#who built a sweat lodge in the garden

[rowanhoney]

Also wild I accidentally over shared with a customer earlier that my mother disappeared to Central America and that as a child there was a solid 2 years where all sides of my family United because my mother was planning to run off with my brother and I and just go and live in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. Like no plan no income no home. Just take her kids and wing it in a dangerous place

[aknightout]

Prologue

Wiping the sweat from his brow Endicott sat back for a moment and admired the view from his vantage. If ever a place deserved to be called picturesque Brehill was it. Built upon a lush plateau between two waterfalls, one to the north rising above and the other falling below to the south. A snug village nestled between. Most of the autumn leaves still clung to branches lending a splash of color to the browns and greens but it wouldn’t be long before they began to fall in droves.

It reminded him of home which came with a pang of sorrow and thinking of home reminded him of what was to come and the illusion of a peaceful village was broken. The beautiful scenery soured in his mind at the thought of the destruction that was to be. To banish the darkness from his thoughts he returned to work. Taking a wooden shingle from a crate at his side and plucking one of the iron nails held between his lips he positioned the two with one hand and raised a hammer with the other. A small tap started the nail and with a mighty swing he drove it home. Another nail another shingle and on down the line he went until the crate was empty.

“I think that should do for today” called a throaty voice from below. Endicott carefully peered down to the ruddy faced man below.     “As you say Master McDiggle” he replied with a nod. Collecting his tools and the crate the large man moved down the ladder with unexpected grace.

“A fair hand with a hammer you’ve got there Sir. If you should ever wish to change professions I’d be happy to hire a man of your skill.” Endicott smiled in and shook his head in reply. “Well you can’t blame a man for trying. I hate to lose your help but truth be told I can handle the rest of the roof in the morning myself. Word is your young man Mervin has ah… well… umm. Well despite his help the Dyley farm could use another set of hands to get their harvest brought in before festival if you have a mind to head that way tomorrow.” 

Endicott shook hands with the old carpenter, each man's hand showed years of skill with sharp implements and a lifetime of hard work. “I’ll do just that.” the knight rumbled. 

Mornon McDiggle drew a small smoke pipe and satchel of tobacco from his pocket. Old and plain as the pipe was some of the men in town would ask why he, with all his skill, didn’t simply make himself a finer pipe. He would laugh it off and claim to have far too much work to carve something for himself. But in truth it was his first attempt at a pipe and he had grown fond of it. After years of use the man and pipe resemble each other far too much for him to consider replacing it.

As he lit the pipe he watched Endicott collect his shield and morningstar mace. Mornon couldn’t help but think how differently someone would describe that man compared to himself. The Knight was no spring chicken either but the very definition of vitality. Despite a reserved nature it was clear Endicott was a lively man. Broad and powerfully built with ornate weapons befitting a man of his station. Mornon couldn’t imagine the knight had ever been called anything resembling ‘simple’ in his life. Yet here he was laboring alongside the common folk like it had always been his way of life.

Endicott had rode into town three nights prior claiming a desire to witness Brehills harvest celebration called the Festival of Crowns. It wasn’t unheard of for folk in the surrounding area to join the festivities but it had certainly never drawn the presence of one of Autumn Reach’s Knights and his squire.

The town had tried to dote on the man offering him a cottage all to himself and whatever food and drink he desired. But Endicott turned it all down instead paying for food and lodging at the Broken Turtle Tavern which kept simple lodgings for travelers. The following day he shocked the town again by rolling up his sleeves and offering to lend a hand wherever they could use it. Even the lanky squire with him had rolled up sleeves without complaint.

He fixed Dynna the Herbalists fence so the chickens couldn’t sneak out any more. Shifted stones out of the Rhosyn families yard, next year their garden will be twice as big because of it. Helped some folks fell a dying tree and almost single handedly kept it from crushing an outhouse on the way down. His squire had been over at the Dyley farm to bring in harvest. People were a bit leery of the man at first. It was hard for the common folk to feel comfortable around nobility such as him. But he always seemed to have a friendly smile and it’s hard to stay suspicious of someone who does a hard day's work with you.

But therein lay the problem, or so Mornon thought. Oh he was friendly enough. Quick to lend a hand or ask you about yourself to make friendly conversation. But the Knight never did offer anything about himself. Most of the town hadn’t noticed but Mornon was a skeptical man by nature and he kept an eye on the stranger. The Knight had a quick tongue behind his smile and easily side stepped any questions about his past or what his business here was. Autumn Reach was clear on the other side of Aardest. Certainly its knights were known to roam far and wide to lend a helping hand. But danger followed their lot and the old carpenter wasn’t about to let this stranger bring that to Brehill or his name wasn’t Mornon McDiggle.

But for now he simply watched. The man hadn’t done anything as of yet. Perhaps nothing would come of it and he would just leave once the festival was done with. He wanted to believe that. He truly did. But something deep in Mornon sensed trouble on the horizon.

[svtegg]

spaghetti and confessions (SVT apocalypse!au)

♡ wordcount: 3,1k ♡ chapter 12/? (ch.1, ch.2, ch.3, ch.4, ch.5, ch.6, ch.7, ch.8 ch.9 ch.10 ch.11)

♡ this won’t make any sense if you haven’t read the last part so make sure to catch up on those before reading! they’re all linked above!

♡ rating: PG-13 death/violence, language

♡ pairing: svt x reader

The warm, green summer quickly faded into fall, deep yellows, browns and hot reds taking over the tree lines surrounding the camp. The birds and other wildlife neighboring the site seeming to calm down as the temperature dropped slowly with each passing day. I had gotten to know the boys better with time, now seeing them as my group. I had grown closest to Mingyu and Soonyoung, Seungcheol still being the one I had spoken the least to even after almost two months. The leader of the group seemed to have warmed up to me a little more, often asking for my opinion or help on different tasks. Mingyu and Chan had decided, after the run I had gone on, that my shoulder needed at least a month to heal, so I had been put on cooking and cleaning duty for the last couple weeks.

As I stood in the kitchen and peeled some of the onions that Wonwoo had brought in from the growing garden out back, the door squeaked open. I turned my head slightly to look over my shoulders to peek at the newly arrived person. “Hi Jun!” I smiled at the man that had just come in through the swing-door from the dining area. He smiled back, flashing his upper teeth as his lips parted in a friendly smile before I turned back to the task in front of me. The man Joshua, Soonyoung and I had rescued along with Jihoon about a month ago had made a slow recovery, his face slowly filling out as his wounds and bruises healed. He had been slashed in the stomach by one of his crazed group members from the boat him and Jihoon had lived on for two years. His left leg had almost been broken in the brawl so now he was limping around on some makeshift crotches that Wonwoo had built him.

“What’re you making?” He asked as he peeked over my shoulder, his chin resting on my shoulder for a few seconds before he pulled away to lean against the white top counter. He was intently looking at my hands as they unpeeled the brown skin from the onion. I looked up at him, once again struck by how handsome he actually was. “I’m going to try and make some pasta, actually.” I answered, my eyes quickly shifting back to the vegetables on the counter. “You wanna help?”

As he cut some of the fresh tomato, we made light conversation. He was telling me about an incident in his group when the door swung up again. “Y/n, come help Mingyu and Chan, Joshua and Soonyoung came back-“ Minghao rushed in, half out of breath. I looked up at the man, his long black hair disheveled, probably from running, eyes blown wide and mouth half agape. Before anyone had time to mutter anything I bolted out from the building yelling over my shoulder at the two men to finish the food for me. The soil underneath my boots crunched as I took quick steps towards the familiar vehicle parked in the middle of the courtyard. The entire side of the car was smeared in brown, and I could only hope it wasn’t blood from anyone living.

I could see Mingyu’s back from where I was positioned, and the top of Chan’s head, his black hair ruffled and sticking into the air. And Joshua standing beside them, his face dark and dirty, speckled with splotches of dirt and blood. Soonyoung. It had to be him. Something was wrong. I could feel my heart drop into my stomach as I quickened my pace to make it over to the small group of men. The air was warm as I took a few deep breaths, the last bit of summer floating in the smell of grass and pine trees. As I took the last long steps over to Mingyu, my head was swimming, my heartbeat making my chest vibrate in time with each pump. “Josh, come over here and help me with this.” I heard a familiar voice say from the other side of the car and as I looked over at the person the voice was coming from I felt the breath I was holding leave my lungs. Soonyoung lifted a cardboard box and quickly walked away, Joshua trailing behind him with a tattered green backpack in his hand.

“Y/n….” Chan muttered, snapping my eyes that where focused on the two men who were turning the corner of the building I had just emerged from. I looked at the younger boy, then down at the ground where a tall man was lying. His black hair was messed up, sticking into the air crazily and his entire body was covered in dirt. He looked to be unconscious, eyes softly closed and face relaxed and still. From the right side in his chest, the handle of a knife. It looked to be the knife Joshua often carried on him. “What happened to him?” I said as I kneeled down beside Mingyu, who was squatting by the stranger’s feet. “Apparently, he had been trapped in one of those raider traps downtown, and when Joshua and Soonyoung tried to help him he had misunderstood and thought they where gonna kill him. It was a whole mess and they had to knock him unconscious on the ride back here because he kept trying to escape. Joshua accidentally lodged his knife into his shoulder when they stuffed him in the car.” Chan explained, looking down at the stranger, seemingly in worry. “How do we go about getting the knife out?” Mingyu rasped, running his hands over his face as he sighed.

I reached over gently, using the knife I kept strapped to my thigh to cut the dirty, sweat soaked shirt up. The mans chest and abdomen was covered in dark bruises, some looking fairly fresh and others almost yellow and green. The three of us decided to move him to room 5, which was the room we used to store all our medical supplies and medicines in, the bed in the middle of the room serving as almost a surgical table as Mingyu and I got to work trying to remove the blade from the mans chest. Chan was bandaging him up as I was cleaning off my hands with a rag. I slumped down into the garden chair that was placed by the door, looking over the strange man. “What happened to this man….” I silently wondered more to myself than anyone else as Mingyu appeared in the doorway. “He’s still unconscious?” He asked, a smart smile playing on his lips as he looked between me and Chan. I looked at him quizzically, knowing he had planned a stupid joke or something, the smile looking awfully similar to the smile he had bared the time he made the clown joke that no one had laughed at. “Yeah, why?” Chan said, his head lifted up from the sleeping man to look at Mingyu with a wondering look, his dark eyebrows almost disappearing into his hair as his eyes grew wide and round in surprise. “Oh, I just wanted to know what this guys name is!” Mingyu snickered as he pulled on a leash, a medium sized dog happily strutting into the room.

The dog was big, looking to be a mix of a German shepherd and something else, and when the animal spotted me it jumped up into my lap to greet me, its big paws resting on my thighs as it licked my hands to say hello. I could feel my heart melting. It had been years since I saw a dog, and even longer since I met a friendly dog, most of the canines where becoming wild at this point. As I petted the dog gently, cooing and talking to it I didn’t notice the previously unconscious man stirring on the bed.

The big dog tried several times before it was able to jump up on my lap and settled on my thighs after letting me pet its ears for a few minutes. Its fur was slightly stiff from not being washed and the animal smelled very strongly of mud and something else, its black and chocolate brown spotted fur lightly scratching my palms as its fluffy tail slowly hit my upper arm in an effort to show it was happy. As the dog started to fall asleep in the comfort, I looked up at the men in front of me. Mingyu was helping the man I didn’t know sit up while Chan opened his bottle of water to give him. The man looked exhausted, his face and clothes dirty and worn, dark circles around his eyes that made him look like he was already dead. He chugged down the water that Chan handed him, Mingyu chuckling from behind him as he stacked a pillow up along the wall so he could comfortably sit back. His cut shirt hung loosely around the clean, white bandage across his chest and the white fabric shone out at me through the dirty green material of his top. The man thanked Chan in a raspy and husky voice as he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes in exhaustion, a ragged breath escaping his dry and cracked lips.

His face was, despite looking so dirty and exhausted, undeniably handsome. He had a long straight nose that stood directly out of his face, his cheekbones high and jaw chiseled in a perfect v shape. As Chan left with the dirty tools and the empty plastic wrappers that had previously held the bandages and alcohol pads that had been used to cover the small wound on the chest of the man sitting in front of me, a quick promise to bring some food for both the stranger and the dog leaving his mouth before he softly closed the door behind him. The man across me took a deep breath, the air leaving his lungs in a shaky ‘thank you’ as he looked between me and Mingyu. As Mingyu moved to sit at the edge of the bed, the dog in my lap lifted her head to look up at the man moving in front of us, watching over him until he settled at the edge of the barren bed, the mattress squeaking lightly under his weight as he shifted his body towards the man on the opposite side of him. “How do you feel?” Mingyu said, his voice sounding exactly like it did when he asked me that very question a couple of months ago. The man answered he felt fine, despite the circumstances, and then went into apologizing for causing trouble for Joshua and Soonyoung when they tried to help him earlier. I moved my hand over the back of the dog that had now settled back down in my lap, letting my fingers bury themselves between the thick strands of hair that stood up against the skin of my hand.

“I was stuck in one of those human traps that the raiders in Incheon have set up around the city. I was totally out of it, been going the last few weeks without much water and food and walked right into one. When your guys found me, I had been in there for hours, I thought they where gonna kill me. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.” He apologized, his head bowed and voice quiet. “You don’t have to apologize.” Mingyu reassured him, leaning down to pat his outstretched calf. “Where you alone?” I asked silently, my eyes not leaving the strangers face for a second. Some of his black hair flopped down into his face as he lifted his head to meet my gaze. His eyes looked scared, but also unsure. He nodded, then quickly gestured weakly to the dog in my lap. “She’s the only company I’ve had since I got separated from my group. Its been a while. I don’t know where they are now.” He stated, his voice barren and small as he avoided my eyes to look up at the roof. “What’s her name?” I continued, trying to make my voice sound as comforting as I could muster to ease the stranger across from me. I didn’t want to ask him questions that might make him uncomfortable or scared, so I opted to talk about his dog to make him more relaxed. “Sun!” The man smiled gently, his head still leaned back against the wall. “She’s really smart.” He explained as he told us about his four-legged friend. Mingyu let him go on for a while before he interjected. “What’s your name?”

“Lee Seokmin.” The man answered right away, his eyes meeting mine for the second time. There were a few seconds of silence before a soft knock on the door snapped us all out of our trances. The dog didn’t react at all, seemingly in a deep sleep as the door opened and a smiling Chan walked in with Seungcheol and Joshua in tow.

“I’m sorry for causing so much trouble!” Seokmin burst out as he recognized Joshua, apologizing again until Joshua smiled gently down and mumbled a don’t worry as he looked over at Seungcheol. “This is Seokmin.” Mingyu stated, looking up at Seungcheol who was looking around the room, his face completely expressionless and eyes bouncing around the room restlessly. “And this is Sun.” The tall man continued, gesturing to the dog in my lap. Chan managed to slip between the two men standing in front of the bed and handed Seokmin a plate of spaghetti with a gentle smile, his head nodding in a sort of ‘youre welcome’ gesture as the dirtied and exhausted man thanked him quietly. “Have you ever killed a human?” Seungcheols scarily deep voice suddenly said, his tone serious and dark. The dog resting on my thighs quirked up in surprise and looked up at me. I slightly moved my legs, and she in turn jumped gently down onto the carpeted floor and shook her huge body softly, the flimsy collar rustling along with her movements. I heard Seokmin gently answer with a ‘yes’ as I motioned for Chan to follow me outside, knowing I wasn’t interested in hearing the conversation that would be ensuing the questions Seungcheol was about to ask the newly arrived man. I picked up the makeshift leash connected to Sun’s collar and lead her outside to the stairs and sat down on the wooden porch.

The sun had started setting and the sky was slowly being overcome with a deep blue, microscopic spots of white appearing over the mountains in the east. Sun sat beside me, her rapid breathing along with the sound of the wind rustling the treetops and the birds singing their last songs of the day masking the sound of Chan closing the door to the room filled with the talking men.

“Hi Sun.” Chen whispered as he stretched his legs out in front of him, the sound of small stones and pebbles digging into the dirt beneath his feet accompanying the sound of the dog laying down onto the wooden surface, her slightly overgrown nails scratching the worn out wood. There where a few beats of silence before any of us spoke again. “Those raiders are the worst thing to happen since this entire apocalypse thing started.” Chan spoke softly, his hand resting on Sun’s back, petting her gently as she let out a sigh almost sounding like she agreed to the statement. I hummed, leaning back on my hands to look up at the sunset sky. The golden orange reaching over the mountaintops to say goodnight, creating a warm glow over the surroundings and making Chan’s face look almost like it was dripping in gold. “The only person I’ve ever killed was a raider.” He stated; his gaze fastened on the disappearing glimmer of the sun behind the rocky tops in the foggy horizon. I let my eyes wander over to him, he’s smiling down at the resting dog as if he didn’t just talk about taking another person’s life. I don’t answer him, half waiting for him to continue but also not really knowing how to respond to his confession. The boy coos gently at the dog as it sneezes slightly, shaking its head before lying back down with a yawn. “I blew up a car when I was on my last run with Joshua and Seungcheol. They got caught off guard by a gang of them when we were looking for antibiotics in a closed of pharmacy close by Incheon Airport. I blew up a car to save them, but I managed to get this at the same time.” He lightly states, a slight smile playing on his lips that contrasted heavily to the topic he was talking about. Chan moves his hand to pull down the right shoulder of his black sweater, revealing a pink scar across the outside of his shoulder. I look up at him questioningly, my hand moving up to touch the healed skin. He laughs slightly and nods.

The scar is about 4 and a half centimeters wide, probably about 10 centimeters in length. The skin is smooth and the wound looked to have been healed pretty well. His smooth and warm skin glide lightly under my fingertips as I let them run up and down the mark a couple times. He shivers and laughs quietly. “It tickles a little” He whispers as I pull my hand away with a chuckle. “You look badass.” I wink at him, putting my hand back behind me. He chuckles and move around to dig in his pockets, pulling his hand out after he found what he was looking for. “Here Sun, you hungry?” He gently muses as he unwraps a piece of folded paper, his voice high pitched and cute as he hands Sun some of the left-over meat from the spaghetti sauce. The dog happily ate what the boy handed her, her fluffy tail slapping excitedly against the wooden porch underneath her. The three of us sat for a while, the low chattering from inside the room behind us becoming louder. “You should go eat, y/n, don’t you have watch duty tomorrow morning?” Chan asks as he gives Sun the last piece of meat. I once again hum, hugging my knees up under my chin as a cold breeze blows past my exposed arms. “I’ll take her. You go eat.” The boy smiles as he gestures down to Sun who’s now licking Chan’s hand thankfully. I smile and get up, giving the dog one last pat on the head before I slowly make my way across the open space to enter the dining area.

a/n: sorry for any typos this isnt proofread at all lmao!!!! hope you enjoy it still! thank you for reading uwu 

[softscholasticism]

•delilah, darling•

rami malek x oc

a/n: hi y’all:) this is my first orginal character fic! if you have any questions about it please dm or ask me but i hope you enjoy! also please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

word count: 3.5k+

warnings: fair warning, i do put the deacon children in a little bit of a negative light, it’ll make sense but please remember that this is fiction, also freddie’s death is mention in this first chapter:)

C H A P T E R O N E: you make me smile.

July 27, 1981

Four band mates were located in the studio, trying to come up with anything to write some kind of piece of music. Nothing was coming to mind of course, Roger and Brian were trying to not throw Paul out of a window just because he was present, John’s wife Veronica was due at any second, and Freddie was playing random notes on the piano trying to think of anything. “This is bollocks, we’re not getting anything done, let’s just go to a party.” Roger sighed in frustration, standing up with his beer and pacing. Everyone looked up at that, it seemed that a party would diffuse the tension and maybe even create an event that would be good enough to write a song about.

Suddenly, the studio phone produced a shrill ring, John sprinted to it just in case it was Veronica. “Hello?” He called, the guys all looking at him expectantly, getting ready to have to rush to the hospital. “Holy shoot,” John glanced at the rest of the band nodding his head which confirmed their suspicions, the baby was on its way. The men began to frantically get their stuff together, throwing on coats, throwing away bottles, putting on shoes (or in Brian’s case, those wretched Clogs). “We’re on our way darling.” John hung up the phone and grabbed his car keys, the other men had been drinking and they were not about to get in a crash on the way to the hospital. Paul stood up as well, expecting to be able to go, but immediately sat back down as soon as Brian and Roger stared him down, practically planning his imminent death through their eyes.

The car ride on the way home was eerily quiet, John had done this before with Robert, Michael, and Laura but each time his wife had a child, it didn’t get easier. There was always something that could go wrong or he could possibly miss the birth due to travelling or touring. Freddie kept trying to ease his nerves by telling stories about his cats as well as describing possible future names he had for them. “My favorite name would be Delilah, it has such a lovely ring to it don’t you think Bri?” Freddie looked in the rearview mirror, smiling at Brian’s indifference to the name.

