#Eclectic cuisine

[falseandrealultravival]

Chinese-style stir-fried eggplant and minced meat (cooking)

Spread sesame oil in a frying pan, stir-fry the minced meat, and sprinkle with salt. Add the cut and bleached eggplant, stir-fry, add the seasoning mixture of oyster sauce, sweet soy sauce, and garlic, stir-fry some more, and sprinkle with oregano at the end. Eclectic cuisine of Chinese and European style.

茄子とひき肉中華風炒め（料理）

フライパンにごま油を敷き、ひき肉を炒め、塩を振る。切って晒した茄子を加えて炒め、オイスターソース、甜面醤、ニンニクを混合した調味料を加え、さらに炒め、最後にオレガノを振る。中華と欧風の折衷料理。

(2023.09.25)

#Chinese-style stir-fried eggplant and minced meat #cooking #Babylman #eggplant #minced meat #Eclectic cuisine

[masalacha]

Picadillo - Cuban Style 🇨🇺

There is a dish that captures the essence of the Cuban spirit and tickles my taste buds —picadillo. This humble yet flavorful concoction, with its blend of sweet and savory, is like a carnival of flavors on the tongue. It’s a staple that brings families together, a comfort food that speaks of home, love, and tradition. Ingredients Lean Ground Beef (1 lb): The star of the dish. Lean beef…

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#Brenda Benoit #Cuban Picadillo #eclectic cuisine in Miami #Ground Beef #Recipes

[icarusignite]

So i have a weird reaquest heheh i just read you finan x reader where they die instead of osferth and the final sentence being about them meeting in heaven SO i got this idea about like in the next life maybe like a modern AU they meet by accident in our time like idk the boys go to a bar or something after a day of work and she is there and Finan just feels like they know each other and something and massive fluff!!!

Thank you<3333

A/N: Heyyoo, I love love loved this request, so cute. Hope you like this fic. I had alot of fun writing the "in another world" vibes lol. This is my first time writing modern AU so apologies if it's abit nonsensey.

Word Count: 2.5K

Pairing: Finan x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n), Modern AU

AO3

In this labyrinth of time, our souls entwined

The bar hummed with an energetic atmosphere, vibrant and alive. Warm, dimmed lights cast a golden glow across the space, illuminating the polished wooden surfaces and richly upholstered seating. The air was filled with the mingling scents of aged whiskey, fragrant hops, and delectable cuisine, creating an inviting aroma that embraced the four men who had just entered.

The sounds of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses merged harmoniously, creating a symphony of human connection. Patrons leaned against the sleek bar, engaged in animated discussions, their voices rising and falling like waves crashing on a distant shore. Bartenders, skilled and swift, expertly crafted cocktails, their movements a well-practiced dance behind the counter. The clatter of shakers, the clinking of ice, and the pop of corks added a rhythmic backdrop to the bustling scene. There was also the occasional burst of applause that erupted from a corner where groups engaged in friendly games of darts or pool. The walls were adorned with eclectic artwork, vintage posters, and memorabilia, and the music, carefully curated to suit the mood, resonated throughout the room. 

As for Finan, Osferth, Uhtred, and Sihtric, they navigated their way through the bustling crowd, exchanging nods and friendly greetings with familiar faces along the way. Their destination was a cozy booth nestled against the far wall, worn leather seats beckoning like old friends. The table, scarred with marks of countless conversations and camaraderie, stood as a testament to the memories made within its embrace and the friends settled into their respective spots, each claiming their corner of comfort. 

"Now, Osferth," Finan teased, nudging his friend playfully. "Remember, moderation is key tonight. We don't want a repeat of last time, do we?"

"Hey, that was not my fault!" Osferth retorted. "Sihtric was the one who made that stupid wager."

"Well, whatever it was, your girlfriend wasn't too happy about having to drag your drunk ass back home when we called her," Sihtric smirked.

Uhtred rolled his eyes, "How'd someone like you even get a girlfriend Osferth?"

"You're just jealous that our boy here is in an actually stable relationship. Maybe you should learn a lesson or two from him?" Finan threw an arm around the blushing younger boy. 

"What, and deny the ladies all this?" Uhtred spread his arms wide and gestured to himself, making the table erupt in snickers. 

Osferth's face reddened slightly as he chuckled, his eyes flickering with embarrassment, "I'll make sure I don't lose it today. I don't really wanna bother her."

"Awww, he's in loooove," everyone cooed together, making Osferth blush harder.

"Can we-uh-can we just order, please!"

Uhtred raised his hand and summoned one of the waitresses over. She was a confident-looking woman, and when she caught sight of the boys, her eyes sparkled with familiarity and warmth. 

"Evening, gentlemen. What can I get for you today?" she grinned. "Will it just be the usual?"

Uhtred raised a hand to his heart, "Oh you flatter us Amelia, you know us so well."

"It's only right that I remember the order of my best tippers," she winked.

"I supposed it does help that we come in here every Friday night and order the exact same thing?" Sihtric raised an eyebrow playfully.

"I suppose. So yes, the usual then?"

"Thanks, Amelia, you're a doll," Uhtred smiled widely and leaned conspiratorially toward her. "And by the way-"

"Nuh-uh, don't try that with me," Amelia tapped her pen against her notepad. "Cassie from last week was here earlier and she did not look happy."

"Hmm, I wonder what that was about."

"Uhtred..." she warned, equal parts amused and annoyed.

"Oh c'mon, it's not my fault she got attached. It was a one-night kind of thing."

"Uhtred, Uhtred, Uhtred."

"Amelia, Amelia, Amelia, your disappointment in me stings."

Amelia rolled her eyes, "Good. You should learn from Osferth here. Now this is a true gentleman."

She ruffled his hair affectionately, making Uhtred groan.

"I'll send someone over with the food and drinks boys. Have a good time!"

As she walked away, Uhtred leaned back in his seat, a self-satisfied grin playing on his lips, "Did you see the way she looked at me? No woman can resist my charm."

Finan chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, Uhtred, your ego knows no bounds. She's definitely not into you!"

"Hey, but she could!"

Sihtric sniggered, "Leave it to Uhtred to flirt with every pretty face he comes across."

"And besides, there's no way she'd be into you when you go around breaking the hearts of every woman in her establishment," Osferth chimed in.

Just then, their drinks arrived, and Uhtred was saved from responding. He took his glass absentmindedly from the news server, eyes still lingering on the woman who had retreated behind the counter and was now currently issuing orders. 

The four friends were just raising their glasses, toasting to the adventures they had shared and those yet to come, when there was a sudden hush in the atmosphere. The boys turned their eyes toward the commotion along with everyone else in the room. 

A drunken man, fueled by liquid courage, had crossed the line of decency, attempting to grope a young woman who had been enjoying her drink in solitude at the bar. The atmosphere crackled with a mix of anger and concern, a collective discomfort rippling through the patrons. The woman's discomfort was palpable, her eyes darting around for help as she swallowed nervously. Uhtred stood, accompanied by his friends, ready to step in immediately, but then a figure burst through the crowd.

You were fierce and unyielding as you emerged, eyes flashing with defiance. Your voice boomed with a fiery determination as you confronted the perpetrator. 

"Get your fucking hands off her before I cut them off!"

The drunken man, taken aback by the unexpected confrontation, slurred a profanity-laden response "Mind your own business. The whore was asking for it."

The victim, your friend whom you had left unattended for a moment while you went to the washroom, shuddered at his words and it made your blood boil. You stood your ground with unwavering resolve, managing to stare down your nose at him despite being almost several inches shorter. 

