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[sentientcave]

Heavy Weighs the Crown

Chapter 5 - Plans Laid in Darkness

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Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader/OC, No Y/N, Politicking, Hail Kastovia!, We are learning to communicate, Soap is a good boy, canon typical violence, Konig (derogatory)

~5.2k words - MDNI

"Hello, princess," Kate says. She's using that dry, guarded tone that she used to use, before you got comfortable with each other. It's like you're strangers again, and not women that spent the past six years living under the same roof. It makes your heart ache— She's family. Really your only family, even if you have no shared blood.

She's wearing a dark cloak with embroidery of dark, nearly invisible ravens and bright stars around the hood and hem, a midwinter gift from you and her wife, that you spent weeks working on. You can see the top edge of the thick woolen socks that you knit her over the edge of her boots. You'd mended and reinforced the pockets on her trousers countless times. Kate was always hard on her clothes. You used to tease her about it when she'd come to you, sheepishly bearing a torn out pocket or a ripped seam. She always made up some silly story about how it had happened, just to make you laugh.

But she stands in front of you as the Watcher, the spymaster, and not as your Aunt Katie, and you don't care for it one bit.

She tenses when you stride across the room to her, but relaxes when you throw your arms around her tightly. "I missed you," you say softly. "I wish you'd told me what was going on."

"I know, honey. I thought I'd have more time. John promised not to interfere with you so long as you didn't interfere with him or his men. He's never broken his word before."

"He still hasn't," you admit. "It was my fault. A bird flew up and startled sir Garrick's horse, and I chased after. He was sleeping by the road, and…" you trail off, realizing what had really happened. It was too easy to forget that Kyle had a knack for illusion. He'd spooked the horse on purpose. "Well, he tricked me, and I fell for it."

Kate huffed out a laugh. "I should have been more careful with my phrasing. John is far too good at twisting things to his advantage."

You hum in agreement, turning towards the door when you hear a sharp knock. It opens before you can say anything, but it's just Farah, and not one of the men.

"Commander Karim," Kate says. "Good to see you again."

"Always a pleasure, Watcher," Farah responds, nodding politely. "I owe you a favour for the intel one of your ravens gave me a few weeks ago. Saved my men from walking into an ambush."

"No favour necessary. You actually helped me clean up a mess that same day." Kate smiles wolfishly. "My raven caught his mark when they turned tail to run."

Farah nods. “Then it seems we help each other.”

The two of them talk while you get ready, and flank you as you make your way down to the appropriate parlour, although Kate gives you a quick kiss on the cheek and heads off down the hall rather than follow you into the room like Farah does.

That’s always been her way. You’re sure you’ll see her later.

The Kastovian ambassador sits in a a chair by the window, dressed in a dark red suit. He smiles and stands whn you enter the room, Kate and Farah a step behind you. “Princess!” he says warmly, hands outstretched. “You are more radiant than I imagined you would be. It is not fair that John has been hiding you away all this time.” He pulls you close when he takes your hands, and kisses you on each cheek, closer to your mouth than is necessary.

“It was my choice to remain out of sight. I feared my presence would be a distraction from John’s work. I worried hat I would be as well loved as my father.” You smile, and sit next do John. “It seemed I did not need to fear so.”

“Of course not! Your father was a wicked man. You were not the one waging wars, your majesty. You were just a girl,” Nikolai continues. “And no you are a beautiful woman. Your kind heart is evident.”

“Beauty has little to do with kindness.”

Nikolai grins. “No. Or I would be a much better man than I am.” He settles back in his chair and picks up his wine glass. He raises it, looking at you over the rim, dark eyes glimmering. “To beauty and kindness.”

John hands you a wine glass, and you raise it in response. “To good sense and diplomacy.”

John hums next to you, pleased with how you’re handling the ambassador, by your guess. He levels an unimpressed look at Nikolai. “Are you satisfied?”

“No, it’s much too soon. I will let you know when I am satisfied, your lordship. It will not be until I speak to her majesty alone.” His mismatch of your titles is clearly intentional, meant to rile John up, make him commit a mistake. “But I do hope to be fed first, or I will try to eat you up, majesty. I��m afraid I have a weakness for beautiful women such as you.”

You steal a glance at Ghost, at the war mask, the visage of a skull glaring at the ambassador. You prefer the blank fencers mask, but you can see his eyes like this, deep brown, pale lashes catching the light. Farah stands next to him, almost comically small in comparison. By the forward tilt of the mask, Ghost isn’t pleased with the ambassadors tone, and Farah’s disdain is clear. Both of them have their hands braced on their belts. It was probably a good idea to have them remove their swords before entering the room, although you suspect that each of them is still armed to the teeth.

The man standing behnd Nikolai’s chair is similarly braced. He’s huge, taller even than Ghost, though not quite as broad, and masked as well, with something that looks like an executioner’s hood. The cold gleam of his eyes makes you shudder, until a wet nose pushes under your palm. You relax a bit, petting your hand over Soap’s fuzzy head, glad for the reassurance.

“I trust your journey was an easy on,” you say, changing the subject from how edible you look. “You arrived quite quickly.”

“Luckily, I was already on my way. Your cousin sends his regards, majesty. He is disappointed that he cannot be here himself.” Nikolai eyes Soap suspiciously, but says nothing.

“If he were so concerned, why did he never inquire after her?” John asks. “So many years with no mention.”

“Perhaps he was concerned that a mention of her would have you expanding your search,” Nikolai suggested. “He could not not be certain that she could be safe with you either.”

“As you can see, I’m quite safe, thank you,” you say pleasantly. “John allowed me time in the country to recover from the stress of the war. It was very kind of him.” You smile at John, warning him to behave himself. It would do no one any good for him to scrap with the ambassador. “It was good for me.”

“Clearly. You were too thin before. Listless. And now you’re vibrant and lovely. It is heartening to see.” Nikolai continued to smile, not once dropping his friendly mask. “Of course, you were little more than a child when last we met. Perhaps you do not remember me.”

Did you recall? Of course you remembered being trotted out during the many failed bids for peace between your homeland and Kastovia. Nikolai wasn’t just any ambassador, he was a prince, one of the younger ones. Not likely to ever take the Kastovian throne himself, unless his brother and grown-up nieces and nephews were all to perish. Not likely, unless foul play was involved. It was understandable, why he was so interested in securing an alliance through marriage to you, even though during those talks you had only been fifteen, and still too young to marry. It would have been a long engagement, but peace fell apart long before you turned eighteen, blessedly, or you would have been married to him, probably with a few children by now.

Nikolai seemed a pleasant enough sort of man, but there was something calculating in his eyes, like he was mentally tallying what everyone in the room was worth to him. You’re not sure you’d care for a husband who kept such a close eye on his ledgers.

“I remember.” You give Soap another scratch behind the ears, glad to have the comforting weight of his big head on your knee. “Strange to think of what could have been.”

“If I’d known you would grow into such a beauty, I would have worked harder to negotiate peace.” Nikolai looks at John as he says that, but his eyes flicker back to you quickly. “I suspect you will make a pretty bride.”

“I certainly hope so,” you say blithely. “Now, why don’t we move to the dining room? I’m sure you’re very hungry, after so much travel.”

“Starving,” he says.

Farah makes a scoffing noise behind you, but manages not to say whatever scalding thing comes to mind. You make a mental note to thank her for her restraint later. She told you already that she has no love for Kastovians, but she’s kept a cool head. Certainly a cooler head than John, who looks ruffled.

Both he and Nikolai offer you an arm to escort you to the dining room, but you tuck your hand into the crook of Nikolai’s arm, since he’s the guest. John’s frown deepens, but it’s not your job to manage a grown man’s emotional state. He’s a king, and it’s up to him to act like it.

There’s a certain tesnion in the air over dinner, summering under the light conversation. Nikolai takes a perverse sort of delight in saying things that are polite on the surface, and insulting if you think about them for more than a minute, although he directs all of these hidden barbs at John. To you he’s entirely charming, his dark eyes laughing whenever John leans in to speak to you quietly. It would be funny to watch the two of them have their polite little battle, if you were not the object that they both seemed to covet.

John’s possessive little displays are nothing if not an annoyance. You look forward to leaving again, and going home, back to your cozy room in Kate’s house, back to your chickens and your village and your routines. You’ll miss Kyle and Ghost and Johnny, but you’re sure they’ll visit if you ask. Ghost might even go back to his double life as a blacksmith, and you can pretend you never sussed him out, and actually talk to him, rather than just exchange the odd glance now and again. John will be much less free to make little visits to unimportant former princesses, and probably busy finding himself a suitable wife to mother his children and secure his bloodline.

Finally, dinner ends without anyone losing their temper, and the others retreat to the green parlour as you escort Nikolai to the next room. Farah and Soap stay by your side, although Nikolai’s own guard is dismissed.

“I had hoped to speak with you privately,” Nikolai says, raising his eyebrows at Farah pointedly.

“Commander Karim is my personal guard, as well as my friend. She would soon know anything you had to say to me regardless, so if you cannot say what you wish to in front of her, consider holding your tongue.” You sit, and Soap settles himself at your feet, the very picture of a loyal hound. “Now, what can I do for you, sir?”

“You should take me as your husband. Forget whatever deals you have made with John. Forget that idiot cousin of yours. I know wha it means to rule. You would not have to worry about any more wars with my people, or anything at all. I would gladly lift all burdens from your lovely shoulders.” He makes his bid standing before you, keeping a safe distance, wary of Soap’s sharp teeth. “I would treat you well, your majesty. Like you deserve.”

You sit back in the chair, eyes half lidded, giving no emotion away, although you almost wish to laugh at the audacity. “Is that all?” you ask mildly.

“Would you like more?” he asks. “Favourable trade agreements, perhaps, or land? My own lands lay just across the border, I could cede them to you. Name your desire, my lady, and you can have it.”

“I desire nothing that you could give me, except to deliver my sincere wishes that my dear cousin sets aside his ambition for the throne. John has made a fine king for these past few years, and I hope he continues to be for many more.” You smile, all polite restraint still. “Is there anything else that you wish to say?”

Nikolai looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly, his calculation of you changing somewhat. He’s not pleased by your refusal to even entertain his offer, but not surprised either. “Such loyalty, despite what he did to your father. How has he earned such devotion?”

“By being a good man, and improving the lot of my people. There is nothing else I need from him.”

Nikolai nods. “I see.”

“I hope you’ll excuse me, I’d like to speak with Commander Karim. I believe the others have returned to the green parlour, if you’d like to rejoin them.”

He doesn’t balk at the dismissal either, just gives a shallow bow and leaves.

“That was the right response,” Farah says approvingly. “If he though there was even a chance to gain your hand he would spend the rest of the evening behaving very badly. It would not look good if John or Ghost hits him.”

