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fanfickitchenette · 2 years

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Friend of the Empress, Chapter Two

Orlo x Reader; Chapter Two--A Wedding and A Letter-Writer

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In the court of Emperor Peter things are not what Y/n expected. Your maid seems nervous, almost afraid during your interactions, and Catherine seems off after only being out of your sight for a short time. But there's still a wedding to be had, a feast to attend and a friend who's looking forward to her wedding night. You wonder if there's anyone who could maybe shine a little light on the situation.

*no warnings I can think of for this chapter* BUT

TAGS for the story as a whole--eventual smut; talk of death, murder, SA (none in the story, just discussion); canon-typical violence; strangers-friends-lovers; angst; lots of platonic love; slow-burn

Word Count 4K

Chapter Two: A Wedding and A Letter-Writer

Catherine’s smile is chipper as the archbishop waits for her in the hall just outside your new rooms, “I will call for you to help prepare me for the wedding. Whatever Archbishop Samsa needs to do shouldn’t take long, though,” her voice drops to a conspiratorial level, “I also wish he would let you come with me. I hate to part so soon but worry not. Freshen up, my dear Y/n, and then we will dress together as we always do.” Your rooms are spectacular. The entrance is the receiving room, green damask wallpaper and furniture that seems even more lavish than the ones you became used to at Catherine’s family estate. That said, you shouldn’t feel so off and unwelcome in what will be your home for the foreseeable future, but your three chests and two smaller traveling bags feel dwarfed in this place. It’s as if you’re just a water stain on a piece of parchment, ruining the aesthetic of the place.

You forcibly blink, trying to shake off the feeling settling under you skin before it can find purchase and take root, “I’ll wait with bated, Catherine. You will have to tell me about whatever secret, Russian ritual the archbishop puts you through. Maybe it will involve your bear.” It was a point you enjoyed teasing your friend over. A few weeks before Lady Joanna had informed Catherine of her impeding nuptials to Peter, before the letter arrived, your friend’s dream of a bear had consumed her thoughts for days. She didn’t normally believe in signs but was fully assured that it was one. You couldn’t help reminding her that she had been reading of adventures with foreign wildlife the day of her dream and must’ve simply been drawn to the idea of bears.

“Maybe it will. And then you will be proven wrong. That the bear is a sign of my great love and you’re narrow-minded for thinking otherwise.” as firmly as Catherine says this her smile is soft and she touches your shoulder before turning to go. The doors shut behind her, leaving you and your appointed maid standing is thick silence. Maybe you only imagine that it’s thick but the fact that the other woman in the room won’t meet your eyes does nothing to sway your anxiety. She’s a bit shorter than you, though not overly noticeable, with dark sable skin and an enviously strong profile of her jaw and nose.

You didn’t have a personal maid in your parent’s home and, often, at Catherine’s estate her lady’s maid would assist you as well as her. Your father always insisted that you learn to dress yourself and not remain a helpless child in that aspect (Lady Joanna often would scoff at your father’s tendency to make you self-sufficient) and he insisted that another person to pay on staff was something to be avoided. Your family did not hold the same social standing that Catherine’s did, but you know that your own finances are better than her family at the moment.

You have to start your stay off somehow and you decide to ask if a bath wouldn’t be too much trouble for your maid to draw at midday, “Hello. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name when I came in.” Her eyes—again with such wonderful lashes, you wonder if it’s a Russian trait—flit to meet yours before dropping back down. Her curtsy is careful and awfully low.

“Dilara, my lady. If it suits you.” Oddly put, you think, but maybe a colloquial turn of phrase you’ll have to get used to.

“It does suit me. It’s very pretty. Dilara, would you mind drawing me a bath while I wait for Catherine to call for me? I’m afraid travel has left me feeling a bit odd and I think cleaning myself would help.”

“Of course, my lady. Are there any oils you would like?”

“No, none today. Just soap to clean myself.” Dilara dips into stiff curtsy and quickly heads out. You stand on the spot and look after her for a moment. As suffocating as the room felt with her in it, it does not feel any better now that she’s left. Your chests are stacked next to the small table that’s placed between the chaise lounges you have. Deciding that you can at least keep your hands busy, even as your mind trips over itself, you walk over and grab the top chest and drag it into the slightly open area near the entrance to your bedroom. It’s heavy, heavier than you were expecting, and that makes it clear that it’s the chest that does not house any of your clothes. Lady Joanna’s last-minute notice for your departure meant you rushed to pack up anything in her estate that you wanted. You had an awful feeling that morning, rushing back and forth in the room that you’d loosely called yours since you were seven, that nothing of yours would remain when you returned to Germany. If you ever returned.

You can remember when Nina, Catherine’s eldest sister, went to visit ‘distant relatives’ in Lisbon. Both of Catherine’s parents went with her. They returned almost four months later—without Nina but with the news that they had a Queen in the family. Catherine played it off well, how happy and proud she was, and so did the rest of her siblings. But once their parents were no longer watching it changed. You saw reality set in for the girls and felt it for yourself. Even her younger brother Frederick was unsettled by the rapid difference in his home life. How quickly things could change without you realizing; events being set in motion by players so much bigger than yourself.

In your chest are the books and keepsakes you managed to stuff in it. You had to leave a fair few behind. Catherine’s love of philosophy matched your love for poetry, for stories that you could sink into and dream of. The first one you pull out is thinner than most, warn down at the edges from age and the touch of young fingers, a children’s story that your first tutor gave you as a going away gift when he moved on. Jack the Giant Killer—Catherine outgrew it quickly, her mother’s remark about babyish nonsense turning her head, but you and Frederick enjoyed playing out the story on sunny days on the estate lawn. Eventually the play stopped, most of your casual interactions with Frederick stopped, but you value the whispers of soft breezes and summer grass and imagined castles in the clouds that it holds. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind.

Under your children’s story come more titles and beloved words and worlds. Works by Daniel Defoe and Henry Fielding. Some feminist pieces—thoughts that you hid behind your lips even as Catherine would espouse them earnestly—including old issues of a discontinued magazine for ladies. Some classical works by men like Sophocles, Euripides, and Homer. And, at the very bottom, some of the more controversial writings that you did not dare let even Catherine know that you had. Poetry by Sappho and Philodemus and their ilk. At least with Philodemus you could claim it was his philosophy and not his poetry you had a collection of. The act of sex was not one you were intimate with, certainly, but you were not fully naïve.

On the trip to Russia, Catherine told you what her mother explained the wedding night would be. It sounded different than what your own mother implied, in the bits and pieces that she alluded to, but Lady Joanna’s words did not sound too different from the poetry about married sex, about sex that comes with love. You doubted that yourself or, more presently, Catherine would ever have to worry about the crudeness that some ancient poetry featured. At least you hoped so. You would not like to make someone tremble even as they actively thought that they did not think you attractive, only that you were useful or convenient.