Speaking of names, John began sweating even more so than before, him and Veronica switched off names every other child and this time, it was his turn to pick the name and he had no clue. “I have no clue what I’m going to name my own child.” He sighed and swerved the car due to the surprise attack of name ideas from his fellow bandmates. Luckily it grounded him enough to keep his composure as he drove to the hospital, a slight smile as the boys argue over which of their names is the best fit.

The four men stumbled into the hospital, John rushing up to the front desk to demand where his wife was. It wasn’t long before one of the boys was recognized, specifically Freddie with his iconic mustache and looks. As the crowd began to get louder and closer, John burst through, “She’s in room 405!” They sprinted back, leaving the crowd in its wake. Luckily the elevator opened as soon as they reached it, a nurse pushing a patient on a wheelchair out of the hospital. The nurse’s eyes grew as she realized who was running in the elevator and hurried to let them through. Once they were all inside, Roger pressed the button for the fourth floor rapidly. John rolled his eyes and huffed at the blonde, “Rog, pressing the button a million times won’t make the lift go any faster.” Roger stopped, glared menacingly at John and then proceeded to push the button rapidly again.

The elevator dinged, the doors not even fully open before the band rushed out in search of the room. When they reached it, John’s three other children were there too but being watched over by Veronica’s parents. Once they noticed that their Daddy was here, they ran over to him and John’s nerves towards this next birth faded. His wife was a trooper and if she had the power to give him three children, what’s another? The children gave the rest of the band hugs and talked to them as John went inside the room to check on his wife. She smiled tiredly at him, she was obviously in pain, but nothing that she hadn’t handled before. Her forehead glistened with sweat, hair tucked back into a ponytail, she would always complain about how she looked during labor but John thought she looked like she was glowing. Veronica was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life.

“Hi darling,” he whispered, grabbing her hand, “how do you feel?” She laughed and proceeded to describe that she was ready to have this baby out of her. However her face changed, she began to look serious and John was worried that something was wrong.

“John, have you thought of a name for our daughter?” She leaned in close to provide emphasis that he better not give her the wrong answer because she was not having her child named something ridiculous like Roger always suggested. Her husband gulped, nerves that once were lost, now resurfacing.

“About that darling, I was wondering, would it be alright if Fred were the Godfather?” She was incredulous, that didn’t give her the answer she desperately needed, her child was not about to be named after a bloody drug or alcohol or some breed of feline. Veronica made sure to voice these opinions, it’s not that she cared if Freddie were the Godfather, in fact she quite like that idea, but she knew how wild the man could be. “I want him to name her and I swear to you our baby girl’s name will not be ridiculous.” John assured her, not wanting to cause his wife anymore stress than she was already experiencing.

Veronica nodded her head. “Alright, you better figure this out though, I think she’s coming soon.” With that, John went to go speak to Freddie.

As he approached the boys, who were still playing with his other kids, he patted Freddie on the back. “Fred, can I talk to you for a second?” Freddie obliged and told the children that he would be back in a jiffy. Together they walked down the hallway a little further, that way they could still be near the room and so that people couldn’t be nosy (Bri and Rog). John rubbed his hands across his hair, trying to gather how he should go about asking. “So, I guess, Ver and I would like you to be the Godfather of the baby and choose her name, but it can’t be anything bloody ridiculous after drugs or a vodka you liked in Japan.” He ultimately decided blurting the request was the best option. He watched with a cringe on his face for Freddie’s reaction and was immediately met with arms around his neck as Freddie jumped around.

“Yes, yes, yes darling, of course!” He twisted around, licking his lips in excitement, his eyes glowed with mischief as he thought of a name for the baby. “I have just the perfect name for her, Delilah.” He sighed, thinking about all of the ways he was going to spoil his Goddaughter. John briefly remembered Fred talking about the name Delilah for a future cat, not his daughter.

“I thought you wanted to name your cat, Delilah, Fred?” Freddie’s smile only got bigger as he explained that he would name his favorite cat after his favorite Goddaughter. Roger and Brian suddenly called for John and Freddie, exclaiming that the baby decided to starting coming out right at that moment. The band allowed John to be the only one in there for intimacy sake and so Veronica wouldn’t be stressed about the birth. She worked so hard and the doctor’s were so helpful and in just a few short moments, John’s breath was taken away at the sight of his daughter in his wife’s arms. Veronica had done so beautifully and looked just ethereal as she held her fourth bloody child.

She looked up expectantly at John as the nurse asked for the child’s name. A cheeky grin swam across his face as he spoke, “Delilah Elizabeth Deacon.”

July 27, 1986

Delilah Deacon turned 5 on this particular day and requested that she ​must ​see her Daddy and Uncle’s perform for her big day. Today was the day that Queen would perform in Budapest, Delilah had no clue what a Budapest was but all that mattered was that she got to see her Daddy and Uncle Freddie.

While the stage was being built, a small party was put together. Freddie had this marvelous cake put together that had her face on it as well as some of her favorite things such as unicorns, dogs, and anything Queen related. Freddie held on to the small child as she excitedly blew out her candles, the crowd around her cheering as all of the candles were successfully blown out. “What ever did you wish for, my dear?” Freddie asked, Delilah shook her head though, remembering when her Daddy told her that if she told anyone, it wouldn’t come true. But she knew what she wanted, and that was to have a house just like Garden Lodge one day. She basically lived there. When Freddie decided to not have massive parties, John would let her stay over and Jim and Freddie would watch over her, treating her like one of their own. Freddie just laughed and spun her around as the cake began to be passed to everyone.

Once the stage was finally finished, Freddie took Delilah to the stage, they were quiet, soaking in the vast stadium and the roaring crowd that would soon fill it. Freddie loved Delilah with all of his heart, he spoiled her rotten despite John’s protests. Her bought her so many clothing items and so many toys and books, he would give her the world if he could. In a way, he knew Delilah loved him just as much. She was different from the rest of her siblings, quieter, softer, she liked drawing and reading over playing with toys and watching cartoons. As her siblings got older, Freddie noticed that they would isolate her from playing, he believed that they were jealous of their relationship. John and Veronica loved her just as much as the rest of the children though, Freddie was amazed at how much love two people could carry not only for each other but also for their children. The dark-haired man was so grateful that Freddie allowed him to have just a fraction of that when he watched Delilah with Jim. He got to pretend, even though it felt so real.

Delilah suddenly demanded that Freddie must dance with her at that very moment, so he picked her up and twirled with her, softly singing her favorite Queen song, ​Somebody to Love. ​Delilah sang along with him, feeling like a princess in the Disney movies that Daddy watches with her. A soft ​click, click, click sounded from the right of the stage and Freddie saw Brian with his camera in hand. He was definitely going to have to ask for those pictures later.

“Freddie, you better have a good show for me tonight.” Delilah said seriously as Freddie finished the song. His eyes went soft as he looked at her, her short brunette hair and blue eyes looked up at him with hope. He kissed her hair and told her that he would always have a good show if she was in the audience.

As they stopped dancing, Freddie sat her down at the front of the stage, their legs dangling over. He could still hear pictures being taken of them but he didn’t care. All he cared about was his Goddaughter at this moment, he didn’t have nerves about the show later, he didn’t think about his health, he didn’t think about anything other than Delilah. “Delilah, darling, I need to tell you something.” She looked up at him once again, and his heart melted at the sight of them, so big, so innocent, something he hoped would never ever go away. “I want you to remember how proud I am of you, my love. I want you to know that you can be whoever you want to be but you must be the best version of it. Don’t let anyone take away who you are, because you are so loved by me and Jim, by Rog and Brian, by your Daddy and Mummy, by Phoebe, you have so many people. If you ever feel alone, just remember that you have a home with us and we will always be here with you darling, right here.” He poked a finger into her chest, she smiled and did the same. More clicks went off in front of them capturing every moment that they never wanted to forget.

Eventually the band had to go and start the show and before they knew it, it was almost halfway done. Delilah watched with wonder in her eyes as she saw her Daddy leap around the stage with his funky dances moves that he would practice with her and her siblings in the kitchen, she saw Brian move his fingers faster than she had ever seen it happen before, Roger and his duck faces he would make during drumming a song, and Freddie, who was in her favorite yellow jacket he had. Her eyes sparkled as he pranced around, she of course knew the words to every song, her headphones bobbing as she danced around on the side of the stage with Phoebe. The lights sparkled and gleamed, watching her Daddy’s band was what her idea of heaven was and even at the young age of five, she knew just how special it was.

The end of the show came and ​God Save the Queen b​ egan blasting, John beckoned her on stage and carried her around, she laughed and squealed with joy as she was passed to her Uncle Freddie after John kissed her head. Freddie was so sweaty and smelled bad and she made sure to proclaim this offense. He just laughed and placed the crown he was wearing on her head. Laughing as it slipped off, luckily Brian catching it and holding it in its place. Delilah felt as if she was on top of the world in front of this crowd of thousands with her most favorite people. In her Uncle Freddie’s arms, on his stage with the rest of the band saying goodbye to the crowd, even as she got older, she would never ever forget this night.

What she didn’t know is that she was also saying goodbye to seeing Queen perform live ever again with Freddie and her Dad.

November, 1991

At age ten, Delilah knew that her life was different, not everyone’s Daddy was a famous bassist apart of an even more famous band. Not everyone’s family was as big as hers. Not everyone had to experience their favorite person in the whole world dying. Freddie was dying, Delilah knew that, of course she knew that. Freddie was skin and bone, he was practically blind, and last time she visited him, they had to stay in his bed because he couldn’t get out of it. Delilah had to come to terms with an illness that no one should have had to suffer through. She knew that this might be the last time she would get to see him, but even though she knew this, she could never be prepared for it.

Walking up to Garden Lodge felt like walking into home. She had her own key, all of the workers knew her, the cats knew her (her favorite being Delilah obviously). Garden Lodge was her second home and she desperately hoped that this wouldn’t be the last time she would get time see it. As she walked through the front door, Jim greeted her with a hug. “Hi, love, he’s upstairs like last time.” She nodded and grabbed his hand, needing all the strength she could get from having to see her Uncle so sick and frail. “Remember, he’s still very sick, but I promise you he’s still the same Freddie.” Jim assured, leading her upstairs. As they reached the large wooden doors, she braced herself and put on a smile. The door creaked open and Jim spoke, “Freddie dear, you have a guest.” Lethargically, Freddie turned his head and upon seeing who it was, his eyes grew a little bit brighter.

“Delilah darling, I’m so delighted to see you. Please do come sit with me.” He softly pat the side of the bed, she moved towards him and Jim helped her climb onto the massive mattress. His heart hurt, because he could barely see Delilah’s blue eyes but kept his smile on because all that mattered was that she was there. She cuddled up against him, Jim sat in front at the edge, one leg tucked under the other. These days when she visited the Lodge, they didn’t talk much, just enjoyed each other’s company.

Jim smiled sadly at Freddie, lightly tapping his leg, “Freddie, don’t you have something for Delilah?” Freddie sat up a little bit more as Jim passed a small box to Delilah and another small box to Freddie.

“Delilah, darling, I got you a present, this one I think is my favorite out of all of the ones I have give you. Let’s open it together, dear.” Delilah helped Freddie open their boxes, feeling how cold his skin was and trying to not remember how a short time ago it had been so warm. Freddie had been so warm. Finally when the paper was all taken off, they opened the boxes and inside each one was a small necklace with a heart locket. “Look inside, Delilah.” Freddie whispered, exhaustion reaping over his body at just the small task of opening their presents. She opened the locket, there were two pictures, one from when Delilah was dancing around with Freddie in Budapest and the other of a picture of her Jim and Freddie at Garden Lodge with Delilah the cat. They had just gotten the cat and Delilah cried when Freddie named the cat after her.

“Delilah, darling,” Freddie spoke softly, one hand one Jim’s and the other on her own, “I have the same locket as you.” He pulled his own out to show her. “No matter where you go, or where I go, we will always be together, dear. Like I told you in Budapest, I am always here for you even when I’m not. Delilah you are going to do so many great things in this world and I want you to remember me and remember that Jim and I are always here for you. The Lodge is your home just as much as it is ours. We will stick together, and I promise that I will be there for you, Jim too of course.” Delilah’s eyes welled with big crocodile tears as she clasped her arms around Freddie’s neck. Just like she knew Freddie was dying, she knew this was their goodbye.

One week later, Delilah woke up to John solemnly walking into her room with her mother and sat on her bed. There were tear tracks coursing down both of her parents cheeks, and like she knew Freddie was dying, and how she knew that the last time she saw Freddie he said goodbye, how she knew that she was going to have to grow up sooner, she knew that Uncle Freddie was gone. No words had to be said, she raised her eyebrows as she looked at her parents, and their nods were enough.

Delilah’s heart felt like it was torn out of her chest, her favorite human being on this earth was gone from a terrible illness that she didn’t understand. Delilah knew lots of things, but she didn’t understand why they happened. She didn’t understand why Jim wouldn’t be able to live at the Lodge, she didn’t understand why her Dad left the band and decided to stay out of the limelight, she didn’t understand why the universe had to take her Freddie away. She sobbed and sobbed, too much sadness for her ten year old heart that now felt much older than that.

Veronica went to the other children’s rooms to go and tell them the news while John stayed. “Delilah, darling, I’m so sorry.” He sobbed into her hair, his heart shredding itself at the loss of one of his best friends and the loss of his daughter’s Uncle. His arms wrapped around her and together they laid in bed for what seemed like days. Delilah’s locket was pulled out from underneath her nightshirt, clasping it in her hands and wishing that Freddie could’ve stayed with her forever. John didn’t know how to move forward from this and neither did she and that’s what hurt the most. John was scared that he would never see Delilah smile again because here they were mourning the loss of the one who made Delilah smile.

tag you’re it: @ironqueen98

chapter two

[toxicityrp]

                  NARCISSUS ● THE SOCIALITE ● CLOSED

     ❝ When this little shit came into the group, I had no  idea what was running through Anthrax’s brain. But after  a while, you really see their worth. They’re charming and    get the connections we need. They tell me the gossip,            I dish it out. Perfect duo or what? ❞

THE SINNER. TW: SUBSTANCE & FAMILIAL ABUSE, DEPRESSION, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS

Here’s the thing about growing up in a house built entirely on looks and lies: a kid learns to get very, very good at things like working a room, hiding in plain sight, and flashing a grin so charming anyone could fall for it. Julian picked up everything they know about projecting confidence and style from their wreck of a home. Sure, it looked nice from the outside—both their parents had Wall Street ties, the houses they owned were huge and immaculate, and there was not a reason in the world that anyone could find to dislike them. All that money had to go to something, right? Too bad the smokescreen was only for outsiders. Mrs. Donovan was all smiles for everyone except her child, who could never quite seem to do anything right. Even when their skin was marred with bruises and cuts designed to sting unseen, who would believe their glamorous mother was anything other than perfect? Their father never seemed to care much for them, so no luck there either.

If that was just the way it was, then Julian would adapt. They became the perfect little prize to parade around at parties, dapper in little suits and a little too clever with sly jokes for their own good. They did well in school, they practiced hard at the piano, they did everything right. And it wasn’t enough. Still the criticism, still the accusations and insults and pain. They learned to dress so well because every single thread was nit-picked by their terror of a mother, and then that critical voice started to manifest inside of them, too. That’s too bland, that’s too trampy, you look like a sack, what’s wrong with your skin? Your hair? Your nose and teeth and shoulders and stomach? They tried so hard to keep being perfect anyway. They tried so hard they began to crack from the inside out. At the dinner table fourteen-year-old Julian would stare at their fork and think about all the places they wanted to jam it into their skin just to see what would happen. They never followed through on any of those impulses, not when their mother still followed them into dressing rooms and barged in on them showering to spout her spite. Any mark she could find was just another possible danger. No, the fantasy was less about pain (they already received so much of that) than about ceasing to exist as a physical entity. Being a perfect son, a fine young man, whatever everyone called them—it was all so exhausting. How did anyone do this?

Only two years later, they were clumsily picking the liquor cabinet lock and taking from it little by little. Never enough to get caught, but enough to get drunk. At first. Then they needed more, and more, and more and more, to drown out that horrid little voice in their head telling them everything was wrong. They’d wake up hungover as all hell and get trotted off to some rich man’s garden party, but somehow they always made it through with a smile and a thousand handshakes and no one the wiser. Or maybe, simply, no one cared enough to see.

In college they were supposed to be free, and sometimes they even felt like it. They had the chance to grow into their own identity for once in their life, and it constituted something of a radical shift. They found their pronouns and their people, bedmates and peers, hobbies besides networking and drinking. They still drank, of course, and it was celebrated as a fantastic party trick. Nobody notices the warning signs when they’re all also shitfaced! Julian tried so many drinks and drugs they thought they could rule the whole fucking world.

Then they ended up at home one winter break, locked up in the bathroom for making some unforgivable mistake. They’d been accused of so many over that they couldn’t be bothered to remember the details at this point. It always came back to them being a liar or a whore or something along those lines. If only she knew what a goddamn degenerate I really am, they’d thought, not bothering to wipe away the tears on their face. The eyes that stared back from the mirror looked lifeless. They would never be good enough. Why did they even keep trying? It would be so much easier to pick up that razor under the sink and just-

Oh. Their heart skipped a beat. That had scared them more than their own mother.

The next few years were a drunken, hazy blur, one big attempt to bury that frightening moment so deep in their soul that it never surfaced again. They graduated from college and business school while self-medicating with whatever anyone would sell them and got the hell out of the house as soon as they figured out how to leech from the family assets without being tracked down. All that training in smiling and smooth-talking helped them bounce from place to place without losing too many connections or giving up on their rather lavish lifestyle. Sometimes screwing preppy country club rats even made them feel good about themself, for an hour or so. Then it was right back to the oxy and rum. Did all that pretending to be pretty and charming and harmless do anything to help the spiraling emptiness in the pit of their being? No, but it was an effective enough distraction most of the time, and when even that failed they took up the kinds of hobbies rich people without much to lose could enjoy. They took cooking classes and learned how to screw around under the hoods of cars and found skill after skill to learn as if any of them made them feel alive.

They only went home once after that, when they got word that their father had up and left without a day’s hesitation. Stepping back into that gargantuan house was like walking right into a cage on their own free will, but something they hated inside of them drove them forward anyway. Maybe it was a desire to finally please their mother, just once. They didn’t accomplish it, since she spent the entire visit acting as if she was the victim of the whole universe’s cruelty. So he found out about the affair, she said. So I told him you’re not his. What did I ever do wrong?

That was a new and intriguing consideration. Though it pained them to spend a second more with her, they managed to wrangle out the name they needed to track down their real sire, only to discover a set of siblings to boot. Cruel trick, God, if you’re even there. You know I always wanted someone to play with.Anticipation lodged itself in every bone in their body as they planned out a trip to Dertosa to track down anyone who was willing to test the waters with them. Ben and Cecilia were such a surprise. They couldn’t fathom what they did to piss Nightshade off—usually they had to flirt with a girl before she went all icy on them—but the feeling was mutual, and that was fine. It wasn’t like they didn’t know how to smile oh-so-sweetly at a woman they despised. Ben was a different story. For the first time it was as if someone saw right through all the charm, right down to the weight dragging Julian down all their life. Ben got it. The word family finally felt like something.

After that, finding a fancy loft in Dertosa and joining up with the Poisons was a no-brainer. Julian had never had a clear idea of what to do with themself anyway, and it was like they had been sculpted and groomed just for this job. The job made them better, actually. That and being around Anthrax. Narcissus still binged on anything that sounded good in the moment and flirted their way into and out of every situation imaginable, but that voice in their head grew less powerful. They were good at this. They were doing something worthwhile and doing it well. If only they could rub that in their mother’s face now.

Almost five years strong, and then it all went to hell. Narcissus woke up in a cold sweat, tangled in their bedsheets as chaos raged around them, to the news of Anthrax’s murder. The voice surged back, drowning out everything else with one spiteful, sorrowful cry: it should have been you instead. It should have been me instead.

The past six months have been nothing short of rough. If there’s one thing Narcissus is sure about, though, it’s that Nightshade can and should pick up where their brother left off. They don’t want to lose the first real family they’ve ever had, or the first real sense of growth they’ve felt in pretty much their whole life. Besides, anyone who thinks they can run Toxic City’s resident keepers out of town with a couple petty scare tactics has clearly never met the Poisons before.

THE FACTS.

Narcissus is sticking by their sister and continuing their work as the Poisons’ marketing-and-sales brain. They’ve always got something to prove to someone. Gregarious and incorrigible, they’re good at making connections and digging up gossip, even if they sometimes cause a little gossiping with their behavior. They have a penchant for edible vices and a reputation for a long bedmate waitlist, though the former is a lot more serious than they make it sound and the latter is somewhat overblown by rumors. They’re covering up some serious issues that they should probably talk to someone about, but only Anthrax ever really knew what kind of darkness lurks behind that sly grin. Things were improving before his murder, but now Narcissus can feel themself slipping back into dangerous habits and they’re clawing desperately at any good thing they can hold onto. Maybe that’s the source of the sudden change in their attitude toward their sister—they may not admit it for fear of losing a few teeth, but they know the signs of someone sliding into a bad place. If they can’t help themself, why not help others?