"And you know what you're asking for, you pig? A fucking beating?"

The drunk man snarled and the entire bar waited with bated breath. Finan watched you curiously. He had never seen you in his entire life, he knew that much for sure, and yet there was something about you that seemed so familiar. Something about the steely determination in your glare and the way your voice echoed without strain. He found himself worrying for your safety just then, and he told himself that it was just very human of him to be wishing for the safety of a fellow patron of the bar.

"Oh yeah, and who'd gonna give me the beating? A pathetic thing like you?"

The drunkard lunged toward you, his intentions clear. But he had gravely underestimated your strength and resolve. In a swift movement, you dodged his attack, your smaller stature and sober mind giving you the advantage of speed and better coordination. Your fist connected with his jaw in a powerful counterstrike. There was a satisfying crunch and he crumpled with a howl. The sound reverberated through the room, silencing it for a split second before the eruption of applause and cheers.

"Alright, the show's over, get that fucking clown out of my bar!" Amelia finally arrived at the scene with security and everyone watched them throw the man out, returning the familiar buzz of conversation to the environment. 

The aftermath of the confrontation still hung in the air as Finan, Osferth, Uhtred, and Sihtric returned to their booth, feeling quite impressed at your bravery. However, there was something else lingering in the air—Finan's undeniable fascination with you. 

As they settled back into their seats, Osferth's eyes twinkled mischievously, "Finan, my friend, it seems your attention was captured by more than just the excitement of the moment."

Uhtred chuckled, leaning back with a knowing grin, "Indeed, it appears our fearless Finan has met his match. A strong-willed woman who can throw a punch? I totally see the appeal."

Finan's cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "No, no, it's not that. I feel like-I feel like I know her."

"You seen her before?" Sihtric raised an eyebrow.

"A one-night-"

"No! Nothing like that!"

Uhtred raised his hands placatingly, "Alright, alright. Shall I ask Amelia then? Maybe she's a regular here?"

"Maybe, I don't know."

"Just go talk to her Finan," Sihtric sighed in exasperation. 

"What if she thinks I'm a creep or something?"

"Oh I think she's more than capable enough to handle creeps don't you think?"

"Hey! I don't wanna be handled like a creep!" Finan exclaimed indignantly.

"Well then, you better be on your most gentlemanly behaviour dude," Osferth clapped a hand on his shoulder.

With the resounding support of his friends, Finan steeled his nerves and rose from the booth once more. He crossed the bar, weaving through the mingling crowds until he reached your side. You were still comforting your friend in hushed whispers when she nudged you to turn your attention to the newcomer.

Finan wore an easy confident smile as he leaned against the bar, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"You know," he began, his voice filled with playful charm, "I could swear we've crossed paths before. Perhaps in a previous life?"

You snorted, "Oh wow. That was-"

"Charming?"

"Oh, is that your go-to line?" you raised your eyebrow unimpressed. 

"Well, it hasn't failed me yet. But I must admit, it doesn't seem to be working splendidly in this instance," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Well, consider my curiosity piqued, charming stranger."

"Finan, at your service," he extended his hand which you took in a firm handshake.

The moment your palms met, a kaleidoscope of emotions and sensations cascaded through his being, and Finan felt a jolt of familiarity as if the tapestry of time had woven your destinies together long before your paths had crossed here in this bar. Time itself seemed to stutter, as though a forgotten melody had suddenly resurfaced, stirring memories buried deep within him and his heartbeat quickened. He knew you, he could swear it. Within that ephemeral moment, the boundaries of space blurred, and the present moment fused seamlessly with echoes of the past and the whispers of the future. The sensation transcended the confines of the physical world, creating a bridge that spanned eons, traversing the realms of memory and eternity. Finan then pulled away, feeling quite foolish. No girl had ever made him feel this way before but surely it was foolish to be drawn this way to a stranger he had just met. He looked up at you, trying to deduce whether or not you felt a similar connection, or if this familiarity was something on his part alone. 

Your eyes were warm as you smiled at him, but there was no recognition in them. That was all well enough, he supposed. The stressful week must be getting to him. This was the first time he'd seen you because there was no way he'd ever forget someone like you if you had made his acquaintance in the past. 

"So, will I get to know your name, or are you determined to stay an enigma?"

Your smile grew wider as you introduced yourself. 

"That was quite a punch back there," Finan eyed your bruised knuckles in concern. "I must say, I'm impressed."

You laughed, the sound echoing through his ears pleasantly. 

"Flattery will get you far, Finan. But tell me, do these lines usually work for you?"

Finan leaned in, his tone conspiratorial, "I'd say they've got about a 50/50 success rate. Though I must confess, it's never been quite as genuine as it is with you."

"Well, you certainly have a way with words. Perhaps, just this once, I'll let you get away with it."

"Wow, in that case, would you let me buy you a drink?"

"Hmm, I'd like that. Thank you."

Finan flagged down the bartender, ordering your preferred drink. Then, with a worried glint in his eyes, he added, "And may we also have some ice for her bruised knuckles, if you don't mind."

The bartender returned, placing your drinks on the bar along with a small bowl of ice. Finan took a few napkins and wrapped a few pieces of ice in them, reaching out to brush his fingers gently across yours.

"May I?"

You nodded hesitantly, and he pressed the cool relief to your knuckles, making you sigh. 

You smiled, "Thank you. It's not often I find someone who pays such attention to the little things."

After that, the conversation seemed easy, your words flowing effortlessly like a dance. The bar's ambient sounds faded into the background, leaving you wrapped in a cocoon of shared laughter and connection. You didn't even notice your friend slip away from your side, leaving you two alone at the counter. 

Finan's friends observed the scene from their booth, their eyes fixated on their smitten companion. Uhtred leaned in, his voice filled with mischief. "Well, well, it seems Finan has truly met his match."

Osferth nodded, a warm smile on his face as he watched the two of you laugh and engage in witty banter, "He's found someone who can match his wit I guess. It's entertaining for sure."

"How long before he works up the nerve to ask her out?" Sihtric chimed in.

"If he hasn't already," Uhtred pointed out.

"Nah, I don't think he's done it yet. He seems different this time."

"Oh you think you're the expert now Osferth," Sihtric nudged him with his elbow.

"Well, I am the one with the long-term relationship, so yeah, I guess that makes me the expert. We can't very well call Uhtred the expert now can we?"

Back at the bar, you and Finan had continued to share stories, your laughter intertwined with glimmers of vulnerability and shared interests. Finan leaned closer, his voice uttering your name sincerely.

"You know, there's something about you that is so truly captivating. I find myself drawn to your spirit, and I can't help but want to know more."

"My spirit huh? Damn, you definitely have a way with words. So what is it that you want to know, Finan?"

"Everything. I want to know your dreams, your passions, and the adventures that have made you the person you are. I want to know everything about you!"

"Oh."

"If you'll let me of course," he amended quickly, not wanting to scare you off.

Your cheeks flushed a deep red, "I assure you my life has been very ordinary so far, but perhaps you shall hear about it another time."

Finan reached out, gently taking your hand in his, "I eagerly await that time. Until then, may I have the honour of taking you out for dinner?"

"Oh," your eyes widened. "Well...okay yeah, I'd like that. I'd like that very much, Finan."

Your voice tugged at his heart. The cadence of your voice, the melody of your laughter, and the animated movements of your hands, as you talked, resonated deep within him, stirring emotions that defied explanation. The sense of déjà vu enveloped him, painting the air with shades of nostalgia and anticipation. he tried his best to recall the origin of this profound connection, but they slipped through his fingers like whispers in the wind. 