Soap gets up from his spot on the floor and trots behind a chair, the bone crunching sound of his transition filling the room for a moment. “Sweetpea,” he says, his fingers gripping the upholstery nervously. “I think there’s somethin’ you should know.”

“What it it?” you ask.

He swallows hard, blue eyes darting between you and the door. “John intends to marry ye tomorrow. He figured if he manuevered things just so hat you wouldn’t be able to refuse him, but I think you ought tae know.”

Farah goes extremely still, her eyebrows snapping together with an almost audible click. “He didn’t tell you?”

You drop your head into your hands, trying to control the spike of anger. “Oh, I’m going to kill him,” you say. “I am going to murder that man.”

“I will assist,” Farah promises.

“I am sorry I didnae say somethin’ earlier,” Johnny says, shoulders raised defensively, as though he still expects that you might shout at him. “I shoulda. S’just— It’s Price. He’s been good tae me. But yer so sweet, and you deserved tae know.” He looks a bit green from betraying his friend’s trust, but relieved too. It must have been weighing heavy on his mind.

You stand, and walk over to him, cupping his face gently between your palms. “Thank you for telling me.” Impulsively, you press a kiss to his mouth, not expecting the enthusiastic response. He pulls you closer, arms sliding around your back, his tongue lapping across your lips. He kisses messily, without much finesse, but it’ sweet, in it’s own way, how excited he is about it.

Your hands skirt down the tops of his arms, finding the raised edges of scarring you hadn’t noticed under all his freckles. Bumpy, textured skin, like there was sand trapped under the surface. In his wolf form he has bluish grey patches here, and running down his spine and legs. Did the pattern follow the scarring? Or was it just coincidence?

“No kiss for me?” Farah asks. You can hear the smirk in her voice even before you release Johnny and turn around.

“Would you like a kiss, Farah?” you ask.

“Maybe,” she says non-commitally. “Later, perhaps. Do you want to rejoin the others?”

You shake your head. “No, would you mind letting John know that I’m turning in early? Since tomorrow will be such a busy day.”

Farah levels another one of her impressive frowns at you. “I don’t want to leave you alone while those barbarians are here.”

“Johnny will come with me. And he’ll stat with me tonight?” You glance at him for confirmation. “So you can take some time for yourself, Farah. He’ll keep me safe.”

“He had better. I’ll see you in the morning, princess.” She gives Johnny a stern look before she nods to you and leaves the room.

It takes a moment for Johnny to shift back into a wolf, but you step out into the hallway as soon as he does, resting a hand on his head as he trots beside you, tail wagging. You’re quiet, not just because your companion can’t speak, but because you have a lot to mull over. The initial anger has subsided into resignation. You should have known that Price would hear only I’ll support you in any way you need and not your refusal to become his wife. He really is the most infuriating man you’ve ever met in your life.

You are disappointed in Kyle and Ghost as well, but you suspect that Kyle had been about to tell you when the ambassador arrived and John called you down.

The two of them are waiting outside your room, however, with sober, contrite expressions. Well, Kyle, anyway, but here’s an unease to Ghost’s posture that communicates that he feels much the same way, his shoulders tense and head hung low, like a dog waiting for a beating.

“Johnny told me,” you say, because there can be no other reason for their guilt.

The twin exhales of breath almost make you laugh. “We should’ve told you right off,” Ghost says. “Didn’t want to go against John, but—”

“It’s alright, I understand.” And you do, if you’re being honest. It would be foolish to expect them to take your side right away. That they are now still means something. “Do you think I should go through with it?”

Soap wuffs, and Kyle and Ghost look at each other.

“Yeah, we do,” Kyle says.

You regard them for a long moment, and then open your door. “Come in, please.” They follow, and you close the door behind them. The dress sits on a form by your closet, dark green and beautifl. The cream embroidery makes sense now, you can feel the prickle of magic lingering on the weave. You dispell it with a thought, and the illusion melts away, leaving a white gown behind.

“That’s that then.” You sit on th edge of the bed with a sigh. Soap hops up and curls around your back, and Kyle and Ghost settle on each side of you. “I’m going to be queen after all.”

“You’ll be good at it,” Ghost assures you. “You’re smart.”

“And kind. Well reasoned. You care about people, understand them better than John does,” Kyle continues, taking one of your hands, tracing a finger over your knuckles idly. “I think the people need you. Should’ve heard how excited Rosie was about you comin’ back.”

“I haven’t earned that,” you protest. “I haven’t done anything foranyone yet. I have no idea how—” You stop yourself short. Of course you have an idea of what to do. The entirety of your childhood was spent dedicated to learning everything there was to know about being queen. It’s been your destiny before you understood what fate meant.

Everything you learned has just been shoved aside, locked away. It’s time to remember, and accept your role. It’s all a part of you, the good and the bad.

Even the crown.

“Thank you for telling me, even if it does come a little late.” You squeeze Kyle’s hand and pat Ghost on the knee. “I do hope you’ll be more forthright in the future.”

“We’ll ‘ave t’be,” Ghost says. “Can’t be lyin’ to the queen now can we? Not even if John tells us to.”

“Certainly not,” Kyle agrees. “Now, do you want your hair braided for tomorrow? I’m sorry— About yesterday, I—”

“Consider it forgiven. Just don’t do it again!”

You do accept the help with your braids, focusing on sectioning and braiding thr front while Kyle works from the back, summoning a pair of hands that mirror his movements neatly. Ghost and Johnny sit close, watching with curious eyes.

It takes a while— You’re not sure how long— and you’re yawning by the time you’re through. Soap has his head leaned on Ghost’s thigh, half asleep. Ghost hasn’t moved since he settled there, still as a statue. You thank Kyle for his help. You’re not sure that your curls would be in good shape if you left them loose another night.

You stop Ghost when he says goodnight, tugging at his sleeve before he opens the door to leave. “I’ve kissed Kyle and Johnny,” you admit. “And John. Would you like a kiss too? It only seems fair, since I won’t be able to do it again when I’m married.”

“Close your eyes for me,” he says, and you do immediately, your face tipped upwards. You hear the shift of fabric, and then his fingers brush your jaw, so gently, holding you still as he leans in.

His kiss is almost unbearably sweet, soft and gentle, no push to deepen the kiss until you pitch up onto your toes to press closer, hands gripping his shirt. You can feel the scrape of stubble on your chin, smell smoke and cedar on his skin. There’s a slight dip on his upper lip, a scar that hadn’t been visible at dinner the first night, with you seated on his other side. You hum, touching the spot with your tongue. He growls in response, crushing you closer for just a moment before he lets you go.

You wait until he says you can open your eyes before you do. The skull mask lets you see his eyes properly, and there’s fondness shining out from them as he looks at you.

“Goodnight, princess,” he says softly.

You catch his arm again. “Will you walk me down the aisle?” you ask. “It’s fine if you’d rather not, but you’ve been my guardian for a long time. Kate’s the only other person who would do, and she hates being in the centre of things.”

His eyes crease with a smile. “I’d be honoured.”

Soap stays underfoot while you get ready for bed, until you shoo him out of the bathroom so you can change into your nightgown. He whines outside the door, which makes you laugh. “Just a moment, you silly boy,” you scold him. “I’m not letting you see me undressed again.”

He sighs audibly, and there’s a thump as he flops onto the floor.

The two of you settle into bed shortly after, and you fall asleep quickly, arms curled around his neck.

A few hours later, the door to the balcony opens, so quietly that you might not have fully noticed it if not for the way Soap tenses, silently wiggling free of your arms.You squint into the darkness, but there’s not enough light for you to see anything.

“I’m going to turn on the light,” you breathe, barely putting any power behind the words, trusting Soap’s canine ears to pick up what you say. “Close your eyes so it doesn’t blind you. In one, two three!” You reach over and tap the lamp, screwing your eyes shut against the sudden glare as you tip yourself off the bed and onto the floor.

You hear muffled swearing, and peek over the edge of the bed as Soap launches himself at Nikolai’s giant, masked bodyguard, teeth bared in a terrible snarl.

You scramble up and run for the door. “John!” you shout, and then turn to help Soap, although you’re no fighter. You couldn’t just leave him to deal with the man alone.

Soap is growling fiercely, his teeth sunk deep into the man’s arm, but the giant has a knife in his other hand, already slick with blood. Soap’s fur is matted down around his ribs, stained rusty red.

You grab the giant’s other arm and hold on tight, digging in your heels to keep him from stabbing Soap again. He shakes him loose instead, throwing him by the scruff into the bookcase, breaking shelves with a splintery crash. He jerks his arm to shake you loose as well, and backhands you, sending you stumbling backward.

You catch a glimpse of blood-shot, malicious blue eyes through the holes in the giant’s mask, and then a huge hand grips you by the throat, cutting off your air. He raises the knife.

A dark shape hurtles into the room, and the giant lets you go with a pained shout. You land hard, breathless, and John grabs you, hauling you up and putting his broad body between you and the grisly scene that is surely unfolding behind him. The sound of a knife cutting into flesh, over and over and over, the giant begging for mercy until he fell silent.

It’s awful. Your stomach churns, but you manage to not throw up.

“Sweetpea, are you alright?” John asks, pulling your attention back to him, gripping your shoulders just a little too hard when you try to look around him again.

“I’m fine— Soap’s hurt.” You look for him and find him right where he’d been thrown, although he’s staggering up onto his paws now, blue eyes unfocused, blood still oozing from the wounds on his side. Shaking loose from John, you rush to his side, throwing your arms around his neck, pressing your face into his fur. He leans into you, somehow managing to lick your ear.

John kneels down beside you and places a hand on Soap’s flank. Blue light flares between his palm and Soap’s injury. “There we go. Good boy,” he says softly, patting Soap on the head as he stood up again. “Kept our girl safe.”

There’s a commotion in the hallway now, guards and servants and Kyle pushing their way into the room. You sneak a glance at Ghost. There’s a slash through his shirt-sleeve, and a cut dripping blood onto the floor, but he seems unhurt otherwise. The giant however— You take one look at the spreading pool of blood and the mess of blood and bone and press your face back into Soap’s ruff, shaking.

John picks you up and carries you across the hall to his study so that the guards can get into your room to deal with the body. You look at Ghost over John’s shoulder. “You’re hurt. Let John heal you.”

He shakes his head. “Waste of magic. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you let me clean it up at least?” you ask. “I don’t want it to get infected.”

He huffs. “Fine.”

John sets you down, but your legs don’t feel steady yet. You lean into him for support, glad for the warm, solid bulk of him. He holds you until you stop shaking, barking orders over your head.

You press your face into John’s shirt when Soap shifts back into Johnny, the sound of bone crunching and tendons snapping a bit too similar to the sound of Ghost turning the giant into a bloody mess. There’s some kerfuffle as someone brings tea and supplies for you to clean Ghost’s wound, and John finally lets you go so you can get to work.