THE MUN.

☾ Divya | PST | She/Her

[caveatzealot]

ONE

The sun had just barely risen over the curve of the ocean when the blue lights first appeared bobbing among the calm waves of the ocean.

It was the lights the dockworkers and lighthouse attendants saw first; the distinct ice-blue of coldfire approaching through the last scraps of mist that the sun had not yet burned away, shortly preceding the ships themselves. A dozen strong vessels of wood and iron, their paddles chomping greedily away at the water and parting the waves in front of them with ease as they approached the docks of the illustrious and dazzling port city before them.

“There she is, lads! Holdingstone! Get a good look at her while you can since we won’t be here for long!” the captain of one of the ships said, sweeping out his arm in a grand gesture at the city which laid comfortably upon the southern shores of the kingdom of Albion.

What greeted any sailor’s sight upon their approach from their beloved sea would be the industrial sector of Holdingstone, the large, square buildings with their towering smokestacks belching cerulean-tinted smoke even in this early hour of the morning, packed together like a wall against the Poseidon Sea. From this side, it was all but impossible to see the rest of the city behind their larger protectors, and some of the soldiers peered up eagerly on their toes to see further in.

Upon his leading vessel, Governor Baurus Glenroy stared out across the waters, his gaze not even touching Holdingstone’s thriving industrial sector on display, instead staring at the large mansion upon the eastern hill overlooking the town below, partially hidden by a smokestack from his current position. This far out into the sea, it looked small in comparison to the factories, but he knew it was easily the largest residence in the entire town.

His eyes were sharp and unblinking and he occasionally tried to dab the sea water and spray from his swarthy face with his handkerchief, but to no avail. Equally pointless was trying to block out the chatter and gossip of his guard around him, and he kept his focus ahead as he listened.

“Ever been to Holdingstone before?”

“No, but I’ve heard some amazing stories about it. Is it true you can get anything here?”

“Anything you want and then some you could never even think about! Not only do they have all the industry and factories here, but all the trade too! It’s all filled with apothecaries, libraries, furniture, glass-blowing, textile weaving, porcelain—you name it, they have it.”

“Don’t go stuffing the poor fool’s head with cotton! Yes you can get just about anything, so what? It’s not even as if you need many of these in your daily lives. Only imbeciles buy such baubles and trinkets for their amusement and say they made a good deal.”

“Speak for yourself. My mother has a cuckoo clock that was made in Holdingstone: chimes out the hours on different birds and different calls. Just a marvellous piece of work!”

“Quiet and stand to!” the captain of the ship snapped and they fell mercifully silent.

By now their arrival was well-known and obvious to the inhabitants of the city, dock workers scurrying to and fro the wooden piers like ants, the rapping of their feet upon the sea-drenched wood the only other sound above their foremen barking orders as they collected rope, prepared for the ships to land, bringing forth boarding planks, and ringing the bells to announce their arrival. Past them it was as if a storm was awakening in the city itself, rousing like a beast in its slumber as it slowly came to the attention of the denizens that there would be a bit of excitement today.

No one of good standing went by the factories, so the only witnesses to the magnificently polished ships docking were the workers themselves, the crewmen of the vessels, and the factory workers who could naught spare but more than a little glance outside before their manager would potentially catch them and berate them for being so distracted.

With pressed uniforms and polished weapons did many of the crew depart: the token guard for Governor Glenroy as he descended last, flanked by a line of his men as he made his way down the docks until he was greeted by a similar, if much smaller, procession of soldiers as well. They wore the colors of Holdingstone and the house of Peyton, the governor of the city.

“Hail, most respected Governor Glenroy!” said the lead soldier, sliding off his beautiful chestnut stallion to give the man in front of him a bow of respect. “Lord Governor Reylon Peyton sends his most warm regards to an old friend and peer, and has bade me to lead you back to Castle Holdingstone in good haste, for he says such a man of high stature as yourself deserves only the lodgings he can provide for you in his estate and that you should not waste a minute longer than necessary upon the docks.”

Glenroy held back a laugh at that, but the smile on his face was evident. “Lord Governor Peyton’s words are most generous, even if he did not come to greet up with his own presence,” he said, his tone more teasing than offended as he looked upon the procession they were given.

“Begging your pardon, Governor, but the Lord Governor said that as much as he would wish to be the one to greet you in person, he thought that a more appropriate time and place of meeting would be in Castle Holdingstone, where he has prepared a most suitable greeting for you and your men.”

“As generous as ever, Reylon is,” Glenroy replied, mopping his face again with his handkerchief. “Very well, lead the way, if you would please.”

The soldier gave another bow and took them to the front of the docks, where a modest, if beautiful, carriage bearing the Peyton seal awaited the governor. After Glenroy had stepped in the procession set off, trundling down the sharp, straight streets of Holdingstone to take the quickest route to the castle as possible.

Outside the city was a bustle of activity. Traders and merchants unloading their goods for the market, packing their goods for trading later, yelling at young boys who were their runners, yelling at other boys for trying to pocket sweets, hawking their wares above one another, all trying to be the loudest. Glenroy had never seen the famous market of Holdingstone himself, and could not from the streets they were taking to deliberately avoid going through the mess, but from what he could hear outside of his carriage window and the smell of sweat and smoke and the sight of people running in and out of the center the streets seemed to be leading to, he was glad that he did not have to see the mess.

Planned in a grid-like layout by scholars centuries ago, there were not many turns one had to take to get to Castle Holdingstone. Many of the streets were long, straight shots to their destination if they happened to be at the end of them, which the castle and residence of the Peyton family clearly was. As they climbed up the hill and the houses and businesses fell away the view of the castle because more clear to the sight, towering above the city it ruled like a monolith, Castle Holdingstone was in equal measures stunning in its beauty and its might.

The mansion itself towered three stories above the earth and was made of imposing brick and mortar that was set into place only two hundred years ago, although the age of the stone was clear to those who knew what to look for, especially among the newer wings that had been clearly built decades later to accommodate the growing Peyton household. Like a fat, spoiled cat, the mansion reclined upon gardens and that spread themselves across the entire hillside and promenade below. The gardens themselves were lush with a variety of flowers to perfume the sea air with their gentle scent, dotted with statues and fountains that gurgled softly in undertone to the sounds of the shore, with an experienced gardener who trimmed the hedges into various shapes of animals and busts, perhaps of the governor and his family but Glenroy could not get a good enough look to tell.

They entered past the iron double gates, which had been pulled open for their entrance and began to close as they passed it, and the carriage pulled up to the front steps and waited. Glenroy waited too, as his men assembled in their lines, until one of his menservants opened the carriage door and he stepped out and began to make his way up to the open front doors.

As he ascended, Lord Governor Reylon Peyton descended, coming down the grand, sweeping staircase of his foyer to greet the governor just as he passed the first few steps into his magnificent mansion. “By the troves of Ahlsendir, my friend Baurus! It has been far, far too long of a time! How have you been? I pray that your voyage was not distressful in the slightest?” He shook Glenroy’s hand in both of his, clasping around the limb that had become hardened and tanned through the turning of the years, feeling more akin to leather now than it did skin.

“Painless and totally uneventful, as all obligatory travel should be, Old Squire,” Glenroy replied as he took his hand back and slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. He was smirking and his quick eyes alight as he continued, “I must thank you again, and many times over, for your gracious hospitality for myself and my troops, and on such a short notice! I do apologize for that yet again, I would have asked you weeks in advance had I known.”

The rings on his hand glistened as Peyton gave an airy wave to Glenroy’s words, his smile never wavering. “Please! Do not apologize, Baurus, for there is nothing to forgive. I only received the message from Logan a couple of days ago, myself. The King seems to like having us all scramble. Do you require a short rest after your journey? A beverage or even breakfast? My staff is at your disposal and the fires in the kitchen are hot.”

Glenroy responded to the proposition with a shake of his head. “Thank you for the offer, Reylon, but that will not be necessary. I have taken care of all of my needed affairs while upon the ship and if it would please you I would like to get to the business of my visit as soon as possible.”

“Of course, and you will find me in agreement.” Lord Governor Peyton swept his arm back, gesturing up the stair from whence he had come. “We shall take the matter into my study, then.”

The two men ascended the stairs, with menservants trailing after them, while the staff of the house promptly filled the space they had left behind, bustling like bees in their work upon Glenroy’s men who he had brought with him to the main entryway, showing them to their prepared bunks for the evening.

*

“So, the situation has become that severe, hasn’t it?” Peyton spoke, much of the excitement and cheer gone from his voice as he leaned back in his chair. The mahogany desk that separated them was bathed in the glow of the steadily climbing sun that shone through the massive windows behind the governor, bringing out the rich, deep red tones of the wood that leant its warmth to the entire room.

Whereas Peyton leaned back, Glenroy leaned forward, his elbows upon his knees as he spoke, with his fingertips pressed together. “Indeed it has,” he said with a nod. “King Logan has tasked me with some of the damage control, to put it lightly. After reviewing my assignments and the information I was provided, my conclusion came to be that we needed to strike hard and fast, upon their base of operations, before they get the chance to attack again.”

He unfolded one of his hands and a weathered fingertip pressed upon a map that had been spread out across the surface of the desk, in an area just south of Holdingstone. “And with this, we can ensure that no more acts of violence committed in the name of treason against the Crown here in your good city, let alone in the neighboring towns and villages who have no true means of protecting themselves against such vicious outbreaks that we have seen in the past.”

Peyton frowned at the map, his thick brows coming together as he contemplated the map and the area which Glenroy had pinned down with his nail. He scrutinized the place for a long moment before raising his troubled eyes to his friend’s. “And do you know for certain that there is evidence to your claim of the rebels have a large presence in Canrock?”

Glenroy looked at him for a moment, before a smile started to work its way across his thin lips. “Do you remember the siege that the rebels laid upon Denewil’s water supply facility last month?”

The Lord Governor’s face darkened. “Indeed I do. A vile business, trying to cut off the water supply to a whole city, and the capital no less!”

“Of course, but rest assured I keep my city safe and out of harm’s way to the best of my ability. But during that mess one of my troops happened to catch one of the insurgents as they were running and I brought him back to my estate. I managed to, hm, coerce him into revealing all sorts of sordid details about him and his compatriots and his employers.”

Peyton lifted his head again, the motion a snap of movement. “My word, Baurus! You do not mean to say--!”

“Peace, my friend!” Glenroy intervened, holding up a hand. “It is not as you think! We left him alive, but he did very graciously tell me the locations of all their bases from Denewil all the way to Holdingstone. I was surprised that he even remembered them all.” He lifted his finger to tap it against the map, upon the spot again. “Here in Canrock, some of my soldiers have already investigated under the advice of our new friend and, surely enough, they did report a lot of traffic going to and from the Mission House. More than what would be considered normal for such an establishment.”

In a flash of movement Glenroy pinched the edge of the map between two fingers and yanked it toward him and began to roll it up with a frightening amount of speed. “Therefore based on this information I have come to the conclusion that the chantry mission is housing our rebels and facilitating their means of operation through tithes and charitable donations from the good inhabitants of Canrock.” He placed his map back into an inner coat pocket and began to pace, as if filled with a restless energy that refused to let him rest for too long.

Intrigued, Peyton sat straighter and began to watch him.

“So, we shall beat criminals and rogues at their own game. My plan is this: later in the evening the twenty men I have brought with me shall depart with twenty of your men, on foot, due east to the town of Canrock. This is a mission best suited for subtly, and for the local authority such as yourself. We do not want to bring royal Albion troops into this mess.”

“Yes, that would only make matters worse, even if they were successful in their mission,” Peyton agreed with a nod. “Not only would it show Albions that this threat is serious enough for the Crown to personally respond to, and thus lead to unnecessary worry, but it would also undermine my own authority and tell everyone that the King did not see me fit to handle a situation that was right under my nose, literally and figuratively.”

“Precisely that! Which is why I have been sent, instead, with full confidence of the King that we can both sort this out by working together.” He resumed his pacing, which he had stopped in his excitement, and began talking once more. “Do not fret about the numbers. I have thirty more men due to arrive by the next morning, when she shall depart.”

That made Peyton frown a little. “Why are they so tardy, if such a task was deemed so important from the king? Did you not all leave Denewil together?”

Glenroy sighed a little. “Trying to tie up every end immediately is the problem. There was another small resistance faction in the Glendara that had to be dealt with along the way. So three of my ships docked at the Vorm Lodge marina and, considering they should have taken care of their task by now, they should arrive at your docks by tomorrow morning. That is if everything went according to plan, but I have had no messages telling otherwise so I presume they are fine.”

Peyton held up a hand. “Please then, Baurus, don’t leave yourself alone for such a sake, I have plenty of extra men. Keep your soldiers here for now, I shall send fifty of my men out to survey the situation this evening, and in the morning you and I will ride out with your full force of men to deal with this situation accordingly.”

There was a moment of pause from Glenroy, his eyebrows rising. “That is most generous of you, Lord Governor.”

“Why all the formality Baurus? It is the least I can do for such an old friend and comrade of the Gallian occupation. Thirty years ago I would have had to remind you to call me by my title!”

Glenroy laughed good-naturedly and shook his head. “Habit at this point, I suppose! Being mayor and governor of Denewil comes with its vices and its virtues. I am in the court so often that addressing others by title has simply ingrained itself as a second nature by this point.” He waved his hand a little and continued where he had left off. “We will arrive early in the morning, which will be the most advantageous time to catch the chantry staff and insurgents in the act of something incriminating.”

“What if they fight back?” Peyton asked promptly. “They have shown that they are unafraid to use violence when confronted.”

Glenroy’s eyes suddenly appeared to be very cold and very sharp. “I have orders coming from the highest authority in this land that if we are faced with resistance, then I have full permission to utterly destroy the rebel organization by any means necessary.” Noticing Peyton’s look, he went on, “But I do not think it will quite come to that.”

His mouth twisted into a slow, knowing grin. “And with this we shall expose chantry mission’s support for the resistance. Then the citizens of not only Canrock, but all of Albion, slumber more peacefully in their beds knowing of their rescue from these barbarians. Why, if they don’t throw their coin at you after this I will be truly shocked. They will finally understand the importance of the recent tax levies, once they realize how close they themselves came to peril.”

He glanced upon the Lord Governor for a reaction, and did not find one, only seeing a man deep in thought, his face uneasy. Glenroy was silent for a moment before smiling again, from ear to ear, while he approached the desk. “These are troubling times indeed, aren’t they, Old Squire?”

The sound of his nickname shook Peyton out of whatever reverie his thoughts had drawn him to and he smiled, glancing up at Glenroy before rising from his seat. “Old Squire?” he repeated playfully, his fingers trailing across instruments he had on display on the shelf beside him. A compass, an astrolabe, a telescope, and finally a large globe that was set in a stone pedestal the protruded from the floor. His finger tapped upon the spot marked Albion. “You are getting no younger yourself, you know. Your hair has almost become completely gray since the last time we met.”

“At least my hair has retained more color than your face, when was the last time you ventured outside? You look like a ghost.” Glenroy gave a chuckle as he peered over the globe. “It hardly feels that way, though. It seems as just yesterday we were both riding out at each other’s side to stave off the first Gallian occupation of our dear Albion!”

“The occupation that was three decades ago? Some of our children weren’t even alive then! If I recall, you are still in my debt from saving your life during the Battle at Dalentarth.”

“A debt which you have yet collect upon, Old Squire, and can still initiate at any time.” Glenroy gave him a smirk. “But for now, we have a duty to the King and to the country he rules.”

“Indeed we do, Baurus.”

[annalisacoppolino]

Another ACOTAR fanfiction

Here's the first episode of my ACOTAR fanfiction!

I got this idea and simply started writing, falling in love with the characters. 

It is a spin off centered on the lives of Rhysand and Feyre's adult children—Suri and Aksel. 

They are twins but completely different under every aspect: Suri is a great warrior who has struggled to prove her worth and become a respected and feared leader, battling against those who claimed that a woman would never be part of the Illyrian army; Aksel is an introvert person, more inclined toward the privacy of libraries than crowded training camps, though his powers are as strong as his sister's.

The siblings get involved in a troublesome situation and start investigating a series of distressing crimes against human people. They are compelled to cooperate, and to accomplish that they must overcome their differences and prejudices about each other. The peace and the future of Prythian rest in their hands as an old enemy schemes to destroy everything they've built.   

As the mysterious threat comes laid open, Suri and Aksel can count on the help of friends, family and unexpected allies in other Courts; but they also have to learn the cost of being heirs to the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court; they discover the importance of love and how far they're willing to go for that feeling; most importantly, they finally start actually seeing each other and themselves for what they are, and not what they're meant to be.

I don't wanna reveal too much, so just enjoy the first episode featuring Tamlin as special guest star! Of course other characters from @sjmaas‘s series will be featured in the next episodes... and a lot of new characters too. These are the ones I’m most thrilled about.  

P.S. Forgive my grammar please, English is not my mother tongue.