His heart called your name, even though it had just learned the shape of it today and your souls, separated by the veil of existence, recognized each other anyways.

#the last kingdom #finan x reader #finan x you #tlk finan #tlk #tlk sihtric #tlk osferth #tlk uhtred #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred x reader #osferth x reader #sihtric x reader #seven kings must die #tlk gifs #aethelstan #uhtred #osferth #sihtric kjartansson #finan imagine #mark rowley #arnas fedaravicius #ewan mitchell #tlk aelswith #tlk alfred #tlk fandom #alternate universe #modern au

[lovable-liar]

hii could i request some just dating headcanons for hasan? like how did you meet, what is it like, fun moving in escapades lol

love your writing lots!!

𝗛𝗮𝘀𝗮𝗻 𝗗𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀

You and Hasan met at a mutual friend's party. It was an immediate connection when you guys started actually talking about your interests and not how you both knew the host of the party.

For your first date, Hasan took you to a cozy, independent bookstore that he frequented. You both explored the aisles, recommending books to each other.

Beyond literature, you discovered other shared interests. Hasan is a foodie, and you both enjoy exploring new cuisines and cooking together. He also introduced you to his passion for astronomy, and you've spent countless nights stargazing with a telescope in your backyard.

When you decided to move in together, Hasan made it an adventure. He surprised you by renting a vintage VW camper van to transport your belongings to the new place. You took a road trip to your new home, stopping at picturesque spots along the way, enjoying picnics, and making memories.

On lazy Sunday mornings, you and Hasan often stay in bed, surrounded by a cozy pile of throws, blankets and pillows. 

Hasan loves to travel, and you've gone on exciting adventures together. Whether it's exploring ancient ruins in Greece, hiking through the rain forests of Costa Rica, or simply wandering the streets of a charming European city, you both cherish these experiences and the bond they've created.

Hasan is not only your partner but also your biggest supporter. He encourages your passions and pursuits, just as you do for him. Whether it's attending each other's book launches or cheering each other on during tough times, you make a fantastic team.

Hasan surprises you with book-themed dates. He'll set up a small outdoor picnic, complete with fairy lights, blankets, and a stack of books he thinks you'll love. These surprise book dates are a testament to his thoughtfulness and your shared love for reading.

Hasan is a surprisingly good cook, and you enjoy trying out new recipes together. There have been a few mishaps in the kitchen, but you both laugh them off and order takeout when needed.

You both love spending weekends in nearby nature reserves. Hasan, with his extensive knowledge, acts as your unofficial tour guide, sharing interesting facts about the flora and fauna you encounter along the way.

Movie nights are a must in your relationship. You take turns picking films, but it's always a challenge for Hasan to find a movie that meets his high standards. He'll spend hours researching and curating the perfect list before finally settling on one.

Hasan is a thoughtful and considerate partner. He listens intently to your thoughts and feelings and is always there to offer support and encouragement. You both share a passion for social justice, and you often engage in meaningful conversations about current events, activism, and how you can make a positive impact on the world together.

When you decided to move in together, you embarked on a quest to find the perfect furniture. Hasan's taste leans towards minimalism, while you enjoy a cozy and eclectic style. The compromise led to some hilarious furniture-shopping escapades.

You both enjoy DIY projects. From painting rooms in bold colors to building your own bookshelves, you've had your fair share of DIY successes and hilarious mishaps.

Cooking together in your new home became a fun challenge. You've had cook-offs where each of you chooses a cuisine, and you compete to see whose dish turns out the best (or most edible).

Setting up a home theater system was an adventure in itself. Hasan's tech-savvy nature and your love for movie marathons made this a fun, yet sometimes frustrating, experience.

Dating Hasan is an adventure in creativity and intellectual stimulation. You find yourselves going on art-inspired dates to museums, galleries, and even collaborating on your own art projects. Hasan introduces you to his world of social commentary and activism, and you both engage in meaningful conversations about important issues. You also discover a shared love for cooking, experimenting with new recipes together, and hosting dinner parties for friends.

Hasan's sense of humor keeps the relationship lighthearted, and you both enjoy playfully debating various topics. Your shared interests in current events, politics, and culture make for engaging discussions and late-night talks.

#hasan x reader #hasanabi #hasan piker #hasan piker x reader #hasanabi x reader

[strangestcase]

I really like how the Daily Wire’s idea of a scary gross person is a normal human being. This is Disgusting Degenerate Dave, he does awful things such as get vaccinated against disease, respect people that aren’t him, and enjoy eclectic cuisine. And he’s going to FUCK YOUR WIFE!!!!!! Like yeah no shit

#watched the latest Big Joel video and I’m just. BAFFLED at how the daily wire people see the world

[commander-winterberry]

Welcome and Enter Hotel Enchanted! | NA Roleplay Guild

Status: (Last updated 10.February .2024) The guild recruitment is open again! Currently we do not recruit people solely for the Ministry plotline!

Cafe Enchanted is a casual 18+ RP guild (NA only), open to characters of any race, background, and class. With guild members around the globe we do RP on Discord and plan weekly in-game events, with several channels dedicated to plotting, roleplaying and just talking about characters and the game!

Bimonthly, the owners of [CAFE] Café Enchanted host RP events too!

It is not all tea and biscuits with the reopened Hotel Enchanted …

Supernaturals and demons from the Mist still roam Tyria and threaten the citizens of the Dragon Empire. To cull the unknown threat, the secret Ministry of Supernatural Investigation never sleeps.

—-

About Hotel Enchanted Roleplay

Café Enchanted started out as a wandering café until the owner, Yvalris, settled down and established a small, cozy inn for weary wanderers on the Jade Sanctuary with Yunalia’s blessing. This was the start of their secondary business, Hotel Enchanted. Over the years it grew to one of Cantha’s established luxurious retreats for merchants and travelers.

Hotel Enchanted brings character and story driven roleplay, ranging from light-hearted adventures to unraveling the mystery of the Jade Sanctuary. 

Artisans, merchants or lost wanderers who pay for their room with their stories - Anyone can find their place here in this eclectic establishment. From meeting new people, to taking up adventuring side jobs or dealing with stranger inhabitants of the hotel, you spend every moment making fantastic memories.

The Café Enchanted holds exciting events on a bimonthly basis and brings an assorted menu throughout all of Tyria, fusion cuisine of every corner of the world all brought to one plate. It also gives the opportunity to meet new and familiar faces! Hosted by co-owners Yvalris and Yunalia.

—-

About the Ministry of Supernatural Investigation Roleplay

The Ministry of Supernatural Investigation, or MinSI, is a top-secret ministry that enlists its agents to take care of the supernatural threat that poses itself in Cantha and its people. Ensuring to keep the public safe and ignorant, this often proves difficult with the threats they meet but has not stopped them yet. Its main focus and task is to survey and investigate supernatural occurrences and their threats. 

The MinSI has opened their job positions and seek to extend their international connections while simultaneously doing their best to do it as inconspicuous as possible.

MinSI’s focus lies in lore bending, action and combat packed plots with a heavy focus on Cantha (and New Kaineng as an urban setting). We encourage joining with characters out of the norm since the tasks are far from a usual 9-to-5 job. Starting with a storyline that builds international contacts, people from outside Cantha can join the MinSI as special agents, experts or freelancers.

—-

How to join

You must be over the age of 18. Storylines may include serious themes such as violence and content otherwise unfit for minors. We ask that all members are adults when joining the guild.