You focus on washing away the blood and dabbing stinging antiseptic onto the cut as Knight Captain Keller steps into the study to report. “We’ve had the ambassador confined to his quarters,” he says. “You may question him at your leisure. Gaz is laying wards on the room to keep him from working some nasty Kastovian magics. Should I arrange extra security for the ceremony tomorrow? Or do you think it best to postpone.”

“Extra security. Thank you, captain. Did the giant survive?”

Alex snorts, and then glances at you, his expression a hair guilty. “Um, no sir. I doubt his own mother would recognize him now.”

Ghost flexes his hands. His knuckles are bloody, so you clean up that blood too. Once the door shuts behind the knight captain, he takes his shirt off to make it easier for you to bandage his arm. You try to keep your eyes from wandering over all his pale, marred skin. There’s so many scars that you can hardly bear to think of how much violence he’s endured.

“I don’t think Nikolai was behind this,” you say, glancing at John as he sits heavily in his chair, running a hand over his beard tiredly. “He has nothing to gain by killing me. I don’t believe he’s any great champion of my cousin’s.”

“Why do you say that?” John asks.

“He proposed to me earlier, and called Phillip an idiot— And with lands along the border, he would put his own territory at risk if there is another war. It’s more likely that the assassin was paid directly by my dear cousin.” You wind a length of clean linen around Ghost’s bicep, tying it tight.

“He proposed?” John asked, focusing on the wrong part of your words.

“Yes, but—”

“What did you say?”

You consider telling him that you know what he plans, but there’s something satisfying about making him sweat a little bit. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“I beg to differ. I’d like to know all the same.”

You meet his eyes evenly. “I turned him down.”

John takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, looking relieved. “Good.”

Johnny huffs, staying uncharacteristically quiet. He looks worn out, the toll of shifting back and forth and his injury leaving him exhausted. He’s eaten everything on the plate someone brought up, leaving only crumbs.

You’re tired too. The shakes have finally subsided, leaving you with nothing, a candle burnt down to sputtering wax. “I’d like to go back to bed. I don’t suppose I can go back to my own room yet?”

John shakes his head. “It’ll take a little while to clean up. You can sleep in my bed. I’ll be up a while yet, I’ll find somewhere else for the night.”

You nod, and glance at Johnny. “Will you come with me?”

He nods, gulping down the last of his cup of tea. “Aye. Keep ye safe if anyone else tries anythin’ foolish.” He folds himself back into wolf shape while you say goodnight to John and Ghost.

They bid you goodnight as well, although there is some envy in their eyes as they watch you slip through the door into John’s room, Soap by your side.

Soap sniffs around the new space suspiciously, and only settles into the bed beside you once he’s satisfied that there’s nothing amiss, laying his head across your stomach, ears perked up, flicking around at every little noise. You tap the lamp and close your eyes, comforted by his vigilance and warm weight and the pillow that smells like John, warm spice and tobacco smoke.

You try not to think about anything else.

I'm so sorry this took 9 million years to post, I wrote it by hand in July and just did not type it. But the good news is that Chapter 6 is also written and I am dedicated to getting it done so expect that before the end of the month. I love you all, thank you so much for your patience.

Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -

Divider by CafeKitsune - Flower Divider by Saradika-Graphics

[writingatthepark]

My favorite scene in Little Women:

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and `fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her `scribbling suit consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo.

Therefore, this love note to my fellow writers:

May you fall into a vortex.

May your writing cap be set rakishly askew.

May genius burn.

[lifeinstylesblogmode]

Old Money Style

꒱࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ

The old money style is the fashion style of old rich people since many génération. This style appear in 19th century in Europe in the aristocracy and royalty and later in the northern America.

This style inclueded for Women:

-Blazers, women's cut suit pants, satin shirt or wool shirt, polo, tweed co-ord, elegant turtleneck sweater, small heels, mocassins, long tight dresses/skirts, polo, black sunglasses, birkin Hermes Bags, elegant belts, satin scarf on the colar/ in hair, woolen sweaters, golden jewerly, pearl jewerly and elegant hairstyles.

and for Men:

-Basic shirt/ whool shirt, simple belts, woolen sweater, golden jewerly, polo, whool pants/short (for summer), elegant expensive watch, coton sweat, white/beige/light blue regular jeans,and mocassin for shoes or simple beige sneakers.

Now the question is " we need to be rich to adopt the old money style ?", i think the answer is yes, cause this is not just a fashion style this is also a life style and to have this style you need clothes with the best quality like the real old money, and not buy this types of clothes on a fast fashion brand with bad quality.

However it's not forbidden to adopt this fashion style without being "rich" but do not buy on fast fashion bad brand it's really not "old money".

And right now the brands where adherent of this style buy their clothes:

Ralp Lauren, Chanel, Dior (for special occasion outfits), Hermes, Burberry, Vivienne Westwood, Cartier, Prada, Gucci, Brooks brothers and J.Crew

[daincrediblegg]

all right. since you asked very nicely I'll do an outfit breakdown for our dear girl, complete with pictures because I’ve become a bit of a hoe about victorian clothing since I began this whole fucking thing bc of her. (And everyone kindly thank @thejewelsofmyheart for asking)

Now I will note that some of the photo accompaniments are not quite completely the vibe I was going for sometimes in terms of fabric/color/vibe, but let it be noted these are all from my references I’ve collected on here and on pinterest over months and hey this is what I got if I was talking to a costume designer tho this is the kindof breakdown I would give them

Lady Terror's typical undergarments consists of drawers (notably crotchless- as ladies drawers were back then for what should be reasonably obvious reasons), corset (notably one with the recently invented front clasp closure that would make it easier to do up and undo without assistance- on a ship full of dudes this would be wise), chemise, petticoats 1 (linen), 2 (flannel) and 3 (which she only truly occasionally wears) corded- to give her skirt a bit of extra poof (not a fan of this when the cold gets extreme tho understandably). And those are at least the basic components.

Moving outward it gets a little different from what would typically be worn by women even on a ship, but Lady Terror's whole thing is she's trying to fit in with the men while still holding onto her identity as a woman. So to start, we have a collared shirt and waistcoat (where she also notably keeps her pocket watch, given to her by her father), which she typically wears while she's inside the ship and the climate isn't... fucking dead freezing all the time. in lieu of the vest sometimes she wars a smart red crossover. She also has two knitted sweaters (one a slightly lighter than naval blue - one her father used to wear- , one a handsome cream with a slight puff at the forearm to imitate the women's fashions of the day- knitted by a friend) . Alternatively, she has two thick long-sleeved woolen bodices, one in a more formal style that matches her woolen naval blue skirt (which she typically reserves for dinner with the officers) , and one lighter colored more casually styled one that she can wear with her vest over it (much more practical during the colder winter months).

As for OUTERWEAR she has a long naval peacoat (similar to that which most of the officers wear, save for a little more flare at the skirt to accommodate her skirt- and btw the coat pictured above I actually own), a capelet for when she needs to look a little more feminine and extra formal. Gloves, of course, are a must (one pair knitted, one pair lined with fur, and a pair of fur over-mittens that match her hat), a fur hat that she favors from her time in the Prussian seas, a bonnet (that she loathes), and a long red scarf, knitted for her by a friend back home.

And that just about does it for her everyday outfits while on the ships at least. She has a few more bodices and lighter underthings kept in store on Erebus(including one fancy dress complete with crinoline skirt), which doesn't much see the light of day anymore, but on the few occasions that she had to wear it before the expedition, she enjoyed it quite a lot.

Of course also, in my lady terror energy and inspiration tags I continue to compile and collect some dresses that I think would suit her for formal gatherings. She brought only one of note with her on the ship, but it remains in store for the majority of the story (but allow me to say without spoiling anything: Francis would recognize it on sight). I only had room for one more photo so there you have it. Outfit breakdown of the century. Good night.

[kalevalakryze]

The Living Waters

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV) Pairings: Bo-Katan Kryze & Sabine Wren, Sabine Wren/Shin Hati, Bo-Katan Kryze/The Armorer Characters: Sabine Wren, Bo-Katan Kryze, The Armorer, Shin Hati, Mythosaur  Warnings: Hypothermia, Drowning, Attempted Suicide Mention (non-graphic/explicit) Notes: For @whumptober 2023 Day 4. Established Mandalore Recovery & @sabineweek Bingo Prompt Fill "The Living Waters" Prompt: Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?” & The Living Waters Word Count: 1,349 AO3 Link: Here!

The water was freezing as it wrapped icy tendrils around her body, seeping past her armor and soaking her flight suit, seeping past her flesh until it was piercing her bones, shattering marrow under the weight of it’s demands. The light in her rangefinder flickered out the deeper she sank, blue tinged fingertips reaching for the surface with the last of her strength. 

The water stung at her open eyes as it seeped into her helmet, suffocating her as it bled into her heaving lungs; Sabine Wren was dying, yet she felt more alive than ever. 

“It’s not your time, ad’ika.”

The Mandalorian flailed in the water, darkness surrounding her as she looked for the voice. The ice was numbing into a calming warmth, but the voice ignited fear like an inferno to battle the chill. Strong arms wrapped around her abdomen, prompting her to fight back, kicking and struggling, even as another light in the darkness caught the metallic gold of eyes as large as her head. 

“Cin Vhetin, Mand’ika.”

Someone was pulling her back, the surface was closer, and the rumbling of the darkness’s voice eased her fight against the stranger. 

Metal smacked into the ground with a loud clang, a weight settling on top of her as her savior fell on top of her, water dripping from both of their armor as the larger Mandalorian pushed off of her. 

Sabine’s body wracked with sputtering coughs as her helmet was pulled from her head, light from the torches chasing away darkness as her head turned, coughing up mouthfuls of water as she was turned onto her side. 

As water was expelled and oxygen slowly found its way back into her lungs, her Mandalorian savior finally moved off of her, removing their own helmet as Bo-Katan knelt close to the younger woman. “You in there, verd’ika?” Bo-Katan finally spoke, reaching to rest two fingers against Sabine’s spazzing pulse point. 

Golden eyes finally opened to the low light of the living waters. Kneeling beside her, Bo-Katan was brushing soaked purple hair from her face, as The Armorer stood closest to the entrance, arm extended to keep Shin back, both goran’alor and dar’jetti watching with neutral expressions, body language primed to spring forward the moment they were cleared. 

“I’m okay,” Sabine rasped, flexing her fingers together to try and chase some warmth back into the numb tips of her fingers. “I’m okay,” It sounded less convincing than she meant, as her body started to tremble. Bo-Katan looked to The Armorer for aid at last, allowing the two women further into the cavern. 

Only parts of her felt cold, the rest of her body had long since gone numb to the cold that had wrecked her nervous system. Two pairs of hands worked to pull her armor away, as The Armorer unwound the fur from her armor. Shin and Bo-Katan worked on pulling away her flight suit, exposing herself to the warmer air beyond. 

