#old and only appropriate for stewing

[theonemarvelousness]

Second [Book 7 Spoilers]

It is when the opportunity arises that the young prince escapes the Wild Rose Castle to the wood. His dearest teacher's cabin lays within the thicket, as far from home he's ever gone on his own (and really, the only place he can go alone).

The excitement, the thrill that builds in Malleus's chest thrums almost wildly as he manages to slip the guards, and make his way down the familiar twists and turns. How he can see the world up close that is normally through open windows, or closed. If he's lucky, beside a gargoyle before someone sees.

The birds twitter in the distance, the scampering of woodland creatures greet his ears. The smile? He can't suppress it. Lilia's return whispers through the halls! How can he wait to hear of the wonderful adventures he went on? To lands that are only pictures in books and woven tales? Places so far beyond the Valley's reach, across the great oceans surrounding them!

His steps give pause as the sounds of humming reach his ears. That's...

Different.

"There, there, eat up, little one." The soft, crooning voice. It... it is Lilia's, but has he ever heard it?

A laugh; and soon the sound of something else. A strange, squelching sound.

Now he approaches with cautious footfalls.

He's about at the cabin door--"Ah, Malleus." Lilia's voice comes from inside, "Come in."

Taking the invitation, the fae prince opens the door. Coming inside to the mess of a cabin that his teacher keeps. Stuffed full with things, cluttered as he likes it--the opposite of the strict neatness he demands. But it isn't that which catches his attention, it's...

The sleeping bundle in Lilia's arms.

A babe. A human babe.

And stranger still, this adoring look on his teacher's face.

---

When Malleus arrives, Silver stands, asleep. The child is now four. Lilia has gone off more frequently with his adopted son in tow, trying to unravel the mystery of his strange lure to slumber. As a babe, it wasn't known until the then-toddler slept so strangely that someone pointed it out (the Zigvolts, if Malleus recalls). Then, started the General's quest to discover the cause. Thus far? None.

"Silver." A firm tone to rouse him.

Aural eyes open. The pure jewels one might pluck for display at their rare color. "Ah! Mawwe!" He blinks several times, and resumes his task of folding the sheet he had in his hands.

That he still has that childish lisp surprises him. Memories of long hours to fix and pronounce things properly when he still toddled around like that flit through his memory.

Before he could always keep his tail, wings, and scales under wraps. That was next.

"Ah, there you are Malleus." Lilia greets with a smile. "I'm making dinner! You should stay for a bowl~ It's quite a nice stew..."

"I mean not to impose." A quick, polite refusal. "My visit is brief."

"Oh?" Lilia's blood red gaze looks over him curiously. "What are you out for today, then?"

"We are out of dawn dew drops." The flower's name is easy off his tongue. "It is faster to collect it myself rather than wait."

"Good, a head start on your lesson." A nod of approval. "One must learn to cultivate things on their own as well. Being able to appropriately identify and prepare ingredients is of high use."

There's a warmth in his chest at the approval.

Lilia bends down, scooping up the four-year-old in his arms. The brightest smile on his face. "Come, Silver, you can finish that after dinner~"

Malleus nods his head in parting, before heading off. The blooms are close...

But what a difference... when was he allowed to finish an immediate task, later?

---

The high score on his paper isn't perfect. Malleus frowns at it again; he has many points of contention with the historical records kept by humans. It shows in his essay grades for Trein's classes. He has more than once had to bring in a personal book to prove his point and perspective. This must be one of those times.

The comments in red are of an attached sheet, referenced in their textbook, which was wholly incorrect. A deeper frown graces his lips.

Silver takes the seat nearby. A similar frown to his features. It's rare to see him so unsettled. The flipped-over page glances quite the low mark. Ah.

Lilia stops between them. "What's wrong with both of you...? Oh?" He's glancing between their papers, but stops on Silver first. "You fell asleep? Well, that does happen." A hand gentle pats Silver's shining locks. He is aptly named. "Go talk to Trein for a make-up portion to finish, we all know you can't help your sleep spells." There's a glance around, before pressing a kiss to his temple. "Don't be so discouraged, you've always perked up and made it through when it matters most."

"Thank you, fa--Lilia." It seems to lift him.

Then, the old fae leans over. "Hmm... that's disappointing."

It's like a knife to his heart.

"It is another disagreement. I will procure the tome to argue my points in the morning." He replies, clipped and easy.

"Well, fair enough then, Malleus." A nod. "Humans do have such a unique perspective on history..."

It throbs.

---

Blot crystals scatter around him. The sleeping forms of students around; the thorns woven around. Blooming dark roses...

And there's Lilia, clutching to Silver, to protect him...

Slowly, he takes a seat beside the sleeping pair. A hand reaches out, to brush away Lilia's bangs. He looks at peace, and that is the point. To give them the sweetest dreams while...

"Why have I never been enough, Lilia?" The bar has always moved forward. There might be a moment of satisfaction, but that's about it. There has never been that sweet, tender care that he sees right now.

"Second to a human child..." A murmur.

His hand moves, brushing over Silver's open, vulnerable throat.

Why not?

Why not...

Claws press a moment. Slow, careful. It's a consideration. Easy.

Yet he doesn't. Malleus's hand retreats, the King of the Abyss fights the urge. No, no. No.

This is not the way at all.

But wasn't it tempting?

A glance back to the Phantom, tugging it along as he resumes his work. There's far much more to be done.

#malleus draconia #twst silver #lilia vanrogue #book 7 spoilers #twst writings #twst writing #twst fanfic #twst fanfiction #twst wonderland

[maliciously-delicious]

Okay so I have to get this out of my head and truly anywhere else. For context I'm an out trans woman who is visibly trans.

I'm in college and I turned in an essay, signed off at the top with my name, Anathema. I felt it was appropriate and safe to do this because I had already been assured by the faculty that my legal name would soon be changed in the system to reflect my preferred name, and I had already emailed my professor the first week of classes explaining my preferred name and pronouns. My professor ended up calling me up to her desk in the middle of class to tell me that I needed to resend her the essay with the name as it is in their system, which was still my deadname at the time. She emphasized that it was important that the name on the essay was the same name as the one in their system. So I decide alternatively that I'm just going to get ahold of faculty and see how the name change process is going in their system. I won't need to put my deadname on my paper if my deadname isn't in the system! They got back with me straight away and changed my name to Anathema "X" in the system, X being my legal last name, which I do not use. I had already stated as much, and suggested that "Null" be put in the place of the last name, because I understood it would probably break the system if I just had no last name. Evidently, they didn't care much about that, because the name was never updated again and they didn't email me back when I pointed it out.

I assumed at this point, "Okay, the essay is signed off as Anathema, and my name in the system is Anathema X, and since I've already done my part to explain to both the faculty and my professor that X isn't a part of my name, we're probably good, and I moved on to more pressing matters.

A few weeks later, my professor offhandedly mentions that she left notations and critiques on the essays after they were graded. I was curious about this, as I hadn't seen any, so I came up to her after class to ask if she could direct me to where I could see them. She then proceeds to lay into me about how much I just don't give a crap about her good will to let me reupload the essay with my deadname, as I had decided not to do so. I was baffled! What did this have to do with the critiquing notes??? I notably hadn't gotten a great grade on the essay, 59/100, so I was just very curious on what she had deemed specifically wrong with it. She refused to elaborate on that, citing the reason I hadn't received critques being because I hadn't put my deadname on my essay. After this, I found out my academic advisor had (accidentally??????????) Cc'd me in an email chain where my professor wrote an email asking someone else in faculty how to proceed with my preferred name being used to sign off on my essay. In this email she said, verbatum, "These issues are just so hard for teachers to deal with" and he/him'ed me MULTIPLE times. She then in this email chain, FORWARDED my email from the beginning of the semester where I explained my preferred name and pronouns, just flagrantly saying, "Here's my students preferred pronouns and name which are such an inconvenience to me and also I will not be using them"

I'm just mad. I have full time classes and I work part time, im 23 ass years old and I don't fucking have time to not receive a basic level of respect. I don't really have time to stew on this because I'm supposed to be writing my next essay now. I'm worried that the reason she won't provide critiquing notes is solely because my low grade was purely because of my using my preferred name on the paper. Like, its not a great paper. A bit of a rush job, but I made sure to meet all the length and mla format requirements and structure, and it was free of grammar and spelling mistakes. If my paper was truly so bad as to receive a 59/100, I would love to be critiqued so I can know why. But she's refusing to provide them, and I can only assume either that the grade is soley derived from my preferred name being signed off on the paper, or that the essay is just bad and she's not offering me critiques on it like she offered everyone else in the class out of pure pettiness.

I guess does anybody know how to proceed with this? I don't want to sign off my next paper with my deadname, but if I don't its likely going to tank my grade. It feels so plainly to me that this is just her cruelly leveraging what she feels she can over me, as she knows she can't be openly transphobic. Fuck transphobes yall.

#transfem #transmysogyny #transphobes #transgirl #transgender #trans #transphobia

[chzdavmpr]

Goodnight Punpun Reading Diary Volume 2

Content Warning: I try to avoid going in detail about the more explicit parts of this story, but this does book gets real explicit for a while, so I'll still warn here that this post will discuss a plot point about abuse and sexualization of a minor. Also if you plan on reading this book yourself PLEASE LOOK UP THE TRIGGER WARNINGS FIRST CAUSE THAT'S JUST THE ONE I CAN'T AVOID TALKING ABOUT

Theory: perhaps "God" represents a part of Punpun's inner thoughts. (Note: I tend to be pretty bad at picking up on themes and symbolism in a story before finishing it, so for some of you that statement is probably pretty obvious.)

There's 2 of him now???

With the wager Punpun and Yaguchi set up it's very much them ignoring Aiko being her own person, but for different reasons. For Punpun he's in his incel arc but for Yaguchi it very much he more has his own issues in how he sees himself that he needs to overcome before he's ready for any relationship.

In volume 1 I thought Punpun's uncle was a chill dude, but he not only has a pretty cynical outlook at life, but he thinks his own sister should die just for having armpit hair, but gets off to a vhs labeled "high school hotties" and now I think I hate him. [Note from after finishing the volume: it get's worse. Now I 100% hate him]

Ok so either we are getting guy-with-afro lore that he works the this karaoke bar, or he's just a gag character that the author puts everywhere for no reason

Uh oh. UH OH. I see where this flashback is going STOP USING THE SAME WORDS YOU USED FOR THE POTTERY TO DESCRIBE THE 16 YEAR OLD!

As of the end of "part 3" I am very uncomfy. And that's probably the point, it forces the reader to be like "that's fucked up" and then look back at that whole date scene that was played mostly wholesome and say "this whole situation is fucked up" (which they probably should have already but the legacy of Scott Pilgrim has taught that you can never be too obvious with this stuff).

They have a lot of zoom ins on Yuichi's eyes in the scene where he brings- what's her name again (checks list of important characters at beginning of part 4) oh shit her name hasn't even been said. That makes this even worse then I thought.

Back to the point though, the scene in Yuichi's apartment has a lot of zoom ins on his eyes being drawn in a more human and realistic manner. I think this is to remove that "goofiness that undercut the darkness" I talked about for Vol 1. If this scene played out and was constantly showing Yuichi as a little bird in a crude artstyle it would make it easier to look past the monstrous behaviour of him by writing him off as "silly." But I feel the author really wants you to stew in the uncomfortability of this so that you really grasp that Yuichi is a bad guy.

Since Yuichi is the one telling this story, I wonder if he's lying about any details, in particular I wonder if he did actually go all the way with the 16 year old. I hope I'm wrong, but there is a chane.

WHY THE HELL IS THE CAFE GIRL STILL INTERESTED IN HIM? Honestly that makes me highly suspicious of her, cause I don't buy "love at first sight" for an appropriate motive to still be interested in a guy significantly older then you, who you've gone on ONE date with, who just told THAT story. Honestly I hope that there's more to her motive cause if not I will be honestly disappointed in that character writing.

Wait the guy who attempted to murder the mom and then set himself on fire isn't either dead or in prison? He's just fine?

The appearance of another "God" who is a different face raises a lot of questions and I don't think I have enough info to piece together an answer rn.

