands for water to feed their mighty projects and awakened something they should not, unleashing a maelstrom that dragged the city to a grave at the core of the world.” She waved a hand, wrinkling her nose. “We were told this story as babies as a cautionary tale of greed — ours and the fae's.”

“And even though you know how Ashnan ended, you still want to try and recreate its hanging gardens?”

“I don't want to recreate the hanging gardens of Ashnan, but rather something inspired by it.” Elain picked up her teacup and sipped the warm apple tea. “Besides, the Red Palace is hardly Ashnan. There's water aplenty, no need to dig so deep, and we are not trying to commit folly against the very laws of the world. Which, I believe, might have more to do with the city's downfall than the gardens proper. But most importantly, they didn't have you to think about the mechanics of it all.”

Nuan snorted. “This is madness.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“It will take years to be completed ”

“Most likely.”

“It will also be costly.”

“Not a problem. The treasury is overflowing.” 

“And it will require the brightest, most brilliant of inventors and crafters to pull it off.”

“Good thing then she's a friend of mine and is sitting right in front of me, isn't it?” Elain set down her cup, a smile breaking across her face. 

The other female let out a deep sigh and got up, leaning over the plans and Elain's annotations with furrowed brows.

“To recreate the work of the ancients into something everlasting…” She rubbed her chin with her thumb, biting her nail, thoughtful. The corner of her mouth lifted. “Yes, that is doable, I think.”

“You will do it then?” Elain asked, eyes lighting up.

“Elain, please. I made that decision the moment you first unveiled your plans.” She smirked at Elain, playful and mischievous, the gears in her head already turning, working full speed. “You will need my special kind of magic to pull this off. Why, someone else may get it wrong.”

༻ ❁ ༺

After Lucien and Elain were well settled in the palace and the main living areas properly redecorated and renovated, Helion and Phoebe invited themselves to stay the whole week. The Day Court, Helion said, wasn't so unstable and devoid of administrative talent so as not to handle one week without its High Lord and High Lady.

Elain woke just before dawn, when the sky was still that deep, fathomless blue darker than any black, broken only by the distant reds, oranges, and purples of daybreak. Soon the sun would rise and chase the shadows away.

She was a light sleeper, had always been, and their time living in the cottage had accustomed her to rising with the birds and the wildlife. In Velaris, Elain hadn't let go of her old habits, not in the least because the early morning was the only time of the day the Inner Circle wouldn't be around and she could enjoy some moments alone with her thoughts.

Seldom did she sleep the morning away, and even rarer did she stay awake late at night: that was reserved for when there were parties and revelries. 

Elain turned on the bed, coming face to face with her mate. Lucien was still soundly asleep, shirtless, his chest rising and falling with the tranquil rhythm of his heartbeat. Much like her, he was an early riser and a light sleeper, one forged by necessity, by a lifetime on high alert, expecting a blade between his ribs.

Though he probably wouldn't wake up anytime soon today, Elain reckoned with a chuckle. Lucien had tried — and utterly failed — to beat Helion in a drinking contest and had to be carried to bed like a baby. She ought to ask Feyre to paint two canvases of the scene so she could give one to Lucien and one to Helion.

With a contented sigh, she rose, pulling away the gossamer curtains that separated her dressing room from hers and Lucien's chambers. Her handmaids were nowhere to be seen, as Elain demanded they only start fussing over her after the sun was already up and high in the sky. Mother knew that if they tried to follow Elain's sleeping schedule, they'd get no rest at all.

She grabbed her pink silk robe from a hanger put it on, tying it around the waist with a ribbon. Then, she left the room through the side door, emerging directly in front of one of her moon gardens. The sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine and the newly bloomed rhododendrons clung to the air, carried by a tranquil breeze.

Elain crossed the garden, running her fingers over the marble edges of the fountain, coming to stand at a balcony overlooking a sheer drop in the hill. Down below, the laborers were already up, all set to start harvesting the ripe grapes. She leaned on the balustrade, resting her face on her hand, and closed her eyes. 

She stood like that for a while, listening to the nightingales sing, the wind whispering as it brushed through the vines, the rushing streams sneaking through the nearby woods. 

Footsteps echoed in the hallway and she opened her eyes, turning to where they were coming from.

Helion grinned at the sight of her, shining faintly on the half-light. She smiled back in response and moved aside, making way for him to stand beside her.

“That habit of yours remains?” He inquired, searching her face.

“It seems like I'm doomed to awake at dawn or in the early morning, no matter my best efforts.” Elain lifted her shoulders, long since resigned to her fate. “And what of you? Is the Lord of Day out to bring daylight for us fae or did you just not sleep?”

“You know quite well that telling the sun when to rise and set is far beyond my powers, though I might be able to light up the night for a time if I tried hard enough,” Helion answered with a chuckle. “No, my dear. As you are doomed to awake early, so am I doomed to sleepless nights. It has grown better with my Phoebe with me but… We all have our demons.”

Elain said nothing, staring at the horizon as the light blue color of the morning skies began to emerge and the sun hung over the land like a crown, allowing a companionable, deep silence to settle between them. She could never understand the depth of Helion’s scars, torn away from his mate for centuries and trapped beneath the darkness of the middle, watching helplessly as Amarantha slaughtered his kin. Lucien still had nightmares from it; she assumed Helion did, too.

“Sometimes when it is too dark and too quiet, I fear falling asleep,” she confessed, tightening her grip on the red stone. “I keep thinking that if I sleep, he will be back, waiting in my dreams with that terrible, terrible magic of his, playing with my sense of self until I can no longer distinguish what is real and what is not.”

“Is that why you closed yourself off to your visions?” Helion asked, the famous day court curiosity getting the better of him.

“In part,” Elain admitted, “but not solely because of it. The future is always in motion, always changing. Few things are set in stone. You pull a thread and suddenly, a whole other path opens. Some futures are dreadful, nightmares only. Others are the opposite. Still, constantly seeing ahead can become a burden, and I’m done living in what-ifs and could-have-been.”

Helion threw his head back with laughter. “Who needs those when we have this moment, this beautiful palace and our mates with us, a whole future ahead? I think we are quite well served, aren’t we, my dear?”

“Yes.” She stood on the tip of her toes and breathed in, releasing the balmy air with a chuckle. “And I wouldn't change it for nothing.”

Her father-in-law watched her carefully, with slightly narrowed eyes, calculating his words.

“I wasn't going to give you both this palace, you know,” he said slowly. “I planned to give you both the Sunburst House in the eastern district, where I resided in my younger years, before the war.”

Elain furrowed her brows, head askew. “And why didn't you?”

“Lucien asked for this place instead — he thought it was fitting. You should ask him yourself why he thought that, though. Perhaps there's a reason to it you do not yet know.”

༻ ❁ ༺

“Not that I’m complaining about waking up like this, love, but would you mind explaining?” Lucien asked, mirth dancing in his russet eye.

Elain lay above him, her knees beside his torso and her long, thin, callused fingers wrapped around his hands, pinning them to the mattress just beside his ears. Her hair fell over her shoulder in unbound waves, casting a shadow over the pale skin of her shoulder blades visible from her loose silk robe. 

She didn’t look very happy though, not with her squinting brown eyes and pink mouth twisted into an annoyed pout.

“Your father said you asked for this palace for us. Why?”

“Elain!” He gasped, faking outrage. “Gossiping with my father already? So early in the morning?”

“He isn’t the one keeping secrets from his mate!”

“That you know of, perhaps.” 

Elain gasped and sat on his belly, leaning down, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she brought her nose close to his. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Lucien chuckled, closing his metal eye and turning his head. “That is for you to figure out.”

“Lucien! That isn’t fair!”

“Neither is ambushing me like this, is it now?” She pressed down on him and he groaned, heat gathering between his tights. “Now you are just being mean.”

“I have a reason.” She said with a little smirk, seemingly satisfied with the reaction she elicited. “Now, the truth: why this place?”

“It has lovely gardens, it’s far enough from the city to allow us some privacy whilst being close enough to return for emergencies, the wine weather is excellent and it's a beautiful, historical building that is well suited to us.”

She rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue. “Well, yes, but I already know all this. Helion wouldn’t have mentioned it to me if there wasn’t more. So please, Lucien—” Elain let go of one of his hands, placing a finger on his lips. “— won’t you tell me?”