Once she was bare, a dark, thick, woolen cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, falling at the tops of her thighs as the blonde settled at her back tucked her into it. The Armorer’s fur was wrapped around her hands, bringing the aching warmth back into her fingers enough for her to feel the effect the water had on her again. 

A conversation was happening between the two Mandalorian’s and the Gray Jedi around her, though she couldn’t hear past the blood rushing in her ears. Shin’s chest against her back was enough to hear the soothing rumble of her voice as she conversed on the Artist’s behalf. 

The Armorer was the one to lift her from the floor, arms settled under her thighs and allowing the sopping wet Mandalorian to tuck into her neck, arms trapped between their chests, still wrapped in the warm thick fur. Shin stood to fix her cloak, allowing Sabine the coverage and the warmth  as she fixed the way dark cloth fell. 

Raspy breaths were hidden in The Armorer’s neck, chasing the warmth that seeped through the fabric of her neck seal as the woman led the concerned parade out of the caves. Shin and Bo-Katan shared the burden of Sabine’s armor and frigid clothes, bundled up haphazardly between them as they followed the quick pace set towards the med-tents on the planet’s surface. 

The next time Sabine found consciousness, it was in the shock of a heated blanket as it was settled across her body; She couldn’t tell how much time had passed, except now, she was laid out on a cot, with the scratchy feeling of fresh clothes on her skin and the tingle of medicine in her blood, dulling the pain at her shot nerves. “What…?” She tried to sit up, being stopped by  a pale hand that guided ehr back down.

“Easy, verd’ika. You need to get warm,” Bo-Katan’s voice was strained with worry as  she stood at Sabine’s side, unarmored and equally wrapped in new, warm clothes. 

“What happened?” Her voice was scratchy from throwing up excessive amounts of water, vision still spotty as she shifted under the blankets. Her knees knocked together, skin cold where it slid together as she curled into a tight ball beneath the warmed blankets. “Shin..?

“Your Kurs’kaded went with the Goran’alor to secure your gear,” The Mand’alor lowered herself back into her post at Sabine’s bedside, sinking into the chair as she brushed her fingers through her hair. “You almost drowned, you know.” 

Sabine’s brows pulled together, lips pulling into a frown as she turned to the unarmored woman. “There’s no way,” She denied vehemently, shaking her head even as the memories bubbled to the surface. “There might be… some way… Bo, was there something else down there?” 

She remembered golden eyes, like her own, and the calming rumble of a voice that shook the ice from her bones, the promises of a new beginning, the feeling of the water washing away the grime of her doubts and troubles. 

Looking to Bo-Katan, she saw the knowing smile and the twinkle of recognition in her eyes. “The Mythosaur…” Sabine realized, and while the woman beside her was not in her armor, she could still picture the new silver pauldron that had adorned her shoulder, protected by the Mandalorian beast of legend. 

“The bombs opened the Living Waters to a deeper network of caverns below, I met them when I first came here with Din Djarin, saving him as he atoned for the sins against his covert. I was promised another chance; and with it-” Her hand gestured to the room around them, though Sabine knew it was for Mandalore as a whole. “We got to come home.” 

The air shifted in the room as Bo-Katan leaned forward, elbows on her knees as the smile slipped from her lips, watching Sabine with an understanding that the artist didn’t want to offer any power to. “What were you trying to accomplish, going out that far, Sabine? The drop was marked,” 

“I don’t know,” She shot back quickly, staring at her hands beneath the blankets. Bo-Katan didn’t accept it as an answer and Sabine could feel the way her eyebrow rose in response. “I’ve been so…” Frustration had her gritting her teeth; this wasn’t something she thought she’d have to talk about, Ahsoka had so finely skirted the issue, and Shin had needed her to be there, but now that things were mellowing out again, that old, oppressive sinking feeling had settled back in. 

“Kyrunyc…” It was the closest word she had to the feeling, to the hopelessness that had plagued her since the night of a thousand tears. 

“I understand,” Bo’s hand reached out to settle on her thigh, a frown pulling at her lips as green eyes finally pulled away, staring at the unique threading in the blanket. “Did you find what you were looking for, then?”

Sabine blinked, head turning to stare at the older woman, even as she refused to meet her eyes. “I don’t know what I was looking for…”

“But you found something?”

“I did,”

“Cin Vhetin, Ad’ika.” 

Translations: Ad'ika - little one Cin Vhetin - Clean Slate Mand'ika - young Mandalorian Verd'ika - Little warrior Kyrunyc - Dead Soul / lack of spirit

[highlady-sorcha]

Honey (Cassian)

Hey Guys! This is just something sweet, because I think Cassian would be the best girl dad out there. 

*************************************************************************************************

The war camps were as grim as ever. Snow fell in thick, unrelenting blasts from low woolen clouds. So heavy, that Cassian could only see a few feet in front of him at a time. He ground his teeth against the icy wind that ripped at his skin, numbing the tops of his cheeks, the tip of his nose. 

Not an hour ago, he’d been tucked into his bed at the house of wind. His mate had been stark naked, curled against his belly and a fire roared in their hearth as the ice clattered against he windows. Their daughters had been snug in their own beds down the hall, the house depositing mugs of hot peppermint tea on their nightstands for them to sip on when they woke up in their favorite flannel jammies. Life was good, and Cassian had not had a care in the world. 

Then a note had appeared on his bedside table from Rhys. Saying that despite the historic weather, goddamn Devlon, warlord of the Windhaven Illyrian war camp, had the females out training. Rhys had specified that the females were to train every single day, without fail. It of course went without saying to any normal mind, that meant on the days that were suited to training. But, no one could beat the Illyrians at a game of malicious compliance. 

Baring his teeth, he trudged through the camp, past clusters of tents ringed around fire pits that had been kept blazing through the night, despite the cold and snow and wind. No doubt because of the dedication of the females that now sparred in the ring, having already been up all night. 

Cassian could hear the shrieks and thumps of wood swords before he saw the ring. Devon’s commands were muffled in the snow, but his voice boomed across the barren landscape nonetheless. 

“Get her down! What have I told you about using that gods damned sword before? If you want to train like a male, act like one! Walk it off and get out of my sight!” He bellowed. 

Cassian growled as he reached the edge of the ring, opposite the one Devlon stood on. Two females were in the ring, both so thin he was surprised they could stand, shivering so hard he wouldn’t have blamed them if they curled up and refused to move. Not to mention, the females were stark naked, the skin painfully red where wooden blades had struck their bare flesh. The tips of their fingers were nearly purple. 

Rage nearly set Cassian on fire. In this day and age, after all the work that he and Rhysand had done with these.. these savages, Devlon had the nerve to pull a stunt like this?

“What the hell is going on here?!” Cassian barked, striding into the ring. 

The two women feebly sparring with wooden practice swords balked at his giant form, immediately dropping their weapons and scrambling back. Cassian’s heart ached for the females as they tried to cover themselves from his sight with numb hands. 

He purposefully did his best to not look at the females gathered on one side of the ring, waiting their turn. The general would not subject them to any more attention in their vulnerable states than he was sure they had already gotten. 

He marched up to Devlon, who was bundled warmly inside fur lined leathers and a cloak that danced behind him in the wind. Cassian got in the warlord’s face, baring his teeth. Red light danced over Devon’s wicked face as Cassian’s siphons blared with barely contained power. The general could smite this prick on the spot, it was only the potential need of Illyrian forces in case of coming war that kept him from doing so. 

“Why are they out here?” Cassian hissed through his teeth.

Devlon smirked. “You and your High Lord said that the females of the camp were to train every day, so here we are.” He replied evenly. 

Cassian growled. “You know that we meant they were to follow the same type of training as the males. If the weather is not suitable for the males to be out training, it’s not suitable for the females.” 

Devlon shrugged. Still smirking, he shoved his hands in his pockets. Cassian could have sworn there was a flicker of apprehension, maybe something like regret in the warlord’s eyes. 

“You never bothered to specify, so here we are.” 

Cassian barely leashed in his temper. “And why, pray tell, are they naked?” He ground out.

The few males gathered around Devlon laughed cruelly. Cassian fixed them with a glare.  Devlon’s cronies had always been just as sick as him, but never as brave. Sure enough, one, a tall skinny male with his head shaved nearly bare took a step back. 

“Because, general, the females need to know the full extent of the power they’re wielding. What better way than to face the elements and weapons with no protection whatsoever. Show them first hand how much power creeps beneath that skin, and what a waste it is in a female who is too cowardly to even face the winter chill.” Devlon replied coolly.  

Several moments later, after arguments and threats had been exchanged, the warlord gave up, spitting that this meant nothing, and that if the females were that important to Cassian, he could deal with them. 

Devlon turned on his heal and marched away with his posse in tow. Not a moment later, Rhys and Azriel appeared by his side. Both were bundled into leathers with thick coats over their suits. 

“Gods..” Rhys hissed. “What was the idea here?” 

Cassian snorted, turning to the females huddled in the blinding snow. Both the High Lord and shadowsinger’s arms were laden with mounds of thick blankets. 

“I’ll tell you later. We need to get these females inside. Pass out blankets, and send them to Rhys’ mother’s house.”

Cassian hesitated for a moment, realizing he’d given orders to his High Lord. In other courts, he might have been torn to shreds for that. The High Lord of the Night Court nodded sharply, agreeing. 

“The door will be unlocked. It’s small, of course, but better than being out here or in some tent.” Rhys said. 

Softening his posture, and willing a reassuring, if not kind smile to his face, Cassian approached the huddled females. Carefully, he flicked his gaze between the sets of dark eyes that stared at him- never letting his eyes dip lower. 

He explained what they were going to do, and after a brief pause, the first woman nervously stepped out of the crowd. She didn’t look up at Rhysand as he offered her a thick gray blanket and pointed her towards the small house. He smiled warmly, although the female ignored it, putting her head down and trudging towards the tiny building. 

Female after female followed her. All silent, all ashamed as they took offered blankets and wrapped around their shoulders, some over their heads and marched away. 

Finally, only one female huddled in the white drifts. She was curled into herself, her knees tucked to her chest, her head down. Cassian called to her, but she didn’t move. The wind screamed down from the peaks of the Illyrian mountains, and it didn’t surprise him that the lonely figure didn’t respond. 

He grumbled to Azriel and Rhys to go to the house and organize a way to find clothes for the women, send them back to their homes and figure out what to do with Devlon. 

The two males nodded in agreement, and turned, trudging towards the house they had grown up in. Cassian felt guilty making them do the difficult part- but that was above his pay grade anyways. 

A particularly rough gale ripped across the ring as Cassian jogged over to the crouched female. He blew a hot breath into his hands as he reached her, a blanket draped over his fore arm. 

The general draped the blanket over her hunched back, and knelt to put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Ma’am, Devlon’s gone, you don’t-“ The stillness underneath his fingers stopped Cassian’s heart. 