It's definitely healthier then being dead, but this relationship with Yuichi and cafe-girl doesn't seem healthy at all.

"God" opened his eyes. I wonder what that could mean.

So it looks like there will be a 2-year timeskip at the end of each book. Assuming Punpun was like 8 in Vol 1 he'll be like 20 in the last. Interesting.

Closing thought on the volume: This is honestly more what I expected going into Volume 1. I would no longer call this a "dark comedy." We are in full on dark drama now, just with some goofy elements.

Looking back at my notes I had a whole lot more to say about Yuichi's story then I did Punpun's, and I'm trying to think about why that is. Cause Punpun's story is one which I feel I probably should have more to say about but most of the time I'm just kinda along for the ride and don't end up having much to write notes about. The only thing I can think of that I probably could comment on is how Yaguchi is like the only morally good character (except maybe cafe-girl) in this whole volume.

I think part of this is that Punpun himself isn't really the strongest character to me. I know about him, how he feels, what he wants, but him rarely talking and has almost non-existent body language so his scenes flow weird. He can't really bounce off the other characters. I hope that by the end of this story I have less of an issue with this.

While reading this volume I also, as an exercise to get better at media literacy, tried to ask "what is Goodnight Punpun about?" What is the main thing this story is trying to tell? My conclusion so far is that I have no idea. My best guess is it has something to do with how being surrounded by negative influence can make someone worse. Which I guess isn't the worst first attempt at figuring out the theme. But with later reading diaries we'll check back in with this theme and see if it holds up.

Also I realized I only used 1 image for this, and it was for basically a background detail. I should be more liberal with them next time.

#chz reads #manga #reading diary #goodnight punpun

[genderdotcom]

more thoughts on this. i've been reading too many drizzt books now the writing style has infected me and i need to be quarantined or put down or something. tw for haarlep's deal (implied) (deleted and reposted this bc im indecisive over it)

(DISCLAIMER. THIS WORK REFERS TO EYES AS “ORBS”. WEAR APPROPRIATE PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT AT ALL TIMES)

Dirin explained everything. His defection, his disguise, the innkeeper that had taken him under her wing and the bards he learned from on the road. He spoke with as much urgency as he could muster- this was a hero he was talking to. And he knew well the reputation his kin had.

Heedless of his tale, the ranger took a potato from her pack. It had sprouted, taking root in the darkness of her bag of provisions- but she began to peel it nonetheless.

Dirin began to feel, infuriatingly, as if he was making excuses and defending himself to an implacable sa’varsh. 

“Why did you call me out on my disguise if you didn’t wish to speak with me? Lay it out plainly, please.” He bit out with no small amount of barely reined-in irritation.

“Fine, fine. Like I said, I had a gith friend. And I like to stick my nose places it’s not needed.” He nodded, understanding it to be the most important quality of those fabled heroes he so looked up to, but the tiefling barreled on.

“I mean, it passes the time, y’know? Not much else to do.” “You’ve done a lot already, if the tales I’ve heard are true.”

“They aren’t.” Her reply was prompt.

“None of them? So the curse of Moonrise Towers still stands? So Baldur’s Gate is overrun by gh- by mind flayers?” “I know what ghaik means, mate, you don’t have to translate yourself to me. And what does it matter if I did all those things? A half dozen others were right there doing more than me.”

Yes, he knew all about them. The noble Blade of Frontiers, the archmage Gale of Waterdeep, Karlach Demonsbane who laid down her life for the city; even fragmented tales of a woman that must have been a Githyanki. Well, the ranger’s claim that she had a gith friend would corroborate that. It would have been the perfect tale to tell to get him in the spotlight were it not for his treacherous, cowardly heart skipping beats at the thought of mentioning his kin.

“Is there something special about this town, for you to stop here?” There didn’t seem to be. In the few months Dirin had spent in the town- more of a village, really- the people had proven themselves to be nothing but ordinary, though perhaps with more of a tolerance for novelty than he’d expected.

“Absolutely nothing. Didn’t you hear me? I’m not doing anything.”

It had been six months since the Netherbrain fell, and Dirin had heard many tales of Riah, the tiefling fighter- now a ranger, it seemed- and her stalwart defense of the Sword Coast’s frontiers. Her small knife pressed through the potato, and she dropped the cubes into the simmering pot. Her hair fell into her face hampered only by her horns.

She looked tired.

The stew was finished before the sun had fully set. Despite Dirin’s insistence that he didn’t need anything from her, he had his own food, she ladled it into two wooden bowls and pressed one into his hands. The warmth, at least, brought some life into him as they both sat there, sipping at it in silence.

A violent shudder passed through Riah’s body. Though Dirin could see nothing afoot, she convulsed strongly enough that the bowl of stew in her hand slipped and spilled over the packed dirt. Recovering quickly, she shook off the droplets that had landed on her hand and simply stared at the stew slowly absorbing into the ground.

“What happened? Are you al-” Dirin brought up his hand, ready to cast a healing spell, though he knew well that his prowess was very limited; but she stopped him with a gesture.

“Fine. Just an old wound.” Her breath hissed through her teeth. There was something tightly wound about her posture in that moment, the horrible tension of prey unable to flee. “It doesn’t la- ah- last too long. Usually.” She leaned down to pick up her bowl, her scarred red knuckles bleached pink from tension. 

“You’re a hero. I’m sure any healer along the Coast would-” “No, they wouldn’t. Couldn’t.” Waiting for Dirin to finish his sentence was too much of an effort, it seemed. “‘S what I get for dealing with… well, I told you already. It’s fine.”

But she made no effort to pour herself more stew, and spent the rest of dinner staring silent into the fire. Her nails bit bloody crescents into her palms.

Following some unspoken agreement, they took watch in shifts. The strangeness of the situation was almost soporific to Dirin, but ingrained discipline kept his eyes open from the middle of the night to the morning. 

He’d almost expected Riah to pack up and leave. Instead, she cleaned up the campfire and took her turn sleeping with no words exchanged. She was asleep in moments- but the twitches and shudders remained. Sweat beaded on her brow and pooled in the wrinkles of her twisted, pinched expression. If this was an illness or injury, it was like none he knew of.

Dirin woke with the dawn. Riah was still up, poking at the coals of the campfire with a long stick.

“It doesn’t usually last that long.” She said in lieu of ‘good morning’. “I’m fine now.” There was something in her other hand, a balled up piece of paper- a letter of some sort? 

She staggered to her feet, unfurling the crumpled sheet. Her piercing blue orbs examined it for one long moment, flitting between it and his face, there and back.

“Say, Dirin- your name was Dirin, right? How do you feel about going to a party?”

#hello world #dirin #riah #my writing

[appetiteapex]

Good Cat Best Demon

Aradia flitted through the halls of her, Rosie's hotel, silently fuming. Rose was a darling, a delight, a peach, and several other culinary terms as well, but she was as slippery as she was squishy. Every time Aradia blinked her square demon eyes her mistress-pet has wandered off to the arms of another musclebound roidhulk, or rather she was gently pushed away by said hunk. It made Rosie even more of a handful then her figure was, and Aradia was starting to rankle at the incessant sharing of her favorite toy. Normally as a Demon this wasnt supposed to bother Aradia but, it did, especially the way she would swoon at them.

It was a itch that Aradia simply HAD to scratch, and was well within the capabilities to do so, given the vast windfall of depravity and indulgence that dripped from every word of her room mate. She had magic to burn, and longed for the warmth of the flame... But what?

Aradia stewed in her schemes, she couldn't hypnotize Rosie and even if she could she loved Rosie for who she was, no the problem is everyone else... She could simply... start killing people she supposed, but even that would do no good. Even if Aradia could kill a god or two, Rosie attracted paramours like flowers attract Bees, and Rosie dripped nectar. Aradia would lose more time keeping Rosie away from strangers then she would have if she just... let the strangers enjoy their Rosie time. Besides Rosie always liked them...

No clearly what Aradia needed to be was something essential, something so tied to Rosies life that it would be impossible to untangle...

That was when Aradia heard the mewing. Aradia grinned, looking up at the massive lump of muscle and scales sitting in the bedroom. Jaspersprite used to be Rose's little kitty, but ever since Rose fused him with a dragon and a wizard, all he has done is grown. The cat dominated the room, looming over statues, filling beds with scales and muscles, his wizardly prototyping only adding the barest vestiges of humanity, shaggier fur and proportions just a bit more appropriate to milk his personal creamtank. Jasper was her cat, something Rosie was obligated (As Jasper insisted) to feed, dote, and adore, and who, whenever it suited him, and it suited him plenty, feasted upon Rosies endless bounty... He was perfect.

Aradia sauntered over, resting a hand on the slumbering dragon. "Perfect..." She whispered, petting Jasper... Honestly she always got along with Rosie's fellow tormentor... it could be easy to replace him... but she was willing to compromise.

Aradia smiled, her shadow smiling too, the black spot widening, fattening, shaping into a single grin that covered the entire room in darkness. After all, Aradia thought as the jaws opened up, surrounding the two, friends share.

Rosie wandered the halls, jiggling confused at how... spacious things seemed, absent of the usual bother and bedlam. Today was unusually quiet, she did not even encounter any imps just strange marble skinned women who wanted nothing more then some of Rosie's autographs, took a bit longer then Rose liked to remember if her name had a i in it or not, but they were very patient, they even gave her their own autographs. Not that Rosie saw what they said, given they wrote them on HER, and on her blindspots, still Rosie assumed it was friendly!

Still, all things considered, things were uneventful, no nakodile mischief, no daring adventure too dangerous for her to win... not even a word from-

"Rooooooooooooooooooosie." A voice echoed in the hallways. Rosie sighed in relief. Oh there she is, good old reliable Aradia... though usually Aradia's voice didnt cause the hotel to rumble?

The glass panes shook louder and louder as the room grew warmer, something approaching, a large shadow filling the hallway like a big black wall aiming to crush Rosie beneath it. Rosie blinked, barely registering that maybe she should move away before it was upon her, and atop her. The mass of warmth being a shaggy tangle of hair, the shaggy thing covering her like a blanket, a imperctible weight pushing against her. "Oooooh you smell nice." Aradia purred, her red eyes peering from the darkness, big dilated circles that took in every quiver of the confused goddess. "Veeeeeeeeeerry nice." Aradia licked her lips, then, thoughtlessly, licked Rosies too. "Hmm... is that cherry, i've never had cherry." Aradia muttered.

It wasn't cherry but Rosie wasn't sure that was important. "Aradia? You look.... different?"

"Oh? You like it? Of course you do!" Aradia brushed her mane back, revealing large marroon scales that dotted her skin, the dark red color almost like her nakodile friends. "You see Rosie." Aradia licked Rosie again, her hands wrapped around the Goddess-pet. "Me and Jaspers got along so well together that... well I prototyped myself with him! And now we're Araspers. Or Jaradia. Or maybe it doesn't matter! You smell really nice, do you have dinner you smell like you have dinner." Aradia's ears wiggled, all four of them, the demonic dragon eyes drifting away from Rosie's face down to her bossom. Aradias grin widened, and widened, and widened, far wider then any human could. Then the room rumbled.

Rose looked back and saw that, while Aradia sure looked a little more... dragonic, that was nothing compared to her backside. While Rosie's sister was always most... everything hips down, Aradia was a different story. When one looked down from Aradia's hips you saw a entire monster, a giant, long cat dragon that jutted from beneath Aradia like a centaur, just much much bigger... and hungrier.

"Oh its fine..." Aradia started to yawn, pulling Rosie's top off, the demons subtlety drowned in catlike directness. "I'll just feed myself." Aradia lifted a teat to her lips and began to drink...

And then, hours later, when she was done drinking, she fell asleep, right atop Rosie. And Aradia was right, Rosie didn't manage to slip away this time, not when she had a truck of milk and muscle pinning her down.

[jomiddlemarch]

gingerbread

5. “I’m home,” Gilbert called out. He didn’t have to raise his voice much since the cottage wasn’t very large, but there was a certain pleasure in it he hadn’t had since Susan Baker had come to work for them and expected a reliable degree of decorum from Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Dr. that Gilbert and Anne felt obliged to satisfy, though there were nights they reminisced about the scrapes and nonsense they’d gotten up to growing up in Avonlea which would be bound to horrify Susan if she knew.