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, cursing his father inwards. Lucien had planned to tell Elain the whole story of the Red Palace eventually as a part of a grand romantic gesture to celebrate the anniversary of their mating. He still had a treasure trove of ideas for the date proper, but it would require some maneuvering and improvisation. Perhaps he ought to ask Nuan for — no, she would just murder him for the added commission in her already full agenda. Vassa and Elain’s sisters, then.

And his mother, if only so she could give Helion grief for ruining his carefully laid plans.

“I didn’t mean to keep it a secret,” he said, “but the right time to speak about it was never right. Not for me, in any case.” Lucien waited to see if she was going to say anything, but Elain only watched him with her honey gaze, patient and attentive. “Right. So, many centuries ago, long before the war, one of my ancestors, High Lord Hyperion, was arranged to marry a Princess from the continent, Nahida. Their partnership wasn’t a happy one at first. Nahida didn’t speak our dialect, nor did she know much about the Day Court and its traditions. No matter how much her husband tried, she felt like an outsider in what was supposed to be her new home.”

Elain gulped, lower lip trembling. Lucien raised his hand, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Hyperion was an honorable man, determined to keep his vows to the Mother to love and cherish his wife. But how could he, when Nahida had wrapped herself so thoroughly in her own misery, not allowing anyone close? There had to be something he could do. Hyperion went to the Oracle of Mount Astreus, the highest of peaks between Day and Night, and asked how he could show his wife his sincerity? But you know how prophecy works.”

“A riddle wrapped inside an enigma encased in a question,” she agreed with a wet laugh. 

“Yes, and one even Hyperion, with all his libraries and knowledge under his domain, couldn’t unveil. It was not until he saw Nahida gazing wistfully at a desiccated lotus, the symbol of her homeland, that he understood that more than anything, his wife missed her home. He wrote to his sister-in-law, asking for her best architects and masons. Hyperion had the Red Palace built in secret and after it was done, he brought Nahida here.”

“And what did she say? What was her reaction?”

“By then, years had passed them by and Nahida had learned the language of her new home, if not perfectly. She was speechless, at first, staring at this little piece of her homeland nestled on the slope of the hill, but when Hyperion went to his knees before his knees and poured his heart out, Nahida broke down into sobs. She threw her arms around him and they both cried for all the time they had lost. Then, they decided to make the most of the years ahead, to fill this palace with happiness and laughter and joy. My family likes to say that the magic of their promise will cling to these walls until we are no more.”

“Oh Lucien,” Elain pressed her eyes close, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I know you didn’t. I had a whole plan to tell you about it, or at least the beginnings of one.” He offered her a tremulous smile. 

“I would have liked to see it too.” She bit her lip and glanced at him from under her thick eyelashes. “Will you pretend you never told me this story and tell me again the way you planned? All your plans for the future, all your hopes, and dreams, all the magic in these halls — will you share it with me? ” 

“Only for you, Elain,” he whispered reverently against her lips, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Only for you.” 

[chandysresorts]

Mountain Magic: Top Retreats for a Blissful Vacation Experience

Nestled amidst the verdant hills of Munnar, Kerala, Chandy's Drizzle Drops offers a unique blend of luxury, tranquility, and natural beauty. As one of the best luxury resorts in Munnar, this exquisite retreat is designed for those seeking an unforgettable experience in the lap of nature. Whether you’re visiting for a relaxing wellness retreat, a family vacation, or a romantic getaway, Chandy's Drizzle Drops promises to exceed expectations.

The Best of Munnar: A Location Like No Other

Munnar, with its lush tea gardens, misty mountains, and breathtaking landscapes, is one of the top holiday destinations in India. It’s a haven for nature lovers, adventure seekers, and anyone looking to unwind in the serene surroundings of Kerala’s Western Ghats. Chandy's Drizzle Drops is located in one of the most scenic parts of Munnar, making it a perfect choice for anyone looking to experience the best of Munnar’s natural beauty while enjoying modern luxuries.

A Luxurious Stay in Munnar

As one of the top luxury resorts in Munnar, Chandy's Drizzle Drops boasts a variety of accommodation options, each designed with the utmost attention to detail. Whether you are seeking a suite room for an indulgent stay or a deluxe room for a comfortable retreat, this resort has something for everyone.

Royal Suite

For the ultimate in luxury, the Royal Suite at Chandy's Drizzle Drops offers guests an unparalleled level of comfort and sophistication. With a spacious layout, premium furnishings, and panoramic views of the surrounding mountains, this suite is perfect for those who desire both opulence and privacy. The Royal Suite includes modern amenities, such as a king-sized bed, elegant décor, a well-appointed bathroom, and personalized services to ensure a lavish stay. The suite’s private balcony allows guests to soak in the beauty of Munnar’s scenic vistas, making it a perfect choice for those looking for the best luxury room.

Premium Suite

The Premium Suite at Chandy's Drizzle Drops offers a perfect combination of comfort, style, and luxury. Featuring elegant interiors, this suite room comes with all the modern amenities you could wish for, including an expansive sitting area, high-end bedding, and well-equipped bathrooms. The premium suite provides an excellent option for those seeking a luxurious stay with a touch of exclusivity. Whether you're relaxing on the balcony or enjoying a peaceful moment in the comfort of your room, the Premium Suite provides an ideal retreat.

Super Deluxe Rooms

The Super Deluxe Rooms at Chandy's Drizzle Drops are designed to offer a lavish yet comfortable stay. Perfect for families or couples, these rooms are spacious and elegantly furnished with contemporary décor and thoughtful amenities. The large windows allow natural light to fill the room, offering guests a serene view of the surrounding hills. Whether you're visiting for a short stay or a longer retreat, the Super Deluxe Rooms ensure a cozy and memorable experience.

Deluxe Rooms

For those seeking affordable luxury, the Deluxe Rooms at Chandy's Drizzle Drops are an excellent choice. These rooms offer a blend of comfort and style, with amenities designed to meet the needs of modern travelers. With comfortable bedding, spacious interiors, and modern bathrooms, the Deluxe Rooms provide a relaxed and welcoming atmosphere, making them a popular choice for those looking for quality Munnar accommodation at a great price.

The Best Munnar Resorts with Pool: A Refreshing Experience

Chandy's Drizzle Drops is among the select Munnar resorts with a swimming pool, offering guests the opportunity to enjoy a refreshing swim while surrounded by the picturesque beauty of Munnar. The resort boasts an infinity pool that overlooks the lush tea gardens and rolling hills, creating a perfect setting for relaxation. Whether you’re enjoying a quiet morning swim or lounging poolside with a drink in hand, the pool at Chandy's Drizzle Drops adds an extra layer of luxury to your stay.

Wellness Retreat: Embrace Tranquility

Chandy's Drizzle Drops is more than just a luxury resort; it is a wellness haven. For guests seeking a wellness retreat, the resort offers a variety of wellness services, including yoga, meditation, and spa therapies. As one of the best wellness resorts in Munnar, Chandy’s Drizzle Drops is committed to offering guests a holistic experience that rejuvenates both the body and mind.

The resort’s wellness offerings include a full-service spa that provides soothing Ayurvedic treatments, designed to relax and rejuvenate guests. Whether you are looking to relieve stress, detoxify, or simply unwind, the spa at Chandy's Drizzle Drops offers a range of therapeutic treatments using traditional Ayurvedic practices.

Ayurveda Resort: Rejuvenate with Traditional Healing

As an eco resort and Ayurveda resort, Chandy's Drizzle Drops takes pride in its wellness-focused offerings. Guests can indulge in the ancient healing practices of Ayurveda, which are known for their ability to restore balance to the body and mind. The resort’s Ayurvedic therapies, offered by experienced practitioners, use natural, organic ingredients that promote health and well-being. If you are looking to experience Ayurveda in its purest form, Chandy's Drizzle Drops is the perfect place for your stay in Munnar.

Dining Experience: A Gastronomic Delight

Chandy's Drizzle Drops offers an exquisite dining experience, with a restaurant that serves a wide variety of delicious cuisines, from local Kerala delicacies to international favorites. The resort takes pride in using fresh, locally sourced ingredients, ensuring that every meal is a treat for the senses. Whether you’re enjoying a traditional Kerala feast or indulging in gourmet cuisine, dining at Chandy's Drizzle Drops is sure to be a memorable experience.