You wander into your attached bedroom, a decent size but mostly filled up by the large bed and twin wardrobes of oak. Off to the right side of the bed as you walk in are shelves built into the wall. You go back to your books and start carrying them in to arrange them on the offered shelves. The process doesn’t take long, leaving you to think about how few books you managed to squirrel away before leaving. You are halfway through laying out your clothes on your bed when Dilara returns with a few other women. All of them carrying buckets of water.

You go over to watch as in the other small room—though that’s a generous term for the space housing the bath and nothing else—attached to the receiving area your bath is filled. One of the servants nudges Dilara’s arm and murmurs something, her eyes darting toward your open and partially empty chests. Dilara stiffens further, if such a thing were possible, and nods to the other woman. She approaches you cautiously, reminding you of how Catherine attempted to approach and feed a young doe that wandered the edges of the estate the summer you were thirteen.

“My lady, please pardon me. I didn’t think that I’d be leaving you to unpack alone. I should have sent for the water and stayed to unpack for you.” She looks almost fearful, and you can understand somewhat, but not to this extent. The only time you’d seen any servant punished was when one of the stable hands stole from the house. Dilara hadn’t done something that bad and, frankly, you would have preferred to organize your books yourself. You weren’t sure where some of your keepsakes would go but you’d figure that out later, as well.

“It’s no issue, Dilara. You are fully forgiven, think nothing of it. You can finish unpacking my clothes while I bathe. I’d prefer to sort through and place the things that aren’t clothing, though.” You notice that while the bath is full most of the other female servants have not fully vacated the room but linger by the door. It seems as if they’re waiting for something. Dilara finally meets your eyes and doesn’t drop gazes immediately, searching for something.

“Do you not want help in the bath, my lady? I can do your hair for you.” You already start shaking your head before she’s fully finished speaking.

“No, no. I prefer solitude in the bath, and I doubt I have too much time to relax before I hear from Catherine. If you’d put away my clothing that would be enough for now. Thank you.”

The servants by the door start trickling out, shooting looks to Dilara as they go. You’re not fully sure what you’ve done but she looks as wrong-footed as you’ve felt since you arrived earlier. She moves off without another word and you’re left thinking about it as you strip to bathe.

You are mostly dried and in a simple dress, the one you will be changing into for the wedding along with some jewelry and hair pieces sit on the left side of your bed, when word arrives from Catherine. Dilara already has your things in her arms before you say a word and the two of you walk in silence behind the soldier guiding you to Catherine’s suite. Two other men stand outside her doors, also dressed in uniform, and they pull the doors open to allow you and Dilara entrance. Your jaw drops slightly. If your rooms were grand—the nice receiving area, bedroom, and small bathing space—then Catherine’s have them beat by at least fifty times. The wideness and fullness of the room is not lost on you as you and Dilara navigate around Catherine’s many trunks. Most are not opened yet, seemingly just the one with her wedding apparel that Lady Joanna specially approved.

Beyond the room, the first thing you notice is Catherine’s tight smile as she greets you. Her hug, normally firm and exuberant, goes on longer than normal. Your arms wrap around her shoulders, and she huffs out a breath onto your neck, squeezing hard before letting go. You’re about to ask what happened when her maid pipes up. Small, clever-eyed and clear-skinned, the woman assigned to Catherine is lovely but with a knowing, hard look in her gaze. The look she throws to Dilara is swift and the meaning lost on you but the grimace your maid throws back, just as swift before it disappears, is obvious to you. Dilara knows what’s wrong and you do not. That doesn’t sit well but you remind yourself you can speak after the wedding or even tomorrow if needed. Catherine would let you know if it was something you urgently needed to know.

“Empress,” the maid says, “If we don’t get you ready now, then you’ll most likely be late to the vows. The archbishop is rather obsessed with keeping time during his work.” You glance to Catherine who seems to take this in stride.

“Very well, Marial. You will help me get ready and Y/n will be dressed by her maid at the same time. Though, Y/n,” your friend looks at you, the strain in her face all but gone, “I’d like if you would do my hair. It would be nice to have something that reminds me of home when I marry, and mother was very…tactful in picking out this new dress. Would that be alright?”

Marial and Dilara seem to share another look and you worry that it’s not just the language you’re behind in, “Anything you ask, Catherine,” you sweep her a deep bow, causing her to let out a peal of laughter, “I am at your service.” As long as you’ve known her, Catherine has been not only an idealist but a romantic to her core. The two of you would play act courting scenarios and her favorite was when you would come in as the dashing gentleman—proclaiming your undying fealty, espousing poetry and ‘original’ ideas of philosophy (you know of her desperate crush on Voltaire, as it was his philosophy you often parroted in order to sweep her off her feet).

Still giggling, she curtsies deeply in response, one hand placed across her chest, “ And I at yours, my heart. Though I pledge myself to another today, know that the embers of our time together shall keep me warm on the darkest nights.”

“Then, I will console myself with this fate, as long as you remember me and know that you will always remain within my soul, within the core of my being.” Both of you are laughing softly and it comforts you. You are not home but Catherine holds pieces of home for you. And you know that you do the same. At least neither of you are alone in this strange new world. That is something that you will keep within you, for as long as the two of you are together.

The wedding is elegant and grand. You notice that Emperor Peter is twitchy. Glancing back once or twice to a tall, slightly gangly man placed near you. You do not think much of it, though Catherine faces her marriage head-on. She is fully devoted and enthralled by Peter and you can’t help thinking that she does not need to look back in assurance to you. But Peter, able to stay in his home since birth, surrounded by his own people, seems out of place in the solemn affair that the archbishop presides over.

From the wedding, which takes far too long in your opinion, you all move to the banquet hall. You walk there with a woman who introduces herself as Peter’s aunt, Lady Elizabeth, and asks after the mating issue of German swans. You are still trying to parse out her meaning, if she truly is asking you about swans or if you simply are losing something in translation, when she takes her leave of you. Luckily, she was kind enough to walk you to your seat first. Your Russian is more than passable in conversation—or so you hope—but your reading comprehension is coming along at a snail’s pace, and you barely recognize the characters that indicate your name on the seating placard.

Seated next to you is a woman who immediately introduces herself, “You’re the empress’ companion, aren’t you? It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Lady Georgina and this,” you blink and notice the man next to her, the same one you saw Peter glancing toward during the wedding, “is my husband Grigor. We are good friends to the emperor. I believe that we will be destined to spend much time together and become good friends. If you need anything don’t hesitate to turn to me.” She says this with so much conviction you’re nodding along without much thought, introducing yourself and hoping your accent isn’t too noticeable when you speak Russian. Except with Dilara and Marial, you haven’t had much exposure to speaking the languages with those who have it for their mother tongue. Lady Elizabeth didn’t comment but you aren’t very sure if she’d noticed as you mostly stammered in befuddlement and tried to think of any swan related facts you knew. Which were not many.