A short description of your first character is required (Entire profile can be filled in later after entering the server but information about the character beforehand is appreciated!)

If you wish to join the MinSI roleplay arcs, it will require a full profile of the toon (Entire profile can be filled later after entering the server but short description about your character beforehand is appreciated!)

Once the description is sent and reviewed by the moderator, we invite you to a short IC interview (an Inn check-in with sprinkles of dialogue, whether you stay as weary traveler, guest with no time limit, artisan or merchant - This is entirely optional!)

We provide an inclusive safe space where people can come together and interact in and out of character. There will be no strict character limit but we encourage you to start with one or two mains so IC we can get to know each other better! The themes and stories are ranging from lore friendly to lore bending/breaking (for fun’s sake)! 

You can stay with the RP Guild for how long you want, we don’t require an active RP requirement. This is a relaxed roleplay environment for anyone to join for small events, longer story arcs, or to make friends!

Discord is required to participate in the Roleplay events and for communication. Joining the in-game guild [CAFE] is optional!

The storylines will be using various maps from EOD and other expansions. It’s recommended to have them!

Contact

Have questions regarding the guild/lore/etc. or are you interested in joining the RP Guild, then please message me or my co-leader:

DM via Tumblr: @commander-winterberry or (co-leader) @norn-knot​

Discord: avaestrom or (co-leader) nightmare.eyes.

We will get in touch with you as soon as possible on either platforms! Thank you for reading and I hope to see you at our events or even joining the guild!

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 rp #gw2 guild #gw2 roleplay

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 5 - Deep End

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe you’re just like my mother? She’s never satisfied

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The Hydra—newly dubbed the Thesaurus—boasts a mid-level lounge as well-appointed as anything on the SS Woe Betide.

The furnishings are tasteful: teak and polished brass, with Art Nouveau flourishes. Beneath frosted glass sconces, a bank of portholes offers a panoramic spectacle of the sea. The water is blood red; the sunset cuts sequins across the horizon. There's a bar, fully-stocked; a dining hall, austerely elegant, and a ballroom, the floor an expanse of shellacked hardwood. There is even a billiards table, tucked discreetly in the corner, and a few card tables, draped with damask.

Everything, Mel can't help but think, is to Silco's exacting standards.

After the 'demonstration' on the deck, Silco had escorted his guests—with all due solemnity—to the elevator. They'd ridden up to the main floor, then followed the maze of corridors until they'd reached the lounge. Now, the guests are being treated to what Mel has heard the Piltovan men-about-town call a Fete de Fissure—a heady mix of liquor and libertinage.

The crewmen, with impeccable hospitality, serve platters of Zaunite cuisine: braised octopus in red wine, grilled carp marinated in soy, and steamed lobsters served with a bed of brown rice cooked in garlic butter and herbs. There's even a spread of desserts: tiramisu and zabaglione, with a tower of macarons, all in the traditional neon colors that have even left their mark in Piltover's patisseries. Beverages run the gamut from Zaun's fizzy concoctions—the Blue Fairy, one of Jinx's coinages, is a notoriously potent knockout—to dark Fissure ales that taste of burnt caramel and sweetbread. The wine list, from Silco's own cellar, is a catalogue of rare vintages: the brandies are aged, the whiskies peaty, the cognacs smooth as velvet. For the discerning connoisseurs, there are also tobaccos: rolled leaves from the finest harvests, and cheroots hand-blended to match. And, for the adventurous, an assortment of narcotics: herbs, spices, and fungi that can be ingested or inhaled. Their effects are said to range from the mild euphoria of a cherry-flavored hookah puff to the hallucinations induced by a pipe of powdered mushrooms.

All, Mel notices, have been meticulously arranged by dosage, and labeled with instructions for use.

Looking closely, she spies no Shimmer. She wonders if the drug has been relegated for use only upon request. Or if, since Piltover’s embargo, Silco has truly stopped distributing his wares except as local medicinal supplies. 

She wonders what the shift will bode for Zaun. The city's economy, unlike Piltover's, has for years hinged on its export of the drug: aboveboard and under the table. Silco's two personas—the Chancellor with his acerbic wit, and the Eye of Zaun with his illicit wares—have never been separated by more than a few degrees.

Indeed, Zaun's penchant for lax rules and decadent spoils has long made it a favorite amongst the rich and restless. On the dark side of the allure are the deviants drawn to stories of midnight depravities: orgies on the waterfront, drug-fueled revels in the canals, and all the debauchery of a city that operates outside the boundaries of moral codes.

But the lighter side—the ordinary side—is the true spirit of Zaun. The people, Mel has found, are an eclectic blend: the industrious and the idle, the ambitious and the aimless. Within the warrens of stifling factory smoke and clanking chem-gears, they have created their own microcosm: a kaleidoscope of subcultures, all jostling and coexisting. The clerks who spend their weekdays in monochrome and drear as the no-nonsense backbone of Zaun's enterprise. The artists, drowsing by dawn, and livewires by nightfall: their magic woven, brushstroke by brushstroke, into the city's tapestry. The schemers, with their heads in the clouds and their feet in the dirt: all striving to make ends meet, and carve out their own slice of happiness.

The rest? Refugees escaping tyranny. Castaways flung out of the wreckage of their homes. Pilgrims in search of spiritual enlightenment.

Every stripe of humanity, under one banner.

Progress.

Mel, taking in the scene, realizes:

With the Iron Pearl, Zaun needn't rely on Shimmer to entice investment.

The city—by virtue of all its sweeter vices—is now the prize itself. 

The guests, Mel observes, are taking full advantage. The men have shed their frock coats, loosened ties, rolled up their sleeves. The women, too, are enjoying the evening's liberties: kicking off their heels, letting down their hair, and even unbuttoning the fronts of their blouses. All, succumbing to the liquor of adrenalized greed, have lost their masks of paper-thin civility.

Cevila, shiny-eyed and flushed from five glasses of brandy, is flirting with the stevedore, Kolt. Her husband, at the smoke bar, has already lost himself behind ripe clouds of smoke, and the riper curves of a giggling deckhand. Hector, chin-deep in a plateful of macarons, has transcended into a sugar-trance that verges on Zenlike. Garlen, at the card table, is nursing a tankard of ale, and squaring off against a group of swarthy-skinned sailors. His booming laugh, punctuated by Va-Nox expletives, shakes the room. Even Lady Dennings, her customary primness dissolved into a bottle of champagne, has ensconced herself by the fireplace, hair undone and feet propped on the ottoman. Her husband, of all people, has taken up the armchair opposite. He's been a stickler for formality all his life. Now, he is rubbing her feet. And, unless Mel's eyes are deceiving her, letting his hands roam higher and higher. Lady Dennings, rather than squealing in scandal, is purring like a cat in heat. When the duke leans in, and kisses her full on the mouth, she does not slap his face. Instead, she tugs him closer.

Soon, the two subside into a tangle of limbs behind the semi-privacy afforded by the curtains.

Perhaps, Mel thinks, red clover wasn't necessary.

She stands on the cantilevered terrace, a glass of limewater in hand.  A cool wind gusts, tousling her hair.  The stymied dread of the day is dissipating. In its wake, there is no relief. Only the soggy ache of nervous exhaustion. She feels the way she'd done in the aftermath of Ambessa's fencing lessons: woozy, and unable to trust her legs.  

Usually, her mind is a honed point, capable of cutting through the worst fog. Now, it is too dull to parse anything but the moment. The lines in the sand: blurred, erased, redrawn. The stakes: high as a cliff's edge. The fall: deadly real. And this: a liminal space of shifting currents, where all things are possible.