“I’m here,” she answered, her tone as glum as when she’d once dyed her red hair green. “In the kitchen, Gil.”

“Why, Anne, what in heaven’s name?” he said. She couldn’t blame him for his surprise, wouldn’t blame him if there had been some disapproval or judgment, for she was sitting on the floor in her stocking feet, streaked in flour, the striped cotton smock Miss Cornelia had made for her straining over her positively enormous belly.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Old Josiah Simpson took a turn for the better, told me to go fishing or bring home my pretty missus some flowers,” he explained, a charming posy of wildflowers loosely grasped in his left hand. He laid them down on the table and knelt beside her.

“Sweetheart, what’s happened? Are you ill? Hurt?” he asked. “Is it the baby?”

“A fine mother I’d be blaming it on the baby, but I admit, it’s tempting,” Anne said, trying to wriggle into a more appropriate position, as if there could be one on the scrubbed kitchen floor.

“It’s nothing terrible, you don’t need to worry, it’s only embarrassing and frustrating and thank goodness Susan isn’t here to see it!”

“Why don’t I help you up and get you settled, then you can tell me all about it?” He reached over and took her hands, then managed to help her stand up and kept a hand at the small of her back as she lumbered over to the rocking chair in the sunny corner of the kitchen where Susan was wont to sit and knit if she ever managed a moment of quiet. Gilbert dragged over one of the kitchen chairs and sat before her, waiting patiently.

“I suppose it is the baby,” she began. “I’ve never had such a craving for sweets before and you can see by the size of me, it seems impossible to satisfy.”

“You know that’s completely normal and healthy,” Gil said. “I count us both blessed that you want something so unobjectionable. Mrs. Tom Taylor had to have stewed eel with strawberry compote and Mrs. Fred Walker wanted nothing but clams for weeks, I have it on good authority from Miss Cornelia, though I could always smell the clams before I even stepped a foot over the threshold.”

“Yes, that’s as may be. I wanted something sweet and so, I ate the last of the apple tart Susan left and tried a few of the sugar cookies in the jar, but none of it was right and I was still hungry and then I knew what I wanted. What your child was demanding,” Anne said.

“What?”

“The Blythe gingerbread,” Anne said and Gilbert grinned. “I thought it wouldn’t be too difficult, your mother had left a receipt when she visited, but it was impossible—I couldn’t reach anything with this,” she gestured to the curve of her belly, “getting in between me and the shelves, the kitchen table and the mixing bowls, and trying to open the oven door might as well have been Hercules’s thirteenth labor. I’ve made a mess of the kitchen and myself and worried you and I don’t even have one bite of gingerbread to show for it!”

Gilbert chuckled, a wonderful warm sound that had become ever more precious since they’d lost little Joy, and Anne rested one hand atop the apex of her belly, feeling the baby within respond with a reassuring kick.

“Well, that’s easily solved,” he said. “I guess those flowers I brought home weren’t the ones you needed. You just sit here and rest and let me make up a batch of the gingerbread.”

“That’s not fair, Gil, you worked all day and now you’re going to muck around in the kitchen because I can’t manage to make some biscuits,” Anne said.

“This isn’t work and I’ll have you know, I don’t muck around in any kitchen, let alone Susan Baker’s,” Gilbert said, standing up, taking off his coat, and putting Susan’s voluminous pinafore apron on over his waistcoat and trousers, rolling up his sleeves for good measure. It did seem to only be a few minutes before he’d gotten a big crockery bowl full of all the ingredients, his hands as deft in mixing up the dough as they were treating his patients or seeing to her delight in the privacy of their room, a thought which made Anne blush. Within an hour, he was setting before her a plate of freshly made gingerbread, cut into cunning little blossoms exactly like the ones in the bouquet he’d brought home. She took a bite and sighed as she tasted the spices, the rich sweetness of the molasses, the extra little crunch of the castor sugar he’d sprinkled on top.

“I have to tell you, you could never had made it, Anne-girl,” he said, sitting beside her again, the apron and rolled-up sleeves somehow making him look more manly and heart-stoppingly handsome, the touch of flour at his right temple a glimpse of their future. “My mother never includes all the ingredients or instructions in a receipt. She never wants anyone else to make her food as well as she does.”

“That’s iniquitous!” Anne exclaimed, but her mouth was still full of gingerbread.

“It doesn’t signify,” he said. “I know the receipt by heart, in every detail.”

#anne of green gables #anne's house of dreams #anne/gilbert #shirbert #married life #romance #fluff #gingerbread #fruitloopsforlife #the never-ending prompt fill #happy new year's eve #susan baker #miss cornelia #anne pregnant with Jem #tw: pregnancy #pregnancy cravings

[bedofthistles]

Strawberries and Mint

It's good soup

“Princess, I heard you weren’t eating.” Robin came up to the cell and leaned against it, his arm somewhere above his head and one ankle crossed behind the other. (One might know this as a common flirting technique, cleverly called ‘leaning’, it's a very masculine form of flirting, in which a man opens up his body, raises his arm above his head to make himself appear taller, and leans forward, usually crowarding a woman. When done correctly, and by the right person, the effect is one of offering protection, cutting off the rest of the world so that it's just the two of you. When done incorrectly, it's annoying, claustrophobic, and chauvinistic. So be careful, and use the lean appropriately, lest come off as an overbearing he-man.) Robin, in this specific moment, was not flirting (consciously), he was trying to evoke a more predatory stance, like a bear. What more, leaning as a technique doesn’t reach its full potential when there’s a fucking door in the way. 

But, nevermind that. 

Maria had been, to put it politely, stubborn. 

Her absolute refusal to eat the gruel they brought her could be heard all the way to the Coeur’s office, and probably all the way to Moonacre Manor. 

She had called it: a disgusting slop that would not even be sniffed by dogs. It looked rotten, poisonous, toxic, and had a sweating, greasy veneer that would most-likely coat the insides of her stomach and then destroy her lining. Most likely made from old stockings, the rotten tomato they had thrown at her, and mire.

This shouting was almost drowned out by the growls of her stomach. 

In truth it was a pretty good stew, it wasn’t pretty, but it was packed with nutrition, and she hurt the cook’s feelings when he heard. Almost all of the De Noir’s were insulted, as that was their favorite dish, and they had tried, and failed, to recreate it at home, many times.

Robin, was a little insulted himself, as he was one of those who liked that stew, but then he remembered. 

Loveday had hated that stew, as well.

Robin wasn’t really allowed to remember his sister, she was as good as dead, and her memory had been erased from Castle Black. Her room was boarded up, and a place no one was allowed to enter. Even just the mention of her name was enough to get one sentenced to the stocks. (And yes, the De Noir’s still had stocks). 

Robin did his very best to not remember Loveday, but sometimes - and the mind is funny in this way - memories popped without him meaning to. 

Like in this instance, Loveday turning her nose up at the stew, and eating- 

“I have an alternative.” He said.

Maria had tucked herself away in a dark corner of the dungeon. She had her thighs up to her chest, and her face buried in her knees, and her eyes were not filled with tears, because she cried herself dry. It was nearing nightfall, and she was tired, stressed, hungry, aching in many places that had never ached before, and above all she didn’t want to have to look at Robin ever again. 

So, she didn’t answer what was obviously a cruel and unjust taunt. 

“Strawberries. And mint, as- uh- a garnish.” 

Maria knit her brows together in confusion, and lifted her head just enough to peer out over her folded arms. Robin leaned (not flirting) against the cell and offered a wooden bowl, he adjusted his hold so that she could see the tops of bright red strawberries. 

He tilted his head, his eyes searching hers, his mouth not in a twisted and mocking grin, but a slim line. 

Maria sniffed. “You probably hid the gruel under it.”

“Please, just listen before you pitch another fit? I’m only doing it to shut you up.”

Maria fumed as she shot up off the floor. “Do you have any manners? Or were you raised specifically to be a great, big oaf?” 

Robin scoffed, “You should see yourself, Princess! Insulting our favorite food, that's how you be polite!” 

“There is no way that is anyone's favorite food.” She crossed her arms defiantly. 

“It’s my favorite food.” 

Maria pursed her lips. “You’re lying.”

“Come hold this.” He said, and pushed the bowl through the heart-shaped window. 

Maria rolled her eyes, and compiled before she knew what she was doing. She snatched the bowl away from him, and cocked a brow. “Well?” 

Fortunately, one of the bowls of stew that she had refused (and not thrown) was still by the door. Robin sat down, crossed his legs, and began to eat it. 

Maria bit her tongue, and waited for the moment of utter disgust to cross his features, but it never came. 

“Sit down, Princess, eat.”

Maria clutched the bowl tightly, but then her stomach grumbled in discontent. In defeat, she sat down and put the bowl on her folded legs. She poked around, looking for hidden gruel. “Alright, I suppose I could eat-” But Maria gasped in surprise, for when she looked up, Robin had lifted the bowl to his mouth and was slurping down the final dregs of soup. 

He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand, and her nose scrunched up. 

“That’s appalling!” 

“No, it's good soup. Well, go on.” Robin pointed to her bowl, before leaning back on his hands. 

“My hands are dirty, you don’t potentially have any utensils on you?”

He held up the dirty spoon he had just used. 

Maria’s lips twisted, “Nevermind.” She would forgo etiquette, just for a moment. 

She devoured the strawberries, she had not intended to. She meant to show him up, by eating slowly and delicately, but she was monstrously hungry, and her hands scraped at the empty bowl. 

“Thank you.” She said, because she needed to say it, social convention required it of her, she only hoped she hadn’t been loud enough for him to hear.

“Sorry, what’s that?” Robin held a hand to his ear like an old man. 

She glared at him. “Thank you.”

Robin smirked. “Very kind of you, Princess, it was quite a valiant effort on my part.”

Her glare only hardened. “You’re a kidnapper, any display of basic human kindness is not a valiant effort.” 

Robin shrugged. “We showed you basic human kindness with our People’s Soup, you’re the one who was being fussy, and refused it. I on the other hand, had to go down, pick the strawberries-”

“You did not pick-”

“Yes I did! I went down into the fields, I picked the best ones.” His smile grew wider and wider on his face as hers contorted in disbelief. He, of course, had picked her strawberries. 

Loveday preferred fresh fruits and vegetables, and the Castle garden had since been stocked with her favorites, even after her disownment. (She liked good food, after all.) Strawberries, squash, peas, there was even an apple tree, though they were not ripe yet. If Maria was still there in the autumn, he would pick those for her as well. 

The mint, of course, was not planned, as he was just going to bring her the fresh fruit, but then he saw the herb in the kitchen, and remembered how much Loveday liked the two paired together. Since Maria was a fancy city lady, he was sure she would prefer the pairing as well. 

“I cut off the tops, I chopped the mint, and I got it all prepared, just for you.” Robin wore a pretty self-satisfied smirk, right up to the moment when Maria asked:

“Why?”

Then, the smirk fell. 

This is where silly teenaged emotions, hormones, adolescence, young love, and all that comes in. 

Maria was a pretty little thing, she was feisty, and she had those lovely eyes he couldn’t stop staring at a chapter ago. 

Robin could puff up his chest and lie, to her and himself, about why he did it, and it went something like this: “Can’t have our prisoner die of self-inflicted starvation.” But, in reality, it was because his little heart had begun beating after hers. 

She was hungry, and the strange, irresistible desire to feed her and satisfy her needs, became too great to ignore. 

That was why he had stayed, he could have handed her the bowl and walked away, but his heart needed to see her eat her fill, it could be satisfied no other way.  

He didn’t think about it too much, he simply trusted it. Robin relied heavily on his instincts, and he learned to listen to them well. They didn’t always make sense, but more often than not they rang true. 

But, she had asked “Why?” and now Robin was giving those instincts some thought. 

Why had he gone through so much trouble for a girl who had, one: kicked him in the balls, two: was a De Noir captive, and third: was a Merryweather. 

Who he hated. 

He didn’t know why he hated them, just that he did. As his father hated them, as all De Noirs hated them.

But, he didn’t hate Maria. 