The feast begins in earnest shortly after your introduction, Lady Georgina and Lord Grigor tucking into their food and focusing mostly on each other and watching Catherine and the emperor. You take the moment to glance around the room. The way everyone eats is full of relish and everyone is much louder than you are used to. Across from you and down slightly are two of the men that were with the emperor during his introduction to Catherine earlier in the day. The older man, pot-bellied with a ruddy complexion, is drinking heavily. He’s chatting with the woman next to him but leaning onto the younger man on his other side occasionally.

The man who apparently wrote the letter to Catherine, at least you think he did, looks distinctly uncomfortable. You also notice that he is not being engaged by anyone other than the older man who sways into him from time to time. He catches you looking (a voice sounding like a garbled mix of your mother and Lady Joanna remind you that staring is not polite) and seems surprised and unsure of himself. You send him a tentative smile—you think that writing a letter for someone else is a bit misleading, but you agreed with Catherine, it was a wonderous letter in its words and sentiments, so he can’t be truly bad—and he returns you a faint one of his own before his attention is drawn away by the older man sloshing into his side. At almost the same time you hear your name called. Lady Elizabeth is smiling at you from down the table.

“Y/n, did you have the opportunity to recollect anything about your German swans? I would dearly love to find out what I can for a painting I’m commissioning. It’s based of the myth of Leda. So, thrilling, don’t you find?”

“Thrilling?” Again, you worry that something is lost in translation. You know the myth but thrilling may not be the term you would use.

“Well, of course! I have a series I’m trying to build. My portrait of the bull and the queen is already completed. You should come by my suite and see it soon. Leda and the swan is next. Though, I’m not sure where my palette will take me next. It’s all so wonderfully delectable, isn’t it?”

You’re saved from having to answer by the emperor suddenly pushing down the man who was previously seated by the letter-writer. It’s hard to hear much over the din of the room but you catch the motion from the corner of your eye. Lady Georgina pats your hand when she notices you startle. You watch Lady Elizabeth approach Catherine, having followed your reaction to the head table. It seems like a kind but awkward interaction. Suddenly, Peter launches a glass at the floor with an exclamation, making both you and Catherine jerk slightly. No one else seems surprised in the least.

“I miss my mother today. How she would have loved this. She was the last empress of Russia. But a toast, to my new wife. The new empress of Russia.” The room follows his short statement with a round of glasses smashing and shouts of ‘Huzzah’—you must ask Catherine about this word, she never mentioned it in your studies. You watch your friend attempt to stand, you know her speeches can be grandiose but always heartfelt. He makes her sit back down again and something in your heart lowers and settles into the murk that build deep in your stomach.

He gifts her a bear, and you know how she will take it. You know who your friend is. She will see the best in it, take it as a sign, and double down on earnestly living out her great love. You watch the faces of the court, people cheering and laughing. Lady Georgina and Lord Grigor shout encouragement next you. Lady Elizabeth looks well pleased, as does most everyone else. The letter-writer, however, does not. He has a nervous smile on his face and seems to be cataloguing the reaction of everyone around him, the same as you. It would be good, you muse, to have someone here to speak to that is also suspect of the players in the room. Especially if he’s an established player himself. For Catherine, who is so quick to trust, you must find out if your gut feeling about this court is correct.

Catherine does not remain in the room much longer, a short conversation with Lady Elizabeth has her all smiles and your friend jerks her head for you to follow her. You promise yourself that you will find and speak to the letter-writer tomorrow. She whirls around on you, grabbing your hands in hers and begins walking backward, the moment both of you have made it a short distance from the banquet hall. “It is time for my wedding night. Lady Elizabeth told me that Peter will be to my rooms shortly. Y/n, did you see the bear? Now you must eat your words! He is my great love. I knew it! I believe it may take some time for us two to work out our rough edges, but we will manage. Will you wait with me until his arrival? It would grant me tremendous strength to have you with me,” she looks over you shoulder slightly, “That would not be against how things are done, would it, Marial?” In surprise you glance over your shoulder, noticing both your maid, Dilara, and hers are walking behind you both.

Marial looks hesitant but nods slightly, “It wouldn’t go against anything we do here, no. But, if I might, I would suggest you only stay for a while. Dilara can take you back to your rooms after the empress changes, Lady Y/n. It might make things run just a bit smoother.” Catherine looks thoughtful, releases your hands, and gives a quick twirl. Her girlish excitement is invigorating. Your feelings toward the emperor are muddled but you are excited for your friend. It’s hard not to be.

“That would work. Would it not, my dear friend?” Catherine is all glowing eyes as she asks.

Your eye roll is fond as you tug her toward you to link arms, “As always, Catherine, anything for you.”

#catherine the great #the great hulu #the great fanfiction #the great imagine #count orlo #count orlo x reader #sacha dhawan #slow burn #friends to lovers #orlo is on the ace spectrum for sure #fanfic

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roundtheworldrambles · 3 years

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Hanoi, Vietnam

Day 165 – Luang Prabang to Hanoi, Vietnam

I spent my final morning in Luang Prabang at Joma Café, a delicious bakery/café that my uncle Alan had recommended, run by a Canadian expat! I was surprised (and very excited) that the café served Canada’s famous Nanaimo Bar, and picked up one to have a ‘taste of home’ along with my coffee. I tucked into a cozy booth for several hours, doing research and bookings for the final 5 weeks of my trip, including Vietnam, Cambodia, Bangkok and Japan.

In the late afternoon, I packed up my bag and headed to the town centre to hire a Tuk Tuk to take me to the airport. At this point in Southeast Asia, I had become pretty used to negotiating a price when taking a Tuk Tuk, and agreed upon a price with the driver. However, he ended up demanding a higher price at the airport, after we had arrived. Even after months of travel, I was still never quite sure what to do in these situations, which occasionally arose. Given the increased charge that the driver demanded was little more than 50c Canadian, it felt petty to argue over such a small amount. At the same time, the whole practice also felt dishonest, and I struggled with it in principle – particularly wondering in the back of my mind whether I was a target of arbitrary price increases because I was a woman travelling alone. Irritated but not wanting to argue, I grudgingly paid the full amount and headed into the airport to catch my flight to Hanoi.

After a short flight to the east, I touched down in Vietnam just as the sun was setting. Having secured my e-visa to the country in advance, I sailed through customs and into the arrivals hall, where I had pre-arranged an airport transfer to take me into the old town of the city. While I generally preferred to take public transit or hail a tuk-tuk when backpacking, I had become cautious with my transportation when arriving at airports after dark. From my research on Hanoi, I had heard that taxi scams are unfortunately common, where certain drivers are paid by hotels and hostels to drive unwitting passengers to the wrong location, or charge excessive fares, to the point where a passenger would need to go to an ATM, or pay in foreign currency. In the communication I had received in advance from my hostel in Hanoi, I had also been fully briefed on possible scams in transit, and chose to pre-pay for a transfer to avoid the worry. I had also purchased a new Vietnamese SIM card in the airport, so that I could ensure I could follow my route to the old town city.