Mel fills her lungs with sea-salt.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is not a leap of faith.

It is fine print, and hidden clauses, and a knife under the pillow.

Inside, the guests are drinking and dicing and dancing. The air is becoming fogged with tobacco, and the sharp tang of alcohol, and the heavier scent of bodies, heated, mingling, melting. All her guests—her chess pieces—plucked off the neat orderliness of her board and flung to the mercy of fate.

No—not fate.

Silco.

Headache throbs behind Mel's eyes. She wants either a good hard soul-cleansing scream or a stiff strong drink.

Sadly, both are off the table.

A shadow falls over her.

"You look tired."

Mel shivers involuntarily; her husband’s stealth never fails to unnerve her. His presence is a cold current, cutting through the haze. From her peripheral vision—a six-degree slice of awareness—she catches the silhouette: tall and spare, his movements liquid in the lamplight. A waft of his scent, citric with spice, blows across her.

Mel's respiration doesn't pick up. But her heartbeat does. Her voice comes steadier than she feels: "It's been a long day."

"And a trying week, I imagine."

"You needn't imagine." She takes a perfunctory sip. The limewater bites the back of her throat. "That was your intention, was it not? To put me through the wringer?"

"Only so far as it was necessary."

"Necessary?" A laugh, acrid, escapes her. "What is necessary is a matter of perspective. As is 'enough.'"

"Yet here you are."

His words are a dare: Look at me.

Mel doesn't turn. The wind in her hair is an insinuating touch. Silco's hand, she thinks, would be just as gentle. Just as possessive. She covers the thought with another sip. It goes down smoother.  She'll give him nothing to see, or to make use of, in his weblike calculations.

Not while the balance is still teetering.

"Here I am." Mel sets the glass down. "Waiting to be paid."

"For?"

"The performance in the gallery. For the guests."

"You're my wife, Mel. You need not be paid for such things."

"On the contrary. I am a Medarda. We demand our dues."

He doesn't speak, or sit. But nor is she rid of him. His presence is a tangible force. She feels it the way animals sense the sweltering build-up of a typhoon. Every sense attuned: the hairs on her nape bristling, the blood in her veins quickening, her muscles working beneath the skin. He is the deep end, and she must resist the temptation to be swallowed.

The temptation—if not the desire.

"I will not deny you your due." His voice drifts: slow, soft, so very near. "Ask me, and it is yours."

"I've asked already."

"Oh? Was there a clause I overlooked?"

"It was marriage."

The ice clinks emptily in her glass. She's drained the limewater. It hasn't helped.

"Mel." He is closer now. His warmth radiates in time to a rising heartbeat that threatens to tug Mel's attention away from truth. Her body, traitorous, yearns toward the source. "If it is gold you want, I will give you all of it. If it is jewels, I will mine them myself. If it is a palace, or a ship, or a throne—all you need do is say."

"It is not a question of material possessions. Nor is it a matter of my asking." For once, she is grateful for her Medarda bloodline. The dark riveted smoothness of her features gives nothing away. "I own enough treasures to bankrupt your coffers. As for a throne, I've already claimed mine. A city shining on the seas. None of that is what I want from you."

"What, then? A groveling apology? Me, on my knees?"

Mel's eyes fall shut. The anger fizzes into fuel. She clings to its small nourishment. All her will is bent toward remaining rooted where she is. To not surrendering.

"You're not sorry," she says bitterly.

"I am not."

"I don’t mean about the Idol. I meant: you’re not sorry about us. About this."

"If you think me indifferent—"

"I think you're a man who knows exactly what he wants." Her nails, ten manicured half-moons, bite into her palms. She imagines, with a dark pleasure, his flesh shredded. "I think you'd have burned every bridge and sold your own soul to make the Iron Pearl a reality."

"All true."

"What you did not take into account was me."

"Mel—"

"You said it yourself. I'm the variable you cannot predict. You can't intimidate me like your subordinates. Nor gull me with profit, like our guests. I'm not Sevika, so you can't rely on me to take the fall. And I'm not Jinx, so you can't trust me to know the entire truth." Her throat seizes. "I'm only the leverage you needed for your city. And so, I'm the one whose hand you'll hold. Even if there's a knife hidden in the other."

"That is not how I see you."

"Tell me, then."

"Look at me."

"No."

"Mel."

"No." The sunset, a huge red disc, burns without heat. Bright pinpricks burst behind her lids. "Why should I look at you, when I know what I'll see? The same expression, when you told me Zaun would've been stronger if you'd chosen someone else. That your life, and your ambition, and your purpose would've been simpler."

"I do not regret the decision."

"Because it was the one that served you."

"Because you're what I want."

This jabs the raw space between Mel's ribs.

"You'll never know," he goes on, "what it to grow up with nothing. I don't mean the nothing of a loveless childhood, or an empty home. I mean the nothing of a soul's bottomlessness. Of having so little, the only way to survive is to sink your teeth into whatever scraps you can.  And there is no way out—no way out—save clawing yourself up to the light. Even if the price is sellin' a piece of yourself with each rung." The grit of the Lanes roughens his accent. "Until there's nothing left. Until all that keeps you going is the promise of a world where your children—and their children—will never have to lose what you've lost. That is why I do what I do, Mel. I don't give a shit about the rest."

The sea stretches out before Mel. The horizon is the thin red streak of a slit throat. Behind her, Silco's breathing is the same.

The cadence of a man readying to spill every drop.

"You, Mel..." It is a whisper. "You are not the rest. Sometimes, I look at you, and I think you are the end. Mine, or my life's, I cannot say. "

The tears sting. Mel does not let them fall. She holds them, and him, at bay.

"You hate it," she says. "That I can do this to you. Make you want what you'd been denied a lifetime—and not have to fight to take it."

"I hate," he says, "that I cannot trust myself around you."

Mel feels him edge closer. A wall of heat. His sigh stirs the fine hairs by her temple.

"I hate," he goes on, "that each time I've drawn a bead on you, I've missed the mark by a mile. I hate that, every time, I find a new side of you. A side I had not known, because I hadn't considered to look. I hate that each time I learn something new, it is not a pit that keeps on opening—it is the sun, and I have no choice but to let it blind me." His voice drops hoarsely. "You are a Medarda. I expected fire, and the cunning to use it. I found steel. I expected ambition, and the ruthlessness to wield it. I found empathy. I expected a woman high on her own worth, and not above rubbing my face in it. I found a woman who cares enough to sacrifice her worth for everything."

Mel's hands tremble on the balustrade. A mist of dampness chills her cheeks.

Sea-water, or tears?

"You're saying," she says, "you found the perfect pawn."

"Not a pawn. A dreamer. One who is not afraid to wager all, on the belief that there is something better." His proximity seeps in: a slow bleed. "You expected something from a man who had nothing to offer. My city's assets; a fraction of yours. My good name; the promise of yours. You chose a gamble, knowing it was a losing bet. And you played it, anyway."

"So: a pawn."

"So: a queen. Who knows how to change everything, with a single move."  Two fingertips alight on the small of her back. "You planned this voyage, with the best intentions, and the finest strategy. You played your games and wove your wiles to give my city a chance. And when it all went to hell—you chose to stay. On the ship, you took my side over the guests. In the gallery, you backed my play. In the face of raging seas, you were the bridge." His shadow, cast against the sunset, engulfs hers. "Could be the harbor… if you trust me."

"I cannot trust you," Mel whispers, "when you refuse the same."