    Suri wiped the sweat clinging to her forehead with the back of her hand, silently cursing the heat of the day. She had been agonizing for the past hours, her skin sizzling under her Illyrian leathers.     She would never get used to this weather. Or the constant chirping of birds which seemed to be the natural muzak of the Spring Court. Suri had grown up in the forests of the north, surrounded by the lively stillness that such places always managed to accomplish. This woods were something out of a nightmare for her poor ears.     Suri finally entered the room assigned to her, escorted by a silent servant girl. She unceremoniously sprawled on the bed kicking off her boots, and savored the feeling of smooth silk under her palms.     The journey had been excruciatingly long and tedious. All those people chanting and clapping hands in an off-kilter rhythm as their wagons trudged wearily through the woods. As if the heat and the humming of birds weren’t enough.     Her mother had insisted though, so Suri and her brother had offered to escort the acting company of thirty or so humans during the travel from the Summer Court to the Spring Court.     Suri and Aksel were done with their visit in Summer anyway. Not that they could simply dismiss the High Lady of the Night Court.     She needed a bath. A long one.     For once Suri was glad to be staying at the manor, though she would usually seek a more intimate accommodation.     On official visits to the Spring Court her family used to take lodgings at the manor of the High Lord. Since all of Prythian’s High Lords were supposedly at peace with each other it would have been offensive to decline such hospitality. Even when relations between her parents and the High Lord Tamlin were cordial but strictly formal, and they generally avoided being too long in the same room.     As soon as the servant was out, Suri turned on her side propping her head on a fist.     There was a flower perched on the edge of the nightstand beside her bed.     A wild orchid. A sign of welcome.     He always left one for her to find at her arrival.     Maybe not so long a bath after all.     Suri hastened the proceedings to make herself look more desirable, though she knew perfectly well that he would have her even covered in filth from head to toe.     Rapidly searching her light packings, Suri fished out a dress she had stuffed in for the occasion. It was a flimsy thing dyed a deep hue of pink that left much of her torso in sight. She would not indulge him so easily with such concessions, but it had been so long since they’d last seen each other. She wanted to surprise him.     Suri also had to admit she actually enjoyed when she caught him goggling at her.     A brief look at the mirror on the vanity told her she would get just that. Her body was gloriously shrouded in a soft cloud, in perfect contrast with her firm cerulean eyes and the jet-black of her long straight hair contouring her smooth face.     Now that she had changed into lighter clothes, Suri could relish the feel of the soft breeze wheezing through the hedges of the garden; a fresh balm for her flushed skin.     Suri strolled to the fountain, content to find her favorite spot deserted. She sat on the edge and placidly stroked the glinting surface of the water. Suri had sort of lost track of time, when she heard her name spoken. She slowly turned her head, feeling suddenly a little guilty—and ashamed. As if being caught with her hand in the cookie jar.     “Brother,” she mockingly drawled.     Being the first to attack sometimes worked with him, deflecting his attention. Rarely though. Aksel was always so alert and focused. That was why she considered a victory every time she got to unnerve the unflinching smartass.     He was her twin brother, and yet couldn’t be more different from Suri.     They looked differently, thought differently, and sometimes it was like they even spoke different languages. Where Suri was fierce and reckless, Aksel showed composure and practicality. She fed on the adrenaline of a good fight, while he nursed from his books and scrolls. Suri lived to feel alive, and her brother knew only the comfort of shadows.     “I see you’ve discarded your gear. You look nice—though not yourself at all.”     Definitely not misled.     She had to try, even if it was against the odds that he might miss her attire. And guess at the reason behind it.     “Just thought to fit in. Manners are important, as you would point out to me. I’m trying to please our host,” Suri retorted with a pantomimed chirp, not taking the bait.     Aksel decided to stop the charade and went straight to the point—apparently as much proved from the journey as Suri, and not willing to play along.     “I think father wouldn’t be pleased to know who your companies are these days. And—if you allow me—you are ridiculous squeezed in that dress. Is he worth your pride?”     “You dare judge me!” spat Suri, abruptly standing up. “You, who ogle that Dawn Court girl like a dement.”     A dry laugh came out of her mouth.     “Ah! Looks like your awkward little ears are getting pinker, brother. Stroke a cord?”     Aksel kept his mouth shut, reining back himself. Only the dangerous spark in his hazel eyes betrayed his annoyance.     “You’re my sister—that it pleases me, or not—and I won’t stand back much longer as you play this insidious game. I thought you’d know better than to get infatuated with—”     Suri lost every last remnant of her already scarce forbearance, and hissed,     “It’s none of your business whom I let into my bed. Never was—never mattered! You just fear father’s scolding if you don’t tell him, don’t you?”     Something passed in Aksel’s eyes, though Suri doubted it was hurt. He never bothered with her feelings and her wellbeing; he just wanted to be fine with his conscience. And please their father.     “Well,” Aksel said, his voice as unaccented as usual. “You are the deadliest warrior of the Illyrian army. You certainly should be able to fend for yourself. My brotherly concern is not necessary—nor wanted.”     Then he just walked away.     Suri let her fuming temper cool down with the soothing spring breeze.     She would not let him ruin her day. Why did Aksel always had to criticize her? As a girl Suri would have let him plant the seed of doubt as he was so thoughtful and diligent, and mother always smiled at him in a way that made her heart clench. Only father would come to her secret nest—somehow knowing something was wrong—and gently stroke away her tears, cocooning her small body in his enormous black wings, telling her not to let anyone make her feel unworthy. She was heir to the High Lord of the Night Court—the most powerful High Lord in history indeed. She would make mistakes of course—and had to listen to her mother’s words.     “But sometimes it is right to follow the heart, even if it gets you in trouble,” had once said her father winking.     She was well beyond questioning herself now. Right hand of Commander Cassian. Most skilled soldier of the Illyrian army—both on the ground and in the skies. Suri knew the difference between discipline and blind obedience. Her assessments needed no further inspection.     Suri and Aksel would soon depart to go back to their respective duties, and she would be rid of him and his stern demeanor.     Suri sensed a shift in the air, something alike the smell of sweet pollen, or the aftertaste of dew. It wasn’t specific. Not exactly something her senses could catch—more a perception.     “You can come out now. He’s gone,” said Suri toward the presence lingering at her back.     The man closed the distance between their bodies in a few easy steps. Suri felt his arms wrapping around her waist as his breath caressed her neck. They were almost the same height, and she became vividly aware of the hard parts of him perfectly aligned with the soft parts of herself.     “You sure he would not winnow back here?”     Suri let out a sigh.     “He won’t.”     Then she turned to face him, placing her hands on his broad chest. His heart beat at a maddening rhythm. She liked having that effect on him.     Suri tried for the hundredth time to memorize the peculiar color of his hair, though she knew it’d be as useless as ever. Every time the light struck his head, a subtly chatoyant effect would apply to the reddish strands—glinting as fiercely as fire now, and flickering as golden distant stars then; they were pale and translucent in the morning, but turned a lovely deep burgundy in the evening.     Suri could have been staring at the myriad shifts in his locks for hours and never catch their workings.     “And if he does, you can kick him out. This is your home Keran, after all.”     Keran breathed a laugh on her lips. They were closer now. Too close to miss the harbinger of hungry instincts in his jade eyes.     His hands drifted down her sides, greedily grasping the folds of gossamer around her hips, and then palming the firm curve of her butt. The deep growl in Keran’s throat reverberated through Suri as her heavy breasts pressed into his chest, her arms already closing around his shoulders. She couldn’t wait anymore, and kissed him roughly. Suri was vaguely aware of his hands roaming every part of her body as their mouths, their tongues, their teeth, collided in a blind, urgent rush.     Keran had to put a valiant effort to forcibly detach himself from her hold, gasping for breath. She tried to lure him back then, fumbling with the hem of his shirt.     “Cauldron, can’t you keep your hands to yourself, woman?”     Suri laughed at the strain in his voice, but didn’t probe further.     Keran grabbed her shoulders keeping her at a safe distance—as if that had ever stopped her. He studied the front of her dress, the vertiginous plunge of her neckline. His nostrils flared. Suri knew he was staring at her exposed navel—for some reason it aroused him.     “Turn,” Keran said.     “Why?” teased Suri.     “Let me have a look at you.”     Suri totally failed to fake an innocent smile as she deliberately started to spin, revealing the nakedness of her entire back. Keran stopped dead, a strangled sound halfway to awe pushing past his parted lips.     “You look like a goddess.”     “Then you should be begging at my feet,” Suri said with languid but steely voice. “Get on your knees—now.”     A low, rumbling chuckle escaped his lips.     “Believe me, I would. But my father’s coming this way.”     Suri turned just in time to see Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court, rounding the corner and heading straight for them.     He looked just the same as the last time she’d seen him months ago: tall, bulky, and glowering. The High Lord, dressed in his fine practical clothes, halted but kept some distance. His long golden hair was bound in a tight tale at the back of his nape which brought out the stark lines of his face. He didn’t so much as acknowledge Suri before he addressed her with a mild salute.     “I see Keran is already doing the honors. I hope you’ll join us at dinner tonight—and your brother of course.”     Suri would have liked otherwise, but she said, “Surely, we’ll both be there.”     “Well, we got matters to discuss.”     Suri didn’t know Tamlin very well, though she heard the veiled urgent note in his voice. Now that she saw him up close she noticed that the gold in his hair had gone dull and hollow, his unyielding green eyes circled with shadows. He looked tired.     “I have things to deal with, now. I’ll leave my son in charge of your every need.”     Tamlin’s strong jaw flexed as he said, “If you’ll excuse me.” Then he stalked away toward the stables.     Suri let out a heavy sigh and muttered, “He knows, doesn’t he?”     Keran lifted a shoulder.     “You really thought he wouldn’t notice his son seeking excuses to be in the Night Court, or the prized second of the Illyrian Commander showing up at his door for mundane errands?”     No, she hadn’t really thought their affair to pass as inconspicuous. Suri was actually surprised her own father hadn’t taken notice of it. Her mother surely had detected the longing glances Suri and Keran exchanged from their opposite seats at official dinners. Sometimes the High Lady would even go so far as to dispatch her somewhere near the Spring Court. Suri didn’t know why her mother accepted what was between her and the son of her former lover, but now that she had seen the High Lord Suri started to think there was more behind her mother’s efforts to send her here this time.     “Dinner,” she stated.     “We still have a few hours before then—how shall we spend them is up to you.”     A wild grin split Keran’s beautiful face. He drew near, offering one arm.     “This way my lady,” he said gesturing toward the manor.     “I assure you won’t regret a minute.”

    Keran kissed the spot at the base of her spine. A soft moan escaped Suri's lips as she stretched, arching her back. He took that hint of encouragement, and traced with his mouth his way up till her nape. Suri felt the hair on her body straighten up, the endless caress of his warm fingers rendering her addicted to his touch—insatiable.     The need was like a phoenix. It could burn through her again and again, and still, it would return.     Suri kept her eyes shut, face buried into the pillow, savoring the shivers that went through her skin, to her very core.     She could conjure up the look of him right now: his short auburn hair slightly curled with sweat flaming with the late afternoon light streaming in from the window; the hard planes of his muscles shifting with his lazy movements; the reddish fuzz that covered his legs and backside.     Keran ran his fingers through the raven strands of her damp hair and gripped hard as he brushed her exposed neck with his tongue, flattening her body under himself.     Suri reached between their bodies for the hardness pressed against her lower back. He foresaw that move though, and snatched her hand before she could get a hold. Keran clutched both of her wrists and pinned her arms higher, then rested his forehead on the spot between her shoulder blades, inhaling deeply before releasing a shuddering groan. Suri took advantage of his momentary weakness to flip their bodies and get a dominant position.     Now she had him scissored between her thighs, crushing his calloused palms against her breasts.     Suri was tall and lean, with strong, long limbs but not much curves, and she loved the way Keran’s cupped hands fully enveloped her round parts.     Famished growls and a cold prickling announced to her the appearance of Keran’s elongated claws. He trailed them on her peaked breasts, coaxing. Her nipples stood out even more with intense ache, ripping a rich sound off Suri’s throat as she threw her head back, arching against the gentle caress of those deadly instruments.     Keran didn’t give her pause and grabbed the swell of her hips pushing Suri on her back again. Then he stooped, sucking away the pain from her full breasts—and went for her throat with his bared teeth.     Suri seized his matted hair in her hands to detain him, and breathed,     “Not in plain sight—lower.”     She could have healed the bruises of course, but wanted to keep them. It gave her a secret thrill—knowing she was marked, his.     Keran gurgled his approval and started skimming her abdomen with his pointed canines. Finally, he sank his teeth in the soft skin between thigh and pubis.     Suri gasped frantically, reaching for the last shred of control in those blind moments of euphoria. But he entered her then—a fluid, powerful thrust and she got rapt in the spiral of her senses.     It was a savage coupling.     Suri could hardly think when he took her like that. She lost track of her own limbs, only conscious of where their bodies joined—the swing of their embedded hips molding her will like a hammer on pliable metal. And just like that she was slave to the rhythm.     After a while, both of them were left spent and thoroughly filled with bliss.     The flesh between Suri’s legs felt satisfyingly sore and swollen. Nothing a hot bath couldn’t fix.     Keran’s mouth found her skin again, nipping her jaw—tenderly this time.     Suri twisted to face him, and kissed his high cheekbone. Then the spot near his slightly upturned nose where tiny freckles had been drawn out by days spent in the open.     “How long will you stay?” Keran asked in her ear.     Suri kept nuzzling the shaved skin of his cheek and neck while she played with the cherry tufts of his hair. She heard the hope in his low voice.     “I don’t know yet. Depends on your father, I guess.”     He exhaled and just murmured, “Mmm.”     Suri hadn’t anything urgent to attend to in the Night Court, so she could spare a little time for a well-earned rest—if this could be called rest. At least till uncle Cassian called her back to join him in the north. But voicing the possibility felt like jinxing.     Keran clasped her chin in his fingers fixing his stare on her face, and smiling mischievously said, “Then we’ll have to optimize what time we’re given.”     Suri intercepted a spark of amusement in those green eyes. The eyes of his father.     When she looked at Keran, though, she didn’t see any trace of the austere demeanor and restrained violence of the High Lord of the Spring Court. The man in front of her now was the bravest and kindest person Suri had ever met. Sometimes he could be a cocky bastard, yes—but gentle and caring in a way that never diminished her as a warrior, augmenting her somehow as a woman.     Mother, how she loved him.     Suri would not admit it to him though, or she would never hear the end of it.     The sun had almost set already, leaving them shrouded in the penumbra, the whiteness of the linens their limbs were entangled with stark against the advancing shadows. It was time to get ready for supper.     Suri pressed her lips on Keran’s briefly, and groaned with little will to move. She squinted in the gloom, deciding where to start.     Her dress laid on the floor—shredded into bits and pieces.     She would have to find something different to wear at dinner.     Good.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Keep reading EPISODE 2

Notes

* When I had to choose a name for Feyre’s daughter I thought it would be cute to pay tribute to the Suriel, but then it also turned out the name I was considering was the Hebrew variation of Sarah, and it became also an homage to the writer who inspired my story.

Suri, a once obscure exotic name, hit the headlines when chosen by Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise for their daughter in 2007. It means “princess”. Multi-cultural, it also means "the sun" in Sanskrit, "rose" in Persian, and is the name of the Andean Alpaca's wool, as well as a Yiddish form of Sarah, a title used for Jain monks, and a Japanese word for pickpocket. 

https://nameberry.com/babyname/Suri

* About hair and beards... High Fae, and usually faeries in other stories too, are often described as perfect, not even the hint of unaesthetic hair on their bodies. I thought that since they’re human-like under many aspects it wouldn’t be odd if they had hair. Of course powerful Fae would use their abilities to stop the growth, but some could choose not to. 

Since Keran, as Tamlin, has an animal form and he’s a fierce warrior disregarding aesthetic trivialities, I wanted his beast side to show in physical features of his Fae form too. 

[yeaahishowedupatyourparty]

Chapter One: Blythe Radcliffe

“Damn it!”   “Almost...” “What time did I get?” Blythe panted. She dragged her fuchsia gloves over her face and immediately regretted it, feeling stray balls of cotton stick to her sweaty brow. “Forty-nine minutes, seventeen seconds...” her father, Henry, replied. Something in the way he jogged alongside her with a flippant attitude only irritated her more. “Just four minutes off of your best.”           Pushing open the wrought iron gates, customised with a swirling gold ‘R’ for ‘Radcliffe’ on each side, Blythe let her frustration out on the gravelled driveway, scuffing the toe of her pristine trainer against the sandy chippings.   “Don’t sweat it, sport,” Henry continued, “You’ve got a lot to think about this morning, I could tell you were distracted before we even got to the park.”             Blythe gave what she hoped looked like an appreciative smile. Although, if she was being honest, she didn’t appreciate the sentiment in the slightest. In the twenty-four years he’d spent raising her, she assumed her father had learnt that if she wasn’t the best at whatever she was doing, she wasn’t happy.   “Well, let’s hope I make a better breakfast guest than I do an athlete.” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended, but the irritation mounting in her chest made it impossible for an apology of any shape or size to pass through.         Instead, she widened her strides and created more distance between herself, her father and their family guards, pushing open the heavy oak doors of Radcliffe Manor. Two brass lions, named George and Patrick by her six-year-old self, sat proudly on either side of them acting as bookends to the immaculate hedge that bordered the house.            Once upon a time, Blythe’s favourite thing to do was mount herself upon their backs and imagine she was riding into a make-believe battle which would always have the same ending; her winning and taking her rightful place as Queen of the Amethyst Islands. It might’ve no longer been acceptable to be seen riding garden statues but her fantasy remained the same. The only difference being that as she grew older, the sparkling daydream became a cold and hungry ambition lurking at the end of a ruthless one-tracked mind. “What took you both so long?!” the voice of her mother exclaimed before Blythe had barely managed to kick off her shoes, causing one of their housekeepers to scurry over to pick them up and then leave completely unnoticed. “I was slow,” Blythe shrugged. She studied her mother loitering at the bottom of their curved staircase, fiddling with an antique vase of hydrangeas as if she just so happened to be passing through the entrance hall as they arrived home.   “We got distracted in the town centre, the Independence Day decorations are spectacular this year, Anthea! We must remember to thank the council at the next gathering,” Henry chimed in, closing the doors behind him. The crow’s feet by his narrow blue eyes became more prominent as he approached his wife with a genuine beam, planting a kiss on her cheek. Blythe subconsciously ran the pads of her gloves over her face, as if to smooth out her own skin.           She knew she’d always possessed most of her father’s genes; the slender frame, thick, autumnal hair and high cheekbones were definitely the perks. But it also meant dealing with beady, narrow eyes paired with eyebrows that could barely be seen when exposed to the sun, and a nose that she felt was far too prominent to ever look pleasing from the side. Maybe it was harsh of her to say so, but Blythe would have sooner taken her mother’s doe eyes and heart-shaped face, even if it meant having large hips and a concrete heart.   The glow of the October sun shone through the huge, cathedral-styled windows that lined the front wall of the house, casting vague and fading shadows over the floorboards.        Blythe peeled off her gloves and shoved them in the pocket of her fleece. She barely acknowledged Lucius and Noel, their family’s guards, slip past them and disappear into the central sitting room. In her defence, they weren’t the most memorable of men. As her family’s personal guards, it was their duty to linger in the background as the constant yet comforting aura of stealth that circled the Radcliffe’s estate.    Even in such a low-risk setting with little to stay on guard about, they remained stoic. Sometimes Blythe wondered if they’d even had a non-Radcliffe related conversation before.   “I’m going to take a shower,” she announced. “A quick one,” Anthea took the liberty of adding, untangling herself from Henry’s affections and staring her daughter down with the same heavy gaze she always looked at her with. It’d been loading Blythe’s shoulders with what felt like the weight of the world for as long as she could remember. “The next steamboat to the mainland departs at eight-fifteen, leaving us forty-five minutes to arrive at the palace in comfortable time for the King’s Breakfast. I’ve had Eliza lay your clothes out on your bed for you.” Blythe gave a straight-mouthed smile, not even bothering to make her eyes match the half-hearted attempt at acting as if she had any gratitude towards her mother at all.     The King’s Breakfast. She could actually hear the capital letters at the beginning of each word in how her mother had articulated them; as if together they built the most important phrase to ever be spoken into existence.         Even when Blythe shut her eyes, allowing the citrus scented soaps and cordial water from the shower to trickle over her senses, she could still hear Anthea’s voice echoing around the jewel green en-suite. Her words condensed against the glazed windows, lodged themselves in the drainpipes and inscribed themselves over and over on the thin layer of steam covering her bronze-framed mirror until Blythe had no choice but to acknowledge them. They grew larger and larger; The King’s Breakfast, The King’s Breakfast, The King’s Breakfast; hogging the space both in the room and her mind’s eye, making her shoulders hunch from the internal claustrophobia.          “Enough,” she hissed, either surprised at the fact that she’d vocalised what she was thinking into an empty room or that she hadn’t expected to scorn herself in such a way. She didn’t give herself time to decide. Abruptly shutting off the water, Blythe pulled back the frosted shower guard and reached for one of the soft, pastel towels that hung patiently on the heated radiator by the bath-tub.   By the time Eliza had been sent up to Blythe’s room as her mother’s passive-aggressive reminder of the time, Blythe had just finished glossing her lips over with her favourite lipstick. It was from the Amethyst Royal Collection, founded and worn religiously by the King’s Mother and former Queen Consort, Marianne de Beaumont. Blythe’s signature shade was Imperial Desire, a bold red that popped significantly brighter than the deep Lovers Midnight that her mother often used.        “Your Highness, your mother has sent for you. She’s waiting in the entrance hall” Eliza said meekly. Blythe watched through the reflection of her vanity table as Eliza anxiously wrung her hands, clearly close to crumbling under the pressure of serving the Radcliffe Household on Amethyst Independence Day. Pathetic, honestly. “Of course, thank you Eliza,” Blythe smiled sweetly, satisfied to see the girl’s slight shoulders visibly relax under the fabric of her drab uniform. It meant that she still had meticulous control over her image; she didn’t particularly care for Eliza, but judging by the way she gave a deep curtsey and left the room with a triumphant smile, it wasn’t obvious.      Anthea always kept the stable ladies-in-waiting and handmaids for herself, leaving Blythe with the trembling newbies. She suspected that it was because, thanks to the Law of the Monarch, written by the kingdom’s founding fathers themselves, Blythe was and always would be higher in society than her mother and it made her envious. Or, at the very least, she hoped she was embarrassed about it.            Blythe had always enjoyed History in school for that very reason. Not only was everybody obsessed with the twelve founding fathers who departed from different corners of the globe to claim a piece of the Amethyst Islands as their own, but she also got to bask in the glory of being related to one of them. Nothing satisfied her more than the applause of awestruck looks and jealous grunts from her classmates when their professor would nod in her direction at the mention of Thomas E. Radcliffe, founder of the British Settlement Island.   Her absolute favourite lessons were the ones that deep-dived into the Law of the Monarch, and how the founding fathers had met in City Hall every single day for a year and a half, establishing how they’d run their new country. The result was the first ever Democratic Monarchy; the people would decide which father would be crowned as King and from there, their bloodline would inherit the throne.   Blythe intentionally took her time as she wandered into her closet, on a mission to find the perfect purse to match her outfit as well as raise her mother’s blood-pressure. Sometimes she resented the fact that the people of Amethyst had voted for Jacques de Beaumont of the French Settlement to be their first King. Had they voted for Thomas, she would’ve had the throne secured with only her father’s reign to eagerly wait out. But all wasn’t lost, the first half of being a ‘Democratic Monarchy’ was her saving grace; ‘In the event of the reigning monarch’s abdication, timely or unforeseen demise, or removal from the throne, their eldest, biological child will inherit the throne and succeed as the ruler of the Amethyst Mainland and the twelve Settlement Islands.   Under the circumstance in which there are no legible heirs, parliament will activate the Law of the Monarch; calling for the election of a new royal bloodline. Potential successors will be selected from the eldest children of the twelve Founding Families, and of the opposite sex from the last reigning monarch.’   It was a passage that Blythe had committed to memory. In the unlikely event that King Gabriel de Beaumont would take a step back, there was a small chance that Blythe would become Queen of the Amethyst Islands. She was a crown princess and that was something she had clung to for as long as she’d been aware of it.      Her fingers vacantly caressed a velvety, cream clutch that hung on one of the many gold-plated pegs in her wardrobe. Obviously, there were eleven other girls who were also crown princesses and belonged to their respective settlement islands. She knew them very well. But she also knew that none of them had planned, rehearsed and fantasied about the day they could potentially ascend to the throne with the same precision that she had. Down on Thomas’s Quay, the docile autumn breeze had picked up momentum, causing the deep purple flag of the Amethyst Kingdom to flap furiously on its mast at the end of the dock. Blythe turned gracefully on her heel and looked up at the wide promenade crowded with excited strangers for as far as her eyes could see. A group of girls around her age had taken over a bench that overlooked the ocean, standing on it to snap the perfect picture of her family for their social media feeds. Beside them, an elderly couple leant against the sandy wall that ran the length of the promenade and fondly smiled down at them. Blythe lifted her mouth into the pleasant smile she’d rehearsed in the mirror one thousand times over and gave a wave that was simultaneously for everybody and nobody.         “What a turnout, hey?” Henry smiled, giving an energetic wave to the crowd before turning his back on them. Even still, the flashes from the paparazzi cameras clicked furiously. He placed one comforting hand on Blythe’s shoulder and the other on the small of Anthea’s back as the three of them descended down the dock. Between the crowd’s hysteria and the wind beating against the ocean waves, Blythe just about caught the compliment that left her mother’s lips.   “You look beautiful, Blythe.” She dipped her head slightly. For some reason, Blythe felt reluctant to show genuine gratitude towards her mother’s compliment. It was much easier to just carry on resenting her. “I’ve always said that teal was your colour. It looks gorgeous on ghostly complexions.”       That’s more like it, mother, she thought to herself through a clenched smile. There was always an obligatory nit-pick to go hand in hand with the otherwise harmless comment. Anthea was the Queen of Nit-Picking and pulling things apart for no solid reason, and her target of choice was more often than not her only daughter.   This was hardly the time for a tiff, though. Not only were there hundreds of eyes watching their every move, but Blythe knew that she had a job to do. Her mother could wait.   “Your Highness.” A balding man with rosy cheeks bowed to her before addressing her parents, “Sir...Ma'am...” She instantly recognised him. He was one of the many captains who transported passengers from island to island via the steamboat service. Blythe often saw him during her morning travels to the main island for shopping trips in the Captial or, on rarer occasions like this, visits to the palace. “Thank you,” she said. Graciously, she clasped the gentlemen’s gloved hand in her own and gave him a warm smile, subtly angling her body in the direction of the paparazzi on the promenade. The captain beamed and bowed even lower, causing the crowd above to cheer in adoration. People could call her many things, but she made sure that tactless would never be one of them.         The pearly white steamboats had become somewhat of a trademark to the Amethyst Islands. In the tourist shops on the main island, Blythe had seen hundreds of figurines of them, all destined to be snatched off the shelves and locked away as memorabilia. Each one was replicated with lilac and gold accents running along the railings of each deck and a bright purple wheel. She was sure they even made ones that flew little satin Amethyst flags now, embossed with the golden coat of arms that appeared everywhere if you paid enough attention.       “After spending his whole life on these islands, you would think the illusion of a purple ocean wouldn’t phase him anymore,” Anthea said. The cushioned bench in their sheltered booth dipped slightly as she sat down. Blythe shifted, straightening a non-existent crease in the skirt of her dress and then tugged gently at its empire waistline. “It does look nice,” she offered. Folding her hands in her lap, she kept her eyes fixed on her father, who leant over the railings and was seemingly unphased by the wind that blew around his thick tufts of greying, wavy hair.   “They do,” Anthea agreed. Blythe would’ve been surprised if it hadn’t been the most popular opinion in the kingdom.         Despite playing no part in putting them there, everybody felt a sense of pride towards the amethysts that sat on the seabed. They were embedded in the sand in the form of rocks and geodes, as well as mounted on the walls of mystical-looking caves along the main island’s coastline. Marine biologists, geologists and anybody else who decided to make it their business theorised that the rocks had even been there in the pre-historic era. Meanwhile, activists and self-proclaimed do-gooders were constantly rattling on about how there would’ve been even more if the invaders hadn’t come specifically to mine and make a profit off of them. That included Thomas E. Radcliffe. Blythe didn’t like to associate herself with politics; not publicly anyway. “Are you ready for today, Blythe?” Anthea’s voice pulled her out of her daydream, clouded by the glittering light show of sunlight fragmenting against the ocean's purple waves. “I really think you’ve made good progress with King Gabriel. Everybody has been asking me if you’d be attending his Independence Day festivities, which can only mean one thing.” Blythe reigned in an eyeroll. There it was again. King Gabriel; capital K, capital G. “They suspect we could be together,” Blythe said, finishing her mother’s sentence for her.   “Exactly! Play your cards right today and suspecting will become knowing,”   “Unless he doesn’t ask me to be his girlfriend.”          Anthea’s shoulders stiffened at her daughter’s comment, clutching her chin sharply between her thumb and middle finger in one swift movement. Blythe flinched, but quickly gained composure, meeting her mother’s unshakeable stare with unstable breaths. “You’re going to ensure that he does, though, aren’t you?” Her question wasn’t a question. The way her words seeped through the atmosphere like a deadly virus made that clear. “Your father and I have worked hard for the life you live now, harder than you know. All I ask in return is for you to secure yourself as Queen Consort.” Blythe felt as though her nails were piercing through her skin, but she refused to wince or even react to the pain. “It isn’t that hard.”   “I’m capable,” Blythe snapped, more as a reminder to herself than Anthea. It took her a moment to realise her mother had let go of her. The sensation of a million tiny razor blades burrowed under her skin and coursed across her nerves. “Good.” Anthea rose to her feet, slipping her hand into her purse and tossing a travel hairbrush into Blythe’s lap. “And brush the ends of your hair, you always manage to get them tangled. Even under the shelter. Unbelievable.”   Do not cry. Blythe watched with blurred vision as her mother left the booth and stepped out on to the main deck to join her father, looping a slender arm carefully through his and waved elegantly at the crowd that had amounted across the beach of the main island. It was even bigger than the one back on the British Settlement.          With one aggravated jerk of her knee, Blythe watched the brush roll across the smooth satin of her dress and fall on to the floor with a solitary clatter. Her fists clenched at the material as she exhaled in through her nose...and out through her mouth...in...and then out again.        It never got easier. Blythe Radcliffe wasn’t, and would never be, enough on her own. To her mother, she only meant something if she was Blythe Radcliffe, the love interest, the soon-to-be girlfriend, and the future wife of the dreamy and shockingly single King Gabriel de Beaumont of the Amethyst Islands. If he’d just followed protocol and found a wife before his father’s fatal heart-attack, she wouldn’t be dealing with any of this to begin with. And for that, she almost hated him as much as she hated her mother. Lifting her chin, Blythe gently pushed open the door and painted on yet another rehearsed and effortless smile. The sharp and salty aroma of the Amethyst Ocean revigorated her mind as she glided across the main deck to join her parents at the railings. The roar of the crowd’s excitement grew louder with every wave their boat sailed through. Keeping her eyes fixed on the palace that towered over anything else on the main island, Blythe unintentionally shoved her mother’s shoulder out of the way and stood in the middle of her parents.        At the sight of her, onlookers began to curtsey and frantically wave, their eyes glowing in awe at the presence of somebody who – if fate decided to deal a certain hand – could be their potential Queen. Or, more likely than that, be their future Queen Consort.   She was no longer pretending, Blythe felt powerful and it was in that moment she made a clear decision; she didn’t want to marry, she wanted to rule.