As my ride pulled away from the airport, we were almost immediately surrounded by scooters – hundreds of them! Weaving in and out of traffic, the drivers leaned heavily on their horns as they navigated their scooters along the road - carrying everything from tall plants, flowers and produce, and sometimes up to 3-4 people! After the quiet atmosphere of Luang Prabang, where honking was rare in the old city centre, the streets of Hanoi were quite the opposite, bursting with sounds from every direction. Heading South, we crossed the Red River and approached the Old Quarter of the city.

As it happened, even with my pre-arranged airport transfer, my driver still tried to drop me off at the wrong hostel. Fortunately I had already located my correct destination in Hanoi on Google Maps, and after much back-and-forth, and insistence on my part, I was finally taken to the correct destination. The streets of the old quarter are so narrow that cars cannot go down them, and I walked the final few minutes to my hostel on foot. I passed other hostels with live music, and food vendors with plastic stools arranged near their stalls for people to sit and eat. My friends from Vancouver, Kevin and Liane, had previously stayed at this hostel, Original Backpackers, a few years earlier, and recommended it highly – and rightly so! I felt immediately welcomed by the friendly staff, and began to relax again after many hours in transit. After several weeks of communal living, I had decided to pay a small premium for a private room, where I had a long, hot shower, before crashing immediately for the night.

Typical Food Stalls in the Old Quarter

Narrow Streets in the Old Quarter, with a perfectly placed photobomber!

Day 166 – Hanoi

I only had one full day in Hanoi – and woke up early, determined to pack in as much as possible! Through the front desk of my hostel, I arranged a motorbike “Backstreet Tour” for that afternoon, where a local Vietnamese guide would take me around the city on a motorbike to show me both popular sites, and what day-to-day life looked like in Hanoi.

In the morning, I began to wander the Old Quarter of Hanoi nearby to my hostel. This historic city has been inhabited for over a thousand years, and has been shaped by a complex history – from ancient kingdoms, dynasties and wars, French colonialism, Japanese occupation during the second world war, to more recently, with the influences of communism and the Vietnam War. After the war ended in the 1970s, it wasn’t until 1990s that the country began to open up to the outside world again, bringing in new opportunities for tourism and economic development. Modern day Hanoi is home to a multi-cultural community with strong French, Chinese and Russian influences. French colonial architecture continues to be visible throughout the city, with some streets resembling historic neighbourhoods in Paris. Near the Old Quarter, a large gothic cathedral constructed by French still stands; St. Josephs is one of the first structures built by the colonialists as they expanded their reach into Southeast Asia. Remarkably, the cathedral is still in good condition despite the wars of the last century.

The Old Quarter, part of a former citadel wall, is made up of a narrow series of alleys, tightly packed together. The historic area is known for its clusters of workshops, skilled craftsman, artisans and guilds, with the 40 streets of the area each named for the primary good and service provided on each street. It was a lively place to wander through in the morning; locals sat down on low, colourful plastic stools set up by street vendors, eating a breakfast of noodles. Honking scooters whizzed up and down the alleys, narrowing dodging each other. I spotted a few people playing chess in a doorway, right next to a vendor selling produce off the back of a scooter. I passed through one street mostly selling flowers, before turning the corner to find another street with almost all bamboo products.

I wandered further east to Hoan Kiem Lake, finally making an attempt to cross a major street – with scooters, cars and pedestrians going in every which way! One good piece of advice I had been given by friends who had visited Hanoi was to simply walk out into traffic at a slow, steady pace (without any sudden moves or stops!) and the scooters would simply weave around you. I walked beside locals crossing on my first few attempts, but it wasn’t long before I got the hang of it!

I stopped at Note Coffee to try my first Vietnamese-style egg coffee. This drink is traditionally prepared by beating egg yolks with sugar and milk, and bringing this mixture to a boil, before pouring in coffee. The result is a foamy, dessert-like coffee – and was delicious! The café itself was also unusual – with its walls decorated with thousands upon thousands of colourful post-it notes, with messages from previous visitors. The result made the entire café look like a giant art installation, and reminded me of Yayoi Kusama’s dotted “obliteration room”. Sufficiently loaded up on sugar and caffeine, I continued onwards towards the lake, popping into a few art galleries and stalls on my way. Along the streets, I was constantly amazed by the number of vendors selling fruit, art, and countless other items off the back of their scooters. Pushing or driving their laden motorbike through the crowds, these vendors would make sales right, left and centre – all while keeping moving!

Arriving at the banks of Hoan Kiem Lake, I crossed a traditional, red wooden bridge to Ngoc Son Temple, located on a small island in the middle of the lake. Aside from the crowds of other tourists, it was a quiet respite from the buzz of the surrounding Old City of Hanoi.

As it was approaching noon, I returned to my hostel to meet Kien, my local guide for the afternoon motorbike tour. Slightly younger than me, Kien had grown up in Hanoi, and was excellent company for the afternoon. His motorbike was a vintage, army-green, “Minsk”, a heavy duty motorbike that was brought back from the Soviet Union in the 80s. As luck would have it – I was the only person on the tour that day, which allowed Kien to take me out and around the city for almost 7 hours! I could scarcely believe that I was able to see and experience so much of Hanoi in a day.

Kien first took me to Train Street, where twice a day a speeding train passes through the Old Quarter, mere feet from the front stoops of people’s homes. We continued onwards to Hanoi’s notorious black market, where vendors sell everything from car and mechanical parts to appliances, DVDs and electronics. Kien pointed out things as we cycled; the dense scramble of black electric wires overhead called “black noodles” by the locals; the French colonial architecture throughout the city; and the “tube houses” of the Old Quarter – narrow homes that exchanged their width for height and depth – as a way of lowering property tax, since the wider your house, the more you pay! Many of these tall, skinny homes had large water cannisters mounted on the top of the buildings, used to maintain water pressure. We also visited a few wet markets – where every imaginable item was for sale, from a rainbow of produce to live turtles, eels, and frogs.

Train Street

Between our ventures into different areas of the city, Kien took me to many local restaurants and wet markets along the way, to try a wide range of different Vietnamese food, including more Ca Phe Trung (egg coffee), Banh Mi Chao (a hearty breakfast skillet), Banh Cuon (rice rolls, stuffed with pork), Pho Cuon (fresh beef rolls), Pho, and Banana Flower Salad. We also stopped at a tiny Bia Hoi right stand next to the road – “Bia Hoi” literally translating to “fresh beer”, and is draught beer that is sold on street corners and tiny bars throughout the city. It is delivered daily and is tapped straight out of a large steel barrel. Kien and I sat on tiny red plastic stools on the pavement, sipping the light beer and snacking on roasted peanuts from a nearby vendor.

Fruit Markets

A typical neighbourhood Bia Hoi Stand

A particularly interesting part of the day is when Kien took me East of the city center to the banks of the Red River. I was able to walk along Cau Long Bien, a colonial-era cantilever bridge that was heavily bombarded during the Vietnam war, as it was a key point of connection between Hanoi and the nearby port. Spanning a mile and a half in length, it is still one of the longest cantilever truss bridges in the world. While only part of the original bridge still stands, the bridge continues to be a symbol of pride for the Vietnamese people. Underneath the Cau Long Bien, impoverished families live in a cluster of floating homes, make-shift shelters that have been built on rafts of plastic barrels.