Trying his best to preserve her modestly, Cassian gripped the woman’s shoulder and through the thick blanket, scooped a hand under her belly and rolled her onto her back. She was like touching stone. No part of her yielded to his hands, no warmth, no life. Her body kept its’ form, hands and knees now pointed to the sky. Her brown eyes were crusted with snow, wide open. The skin on her lips was a true blue, her face blanched the color of clotted cream. 

Cassian’s heart clenched painfully. The female was dead, had been dead. Here he’d been grumbling about leaving his bed, Nesta, and their girls, while this female had frozen to death. Naked, in the ice and snow. 

At first, rage burned and rippled through Cassian so intensely, that all he could think about was hunting Devlon down, and ripping his entrails out while he watched before strangling him with them. But then, his instincts as a mate and father took over. This was someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Maybe someone’s mate or mother. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t the strange female lying in the snow, it was Nesta. Prone, helpless, gone from this world. Only her remains left to the mercy of whoever showed any kindness to care for them. As Cassian stared at the female, his mind shifted her face. The body was that of his older Daughter, Lucellen, fiery just like her mother, but still only a child. Then it was his baby, little Miretta. The gentle, shy flower child that fed rabbits in the backyard from her hands. 

Hot tears sparked on his lashes, and he couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat as he carefully wrapped the female in the blanket and scooped her up. Even if she had no one left in this world that loved her, he owed it to his females to see that she was afforded some measure of love and respect. 

Outside the tiny house, Cassian paused. Rhys, I need you to come outside. Just for a second. He flashed Rhysand a mental image of the woman’s frozen face, and the door opened immediately. The High Lord slipped out into the burgeoning morning. 

“She’s dead?” He asked. Cassian just nodded.

Rhys looked down at the bundle in his general’s arms, and Cassian could see the thoughts dancing across his face, even if they weren’t ones he shared. They were much the same as had plagued Cassian moments ago. Only in the High Lord’s, it was Feyre instead of Nesta, his son instead of Cassian’s girls. 

Rhys swallowed after a moment. “Who was she? Any idea?”

Cassian shook his head again, holding the female tight. 

Silence lapsed again, before Rhysand finally declared; “Go and bury her. She deserves that much. Don’t let her sit around above ground until the thaw, don’t let anyone else see what happened to her- these females deserve more than that terror. I’ll poke around, see what family she had.” Rhys’ voice was rough, nearly unemotional in the way Cassian knew the Lord could be when things were overwhelming, but had to be dealt with. 

***

Hours later, Cassian trudged down from the shallow hills that sat at the foot of the mountains. So thickly wooded, the snow was shallower there, and he’d been able to dig a suitable grave. There, he had lowered the female into the hole, said a prayer to the mother, the cauldron, anyone out there for the safety of her soul. And that, in death, she might know warmth and love and mercy that she hadn’t been shown in life. He’d buried her quietly, tugging at the bond that tied him to Nesta, just to know she was safe and warm with their daughters. 

He flung the shovel at the wall of an equipment shed, where it clattered against the shoddily built wall before whumping into the snow that was now above Cassian’s knee. 

Cassian knocked at the door of Rhys’ mother’s house a second before stepping in. Just to announce his presence, so as to not surprise any of the females that might still be inside.

Surprisingly, the small sitting room was empty of people, except for his brothers. Azriel sat hunched by the window, staring out into the swirling snow. Rhysand sprawled on the stained, sagging sofa, his hands folded on his chest. The violet of his eyes was glazed over in the way that told Cassian he was speaking with Feyre, mind to mind.

Rhys’ vision cleared when the general walked in, unstrapping his siphons and throwing them on an end table as he collapsed into an arm chair. At first, none of the three spoke. What was there to say? Rhysand had undoubtedly told the spymaster what had come of the one female, where Cassian had been, what he was doing.

Finally, Cassian spoke. He had to break the silence, talk about what happened. The urge itched at the underside of his skin until he thought he might explode or erupt into a mass of flame. 

“Did you find out anything about the female?” He spoke into the silence. 

Azriel shuffled uncomfortably, his shadows closing in tighter around him. Rhys sighed, his gazed fixed on the ceiling.

“She had a mate and two children, a boy and a girl. Her parents are both dead. The mate has her son, they live together. It seems he put little value on his mate or daughter. They lived on the outskirts of camp in a tent together.” Rhys told him.

A daughter? The girl had lived alone in a tent with her mother, now that the mother is dead, what would become of her? Was she ok? 

Rhys seemed to anticipate all of the questions that raced through Cassian’s mind. 

“I poked around in a few minds, and found images of the tent. The girl was in there, alone. I took her, brought her here, she’s upstairs in bed.” Rhys flicked a hand towards the loft. 

Sure enough, when Cassian scented the air, he picked up a faint whiff of sheer terror, exhaustion. Hunger and grief. So potent that it pained him to have come from a child. As silence fell at the end of Rhys’ words, he could detect the sound of gentle snores, and a sleeping child’s slow, deep breaths. 

“What’s going to happen to her? Will the father take her?” Cassian asked. 

Rhys shook his head. “I’ve already dealt with him. He won’t take the girl, wouldn’t even consider it. He said that she would ‘jeopardize’ his and his son’s training. The only thing he offered to do was ‘put her down.’” Rhys made air quotes around the last words, before letting his hands fall back to his chest. 

Cassian growled. Rhys had a son, Azriel had no children at all. There was a certain tenderness he felt towards his girls that he couldn’t imagine feeling towards a son. Not that he wouldn’t love a boy as dear as life itself, if Nesta ever gave him one. But, there was a divide between male and female that Cassian felt acutely with his daughters. They would have struggles and pains he had no concept of. They would live life in a distinctly different way than he had been given the opportunity to, and because of that, there was a certain reverence he gave them, and gentleness he felt he owed. They needed room to grow and blossom on their own, with his love and adoration as the water that fed those plants. To think of that little girl upstairs never having had that? Didn’t have a father to hold her after nightmares, tell her how beautiful she was, dance with her while she wore her mother’s shoes? It devastated him.

Cassian actually felt himself absently clutching at his heart. Before he could think about it, he stood and mumbled some excuse, before crawling up to the loft. 

***

The bed seemed an enormous island around the tiny lump in the very center. At first glance, the bed seemed empty. Like, maybe the lump in the center was just a pillow tucked under the covers or a wrinkle in the blanket. 

The only giveaway that a little Illyrian slept there was the tips of her folded wings peaking out near the pillow. The child’s soft snores were the only sound in the room, beyond the lashing snow outside. 

Cassian swallowed the lump in his throat and padded over to the side of the bed. As he sat, the child stirred. She poked her head out from beneath the blankets. Her tiny face was haloed by a tangled, matted mess of black curls. Cassian’s eyes met tiny dark ones that went so wide he could see the white that ringed their chocolate color all the way around. She squealed and ducked back beneath the blanket, pulling the covers up tightly over her head. The tang of her fear was so strong in nearly gagged the general.

He chewed his lip for a moment, briefly lost for words. His own daughters were never afraid of him. Maybe their mother from time to time, but never him. Lucellen and Miretta ran to him every time he came home, begging for hugs and kisses and telling him about their day. And to his nephew, Nyx, he was a best friend. Maybe Nyx was a little too old, too manly to run to uncle Cass for kisses anymore, but he was still the first person Nyx called when he had an idea for something stupid and reckless to do. 

It had been a long time since a child was genuinely afraid of the general, and he’d forgotten just how badly it stung. 

Cassian sighed and cleared his throat. Gently, he reached over and laid a hand on the small lump’s back, between the wings that were folded protectively around her. The child tensed so hard he was sure her muscles burned.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry today has been so hard. But we are not here to hurt you, or scare you.”

He might have imagined it, but the thin muscles beneath his fingers seemed to relax, just ever so slightly at his kind words. 

“My name is Cassian. I work for the High Lord. His name is Rhysand, he’s the guy with the purple eyes and big mouth. He’s kind of annoying sometimes, but he’s a great guy. He’s a dad, he has a son that’s older than you, but he loves kids. You can call him Rhys, he won’t care. His mom took me into this very same house and decided to take care of me. I was an orphaned bas- child, too.” 

This time he knew he didn’t imagine it when the tiny back beneath his hand relaxed. When his girls were upset, sometimes they’d come for cuddles after they were supposed to be in bed, and they’s curl up on his lap and tell him what all was wrong. Lucellen, his oldest and only child with wings always seemed more comforted when he rubbed small circles between her wings with his thumb.

So, that’s what he did with this girl. 

“And the other guy? The big ugly one with the blue siphons?” He heard Rhys sort, Azriel grumble something from the sitting room below. “His name is Azriel. He’s a little freaky because of all the shadows always around him, they look kinda like ghosts, but he’s probably the nicest out of all of us. He grew up here, too, just like Rhys and I. He’s been through some really hard times, too, and he had to be tough so much it just got his face stuck like that. He’s ugly, but nice.” 

Was that a giggle from beneath the blankets? 

Cassian bit his lip, almost embarrassed at how badly he wanted this child to like him. 

“We’re all here for you kiddo. But, we aren’t going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. When you want to talk, we’re happy to listen. If there’s somewhere you want to go, someone you want to stay with now that your mother is… gone. Just tell us when you’re ready. We’re all downstairs, and happy to listen.”

He paused for a moment, giving the little girl a chance to speak up. She didn’t. Cassian bit back his disappointment and patted her on the back briefly before leaving the room, heading back to his brothers.

***

The brothers spent the rest of their day trying to figure out if this child had any other family, or if the mother had friends that would take her. As the sun set and a messenger rapped on the door, Rhys answered it. He took the slip of paper from the male and without a thank you, shut the door in his face. It had snowed so heavily all day it was hardly safe to fly, and the males had wordlessly agreed to find this child a place to go.

Rhys leaned against the door and sighed as he read the missive. After, he crumbled it up and threw it into the waste basket as oil lamps and candles around the room flickered to life. 

“No luck?” Cassian asked. 

Rhys shook his head, running a frustrated hand up through his hair. His short locks nearly stood on end.

“No, and that was the last person I could find record of even being related to her and her mother. And that was a third cousin. Everyone is too busy, too poor or just won’t take a girl. The only one that would is an uncle on the father’s side who we’ve visited before for clipping the wings of his six daughters.”

Azriel hissed at that. “Well, obviously she can’t go with him.” 

Rhys shook his head, letting his hands fall to his sides. “No of course not.” He rounded the back of the armchair that Cassian sat in and flopped down onto the end of the sofa opposite Azriel. 

Night fell, and all three males agreed that it was too late to try getting home, even though the snow had started to let up. They found changes of clothes stashed in a drawer that they kept here for situations like this where they got stuck at the camp overnight. 

Cassian slipped into his sweatpants and t shirt, and sighed. At least his girls were safe at home. All three of them. Nesta would be shepherding the little ones to bed. Miretta would probably find her in the personal library at the House of Wind, and demand a story at least once. Then, when she was asleep, Nesta would carry her back to bed. 