He should have, but he didn’t. 

How could he? Look at her! She was so pretty, and soft, and brave. 

Robin shook his head, collected the bowls, and stood to leave, but Maria called out his name. 

“Robin, wait.” She rose up onto her knees, and had wrapped her hands around the bars. “You- in the forest, you were going to tell me about the Moon Princess. I- I still don’t know what that is.”

Robin looked over his shoulder, down the empty hall (evacuated, because of Maria’s shrill dismissal of the People’s Soup) and sighed. He plopped back down and put the bowls aside. 

Maria settled back down on her folded legs, and clasped her hands in her lap, before looking at him expectantly. 

How did Loveday tell it? That was his favorite version. 

“Well, a long time ago, the De Noirs-” He pointed to himself. “- and the Merryweathers -” and to her. “- lived in peace. And Moonacre Valley was magical I think? Anyway, there was a girl, who was pure-hearted, and good, and brave. Nature loved her like a daughter-? No, the Moon?”

Maria’s brows knit together, he wasn’t the best story teller, but they couldn’t go and find someone better, that was for sure. Maria did her best to control her stupefied expression, and nodded for him to continue. 

“Yeah, I think the Moon. So the Moon gave her these magic pearls, that could… grant…?”

“Wishes?” Maria supplied, trying to be helpful. 

“Of course, but I think there was a limit?”

“That’s djinn.” 

Robin scrunched his face up, “I think I’m getting it mixed up.”

“That’s alright. So this woman was the Moon Princess?” 

“Yeah, but so are you.”

Maria blinked. “Am I her granddaughter?”

“No, she was a member- let me just, finish, I think it’ll come together.”

Maria bit her lip, and nodded, but very much doubted that it would ‘come together.’

“So, the Moon Princess was in love with a Merryweather, and on the day of her wedding, they were exchanging dowries- I think the Merryweaher gave a Unicorn to William De Noir, in exchange for her hand in marriage.” 

“A Unicorn?” Maria refused to believe this story was legitimate in any way. 

Robin pressed his lips together and raised his arms in a I-don’t-know gesture. “That’s the story!” 

“Well, its terrible! This a fairy tale! You’ve kidnapped me because you believe in a fairy tale!” Her hands fisted into her skirt. 

“It’s not a fairytale! It’s the history of Moonacre!” 

Maria lifted herself up onto her knees to glare down at him. “You’re all insane!”

But two could play at that game. Robin scrambled to his knees, reclaiming the advantage of height. “Would you listen, Maria! I haven’t even finished! There’s still more.” 

Maria crossed her arms, but he was doing that thing with his eyes again (he wasn’t actually doing anything with his eyes, his heart was simply begging her to listen, and that resulted in his eyes softening, just a bit). Maria was finding it harder and harder to remain strong and stubborn. She huffed and turned her glare to the floor. “Explain it well and fast.” 

“At the wedding, her father, William De Noir, and the Merryweather began to fight over the pearls; they each wanted to use their power to rule over the Valley.”

“That I can believe.” Maria snarked under the breath, but Robin caught it, and laughed.

“So, instead the Princess cast a curse over the Valley. At the 5000th Moon, those guilty would suffer the consequences, and be destroyed.” 

Maria crossed her arms as she considered the words.

“But, one day a girl with a pure heart would enter Moonacre, and break the curse, freeing all from punishment.” 

When Maria’s gaze rose, Robin’s head was tilted towards hers, trying to find her eyes. “Me?”

He nodded. “You.” 

Maria still thought he was crazy (and the rest of the De Noirs), it was clear he believed his delusions, but that didn’t mean she had to. “You don’t want the curse broken?”

Robin shrugged, “Father says the curse will bring an end to the Merryweathers. That, after the 5000th Moon, we’ll have the Valley.” 

“The Valley that’s going to be destroyed?” 

“Were you listening? Only those guilty will get destroyed.” 

Maria shook her head, how dense could this boy’s skull be? “Are you not guilty?” 

“No! Of course not! I didn’t scorn Nature!” 

“Why should that matter?” 

“Because- that’s the reason she curses them! Because they were greedy and power-hungry-“

She lifted a brow. “And you’re not?”

“Well- we’re not- I mean-” 

“Oh, I see, that explains it! Very well then, I’m perfectly content in my nice, cozy cell, and you can all watch the Valley being decimated!” 

He scoffed. “Don’t you understand?”

“I understand perfectly! Two families both alike in dignity! From ancient grudge break new mutiny! Oh!” She pressed her finger tips to her temple. “This is ridiculous, and I would like to leave!”

“I’m sure you would. My father will release you after the 5000th Moon-”

“After the curse takes place and everything you love is gone?” 

A heated argument can make or break a lot of people. Some can’t stand the fighting, and when it becomes too much, they leave. Others enjoy the passion, the pounding hearts, and the quick-witted tongues. It is possible to have a disagreement without arming one’s self, but humans are fickle, and stupid, and tend to rise up in defense of themselves without keeping calm. 

In Maria’s life, most people didn’t disagree with her. She was a Lady, most people listened to what she said, and answered in a polite “yes ma’am” or “I can see your point, my lady”, no matter their feelings or opinions on the matter. Ms. Heliotrope was really the only person who told her she was wrong, and while Maria had tried to argue with her, that usually didn’t turn up in her favor. 

“No, Maria!” 

“But-”

“Maria, go put that down! It belongs outside!” 

“But-”

“Now!” 

And that was the end of disagreements between herself and Ms. Heliotrope. 

In Robin’s life, the opposite was true. Most of the time, people were telling him what to do, and arguing or talking back, resulted in a quick smack upside his head. In an environment such as this, one learns to keep one’s mouth shut. In his group of friends, he wasn’t the ‘leader’ but they deferred to him. For instruction, what they were going to do that day, etc, etc, because he was the Coeur’s son, and would be the next Coeur soon. 

And, if they did disagree with him, they usually did so with the intention of getting a rise out of him. 

Maria was making sense, but it also went against what he had been raised to believe his entire life. 

Robin was not making sense, but he had such conviction, Maria felt a certain amount of pity for him. 

“Robin, please, how is the curse coming to fruition good for anyone?” Maria looked at him through the bars, they were quite close, though neither had come to realize it just yet. As they argued, they had scooted incrementally closer to one another until the only thing that truly separated them was the cell door. “You’ve kidnapped me because of my name, and my name alone?”

“You’re the Moon Princess.” 

 “I’m a Merryweather! First and foremost! You’ve stolen me from my coach because of that fact! How do you know I am the Moon Princess? Could it not be another De Noir girl? Why is it me?”

“The Moon Princess is always born to one of the families, the last Moon Princess-” Robin looked back over his shoulder, double checking no one was there, before he whipped his head back around to face her. Only, now he had broken the spell, and he saw how close she was to him. Close enough that if he wanted to, he could reach between the bars, grab her face, and- Robin shook his head. Silly, teenaged hormones. “Was my sister, Loveday.”

“Did she die?” 

Robin wasn’t sure how to answer. When someone was dead to you, that didn’t mean they were no longer breathing, but to admit, after all this time, that she was alive and out there somewhere in the world? Rejected not only by her family, but the man she loved? 

“I don’t know. But that doesn’t matter, what does is you’re here now, and you’re the Moon Princess. It’s not Loveday anymore, so it has to be you.”

Maria tilted her head. “You truly think that?” 

“Of course.”

“Well, I don’t! So, you should let me out, because I’m certainly not going to go running around in a bizarre attempt to break a fake curse!”

 Robin chuckled. “Why don’t we settle it this way? You stay here until the 5000th Moon, whether or not the curse takes place, and then we’ll let you go?”

“You were going to do that anyway!” She craned her head further. 

“Trust me, Princess, this is the best thing for you.” 

Maria pouted. “When is the 5000th Moon?”

“Beginning of August.”

“You’d have me stay in this cell for a month!” She looked back over her shoulder in disgust. “There’s not even a bed.” 

She was right, although it depended on how you defined the word “bed”. There was hay on the floor, and she could have made her “bed” out of that, but that wasn’t how Maria defined “bed”. 

This of course, fired up that strange and irresistible desire within Robin to meet her needs and see to her satisfaction. But there was a difference between strawberries and a whole room.

He could get her strawberries, he very much doubted whether or not he could get her a whole room to herself.

Of course… 

There was Loveday’s room…

Completely unused…

Untouched…

Unvisited…

He was going crazy, he was going insane, he was losing his mind, and all over some stupid, insolent girl, with the loveliest eyes he was, at the moment, getting lost in. 

“Goddamnit-” He muttered before rising up and walking away from her. He dug his hands into his hair, and kicked the two bowls as he passed. 

The cell door rattled, and he could imagine her pretty face peering out through the heart shaped hole. 

“Just… just wait, okay?” He threw his hands up, and chuffed as he walked away before she could convince him to do anything else. 

But, as he walked out into the fading sun, and across the rickety bridge, he saw a stern-looking man dismounting a chestnut stallion, demanding to speak with the Coeur. 

Robin had never seen Sir Benjamin, but there was no doubt in his mind that that was who stood in their courtyard.

That had been the worst year of his life. Loveday had been disowned, and Robin’s not-yet-seven-year-old heart broke. Robin did not know his mother, she had died in childbirth, but he had known Loveday. She had raised him, and loved him more than he deserved to be loved. His father disowned her, and forbade all of the De Noir Clan from speaking her name. It was more than he could understand at the time. 

But, the day of their nuptials came, and… well, Sir Benjamin had scorned Loveday. 

No one knew the whole truth, but they did know that they had not gotten married that day. 

The Coeur’s spies came to report that Sir Benjamin was scouring the woods for her. 

The Coeur had laughed, half in pride, half in cruelty. “Serves him right for trying to take my daughter! She knows the forest too well, she’ll stay hidden as long as she wants to stay hidden!”

So, Sir Benjamin was the man who had stolen Loveday from him, and the man who had broken her heart. And his heart, subsequently. 

Maybe hatred towards the Merryweather’s was based on nothing but blind hatred, but hatred towards Sir Benjamin was well deserved. 

“Merryweather!” His father shouted from the ramparts. He came down the wooden steps, and gave Sir Benjamin a victorious smile. “To what do we have the honor?”

“Coeur De Noir! If you have laid a hand on her I’ll-” But Sir Benjamin didn’t speak another word as he launched himself at the Coeur.

He was quickly restrained, and the Coeur was not touched. 

“Who?” 

“My niece! Maria Merryweather!”

The Coeur lifted a confused brow. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken! I didn’t even know you had a niece.”

Several of the guards that surrounded them laughed stupidly. 

“Shut up.” Robin grit out, despite being too far away for anyone to hear.

“My coach was attacked this morning! It was carrying my niece to me! I would like her returned.” 

Robin crossed his arms, not liking the man for a second. Who was he to demand Maria? 

(Her Uncle, for one.) 

“I do apologize, Merryweather!” The Couer’s eyes flashed to Robin’s, and he straightened, not misunderstanding the order. “She is not here, if you would like, you can look around-”

Robin ran back into the tower and down the hall. “Maria!”

Maria appeared in the heart-shaped window, and lifted a single brow in response.

“You wanted a different room? C’mon.” Robin knelt down by the lock and began to pick it, his skills nowhere near matched Richard’s, but he was second best. 

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t have keys, those are with the guard.” 

“Are- are you breaking me out?”

Robin paused, in truth, he did want to break her out, take her to a place she would be safe, never to be found by his father or her uncle, but that would be treason. And there were some rules you just did not break. 

Betraying his father was one of those rules.

“I’m moving you, whether or not anyone knows about it however…” The door unbolted and he rose to his feet as he swung it open, “Do I need to tie you up again, or can I trust you?” 

“You probably shouldn’t trust me, but I would rather not be tied up.” Her hands rubbed her wrists, and he could see the red marks left by the rope. 

“I could carry you ag-”

“I would rather not.” 

“Well, then…” Robin looked down at his feet, trying to think, when the red of his scarf caught his eye. “That’ll work.”

 “What?”

Robin pulled the scarf off his neck before taking her wrists and binding them together. “How’s that?”