Cau Long Bien

Floating Homes on the Delta

We continued onwards to Bai Giua, or “Banana Island”, an island located in the middle of the Red River next to Hanoi. Since this island is on a flood plain, no apartments or concrete buildings are allowed, and the island is mostly used for farming, including fields of bananas and papayas. Kien maneouvered his motorcycle down a maze of dirt paths between the fields as we explored the island. Barking dogs sometimes came up to our motorcycle, and ran along next to us for a while, before dropping off the trail again. We passed by many farmers working in the fields, typically wearing a conical, straw hat, (called “Non La”) tied around the wearer’s chin with a piece of cloth. These multi-purpose hats not only protect farmers from the fierce tropical sun, but can be used as a fan and also as a basin for water.

As the sun began to set over the Red River, we headed back into Hanoi, and drove along the large, tree lined boulevards around the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and the Presidential Palace. Our day ended with a bit of a surprise - as Kien’s motorcycle broke down in the middle of an intersection! Fortunately, this seemed to be a common-enough occurrence in Hanoi, and all the other bikes moved around us seamlessly as we tried to get off the road. All in a day’s adventure! Arriving back in the Old Quarter after a terrific day of exploring Hanoi, I quickly crashed for the night, as I would be waking up early the following morning to catch a bus into the Sapa Mountains, a day’s journey northwest of Hanoi.

#vietnam

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chiseler · 4 years

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When Nature Was Golden

Let’s open with a few passages of deathless prose from the classics.

EMORY’S SOFT-SHELLED TURTLE (18 in.; to 35 lb.) is the only Southwest member of an edible group with long necks and short tempers. Handle with care.

BELTED KINGFISHER Where there are fish there are Kingfishers, beating the air in irregular flight, diving into water with a splash and emerging with fish in their beaks.

THE EASTERN MOLE or common mole makes the mounds that dot your lawn. You are unlikely to see any moles, for they stay underground unless molested.

You saw them in the basement of your third-grade best friend, or in your school library. If you were lucky, you had one or two at home—your older sister read them first, years ago; maybe they’d even belonged to one of your parents. Paperback books just a bit smaller than pulp fiction novels, though equally thick, their illustrated pages of a glossier, higher quality. The typeface was Futura, that design marvel of yore, also seen in the old Hall of Dinosaurs in the American Museum of Natural History. Insects, Seashores, Mammals, Reptiles and Amphibians—which did you have? The Golden Guides gave us our natural world in all its glory, and managed to do it in a singular style, dry yet affectionate, concisely informative and never, ever dumbed-down. They were written for children, but each, too, is a cracking read for any adult eager to learn. Or to remember.

Naturalist Herbert S. Zim, who founded this series of guides and wrote many of them, was born in New York in 1909. Raised there and in Southern California, he finished his B.S., M.S., and Ph.D at Columbia University. He was then a science teacher for twenty-five years—at Ethical Culture schools in New York City, and later at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. One wonders where on earth he found the time to crank out so many books. Each was a loving collaboration with other educators, not solely Zim’s effort. But the synthesis of these people, the meticulous research required to bring together all the info, was his responsibility, from 1949 until the early 1970s. Zim, in 1969, was also the editor of an 18-volume set of encyclopedias named Our Wonderful World.

Of the 84 Golden Guides, Zim wrote or co-wrote 24. Is it confirmation bias that makes me believe those are the best of the bunch? The simple style is charming, with phrases like Rock Ground Squirrels, found in the Southwest, are our largest terrestrial squirrels. What grace: with a hint of pride to be from the United States, he said that the squirrels are ours. (I also appreciate that he uses the word “unique” correctly, without qualifiers. The Barn Owl is unique, not “totally” or “somewhat” unique.) The occasional anachronism amuses. Once in awhile Zim tells us which kind of turtle or ground squirrel makes a good pet, if captured.

You have been seeing birds as far back as you can remember and you will continue seeing them wherever you may be. It’s a real pleasure to see them. You can see more birds and more kinds of birds by learning how to look. This book will help you. It is not written for the expert, but for people who want to see birds just for the joy of it.

First become familiar with the mammals pictured and described. Look through the Key to Mammals on the next pages so that you can recognize the major mammal groups. Try to see the mammal well enough to decide, for example, whether it is a rodent or a shrew.

Familiarity with fishes gained by thumbing through pages at odd moments may enable you to make rough identifications at sight. Use this book as an “arm-chair” guide, but also take it into the field with you, for that is where it can be used best. On fishing trips take it along in a plastic bag.

Originally named the Golden Nature Guides, the series name was shortened to “Golden Guides” when they began branching out into other topics—for example, Guns, Sports Cars, and Casino Games. But these adult subjects did not make it into most family rooms, and the more popular guides about flora and fauna, insects, weather, stars, and the like are the ones most frequently found today. The illustrations by James Gordon Irving and others are remarkably detailed, the beauty of pure accuracy from a time when nature photography was rare.

A particularly enchanting feature of the Guides is the family tree, usually a two-page spread of swooping, color-gradated branches, each limb ending in a small picture of an animal in its biological order, labeled something like “Cutlass Fishes” or “Scorpion-Flies.” No less an artist than Matt Groening would eventually parody this format for his Life In Hell comic, describing the evolution of record-store clerks from sullen teens.

Herbert Zim, in his long career as an educator, was the one who brought lab instruction into science courses at the elementary-school level. Anyone who looked through a microscope before they reached ninth grade might have him to thank. And one attribute of Golden Guides is the way they expect one to get involved, not just in the field, but with “amateur activities” like building a birdhouse or preserving animal tracks in plaster. Through such deep engagement, the reader is encouraged not just to appreciate nature, but to discover new things about it, making new contributions to science.

He demanded no less of himself. Going through what biographical information there is on Zim, which is all very straightforward, one notices the list of scientific associations he belonged to, numbering more than twenty. They included the Audubon Society, the Union of Concerned Scientists, the Everglades Natural History Association, and the International Union for the Conservation of Nature. Truly, this was a vigorous and busy man.

Like so many cultural products of their time, the Golden Guides can look antithetical to today’s progressive values. Just ask the Yuman Indian woman who sits weaving cotton, bare-breasted, in one of the pictures in a guide to the American Southwest. In little vignettes we see depicted dozens of trappers, fishermen, tourists, birdwatchers—all white, mostly male. Under the entry for “Other Suckers,” Zim claims “some are so easily caught that every boy knows them.” If the Guides were written just for boys, this is a great shame, though their ubiquity meant that many girls of all different backgrounds would find them. The scientific language is devoid of prejudice, by its nature, and is there for any young person dedicated enough to study it. It prizes the natural world above all. One passage recently took me by surprise for its passion, on a page about the fishing industry: If you are interested in fishes, conservation—the wise use of all our natural resources—is your problem too.