Family-Friendly Amenities: A Perfect Stay for Families

If you are searching for hotels in Munnar for family vacations, Chandy’s Drizzle Drops is one of the best resorts for family stays. The resort provides ample space, various family-friendly activities, and a welcoming environment for children. Families can enjoy the infinity pool, take part in nature walks, and experience the stunning views together. Additionally, the resort offers special services tailored to families, such as children’s play areas and family suites, ensuring a hassle-free and enjoyable stay for everyone.

Eco Resorts and Sustainable Living

Chandy’s Drizzle Drops is committed to sustainable living and eco-friendly practices. As one of the leading eco resorts in Munnar, the resort has taken steps to minimize its environmental footprint while providing a luxurious experience for its guests. The resort uses renewable energy sources, practices water conservation, and strives to maintain a zero-waste policy. This commitment to sustainability makes it a perfect choice for eco-conscious travelers.

Things to Do in Munnar: Explore the Beauty of Kerala

Munnar offers a wealth of experiences for travelers. From visiting the tea plantations and hiking in the Western Ghats to enjoying boat rides on the serene lakes, there’s no shortage of things to do in Munnar. Chandy's Drizzle Drops is the perfect base for exploring the best places to stay in Munnar and the surrounding areas. The resort’s concierge team can arrange various activities such as nature walks, sightseeing tours, and adventure sports, ensuring that your stay is filled with exciting experiences.

A Memorable Stay: Why Choose Chandy's Drizzle Drops

Chandy's Drizzle Drops is not just a resort; it’s a destination where luxury, comfort, and nature come together to create an unforgettable experience. Whether you’re looking for a relaxing stay at one of the best resorts in Munnar or a rejuvenating wellness retreat, this resort offers something for everyone. The combination of luxurious rooms, wellness services, family-friendly amenities, and eco-conscious practices makes it one of the best resorts in Munnar and one of the top luxury resorts in India.

Conclusion: Your Dream Stay Awaits

When it comes to choosing the best resorts in Munnar, Chandy's Drizzle Drops stands out as an exceptional destination. Offering everything from stunning Munnar rooms to top-notch amenities, this resort is the perfect place to unwind and reconnect with nature. Whether you’re staying in the royal suite, enjoying a swim in the infinity pool, or indulging in a relaxing spa treatment, Chandy's Drizzle Drops promises a stay that you will cherish forever.

Book your next stay at Chandy's Drizzle Drops and experience the luxury and tranquility that only this Munnar resort can offer.

[memoirsofphangoriaofficial]

{OLIVE COURT INFO DUMP}

Lord: Terranji, The Verdant Conduit

Capital: Oujen

Soul Servants: Olive Gatekeeper, Jinime

Current Court Master: Ketsen Rouju

Current Royal Mage: Verdiette Shan-Suoi

Magich: Earth and Flora

Symbols: Clover (card symbol), teeth, paper fans, lanterns, farming scythes, mouths, plants

Colours allowed to be worn: (green Must Be worn) Black, and gold, white, creams, grey, brown, (can wear any colour but as a small floral accessory) all greens

Rank: standard court

Attire: Dark Pine Green, Black, and gold, traditional Edo period Japanese fashion mixed with Victorian fashion, loose flowing sleeves, loose robe-like jackets, puffy pants/shorts, shows more skin than other courts. (Usually the stomach area and chest, respect to the Olive Lord), tassels, hair done up more often than other courts, tends to not wear shoes

Physical appearance: brown and black hair(common) olive/light olive skin tone (lol), must have green eyes (can be different shades,) softer complexion, Longer hair, Bigger/heavier physiques

Common jobs: Gatekeepers, Gardeners, cooks, apothecarians, tea makers, commissioned outer-court infantry, farmers, herbologists, guides

The Olive Court, is a standard court, ruled by The Olive Lord, the most benevolent and kind lord of six. He has a slow, tired temperament, his presence influencing a sense of calm, lethargic relief. His long, overwhelming brown hair and heavy green robes drag along with him solidifying that sense of lethargy he seems to have, but it’s a beautiful, relaxing one. Ribbons, tassles and fine embroidery cover him and drag along, like he himself is a elegant parade. much of his natural empathy and connective behaviour is, although, stunted by his face. Painted over with a ghostly white, his tired green eye unemotive, face mostly wrapped in bandages covering something unsightly. But despite his unnerving face, he is but the kindest lord, being one of the only to actively speak with his courtiers on their level. Just like him, his people are very emotional. They value the connections and feelings of those around them. Empathetic and Moral based. They are very emotionally wise, similar to the pale courtiers but for them it is intuition, being able to naturally feel shifts in behaviours and intention. They are infamous for cutting ties or ceasing commands with other courts if it goes against their morale or the safety of all parties. You will find that it’s hard to find an olive courtier who is not neighbourly.

Their empathy and kindness can be tied to their affiliation with nature. Being the harbour court of flora and fauna. They have the most expertise in rearing, selling, growing and fostering plants of any kind wether it be for farming and market, or for conservation and research. Their empathy and aural intuition gives them a strong discipline when it comes to caring for their flora. The Olive court is known to be the second biggest court in medical and health research, but unlike their close companions, the scarlets,theirs is much more homeopathic. Apothecaries are a staple, being the second biggest source of income for the court other than farming, the plants and herbs reared being ones of expert quality and potency. Despite having a very dependable market, they are the poorest Court. Due to their infamous habit of pulling out from outsourcing commissioning, they loose a big percentage of their income, but despite other courts frowning down upon it, the people in the court itself aren’t too hard done by. Their is a sense of humility permeating throughout the court, the ability to live by ones own efforts, not the trade of money.

They are not only known for their agriculture but for their fierce duty to protect and defend. With their strong empathy, their gatekeepers guild is commissioned often by other courts to be strong defenders and bodyguards, as they possess a natural, strong inclination to protect, like a mother to a child.

They are well known for being a part in the biggest ally-ship, the Holly Accord, an agreement between the scarlet and Olive court to be members of a tightly woven cultural exchange. Many suspect that the main reason for this alliance is the close nature of the Olive lord and the scarlet lord, their bond being undeniable, but hushed and not outwardly spoken about. They have many sanctioned trade routes and roadways, agreements and cultural holidays that are exclusive to them. Together they form a very strong economic powerhouse when it comes to medical aid and resources.

Region: Gliao (Glee-Ow) is the hottest region in phangoria. The reason for their people’s much more showy and revealing clothing is due to the amount of humid heat that courtier’s experience. The heat isn’t just a con, it has its pros. Being that the airs are filled with humidity, the vegetation and biological diversity is immense. Thousands of flora species that aid in health and vitality, more that can be used for poison and ailments and even plants that kill and devour on their own.

The Wenschi Conservatory is one of the most flora rich places, being a personal conservatory for the Olive Lord. It holds species that are lacking and or going instinct. The Olive Lord spends most of his downtime tending to this Conservatory. Not only is Gliao home to the biggest diversity in biological life, but also to the most beautiful terrains. The winding cliffs and natural spires that emerge from the terrain give home to much of the vegetation, and to Olive Courtiers who build their homes on the edges of cliffs and mountains, thousands of bridges and ropes hanging from cliff to cliff. Most ground sturdy Courts find traversing the towns and cities of gliao to be an arduous task, scared off falling into the abyss like depths of the valleys, but the people of gliao are equipped to deal with such an occurrence, and have the agility to climb back up just as easily. Not to mention how they can terraform in artistic and beautiful ways using teams of manipulation spellcasters. Their home is a sight to behold.

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Two

by Loysark The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

*

“Remarkable,” Doctor Henrietta Butler says, freezing mid-handshake when she meets Hob’s eyes. “Just remarkable, the resemblance–”

“I’ve heard that a lot today,” Hob tries to interrupt, embarrassed by how much two separate BBC Historics production assistants have already gushed over him in the short walk from the Broadcast House lobby to this back office. 

“I imagine so,” Henrietta laughs. She’s a sturdy woman in her mid-fifties, hair long and steel-grey, shot through with the last clinging vestiges of the mouse-brown. Her hands are at least as calloused as his, from so many years of demonstrating cheese presses, and butter churns, and laundry manglers. The smile lines around her eyes are deep, her laughter comes often and easy, and Hob likes her immediately.

She reminds him of his older sister Matilda.