Maria glared at him so strongly, he was sure she had the full force of the sun radiating in her eyes. He smothered a laugh before pulling her along. 

They went down, rather than across the rickety bridge, and into the old De Noir tunnels. 

They zigzagged beneath the castle like a maze, and led to a variety of places. Castle Black was, after all, a fortress, and it did no good if there were not a few easy escape routes handy. 

For the boys, it always resulted in summers full of exploring the tunnels, knowing exactly where they lead, the myriad of paths one could take to get to the kitchen, or the forest, or the village of Lamour. All that experience meant Robin could lead her anywhere inside of the Castle. 

While his father probably intended for him to just hide Maria, Robin thought this was an easy solution to her complaints. 

“It's dark.” Not that he could solve every complaint. “Robin, I can’t see!” 

“Trust me, I know where I’m going.” He did, but his hand was upon the wall, and he was able to feel where he was going, Maria on the other hand could not. 

She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but she was afraid of falling on her face because she tripped over a damned rock because she couldn’t see! 

“Alright.” Robin turned and took hold of her shoulders. She jumped in surprise, but this time his hands were gentle, and they did not stab into her. Their only intention was to stop her, and perhaps to comfort her, but that was beside the point. “Just wait right here.”

Then, he disappeared.

In the pitch black, Maria did not see him at all, and she could not hear him at all, he had simply let go, and this was perhaps worse than falling flat on her face and breaking her nose. He had abandoned her, and was going to leave her down here to rot! 

She never should have said anything! At least her cell had sunlight, and air, oh god, how much air was in underground tunnels?  

She was hyperventilating, she was trembling, she couldn’t move. “R-Robin?”

Robin hadn’t abandoned her, but two feet ahead of them was a tall ladder that - he hoped - would lead to Loveday’s old room. This one, or the next one. And as he climbed, he didn’t hear Maria’s pathetic mewling. He got higher and higher, until he reached out and pulled on a horse head lever that would open the door. 

He blinked at the light, and allowed his eyes to adjust before he immediately sneezed. 

“Argh!” He sniffed and looked around the dust covered room, yep, Loveday’s room. It was in much worse shape than he had remembered, but it would do, and it had a bed, so it was better than the cell. Ha ha!

Robin began to descend, and small hiccupping cries met his ears when he got close enough to hear. 

“Maria? Maria!” He jumped down the last few rungs, and stretched out his arms to find her in the blackness. His hands bumped against her and he took hold of her arms. “What’s wrong?”

“What- what's wrong!” Her voice high and shrill and watery. 

Robin flinched. 

“What do you think is wrong! This has been the worst day of my life-” She choked on her words and took a few stuttering breaths. “How was I to know if you would come back at all? Or if you planned o-on leaving me here! In an oubliette!” 

Then, Robin had another memory of Loveday pop into his head.

He was young, the memory blurred around the edges, but there were two things of utmost importance. The first being that Robin had been injured, and was bawling. 

The second, that Loveday had pulled him into her lap, stroked his hair, and held him until he stopped crying. 

But then another memory came, this one after Loveday had left, he had fallen from a tree, he was a blubbering mess as he approached his father. But the Coeur De Noir only sneered at him and told him to get a hold of himself. 

The words, get a hold of yourself, almost passed over his lips, but as Maria continued to shake and cry, he couldn’t help but feel that that would only make it worse. 

So he took the Loveday approach. 

Using his pre-established grip, he pulled her into him, cupped the back of her head and pressed her face into his chest, and wrapped his hand around her back. 

Maria stopped crying instantly, not because she was being comforted, but just at the surreality of the situation. 

“I-”

“You can let go now, Robin. I apologize for losing my composure.” 

And he did, he stepped away and held his hands behind his back. “I didn’t mean to make you think I was leaving you behind.”

Maria sniffled and nodded, “That’s all well.”

“There’s a ladder two feet in front of you, it will go up to a room.”

Robin took her by her wrists and led her to the ladder, when she knew where it was, he removed the scarf, so she could use her hands. 

“I’ll go ahead of you so I can pull you out.”

Maria scoffed. “Fine.”

Maria did not relinquish her grip on the ladder, too afraid she wouldn’t find it again, but stepped aside so Robin could go up first. She waited a few moments, and began to climb herself. 

When Robin reached the door at the top of the ladder, light streamed down through the tunnel, and Maria winced at the brightness. 

“Come along.” He said, kneeling on the floor and offering his hand. 

Maria rolled her eyes, but kept climbing until her head poked into the very dusty room. She looked around in disgust. “This is almost worse.” Her footsteps disturbed the dust, and it rose in clouds around her, making her sneeze. “My goodness! How do you expect me to stay here?” 

“I could take you back.”

Maria pursed her lips, because she knew this was the better option. “No, thank you.”

Robin left through the trapdoor down the ladder, and the door shut, disappearing into the floor, as if there never had been a secret entrance there. 

Maria ran to the door and pulled on the handle, but of course, it was locked. She ran to the slim window, and looked out, but all she could see was the darkening horizon, and the dim stars that were beginning to twinkle. 

Maria turned down the bed, but it too was more dust than bedding, and Maria almost couldn’t bear to sleep there. 

Almost.

When she woke the next morning, there was another bowl of strawberries and mint on the floor. 

#tsom #the secret of moonacre #moonacreweek2023 #strawberries and mint #i love these so much so far! #I only have three written tho so imma have to book it

[tgammsideblog]

Tgamm S1 Ep 16-A ¨Citizen Mcgee¨ Episode Analysis

Molly gets elected to be Brighton’s mayor for a day while the actual mayor Brunson takes the day away. At first Molly believes that running the city shouldn’t be a problem until she starts to realize that it isn’t as easy as it looks...

Episode writer: Peter Limm

Sometimes passion alone isn’t enough, it takes a lot of time and patience to master a certain subject. A person is going to make a lot of mistakes along the way until they are able to get things right. This is something that Molly learns the hard way when she has to be Brighton’s mayor for a day.

The thing is that Molly is a clever enthusiastic girl with tons of ideas and she really wants to help her community, but, she is still a teen, and because of that she doesn’t have the enough experience to make the most appropriate decisions. There is a point in the episode she changes her clothers to a blazer, giving her a more ¨mature serious¨ presentation. She believes that she needs to look like a grown up to act like one despite not knowing how to handle political issues.

What it is kind of refreshing is that Molly doesn’t abuse her temporal position to get what she wants. Since she is someone who wants to help others, she takes the day as an opportunity to ¨enhappify¨ the city, which it does gets positive results... at first.

The other part of story involves Stewey Brunson, who feels like he can’t handle the pressure of being a mayor and that he can’t measure up to his ancenstors who were Brighton mayors too. He expresses having lost his passion to run the town and the reason he is making a ¨mayor for a day¨ event to take a day off from his duties. There is a memorable shot when Stewey is talking about his family and the camera focus on the photos from past mayors hanging on the wall, like they are always watching him. He says that every time he looks at those photos, he feels all this high expectations to be like them.

In a way, it’s hard to not sympathize with Stewey’s situation. After all, he only was taking a day off, it’s not like he was planning on making Molly a mayor forever. It’s understandable that a person would loose their passion on their work after working for so many years in the same job.

While the conflict isn’t centered around them, Scratch and Darryl provide some funny moments in this episode, such as Darryl stealing the things he finds in the mayor´s office. They complement well with Molly, giving her bad advice or helping her dealing with the crisis later in the story.

When the protagonists find out that the slide covered with syrup ends up attracting many horseflies and causes an invasion in the city, Molly and Scratch decide to look for Mr.Brunson to help them. It doesn’t take long before they find him in the park, hiding behind his cotton candy stand. To persuade him into returning to his mayor position, the duo calls for the previous Brunsons (who are ghosts) to help him.

The song sequence that plays next is one of the most beautiful songs of the season. The Brunson family tells Stewey how proud they are of his work and carrying the legacy of his family. The music clearly takes inspiration from old movies such as ¨Grease¨. It’s a very nice sequence that shows how much the Brunsons care about Stew.

With his confidence back, Stewey (thinking it was all a dream) helps with getting rid of the horseflies decides to go back to his place as a mayor. Molly apologizes for the mess she caused but before she leaves, Stew has a short talk with Molly about how he is the last of the Brunson family and he suggests that Molly could be his successor when she gains more experience as an adult. It’s a nice scene since Stew knows Molly has the passion and personality to be a leader.

In all, ¨Citizen Mcgee¨ is a great episode which teaches a good lesson that is a bit rare to see. A person who is new in leadership isn’t going to have all the answers right away, it takes years to become a good leader. I appreciate this episode developing Stewey’s character and his family and introduccing a bit of a role model for Molly if she wants to become a mayor when she grows up.

#The Ghost And Molly McGee #tgamm #Tgamm citizen mcgee #Tgamm episode analysis #molly mcgee #Tgamm brunson #scratch mcgee #darryl mcgee #tgamm season 1

[legend-collection]

Saci

Saci is a character in Brazilian folklore. He is a one-legged black man, who smokes a pipe and wears a magical red cap that enables him to disappear and reappear wherever he wishes (usually in the middle of a Dirt devil). Considered an annoying prankster in most parts of Brazil, and a potentially dangerous and malicious creature in others, he nevertheless grants wishes to anyone who manages to trap him or steal his magic cap. However, his cap is often depicted as having a bad smell. Most people who claimed to have stolen this cap say they can never wash the smell away.

Pic by Juliane Prenhacca Juneru

The legend says that a person can trap a Saci inside a bottle when he is in the form of a dust devil.

There are several variants of the myth, including: Saci-pererê, black as coal; Saci-trique, bi-racial and more benign; Saci-saçurá, with red eyes.

An incorrigible prankster, the Saci causes no major harm, but there is no little harm that he won't do. He hides children's toys, sets farm animals loose, teases dogs—and curses chicken eggs, preventing them from hatching. In the kitchen, the Saci spills salt, sours the milk, burns the bean stew, and drops flies into the soup.

If a popcorn kernel fails to pop, it is because the Saci cursed it. Given half a chance, he dulls the seamstress's needles, hides her thimbles, and tangles her sewing threads. If he sees a nail lying on the ground, he turns the point up. In short, people blame anything that goes wrong—in or outside the house—on the Saci.

Besides disappearing or becoming invisible (often with only his red cap and the red glow of his pipe still showing), the Saci can transform himself into a Matitaperê or Matita Pereira, an elusive bird whose melancholic song seems to come from nowhere. One can escape a pursuing Saci by crossing a water stream. The Saci dares not cross, for then he loses all his powers. Another way is to drop ropes full of knots. The Saci is compelled to stop and undo the knots. One can also try to appease him by leaving behind some cachaça, or some tobacco for his pipe.

He is fond of juggling embers or other small objects and letting them fall through the holes on his palms. An exceedingly nimble fellow, the lack of his right leg does not prevent him from bareback-riding a horse, and sitting cross-legged while puffing on his pipe (a feat comparable to the Headless Mule's gushing fire from the nostrils).

Every dust devil, says the legend, is caused by the spin-dance of an invisible Saci. One can capture him by throwing into the dust devil a rosary made of separately blessed prayer beads, or by pouncing on it with a sieve. With care, the captured Saci can be coaxed to enter a dark glass bottle, where he can be imprisoned by a cork with a cross marked on it. He can also be enslaved by stealing his cap, which is the source of his power. However, depending on the treatment he gets from his master, an enslaved Saci who regains his freedom may become either a trustworthy guardian and friend, or a devious and terrible enemy.

While some claim that the Saci myth originated in Europe in the 13th century such as the monopod, it probably derives from the Ŷaci-ŷaterê of Tupi-Guarani mythology, a magic one-legged child with bright red hair who would spell-bind people and break the forest's silence with his loud shouts and whistles. He was originally a creature of the night, and indeed the ŷaci (jaˈsi) means "Moon" in Old Tupi.

This indigenous character was appropriated and transformed in the 18th century by the African slaves who had been brought in large numbers to Brazil. Farm slaves would tell Saci stories to amuse and frighten the children. In this process the creature became black, his red hair metamorphosed into a red cap, and, as the African elders who usually told the tales, he came to be always smoking his clay-and-reed pipe. His name mutated into various forms, such as Saci Taperê and Sá Pereira (a common Portuguese name), and eventually Saci Pererê.