Most evenings he and his mate sat up late into the night in the library. Sometimes they read, Nesta interrupting him from time to time so she could read him aloud a particularly graphic passage from one of her novels. Other times they talked late into the night, about good things and bad. The general’s thoughts shifted to the female he’d laid to rest today, and he found anew how grateful he was for his ladies. 

Night wore on, and eventually Azriel fell asleep on the couch. He snored loudly, curling into himself. Rhys threw a blanket over him and grumbled that he was tired, and going to bed. At the back of the house, behind the tiny kitchen and table was the room where Rhys’ mother had slept, allowing the boys the best quarters. The High Lord shuffled back there in his drawstring pants and bare feet, mumbling a good night before shutting the door. 

Cassian had just begun to doze in the arm chair before the crackling fire when small foot steps pattered against the scuffed wood floor. 

A small smile curved his lips, but he kept his eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep so the girl could explore as she pleased. He tracked the sound of her footsteps until they stopped right beside the arm of his chair. The girl’s small heart beat wildly, and he could taste the fear that rolled off her in thick waves. 

Then, a tiny finger tapped his forearm, right above his wrist. “Mister- mister Cassian, sir?” Asked a tremulous voice. 

Slowly, Cassian opened his eyes and looked down at the girl. He wanted to scoop her up and feed her a meal, then give her a bath and never let her go. The tiny, wasted figure before him broke his heart entirely. Beneath her chocolate eyes were purple rings so dark that he knew she’d missed more than one night’s sleep. Her thin shift was stained and ragged, but he could see the painful poke of her shoulders from beneath it, and knew that her ribs might be played like a marimba. Her hair was not only a mess, but sticks and small pieces of things were snarled in her locks. She chewed at one tiny chapped lip. 

He smiled warmly, and shifted his body towards her, opening his crossed arms and allowing his hands to rest in his lap. 

“Hey there, what can I do for you?” He asked. 

The girl chewed her lip harder, she twisted her hands with their dirty fingernails in front of her. Nervous energy radiated off her skin.

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir, if it’s not a trouble, I’m a bit hungry.” She told him in a voice too small for her. 

Cassian nodded, still smiling. “It’s no trouble honey, I’m sure you are hungry. We had dinner earlier but didn’t want to bother you, you were so sound asleep.” He nodded towards the small kitchen. “I’m sure there’s something in there we can find. What do you like?” Cassian asked, rising from the chair. He drew himself to his full height slowly. He was aware of how intimidating he could be to grown males, much less malnourished children. 

The girl shook her head quickly, sending a leaf drifting to the floor as it freed itself from her locks. “Anything is fine sir. If you have some crackers or bread-“ 

Cassian waved her words away, stepping around her. “We have those, but you’re better than that. Let me make you something I make for my girls at home. They love it, anytime I’m home for lunch I make some of these sandwiches and we eat them on the roof.” 

He pulled bread from the cabinet, butter and cheese from the cold chest. Setting a pan on the stove and lighting it, he lobbed off a pad of butter and let it start to melt in the skillet. 

The rich nutty scent drew the girl closer until she stood beside the male, peering into the pan on the stove. Her eyes were wide, but not alarmed. She was just curious, focused. 

Cassian carefully sliced four pieces of bread, because if he was making grilled cheese, he was certainly going to have one too. He buttered them, too and was just about to lay two slices in the skillet when the girl spoke.

“You have a daughter?” She asked, timidly.

Cassian smiled down at her, feeling his heart warm. He never missed a chance to talk about his girls. “Absolutely, I do. Lucellen is older, she’s probably about your age, and then my Miretta, she’s younger. Lucellen loves to laugh, she runs and plays, and has wings like you. She’s just as spitfire as her mom. Miretta is quieter. She’s a great artist and loves animals. Just as fun, you just have to know how to play with her. 

The buttered bread sizzled in the skillet, and Cassian sliced off a few hunks of cheese. The girl’s eyes glimmered hungrily at the sight. He noticed, and cut off an extra bit, handing it to her. Wide brown eyes looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of this being a trick before taking it from him, nibbling it a bit at a time. 

“What’s their mom like?” She asked between bites. 

Cassian laid the tops of the sandwiches on. “She’s my mate, she’s high fae, not illyrian, but you would love her. Anyone would. She’s a little shy at first, but Nesta is the best mother in the world. She loves to read and run around with the kids, she’s a terrible cook, but she’s one of the Valkyrie, so I guess that makes up for it.” He flashed the girl a toothy smile. 

“Your mate is one of the Valkyrie?” She asked, her voice full of awe. Pride swelled behind Cassian’s chest. 

“You bet, I trained her myself. Her, Emerie and Gwen completed the Illyrian blood right a few years ago. Got all the way to the top of the mountain.”

Cassian flipped the sandwiches, little bits of cheese escaped the bread and sizzled in the butter on the bottom of the skillet. 

“Wow…” the girl said softly. “Your mate is lady Nesta.” 

Cassian snorted. “Yes, but don’t call her lady anything. She might rip my-“ he glanced at the child. “My boy bits off.” He finished. 

The girl hid her face behind her hand, and giggled. “Mama heard about them, and told me all about them. She said one day she wanted to be one of the Valkyrie too, and I was going to come with her!” She said excitedly. The joy faded from her face like a candle that had water dumped over it when it occurred to her that her mother wouldn’t join the Valkyrie. Wouldn’t do anything ever again. 

She stayed quiet, munching on her cheese while Cassian finished the sandwiches. He found two mismatched plates in the cabinet and dumped one on each. After carefully cutting them in half- in triangles, not rectangles or Miretta wouldn’t eat it- he handed one plate to the little girl.

She held it reverently in her tiny, dirty hands and gaped at it.

“This is all mine?” She asked, looking up at him. 

“Of course, let’s go back to the sitting room. The snow is too pretty to miss this time of night.”

Cassian led the child back to the rug and pulled the drapes aside. Campfires still lit the night enough so they could watch the snow, falling more gently now. 

“You know, I never even asked your name.” Cassian said around a mouthful of cheese and bread. 

The girl shrugged her bony shoulders. “It doesn’t really matter, sir. Mama just called me honey a lot.”

Cassian’s brow furrowed. “But what did everyone else call you?”

The child carefully picked up a crumb that fell from her sandwich onto the rug, popping it in her mouth. Cassian tried not to cringe, imagining when exactly that rug had been cleaned last. 

The girl shook her head. “They didn’t call me anything. If someone needed me to do something, they just told me.” 

Cassian took another bite of his sandwich, finishing the first half. How could this child not have a name? How could she have been spoken to so little that she never considered it a problem that she had no idea what she was called. 

“How about I just call you Honey?” He asked, finally. 

The girl turned towards him, her mouth full of sandwich. She smiled around the mass of cheese and nodded. 

Cassian laughed. “Ok, Honey it is.” 

***

The general and little girl finished their sandwiches. Cassian set the plates to the side and began to tell stories of things that he and his brothers had done. As children and young men. Stories about Nesta, his daughters. Anything and everything. Honey warmed quickly, scooting closer to the general as the fire banked low in the hearth. 

“And then Azriel stepped in the vomit and slipped. He landed face down in it, and Rhys started laughing so hard I really thought he would pee himself.” He said laughing, telling her the story of the first time he and his brothers had tried to climb the ten thousand steps to the House of Wind. 

Honey laughed loudly, freely. Azriel had made himself scarce a long time ago, or he would have shushed her. “Mister Rhysand sounds really funny.” She said.

Cassian snorted. “He is, he’s just a pain in my butt sometimes.” 

Then, as he went to elaborate on that with a story where Rhys ended up getting hit in the nuts with a bag full of pebbles, Honey laid her head against the Illyrian’s arm. The mats in her hair were rough against even his skin, but he could feel her freer curls tickle down his arm. Her little wings were relaxed behind her, drooping to the floor. 

Cassian smiled, and reached around her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. She snuggled into his side and sighed.

“Thank you for everything mister Cassian. You and your friends are very nice.” Honey told him, her voice shrouded with sleepiness a father recognized. 

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t mention it. I would do the very same with my own daughters.” 

The girl was quiet for a long time. Her breathing became longer and more even. Rather than the terror that had rolled off her earlier in sickening waves, the fluffy, sweet scent of a content child perfumed around him. 

“I wish I was one of your daughters.” She murmured, when he thought her asleep. 

***

Rhys was the first one awake the next morning, after Cassian. He’d let Honey sleep against him until she grew restless and uncomfortable. In the late hours of the night, he’d scooped her up and settled them into the arm chair Cass liked best. He wrapped his wings around them, a warm blanket with it’s own heat. She’d slept through the night with her head on his chest, eventually pulling one thumb into her mouth. 

Dawn had come, the sun peaking over the horizon when Rhys’ bedroom door opened. He stretch languidly, like a fat cat after a nap in the sun. 

Cassian turned his head when Rhys walked to the sitting room, taking in the scene.

“Don’t look for a place to send her. I want her. Nesta and I will take her in.” He told his High Lord in low rumbling tones, so as to not wake his daughter.

[no-where-new-hero]

Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, “Does genius burn, Jo?” They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor.

Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

Thinking about that post saying that we have to acknowledge Jo's femininity in addition to her masculinity and this emphasis on a close connection between her clothes and her creativity feels like a good contribution to that!

[kc-the-writer]

This is why Trip Pendleton got no votes in my poll - Wanna see how this dumbass got sucked into playing Macbeth? Preview below.

Just as his attorney's wife had predicted, a whirlwind of thick flakes blasted through the streets before him. It was beautiful, but he knew it meant trouble. He was too far uptown to make the walk home in the frigid conditions, so he called out to a cabbie with a fine black horse to usher him home. The driver looked hesitant, but Trip offered him a generous tip to make the dangerous journey. 

The remaining sunlight shone vibrantly in shades of red, orange, and yellow while everything else began to darken to purples, dark blues, and grays, shading the city in a chilly glow. The snow was coming down harder and faster than he had ever seen in the dead of winter. It was a breathtaking sight but also a potentially deadly one. As the cab made its way through the swirling snow, Trip couldn't shake the feeling that something more terrifying than the unseasonal blizzard loomed over him. He watched from the small cab window as the snow stuck firmly to the ground, coating everything in its path.

At home, Wisteria Pendleton sat on a plush velvet sofa, her paintbrush gliding across the paper as she created a delicate watercolor of potted Azaleas. Beautiful, though deadly, he wondered why they had been her favorite and what lurked beneath the delicate petals. The drawing room was adorned with intricate woodwork and gilded accents, and the dainty young woman was surrounded by opulent furnishings and fine art. Just as she liked to be.