[lufancy]

Charming II

Sehun, prince!AU

Chapters: (1) / (2) / (3) / (4) / (5) / (6) … masterlist

Summary: Looks can be deceiving. Oh Sehun is far from being a prince charming.

Belonging is a strong and inevitable feeling that exists in human nature. Coming to an unfamiliar environment I had high hopes to find that belongingness. To wed a prince for the purpose of my country.

Yet all of my hopes were scattered all in the first fifteen minutes of my arrival at the court of my fiancé.

He has already decided to be hostile without even knowing me. Without ever interacting with me. So while having tea with the entire Oh family and me and my mother, I wonder… what must I have done to have made him disapprove of me?

His family is so kind to me. Why is there enmity between Sehun and me?

It's just that I need him as the next queen of my country. Otherwise, I’d already have flipped the bird.

Yes. Even as a princess. I would totally do that.

He is glaring at me. His parents seem to notice the awkwardness but try not to acknowledge. Luhan, Sehun’s brother, seems apologetic, and my mom and I don’t know how to react to all of this.

I give side glances to my mom. Is this really the man she wants me to marry?

“Sehun? Why don’t you give our lovely guest a tour of our humble abode?” His mother puts a hand on his knee and shoots a demanding smile.

Sehun turns to his mom. “Seriously? This place isn’t that hard. Why can’t she-” but he gets cut off by his father.

“Sehun!” The King scolds him. “Now.”

The young prince sighs gets up and walks out of the room. Without asking me to follow him. I look around and meet everyone's eyes, encouraging me to go after him.

I’m facing his back the entire time.

I look around and take in everything. The beautiful tall windows, crystal chandeliers and the hand painted ceiling take my breath away. This is very different from our home. Ours is more rustic, with a lot more use of stone and expensive wood.

I miss home.

I want to go home.

Without a husband.

While I’m busy with my own thoughts I fail to notice my hostile fiancé coming to a halt and I almost bump into his tall figure. We are standing in the foyer with behind me a beautiful staircase.

He turns around and I am met with his stoic expression. He points to the floor and says, “Foyer.” Then points to the ceiling, “Rooms.” He points to the left and right. “East wing, west wing.”

Then ends by pointing behind him. “Front door.” He leans into me and I’m flustered by the sudden distance. He puts his lips close to my ears and whispers. “Try to make use of that one often, okay?”

Just like that he walks away.

I don’t follow him.

Why would I? He is basically telling me to leave. My positive attitude I tried to keep up crumbles and I close my eyes. My head is hurting. I need an Advil.

Am I supposed to be with a person like this for the rest of my life?

Is this how it’s going to be now?

Hated and rejected by my so-called husband-to-be?

“Oh! Your Highness! What are you doing here all by yourself?” A young girl in maid uniform comes up to me, I think around my age. She has a beautiful face and I suspect she is around my age. “Are you lost?” She asks me.

“Actually, yeah… a little.” I smile awkwardly.

She laughs sweetly. “You’re lucky you ran into me! This place is huge but I have known it all my life. Where do you wish to go? I will help you.”

My heart gushes. There are nice people here too! 

I tell her I’d like to go to the common room and she leads me the way. “What’s your name?” I ask her. She is nice and I’d like to have someone as bubbly and positive as her, considering I’ll be spending a lot of time here now.

“My name is Haneul, your majesty.”

While on our way to the common room Haneul explains she got lost all the time as a kid. She even jokes how the King gets lost sometimes, even now, because he travels a lot. However, he always manages to find the kitchen to steal a snack.

I catch myself laughing. By the time I’m back in the common room I feel my mood is a lot better compared to when I left. I thank Haneul and she grins, then bows.

However, the looks I’m given bring back my sour mood. Everyone is wondering why I’m back with a maid, instead of my fiancé. The Queen frowns, the King shakes his head and Prince Luhan decides to stand up. “I’ll show you around, princess.”

I nod and thank him.

Luhan is so different from his brother. Unlike Sehun, he gives off a refreshing and kind vibe. Being around him feels pleasant.

“Our home was built by my great great great great grandfather.” He laughs, also a little confused by how many times he said ‘great’. “This castle used to be a little hunting lodge. My…” he looks hesitant to repeat it again, “let’s just call him grandfather, loved this location. So he decided to expand it into his finest castle - of course, it’s a little more modern now.”

I feel so much more familiar with this place now. Luhan takes his time to explain things to me and allows me to familiarize myself with this castle - unlike the arrogant prince.

“We’ve got a large flower garden outside. Sport and race cars in the garage, a music & media room upstairs.. a pool! And err.. a gym.” I laugh at how hard he is trying his best.

“Wow. This sounds more like a luxury hotel. It has everything. Are you actually trying to sell me a room?” I joke.

I was a little scared my tasteless joke might insult him but he throws his head back in laughter. “If you sign now, I’ll give you 10% off!” He adds then continues laughing.

I’m enjoying myself with him. God, why is Sehun nothing like his brother?

After quite a passionate tour around the castle, we sit down outside for a cold iced tea. I wave to Haneul when I see her walking towards us with our drinks. “You Highnesses, please enjoy. I have prepared some snacks for you as well.” She smiles and I smile back.

“You make me happier every time we meet, Haneul. I love snacks.” I tell her and she bursts into a fit of giggles.

Luhan shifts in his chair uncomfortably, but I don’t think much of it.

Haneul leaves quietly after bowing and I return to the conversation while sipping my drink. “So, besides all the fancy stuff. Are there any cool old things? Stuff that remained from when this was first built?”

Luhan leans back. He chuckles in surprise. “You like ‘cool old’ things?” He asks. I nod. “You’re very interesting, you know that?”

I get where the confusion comes from. When you meet a girl with a red purse, classic Louboutins, and a low back blue dress, you would rather expect her to shop till she drops and go to the spa every other day. The thing is, if I don’t dress like a snobby person, my mother will kill me. As a princess, I’m not allowed to sit in my sweats the whole day.

Luhan taps on his chin in thought. I see his eyes light up and he leans forward. “We have… secret passages.”

This piques my interest. “Secret passages?”

“Yeah. They were made when the castle was built but no one really uses them anymore. I think they flooded them. You know, to prevent unwanted intruders.”

My interest is gone. “So, that means all of them are gone now?”

He seems deep in thought. “Not… all of them…”

Minutes later I stand next to Luhan in front of a plain wall of the hall upstairs. I stare at him blankly. Waiting for something to happen. He lightheartedly scolds me that I’m impatient and I blush in shame.

He laughs at my expression, then points to the wall. It is a nice wall but when I give it a push it doesn’t budge. “That’s so cute.” Luhan laughs and gives me a pat on the head. “Watch.” He pushes a chair away and reveals something that looks like a white lever. He pulls it and then I hear the sound of a door opening.

Luhan watches me as I stand with my mouth wide open. No way…

I would have never expected something like this…

I look inside and it is completely black. No light. Luhan pulls his phone from out of his pocket and turns the flashlight on. I see that this path doesn’t go far. It seems like there is just another door on the other end.

Luhan extends his hand and I politely refuse. That seems a little intimate for two strangers. He almost snorts at my shyness. “I won’t do anything. Its just that it is very dark and slippery in here. I don’t want a princess to fall on her butt in such a pretty dress. Although that would make an amusing sight.” I blush and slap him playfully, then take his hand.

He guides me to the other side and opens the other door. “Welcome to our castle’s hidden treasure.

There I am met with one beautiful sight and my heart melts. It’s a library. My breath feels taken away.

A beautiful two-story library. I see a hole in the ceiling and find there are many more books upstairs.

Despite it having two levels, it isn’t big nor all too clean, probably because it’s so hidden, but the titles and authors on the shelves make my heart jump. I find authors such as the Charlotte Brontë, Tolstoy and oh… my favorite; Jane Austen. I open the books and my eyes go wild as I find some are first editions. They’re worth thousands…

“This is amazing…” I whisper to myself. I nearly forget that there is a prince watching me. I want to cry. This place is like a paradise.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Luhan is leaning the bookshelf next to the entrance. “Happy you like it. At least someone will make good use of it now.”

“Can’t believe you guys don’t come here…” I say in disbelief. “This is like heaven to me.”

Luhan ticks on his chin. Something he seems to do often. “Actually…” he trails, “Sehun comes here to read most often of all of us.”

I nearly drop a book that is worth 20k. Did my ears just deceive me? Sehun? The arrogant and mean prince who looks more like a popular frat boy who gets laid often. He comes here? Before I can even process my thoughts I blurt out something stupid.

“Sehun can read?!”

I want to mentally slap myself.

Because no matter how bad he treats me, and they know he is being disrespectful. Luhan and Sehun are still family, and I just asked Luhan if his younger brother is illiterate.

Bless Luhan for being so cool, because when he fails to hold back his laugh, I know we’re still okay. “Yes.” He coughs to clear up his laughter. “I have come to the understanding that he can read - or all those expensive private classes were a waste of time.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult…” I still feel kind of sorry. Yet another part of me tells me I shouldn’t feel sorry for someone who humiliated me in public.

Luhan shakes his head and gives me a smile. “I get it, okay? He is being a pain in the ass to your right now. I should probably explain that he doesn’t like being a prince. He wants to choose his own life yet our parents have expectation and demands.” I understand what he is talking about. It is the same with me and my mom. She is very controlling. “He is a good guy. He is just misunderstood. Give him time to open up to you, I swear he will be different.”

I want to believe him but I don’t see anything I can admire about him.

However, this is my first day here and he was being nasty from the start. He nearly ran me over with a freaking golf cart, they proceeded to humiliate me in front of everyone by hanging two girls on his arms.

“Just give him a chance.”

Luhan’s words sound pleading…

Something about his voice… the way he talks and how his deep brown eyes look at me.

I feel like he might actually convince me.

A/N: This didn’t have that much Sehun, but this story needs a little build up! Please tell me your thoughts and what you think might happen in the story! I’m curious!

Hope everyone enjoyed it!

[ourmodernzen]

Yoga Retreats Around The World

No matter what time of year it's, we nearly always feel the necessity to rebalance, recharge, and find harmony at some point. We all get overworked and put more emphasis on our paycheck and ambitions rather than taking a step back and focuses on our wellness, which is additionally an important aspect of taking care of yourself. a bit like you would like rest and recovery to profit from your workout, we'd like to shut our eyes and invest in some me-time to be our most efficient at work.

These yoga retreats promote health, decrease stress, and assist you to revisit to being your best self. We included locations from all corners of the world that provide a variety of packages for a variety of budgets.

Blue Osa Yoga Retreat and Spa Blue Osa (pictured above) is widely considered the simplest retreat and spa in Costa Rica for yogis looking to unwind and unplug. It offers customizable experiences that include not just yoga, but also eco-spa therapies and other Costa Rica must-sees. The retreat is merely 50 meters from a shocking, isolated jungle beach, and every one of the food is sourced from an organic garden. It offers a variety of packages, whether you’re looking to meditate and relax or pump your adrenaline up a touch more with one among the excursions. Founded by a former New Yorker, this spa aims to vary lives through yoga, which it calls a “catalyst for peace.”

Haramara Retreat When you consider Mexico, it’s easy to urge trapped into the brash world of resorts and partying. But far away from all that chaos may be a remote and idyllic destination 45 minutes south of the Puerta Vallarta airport, nestled in Riviera Nayarit, Mexico. This Pacific coastal retreat was built without mechanical equipment that might otherwise ruin the encompassing virgin jungle; structures are instead hand-built, showing that Haramara values the environment the maximum amount because it does its customers. The rustically luxurious experience features sunrise and sunset Yoga Shalas, a therapeutic wellness center, and a personal beach.

Haramara Retreat | Relaxing Yoga Retreats around the World | Life360 Tips Ananda Spa, Himalayas Ananda Spa, Himalayas The ultimate award-winning spa and yoga retreat, Ananda Spa has been endorsed by stars like Oprah and Ricky Martin. Ananda’s wellness packages offer bountiful yoga getaway options with a variety of costs, and it’s located at the Himalayan foothills on a Maharaja Palace estate. The property is as gorgeous because of the ads, which may be a hard promise for several retreats to stay up with. The exotic backdrop of the Himalayas with peacocks roaming the grounds will cause you to melt into serenity. Their spa maybe a 25,000 sq ft venue with 24 rooms and decadent hydrotherapy treatments. you'll tailor your package around a particular sort of yoga, detox, weight/stress management, and more, but one thing is promised: it’ll never desire work.

Shreyas Retreat, Bangalore This boutique resort and luxury ashram call itself “a journey of self-discovery” and that we couldn’t agree more. The holistic resort stands out because it abides by traditional ashram style in terms of yoga, chanting, a vegetarian menu, and no drinking, juxtaposed with the posh of a five-star hotel. It applies the bare-bones philosophy in various realms but still allows you to envelop yourself in luxury so you don’t stress from the strict rigor that ashrams usually abide by. It even features a silent retreat, if you would like to tune it all out. Shreyas may be a nourishing oasis with a state-of-the-art twist that’s just an hour from Bangalore International Airport.

Shreyas Retreat, Bangalore | Relaxing Yoga Retreats around the World | Life360 Tips Feathered Pipe Ranch, Montana Feathered Pipe Ranch Praised by yoga instructors and Gaiam video hosts alike, Feathered Pipe is one among the oldest, hottest retreats nestled within the mountains of Montana and features a specialize in healing. From the invigorating mountain air and tranquil lake to the sweat lodge and wide selection of classes and workshops, Feathered Pipe has it all. Soaked in nature with less emphasis on the posh aspect, Feathered Pipe is more focused on consciousness and humanitarian efforts, working with efforts to mindfully unplug from technology along with side offering scholarship funds and support retreats for healing veterans and individuals who are HIV positive. folks, that care, with a scenic mountain backdrop? Count us in.

Cliffs Of Moher Retreat Ireland won't be the primary place you think that of once you think “yoga retreat,” but the Cliffs of Moher proves that this location is simply as breathtaking together in Mexico or Thailand. It assails the coastline, against the backdrop of the Atlantic within the countryside of County Clare, Ireland. This unique retreat features beautiful views from the yoga studio and views that appear as if they came immediately a postcard. The retreats are frequent and offer everything from nurturing pregnancy packages to ones that are focused on walks and hiking (even if you’re an idler, it might be hard to resist those cliffs at sunset).