"There are things I cannot share, Mel. Not yet. Plans that, if mislaid, could undo everything."

"Excuses."

"Truth." The two fingertips encompass into a palm, warm and heavy. "Give it time."

"How much time?"

"Enough." His touch trails up, leaving a circuit of sparks. "Too late, and it goes up in smoke. Too soon, and I cannot bear the cost."  Softly, "Not to you, Mel."

The sunset drips into the sea: livid crimson. Mel's grip tightens on the rail. 

The tears are not gathering. Only the rage. A single gesture is not salve. A sweet confession, no substitute for the truth. And Mel—she knows, even now, that he is hiding something. The thought is a wound, bleeding anew. All her anger, and hurt, and shame: it funnels into the shape of him. She imagines strangling him with her bare hands. Imagines the pulse beating beneath her fingertips. Imagines the warmth and the solidity of his body.

She'll tear him apart—or stitch herself back whole. She'll kill him, or kiss him. She'll have him, or have done.

But the choice, whatever else, will be hers.

Then her imaginings aren't imaginary. He is there. His arms, encompassing her, are an unyielding circle. The heat of him is everywhere. The scent of him, too: bergamot, spice, smoke.

His lips touch the nape of her neck. Right where her vertebrae are the most vulnerable

And Mel, though she'd deny it, is shivering.

"I will give you," he says, "what I can. Not everything. Not yet. But soon."

"Even if, in the end, it comes to nothing?"

The tip of his nose ghosts up her spine, until his mouth is at her ear. "It won't."

"How can you know?"

"Because I will do whatever is necessary to make it possible." His breath tickles the whorl of her ear. "Because I have not fought this hard, and this long, to lose you."

"Your prized chess-piece."

"My wife."

Mel's shiver intensifies. The way his tongue curls around the word is pure possession. But the span of arms is no cage. It is a shelter: solid, steady, sure. His palms meet hers on the railing. Their fingers interlace. The warmth is a tide lapping her skin.

Fusing, like gold, into the cracks.

And Mel is not immune to gold—though she wishes she were. She is tired, hurting, and tired from trying to hide the hurt. Trying, on one plane or another, to prove herself. To the world; to her peers; to her mother. 

To the man who strips her to the barest nerve and lays her raw.

"I will not regret deceiving you to enrich my city," he whispers. "Nor will I regret the things I did to bring us to this moment. But I do regret the distress you've borne. I regret the doubts held, and fears endured. I regret they were so many, they turned your honeymoon into a sickbed." He kisses the tip of her ear. "If I had known how fragile you were—I would have done better by you."

"I'm not—"

The word nearly breaks past her lips. The tears, too. But her pride will not allow her.

Not after a lifetime of Ambessa Medarda's tutelage: a Medarda's worth is a sum of her strength.

"I'm not fragile," she repeats, though her pitch quavers. "I've never been fragile. Never been—"

"Anything other than yourself. I know." His voice is the softest it has been so far. "I mean no insult. You Medardas love to style yourselves as gods. But gods don't bleed. They don't rage. They don't starve, or steal, or scheme. They are like the gold your family loves to hoard: untouchable."  He moves her hands with his, their fingers twined, and knits them over her belly. Practically molding them to her womb. "I've no use for gods, Mel. But I've a great deal of use for you."

"How comforting."

"You didn't choose me for comfort. And I didn't choose you for complacence. We chose, because we each push the other to dare. To reach beyond ourselves." His lips drop a kiss on the pulse beating under her jaw. It is so ghostly it might not be there at all. And yet, Mel can feel her spine arch. "Your ambition is a reflection of my own. And the rest of you: a mirror of all I lack. So, no. I am not sorry.  Not for choosing you, nor for what's happened." Softly, "Not when it's led to us."

The sunset, a dying red eye, blinks out.

Suddenly, everything is melting. Mel is not sure if the salt in her mouth is limewater or tears. With all her strength, she swallows them down. A single slip, and she is lost. Her poise will splinter, and she will collapse into his arms. She longs and loathes for it in equal measure; dreading what will be there for him to see, and for her to feel.

The tears, though, are not the worst.

"Petal," he says—and she is turning.

In the fading light, Silco's features, rather than washing pale, take on an olive-toned burnish. Had he been smiling, she would have split his skull open with her fist. Had his eyes radiated that uncanny gleam of hazard, she'd have fought the hypnosis with all her might.

Instead, he looks the way he had, in the wake of their first time together: somber, soft-eyed, a little unsure. His eyes, in the twilight, are the color, not of ice and fire, but mulled wine, and a heart's bluest longing. It was that look that, in a glimpse, had fascinated her so. The look that had, even then, seemed too human to belong to a monster.  

The tears—a treacherous sheen—delineate him in gold.

"Don't," she rasps. "Don't say another word."

"Mel—"

"Please." Her fingers lift to his mouth. They are trembling. But so, she realizes, are his lips. "Not tonight. Not while they're here." She pushes, with what's left of her will, to keep the space between them. It's a danger zone. All the more so because he isn't pushing back. "When we're on the island. In the villa. I'll have it all from you. Everything you've promised. You'll lay it all at my feet and let me sift through it. But not now. Not here." She draws a breath. "Not while I'm still..."

"Still what?"

"Wishing you'd said something else." She lets her fingers fall away. "The right thing. At the right time."

"Petal—"

"Don't." Her eyes spear him through damp lashes. "Just kiss me. Kiss me, and tell me it will be better. Tell me the sun will rise tomorrow. That I will make it so."

"You will."

"Make me believe it."

"You already do." His lips find her forehead. Then her eyelids, closed and beaded in salt. The touch is so fleeting it might not have been there at all, except his fingertips are deliberately tracing their way down her nape, tipping her head up to touch his mouth to hers. "Believe that, too."

The kiss fills her with the taste of him: smoke and spice and seasalt. It seeks all the secrets inside her. All the deepest places he's been. All the places she can no longer hide alone. Kissing him is not like kissing Jayce: alluring dips into a warm, sweetly willing mouth and a smooth, firm, unflawed body. Kissing Silco is like taking a running dive into black waters: all risk, and pure thrill.

And yet, slipping beneath the surface, there is no pain. Only the throbbing depth of need.

Mel’s spine unspools under his palm. In a slow unfurling, her body melts against his, and his arms come around her, and the night closes in.

The kiss breaks for air; her cheeks are wetly streaked. But it's all right, because his face, too, is wet with them. In the ebbing glow, she can dare to think of it as rain: the storm's first gift. Dare to think he's not so remote: that, despite the distance of so much swallowed between them, she can still reach him.

That he can keep her afloat.

"Again," she breathes. "Kiss me again."

He does, palm seizing the back of her neck and pulling her in. Their mouths open wider, and she feels the slick heat of his tongue and the serrated row of his teeth, and the rough reams of the scar-tissue on his cheek. With other men, she could close her eyes and imagine them as anyone. They were blank canvases, waiting for her to fill them with her own flights of fancy.

Silco is no fancy.

He's a knife in the dark: each detail etched with excruciating precision. There is no erasing the topography of his scars. His hands: scored with the calluses of rough labor. His skin: scoured with past misdeeds. His heart: a black-powder keg, ready to ignite. The darkness that lives within him: surging, smoldering, seething.

And his tenderness of is tenfold more terrifying.

"You'll be the sun tomorrow," he breathes. "You always are."

"Silco..."

"It's true." His mouth is a scald; love-biting down the curve of her throat. "Even now, when it's night, and I can't see the sky. Even then, I know you're still there."