As she sipped on a glass of red wine, Trip stood in the doorway, knowing better than to disrupt but desperate to warm himself before the last remaining fire in the home. It was far too late to wake the staff for such a request. He entered the room, his face pale and his body shaking. 

His wife looked up, irritation showing long before concern overtook her pointed features. "Trip, what's happened? You're trembling from the cold," she said, setting her paintbrush down and rising from the sofa. 

"The Apothecary has won the case against Dr. Gerard," Trip said, his voice shaking. “I went uptown to celebrate with Woodbury, congratulating each other for a job well done,” he stated as he crossed the room to the fireplace to warm himself. Once his hands were warm enough to regain dexterity in his fingertips, he began to peel away the wet layers of his woolen suit. “His wife was nearly certain a storm was brewing; how foolish we were to laugh. I’ve never seen such a snowfall. It is dangerous out there. I worry for New York if this continues through the night.”

“I don’t trust that woman, Trip. I caught her reading,” Mrs. Pendleton lowered her voice, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She’s the worst of the parkside lot. At least the new people uptown know better than to fraternize with staff. She and her friends, I fear, meet up for much more than books. I heard from Mrs. Duffy that they drink wine together during daylight hours. Heaven knows what they do in the dark!” As Wisteria spoke of the women who had welcomed him and celebrated his success with a toast, Trip tried to recall the last time Wisteria had toasted anyone with sincerity. 

Now dressed in his silken pajamas and smoking jacket, Trip joined his wife on the sofa. “I can confirm Mrs. Duffy’s information to be true. In fact, the proprietress of the maid’s college was at the Woodbury home when I arrived. As was a girl from the tailor’s shop. They seem like nice enough women, but if a rumor must swirl like the snowstorm, I’ll have you know they drink brandy in the daylight hours.”

“How dare you scandalize me so?” Wisteria’s icy blue eyes met his. With the upcoming gala, she was determined to make sure that everything went perfectly.  The weight of the event was heavy on her shoulders, every detail a potential pitfall.  “We cannot have an attorney with a wife who shares gossip with the help! This is a catastrophe.” She had paid great attention to every detail, from the flower arrangements to the menu, to make sure that her guests would have a memorable time. But there was one thing that worried her - the servants. Mrs. Pendleton knew that they had access to the city's best gossip, and she didn't want any of that to ruin her carefully planned event. She especially wanted to keep Ms. Van der Snyte’s hired maids from causing trouble. “Must we invite the Woodburrys?”

“Catastrophe is very likely in tomorrow’s headlines, though I assure you, it will not be ushered in by a maid and a shop-girl. Get a hold of your senses, dear. I beg you,” Trip scoffed as he sipped his brandy. The last embers of the fire flared into a brilliant flame and reflected in his wife’s eyes at the idea. “I only mean to say that whatever charity case she is taking on with these women… at least it will keep her from this suffrage nonsense. I cannot have my attorney’s wife parading through the streets. However, one thing she said, the thing that all of these women said to me, was that they seemed to believe in my continued success. Can they be all that dangerous if they wish the best for us?”

Wisteria turned to her husband, eyes reduced to an icy sliver. The fire crackled out with a final burst behind her wine glass, casting a fleeting crimson glow around the parlor before plunging the room into darkness. “You would not recognize a dangerous woman if one stood before you.”

[limerent-object]

In The Fray, Pt 1

If Priya hadn't spent every day for the past quarter preparing for the Fray Theater's winter charity gala with Salem, she probably would have been more nervous about this cliffhouse weekend she had somehow convinced him to play along with. Priya's live-in partner, Paul mocked her relentlessly for packing and re-packing the same, slightly different four outfits all throughout the week. "Priya, the man has seen you naked during the uniform fittings. There are no surprises here!" Paul said as he took a bite out of a sloppily made ham sandwich, standing in the living room watching her fiddle with her duffel bag the day prior to her departure. Priya stared distantly at the crumbs from the rye bread tumbling from Paul's hand to the living room floor and grumped, though she knew he was right.

Salem and she had basically spent more time together over the past three months than your average group of theater kids at the local community college before the big year-end musical. They were on calls in the morning, and shuffling around downtown Philadelphia trying to get paperwork cleared by afternoon. These past three weeks especially had been hellish. She felt like she was planning a wedding, she was both the bride and the maid of honor simultaneously, and she wasn't even getting married or allowed to eat lobster at the reception!

Well, that last part wasn't entirely true. But still, even though Salem was pulling his weight (probably more, honestly) she felt overwhelmed. Her typical submissive exercises with Paul were barely keeping her on an even keel, despite the usual cold-bath routine's effectiveness at bringing her back to planet Earth. She was careful to keep this dynamic and her current stress levels from bleeding into her work, but despite her meticulous efforts to keep her exposed skin unblemished and unbruised, she didn't expect a few drinks to kick her scrupulous routine in the knees.

As far as Priya was aware, Salem was too slavishly busy managing city permits and AV agencies to have time for romance, let alone be concerned about her own orbit. She liked the way his dark hair crowded his jawline, and his hard brow... she was sure he wasn't lacking opportunity, after all. Yet, one night after a particularly rough day of wrangling contractors to repair the ceiling of the theater's foyer, Priya's assumptions were corrected over three and a half whiskey sours at the Ranstead Room.

"Women? Priya, women do not see me. They assume with a name like 'Salem' and casual use of the term 'polyamory' that I am some exiled escapee of the Muslim community, or something." Priya felt a small zap at the word, like the release of a static shock. Salem recognized the lack of guard on her face. She barely remembers exactly why or when, but somehow it all came out. The stress. The protocol. The constant attempt to tame the weird carnal energy on the job. The wearing of harnesses under her business suits and the shock collars cinched to thighs under her woolen skirts. Her eyes searching his face for... recognition? Familiarity?

Salem laughed casually at first. They had entered that state of inebriation where someone could admit to murder and their audience would hardly careen from the news. But as the alcohol's effects dwindled in the smaller hours of the morning, the laughs became more hesitant, the locking of eyes a little more sustained.

Many days passed after they parted ways that night where even the subject of personal life did not cross their usual conversational bound. Priya began to become anxious about her professionalism, fiddling with her glasses while they reviewed schematics over lunch. Had she made things awkward? Maybe Salem wasn't that kind of open. Did he think her a freak? Was there a way to rectify the image?

A week later, while standing in the box office many hours before the theater opened to do routine PA tests, Salem entered the booth. Priya looked up from her clipboard but before she could break the silence, he cautiously lifted his hand to her throat and pulled down the lip of her turtleneck, exposing her clavicle... and a discreet prong collar. Her eyes locked with his in a panic, and he released the fabric with such nonchalance she wasn't even sure she had been exposed at all. The corners of his mouth, however, betrayed his amusement as he handed her a cup of coffee in a paper cup and exited the booth.

When she found the little cliffhouse up the coast posted on a vacation rental website, she did not resist the impulse. She booked it for the weekend after the gala was set to take place. She told herself it was to guarantee she would actually take a vacation after this frenzy. She told Paul it was to truly unplug. But she knew... she wanted to be confined to four walls with Salem, where no one could watch them from the light booth.

[itskkpl]

Avail Premium Quality Wool from Wool Fabric Suppliers in India

Wool is used for making popular fabric to be used in many everyday products such as slippers, jumpers, and so many more. The numerous types of wool have diverse benefits as well as properties which makes them the perfect choice for footwear and some other clothing items.

Wool is basically used for making hats, scarves (mufflers), gloves, and some other cold-weather clothing. Blankets are made of wool. It is also used to create a wide variety of garments, including expensive suits (coats and trousers).

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The most common type of wool comes from sheep. Each type of wool has its own unique benefits and characteristics.

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What is Wool Serge used for?

Wool Serge is a type of woolen woven fabric that is available in diverse weights in an extensive range of range of colors. It is widely used for stage masking as well as acoustic absorbing properties. Wool Serge is one of the most common fabrics that are used for making for theatrical drapes, borders, legs, and skirting.

Acoustic curtains are made from optimum quality IFR wool serge. They are the ideal weave used for dampening sound and adjusting the acoustic properties of a venue. Wool serge fabric for theatres is available in a variety of colors including bluekey and greenkey that is used for television and photographic studio use.

[anmolsmsblog]

DISOLVE Woolen Winter Night Suits for Women Latest Woollen Tops & Pyjama Night Dresses for Women Pack of 1(Purple)

Price: (as of – Details) We bring you the styling and fashion to women’s Thermal Wear. It gives extra warm layer this winter with fashion conscious women of all ages. You will simply fall in love with superb piece, both comfortable as well as feminine making and easy to care fabric, It is perfect choice, very comfortable and beautiful looking. Selfcare bring you the styling and fashion to women…

[koshurindia]

Premium Kashmiri Kurta Sets: A Blend of Tradition and Style

Kashmiri fashion has a unique appeal, combining intricate artistry with timeless elegance. Premium Kashmiri kurta sets embody this beautifully, bringing the charm of traditional Kashmiri wear into modern wardrobes. These pieces aren’t just garments—they’re symbols of heritage, style, and luxury, tailored to meet the diverse needs of today's fashion-conscious woman. Let’s explore why Kashmiri kurta sets are becoming an essential part of contemporary style and how they blend tradition with modern trends.

1. The Allure of Kashmiri Pheran Suits

The Kashmiri Pheran Suit is a classic yet versatile choice for women who appreciate tradition and elegance. Originating as a winter essential in Kashmir, the pheran is a long, loose-fitting garment that provides warmth while allowing freedom of movement. Today, designers have reinterpreted the pheran, infusing it with stylish cuts and delicate embroidery that appeal to modern sensibilities. From intricate thread work to soft woolen fabric options, Kashmiri Pheran Suits are both luxurious and functional, perfect for both casual wear and special occasions.

2. Kashmiri Cotton Kurta for Women: Lightweight and Elegant

For warmer climates or seasons, the Kashmiri cotton kurta for women is an excellent option. Known for its light, breathable fabric and delicate craftsmanship, this type of kurta combines comfort with sophistication. Kashmiri cotton kurtas often feature exquisite hand-embroidery, including traditional Kashmiri patterns like chinar leaves and paisleys. Whether you’re heading to work, meeting friends, or attending a casual event, a cotton kurta with Kashmiri embroidery is sure to make a graceful statement.

Styling Tips:

3. Co-ord Sets for Women: Effortless Style with a Kashmiri Touch

Co-ord sets for women have taken the fashion world by storm, offering a complete, cohesive look without the fuss. Kashmiri-inspired co-ord sets bring a unique twist to this trend. Imagine a matching set adorned with Kashmiri embroidery or vibrant patterns reminiscent of the Valley's natural beauty. These sets typically include a kurta paired with palazzos or trousers, making them ideal for both casual outings and festive occasions. A Kashmiri co-ord set seamlessly combines style and comfort, making it an excellent choice for those who want to look effortlessly put together.