[darylkillszomzoms]

Imagine #26 Daryl Dixon [Requested]

A/N: A bit of Season 7 spoilers if you haven’t seen it, I wouldn’t suggest reading. 

Escorting Maggie Rhee to the Hilltop should have been simple; it would’ve been had it not been for the Saviors. There were barricades of vehicles blocking each road leading to the Hilltop, the Saviors wielding weapons as they stood in the street with a sadistic sense of satisfaction in their triumph. It was as if they knew that Rick wouldn’t instigate a fight, not now.

Upon arriving at each route, the hope in the air began to fade, a suffocating tension lingering in the atmosphere as everyone began to internalize their panic. It was the final road block that shook everyone’s confidence, the worries and panic were now being verbalized at the sight of a handful of walkers chained to each other wearing mementos of your loved ones. It was when you noticed Daryl’s arrows lodged into the chest of a walker that you swallowed the sadness swelling in your throat and felt a burning rage boil in your chest. They have him; the thought echoed in your head as you reached to retrieve the arrow. The moment your fingertips brushed the fletching, the boisterous sound of gunshots rang through the air as bullets rained down upon the Earth around your group. Rick instructed everyone to return to the RV, but not before he used his axe to sever a walkers arm and unlink the walkers blocking the path.

Everything begins to fall apart; Maggie’s condition is worsening, the Saviors were relentless, and the opportunities for a safe route to the Hilltop were dwindling. Eugene, being his genius self, devised a final effort plan; he’d remain in the RV, driving alone to give the Saviors the illusion that their game was still being played and that they were winning. If only it’d worked. Maybe, just maybe, then your family wouldn’t be surrounded by Saviors, the overwhelming sound of their intimidating whistles echoing throughout the forest in each direction as more silhouettes came into view, allowing your group to realize just how outnumbered you really were. There’d be no fighting this; even if the group managed to take out at least two each, there’d be thirteen more for each person with guns ready to strike you down. This was it; the end.

In a display of dominance, utter control, the Saviors disarmed everyone before forcing everyone to kneel including poor Maggie. The group  is on edge as the Savior speaking for them, Simon, calls for Dwight, the Savior that Daryl had named as Denise’s murder. Dwight approaches a van parked with the loading doors aimed toward the group and shoots a satisfied smirk in your direction before opening the doors.

“C’mon, you got people to meet.” Dwight states, almost with amusement to his tone, as he reaches in and grabs someone’s arm.

“Daryl.” You gasp, tears welling in your eyes as you scrutinize his condition; he’s covered in blood, a blood stained blanket thrown over his shoulders, he’s pale and covered in sweat as he meets your worried gaze. “Daryl.” You repeat louder, moving to meet him before a Savior grabs your shoulder and pushes you into the dirt.

“Don’t move.” He growls, causing Daryl to lunge and Dwight to force him onto the ground by squeezing his bloodied shoulder. He hisses in pain, a clear indication that the blood is his, before growling at the Savior behind you.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” The Savior chuckles, amused by Daryl’s warning as there are collective gasps in the group. Rosita, Michonne and Glenn are kneeling beside Daryl; Glenn calling for Maggie before he’s shoved to the ground like the rest.

“All right.” Simon exclaims in a sadistic sense of showmanship. “We got a full boat. Let’s meet the man.” He knocks on the RV door. The group is staring at the door in anticipation of what lies behind it, except for you and Daryl, you’re looking at each other and he’s shaking his head at you. A silent gesture of telling you not to do anything, to be safe and stay quiet. It’s easier said than done as he sways in his seat, surely, due to blood loss. The RV door opens catching your attention once more, a man in a leather jacket wielding a barbed-wire baseball bat steps out with a smile on his greying face.

“Pissin’ our pants yet?” His rough voice questions with the same satisfied smile on his face. He enjoys the dominance and fear, that’s evident by his self-assured posture. “Boy, do I have a feeling we’re gettin’ close.” He’s walking toward the group now and Rick’s watching him with rage in his eyes. “It’s gonna be pee-pee pants city here, real soon.” He scans the group before continuing. “Which one of you pricks is the leader?”

“It’s this one.” Simon states, pointing directly at Rick. “He’s the guy.”

“Hi.” He smiles down at Rick, speaking to him as if it were just a normal chat. “You’re Rick, right? I’m Negan. And I do not appreciate you killing my men. Also, when I sent my people to kill your people for killing my people, you killed more of my people. Not cool.” Negan shakes his head before continuing. “Not cool. You have no idea how not cool that shit is. But I think you’re gonna be up to speed shortly.” He lowers his voice. “Yeah. You are so gonna regret crossing me in a few minutes. Yes, you are.” There it is, that smile again. He’s enjoying this too much for any sane person. “You see, Rick, no matter what you do, no matter what, you don’t mess with the new world order. And the new world order is this, and it’s really very simple. So, even if you’re stupid, which you very may well be, you can understand it. You ready? Here goes. Pay attention.” Rick flinches as Negan hovers his bat near Rick’s face, speaking lowly. “Give me your shit or I will kill you. Today was career day.” He’s pacing as he continues his speech and you glance at Daryl to see him watching you. “We invested a lot so you would know who I am and what I can do. You work for me now. You have shit, you give it to me. That’s your job. Now, I know that is a mighty big, nasty pill to swallow, but swallow it you most certainly will. You ruled the roost. You built something. You thought you were safe. I get it. But the word is out. You are not safe. Not even close. In fact, you are pegged, more pegged if you don’t do what I want. And what I want is half your shit. And if that’s too much, you can make, find, or steal more, and it’ll even out sooner or later.” Everyone’s sharing worried glances, watching Rick’s reaction for some kind of indication of whether you were going to fight through or give in.

“This is your way of life now.” Negan holds his arms out, gesturing to the entire crowd surrounding you. “The more you fight back, the harder it will be. So, if someone knocks on your door, you let us in. We own that door. You try to stop us and we will knock it down. You understand?” He’s waiting for Rick to answer and receives no response. He places his hand near his ear and leans toward Rick. “What, no answer? You don’t really think that you were gonna get through this without being punished now, did you? I don’t want to kill you people. Just want to make that clear from the get-go. I want you to work for me. You can’t do that if you’re dead, now, can you? I am not growing a garden. But you killed my people, a whole damn lot of them. More than I am comfortable with and for that, for that you’re gonna pay.” He looks at Daryl, something in you becomes cold and you grow rigid as you straighten your posture. “So now, I’m gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you.” He stares at Rick, swinging his bat around. “This, this is Lucille, and she is awesome. All this, all this is just so we can pick out which one of you gets the honor.” Negan is walking in front of the group, sizing everyone up. He stops in front of Abraham, who sits up straight and glares up at him, refusing to back down. “Huh. Ugh, I gotta shave this shit.” He states rubbing his face as he looks down at Abraham.

“You got one of our guns.” Negan’s pointing down at Carl, the teenager looking up at him without fear. “Woah. Yeah, you got a lot of our guns.” He crouches down to meet Carl’s height and continues. “Shit, kid, lighten up. At least cry a little.”

This showmanship of authority is just a pissing match; a game derived from a sadistic mind to rule by intimidation and fear. He manipulates the leader, demotion to a mere henchman, and rules the followers with an iron fist of punishment. Negan’s arrogance radiates in a sickening grin as he kneels level with Maggie’s sweat gleaming face and, as the words tumble from his mouth, that gesture is the beginning of the end. Glenn screams; the sound instantly angering the sadist as he scowls and instructs Dwight to drag him back into the lineup.

Negan’s rough voice sings ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Moe’ as he uses his barbedwire bat to point at each member; your stomach sinks as he stares down at Daryl, smiling at him before continuing. Daryl’s glacial blue eyes were focused on you; he’d always thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. He was smitten with you the moment he met you and his feelings had only intensified with time. He’s never loved anyone before; not like this, not like you. He felt like this game was just for show and that surely, he’d be the person to be bludgeoned to death because he’d killed too many of Negan’s men.

“It.”Daryl’s heart stops beating, the sight of Negan’s weapon staring down at you made his veins run cold. The tears in your eyes aren’t for yourself, but rather for the man you’d fallen in love with. He used to be so closed off and unable to trust; this would break him. You were positive of this fact and yes you were frightened but not for death. Frightened by the thought that he’d revert back to his old self, become reckless and die because he’d refuse to go on without you. Daryl tries to lunge for you but he’s held back by Dwight’s unyielding grip on his wounded shoulder. He doesn’t even feel the pain as Dwight squeezes; he knows that you’re with Daryl. He’s aware that Daryl loves you, and as much as he’d like to see Daryl dead, he also knows how Negan works. Negan won’t kill Daryl, he’ll just use the outburst as an excuse to kill someone else and make Daryl suffer. This, this was better in Dwight’s eyes; making him watch as his love died.

“I love you.” The phrase was rushed; you knew you were on borrowed time and as the tears welled in your eyes, vision blurred, you were thankful that he’d at least be the last sight you’d see. It broke your heart to see him so upset. He’s sobbing, tear stains on his dirt smudged cheeks as his bottom lip quivers and he’s clutching the dirt. He’s murmuring something but you don’t catch it before a crack echoes in your ears and screams begin to overwhelm the hearing you have remaining. Daryl’s screams fall upon deaf ears as the life leaves you; the group is distraught not only by the loss but by Daryl’s heartbreak. No one had seen him this emotional before and the sight was tragic.

Daryl vowed to himself, to you, in that moment that he’d make sure Negan paid for this. He’d kill Negan himself. He wouldn’t eat or sleep until he made sure to brutalize him the way he’s so wrongfully doing to you. Negan was living on borrowed time.

[ilyaslam]

Relaxing Yoga Retreats Around The World

No matter what time of year it is, we almost always feel the need to rebalance, recharge and find harmony at some point. We all get overworked and put more emphasis on our paycheck and ambitions instead of taking a step back and focuses on our wellness, which is also a vital aspect of taking care of yourself. Just like you need rest and recovery in order to benefit from your workout, we need to close our eyes and invest in some me-time to be our most productive at work.

These yoga retreats promote health, decrease stress and help you get back to being your best self. We included locations from all corners of the globe that offer a range of packages for a range of budgets.

Blue Osa Yoga Retreat and Spa

Blue Osa (pictured above) is widely regarded as the best retreat and spa in Costa Rica for yogis looking to unwind and unplug. It offer customizable experiences that include not just yoga, but also eco-spa therapies and other Costa Rica must-sees. The retreat is only 50 meters from a stunning, isolated jungle beach, and all of the food is sourced from an organic garden. It offers a range of packages, whether you’re looking to meditate and relax or pump your adrenaline up a little more with one of the excursions. Founded by a former New Yorker, this spa aims to change lives through yoga, which it calls a “catalyst for peace.”

Haramara Retreat

When you think of Mexico, it’s easy to get trapped into the brash world of resorts and partying. But away from all that chaos is a remote and idyllic destination 45 minutes south of the Puerta Vallarta airport, nestled in Riviera Nayarit, Mexico. This Pacific coastal retreat was built without mechanical equipment that would otherwise ruin the surrounding virgin jungle; structures are instead hand-built, showing that Haramara values the environment as much as it does its customers. The rustically luxurious experience features sunrise and sunset Yoga Shalas, a therapeutic wellness center and a private beach.

Ananda Spa, Himalayas

The ultimate award-winning spa and yoga retreat, Ananda Spa has been endorsed by stars like Oprah and Ricky Martin. Ananda’s wellness packages offer bountiful yoga getaway options with a range of prices, and it’s located at the Himalayan foothills on a Maharaja Palace estate. The property is actually as gorgeous as the ads, which is a hard promise for many retreats to keep up with. The exotic backdrop of the Himalayas with peacocks roaming the grounds will make you melt into serenity. Their spa is a 25,000 square foot venue with 24 rooms and decadent hydrotherapy treatments. You can tailor your package around a certain style of yoga, detox, weight/stress management and more, but one thing is promised: it’ll never feel like work.

Shreyas Retreat, Bangalore

This boutique resort and luxury ashram calls itself “a journey of self discovery” and we couldn’t agree more. The holistic resort stands out because it abides by traditional ashram style in terms of yoga, chanting, a vegetarian menu and no drinking, juxtaposed with the luxury of a five-star hotel. It applies the bare-bones philosophy in various realms, but still lets you envelop yourself in luxury so you don’t stress from the strict rigour that ashrams usually abide by. It even features a silent retreat, if you want to tune it all out. Shreyas is a nourishing oasis with a state-of-the-art twist that’s just an hour from Bangalore International Airport.

Feathered Pipe Ranch

Praised by yoga instructors and Gaiam video hosts alike, Feathered Pipe is one of the oldest, most popular retreats nestled in the mountains of Montana and has a focus on healing. From the invigorating mountain air and tranquil lake to the sweat lodge and wide range of classes and workshops, Feathered Pipe has it all. Soaked in nature with less emphasis on the luxury aspect, Feathered Pipe is more focused on consciousness and humanitarian efforts, working with efforts to mindfully unplug from technology along with offering scholarship funds and support retreats for healing veterans and individuals who are HIV positive. People that care, with a scenic mountain backdrop? Count us in.

Cliffs Of Moher Retreat

Ireland might not be the first place you think of when you think “yoga retreat,” but the Cliffs of Moher proves that this location is just as breathtaking as one in Mexico or Thailand. It’s set on the coastline, against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean in the countryside of County Clare, Ireland. This unique retreat features beautiful views from the yoga studio and views that look like they came straight off a postcard. The retreats are frequent and offer everything from nurturing pregnancy packages to ones that are focused on walks and hiking (even if you’re a couch potato, it would be hard to resist those cliffs at sunset).

[clubdogs-blog1]

Relaxing Yoga Retreats Around The World

No matter what time of year it's, we nearly always feel the necessity to rebalance, recharge and find harmony at some point. 

We all get overworked and put more emphasis on our paycheck and ambitions rather than taking a step back and focuses on our wellness, which is additionally an important aspect of taking care of yourself. a bit like you would like rest and recovery to profit from your workout, we'd like to shut our eyes and invest in some me-time to be our most efficient at work. 

These yoga retreats promote health, decrease stress and assist you to revisit to being your best self. 

We included locations from all corners of the world that provide a variety of packages for a variety of budgets. 

Blue Osa Yoga Retreat and Spa 

Blue Osa (pictured above) is widely considered the simplest retreat and spa in Costa Rica for yogis looking to unwind and unplug. It offers customizable experiences that include not just yoga, but also eco-spa therapies and other Costa Rica must-sees. 

The retreat is merely 50 meters from a shocking, isolated jungle beach, and every one of the food is sourced from an organic garden. It offers a variety of packages, whether you’re looking to meditate and relax or pump your adrenaline up a touch more with one among the excursions. 

Founded by a former New Yorker, this spa aims to vary lives through yoga, which it calls a “catalyst for peace.” 

Haramara Retreat 

When you consider Mexico, it’s easy to urge trapped into the brash world of resorts and partying. But far away from all that chaos may be a remote and idyllic destination 45 minutes south of the Puerta Vallarta airport, nestled in Riviera Nayarit, Mexico. 

This Pacific coastal retreat was built without mechanical equipment that might otherwise ruin the encompassing virgin jungle; structures are instead hand-built, showing that Haramara values the environment the maximum amount because it does its customers.

The rustically luxurious experience features sunrise and sunset Yoga Shalas, a therapeutic wellness center and a personal beach. 

The ultimate award-winning spa and yoga retreat, Ananda Spa has been endorsed by stars like Oprah and Ricky Martin. 

Ananda’s wellness packages offer bountiful yoga getaway options with a variety of costs, and it’s located at the Himalayan foothills on a Maharaja Palace estate. The property is as gorgeous because of the ads, which may be a hard promise for several retreats to stay up with. 

The exotic backdrop of the Himalayas with peacocks roaming the grounds will cause you to melt into serenity. 

Their spa maybe a 25,000 sq ft venue with 24 rooms and decadent hydrotherapy treatments. you'll tailor your package around a particular sort of yoga, detox, weight/stress management and more, but one thing is promised: it’ll never desire work. 

Shreyas Retreat, Bangalore 

This boutique resort and luxury ashram call itself “a journey of self-discovery” and that we couldn’t agree more. 

The holistic resort stands out because it abides by traditional ashram style in terms of yoga, chanting, a vegetarian menu and no drinking, juxtaposed with the posh of a five-star hotel. 

It applies the bare-bones philosophy in various realms but still allows you to envelop yourself in luxury so you don’t stress from the strict rigor that ashrams usually abide by. It even features a silent retreat, if you would like to tune it all out. Shreyas may be a nourishing oasis with a state-of-the-art twist that’s just an hour from Bangalore International Airport. 

Feathered Pipe Ranch 

Praised by yoga instructors and Gaiam video hosts alike, Feathered Pipe is one among the oldest, hottest retreats nestled within the mountains of Montana and features a specialize in healing. 

From the invigorating mountain air and tranquil lake to the sweat lodge and wide selection of classes and workshops, Feathered Pipe has it all. 

Soaked in nature with less emphasis on the posh aspect, Feathered Pipe is more focused on consciousness and humanitarian efforts, working with efforts to mindfully unplug from technology alongside offering scholarship funds and support retreats for healing veterans and individuals who are HIV positive. folks, that care, with a scenic mountain backdrop? Count us in. 

Cliffs Of Moher Retreat 

Ireland won't be the primary place you think that of once you think “yoga retreat,” but the Cliffs of Moher proves that this location is simply as breathtaking together in Mexico or Thailand. 

It assails the coastline, against the backdrop of the Atlantic within the countryside of County Clare, Ireland. 

This unique retreat features beautiful views from the yoga studio and views that appear as if they came immediately a postcard. 

The retreats are frequent and offer everything from nurturing pregnancy packages to ones that are focused on walks and hiking (even if you’re an idler, it might be hard to resist those cliffs at sunset).

[joyfullyimportantyouth-blog]

Reportage: Why Cleansing is Totes Necessary // A Comedy // Bougie AF

So, this weekend I felt like being a mixture of regimented and “mindful” and I felt like a caricature of privilege. Despite the fact that I live with ten people and am unemployed, I am not impoverished. I have grown up with the privilege of Costco and homegrown radishes and Portuguese soap dishes. I’ve always felt a little bad (but not really) about my inclination towards the more nicely packaged/ more expensive items everywhere, although I usually write out budget lists that are realistically sketched out to include a $13 budget in entertainment. And intend on reading THICH NHAT HAHN and then quickly loop back to Wikipedia-ing and trolling celebrity gossip.

So while I was googling “how to really cleanse/simplify your life” yesterday, I had to have a moment of reprieve from my privileged ways. Why are we so obsessed with this word (”we” as in me and millions of lifestyle blogs) and why are there usually only the options of zen and moneybags reloaded into formulas for us to refer to? Just for humor’s sake, I created a list of stereotypes of my search results. There’s no answer on how to cleanse other than to purge what’s not needed, which is subjective-ish. 

Cleansing is perhaps just saying “no” a lot of the time... Just doing the minimum of what is necessary and picking two things that are important to you for each day. Because drinking miso soup and eating celery and drum circle-ing some subpar world music to reactivate your sexual organs are not the only ways to get rid of anything keeping ya down. 

-- CLEANSING: A MANUAL OF WHO NEEDS A CLEANSE--

“Cleansing” : The Rich Bitch Earth Mother

She carries her African woven basket full of farmers market carrots everywhere, because she loves Farm to Table! It helps her imagine the simpler times of vacationing in the South of France when she smells the freshly cut lavender on the West Elm birchwood counter engraved with affirmations to keep “elevated” as she breaks bread/macca. 

She beams with gratitude as she meets each person EVERY SINGLE DAY IN HER BUSY LIFE with a gaze as “sensually earthy” as amber candelabras. Of course, she made those last weekend at her glassblowing class - after her 5 AM ashtanga practice - because her next thing will be pottery and selling spirulina goji berry energy fragrance to Gwyneth at Goop.

Her Woodstock turned financier husband doesn’t pay attention to her even when she suggests tantric weekend getaways in Oregon wine country for a “cleanse” from the modern world. He always sighs at her after smoking some high-grade vape Sativa and buys her another turquoise ring from the Iroquois she “volunteers” her time for because she’s always been certain that she is Native American… or at least 1/16 Sacagawea.

She has made it her life path to realize her full potential as a Capricorn Sun / Aries Rising in the sweat lodges she invites herself to. She finagled her way into these sacred ceremonies by what she believes to be a “calling” but more accurately occurred after procuring a bankrolled friendship with a local Native American artist. She knew they were kindred spirits after buying his sacred geometry blankets at her best friend’s boutique “Gather.” A new one called “Savor” is going to sell her wrap dresses that she buys from her Guetemalan Shaman, who always forgets that she doesn’t drink regular milk only ALMOND MILK and no gluten when they trip together on $500 ayahuasca that keeps true to her frugal roots of growing up in Marin County. She just loves the “spirit” of Central American people because it makes her feel like she is in the Peace Corps when they smile back at her and offer her the opportunity to pose in photos next to a “saddening” market stand.