Mel shivers. She can't stop her body from flowing into the embrace. Can't stop the small moan rising in her throat, or the palm lifting to thread its fingers into his hair. Can't stop her other hand, the one that had been so sure on the railing, from sleeking down the front of his waistcoat to hook shakily into the waistband of his trousers. 

She can't stop anything. Her body has already chosen.

And the rest of her: doomed to follow suit.

"Come with me," he rasps. "I've a room belowdeck."

"The guests—"

"Too busy getting high. Or getting themselves off." 

"But—"

"There is a bed, petal. It has fresh sheets. Goosedown pillows. A silk duvet." His thumb smooths her brow, sweeping a wayward curl from her face. "Unless you'd rather have them bear witness."

Mel's face heats. She'd forgotten her guests are only a glass away. All their carousing, and curses, and calls. Through the parallelogram of light spilling from the doorway, she glimpses hazy silhouettes. Someone has put an old Jazz record on the phonograph.  Cevila is doing an exuberant reel with Kolt. Hector is slumped, chin-deep, in an empty dish of macarons. Garlen has hauled a pretty girl—one of the deckhands—onto his lap. His mouth, smeared in the rouge from her lipstick, is open with laughter at something she's whispering in his ear. The Dennings, behind their curtains, are still tangled in a love-knot. But the chaise is rocking in an unmistakable percussive rhythm.

Mel's burn deepens. "I'm not having my guests walk in on us."

"And I've no interest in giving them a show." His smile cuts wickedly against her skin. "Unless I charge per head."

Mel's tongue touches her top lip. She can still taste him, and the promise of more. Her body, fuddled by desire, is throbbing with a dull insistence. Her headache is far-off. The fatigue, too, has melted into one long exhalation of release that is its own build-up of tension.

He is so close their foreheads touch. Her eyelashes, damp, catch on his skin as she shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"Not here." Her eyes lift to his. "And not on the ship."

"Then where?"

"In the villa. In the master suite. I want a proper honeymoon. Everything I planned for, before you derailed my life." Her voice trembles; her fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer. "I want you to carry me over the threshold. I want to wake up in the morning and find you next to me. I want a breakfast tray in bed, and a day spent lazing on the beach. I want the sun in my hair, and sand between my toes, and you in the water, showing me that backstroke you're always bragging about. And in the evening, I want a candlelit supper. A long walk on the shore, as the stars come out. And after—" Her voice husks. "After, I want every last inch of you. With the door shut and the world outside. I want to know what 'us' means to you, and why I'm the one you chose. I want it all. Everything."

His face is still. Only his eyes—their pupils blown wide, one haloed in pure green, the other ringed by a rim of fire—give him away.

"A fortnight," he says.

"Yes."

"In the villa."

"Yes."

"With the door shut."

"Yes."

"Romance, and the sea, and the stars."

"Yes."

His fingers are threading her curls. The rhythm of his breath is a steady metronome. But his heartbeat, she can feel, is climbing. "And me, every inch."

"Yes."

"Every. Inch."

"Yes, damn you." 

The hand, at the back of her neck, begins to knead: slow, languorous, and so very warm.  Mel’s resolve threatens to liquify. But there is a stubbornness to her that won't yield. The golden core that had kept her from falling at Jayce's feet, or letting Ambessa dictate the course of her life, or letting her bloodline shape the path of her city.

The stubbornness that, no matter how hard the world kicked her down, has always kept her standing.

"Yes," she repeats, tipping her chin, "to all of it. All the things we'd have, if not for all this." She gestures: the chaos within, and the chaos without. "Two weeks, and I'll have everything from you. I'll know your measure, as a husband. You will give me every iota of your attention, and more. And you will give it all willingly."

The corner of his scarred lip holds the barest upturn. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I am a Medarda."

"You are, indeed."  The kneading of his long fingers has become a long tender caress, from the juncture of her skull down the wings of shoulderblades to the dip of her spine, then up again. The touch is so lulling that Mel sways to its rhythm. "But, Mel?"

"Mmm?"

"You could, at least, let me escort you belowdeck, and out of that dreadful damp tulle. I'll be the soul of propriety. And if, along the way, I manage to coax the rest of those knots from your shoulders, you'll be a better woman for it. And I, a happier man."

A delicious ripple runs from the tips of her fingers to her toes. His timbre holds that distinctive gravel—smoke-charred and slow-rolling—that is a matchstrike to her senses. It is, she suspects, the tone he'd use to tempt the devil himself into sin.

But a Medarda is a harder sell.

"A generous offer." She steps back. "But no."

"No?"

"You'll have to plead your case with more ingenuity."

In the dark, his smile is a white knife-flick. "It was worth a try."

"Was I?"

With a languid, nearly wistful slowness, he tugs her in. Her chin is tipped up; his mouth descends. The kiss is nearly obscene in its thoroughness. His tongue: chasing into her mouth. His teeth, claiming her bottom lip. His hands: roaming her body. Mel's sigh, trapped between their mouths, is mortifyingly eloquent.

By the time the kiss breaks, she is panting. So is he. The wind has turned. Salt-spray gusts across the terrace. The twilight is ripe with a brewing storm. In the gloaming, Silco's silhouette is of a piece with the sea: dark, long, and unyielding. His lips, glistening, are stained with her lipstick and the last vestiges of her control.

"Oh, treasure," he breathes. "Get inside—before I give ‘em a show they’ll never forget."

 And Mel, adept at reading between the lines, knows this round hers.

"You’d have," she says, letting her smile spread, "to beg."

"I don't beg."

Rising on tiptoes to approximate his height, Mel balances herself with one palm on his shoulder. With the other, she cups the back of his neck, and guides his head down to her level. Lips touching his, she breathes, "Not yet."

A growl vibrates his chest. The challenge has hit its mark.

Nuzzling his lips with hers, Mel pulls away. She does so, with a tantalizing slowness, keeping the contact between their bodies until his breathing has roughened and his hands flex at his sides. The last bit, her breasts sliding past his ribs, is the cruelest. But she'll be crueler still: backing away, one step, then two, until only her eyes remain, a glitter of amber-green promise.

Then she glides off.

"Come," she calls over her shoulder, "before the rain does."

Silco’s eyes, burning, follow her. Then the rest of him: soundless as the tide.

Always, inexorably, giving chase.

By nightfall, the storm is blowing in: a great billowing mass. Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. Wind rattles the windows.

Inside, the revelers are restless.

The smoky air, in colors of lucine jade and blood opal, is heady with leftover tobacco, spilled spirits, and sweat.  They've been treated to the full spectrum of Zaunite hospitality: a superabundance of dissipated delights. Now they are eager to bypass the evening's foreplay for a future of full-bodied indulgence.

All within their reach, if they choose to invest in the Iron Pearl.

Cevila, her face pinked from heat and drink, is already discussing a potential trade bargain with her husband. Hector, his mouth ringed with sugary crumbs, is attempting the buttonhole Kolt for a partnership deal.  Even the Dennings, their lovemaking session sated and a glow to their skins, are huddled together, speaking in low voices that are more conspiratorial than amorous. 

Apart from the six, Mel can hear the others: muttering, speculating, planning. There is an atmosphere not unlike that of a wedding reception: everyone tipsy on scandal, the newlyweds' bed made, and the night yet to be.

Mel wonders if she ought to feel guilty.

They are, none of them, innocents. Each one has had a hand in enriching themselves at Zaun's expense. Now, they are being offered a chance at redemption—to reverse old wrongs and build a new future. Except it's not themselves they are redeeming. Their motives remain the same: craven to the core, with deep pockets and open palms ready to seize whatever is in reach.