Styling Tips:

4. Premium Kashmiri Kurta Sets: Embracing Tradition with Style

Investing in premium Kashmiri kurta sets is about more than owning a stylish outfit—it’s about embracing an art form that has been passed down through generations. Premium Kashmiri kurtas are often made with high-quality fabrics like silk, pashmina, or fine cotton, and they feature intricate embroidery crafted by skilled artisans. These kurta sets celebrate Kashmiri culture while remaining versatile enough to blend with various contemporary styles.

Where to Wear Kashmiri Kurta Sets:

5. Why Kashmiri Kurta Sets are a Must-Have for Every Wardrobe

Incorporating Kashmiri kurta sets into your wardrobe brings a touch of timeless elegance to your daily style. Each kurta set is a masterpiece, reflecting the beauty and tradition of Kashmiri culture. These kurta sets aren’t only about style—they also provide a way to support artisans who have dedicated their lives to keeping the art of Kashmiri embroidery alive. Whether it’s a traditional pheran suit, a lightweight cotton kurta, or a chic co-ord set, each piece tells a story of craftsmanship and heritage.

Final Thoughts

Kashmiri Pheran Suits, Kashmiri cotton kurtas for women, and co-ord sets for women bring the best of Kashmiri fashion to the forefront, blending tradition with modern style.

[ruchira-nangalia]

Casual Kurta Sets for Women: Perfect Outfits for Every Season

Casual kurta sets are a versatile and stylish wardrobe essential, perfect for adding a touch of elegance and comfort to your everyday wear. Whether a breezy summer day or a cozy winter evening, a casual kurta set can be styled effortlessly to suit any season. In this blog, we’ll explore how to choose and style casual kurta sets for each season, making sure you look chic and feel comfortable all year round.

Spring: Embrace Light Fabrics and Pastel Colors

Spring is all about fresh starts and light, breathable fabrics. For this season, opt for casual kurta set for women in soft pastels like lavender, blush pink, and mint green, which capture the essence of spring. Look for cotton or lightweight linen kurtas that keep you cool and comfortable while letting your skin breathe.

Style Tip: Pair your pastel kurta set with minimal accessories like small stud earrings or a delicate bracelet. Slip into flat sandals or comfortable juttis to complete the look.

Recommended Fabrics: Cotton, linen, and light muslin are ideal for keeping things breezy.

Summer: Stay Cool with Bright Colors and Lightweight Materials

Summer calls for easy, breathable outfits, and casual kurta sets are the perfect solution. Choose kurtas in bright colors like turquoise, sunny yellow, or coral to match the vibrancy of summer. Sleeveless or short-sleeve kurtas work well in hot weather, while cotton and mulmul fabrics keep you cool.

Style Tip: Keep it simple with lightweight accessories such as a woven tote and oversized sunglasses. Choose slip-on sandals or open-toe flats for added comfort.

Recommended Fabrics: Cotton, mulmul, and rayon for their cooling properties.

Monsoon: Go for Dark Hues and Quick-Dry Fabrics

Monsoon season can be a bit tricky, so look for casual kurta for women in darker hues like deep green, navy blue, and burgundy to avoid visible water stains. Choose quick-drying fabrics like cotton blends or rayon that don’t cling to the body when wet. Three-quarter sleeves or cap sleeves are a good choice to keep things comfortable.

Style Tip: Pair your kurta set with waterproof footwear like rubber sandals or slip-resistant flats to stay safe on wet surfaces. A simple ponytail or bun can help avoid frizzy hair on rainy days.

Recommended Fabrics: Cotton blends, rayon, and lightweight poly-blends.

Autumn: Add Warmth with Earthy Tones and Layering

As the weather cools, it’s time to transition to earthy tones like mustard, rust, and olive. Casual cotton kurta set for women in rich, warm hues are ideal for autumn, and you can choose thicker fabrics like khadi or handloom cotton to add warmth. Layering becomes key in this season, so consider a light scarf or shawl.

Style Tip: Pair your autumn kurta set with block heels or ankle boots for a chic, seasonal look. Add a cozy shawl for those chillier days, and accessorize with oxidized jewelry for a boho touch.

Recommended Fabrics: Khadi, handloom cotton, and thicker cotton blends.

Winter: Stay Cozy with Woolen or Velvet Kurta Sets

For winter, choose casual kurta sets in cozy fabrics like wool blends or velvet that keep you warm while looking stylish. Dark shades like maroon, charcoal, and navy add a sophisticated touch to your winter wardrobe. Full-sleeve kurtas with high necklines are a great option for added warmth.

Style Tip: Pair your winter kurta set with knee-high boots or loafers for an elevated look. Throw on a stylish shawl, woolen stole, or a longline cardigan for extra warmth.

Recommended Fabrics: Wool blends, velvet, and thicker cotton.

Tips for Accessorizing Casual Kurta Sets All Year Round

Jewelry: Stick to minimalistic pieces for a casual vibe, like small studs or dainty bracelets in spring and summer. In fall and winter, add statement pieces like oxidized earrings or chunky rings.

Footwear: Choose open-toe sandals for summer, slip-resistant flats for monsoon, and cozy boots for winter.

Bags: Sling bags and totes work well in spring and summer, while structured handbags and clutches can add polish to autumn and winter outfits.

Conclusion

Casual kurta sets for women are perfect for every season, offering a blend of style and comfort that makes them a timeless choice. With the right fabric, color, and styling, you can effortlessly adapt these outfits to suit any weather while staying true to your unique style. From the freshness of spring pastels to the cozy warmth of winter fabrics, there’s a casual kurta set to match every season and mood. So go ahead, update your wardrobe with these versatile pieces, and embrace effortless style all year long!

[gloomygalore]

Hausjärvi Gravel Pit Murders

A series of violent crimes, from drugging and abduction to sadistic murder, spanning over nearly a decade have remained unexplained. Several cases were connected by the Finnish National Bureau of Investigation (NBI) to a gravel pit in Hausjärvi and an unidentified man that the Finnish media labeled the Järvenpää Serial Killer. As far as we know, this monster has been abducting women from/around Järvenpää, a compact city within reach of the main railroad track and two of the main motorways, between the late 1980s and early 1990s.

Official Victims of The Järvenpää Serial Killer

The Abduction of Helena Meriläinen

In November 1990, 39-year-old Finnish woman Helena "Hellu" Meriläinen was headed home to nearby Riihimäki at around midnight after an evening of drinking at a friend's apartment in Järvenpää. Helena walked to the nearby Järvenpää railway station to catch a train when she was approached by a dark-haired man in a leather jacket who, after inquiring as to her travel plans, offered the inebriated woman a ride, which she accepted. Later, she would recall the man's vehicle as a light-colored passenger car, not a station wagon, probably an older Mazda or Datsun.

Early in the trip the man would offer Helena alcoholic beverages and capsules filled with an unknown substance, which she and the man would both consume. Meriläinen would note that the man seemed to be distressed and also that there was a child seat in the back of the car before she fell asleep. Upon waking up, the car was no longer on a lit or paved road to Riihimäki, but instead a dirt road surrounded by forest. When questioned, the man would assure her that they were still headed in her desired direction

The man stopped the car at a dark gravel pit and tried to persuade Meriläinen to stay in the car overnight, but she refused and reiterated that she wanted to go home. The man would exit the vehicle claiming that he needed to relieve himself and when Meriläinen squatted outside the car to follow suit she was struck on the back of her head with a knife.

In a stroke of luck, her woolen cap cushioned the impact of the knife on her skull and she managed to flee. She ran into the forest and found a nearby house where she was able to receive help. In the midst of her escape, Helena Meriläinen heard the man mutter about "things not having worked out this time" and that he'd returned to his car.

The Murder of Tuula Lukkarinen

28-year-old Tuula Anita Lukkarinen was staying as in inpatient at Kellokoski psychiatric hospital until April 17, 1991 when she would depart at 8:30AM with plans to attend a custody case meeting for her son in Hyrylä, but would not arrive. A friend would spot her in front of a liquor store at around 9AM in Järvenpää and later in the case investigators verified that Tuula Lukkarinen was seen in the center of Riihimäki that evening.

By the next afternoon a landowner in Hikiä - a village in the Hausjärvi municipality - was inspecting and assessing damages to his forest from a blizzard the night prior when he found Tuula's mutilated body. According to police, Tuula had died around midnight after suffering sadistic violence at the hands of her killer, but there has been no confirmation as to whether the scene where they'd found her was the same one she'd been killed in.

Despite the area having been so recently hit by a blizzard, it was uncovered that her body was dragged from a small road to the woods - located less than 100 meters from the same gravel pit that Helena had survived an attack five months prior. Police would recover her handbag and a possible murder weapon at the scene, but no suspects have been identified.

The Disappearance of Maarit Haantie

In August 1993 40-year-old Maarit Haantie would suddenly disappear. Maarit was supposed to attend a dinner party at a restaurant called Zapata in Järvenpää on August 13 with her partner and a few friends when she would be turned away at the door due to her intoxication. That was where she was last seen, standing outside the restaurant Zapata.

Local authorities searched for her body to no avail, and this disappearance is what led the NBI to open their investigation, pursuing the same man for all three cases. Soon, a bag belonging to Haantie was found at Martina, a restaurant in Hyvinkää, and after interviewing staff it was revealed that the employees had removed an intoxicated customer resembling Maarit Haantie.

A huge search was carried out in the woods around the gravel pits area south of Hikiä village around the Hausjärvi municipality, but nothing would be found. Additional evidence connects the disappearances that the NBI will not publish due to the fact that this is an ongoing investigation, and the NBI is certain that there have been other murder attempts.

The Possible Fourth Case

In 2017 a publication claimed that in 1989, an intoxicated 30-year-old oman was leaving a restaurant in Järvenpää when a man offered her a rive, plied her with pills and alcohol, and then took her to an isolated forest area. The woman survived the encounter, but would die years later of natural causes and her mother would be the one to bring the story to the public's attention.

Similar Unsolved Cases Nearby

There are two cases in the area that remain unsolved and are similar enough in area and execution that they warrant mentioning, but they are not officially linked to the Järvenpää Serial Killer.

Heidi Härö

December 1987: 19-year-old Heidi Härö left a local bar in Mäntsälä and presumably hitched a ride home. Five months later, in a forest area of Pukkila, her body was found decomposed with some articles of clothing missing.

The Great Escape

In 1988, a 19-year-old in Hämeenlinna was forced into a white Volkswagen Passat hatchback at gunpoint. Despite the threat of the pistol, the woman was able to escape from the moving car. There were also several cases related to the same man & vehicle harassing various women in nearby areas.

Conclusion

This case remains open and the investigation is active. Tips suggest that a man fitting the description of the bureau's profile for the killer most recently offered a ride to a woman in 2006. The NBI believes the killer can be found, but is also taking into account the possibilities of the killer living abroad or that they are perhaps dead.

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