The memory comes with a sudden hankering for Matty’s rabbit stewed in verjuice. He wonders, if he remembers it in enough detail, would Henrietta be able to recreate it for him? Her years of study overlap with Hob’s. Or maybe Morpheus could, in the Dreaming.

“Sit, sit, please,” Henrietta says, waving him toward one of the cushy office chairs. They’re in a well-appointed meeting room, not much larger than Hob’s office at the university, but significantly tidier. It’s staged to look a bit like a gentleman’s study, and Hob vaguely recalls a chat show from the sixties that used similar furniture. He wonders if it’s been repurposed.

It’s the BBC and they never seem to have enough money, so yeah, likely.

Henrietta goes through the deeply British ritual of pouring out the tea that some assistant has left on a spindly little table in the middle of the hodgepodge of leather chairs.

Oh Christ in his Heaven, Hob realizes as he accepts his mug from Henrietta. I’m going to have to live without tea for months. I don’t know if I can go back to posset.

They chat aimlessly about Hob’s journey to Broadcasting House that morning. Henrietta is delighted to learn that Hob walked in from Wapping rather than take the tube. While motorcars and handsom cabs are handy when you want to go far, Hob’s still got enough of the sellsword peasant soldier in him to prefer a good long march to clear his head over a stuffy, cramped, loud journey shoved into a metal can with a thousand other people.

The hour and half’s stroll along the water, through the oldest part of the city, had reminded Hob of what had changed since his time as Robert Gadlen the Third. He’d made it a game with Matthew, who had joined him for part of the walk, to describe what had been there before the Great Fire. 

Hob remembers when Chalk Fields was still a field, Forest Gate had a gate one passed through to leave the city and enter a forest, and Haymarket was a place to purchase hay.

Gadlen House had survived the inferno simply by virtue of not being in the fashionable part of town. It’s across the river in what is now the Hither Green neighborhood, overlooking what the National Trust had named Manor Park after the House itself when they’d taken control of the estate. At the time, Hob didn’t care about fashionable neighborhoods, or that it was outside the Walls. It was close to Greenwich and the Depford docks, through which much of Hob’s wealth had passed back then, and that’s what mattered. 

And he’d wanted space for his paradise-on-earth. He’d predicted, and predicted right, that the city would one day consume the south bank. He’d wanted to carve out his piece of it before that happened. He’d ensured that there was plenty of room for parkland, orchards, and gardens. Hob had grown up in green and hilly Essex back when his village was so small that everyone could fit inside the church. He preferred space and verdant nature where he could get it, even when he had to live in a city.

He’d done the same when he’d bought the White Horse and as much of the land surrounding it in Wapping as he could winkle out of the estate agents. His current little patch of city has a fine view of the Pool of London (and the Bridge and Tower, if you crane your head up river), but is nowhere near as dominated by buildings and rushing pedestrians and racing cars as the rest of old London Town. On purpose, of course. And despite all the development real estate offers he’d received and turned down (some less politely than others, and one with a baseball bat and a bloody grin when they’d foolishly sent a pack of hooligans to try to intimidate Hob), he intends to keep it that way.

Hob’s walked past Broadcasting House before, too, of course. He's wandered every road in London at one time or another, but its place on Regent's Street between the Thames and Marleboyne means he's walked the Cambridge borough more times than he can count.

Once Henrietta is settled with her own cuppa, Hob jumps straight to his first question: "So where did the historians dig me up? How?"

Henrietta laughs again, easy and generous. “Nothing so difficult–Google, just like everything else in this day and age, I’m afraid. We’d already gotten permission from the National Trust to film at Gadlen House–”

It’s my home, you should have asked my permission, Hob thinks, but the possessiveness flits away as quickly as it had appeared. It’s not his home any more, and that’s something he’s had to come to grips with more than once in his long, long life.

“--and as Glenn and are focused on the downstairs manner of things, we had thought it might be fun to have an actor or two play the upstairs folks, you know.”

“Downtown Abbey-like,” Hob surmises.

“Precisely. But then of course a research assistant was looking into the last owner, Robert Gadlen the Third, sending the portrait to casting directors, and your name popped up in an internet search. Historian at the University of York, same name, remarkable family resemblance…”

Hob tugs on his ear, annoyed again, and aware that there’s no one to blame but himself on this one. “But how did you trace the lineage?” he asks, because that’s the real issue here. The lesson he has to learn from, and the mistake he has to make sure he doesn’t accidentally repeat next time.

“One of the privileges of the show,” Henrietta allows. “They let us get into all sorts of archives and records that the public can’t access. Looks like there was a brother, some years back. Probably estranged, for as little he’s talked of in the surviving correspondence. But he claimed what little fortune there was left of the Gadlen Estate in 1703 and parlayed it into the triangle trade–”

"You mean the kidnapping, murder, and enslavement of other human beings," Hob says flatly. "It's alright—call it what it was. I'm sure my ancestor is as ashamed of it as I am."

Henrietta offers him a thoughtful glance at his bluntness. “I wonder. At any rate, from there it was a matter of following the line of inheritance, and once the researchers realized that your ancestors had a fondness for ‘Robert’ or some variation thereof for their eldest sons, and a chronic inability to spell their own surnames in any sort of consistent manner, it led us to you. Robert Gadlen the Sixth, or thereabouts.”

“And of course, what with my area of expertise being what it is…” Hob finishes that thought with a shrug and a gesture at himself. 

“It’s almost too perfect,” Henrietta agrees. 

“But who’s to say I’m the right choice of presenter?” Hob pushes. “What if I’m terrible at it? It’d be a huge waste of time and money.”

“I’ve seen videos of your lectures,” Henrietta replies with a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “You’ll do fine.”

“The Everyday Histories series?” Hob groans. “I thought they replaced those videos with this year’s speakers.”

“Nothing ever truly goes away on the internet,” Henrietta reminds him, which is part of the problem. But that's Future Hob's concern. “So what do you say, Doctor Gadlen? Three experts instead of two this time around, and an actual descendant of the original Master of the House to boot. Feels like destiny, wouldn’t you say?”

It bloody well better not be, Hob thinks. He makes a mental note to tell Morpheus to pass on a polite request to Destiny to butt out of his life. He’s already had enough of Despair’s fish hook in the last few centuries. And, though he’s still reluctant to admit it to his Stranger, Hob thinks he’s been the center of Desire’s attention a little too often lately, as well. All that hand-holding is giving Hob ideas that he has to be very careful not to allow to become daydreams around his friend. The last thing Hob needs is the eldest Endless ganging up on him, too.

“If I agree to this,” Hob says, “what would be expected? I mean, I love your work, and my friends Matthew and Morph… Murphy are big fans of what you do, but just because I look like the guy,” here he enjoys the irony of gesturing at the color print-out on the table between them of the portrait of his own face. “It doesn’t mean I have to pretend to actually be him, right? I’m no actor.”

“No,” Henrietta assures him. “We’re not going to write scenes and have you speak as Robert Gadlen. It’ll be the same as Glenn and I, the assumption of a general role and class in society–you as the patriarch and master of the household, Glenn will be the gamekeeper and groundsman, do the gardens, and the orchards, and the shooting, and the like. I’ll be juggling the roles of head cook and housekeeper this time.”

“The cook was an Italian man,” Hob corrects before his brain catches up with his mouth.

“Was he?” Henrietta says, delighted. She sits forward. “Done a lot of research into the Witch Knight then, have you?”

Hob winces at the unkind nickname. "I mean, I know who Robert Gadlen the Third was, of course I do. It's like Anne Hathaway not knowing Shakespeare, even though she's an actor, when she has the same name as his wife. You can't not be aware when it's your field. I just… I guess I never thought that I was actually related to the guy."

Henrietta nods. “Makes sense. I’ll admit I haven’t done the deep dive yet, so I’ll defer to you on that detail.”

I’m going to have to figure out how to back myself up if I’m going to get my way as much as I want, Hob realizes. Any documents or paperwork he’d had in his study the night he'd been dragged away had likely been long ago pilfered or burned up. And Hob hadn’t been in the habit of maintaining a daily journal any more. He’d started one under Caxton, to help learn his letters, but realized fairly quickly that putting proof of his immortality on paper might invite the very accusations and executions that he’d actually suffered.