Maybe it’s our current predicament that makes one particularly fond of the outside world, and of non-humans. Back in March, I started watching a live online feed from The Aquarium of the Pacific each night, comforted by the variety of fish, sharks, and rays that swam peacefully by. Curious about a small fish with long, showy gold fins, I consulted Fishes to identify it, and Irving didn’t disappoint. Meanwhile, Herbert Zim informed me that the species, named Lookdown, belong to the mackerel-like family of “jacks” and are fine eating.

In 1934, Zim married the Russian-born Sonia (Sonnie) Bleeker, who had studied anthropology at Columbia. The couple had two sons. Bleeker, too, worked in the book world—as an editor at Simon and Schuster, then as a full-time children’s book author. They eventually moved to Florida. Just like the descriptions in the guides, these biographical facts fall well short of being dull. They force me to imagine how energetic, how full life must have been in the Zim household as the kids grew up; and how many subtropical species kept Herbert company in his later years. After Bleeker’s death, he married Grace K. Showe in 1978. He died at Plantation Key in 1994, of complications from Alzheimer’s.

LIVE OAK has become a symbol of the South. The low, spreading tree, often covered with Spanish moss, marks old plantations and roadside plantings. The elliptical, blunt-tipped, leathery leaves are evergreen—that is, they remain green and on the tree throughout the year. The acorns are small but edible; wood is used for furniture. Two other southeastern Oaks (Laurel and Willow) have leaves of somewhat similar shape, but they are thinner and more pointed than Live Oak. Several western Oaks are evergreen. Botanists apply the unqualified name Live Oak only to this species. Height 40 to 60 ft. Beech family

In a Manhattan backyard in the middle of June, a couple of mourning doves fly between the trees. I’m aware that the gentle woop-woop-woop sound they make is not their voices but their wingbeats. The dogwood’s cream-yellow blooms have begun to fade, as is proper at this time. Above me a juvenile blue jay, still fluffy, shrieks out his typical noisy cry. I’m intrigued to see a red speck moving among the hairs on my arm—it’s a clover mite, an insect I haven’t noticed in decades. As recently as 1982, I was a four-year-old marveling at the rolling movement of clover mites on a windowsill—smaller than pin heads, bright candy-apple red. Somewhere along the line they stopped showing up, at least with the frequency they did back then. Now, seeing even one evinces a swell of emotion. (Incidentally, the same is true of another brightly-colored beauty, the red eft, which used to be so numerous in summer that we had to tiptoe on New York State gravel roads to avoid stepping on them.)

We learn more from Zim’s texts than he bargained for. His Golden Guides speak of a midcentury United States where all these animals and plants were still commonly seen. Just based upon my memories from the past 20 or 30 years, there seem to be fewer animals everywhere; in the 1950s, then, was the Earth just teeming with them, in every corner of every suburban lawn? Having learned that the biomass of insects, in particular, has started to fall fast, I yearn for the spectacle of clover mites and hastily do a search for them. Yes, the internet reassures me: we in New York City still have lots of the red bugs, enough to warrant a FAQ page from a pest-control company. They’re harmless to humans, pets, houses, and furniture. They munch grass and reproduce parthenogenically, which means every individual can lay viable eggs, without mating.

Of course, the sites telling me this haven’t worded their data quite as eloquently as Herbert Zim would have. Still, I thank him for the spark of curiosity that got me there at all. He taught me not just how to identify a clover mite, but how to care about her.

by Amanda Nazario

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efortmanteau · 5 years

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TMA Headcanons

I sort of spoiled myself in terms of headcanons for The Adventure Zone, so now I try to finish/get caught up on podcasts and form impressions entirely in my head before introducing visual ideas via fanart. And lately I've been focusing on The Magnus Archives SOOOO here we go:

My headcanons for The Magnus Archives. A few were originally written after listening through s2. I've added my s3 thoughts below characters or in a new section. I'm only 3 episodes in to s4 so no spoilers after the end of s3.

Jon (I only recently discovered that there's no H in his spelling, whoops) aka The Archivist - Obviously Jon doesn't really have fun ever, so the main word I think of is 'austere.' He's a pale white guy with dark hair and greyish or brownish eyes who basically always dresses formally--collared shirts, slacks, maybe even vests, usually neutral colors. He's thin, but not fit--just the type of guy who doesn't put on weight since he doesn't focus much on food. Rectangular face, maybe has facial hair… I haven't decided, but if he does, it's like a goatee/mustache scenario that's always well trimmed. In my mind, he's young to mid 30s, but could look older. When he's scared or disshevelled though, he looks a lot younger. I think he's also kind of short, maybe 5'8", so he keeps really good posture to make up for it. Ben Whishaw is almost right, but he'd have to be homelier. S3 updates: Not really any? Although apparently it's Jon without an H. I've confirmed that he looks older than he is since the spider picturebook episode (which I would love Don Hertzfeld to animate, perhaps with assistance from Jules Feiffer who is 90 gd years old… that episode is so vivid in my head). Also I forgot Jon has worm… scars? Pock-marks? Not sure how that works, but you probably don't see them much, given I can't imagine him in short sleeves or shorts, although maybe he has a few on his neck visible pretty frequently, above collars. I'm was pleased to learn he is canonically asexual, but not all that surprised. Something about the way he interacted with Georgie in her apartment had me wondering… maybe it reminds me of me and my ex (I'm the asexual one, my ex isn't, but we still get along).

Martin - I immediately imagined Marty (Terry Gross Waters-Waters SAT tutor in Gayle) when I learned more about soft, sweet lad Martin, so Matty Cardarople has always kind of been in my head. That is probably just a similar name situation, but it's kind of perfect. Since Martin said he wasn't the smallest of guys but still made it into a basement window, I imagine he's kind of tall and chubby, but doesn't seem tall, slouchy, not the most confident person. Sort of a Neville Longbottom situation (before the glow-up). I think somewhere between Matty and Nick Robinson is around the correct appearance: a little more clean shaven and formally dressed than Matty often is with shorter hair (but still flippy), but softer than Nick is. This guy wears sweaters a lot. I guess he's canonically 29 at the end of s1--I had imagined him in his mid 20s somewhere, but I guess he was pretending to be older since he claimed he had a master's degree. S3 updates: Martin is probably the one who was most easy for me to imagine. I never really thought of his fixation on Jon to be a crush, which I'm really intrigued by in terms of character development. I was parsing it more of Martin being a bit of a subservient character, that he was like that to everyone in the office, but we only saw it from Jon's POV as the primary narrator. If I do a re-listen, I'll be very interested to pick out some Martin/Jon moments now that I have a different context.