His red cap may have been inspired on the Trasgo, a mythical Portuguese creature with the exact same powers as the Saci. The Saci-Pererê concept shows some syncretism with Christian elements: he bolts away when faced with crosses, leaving behind a sulphurous smell – classical attributes of the devil in Christian folklore.

The concepts of imprisoning a supernatural being in a bottle by a magically marked cork, and of forcing him to grant wishes in return of his liberty, have obvious parallels in the story of Aladdin from the Arabian Nights. This may be more than just a coincidence, since some slaves were Muslims and thus presumably familiar with the Arabian tales. Moreover, the occupation of parts of the Portuguese territory (namely in the south) by the Muslim Moors, between the years 711 and 1249, provides another possible path for Arabian influence on the Saci legend.

#saci #brazil #south america #Youtube

[hawkland]

Art Masterpost: God of the Hunt Story by RogueTranslator Illustrations by sidewinder ( @hawkland​)

Dean:

Castiel:

Balthazar’s banquet:

A Map of Esos:

Castiel’s Grotto - cropped version for Tumblr:

Full version — to see a bit more of Cas ;) — here

I feel as though fate surely had a hand in bringing this collaboration together for the @destielscififantasybang​, and I’ve just been so excited to share this art, and for everyone else to get to read RogueTranslator’s wonderful story, God of the Hunt.

When I saw the summary for this fic during art claims, my brain immediately started chanting, “Gimme gimme gimme!” I loved the idea of a Dean/Cas story in a mythological setting, drawing inspiration from various historical periods and cultures, and I really wanted to do art that would reflect those influences as best as I could. 

If you want to read more about my process here, and the inspiration & planning that went into these works, there’s a lot more of my babbling about all of that behind the cut. If not, just go read the story, please, and come back later if you wish.

I took my primary inspiration for these pieces from ancient Roman wall paintings and frescoes, which have fascinated me since first visiting Campania (Pompeii, Herculaneum, Naples) some years back. I even tried to use a limited watercolor palette to mimic the pigments found in Roman wall paintings: hematite, terre verte (green earth), yellow ochre, red ochre, cinnabar, lamp black, lapis lazuli (instead of Egyptian blue), and crimson lake (instead of red lake). The only piece I added any other color to was the landscape painting of Castiel’s grotto, as it just didn’t look the way I wanted without a little more of an acidy, yellow-green for the foliage.

The tondo-style portraits of Cas and Dean were the first pieces I did for this bang. I was especially inspired by these fresco portraits from Pompeii with their blue backgrounds and circular design, but I wanted to add in Cas surrounded by the strawberry trees of the Virgin Grove and Dean with his floral crown of rainbow tulips and white poppies. Finding a couple reference pictures of young Jensen that captured his character the way I saw him took a little while, but I really love the way he came out.

Balthazar’s banquet feast was a lot of fun to paint. I took the food and drink items mentioned in the story and tried to add in other delicacies that would seem appropriate, using reference articles on how the ancient Romans used to eat. So there’s cornmeal with anchovies, stewed beans, roast meats and chestnuts, honey fritters and fruit bread, along with olives, figs and fresh pomegranates.

For Castiel’s grotto, I used photos I took in 2017 of the fountains at the Royal Palace of Caserta as reference & inspiration. Cas himself is based on this hunk of a statue. The background comes from the waterfalls at the fountain of Diana and Actaeon...which ties into RogueTranslator’s story, actually, quite perfectly.

The geography of the map of Esos was designed by RogueTranslator; I took his general plan and tried to make it look like an old and weathered document. It was my first time trying to do a “Fantasy Map” and yet another fun challenge of this bang collaboration. 

#my art #sidewinder art #destielscififantasybang #watercolor painting #destiel #destiel au #castiel #dean winchester #art masterpost #fantasy art #portraiture #floralnatural #traditional art #fantasy map

[tricksterfiction]

Prompt #29 Contravention

Qaro'a appears first over here! Once Bitten, Twice Shy Part 2 CW: Blood, Somewhat Graphic Descriptions. Below Read More.

Savior Complex - Phoebe Bridgers

Sen scribbled some inventory notes, dabbing an inkwell, then tracing down a ledger. Her hair tied up in a ponytail, old bluerose tucked in above her horn, and she wore a pale teal shirt with suspenders and gray skirt. The lights were turned down, Gaelicat's Rest was quiet. She was surrounded by tall stacked bookcases of reference material new and old, anything she could get her hands on. Beyond the partitions lied the beds of the ward, empty this eve. Bright white sheets tucked tightly, not yet heavily stained.

Sen had insisted the Rest was missing an important space for medical care and injury especially now that it's masters had returned and opened the doors of the spa for weekly afternoon teas and welcomed guests to relax with food and cheer on the weekends. Attracting casual patrons and adventurers alike.

She had settled into her red mage boots enough to provide appropriate care, not discounting her years and years of practical medicine on top of it. It was strange being referred to as the head medic, having taken initiative and filling an empty spot.

She thought about heading out to get another bowl of stew, when there was light taps on the door. She almost thought she hadn't heard it. She looked to the chronometer with a squint, it was past her normal bedtime but not all that late for someone to come stumbling in bleeding.

"Come in," She called, there was more tapping, fainter. She felt a chill roll down the length of her spine. She had checked the wards only a few days ago. Who could blame the raen being on edge after dealing with a necromancer for months now? She licked her lips, leaning down to grab her focus to toss it up in the air - hand wrapping around the handle of the rapier. She stood from her desk, boot heels clicking across the tile cautiously approaching the door.

Turning the knob and the door pushed open forcing her back. Her rapier clattering to the ground. Stumbling in over the threshold was Qaor'a. His silvery hair a mess, fresh blood down the side of his temple, he clutched his cane close to his body - what she assumed had kept him up long enough to make it here in the first place. Carrying deep gauges across his body, presumably the work of a beast. His head lulled pressing into the frame, he was barely conscious.

He panted a desperate whimper, "H-help."

Sen automatically caught the miqo'te, carefully scooping under his arm to guide him to a bed.

"What the fuck Qaor'a..." She muttered, gently raising his arm down by his body gingerly lifting his Hearer's uniform purple robes. In a moment she was up again, calm and cool. There would be questions once she saved his life.

Sen quickly tied a starch white apron about her waist, washed her hands, pulled on gloves. Reaching into the potion cabinet to pull out something quick to stymie the bleeding first. Her focus following behind her.

Sen uncorked the bottle, supporting his head while she tipped the contents down ensuring he swallowed before she placed his head back down. Tugging a table with sterilized tools, she snipped open his robes, what was left of them from being torn. Peeling the blood soaked threads away. His breath was ragged.

She quickly examined what she saw, the most egregious wounds were over his abdomen and chest but as she went over the length of his body she discovered his leg had been torn up as well, the artery aetherically clotted and in a delicate state ready to rip open again. Blood leaked from his temples, and blood was dripping down from his nose.

Qaro'a's silvery eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness.

She had pulled a bottle of cheap ether for herself quickly downing that. It had aromatic notes of glue.

Sen took a deep breath and began to work.

The focus glowed a bright clear red bobbing as it slowly turned in a circle, light green aether poured out of it in a misty healing hue. The air cooled gently as Sen poured over her patient. Aetherically stymied the flow of blood from every wound she found, working in tandem with the potion as it flowed it's way through his body. She lightly dulled the pain as best as she could but it would have been too great of a expenditure of energy to fully commit.

Carefully she disinfected each wound, one sopping cotton pad after the other. Slowly adding to a growing pile at the bedside steel bowl. Cleaning blood from his face, his eyes, and with it started a pile of bloody towels.

He groaned, teeth baring. Fists full of sheets, crying out in pain. A conjurer's tolerance for pain being incredibly low. Still, Sen sympathized. It wasn't their job to get hurt. The pain would keep him awake.

She measured out arm lengths of thread, correctly eye balled the amount she'd need for each section. Sen pinched delicately, effortlessly pulled thread through flesh - neatly closing each injury seamlessly.

It was at least over a bell by the time Sen pulled the hooked needle on the final stitch. Sweat beaded freely at her forehead, she was panting with exertion. She leaned back, using a towel to dab herself dry.

"E-e-xhausted al-already?" He croaked, apparently still had enough energy to sass her. He smiled weakly, "Path-pathetic."

"I beg your fucking pardon." She laughed, shaking her head. She sipped from a water skin taking a small break now that he had stopped bleeding.

She stood up from her stool, stripping the bloody gloves, pulling on new ones. Expending the last little bit of energy she had to continue to dull the pain as she worked around him to prepare for the evening to sleep. Finally softening the wounds with salve before wrapping them with bandage. Neat and tidy.

Laying his cane beside the bed, it hummed distantly in her hand - it was both familiar...and it sang a sour note. She hesitated by it, her brow furrowed with concern. Setting up an iv of fluids for the night, he'd need it after all the blood loss, aether depletion, and potentially an upset stomach by the time morning arrived.

She sighed checking the chronometer, she'd have to monitor him for the next few bells.

He slowly rolled his head to follow her as she moved, catching her thinking, "Sen."

She bent down to listen, reassuring him, "We can talk in the morning, so don't worry. You'll be safe."

"I fucked up." He strained, but his eyelids were heavy. "That's why I'm here." His lip quivered, hand reaching out. "I'm begging you, d-don't tell anyone I'm here."

She caught it, "I promise, now please rest." Leaning over to press a light kiss to his forehead, his eyes fluttered shut.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #writing prompt #prompt 29 #late entry #Contravention #the contravention is implied

[christinedaaeunofficial]

suffering bpd and having any sort of relationship, be it friend or lover, with a person that let all attempts to reach out to them fall to the wayside after a while is. agony. it is already so very difficult only functioning on a day to day basis. it is already so hard not relapsing in old, dysfunctional behaviors. it is already so hard attempting to be human when you have never been treated thusly before. but then, when you attempt to - perhaps desperately - use the communicative tools that had been given to you and that person just. doesn't respond.

it feels like swallowing acid. it feels like burning and sizzling and agony and sorrow but it is not appropriate to blow up as you do, with your nitroglycerin emotions. so you burn in silence.

and you try again and again, perhaps too much in your endeavors, to reach out, saying to yourself, they must be busy. they must be preoccupied. they must. they must. they must.

they are not entitled to respond to you.

and you bitterly swallow that pill that you have always known though you don't know where you stand, now. you don't want to open up another dialogue that will either be ignored or misconstrued for manipulation, as you are so often framed for.

and so you stew. and you ache. and the burning lights that fuse inside and you blow up; you cut everyone off for everything ever and you see shapes in the blinding explosion that you can't tell are real or fake and in the ash and soot. finally. when the ringing in your ears has finally stopped.

you are so disappointed in yourself for having done it again. being in a relationship, be it friend or lover, with you is hard. because of this exactly. and perhaps that is why your friends are fairweather. and you have always known this. and you bitterly swallow that pill. and it burns. and it aches. and you loathe to think when it will inevitably happen again. and you loathe to think. and you loathe yourself the very most.

#spooky speaks #spooky sulks #bpd #borderline personality disorder

[voidsentprinces]

Danse Macabre

What a glorious spectacle! What a wondrous sight of gold, white, silver, and silks. Meshing among the others like a fine royal blend! What a triumph! What a celebration! The room opened wide in anticipation of its guests, a great theater hall set aside for such the occasion. And what an occasion it was, the job well done. A heist well plundered. Now those who would be named thieves mingled with those who one could only describe as nobility, as royalty, as the rich. Their bellies fastened by their dress shirts and overalls. Their bosoms on display from corsets and dress tops. The curtains and banners hung with equal importance!

A flurry of gallantry, of magnificence. A masquerade among the joyous and sinister. A parade to fill the senses and blind the eyes. All metallic objects and colors ranged fully. Bronze with rouge, silver with blues, gold with beige. An absolute revelry there that can only collasce among the finest and highest of houses, there could be no doubt. Each moment a delight for the senses.