“I don’t think Glenn wouldn’t mind being the head cook this time, then,” Henrietta says over Hob’s musing. “I can manage the gardens. For the game, maybe we could–”

“I can hunt,” Hob says. “I can ride, too. Though it’s been a while. And I haven’t held a bow since–” –firearms became more ubiquitous in the late seventeenth century– “undergrad.”

Henrietta laughs again, clearly beyond pleased. “And how’s your late Middle English?”

“Impeccable,” Hob says, because you know what? Hob still has an ego, and if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.

*

Once they’ve finished their tea, signed a few non-disclosure agreements, and collected up the folder of reference photos, Henrietta leads Hob further into the bowels of Broadcast House.

Hob feels like a minor celebrity when they walk between the rows of cubicles belonging to the Historics research team. They pop up, one after the other, like meerkats to get a good look at him, then drop back into their seats and whisper about how handsome and uncanny he is in much louder tones than he thinks they realize. Hob wishes Matthew could be here for this, he’d find it hilarious. 

Maybe Hob can convince Henrietta that he used to keep a massive, mouthy raven as a pet so Matthew could ride his shoulder around the set.

Hob is led to a back wall absolutely smothered in fabric swatches, photocopies of old hand-written recipes, food lists, architectural drawings, gardening layouts, sketches of Manor Park, lighting references, plans for riding tack, and a multitude of other documents that Hob hasn’t got the experience or time to parse. Dead centre of the board are life-size copies of the three extant portraits of Robert Gadlen the Third. 

The first is of Hob alone. He doesn’t remember which year it was or the name of the artist. But he remembers that it was pig-hot in the artist’s salon and that he’d damn near keeled over from heatstroke on the first sitting. That had been before he’d met Eleanor, and the painter had been some former apprentice of Hans Holbien the Younger, and very much in demand. Hob had wanted to wear his Stranger’s colors, for the portrait. He wanted to proclaim his gratitude and allegiance to the creature he’d thought of then as his patron. But the black velvet had been smothering, and the scarlet embroidered trim had crumpled unappealingly, and the starched ruff had scratched so appallingly that Hob had begged the artist to let him take it off if it wasn’t being painted in that exact moment.

The second portrait was of Hob and Eleanor. Hob ignores the scarecrowish figure of himself hovering at Eleanor’s side, in a stately parlor. He holds a glove in one hand to indicate that he is master of his estate, a sword on his hip along with his heraldic badge on his breast to indicate his knighthood, and a view of the shipyards where he’d made his fortune out the arched window behind him. Instead, he focuses on his wife.

Eleanor is plump and buxom, cheeks filled with roses and hair the deep gold color of flax. She looks young, God's wounds, she looks no older than his students. How old was she when they married? Twenty? Twenty-two? And he an eternal thirty-three. But Lord Above in All His Splendor, had he loved her on first sight. Maid-of-a-maid in Elizabeth's court, low-down daughter of a low-down courier, nobody of import. She professional enough to remain quiet and bold enough to openly drink the leftover wine that her mistress had abandoned.

She'd met his eyes over the rim of the goblet, launched a challenging eyebrow in his direction, and that was that for Hob Gadling and his heart.

She’d had a little dog when they married, a dumb fluffy white thing with a heart as generous as El’s but breath like a week-old fish pie. She’d loved the bloody thing like a child. It was sitting by her feet in the portrait, pink tongue lolling, staring up lovingly at its mistress, sporting a ridiculous flax-yellow bow. In her lap, Eleanor cradles the lute Hob had given her as his first courting gift. She'd loved music, but hadn't an instrument of her own, and Hob hated how she'd sighed over how lovely the queen's was.

In the portrait Eleanor's dress is the color of a robin’s egg, and so are her eyes.

(Morpheus' eyes too, Hob realizes with a start as he studies the portrait.)

Hob remembers the almighty row they’d had over the dress, when he’d been handed the mantua-makers’ bill. How it was the first time he’d yelled at El, the first time he’d seen the tears well up in her eyes and the mottled, shamed flush creep up her bosom and neck. And how it had made him feel like an absolute monster.

He’d thrown himself at her feet, literally, right there in the solar, and kissed her slippers and apologized. Then he’d kissed her ankles. Then her calves, and her knees. By the time he’d kissed all the way up, and spent a dozen humid moments with her thighs clamped hard around his ears, she was happy to forgive him on the understanding that he was to never again raise his voice to her. It was a promise Hob had kept, because honor was something he clung to, as well.

If your life was such that sometimes all you could call your own as you moved onto a new life was your name and your word, then you didn't break the latter easily.

And the final portrait was the one from the National Gallery, commissioned just months before his son died. This time, Hob is the one seated, taking his ease with a pair of hunting hounds sprawling at his feet and whose names, he is utterly ashamed to realize, he's forgotten. They are outside, Hob on a park bench, under the great wide apple tree Hob had planted in the Park in private memory of his brother John, and the rest of his lost family. Hob is dressed for leisure, as if he's just walked out of the doors of his study and into the garden, still in his wrapper and cap. 

Robyn is the real star of the portrait, as Hob meant him to be.

Standing beside him, leaning on a long, skinny matchlock musket, Robyn looks exactly like he had the day he'd died. He's wearing different clothes of course—fine hunting kit, decorated with more lace and embroidery than would ever be practical in real life. But the rest is just as Hob remembers. The cheekbones finally emerging from the last of his baby fat, the cowl's lick in the swoop of golden-brown hair at the center of his forehead, which he'd inherited from El, the cleft chin, the start of laughter lines around his sparking- dark eyes.

The only difference is that on the night he'd died, Robyn had been sporting his first atrocious, patchy goatee. Attempting to look like his father.

Hob gives in to the urge to run his fingers along the edges of their faces, first El’s then Rob’s. The photo paper is glossy to the touch, but he can remember the smoothness of her cheek, and the peach-fuzz prickle of his. He swallows hard, determined not to allow the emotions throttling him.

"And there he is, our Witch Knight and his tragic family."  Henrietta lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It must be very moving, to see them now that you know that they are your tragic family."

Tragic family, Hob repeats to himself. He had sometimes wondered if El, and Robyn, and wee John had died so young in payment for his everlasting life. He had not passed on his immortality. The thought that he had inadvertently stolen their years for himself had been hard on his mind in the many decades he'd begged and starved on the streets.

His Stranger had reassured him in 1689 that it had not been the case. Hob, who had not tasted ale or wine in over a decade, and as a result had no longer been in practice being intoxicated, had burst into tears of relief at the table.

His Stranger had let him cry, without mocking or abandoning him. When the proprietor made noises about closing up for the night, Hob had found a purse heavy with enough fantastical coins ("Pulled from the dreams of children on a pirate adventure," Morpheus had explained centuries later) that Hob could pay the evening's tab, as well as for a room and a wash.

Hob had disdained the tub the proprietor's wife had dragged in, with no desire submerged again any time soon, but he'd scrubbed himself and his clothes as best he could. In the morning, he had appealed to the proprietor for work, and when the man had learned that Hob knew his letters, sent him to his brother's vegetable stall in the nearby market. Hob was too old to be a proper delivery boy, but he could read the lists, and assemble the orders, and knew the city like nobody else.

With his feet back under him, and his belly not eternally consuming itself, Hob was able to make himself decent enough to pursue what little wealth may still be in banking for him (or in the little caches he'd buried all over his hometown), and start again.

And look how that turned out, Hob remembers, tugging his ear.

"Must we call him the Witch Knight?" Hob asks, as Henrietta moves off to point out the bits of fabric pinned to the board all around the portraits. "Only, it doesn't seem like a very kind nickname. He wasn't a witch."

"You sound sure of that," Henrietta says, with a little chuckle. "While of course we can debunk it in the show, it is the most commonly known moniker for your semi-famous ancestor. People know it. It's on all the Gadlen House tourist pamphlets."

Uhg, Hob thinks. He should have visited the house at least once since it was handed over to the National Trust. Maybe he could have stopped the nickname before it got popular.

Instead he'd stayed away completely, certain that his heart couldn't take seeing what the courtiers who had been gifted the estate had done to the place. Nor what 'improvements' their own ancestors may have torturously imposed on his paradise-on-earth.

"Witch Knight," Hob mutters, shaking his head.

*

One of the most important things that Hob has learned about his Stranger in the last year is that Morpheus is an absolute sucker for a bet.