Sasha (or maybe Sascha) - I sort of had Sally Donovan from BBC's Sherlock in mind initially. I tried to stray away from that and looked up "half black actress." I picked out Zawe Ashton without even realizing that she had in fact played Sally (in one episode, so not her main actress) because of her hair and skin and the fact that her face is pleasant, but not the typical hyper-button baby doll face that some actresses have. Sasha has natural hair with light curls (sometimes straightened). I originally pictured a small afro, but I think in s2, they refer to her as having long hair, so I guess not? I'm also not clear if that was Not-Sasha imitating her, or just straight up not looking like real-Sasha at all. She's slim, pretty posh/minimalist in style--grey herringbone peacoat, umbrella, boots. I imagine she's half Russian heritage-wise, since is a common Russian diminutive for Aleksandra. I would put her in the 25-27 age range. S3 updates: I caught on to Not-Sasha (partially because I saw the name in the voice actor credits, whoops), but I think I also caught something in Lottie's flat affect that clued me in. I thought that the imposter was just good at disguise, not that people had been cursed to forget what real Sasha looked like, so Melanie's introduction and take on Sasha/Not-Sasha threw me off a bit. I don't remember if the "long hair" comment was for real- or Not-Sasha. But I don't have any headcanons about Not-Sasha… just that she looks nothing like the original.

Tim - In my head Tim is the tallest main character, maybe 6'2", and pretty fit. He's imposing at first glance, but since he's so congenial and laid back (at least in s1 before Jon totally pisses him off) everyone who knows him knows he's a nice, fun guy. He's black, with fairly dark complexion, short hair, clean shaven. He probably wears sweaters too, but like… the thinner kind. None of this bulky knit from grandma that Martin rocks. I first think of Alan from Russian Doll (Charlie Barnett), but darker, just black instead of more mixed. I'd say he's around Jon's age. S3 updates: RIP in pepperinos. I guess him being fit is not unreasonable since he is… canonically? (does Alex and Jonny joking about it make it canonical) an outdoorsy adventurer. I certainly missed his friendly nature, but my headcanons didn't really change. He just looked a lot more tired up until the end of s3.

Elias - He is older than the rest of them, I would guess in his 40s or 50s, but given that it's canon that he rose in the ranks kind of quickly, maybe he's not that old after all. I don't really have a good mental picture of him, maybe because I can't differentiate his voice from John's a lot of the time until I piece the context together. In my mind he has a beard and mustache though, kind of full, and maybe dirty blonde hair that's greying a bit. S3 updates: I wouldn't be surprised if he carried a cane that was actually a sword or a gun (I'm American, so having a gun seems very easy to me, so I'm not sure if that would be rare in England). Also, did I hear something about having a grey bun? Maybe I'm completely confusing it with something else, but I'm chuckling about man bun Elias.

Michael - Well, he isn't human… but he looks kind of like a really pale guy who is mishapen and thus wearing a lot of clothing at first glance? He probably wears a lot of clothes so you can't really make him out under the trench coat, scarf, hat, etc. (I might be confusing him with someone else). I think it's canon that his hands are large and maybe have too many bones. For some reason, Michael reminds me of tourmalinated quartz--black and white for the most part, striations cutting through the clearer crystal--sort of like a metaphor for how he kind of… dimension hops? Ends up where he isn't supposed to? I imagine striations of his appearance sort of blip in and out when you look at him based on the static he causes on recordings. S3 updates: I now know that he was an assistant to Gertrude. I guess my idea of his human form is basically the same color and demeanor, just not other-worldly in proportions and bone count. Probably the tall gangly type of white guy. ALSO I guess he's kind of Helen now…? I'll do a separate one for Helen.

---BREAK to add characters I didn't write about until the end of s3---

Basira - I assume she is a Muslim woman, based on her name. I imagine she wears a hijab. I picture her as Middle-Eastern, perhaps Iranian, but she could also be black (there are a fair amount of black Muslims in America, not sure if it's common in England). Other than the hijab, she's not very feminine in her styling. Being on the force probably means you want pretty functional, utilitarian garments. I don't remember if she talked in great detail about how she joined the police, whether it was straight from school, but in my mind she's late 30s.

Daisy - I think I recall she has a back tattoo? She's a murderer so she has a tough air about her, but she's also a subtle murderer, so nothing about her screams that she's dangerous… you just get that feeling, you know? I imagine a white lady, short blonde hair, blue eyes. Kind of like Brienne of Tarth, but more plain than ugly. She's maybe early to mid 40s. I'm not sure if her relationship with Basira is supposed to be romantic or not. I kind of prefer this weird closeness that doesn't always equate to trust given their specific experiences. Regardless, I imagine they are around the same age.

Melanie - Melanie is probably the youngest, early to mid 20s. Typical build and height, maybe a little chubby, but not unable to climb fences or anything (gotta hunt them ghosts). She has a short, asymmetrical bob, dark hair, but part is dyed a bright color of pink, purple, maybe green. I imagine she has a go-to windbreaker that has some neon colors.

Helen - I'm so sad that we had to lose Michael to gain Helen. I really love the Spiral and the characters we've met who are involved with them. Helen in my mind was a badass realtor, ready to close a deal, very driven… and that carried over into becoming SpiralHelen. She sort of outsmarted it with the locked door, didn't she? I can't imagine that's very common for humans/avatars to get the better of their entities. She seems really strong willed, so I'm excited to see where she goes as a human who is becoming an avatar. I think her personality translates into her being 40-something but like lowkey hot? She probably rocks a suit with a skirt in bold colors that men's wear usually doesn't offer (all over red suit, tailored to her, pumps, straight brown hair, nice makeup). I'm not sure how the Spiral would affect her… maybe her angles just get a little more pronounced? She's probably not yet to the point of disfiguration that Michael was anyway.

Georgie - She is like a terrier who will bark at a big dog because they don't know to be afraid of it (or… how to be afraid of it, in her case). She is short, 5'2" or less (I just remembered that a lot of the listeners probably use metric measurements, so sorry for that, but I'm not going to bother converting). I imagine she is cute--she dresses up for her dates to Hungarian restaurants (my favorite detail omg girl get it) and wants to look hot, but really she can't get away from cute. Brown curly hair, big brown eyes, button nose. But resting bitch face… gotta ward off those catcalls and get taken seriously somehow.

Jergen? I can’t spell, it’s Jurgen - Jowly white guy. Wispy caramelly colored hair that's going white. Probably pretty tall, which I'm sure what an annoyance in those tunnels.

Gertrude - At first glance, just some old white lady. But after you get to know her, you realize she can probably murder you and is nowhere near as frail as you think. Curly, wiry grey hair.