And what sense to delight! The wine flowed freely, to inebrate and loosen the tongue. The finely fermented grapes only from a vine of the highest order. Causing gaffaws and jovial laughter among its partakers. The savory delights of roasts, hamhocks, winter stews, spring greens, summer fruits, and autumn produce. All on full display, a buffet of the highest order. Parfaits, sponge cakes, pies, cookies, biscuits, pastries all a cornucopia of rainbowlic splendor. Each bite jolting the senses from tooth to gum from gum to throat from throat to stomach.

The meats a spice and tender affair. Beef falling from the bone, stew thick as paste but consistency of broth! The poultry stuffed with nut, vegetable, and slices of even finer meat! A splendidly polished set of silverware gleamed welcoming besides them. Grab a plate, take a bit, or three, or four, or eighty. Stuff yourself until your fill to your gills and your gut bursts. Gluttonously fall upon this feast! Oh what a wonderful experience indeed it was! And that was just for taste and sight! My, my!

The air was thick with the scent of delightful cedarwood, mixing with frankincense, lavender, and rosewater. Such a suffocating, more fog than oxygen one would wager. But none dare open a window for it was the very air penetrating nostril and filling lungs that allow such other actions as smoking cigar without fear of ruining the mood. And so it was and shall ever the mixture of scents fighting appropriate a war for the space of lungs.

And the sounds! THE SOUNDS! Above the chatter, the gossip, the rumor mongering, the exchanging of information, cards, photos, numbers, names, organizations and, of course, deeds done in service of such things. A grand band finished its first sixteen minute piece of music! The crowd applauded, cheered, whistled, and rose a toast to the orchestral ensemble. Flutes, violin bows, clarinets, and the hands of harpists waving in reaction.

A great boar of man turning to a far thinner, far fitter, and far younger converser, his voice booming with joy, “Aye, I say I never doubted you for a second lad! Didn’t I?” He man moved and nodded towards a deeply serious man who had more in common with a weasel in features than a human. His eyes burned with resentment but his demeanor didn’t shift an inch. The boar of a man ignored the look of hatred as he turned to show of the man of the hour, “No vault stands in his way, I say, and then pin prick offered up doubts and jeers of the more insincere manners. But you and yours found a way, didn’t you lad!” His great meat hand slapped the younger man on the shoulder.

He could only wheeze out in response, it was the seventeenth one that evening. One would think he would of build a tolerance, but the old boar was a boxer in his age and those hands of his lost none of the strength in the following years. Catching his breath among, the dense fog of perfumed air, he was able to gather strength and proceed with conversation.

“By all means, my lord. The marquis had every right to deny us a boon. The vault you set us on was no easy fix. I hadn’t seen something so ancient nor devices so well entrenched.” He gave half smile but gave a shrug, “However, we proved more than a match for that. So I shall welcome any praise from previous onlookers all the same!” He nodded his head toward the Marquis, whose already narrow eyes, somehow narrowed even further without closing completely.

“Right joke that is,” Swaggered with a red bearded individual. His dress suit not as proper as the other man’s. Somewhat ragged and ill fitting while also having no few number of wine stains on it. His speech slurring appropriately to match such a look, “The vault nearly took ya head off, boss. Would of been lucky if he made it out with his arse in tact.” The man let out a loud laughter that their boar sized employee responded with a great guffaw of glee.

“DID HE NOW!? You do not say, m’boy!? You’ll have to excuse us, Marquis! I do believe we have much to talk about then. Let me know all of your exploits in this ancient bankery, wine?” The employer offered the dishelved man.

“Only if its free, good sir.” The two of them gave another loud series of laughter and moved away from the couple left over. Which soon became one, as the Marquis silently excused himself from the entire mess slipping away to equally weasly looking bankers among the crowd. Huddling together and whispering in hushed tones like a group of vultures. The remaining man could only sigh and shove his hands in his pockets. Turning like a great penguin, a great leg stretch and turning to wander to the buffet table. All this talking makes a man starved.

A fine, young woman dressed in a silver satin dress quickly moved over to him as if waiting for him to be available, “I don’t like this,” She insisted, hadn’t she been insisting this since they entered that Vault? The man thought as he served himself from ham stuffed chicken, “We weren’t suppose to be in there.”

“Look,” The man sighed, he had had the same conversation with her over the past four days, “We find a job, we take a job and the Lord was paying more than a fortune for the coin we found within it. But now that we’ve done the job, we can retire early, right?”

The woman grasped his shoulder, “Its too good.” She insisted.

“Its an old vault, people from the Empire delve into those all the time and they are less worse for wear. It was high time we street rats got a slice of the pie.” Oh, pie, he thought as he grabbed a slice pecan pie.

“The military delves into crumbling old tombs, that places was too clean for it to be abandoned.” She tightened her grip on his shoulder making him pause and look up from his foot gathering. His lips becoming a thin line as motioned generally with his hand.

“Fine, find. Look, I’ll ask the Lord about it tomorrow and see if he’s playing us for a fool.” Tenseness left her grip, it seems she could accept that conclusion. He smiled and she tried to return it before her eyes were suddenly transfixed over his head. A furrow of his brow and turn to the stage.

The band had stopped playing mid-way through their next piece. They were still as statues. The entire crowd that had gathered for the event had come to a stand still as well. They had taken notice of the silence. Just as it was. Silence and nothing more. Clinking of glasses, conversations, and drinking. All stopped. Even their employer and his new found drinking partner had come to stand still. The circle of vultures heads rising from their circle like ostriches.

After a long pause and no movement, a loud sound cut through the quiet like a cannonball landing among a field of soldiers. The clock struck midnight and there was suddenly movement from the side of the stage. It was a man.

A tall man had entered from stage right. Thin in his build, cloaked in a war tattered hooded robe. Its ends frayed and yet flowing around him like a plume of ink in water. A beard’s skeletal bear poked from just beneath the hood obscuring half his face while the other was enshrouded in the the rest of the outfit. The only other distinguishable feature was his bare pale feet which peaked out visibly with every swift movement as he came to the head of the orchestra. His movements were mesermizingly claim, like the ebb and flow of the ocean reach up to the short and falling back into itself.

A singular pale hand emerged from beneath the robe, thin and faint in color. Its long twig like fingers transitioned seamlessly into long sharpened nails. The thumb and index finger gently pinching against his beak. The robe swirled and twisted before bursting into smoke and dissipating quickly. Leaving behind a funeral master’s suit. Straightened tie, shined black shoes, and a clasp on the breast. His hair revealed itself from the sudden transformation. Falling well past his ankles and stretching out across the floor like silken milk.

If only milk wasn’t the color of bleached bone. The color of which complimented the man’s facial features. Though the top was still obscured by the skull of a large bird fashioned into a mask but with not visible straps to speak of. The bottom half revealed itself. A long, handsome face, untouched by time or weather. Not a single scar, blemish, or wrinkle to be found on it. Lips as pallid as a corpse drained of blood. Shape cheek bones that could slice that bone and meat both. A jaw set in such a way that even with the mask, one could tell it was unyielding, unmoving. Like a porcelain doll or a statues’ the expression was set in place.

One could simply nod in agreement that perhaps it was a magician hired for the party. But another detail made all in attendance freeze in place. Above the mask were fragments of bone forming at the crown of this man’s head. Poking out from beneath the head of white. Like spires through a foggy night.

When the man had arrived at the center of the stage, he had drawn attention of one and all. Twisting himself to face the band, he gave elegant bow. As, before everyone’s eyes, a fiddle blacker than the blackest night formed from nothing and settled in his hands. Turning back to the crowd there was no movement.

Then, as if awakened from a dream. As in synchronization with the newly arrived individual. The orchestra also took up new playing positions. The harpist started them off.

A soft, lovely piece, the plucking gently soothing the crowd. As the string section matched the tone. A sigh of relief fell over the audience as they were enchanted by such a soft sound. Like a floating on a cloud. The harpist stopped and the string began to pluck at their instruments like the foot steps of a jester prancing across the ground.

The man took up the fiddle and played a shrill noise, causing the entire crowd to be broken from their dreams. Suddenly they all shot up and straightened their posture in unison. The shrieking noise moving two long, two shorter, ten short rhythmatic and the orchestra plunk leading to the opening act.

Suddenly the audience on the floor of the party were pulled into a circle. Like marionette’s. Forced to claps hands as they began to prance along like sheep in the meadow. The flutist giving a soft rhythmatic sound as he blew in short soft movements. The feet of the audience caught in skip and low as they moved. The strings following the same beat as the flutist provided. The harpists providing a lovely plucking to compliment the sound. After they finished copying the flutist’s tune. They all stopped for the man to take the lead with only the strings to provide support.

The man began to play his fiddle similarly to the sound the flutist had provided but in a mocking manner. The crowd stopped prancing and encircled in hands once more they sway to the fiddler’s tune. The flutist repeated the fiddler’s tune and the fiddler’s the flutists. The crowd bouncing between prancing gayly and swaying. Completely at the mercy of their new task masters.

After the second time around, the fiddler began to sudden sharp notes. At which point, the women of the circle exited it and hurriedly ran to the buffet tables, grabbing the sharp carving knifes and running back to the dance without skipping a beat. At the end of the fiddler’s sharp notes, the orchestra exploded. As the women proceed to plunge blades into the male dance partner’s backs as they ran away in circle. Each stab meeting the new bravado of the next movement of the lively orchestra.

The men could not scream, the women could not stop. Around they went, the men prancing along like sheep in the meadows. Their coats drinching with red as the women just as fervantly chased and stabbed their backs.

As the strings picked up once more, the audience at the rooms balconies began to take each other in a waltzing pair. And spin around the small room they hand. Knocking over tables, chairs, and glasses. But dancing on to the movement of the strings. Unbothered by what was transpiring below.

The fiddler played his tune and a partner left the waltzing group grabbing forks as their dance commanded. Facing their partner with hands clasping their forks behind their back. A skip and hop as they danced around each other coyly. A xylophone clacking along like the ribs of a skeleton as they pursued this predator’s dance. A pleasant sight to see one another, eyes locked beneath masquerade masks. Smiles all flashing, but inevitably this kindness would end. And after another short harsh notes, there was a burst. The forking wielding partners digging their tools into the other’s forks. The victims falling back to hang over the balcony. Having stopped working like wind up dolls. Their partners heedless of their injury went to the curtains and began to spin and dance with them instead.

The group below meanwhile had stopped merely running and stabbing but, to the rhythm of the beat. Playfully stabbed and ducked the attempts on their lives. Crimson pools growing at their feet but despite such a screen they just kept dance, around, and around, and around they went. As the orchestra proceeded with the piece. Building in intensity as the brass began to join the song. Reaching what one might think was another bursting point only to fall back to softer tones. Backed by the soft tapping of the drum’s hi hat.

Like a hawk hunting a mouse, the game continued as it was. Softer moments, building to what seemed to be a burst before falling back to softer beats. The anticipation filling the room like the perfume fog. As the fiddler went along with such moments. Unpreturbed by the dance he was causing. The harpist and wind instrument joining him as they delved into another soft moment.

The crowd slowing as well, taking a gentle walk around the red floor. Their shoes not faltering for a moment against the well soaked carpeting. Arms clasp behind their back as they skipped along in a circle. Smiles polite, this wasn’t a simple man’s party but one of friends and colleagues. Show them love even if the agony and the fear are hiding beneath the surface of the eyes. Pleasantries to be presented for a short while. Though this brief respite was even briefer than that.

The orchestra began to whirl their noise and just as, they began. The top and bottom groups too began to twirl on the ground and in their leaps and bounds. The intensity building once more, the game of hawk and mouse was back on. The brass joining once more with the rest. UNTIL! Another tactical retreat in the hunt. Winding down, the cackling of the xylophone tormenting its prancing muses as they went along all the same.

Waltzers in the balconies twirling with their curtain partners, languidly. Their fork struck exes rising up from their rests upon the rails. Each half twirling with the ends of the curtains and slowly making their way to the ledges. Typing the cloth in love knots. The circle below exiting to grab forks, knifes, and spoons. As the whirling down granted them moments to do so before rejoining their groups.