All of the Instagram photos of posing in collectivos with poor people will be framed at the cafe where she namaste-scolds the barista everyday for her stupidity in not knowing her clear distaste for regular hummus (acidic!). It’s always only going to be beet hummus until edamame hummus gets on the menu for godssakes. Here she always meets with her caftan-clad yoga friends who all used to be dancers and now have rich husbands who built them modern Adobe lairs to be bored in but pretend like blackberry sage tea gets them high from well being.

She feels forlorn that there is something discontenting about the “minimalism” she has so ambitiously set out to create/dump shitloads of money into, so in the only way she knows how, she will book an Iyasca retreat in Peru. Maybe poor Peruvian people can teach her the meaning of life so she can write a memoir about how life changing it all was. Holding hands with the street children… and never returning again because it makes her too sad, but the lessons of the third world will be tattooed literally and figuratively in a Quechua phrase for life on her wrist so she can talk about it to the young hot river guide men in Telluride…

“Cleansing” : The Twenty-Something Project

She has had way too much casual sex for her pressing emotional need to find someone who loves tequila and rock climbing and contemporary fiction just as much as she does. She drinks way too much tequila five days a week as well as wine during the day because she feels like she can’t access who she really is (that’s what a partner would help her discover in his egocentric artistic ways of being).  She spends eight hours on the computer writing shit that doesn’t matter to her (like emails) and trolling pointless social media sites that make her wonder if models really are people. This is usually the apex of her day, when she recounts how she is in charge of her own happiness but jesus how many genetically modified Victoria’s Secret models are there out there? These girls are now chronicled to be “anti-social-media-bullying” and are just “regular girls,” which she intellectually realizes. But she thinks and researches for a long time how they can be just so: how can they get someone to take their photo at just the right moment when they are writhing around in the water so that you can see that they are so in tune with and gently being kissed by their sexy actor boyfriend (bio in link for his new film with Harrison Ford!)? This is happening while being blessed by the Tahitian palm tree shading themselves, because they’re responsible so they use La Roche Posay SPF and feel #grateful that they are very hot people and have so many loyal followers.

She decides that becoming a massage therapist will likely zen her out all the time and make her like wheatgrass and never drink again and only date “spiritual” men with man buns. Maybe being a masseuse will train her to refuse being around “negative vibes” and only will be in the same room as people who make her feel “full.” And being a masseuse will likely get her laid because she’ll be a healer. So like the google-generation, she finds a massage training in Tulum. But it’s $5,000 over-budget. Instead, she thinks she will just clean her room and eat a mango from the bodega around the corner because it’s only $1. And only have 3 apps instead of 13.

“Cleansing” : The I-Came-of-Age-In-The-Rob-Lowe-Coked-Out-Power-Dressing-Glamor-of-The-1980’s-Workaholic 

EVERYTHING IS FALLING APART. She works so much that she has no life. She hates her pantsuits but started working in the age of Anita Hill and thought she had to break the glass ceiling more because her mom would quote Betty Friedan and preach to not be “ungrateful” to the women like Jane Fonda who paved the way (and the song “9-5,” too). She used to dream about working in transportation and logistics just so she could scan her government card everyday.

Now she hates the Boys Club. She even hates most of the women, who are such mechanical bores and all majored in “Political Science” like smart girls do at Dartmouth. They’re the sociopathic philanthropists who only “endorse” International causes that pay people to publicize the plight of poor people because it looks good in photos and they don’t actually want to help poor people. Unless you’re George and Amal Clooney, you can just show yourself the door.

So guess what? She QUITS HER JOB and decides that something must change... and also that she absolutely loathes Elizabeth Gilbert. This means that she doesn’t want to be BORED hanging out doing yoga in some fucking yurt pagoda thing and she doesn’t want to get FAT in Italy with some boy toy whose worshipping would be as aging feeling as a lifestyle blog… and she doesn’t want to SHUT THE FUCK UP in India in some ashram with annoying as fuck Californians who think using crystalized deoderant is as repenting as when they culturally appropriated Ganesh on their saggy backs.

So what does she want to “cleanse?” Anything committing or societally-fulfilling for women her age (like the constant suggestion of growing a damn garden to be happy…). The solution is to do whatever she damn well pleases from the comforts of her current home and maybe tell people what to do from her computer every once in a while “freelancing” and occasionally go on a few dates and walking out when they’re just blah blah blah. 

Perhaps trying to be “budget-y” but realizing she earned her accolades thirty years ago, so only voting with her dollar when she feels like reusing the same dishtowel or using up everything in the fridge. She learned long ago that you’re not better than others just because you “know how to be poor and sustainable” by eating pumpkins from the garbage … and living with a commune of people you kind of hate for judging you about not knowing the merits of free speech feminism and cleaning with vinegar absolutely everywhere (...everywhere).

She will damn well do as she pleases in purchasing a sugaring appointment or buying a $50 solo dinner. Or online shopping at FreePeople if she feels like she’s lagging a bit on her “cleanse” and wants to look a little like she had a love affair in Barcelona and went cray at the flea markets that apparently only sell pillow case dresses that are so bright and flouncy you have to dance in the streets when you wear them and look like you’re having an enlightening experience even when you drink “fresh mint water.”

“Cleansing”: The Legit Monk Woman

She GOT RID OF EVERYTHING to be noble to a million sutras she can’t quite name but she tries to, usually when she’s drinking a single cup of tea for four hours. She went to Ladakh in 1987 and comes back to Los Angeles in 2017 named Nag Champa and gets a job teaching at some liberal theology college in Orange County where Steven Spielbergh’s kids occasionally come to class. At least they link the school website in their online interviews with Vogue all the time. They are using the Tibetan sound bowls to create a new experimental electronic album that can maybe buy their way into Coachella and they may have her be their life coach while on tour to “combat the stressful perils of the industry.” 

She writes a few blog posts for Depak who is always trynna hit on her. She goes to Wanderlust and blesses the dreadlocked crowd with a hybrid Buddhist-Rastafarian-Katy Perry lyric blessing, throwing Whole Foods rosewater on their toned bodies that they got growing up skiing in Aspen. All of them say they want to be mentored by her in between their barista/yoga teaching/juice cleansing lifestyles, maybe when they’re done setting up their kombucha bar they can swing by and have like a $6,000 certifying sesh that has all inclusive vegan food? Or they can barter with nuts and berries that they brought back from their trip to INDIA.

Yes, she must capitalize on this moment of “wellness.” You can find her speaking and retreat information on LinkedIn that she’s still waiting to customize in a more boisonberry color for calming effects…

“Cleansing”: The-Doesn’t-Want-To-Give-A-Shit-But-Still-Kind-of-Does Woman

She needs to get her finances in order a bit and is somehow always “busy” so she gets rid of what’s not needed by saying: Yes, she needs her organic food. No, she doesn’t need her Argan oil face wash. Yes, she needs a drink at somewhere other than a dive bar every other Friday. No, she doesn’t need to go to Brazilian dance yoga with Shanti for $40 every day. Yes, she needs to go see a concert every once in a while. No, she doesn’t need five paid-for “music experience” apps that “customize” user experience depending on their ever-fluctuating mood and will bring you to “up and coming artists.” Because honestly, these musicians sound like they took a Xanax and hipsters just go to their shows because they’re insecure that they’re being called “hipsters” and hate “categorization of gender norms” but totally need reassurance that they’re doing life right by the Anthropologie curtain-esque crop tops and leg tattoos they appear bored in everywhere. So every grainy film Insta shot is in fact very intentional but they won’t admit it because they will always be pale-faced underdogs just like these up and coming artists who have long hair and little annoying vegan kids with no manners who have ginger hair and are gonna grow up to be soft-core racists because they intentionally want to have black friends (only with septum piercings and a denim jacket) so they can show how liberal they are because their parents were once underpaid touring musicians and they know what struggle is because they tried acid when they were 14 and they saw how we are all “the same.”  

Yes, she needs stupid email to make a living. No, she doesn’t need Snapchat because so much meh and overwhelming tapping all the time.

…DONE. Now she’s livin’.

[rachelisnotatwork]

Conferencing North of the Wall

Deeply irritatingly, after a winter completely free of sniffles, coughs and fevers, whilst everyone wilted around me and I felt increasingly smug, the first day of spring saw my run of good luck come to an end and a stinking cold develop. So whilst we’d planned a few nice days of holiday before our conference in Belfast, I pretty much had to be peeled, hacking, wheezing and shivering, off the sofa to head over to there.

Naturally we’d booked to fly from Stanstead, which at the time seems like a good (financial) deal, and then the reality kicks in and we have to get two tubes and a train and leave hours of time. The plus side was the exhausting struggle of that plus the cough and cold remedies I was chugging down like there was no tomorrow pretty much meant I got onto the plane, passed out and woke up in Belfast. Unfortunately not the good Belfast airport, because there turn out to be two (who knew? The whole place is tiny. Why on earth do they need two airports?) but the rubbish one which is way outside of town and has posters on the wall about Belfast’s favourite coleslaw (I like to think they had a brutal and hard-fought referendum on that one).

We went to pick up our car, which was the first car we’ve ever got that has “lane assist”. This is probably a helpful function if you find yourself falling asleep on a US highway at 3am, as if you go anywhere near the lines in the centre of the road or at the sides, it starts an irritating beeping sound. This is not a helpful feature if you are in rural Northern Ireland, where the roads are so narrow you are constantly in it’s rage zone and the peeping pretty much never ends. No more nap time for me.

Because I’d been fast asleep on the flight, we hadn’t eaten the lunch we bought in the Stanstead Pret. I decided as we meandered slowly across the countryside towards our cottage outside Derry, to find a tourist attraction to stop at. The nearest appeared to be something called the Tirkane Sweat house. Clicking on it revealed something that looked like a cross between a grass igloo and an ice house. I was intrigued. I failed to mention to Marcel that the review also mentioned cave spiders. I wasn’t sure if they meant it as a joke.

It was beautifully sunny out, and the sweat lodge (built in the 18th century) was located by a tiny stream. The entrance however appears to have been designed for badgers. Beplagued with cold, I was not in the mood for crawling into an abandoned sweat lodge full of spiders, so I decided to let Marcel explore that one alone. Apparently they weren’t joking about the cave spiders. Sorry Marcel.

We drove on to our cottage, through blazing sunshine, verdantly green fields, herds of sheep and a weirdly high number of donkeys. I think I saw more donkeys in a week in Northern Ireland than I’ve seen in my entire life to date. If anyone knows why they love donkeys so much in these parts, please let me know. It looked lovely. It didn’t smell so great though, as apparently the trick to all those glowing green fields is spraying manure on them.

Our cottage was in the middle of nowhere, and the views looked amazing in the sun. 

We’d vaguely discussed going into Derry for dinners, but since I was feeling like shit, I decided we’d self-cater (aka Marcel would make dinner) and so we went to Tesco’s, stocked up on all the supplies and bought a board game as the wifi was broken there. Then we wiled away a pleasant evening in front of the fire, bitterly competing to win the most games.

The next day was forecast to have the better weather, so we decided to do all the “big” local sites. This started with Dunlace Castle. Only you had to pay £5.50 each and up close it didn’t look that impressive and was having some restoration works done, so we decided to stick with the (free) views from the surrounds of Dunlace castle.

The next stop off was the Giant’s Causeway. This is so beloved of UK school textbooks, that I felt like I was on a geography field trip 20 years too late. This was probably helped by being surrounded by herds of windswept teenagers in pac-a-macs. It was National Trust so we got in for free and it is pretty interesting geologically, but I think the main pleasure of the site would have been the hikes you can do around it where you can see some of the similar rock formations without groups of surly teenagers huddled on them (and large numbers of American tourists, revisiting their very, very distant Irish roots). However, alas I was still wheezing like a dying accordion and it took forever and all my breath to get up and down to the Causeway (I refused to take the bus with all the lazy people) so no hikes for us.

After that we headed on to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, which is also owned by the National Trust (another free entry! Win!). This was my suggestion and Marcel was surprised by it because I’m notoriously not great with heights (understatement) and this is a swinging rope bridge that sways 30m over the rocks below. I reassured him though that I was totally up for it. We walked the mile there, along a cliff top path, watching gulls swoop below us whilst bored-looking sheep watched us. We descended the steps down to it. I took one look at it and decided that was a hard nope from me, and refused to go any further. No idea what temporary delusion made me ever think I might. Marcel did head across there though. I bravely photographed him.

All that exercise (a mile is a long way to walk if you are wheezing away with a cough and asthma) and fear-by-proxy had left me hungry. We luckily found a lovely cafe nearby for rhubarb tart, which was located in a village (Ballintoy) that served as a harbour for a scene in Game of Thrones. It was quite windy and the sea rather pleasantly kept breaking over the rocks and the sea wall, which was nice to watch in a “thank god I’m on dry land” way.

On our way back, we decided to swing past The Dark Hedges, which is a photogenic avenue of beech trees that features in pretty much all of Northern Ireland’s tourism materials and a few movies and TV shows. Local and visiting idiots had carved their names into the fairly ancient beech trees, which meant I was seething with pure rage throughout. I like to think of myself as a fairly liberal person…apart from when it comes to people who write their names on historical sites and sites of natural beauty, where I feel the only reasonable punishment is removal of both hands with a fairly blunt axe.

The next morning we were slightly delayed as our airbnb owners had arranged for the BT wifi repair man to come and we had to let him in. I was slightly of the mind that I didn’t really care if we didn’t have internet for the <24 hours of the rest of our stay and I wasn’t really up for hanging around so the next guests could have wifi, but Marcel is a nicer person/a pushover so we did. Our repair man was extremely chatty and did give us some tourist tips, so I guess that was something

We started off having a wander around Derry. It has city walls and from there you can look over most of the town and see bits like Bogside (famous for the Bloody Sunday massacre), the cathedral and the guild hall. It was a relatively pleasant wander, but that was really all I felt I needed to see or do in Derry.

The weather however had just turned sunny as we left Derry to drive up for a fort called Grianan of Aileach. Luckily the whole Brexit debacle had been suspended, because it was just over the border in Donegal. It was my favourite sort of hill fort, in that you could drive right up to it and then get incredible views of the surrounding countryside with very minimal effort.

After a quick lunch (which we could thankfully pay for on card as we had no euros) we headed off to a beach Marcel had picked called Five Fingers Strand at the very north of the Inishowen peninsula. It was my favourite sort of beach- sandy, dramatic scenery behind it and windswept enough that it was pleasantly empty and you didn’t get too hot going for a walk along it, looking at the incredibly rough sea (definitely not a good swimming spot). It was a lovely end to the day out.

The next morning we had to say a sad goodbye to our cottage. We had to be in Belfast in the evening, but we decided to take a very scenic route there. First off, we stopped and wandered down the beach and around the very scenic village of Cushendun. It is apparently the closest point in Northern Ireland to the mainland UK as the Mull of Kintyre is just 16 miles across the water and due to the fact it was a beautifully clear day, very visible. Having been to Iona and it’s abbey on our round the UK road trip, it did make you realise why the Irish monks started out over there since they must have pretty much been able to see the heathens on the horizon.

Our next stop was to look around the walled gardens at Glenarm Castle. They are pretty nicely done and made a nice stop off and wander around, although our plan to visit their tea room for lunch was somewhat thwarted by apparently everyone else in a 50 mile radius having the same plan. 

Starving, we ended up driving into Larne. Not a great looking town but they were having an arts festival that involved having lots of umbrellas hanging in the streets, which cheered things up a bit.

We had to drive the car back to the shitty airport and then get a bus into town to our airbnb so by the time we arrived we weren’t much for exploring the joys of Belfast in the rain but instead hunkered down with takeout for an early evening.

The next day I had designated our “explore Belfast” day. Unfortunately a bunch of attractions aren’t open on a Monday, which this was, so that was a bit of a planning fail on my part. The Titanic museum, which is probably Belfast’s biggest attraction was though so we walked on over there (via a big fish and some very random sculptures made of recycling). 

The museum is huge and is slightly misnamed as a good proportion of it is just on life in Belfast at that time. Which was pretty interesting, as I know the story of the Titanic, but to be honest I don’t know much of Northern Ireland apart from the Troubles. Anyway, now I know all about it’s linen industry, rapid growth and rope factories. So you learn something new everyday. Also I do like giant engineering projects, so a museum that dedicated a lot of time to that whilst surrounded by cargo ships offloading and giant cranes made me happy. I wanted to see it’s dry dock, which is down the road because I read you could go down into it and really get a sense of the scale, so we wandered on down there….to find the only access was through a cafe, which had unexpectedly closed a fortnight previously. So that was a wee bit annoying, but hey, got some exercise.

By the evening, we were pretty tired from all our wanderings and since our whole point of being in Northern Ireland, the conference, started the next day, we decided to stay in and get an early night.

The next morning we walked the extremely agreeable 3 minutes from our Airbnb to the Europa hotel, which is apparently the most bombed hotel in the world. Dunno quite what made everyone hate it so much they bombed it 36 times, since it seemed pretty nice. The result of this is that there are pretty much no bins anywhere in the place. This normally wouldn’t be a problem but they fed us about every 10 minutes at the conference and you’d end up wandering around with a disposable cup or plate for ages, ruing the absence of bins. However the combination of 20 minute lectures for our short attention spans and being fed nice food at extremely regular intervals meant I had rather an enjoyable time.

That evening we had a booking at a restaurant Marcel had seen reviewed in the guardian a few months previously called Six by Nico, that serves a different six course tasting menu every 6 weeks. When we were there it was based on a fish and chips theme, which luckily they interpreted very liberally for vegetarians. We also got free snacks so by the end I pretty much had to be rolled home.

Perhaps as a result of the indigestion I couldn’t really sleep that night. I got up to go to the loo at about 2am and as I got back into bed I saw the orange lights from the street flickering on the ceiling and thought “man, street lights flicker more than I realised”. Then Marcel, woken by the shouting I was oblivious to thanks to my ear plugs got out of bed and pointed out the apartment block on the other side of the car park was on fire.

Now we have a Northern Irish friend who has quite the loud speaking voice. I always thought it was just one of his characteristics, but then on arriving in Northern Ireland I realised actually EVERYONE there has somewhat of a foghorn for a voice. And now all the foghorns in our block of flats were directed at bellowing the people in the flats opposite out of their flats. Whilst we could obviously see the flames much more clearly than they could, it was amazing how slow and reluctant people were to evacuate when there was very clearly a lot of smoke billowing out. It was pretty horrifying how quickly it spread from the original flat to the flat above- in under 2 minutes it had set fire to their balcony, set fire to the uPVC windows, exploded the glass and spread into the flat above. Even though the fire brigade came pretty rapidly and poured what seemed like thousands of litres of water onto it, it took ages to control. It was was a very sombre reminder to check our smoke alarms, carbon monoxide alarm etc on our return.

It also meant we were somewhat shattered at the conference the next day. I’m terrible for falling asleep in lectures at the best of times, so expended all my energy on staying awake (luckily the seating was pretty uncomfortable). That meant by the evening neither of us were interested in doing much so we stayed home and I re-read A Country Doctor’s Notebook, which I first read as a medical student. Still love how whilst medicine has changed so much, the emotions of those providing it really haven’t. When I read it the first time around it was a huge comfort to remember at least I wouldn’t be left to amputate a leg single-handedly on my first day. It is still a comfort that I haven’t had to do that after practising for 7 years.

The next day was the last day of the conference, which meant dragging our suitcase to the hotel and persuading them to let us leave it in their left luggage room. Which they were surprisingly okay with, despite the history of bombs and the total absence of bins. I shan’t question the logic of that because it was hugely in our favour. The conference finished early on the last day, and so we had time to visit one of the attractions that first drew me to Northern Ireland. The Game of Thrones tapestry. Now I do like Game of Thrones, but what I really love is eccentric projects, the bigger the better, and a 66m tapestry commemorating the gore, orgies and weirdness of a TV show was right up my street. Reader, it was JUST AS GOOD as I thought it would be. I loved it. I also like to think of all the confused 90 year old grandma’s hand-stitching the details of orgies and brutal murders, wondering what the hell this was all about.

The museum it was in (The Ulster Museum) was pretty good too so I was very pleased with it for the grand entry price of free. It is right next to some gardens with a victorian glasshouse and fernery (apparently that was all the rage in Victorian Britain) so that was a nice end to our time in Belfast, before heading off back to the airport.

Whilst the weather had held until we were on the bus, by the time was reached the airport it was 4c with freezing horizontal rain and high winds. Normally not a problem but our plane naturally was on the other side of the tarmac and we had to walk about 5 minutes over to it and then queue, trying to angle our bodies like penguins in a huddle, to be out of the worst wind to board. By the time people got on the plane they were streaming water onto the floors and seats. Not the best goodbye to a fun week in Northern Ireland.