#tma #the magnus archives

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creature-of-the-fright · 6 years

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Just trust me, okay? (Reloaded)

Hey, it contains vore, don’t read this, if you don’t like it. And I can make some mistakes, ‘cause my native language is Russian, so I had to use Google translator. Enjoy reading! Have you ever thought about the meaning of life? Why do we exist and the like?The Retinazer, for example, saw its existence in mockery of others.Here and now …The branch under the boy’s foot crackled loudly. He ran through the thicket, trying to escape, and did not pay attention to the branches, tearing the skin in the blood. The child reeled out of the forest into a clearing, fell, stumbled, but then turned sharply back. The trees were shaken. The big red eye looked at the boy with hatred and anger.The little nightmare cried out and rushed to the river, rumbling nearby. From the forest a huge guy, 19 meters high, jumped out, with a long red hair on his left eye. And, it seems, he was clearly unfriendly. Vaughn, holding a blaster in his hand and aiming at the boy. And he, knowing that the shot can be stopped by water, has already jumped into the seething waves. Red-eyed, grinning, dropped his hand with his weapon. “I’m off again, you little bastard. Rejoice that this time you ran away. But do not wait for mercy in the next.” He turned and disappeared between the trees. Although, disappeared - too strongly said. At this size, do not particularly hide. The boy, long out of strength, but sailed far enough away, clutched his hands in the stone and struggled to the shore. “Ah … ah …” the water poured from his mouth. Swallowed, apparently.It was late autumn. The blue sky had long since hidden behind dark, heavy clouds that covered the sun. The rain broke first, and then the snow. The trees have already disposed of the variegated attire, which is now rotting in the ground.The child cringed and loudly coughed. Then he got up from the ground and wandered back to the taiga. He simply had no choice. Staying on an open surface will collapse with pneumonia or worse. Go into the forest - again the story with the chase could happen again. But, than to choose death from a frost, the little nightmare preferred to be either trampled, or roasted. For a long time he could not go. It was already an hour and a half dark and had to interrupt the transition. The boy looked up and looked at the thin crescent moon, indifferent to his fate. He sighed and sat down on a large stone, wrapped more closely in his black cloak. Long stay in the cold did its job, so the little nightmare curled into a ball and stared into the thicket. He wanted more quickly that all this was over. Though somehow, but it’s over. The child closed his eyes.Soon the boy felt that, for some reason, he was warmed up. He looked away a little and nearly yelled. Two huge eyes looked at him curiously. One, left, was bright green, and the other, right, was in an empty black eye socket with mechanical edges and glowed with a white pupil. It was from the breath and warmed little nightmare. The child, was ready to run, but it was raked by a huge hand. The boy screamed. But so far nothing terrible has happened. He just sat in the palm of his hand, blinking. He was showered with warm breath. “Uh, kid?” You’re cold?“ - heard a rather affectionate voice.The little nightmare did not hurry to answer, because this … mmm … stranger was, apparently, the twin of the one who was with the blaster. “Are you scared, huh? Hey, I will not hurt you, kid.” the green-eyed man continued to coo. “You’re as cold as ice … Listen, and I know how I can warm you.” The boy felt much warmer. And softer, by the way. And then suddenly falling and crowded.Green-eyed with difficulty swallowed his little “find” and sat down under a tree. By the way, he was slightly lower than his brother - only 17 meters.The nightmare suddenly realized what was happening and began to scratch and fight back, but it was too late. It is because of this that the guy hardly swallowed it. “Hey, hey !! …” The child was almost deaf from the loud voice that surrounded him. “Do not scratch! It hurts me!” The boy soon stopped kicking and again curled into a tight ball,squinting and sobbing. “Wow … Now … I frightened you? … Little one?… Hey, kid, it’s all right … Do you hear? I will not hurt you or harm you. Everything will be good. In the meantime … just calm down, okay?” The voice became somewhat guilty and apologetic. “Y … you’re lying … Why lie in the already doomed to … with death …? You gobbled me up!” Cried the little nightmare, fainting. And then completely gone.The child struggled to open his eyes, afraid of absolute darkness around. And then he remembered where he was, and even more panicked. Suddenly, awareness came. “It took several hours … and I … am I still alive …? Sort of like … but …” “ Hey? Are you awake? Hooray! I really thought you would not dare to regain consciousness, kid, “the gentle voice said again. "Who are you ?? … and why am I still alive? …” “Ah … I did not introduce myself … hehe, Oops. My name is Spazmatizm. And you’re alive, ‘cause I’m not alive” “ what???” “Ugh, damn it! Did not mean that. I’m the mechanism, here. Typically … a robot. You know, you’re the first one who did not run away from me, kid … What’s your name, m?” The little nightmare was silent for a while, and then whispered: “Me … My name is Nightmare … you can call me Night or Mare … and … I’d run away if I could !!..” The Spaz choked. “Would it really … have run away? … oh … how is it … so …” the green-eyed man stopped to talk. Night shuddered, realizing that he had said too much. “I … I’m sorry … please … thank you for not killing … and warming …” Mare timidly touched the “wall”. Spazmatizm with a sigh smiled and put his hand on his stomach. “Apology accepted, little one… I’m also sorry that I swallowed you without demand. Just understand that you would never allow me to do this. Right?” “Well … you’re right …” The little nightmare, a little bit bolder, immersed his hands in warm flesh. “Hehe. Tickling. Where are you from?” “Me? … This is a long story…” “Hah, you obviously have a lot of time to tell it and I - to listen to” green-eyed lay down on the ground and put his hands under his head. At the same time, the boy was slightly displaced in space. “Oh …! … Okay … In general, for a long time my parents were killed … and today 80 years have passed since that moment … I wanted to come to that place, but a man with a gun attacked me! .. he just like you looked … I had to run, it’s repeated every time …” the child quietly told. Spaz, listening to the story, shuddered. “Oh … Kid, I’m sorry … Really… If I knew that this is the case, I would not ask you … And about my twin brother: you’re right, he’s still a viper. I myself do not like to meet with him. Each time he directs his gun to the forehead and starts lecturing me to read that he will not let anyone in and out of the woods. Enrages,” - the green-eyed man gently pressed his fingers on the upper abdomen, trying to soothe the boy. Night, feeling stroking, grunted and pressed himself against the warm surface. “I see you do not get along very well with your brother … but what’s his name?” “Him? Oum … Retinazer.” “Why are your names associated with the eyes in one way or another?” “Ah … er … pfffff … I myself would like to know why our creator called us that way. And the surname is the top of genius. We are The Twins. It’s just so dumb sounds: Twin Retinaser and Twin Spazmatizm, that we seldom use the surname,” - Spaz yawned loudly, clicking his sharp teeth. “The creator … you’re a mechanism, but you’re emotionally … and even more human than your brother …” murmured Night, tapping his fingers lightly on the flesh. “And I hear you’re tired … it’s all so weird, huh?” “Pfff … hahaha !! Forgive, ticklish. Well, I feel a lot, it’s true. And how - this is another question. Wahah … do you mind if I take a nap for an hour or two?” “Wahah …” Mare yawned, too. - “Do not mind … of course not against…"Spazmatizm turned to his side and looked up at the sky:"Good night, little Night. I’m glad that at least you trust me…” The green-eyed voice died down. Breathing also became much quieter and deeper. But he, apparently, tried not to snort and snore, so as not to interfere with the new little friend.Well, the boy also fell asleep. He did not lose consciousness, but simply fell into the kingdom of Morpheus.

#Soft vore #safe vore #g/t vore #g/t #terraria #the twins #ernezt's trash #safe and sound #spazmatizm #retinazer #nightmare

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livingcorner · 3 years

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