Maybe it’s part of being… whatever it is, actually that An Endless is. Immutable, bound to the laws of the universe, and unable to turn down a wager on a cellular level. It seems that all the Endless were like that, based on Morpheus’ sparse stories. As Hob understands it, once an Endless shakes on it, they are pathologically compelled to see their little bets through, no matter how inane or ridiculous, or what harm it may cause one another. Or what regret and rifts in the love between siblings.

So of course the first thing Hob says when he falls asleep that night is: "If you're so keen for me to do this show, I bet you can't find me a book that still exists that I can use a primary source."

"Oh-ho-ho!" Merv had shouts, from where he's trying to shove a massive potted arrangement  of red carnations, blue cornflowers, and poppies into a corner of the throne room. It's an unusual combination. Hob doesn't know the language of flowers, but the sharp juxtaposition of the blooms looked a little violent to him. "You're betting the boss?"

"Decorum," Morpheus scolds the pumpkinhead waspishly, but without any real heat. He stands from where he was lounging on the bottom steps of his dias, clearly waiting for Hob to enter the Dreaming. "Your wager is accepted. What do you forfeit if I locate the necessary texts in the Waking world for you?"

Morpheus strides towards the Library, and Hob trots after him, his slippers a whisper against the blackhole-dark marble. "I'll put that homemade spanakopita and saganaki you like on the menu at The New Inn."

Hob's been trying to get Dennis to agree to it for months, anyway, but his co-manager is extremely opposed to dishes that a) take literal hours of laminating and metric tons of butter to create and b) are brought to the table on fire. If Morpheus provides him with government documents, or a servant's old journal, or even letters that Hob or Eleanor had written, though, Hob's willing to throw down with Dennis over his sudden desire to shift the menu from Upscale Pub Grub to Classical Greek in the most literal sense.

Morpheus gets that little starry-eyed (also literally) far-away look he sometimes sports when thinking of his originating culture. Morpheus had, after all, been thought into being when humans were still doing the OG version of the Mediterranean diet. Though he didn't eat, the sorts of foods that might have appeared on his altars—warm olives and flatbread, oil and vinegar, tart goat's cheese and yogurt, grapes and sugared nuts—could always entice him into a nibble or five.

"Hmm, agreed," Morpheus says, holding open the Library door for Hob. "And should the task prove fruitless, what do you ask in recompense?"

A kiss, Hob thinks, and then swiftly squashes it down.

"You invite Death to our next Tuesday hang. I haven't had the chance to thank her properly yet."

Morpheus looks sour about that, the possessive prat, which is why Hob had picked it. He's been hinting that he wanted to meet at least this mysterious sister who whom he owes his immortality for a while now.

"Very well," Morpheus agrees mulishly. "This way."

He leads them towards The Shelves of Books That Are, which is where Hob would have started, too. The Shelves of Books that Were might help too, if Hob could convince Morpheus to allow him to bring a physical copy into the Waking. Regrettably the Shelves of Books That Have Yet To Come and the Shelves of Books That Never Will Be would be off-limits for this little project.

Maybe, if they do have to magick a book back into existence, the Bookseller of Soho could see fit to help him with the little ruse. He’d always seemed the sort of a nice spot of drama, and the Bently Snake was always down for a bit of heist when needed.

They chat a bit about their days—Morpheus about the section of the Dreaming he's building to celebrate the many vivid and creative imaginings of the growing legions of fan writers and artists, and Hob about his first meeting with Henrietta.

"Witch knight!" Hob repeats in disgust as he relays the conversation. "As if I was—" he gestures at himself, and his scarlet silk pajamas darken and spread, like ink in water, until he's wearing the most ridiculous anime-esque spiky gothic armor he can think up.

He's getting better and better at this lucid dreaming schtick.

"Peace, Hob," Morpheus entreats, waving away his nightmarish outfit. His clothes become pajamas once more, though the King of the Dreaming has added a cozy, blowsy banyan in cloth-of-gold. Hob rather likes it—it billows and trails behind him just like Morpheus's own cloak of galaxies. "It was not meant as an insult. It is merely another story."

"But stories hold power, you said so," Hob says, jogging along to catch up with his friend. "And I'd like to find something else to outshine that one."

Morpheus is always taller than Hob in the Dreaming, and far more eldritch too. His pale eyes are instead the deep velvet black of space, filled with a field of stars. He is skinnier, sharper, arms and fingers just slightly too long, hair more wild and clothing always moving as if he has his own private breeze to make sure his cloak is always shown to best advantage.

He probably does, the vain ponce.

He's a gorgeous nightmare, and he knows it.

And so he peers down at Hob from his lofty snobbish height. Then with a dramatic flourish, he plucks a book down off a shelf that's definitely too high up for Hob to reach.

"I win," Morpheus says smugly.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

[byuno-o]

CHAPTER 1: LOS ANGELES TO YEONGDONG-DO

"How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?"

Brown eyes filled with disdain glanced at a man in his late fifties, sitting upright with one leg resting over the other while one hand held a thick copy of a novel based on Dr. Seuss' illustrations from The Secret Art of Dr. Seuss. The fingers of his other hand touched his tongue before landing on the page, presumably containing the lines he was about to read, before it was turned by those fingers.

"That's true for you, Wookyung-ah, isn't it?" he added, his lips curved in a questioning smile.

Cha Wookyung rolled his eyes at the bothersome man who was not only his relative but also the sole person his father had assigned to look after him. "You know, I wouldn't mind seeing you run three kilometers. Your health took a nosedive the moment we landed," he remarked, emphasizing the word 'run' with a warning smile on his tired, sleep-deprived face. Despite the frustration, the tired nephew had spent the entire long flight tending to his uncle, who had caught the flu a day before the departure date.

"You know," his uncle said, pointing a finger at him, "I've always told your mother that she gave birth to another Wooyeong." The subtle wrinkles on his face deepened at the mention of his older brother, as a familiar face that resembled his own flashed through his mind. Shaking his head, he continued, "You're just like your overbearing father."

"And how should I be, then? Like you?" Cha Wookyung yawned. "Just close your eyes and get some sleep. We've got a long way to go, right Warner?" He tapped the leather of the driver's seat, prompting the stern-faced man with black hair to nod in agreement. His uncle groaned like a child at the confirmation before resuming his reading, this time murmuring the words to himself.

The man had the stance of a gentlemanly hero from the movies of the fifties—and he was also dressed as such. His linen blazer, which coincidentally matched his light-coloured pants, partnered together with his slick, thick line of moustache—cleanly shaved, to give him an aura of authority and poise. Yet, the brown-eyed man who had resorted to sighs at the preposterous way of his uncle's reading habit, which caused him to lose his sleep throughout the journey, could sense the nervousness trying to hide itself from the world. The glitz and the glam could not hide the fact that his uncle was, indeed, a child in the body of an aged man.

Although the instances of that child coming out of that body were rare, since he preferred to keep a frown on his face to ensure he never had to land in any situation which would cause his fears to become evident, there were moments when the facade cracked.

The uncle's meticulous mannerisms, the almost ritualistic way he turned the pages of the book, and his constant need for order and control were all indicative of a deeper, unspoken anxiety. This was a man who had lived his entire life trying to maintain a semblance of dignity and strength, yet behind closed doors, or in the quiet moments of solitude, the façade would crumble, revealing a vulnerability that he worked so hard to conceal.

Like the rest of the men of the Cha household, his uncle was bound by the invisible chains of tradition and expectation.

But that day was one of those rare occasions when Cha Wookyung wished his upright uncle would loosen up a bit and provide him with humorous anecdotes about the person they were on their way to meet and share a bit of history about their long-forgotten property. He sighed, shaking his head as he stared out of the car window.

The mud-ridden road bumped and jostled the vehicle as it made its way through the verdant tea gardens. The blues of the night before had faded into the early morning, although the sun had yet to rise and shine over the tea leaves, which still held onto the dewdrops from the night air. His stretched arm managed to touch the ambitious branches growing outside the fences, causing the delicate dewdrops to fall to their deaths.

There was a sudden jolt that shook the car as it dipped into a small pit of muddy water dug by the incessant rainfall the night before, causing his arm to move like a rubber band. A yelp of pain escaped his lips as he retreated back into the car. He turned to see his uncle rubbing the back of his head.