Fiddler sounding the intermission as the victims all swayed falling to their backs, knees in the air. When suddenly, they were given rise with music. The intensity building more and more AND MORE! The twirling growing faster, the circle growing wider, each partner armed and prepared as they picked up the pace. HERE COMES THE CRESCENDO! THE SOUND BURST!

Bodies thrown from the balcony! Curtains used as dead man’s nooses as nobility and thievery paid the final price for the heinous plunder. Knifes diving into shoulders, forks into throats, plates bashed over heads, men and women leaping upon their partners to deliver blows of repeated bloody retribution!

What a glorious spectacle! What a wondrous sight of gold, white, silver, and silks. Meshing among the others like a fine royal blend! What a triumph! What a celebration! The room opened wide in anticipation of its guests, a great theater hall set aside for such the occasion. And what an occasion it was, the job well done. A heist well plundered. Now those who would be named thieves mingled with those who one could only describe as nobility, as royalty, as the rich. Their bellies blooded and bound by their dress shirts and overalls. Their bosoms on display from corsets and dress tops as they ripped through one another. The bodies with curtains and banners hung with equal importance!

Running, prancing, skipping, stabbing, hanging, garroting, crushing, bashing, drowning, suffocating, beaten, twisted, torn, and more! The orchestra played on and demanded MORE! Bodies moved as the melee and chaos worked itself within the wicked movements of their master’s music. Gluttonously fall upon this feast! Oh what a wonderful experience indeed it was! Bodies falling into the center of the circle as the hurried tempo whirled. Another burst, another blow, another falls, and another, another, another, another, nother nother nother!

A dinner gong. The flutist follows, the dance has ended. The strings instruct a bow. The remains of the dancers do so. Before falling among their fellow companions. Not a single survivor.

The violinist plays a somber tune, mourning the souls lost this day to the dance. Though retribution was visited upon thieves and nobles both. This was no celebration, lives had been lost this day. A moment of contemplation was in order. A boar like man slumped over a table beaten and gutted. The beard of a drunk fellow stained a different red. The worries of a woman now seem so far away. A young man’s search for glory and riches, ended so soon. And a circle of vultures now made for the circling of the vultures. The mood is low...

Until...a rising note! A brief joining of the string. The fiddler wandered over to the dead boar of a man. Digging into his pockets and producing the two coins stolen from the fiddler’s vault. He gently placed it over the man’s vacant eyes. A turn of the heel. A wink and nod. Poof! Both the fiddler and the band vanishing on the last note.

#{ content warning } #{ uhh... } #{ disturbing imagery text } #{ murder } #{ blood } #{ violence } #{ gore } #{ yeah } #{ as the dance begins it is best if you listen to } #{ Camille Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre to follow the motions }

[cb-ps]

Basic Cake and an Esplanade

Today is nearing the end of April. This is what defines how disappointing the rest of the year goes like, because it has already been a hell of a month. Travel was not so fortuitous in my horoscope this chapter, with things looking more like I am drafted back in towards My-Old-Parents'-House; but it goes along with being creative in a Dutiful Springtime. Nearing May, things known as recipes on the board are more like scattered hash and grapple-muffins, there is just enough of what sounds like "right now for brunch" for that excessive crunch of flax seeds, and quinoa.

What does it matter? I'd done this fantastic half-baked bread, where I roll it in scores of quick-bake (aldente? ) quinoa, to save it for later, or for soups. You can prettymuch use that as what cornbread is in the southern states, whether you'd prefer that entree as a bother of french toast, or more like mashed potatoes are to gravy. It's also one of those good-for-you things, and doesn't taste half bad when nuked over sourdough. You'd have to try it with an appropriate sauce, though. All through the graciously misted length of this time of the year leading up to our favorite summertime weather, baked french toast made with too many eggs and cheesecaake crust are what's sitting on Sommebat's posh ass doilies. They're all covered in sprinkles, and it looks like a plate of charades, then in breaking out the lavender, allspice, and creme, this actually celebrated the recent new lava-formed templates out in the world, with some info about planetary moons. I'm alright with all that, because what sparkles and shines isn't all up for a tart, and then neither is it so perpetual that it can take itself up as a day falling sunbeams and radio DJ's, but it keeps those real sketchers glowing. Talking outright sprite about the week-to-week joys of eating something good doesn't get old. I'll have to update the Scrapbook, and the Actual Looks pages, here right quickly ---- I have not done the same thing twice since we were eating blokey croissants, looking internationally about Swiss Cheeses. Before food does us in for the innuendum ~ I'd also like to mention again how wonderful Milkshakes are, and that they may be the only thing keeping some people of us alive, during any fathomable crisis letalone a health-procuring standard one; so don't forget Your Favorite Day[s]. #avakinlife is the better Mirror Emblem in all days gone by, so far. I've got a lot of writing I think I'm going to spend a few days specifically avoiding people during, but I'll get those pictures up while I'm working through the yada-grovels. Unfathomably, this week-by-week parlor dip is concurrent with finding out the homestead is riddled with cancer, and it makes my life more difficult. Don't be asueded by the thought it's mine; I've got enough dap in my own apothecary --- I'm here working between myselves and all my shelves and all that stuff, and mum's got thin-air. Travel doesn't even sit right there, it too, is kind of all over the place. #besupportive I can't wait to pick up that dishwashing gig. Need the quicker bandwagon to fix the sinker. Cheers 'til Deer Stew, Cinnamon Blithe

[ednaeflowers]

Your brother is a man of his word, and has in fact visited every single day with snacks and boaed games for them to play. He doesn't want to waste in oppurtunity to live the life he would've had if the Reaper's Curse wasn't so strong.

Today, however, he is unusually late and his face is paler than Edna's dress. Your stupid mortal brother scaled a mountain sick, enjoy.

These days, he has visited so much that she sometimes wonders if he even has a life outside of her and just breathing. It's nice that he's making her such a priority, but she is mildly worried if he's doing all right with the human side of his life. Has he been spending time with his human family and friends too? Edna cannot tell. Onii-chan has always been a stubborn mule, and that apparently hasn't changed even into his new life. 

He introduces her to a lot of human games when he comes over. Board games, he called them. She has to tell him that yes, she knows what those are, but no, she has never played any—and so began this little new routine of theirs: he brings a board game over, and she learns how to play, and they'd play over snacks he also taken the liberty of bringing. It's been a little over a century, so she doesn't recognize some of the snacks; but Onii-chan brought them over and they're tasty, so Edna welcomes the new routine into her life. The first time, it begins simply with a game of connecting four same-colored pieces. The second time, something with a dice and serpents and ladders; the third time: red and black game pieces on a board; the fourth time: similar to the third time, but with black and white game pieces—and it continues on. Edna prefers Connect 4 for its simplicity, but actually likes playing Serpents and Ladders, if only to see Onii-chan land on the serpents while she somehow kept getting ladders.

Today, he's supposed to bring over another board game, one that he claims she hasn't played yet, so she has been waiting for a while—but she has been waiting since morning, and she estimates it is now approaching early evening, late noon. Where is he...?

This is how Edna finds herself sitting on a rock near the mountain shrine, waiting for him. It has always been a good midway point for them to meet when he comes over, but today it feels like old times when she'd wait and wait, and he'd never come back. He was very happy when they planned to meet today, so—

She drops her umbrella, widening her eyes as he finally comes into view. He is walking up the path, but he looks so... tired? Weary? His pace is sort of sluggish too, and he looks pale when she squints at his face, and then she angrily concludes: He's sick. He's human and he's scaling up a mountain, and he's sick. She is angry at herself because she knows he did this for her, and she hates how she misses that part of him, the part of him that always puts her first. Stupid Onii-chan. Stupid Onii-chan for not using common sense and staying home. She's waited for him for so long that waiting for another day won't matter to her. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

❛  Stupid,  ❜ she tells him, already dragging him with her to their old home, and she scowls because she's angry at him for being so stupid and for being so heavy. ❛  You're an adult, so stop being stupid.  ❜ When they reach the entrance of their old home, she practically shoves him into the old bed they used to share. He must have the flu or something because he is so pale. Ugh. Stupid. Humans are so high maintenance. Edna demands grumpily, ❛  Sleep. The games aren't going anywhere.  ❜ The games won't, but he will, so she thinks it's only appropriate anyway. 

She may not be good at baking and cooking, but she knows how to make stew, and so, she storms off to prepare. The whole times, she thinks of how stupid Onii-chan is, but still bothers to get the ingredients to make his favorite. She makes it how he always likes it.

#beyondbinaries #°˖✧❀ ❛ turtlez mail. ┊ asks. ❀✧˖° #°˖✧❀ ❛ peace on the mountains. ┊ main verse. ❀✧˖° #you get a whole fic-length reply as repayment :)

[boombambaby]

Drabble; Lunch

It’s horrifying.

It’s hideous.

It’s– woah. Hold up. Did it just move?!  I know I’m not seeing things, that tentacle. . . thing, just moved. This has to be some kind of cruel and unusual joke. There’s– no. NO. It definitely just moved! I know I saw it twitch! –Anyways; there’s no possible way the school is actually serving this slop to its students, and calling it actual food. How can they expect ME to eat this. . . this thing? Emperor or not, my palate is way too refined to be sullied with whatever this is supposed to be. I have a whole team of private chefs at the palace, who cater to my every whim– Hm. I wonder how difficult it would be to bring them in to replace whoever it is who thinks they’re running this ‘kitchen’. Sure, I’m cut off from the Royal funds but technically– “Kuzco!”

He’s startled out of his inner dialogue by a familiar, if not grating voice and he glances up from the tray of still unidentified food to find the craggly old face of the sarcastic waitress from Mudka’s staring back at him. She’s watching (he thinks) from beneath her eyelashes, an unimpressed expression on her face and a spoon held up like a weapon beside her head. “Are you going to stand there all day honey, or are you gonna pick something? You’re holding up the line.”

Kuzco is stunned for a moment, surprised to see her again– and here, of all places– but he shakes himself out of his stupor in time to set his tray back down on the counter so he can lean in further to glare at her.

“Alright, uh– “ Wait, what was her name again? He knew this. She told them when she introduced herself back at the diner, right before she called him and Pacha a happy couple. “–Whatever your name is. I give up. What is this even supposed to be?”

Blinking slowly, she heaves a world weary sigh and points down at the tentacle thing Kuzco swears has been giving him looks. “Blue plate pair of sleeve buttons, on the hoof and left high n’ dry.”

He can only stare at her once she’s finished her ‘explanation’, his confusion growing steadily into mounting horror. This was real– she was actually trying to feed this to him. “. . . Is– was that supposed to help? Or–”

“Just take one and get out, Kuzco. I’ve got work to do. Seven hundred lunches aren’t gonna serve themselves.” She turns away from him before she’s even finished speaking, spoon lowering to scoop up another one of the sandwiches for the student in line behind him. Annoyed by her dismissal– and her presence in general, Kuzco huffs and picks up his empty tray and turns to leave the lunch line all together.

At this rate, he’d almost take another dinner with Yzma that had the potential to poison him than eat whatever the heck that slop was supposed to be. He was heading straight for the palace after school, to speak with the Royal Record keeper or whoever he needed to about having that waitress fired and replaced by someone from the Royal kitchens who actually knew what they were doing.

Royal funds accessible or not, it was HIS name on the building. This was disgraceful.

Maybe he didn’t need someone quite as dignified as one of his chefs, but–

Oh! Kronk! That’s right, Kronk was here for. . . some reason. How no one else could see that he was well beyond the appropriate age for school was beyond him, but– if he wasn’t here for anything other than to be Yzma’s lackey, there was no reason he couldn’t help out in the kitchen.

Besides– if he remembers correctly, the big lug made a pretty good spinach puff.

He takes a seat by himself at a table inside the cafeteria, setting his tray down on the table and folding his arms over top of it. There were only a few hours left of this torture, then he can go back to Pacha’s house and eat some real, actual food.

. . . Which, knowing Chicha, was some variation of ‘mystery stew’. Yay.

It was difficult to tell what the worst part of all of this was, but the food was definitely somewhere near the top of the list. Eugh.

#kuzco #disney rp #drabble #fanfiction #the emperors new groove #the emperors new school #MENTIONS: #Chicha #Kronk #Mata #Yzma