In other goodbyes, my suitcase, which has been fraying around the corners for a while and has a wonky wheel, finally developed a huge crack in the handle that meant it is finally time to say goodbye. This suitcase has been with me I think on every trip on this blog and held up amazingly well as that’s probably 18 months of being sat on every day whilst I try and wrench the zips closed over it’s overstuffed contents. I will miss it and suitcase, I’m sorry that whilst you got to see all of the lower 48 and Hawaii, you never saw Alaska. I hope Greenland compensated.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Date: March 27th

Time: 12:00 AM

Location: Cirque Arcana

Have you ever been in love?

This is like that, and it is not.

It starts with a heart in your throat. That’s where you feel it at first, something lodged in a vital place that you can’t quite clear. You turn your head to the side, cough, take a glass of something sparkling, yet it remains stubbornly lodged in place like it has signed papers thrice over and taken up residence. In the beginning you may imagine that this peculiar feeling is nothing more than a sugared almond caught in your pharynx, but as time goes by and the feeling does not dissipate, you begin to realize this is something else entirely.

You think you’ve caught the vulnerable, pretty little aorta of the circus in your teeth and taken it in your throat.

It’s not hard to believe, with the way this world unfurls before you at the touch of your forward-facing shadow like morning glories: the people, these maddened and magenta-clad jesters, peel open like they want you to lean in and drink honey-sweet from the dips of their collarbone. They are cruel; oh, they are cruel in ways you do not understand - but like all meager-hearted humans, you cannot deny the pull of their attentions. The girls are tall and short and lithe and always, always beautiful, pulling you in close to stain silver lipstick all over your collar. One pinches a piece of confetti between her painted fingers and passes it to your tongue. It takes like strawberries and cream. This is a righteous bacchanalian, a sweet ecstasy that was left stuck to the corner of Pandora’s darling little box when all the wicked things flew out.

And it feels all yours.

So what do you do?

You swallow the heart. Your throat relaxes and you take it all at once, feeling full-up and arrogant and hungry for your triumph.

Oh, darling, oh, dear. What have you done now?

Revelry springs forth the way sea spray did the day the severed pieces of Uranus hit the sea to give birth to Aphrodite: rolling forth in all directions. The night has progressed to the hour where no more tender daylight exists, the twilight having pried off the last of its elegant fingers from the clouds and sent it down beyond the horizon. There seems to be something thick about the air now; something that, if one opened up their mouth and sucked in a breath, you would find chewable. Though there are men with thick moustaches and entertainment wearing nothing but clever lacquer smoking cigarettes, nothing smells of ashes. Everywhere the scent changes, just like the themes from tent to tent, air lifting from carbonated hyacinth that pops in the nostrils in the garden to the lead-and-Chanel N5 permeation of the Hearts Club.

There are children running knee-high through the tents, though they seem dismal compared to the adults - even the ones that have made it through the front gates seem forgettable, having latched to their parents sides in fear or awe.

(What is it that is said? That a children’s heart is pure and therefore knows far more than the rest of us? Well. Perhaps that isn’t a myth after all).

As time weaves on it seems to weed out the youths, as with each passing hour the younglings that had once been visiting make-believe sirens and statuesque angels are seemingly removed, replaced by their slightly-older teenage counterparts. Maybe it’s the late hour that takes them home with wide-eyed parents looking over their shoulder as they descend the hill, the adults racing back to their pretty little apartments in order to tuck their little ones in, lock the door, and scramble back up.

Or maybe it’s the inability to jar one’s head any way that isn’t straight: the midnight and witching hours pass on and over heads, al with no consequence and every bit of pomp and circumstance. And with each one tucking into Orion’s belt, the visitors of the Cirque Arcana find themselves untraceably altered. There is a sudden lightness of the mind and body, a hot-holy elation that seems to prick each individual by the spine and left them up above the floor to ghost over the ground, as if it is only by a gracious convention to modern science that feet still touch the carpet. Though no two livers are alike, and indeed no two mouths consume the same palette here, a strange and wonderful intoxication has ubiquitously spread over the populace of the circus. All colours seemed to match the inside of a swallowed heart -- dark, thick with something you could swallow and taste in the air, bleeding with bruise reds and purples in the uplighting. All other colours seemed to be leaking out of the world into one point, like God had reached down and pulled out a giant drain plug in the center of the tent, into which everything - words, people, common sense - sank.

Those inside this cocoon the tents felt surrounded and safe, blanketed by the anonymity the half-shadow and strange environment around them provided -- but even the best of Verona, those with pearls for teeth and diamonds for hearts, are slanted. They stand leaned to the side, a shoulder of a fur coat fallen off, the part of their hair raised and flipped over in a messy concession to the state they are currently existing in: a being with their feet on the ground but an angle to their mind and body. It’s in mouths as much as it is in spine: the way syllables stand slightly straight when engaged in conversation, but rush into one another at the tail. The thoughts inside skulls curl into themselves, turning into perfect little metallic balls that roll and gather in the corner of a brain as minds wander and tilt.

Of course, when everyone is down the rabbit hole, nobody notices the descent. Nobody notices the correlation between the sticky-sweet confetti pouring through the air and the odd things seen in the corner of vibrating vision, imagining things that aren’t there at all -- nobody traces the thread tied to their quickly-beating heart and charged loins back to the perfumed smoke rolling through the main stage and all the side tents. Instead, given no forewarning and no choice but to accept their current state, everyone falls.

And here is the truth of it all. When lost in the maze, you can become but one of three people:

Ariadne.

Theseus.

Or the Minotaur.

In the Tent of Veils comes a final Salome, a pulse of a woman that beats through the entire tent. The six dancers before her part and spread out into the room, hands roaming over the broad barrel-and-gun chests of occupants and pulling them into the shadows as the Queen rises. The sleeves of her dress rise and fall in a Grecian manner as she twirls, something at once arcane and licentious, a neo-Isadora Duncan undressing before the masses. After several minutes there were no more veils, no more pretenses. Only a naked body that, once seen, could only be described as an altar built to worship at - something to be crucified in sweat and ecstasy. The people around her burst, swinging into each other’s laps and across tables, flinging bodies into bodies as if love is a war. Through it all the smoke rises, corrupting, choking out any virtue that had been left existing in the surrounding bodies before this moment.

And Salome looks on, smiling.

Puzzles can have no start or end -- it cannot be in their nature to be easily solvable -- and that is why this room has two entrances. Only one door has been used all night, the suspiciously-inconspicuous arch with an unmarked, lacquered black sheen, guarded by an effervescent sprite of a jester. They speak in a high-cackle of a voice, something more mockery than has ever been proper speech, and have been leaned on the shoulders of politicians and gangsters all night, gouging them into the Puzzle Room by means of vocal prodding. Now is no different, as he spots Roman Montague and ushers the unofficial prince and his entourage into the living enigma - All kings must know how to solve mysteries, your highness. Bring only your most trusted knights with you. And with the pull of a curtain (as all things are revealed in the circus), this door is hidden, and another exposed. The menacing jester of the night is gone, and replaced by a nymph of a girl with a sweet smile. She extends her hands towards the next group like postcards for the taking. They find her charming, and her challenge exciting. They enter the maze.

At the place of losses ring the voices of torn-and-tried men at The Hearts Club. Bets and heartrates increase until they hit the ceiling, no longer a palpable pulse but one long vibration. The games grow shrewder, the narrowed eyes of dealers peeking ravenously from behind tipped bowler hats - a mass sum had been won only hours earlier, and since this victory they seem to be crueller-handed, either by way of fate or something else entirely. Groups have congregated like holy disciples around the demi-gods that persist in their siege of Mount Olympus, cupping dice in crude fists and cards in battered fingers. It takes only the slightest disturbance of peace for it to be smashed over the knee completely, church glass left shattered on marble floor. CHEATER. LIAR.

The wolves descend.

Ariadne, Theseus, Minotaur.

And as our heroes and players chose their roles for the night (not mindfully, you must understand dear reader; when one is revealing the very core of themselves, they have very little choice over who that is), our gold string of this maze watches on from behind the curtains. She is the thread that links through every corner and chasm, the sanity amongst the madness (or is the madness amongst the sanity?).

She wears dark velvet like rose petals around her, and on her tiny, lithe frame she seems to be swallowed by the luxe costume. There is something so unassuming and lovely about that little face, and as she stands alone and shining away from the spotlight, there seems to be something triumphant about the repose of her stance, simple as it is.

It is her act that culminates this night, her slim build that cuts through the wheezing-harsh laughter the last round of jesters incite on the main stage as the clock strikes far past midnight. The crowd hushes in expectation, respectful despite their delirium of the woman they know as the Ringmaster. Though the depth of the audience is great, all could swear that from their place on the plush bleachers, they can spot her smile with a resounding intimacy - could trace the petal shape of her lips on the back of their eyelids, as they likely will when they return home. There’s something about the woman that is large, blooming, irresistible, despite the lack of space she takes up. She tremors like a mirage in their eyeline, halcyon and dewy.

This time, she’s introduced as the illusionist. Severine, the booming voice calls her.

“For my last trick,” She speaks at the start of her very first, like everything that follows is one grand act. And it’s a lie - the whole night has been one act. “I’m going to show you what magic looks like. Now, close your eyes. Place your heart in your hands and your hopes on your tongue and breath. Count to three.”

One -

Two -

Three.”

The eye of the storm is the safest place to be.

That heart you swallowed cracks open inside your stomach like shrapnel. Chaos explodes with it.

12:00 AM: Trapeze. Two sets of twins engage in death-defying and gorgeous aerial acts above the mainstage. 

12:45 AM: Jesters. Clowning jesters to entertain the crowd as the stages are cleaned and changed.

1:00 AM: Aerial escape. A stunning, twenty-something girl takes to the air bound and harnessed amongst hanging silks. With a towering grandfather clock ticking off exactly thirty minutes, the performer at once entertains as an aerial artist while completing her escape. The event finishes with a burst of paper flowers so thick, she is lost for a moment  as she seemingly tumbles to her death - until she reappears a moment later, once more in the air and blowing kisses from a hanging swing.

INTERMISSION.

2:00 AM: Illusionist. The ringmaster takes the stage for the final act of the night.

SIDE TENTS REMAIN THE SAME.

What the characters have not been aware of is the effects of what they have been consuming all night: the flavoured confetti are hallucinogenic, and the machines effusing smoke and incense are aphrodisiacs, which has altered their state of mind and their actions.

In the Puzzle Tent, ROMAN, leading VALENTINA, and SANTINO through, hears the chaos unfolding outside and urges the rest of them to hurry as the combined hallucinogenic drinks, food, and confetti start to take their toll. The rooms shift and morph, monsters materialize and disappear all in an instant. Finally, they burst through what they think is the final door, only to find themselves in the middle of The Room of Infinite Mirrors - ROMAN reaches for the Gallos, only to touch solid glass. Hundreds of reflections blink around them and, on the opposite end of the room, REGINA, TIBERIUS, AND BUNNY burst in, all just as jarred and discordant.

TIBERIUS sees ROMAN and, under the influence of drugs, imagines the Montague Boss has taken on demonic qualities and has drawn a gun, and tackles him through a mirror in panic and rage, glass shattering around both of them. The two men struggle, injuring each other, until ROMAN manages to momentarily incapacitate him.

VALENTINA catches REGINA just as the Capulet captain goes to help TIBERIUS up, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her into a mirror as retribution for their earlier confrontation. REGINA fights her way free with a surge of adrenaline.

BUNNY, seeing SANTINO go to his boss’s aid and covering him as ROMAN stumbles out to safety, grabs a piece of glass shard and lunges for him. SANTINO turns just in time to catch the glass with his bare hands, and the two struggle, and he begins to weaken from the pain and blood loss.

ORION, weaving through the fray outside of the tents, spots an injured ROMAN leaning against a post and bleeding profusely with many shards of glass sticking out of his skin, and goes to help take him away from the chaos - the Montague Boss urges him leave him alone to avoid attracting suspicion.

Anornate and grand mirror catches JULIANA’s attention throughout the chaos - The All Seeing Mirror. She comes closer and sees foggy visions of hooded figures dangling above a dancing crowd in large, golden cages. Then, a vision of Cosimo and herself falling violently ill. Frightened, she grabs the closest passerby, HEA, to verify she isn’t simply seeing things due to the hallucinogenic drugs. HEA, visibly and genuinely disturbed, attempts to coax the mirror into showing more, but while JULIANA’s back is turned, suddenly vanishes.

MIKAEL fights with LUCRECIA, having been shown a false image of her conspiring to kill him by the oracle. LUCRECIA attempts to give themselves some separation as he madly rambles, and steers them past off-limit areas. As their argument grows more heated, LUCRECIA stops suddenly and stares into the distance - the hallucinogenic aspect of the confetti has given her a false image of the deceased Maeve. She begins to weep uncontrollably without explanation, which MIKAEL believes is a means to distract him. LUCRECIA rushes towards the image of Maeve with MIKAEL following. She grows hysterical when the hallucination disappears and demands they begin to look for Maeve.

HECTOR has eaten the hallucinogenic confetti and is overwhelmed by the visions, real and imaginary, of the circus. He stumbles into the elephant ring, where DELILAH is, and is nearly trampled by an elephant, narrowly rolling out of the way. He falls and sprains his ankle in the process and attempts to crawl out - DELILAH runs to his side and tries to help him out, but a call from outside the ring gives her pause. GRACE has been watching the entire ordeal and demands that DELILAH leave him to fend for himself.

On the other side of the grounds, CATHERINE, high on the hallucinogenic confetti, attempts to calm herself by taking a ride on the carousel. She hallucinates that the animals turn into macabre monsters, screams and stumbles trying to run away. By some twist of fate it is GRACE that she runs into at full speed, who takes pleasure at her sister’s strange horror. While CATHERINE clings to her weeping for help, GRACE feigns kindness and guides her away from the carousel and through off-limit tents, only to shove her into the corral that houses the actual show horses, locking the gate behind her. GRACE leaves as CATHERINE shrieks, her terror inciting the otherwise harmless animals to startle and run.

In The Gardens, the thick, humid air fills with something far more sinister - aphrodisiac gas. ALEXANDER, inhales the gas and is filled with unnatural, abrupt lust - he stumbles through the smoke and nearly knocks ODESSA, also dazed and having inhaled the gas, over. They pause for a beat, and draw close.

In the middle of the Illusionist’s acts, three volunteers are called from the audience to sit and be “transformed.” The illusionist swears no harm will come to these individuals, and has them sat on three chairs centre stage, hands tied behind their backs with rope and a bag placed over their heads. While the magician performs another feat on the other side of the stage, a ring of jesters arrives and begins making a good-natured menace of themselves upon the unsuspecting volunteers: water is dumped over their heads, their legs used as a springboard for acrobatics, and various other humorous parts as living props. With a show of what appears to be an aurora borealis swirling about them, when the illusionist returns to her volunteers, she pulls the bags off to reveal the siblings MEDEA, CINEAD, and HEA. The spotlight shines down upon them and the audience roars in appreciation. They are bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Despite the uproar this trick has caused, no one will notice the discomfort the witches seem to be under - they recall only being pulled behind curtains, but not how they arrived on stage. The illusionist grins, slices through their restraints, and offers them a smile as they are ushered off stage by her jesters.

RAMONA, inebriated and originally intending to ride one of the circus horses, instead finds CATHERINE being battered by startled horses. Unable to see who it is she is helping, she leaps the gate and diverts the attention of the stallion before helping the girl limp to safety. The pair is found and apprehended for trespassing.

In the Hearts Club, chaos erupts out of nowhere. ORPHEUS accuses the staff at the of cheating when he loses out on a substantial bet, and the staff accuse him of cheating in return. He lunges for one of them in a maddened state, but is tackled by several others who drag him off behind the curtain. VIVIANNE enters the tent just in time to see ORPHEUS being dragged away, draws her blade and threatens the staff. One of them covers her from head to toe with a burlap sack, and when they pull it off, she’s vanished.

The pyrotechnics booth that NIKOLAI operates has caught ablaze by malfunctioning wire and become swallowed by smoldering heat and fire. LILLIAN spots a weakened and stunned NIKOLAI’s within the booth and, with the help of BELLAMY, manages to pry the door open. Due to his own minor injuries sustained trying to navigate through the frenzied crowds, he is unable to carry the man himself, and they both work to escort him out and resuscitate him.

BUNNY, thrown off by the events of the Puzzle Room, starts acting manically. She begins shoving handfuls of confetti in her mouth just as THEODORA runs over to try and stop her. BUNNY slaps the Capulet in response before tremoring and falling to the ground with her eyes rolled back. THEODORA, having recognized the effects of hallucinogenic drugs only moments before, had been attempting to prevent the same overdose happening at her feet. They take the young girl in their lap and try to soothe her as they call out for medical attention.

HUGO has been doing his best to guide horrified and frantic circus goers find their way out, all while trying to find a fellow Montague and gain his own bearings. He catches sight of ORION and ROMAN conversing and, mistaking the situation as ORION being the one to have injured ROMAN, intervenes and firmly insists that he leave. From HUGO’s side, ROMAN sees the priest’s hand hover over his gun and, fearing escalation, is forced to fill HUGO in on ORION’s status as an informant.

In the Tent of Veils, there is a lone figure stumbling through the incense and dancers. PAVEL, in his drug-induced delirium, sees glimpses visions of his family long passed in between the writhing bodies. He lunges for them and goes through the red velvet curtains, reappearing in the Sweetheart Table tent.

ALVA seeks shelter in The Depths and, in their hurry, forgets to grab ear plugs. The mermaids lure them with their sweet, coaxing song and, as soon as they are close, drag them into the tank. They are pulled out and resuscitated by SEVERINE, the mysterious ringleader.

By the Sweetheart Table, BORIS finds that he’s missing large bills from his wallet as well as his sleeve cuffs. He sees PAVEL nearby, dazed, and accuses him of pickpocketing - you never truly grow out of pettiness. PAVEL taunts him in turn, and the confrontation escalates into a full-on fight. Jesters form a dancing ring around the two, seemingly intent on never breaking the circle until someone falls.

OBERON suddenly finds himself falling through the curtains of the Sweetheart Table and shoves his way through the ring of jesters. Seeing BORIS and PAVEL in the middle of fighting, he defends his former associate and pushes BORIS back and away from PAVEL, to which BORIS retaliates.

FARON and PRIAM, visiting the Tent of Veils at the culmination of the night, is beguiled by the Salome that enters as the climax of the show. As the dancers disperse amongst the crowd and pick out men that grab at their wrists, they are simultaneously plucked from their seats and brought into a hidden room sectioned off by curtains. Placed in plush chairs sitting parallel one another, they are asked if they want a private dance - both, while feeling the effects of the aphrodisiacs, acquiesce eagerly and receive them. As part of the dance, they have their hands tied gingerly with the women’s scarves. The longer the dance progresses the lighter headed and more intoxicated they feel; upon finishing, they pass out. Both regain consciousness some time later in an entirely different room and find their belongings - wallet, watch, and phones - stolen. As a pair they rally on the security and insist the dancers stole from them, only to be told they walked out of the tent tipping lavishly twenty minutes ago. FARON demands to see video footage while PRIAM attempts to reenter the dance tent, only to be strong-armed away by the bouncer. This results in a fight that has both men kicked out of the grounds and sent home.

LAWRENCE, attempting to find either ROMAN or ODESSA, shoves his way through to The Gardens and interrupts ODESSA and ALEXANDER, who separate moments too late. He drags ODESSA away, who protests indignantly at her brother’s overprotectiveness, yanks herself away, and storms out of the tent and into the fresh air where the aphrodisiac’s effects immediately weaken. LAWRENCE warns ALEXANDER to keep his hands to himself as ALEXANDER also takes his leave.

In the Butterfly Tent, onlookers stream throughout the ring in a panic as they try to find their way to the exits. CALINA is one of them, and as she weaves in and out she’s snatched by one of the aerialists who flings her to another. She demands to be let down onto the ground, but the aerialists ignore her, and she spots one of them flying through the air with a large sack in their arms. They remove the cloth to reveal a jarred VIVIANNE - both women are stranded atop a perch high above. CALINA demands VIVANNE’S cooperation in figuring out a way to safely get down, but the Capulet Underboss is hostile, still sore over the death of her own adviser and peer.

OOC: This marks the end of our scene, dear readers. Everyone involved in the Puzzle Room violence, as well as PRIAM, FARON, ORPHEUS and RAMONA are escorted off the grounds for trespassing and/or breaches of safety. CATHERINE, NIKOLAI and BUNNY have been taken to the hospital, with BUNNY in especially bad condition. All others have managed to escape detection by Cirque Arcana’s staff for their terrible behaviour - for now.

As always, you are encouraged to play out these interactions on the dash or in a chatzy. If you hold these interactions in a chatzy, please post it on the dash so we may all be a part of the excitement. Play out your character’s odd events, injuries and aftermath. All interactions may occur between the dates of MARCH 25TH to APRIL 13th. As always, feel free to ask us questions.