"Warner!" His heavy voice seemed comical, with his eyes practically popping out of his round, thick-framed glasses. "Drive carefully! At this rate, I'll end up with a broken skull and five teeth!"

Cha Wookyung started counting the times they had encountered such potholes, noting that almost three kilometres still remained to be covered.

"Uncle," he tried to stifle a chuckle, noticing the old man's glasses resting lopsided on his nose, "what can Warner do when there are potholes covering every inch of this road? Matter of fact why did Grandpa never bother to rebuild this road?" he added, attempting to sound serious, though he was partly serious.

His uncle adjusted his glasses and let out a deep sigh. "Your grandfather is a man of principles and habits. He believed in maintaining the authenticity of the estate, which included the road. He always said it was a reminder of our humble beginnings and the hard work that went into building the estate. Besides, he rarely leaves the estate grounds, so he saw no need to improve the road."

Wookyung shook his head. "Times have changed, Uncle. This road is a hazard. We're not living in the past anymore."

His uncle nodded slowly, looking out the window. "Perhaps you're right. But change comes slowly to places like this, unlike us who live fast-paced lives. The estate is more than just land and buildings. It's a symbol of our family's history, our struggles, and our achievements. Sometimes, it's hard to let go of the old ways."

Yet Cha Wookyung never felt any attachment towards the glory of that tea estate.

He added, "also, I hope your Korean hasn't caught rust. You must make your grandfather happy."

"I do know Korean."

"Do you, Wookyung? Do you?"

"I do know how to speak Korean, my dear Uncle. I've been brought up in a Korean household by a strict Korean mother." he retorted in fluent Korean, making his uncle chuckle.

The car hit another bump, causing both men to lurch forward. Warner muttered an apology from the driver's seat, trying his best to navigate the treacherous road. The nephew glanced at his uncle, who had settled back into his seat, the initial shock of the bumps giving way to a contemplative silence.

The brown-eyed man said with a yawn, 'I'll just close my eyes.' The slow sun and the endless rows of tea bushes seemed to make him feel dizzy, so he shut his eyes and soon began to snore. His uncle, noticing the snores, gently covered him with a small blanket before returning to his book.

At twenty-seven, Cha Wookyung—the sole heir of Cha Wooyeong, the owner of one of the largest publishing companies in the United States—felt more like a jaded old man than someone in the prime of his life. Despite growing up with every luxury and zero pressure, the weight of unspoken expectations and unfulfilled responsibilities left him with a burden of thoughts he could never share with anyone, not even his own family.

His life had been relatively enjoyable, marked by routine pleasures. However, he came to realize that fun has a shelf life. The daily grind of office work, gym sessions, social outings, and club nights eventually began to feel meaningless. It was as if the world around him continued to advance while he struggled to keep pace, despite having resources and opportunities that many people fought hard to obtain. The privileges and advantages that were handed to him on a silver platter seemed to only highlight his growing dissatisfaction and sense of disconnection.

In time, Wookyung's inability to adapt and his careless handling of his family's legacy led to a public image tarnished by the media. News outlets branded him as the quintessential rich kid, indifferent to the struggles and hardships of those less fortunate and living like a recluse on his parents' wealth. His perceived lack of purpose and contribution to society further fuelled the narrative of a privileged individual who squandered the opportunities and legacy bestowed upon him.

In Cha Wookyung's defence, by the time he came to understand the struggles of others, he had already lost the desire to live in a society where his image and the assumptions people made about him overshadowed his true thoughts and feelings. The weight of these expectations had drained him, leaving him feeling isolated and misunderstood.

His father, a strict man with an uncanny ability to foresee the future, had noticed the gradual but profound changes reverberating through the empty halls and rooms of the Cha mansion. The once vibrant home had become a place of silent echoes and unspoken tensions. After much deliberation and careful, secretive planning, he decided to send his only son to South Korea. He harboured a fervent hope that this journey would transform his son, reigniting a passion and hunger that mirrored his own.

"Changes come when we least expect it," Cha Wookyung remembered his grandfather's words. He was twelve when the oldest man of the family left United States and returned to his ancestral land. When his father broke the news, the golden-haired man could only think of those words. Since his grandfather's departure, he did not keep much contact with him, partly because he hated phone calls and texts, and partly because Cha Wooshik was a man with a spontaneous personality.

The old man lived like every day was an oyster for him—full of surprises, until he no longer could. One day he would jump off some cliff trying to learn sky diving, and the other day he would end up with an Italian chef, learning how to make ravioli the authentic way. He was very different from his oldest son, who not only detested travelling, but also preferred learning about the world through books and newspapers.

And Cha Wookyung was very much like his father.

As the car ascended a steep road, a sudden jolt roused him from his sleep. His drowsy eyes caught sight of a small gate made of painted, imitation bamboo. A man dressed in winter clothes and a beanie ran toward them from a large house enclosed by walls and the gate. The man promptly opened the gate, allowing the car to glide into the driveway, coming to a stop near a garden that bordered the pebbled path leading to the wooden building.

Despite his family's considerable land and influence in South Korea, Cha Wookyung had never set foot in the country. He was born and raised in Los Angeles, in a wealthy neighbourhood, where he learned little about his family's heritage. It seemed as though his family preferred to leave the past behind, and whenever he questioned about his heritage, he would get half-baked answers, and gradually he gave up on connecting with his other side.

As he stepped out of the car, the man, who appeared older than his uncle, greeted them with a warm smile. The sun had finally risen, casting its rays over the lush greenery surrounding the wooden house. The house showcased traditional Korean architecture, featuring a wooden gable roof clad with dark-gray tiles typical of Hanok design. A deck on both the ground floor and the upper floor, right below the roof, offered cool spaces to relax during the hot summers. Smaller windows in the observatory framed picturesque views of the distant mountains, enhancing the serene and timeless beauty of the home.

"Welcome, Mr. Cha Woogyeon. The master has gone for a walk in the village. He will return by 11," the man said, his voice polite and respectful. "Would you like to rest for a while, or would you prefer to have breakfast?"

"I will sleep. The potholes sure broke some of my bones, I guess." He chuckled taking off his linen coat, "anyway, how are you doing. Mr. Boo? What about your family?"

The man broke into a boyish grin at the mention of his family. In his sharp voice, he said, "I'm doing well. My eldest son welcomed a baby girl two months ago. My younger son graduated a year ago and has been preparing for the bar exam since then. My youngest daughter just started her freshman year at Hanguk University. My wife is living with her—you know how she is."

Wookyung nodded, recalling the memory of the old man's wife tearfully attending their eldest son's college entrance ceremony. Wookyung had visited his father for some paperwork and ended up driving the man's family to Seoul on their eldest son's first day of college.

"Do visit us," as he spoke, he assisted Warner with unloading their luggage from the car, "my wife will be happy to see you and young master." Cha Woogyeon—the younger son of Cha Wooshik—acknowledged the man's words with a nod. His attention was soon drawn to his nephew, who was wandering through the garden, taking in every detail with an inquisitive gaze. The garden was a beautiful blend of traditional Korean landscaping, with carefully arranged stones, meticulously pruned bonsai trees, and a small koi pond that reflected the morning sunlight.

"Wookyung-ah!" His uncle's voice broke through his thoughts, calling him back to the present.

"Yeah!" he responded, his voice echoing slightly in the open space.

"Go freshen up! Your grandfather has gone out for his morning walk. He'll be back soon."

"Alright!" Wookyung replied, a hint of eagerness in his tone.

Mr. Boo picked up Wookyung's luggage, "young master, let me show you your room," he gestured for the golden-haired man to follow. They walked together through the house, entering through a sliding wooden door framed with delicate bamboo panels stitched together by jute thread. The interior was a harmonious blend of tradition and modernity. The floors were polished wood, and the walls were adorned with calligraphy scrolls and Korean lanterns that cast a soft, warm glow.

"Young master, I am Boo Minseok," the man broke the silence, "I've been working for your family for almost thirty years. I live in the village down south. If you ever visit the village, do grace us with your presence. My wife and family will be very happy to see you."

"Do they know me?" he asked, intrigued by the man's contagious aura, "I've never been here."

Mr. Boo shook his head, the wrinkles around his eyes contracted as a long grin canvased his lips, "we've seen you in photos. Master loves to talk about you. He also told me that you had graduated from Harvard. My youngest daughter is in Hanguk. Her name is Sujin. She is very pretty, and docile."

Cha Wookyung could only give a polite smile.

As they moved further inside, Wookyung noticed the intricate lattice work on the doors and windows, typical of Hanok architecture. The corridors were lined with beautiful, traditional Korean paintings depicting serene landscapes and historical scenes. The gentle sound of a nearby indoor water fountain added to the tranquil atmosphere.

They passed through a spacious living area, where a low wooden table surrounded by floor cushions sat in the centre, inviting guests to sit and relax. The room opened up to a courtyard garden visible through large windows, where bamboo plants swayed gently in the breeze.

Finally, they reached his room. The man slid the door open, revealing a serene space with wooden panels covering the floor. A futon was neatly folded in the corner, ready to be laid out for sleeping. A large window offered a stunning view of the garden and the mountains beyond, framing the scene like a living painting. A small, lacquered table held a ceramic tea set, and traditional Korean artworks adorned the walls.

"Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Cha. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," the man said, placing the young master's luggage gently on the floor before bowing and exiting the room.

Wookyung took a moment to appreciate the tranquil scene, feeling a sense of connection to his heritage that he had never experienced before. He then began to freshen up, his mind filled with anticipation and curiosity about the day's events and the family he was slowly reconnecting with.

If there was one thing he was sure of, it was the fact that his grandfather's words would manifest for many times in Yeongdong-do Tea estate.

[halthprodect4563]

Cultivating Calm and Comfort: A Review of the Medicinal Garden Kit

Having always been intrigued by the natural world's healing properties, I jumped at the chance to try the new Medicinal Garden Kit. This all-in-one package promised a verdant haven of homegrown remedies, and after a few weeks of nurturing my own miniature herb haven, I'm here to share my experience.

Unboxing a World of Wellness

The kit arrived neatly packaged, with everything a budding herbalist could need. A variety of seed packets boasted enticing names like chamomile, echinacea, and lavender, each adorned with a colourful picture hinting at the future bounty. Alongside the seeds came a bag of rich, organic potting mix, perfect for nourishing the soon-to-be inhabitants of my windowsill. The kit even included a set of charming plant markers, ensuring I wouldn't get confused between my calming chamomile and invigorating mint.

A Beginner's Guide to Herbal Cultivation

The true star of the show, however, was the comprehensive guidebook. This wasn't a flimsy pamphlet with vague instructions – it was a detailed manual overflowing with valuable information. Step-by-step instructions on planting, watering, and sunlight requirements made the process incredibly user-friendly, even for someone like me, a complete gardening novice. The guide also delved into the medicinal properties of each plant, offering fascinating insights into their historical uses and potential benefits.

From Seed to Sprout: Witnessing the Magic of Growth

Following the guidebook's guidance, I planted my seeds with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Within days, tiny green shoots began to peek through the soil, a testament to the high-quality seeds included in the kit. Witnessing this transformation was incredibly rewarding, and I found myself checking on my little herb haven several times a day, eager to see their progress.

More Than Just Plants: A Therapeutic Hobby

The Medicinal Garden Kit has become more than just a source of homegrown remedies. Tending to my plants has become a daily ritual, a welcome respite from the daily grind. The act of nurturing these little lives has brought a sense of calm and focus, a reminder of the simple joys to be found in nature.

A Flourishing Future: The Rewards of Homegrown Healing

While my miniature herb garden is still in its early stages, I'm already looking forward to the day I can harvest my first batch of homegrown remedies. The prospect of brewing a soothing cup of chamomile tea or using fresh lavender to ease tension is incredibly satisfying. The Medicinal Garden Kit has not only provided me with the tools to cultivate natural remedies, but it has also opened a door to a new and rewarding hobby, filled with the quiet satisfaction of nurturing life and the promise of a healthier, more natural approach to well-being.

Overall Impression

The Medicinal Garden Kit is an excellent offering for anyone interested in exploring the world of herbal remedies. It is a well-curated package, perfect for beginners like myself, with everything you need to get started on your own path to homegrown wellness. From the high-quality seeds to the informative guidebook, the kit provides exceptional value for money. Whether you're seeking a new and enriching hobby or simply want to cultivate a natural approach to health, the Medicinal Garden Kit is a delightful and rewarding choice.pen_sparktunesharemore_vert

This prompt requires an image that you need to add. Tap the image button to upload an image. Got it

Do you need a little help with this prompt?

Power up your prompt and Gemini will expand it to get you better resultsGot itexpand_contentadd_photo_alternatemicsend

[uttarakhandoffbeatplaces]

Tucked away in the serene Himalayan foothills of Uttarakhand, India, Bageshwar awaits travelers seeking a tranquil escape and cultural immersion. This charming town, surrounded by towering peaks and verdant valleys, exudes a sense of ancient mystique with its numerous temples and spiritual sites. Bageshwar is a haven for those looking to explore beyond the beaten path and discover the authentic heart of Incredible India.

Delving into "Offbeat places in Bageshwar" unveils a tapestry of hidden gems waiting to be explored. Picture yourself strolling through the quaint village of Kanda, where traditional Kumaoni architecture and terraced fields paint a serene picture of rural life. Nature enthusiasts can embark on a trek to the breathtaking Pindari Glacier, where pristine landscapes and panoramic mountain views await. Baijnath, with its centuries-old temples and tranquil riverside setting, offers a glimpse into Bageshwar's rich cultural heritage and spiritual traditions.

Venturing further into "Bageshwar offbeat places" reveals enchanting locales like Chaukori, where tea gardens overlook sweeping vistas of snow-capped peaks, perfect for unwinding amidst nature's splendor. The ancient charm of Bagnath Temple, nestled in a tranquil setting dedicated to Lord Shiva, invites visitors to soak in the spiritual ambiance and serene atmosphere. These lesser-known spots in Bageshwar promise an authentic travel experience, blending cultural discovery with natural beauty, making it an unforgettable destination for travelers seeking a deeper connection with India's majestic Himalayan landscape.

[witch-of-the-creek]

Fascinating flora #2

Mint

Hyssop officinalis is probably the most recognizable variety, but, like many plants, there are thousands of other plants in the same family. The lamiaceae(mint) family contains 236 genera and over 7,000 species.

Some other notable members of the lamiaceae family are sage, catnip, lavender, rosemary, thyme, basil, marjoram, and oregano. Many of these will get their own posts, as I’m mostly covering hyssops in this one.

Mint is a hardy plant. It likes lots of water and good drainage, frequently growing along creeks and rivers. While it definitely has preferred conditions, this plant will grow well in most garden conditions, and isn’t super picky.

My suggestion, if you prefer it for use rather than aesthetics, would be to grow it in a pot, because over time this plant will fill the space it’s in, and spread out. Only plant it in the ground if you’d like large, spread-out bushes or it. It’s aromatic, and will be pleasantly fragrant even from a couple paces, perfect for the corner of a yard, where you can show off the beautiful flowers and verdant leaves to your neighbors and passersby’s.

The flowers attract bees and butterflies, who flock to the flower and are lovely to watch. I’m always gonna be biased towards plants that have good flowers for pollinators, but with good reason.

The plant has many medicinal benefits as well, most notably the pungent scent and flavor being decongestive. The plant naturally produces an oil called menthol, used in nearly every cough drop recipe.

The anti-inflammatory properties of this plant make it a good tea or lozenge for colds and allergies, as it reduces irritation in the sinuses and throat. The cooling effect can also relax muscles, making it helpful to digestion.

The main nutrient contents in mint are fiber, iron, vitamin a, and manganese. It’s rich in antioxidants.

While it’s not as dramatic a medicine or nutritional supplement as some other plants, the flavor is nice, and it’s easy to add into various foods. Cut a few leaves in half and drop them in a lemonade for a cooling summer drink, Mince it for smoothies, cool it into syrups or candies, bake it into sweets.

Even savory recipes can benefit from the cool flavor that mint brings. I’ve included a site with some fun savory mint recipes in the sources.

Witchy properties-

Mint is a powerful protector and banisher. It corresponds to Taurus and Virgo, and strongly associated with air. (I also like to associate it with water due to its frequency growing next to rivers and streams.)

It’s used to attract positive and banish the negative. It can also be used in cooling based hexes or curses if that’s what you’re intending.

I use mint as a supporting base in protective rituals, in tandem with obsidian, eggshells, juniper, and incense/herb ash.

Sources-