And the Zaunites who will benefit from their investments? Their future, and their well-being, is only a fringe benefit.

Goodness, as Ambessa's favorite adage was, is not the lifeblood that fuels the world.

It is greed.

Mel wonders what Ambessa will make of Silco's gamble. She wonders, too, what measures Silco had taken to ensure a winning hand. A gambit as dangerous as this necessitates an ace or two up the sleeve. Only time—or disaster—will tell what shape it takes.

Mel cannot let her thoughts be consumed with the question. That way, she knows, lies madness. Still, she cannot help but wish that her honeymoon could've been simpler.

Simple is not Silco's métier.

Sitting by the alcove, he surveys the guests. His profile is carved against the backdrop of the storm: jagged forks of lightning, and incandescent thunderheads. His expression, as usual, is impassable. Then a deckhand flags him. They confer in low tones.

Mel cannot see the man's face. But she recognizes the posture. The rigid line of his spine, the arms crossed behind his back, the square, wide-legged stance.

A soldier, at ease. And Silco, his general.

Just like Ambessa.

It is a stark reminder that the man right now is not simply her husband. He is the Eye of Zaun, and his ambitions are his own. He has not promised to share them, or his methods, or the plans he has laid in their name. Nor is it any use to ask.

She will not get an answer. Not until she's earned it.

 A heavy hand lands on her shoulder. "Well?"

Mel is jarred from her reverie. "Yes?"

Garlen is a hulking mass. His expression is difficult to read in the low light. But the reek of liquor, mingling with stale cologne and a hint of something else—a woman's scent, musky, and the faint, sharp tang of sex—is off-putting. He must have gotten lucky with the pretty deckhand from earlier.

"Well," he repeats, "When do we talk business, your husband and me? Real business." 

"At the villa, Sir Garlen, there will be time to talk at length."

"And how're we getting there? The storm's set in." He grins, teeth delineated in brown from tobacco. "Don't want the Eye's guests, especially the bride, getting soaked, eh?"

 The innuendo, all slurred vowels, is not lost on Mel. She keeps her smile fixed

"My husband has planned ahead. Indeed, he's anticipated our every need."

"Yeah? How about his, then? You take care of those yet?"

His grin has gone oily.  He must, Mel realizes, have glimpsed her and Silco together on the terrace.

Inwardly, she curses. The lax environs of the Thesaurus, formalities lost in a tide of adrenaline, have caught her off-guard. The shock of Silco's confession took care of the rest. Everything—even her own guests—had been pushed to the edges of her mind.  It's an error she'd never have allowed in a different context.

An exposure—reckless, costly—she'd never have let slide.

Her allure is the most effective weapon in her repertoire. And allure, by virtue of its nature, is remote. To allow herself to be glimpsed as a woman, in all her vulnerability, is to invite unwanted overtures. One the opportunists will leap upon, no matter how high her station or her guard.

A drop of blood, Ambessa always warned, is all they need.

Garlen, in his cups, has sniffed more than a drop. Now he is salivating for his share.

Coolly, she says, "Sir Garlen, you are being far too familiar."

"Oh, am I?" His thick fingers knead into her shoulder. "A moment ago, you were all smiles."

"A moment ago, we were discussing business."

"What's the difference?" He leans closer. "Tell me. Did General Medarda wed you off to that weasel for the Pearl? Because that would explain a few things."

No innuendo this time. Only implication thick as the fumes on his breath.

The implication being: Whore.

"General Medarda," Mel says, sweetly, "would have you flayed for less."

"I'd like to see her try."

"I think you'd find the experience quite unpleasant." 

"So, what: you're gonna be the one to do the honors?" His greasy stare slithers down her body. "Maybe show me a good time, while you're at it."

Across the room, Cevila's laugh, high and merry, cuts through the din. Kolt, a little drunk, is spinning her around the dance floor, the two of them tripping on their feet. Hector, slumped in the corner booth, is fast asleep. The Dennings are still whispering, heads bowed together.

The other guests, too, are turned away. All lost in their own little worlds.

Except Silco.

Mel can feel his gaze. Dark. Heavy. Implacable. A heatwave prickles her nape. Except it is not her he is looking at. It is the man: the hulking Noxian, the thick fingers, the oily grin. Jayce, Mel thinks, would have pounded Garlen into the deck by now. A matter of decency; diplomacy be damned. A lady's honor, he would say, must be defended.

Zaunites don't share the same code.

Their version of honor, Mel knows, is to deal with the offense yourself.

"Sir Garlen," she says, with a voice of cultured silk. "If you wish to keep those fingers, you'll remove them."

"Or what?" The grip clamps down. "You'll tell the Eye on me?"

"Oh, I'll do better than that."

"Yeah?"

"I'll cut them off myself."

Garlen's leer freezes. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me, Sir Garlen. Your fingers. The ones on my shoulder." Mel's eyes lock. The smile melts. Her tone, though level, is sharpened to steel. "I'll still leave you enough to write your name with. Or to sign whatever contract I require. But not much else. We won't need the rest."

Garlen's nostrils flare. The fingers squeeze hard enough to bruise. "Bitch—"

"Do not speak. Or that tongue will be next." Mel lifts a hand, peeling off his fingers one by one. "I'll tell you this, so listen well. You've been very stupid today, Sir Garlen. Drunk on a bit of luck, and forgetful of your manners. So, let me remind you: you are here at my discretion. Not the Eye's. And once my discretion is breached, even the best investment make will not buy back the respect you've forfeited. My mother has her way of dealing with insults. I have mine. If you'd like to avoid either, you will stop now, and remember your place."

Garlen's mouth is working. "You—"

"And," Mel cuts him off, "I will give you one last warning. If you lay another finger on me, or even look at me, in any manner I don't approve of, you will be leaving here minus your legs. Do you understand?"

Garlen's expression is a study in incredulity. He'd expected an easy mark. A soft touch, pliant and pretty. He'd gotten a Medarda. And the fact he didn't expect a Medarda means he knows nothing. Not about Mel, nor her family, nor her city.

"If you’ll excuse me," Mel purrs, letting his fingers fall. "I'd like a word with my husband."

Garlen, his face mottled red, withdraws. Mel glides forward.

Across the room, Silco's stare stays on her. No sign of a smile. But the good eye crinkles at the corner.  Mel can sense his satisfaction. He'd never intervene into her turf unless she needed him to. But nor will he deny himself the pleasure of witnessing her at her fiercest.

At her approach, he tips his chin. "All right?"

"Never better." Mel, serenely, takes her place at his side. "But I am curious."

"About?"

"Our return." She inclines her chin toward the window: the rain, lashing with mad fury against the glass. "Sir Garlen, and no doubt the rest, are eager to reach the villa. Begin ironing out the details."

"As are you."

She levels her most innocent gaze. "And if I were?"

"I'd counsel you to hold your horses."

"Does a hard wet ride leave them so afrit?"

Now he is very pleased. She can tell by the curl of his lip. "I can't answer for your guests. But mine aren't the ones who should be scared."

"Then whose?"

"Whomst."

"That's not a proper word."

"Jinx uses it all the time."

"I rest my case."

"We left rest behind hours ago." The scudding clouds throw his features into harsh relief. His jaw, shadowed with the first hint of stubble, is the hue of tarnished silver. It is the only sign of the day's passage: the rest of him is impeccable, as though he'd spent the afternoon idling in an armchair, rather than wrestling with wind and waves and her. "Though, if we're playing the grammar game, it's 'frit', not 'afrit.'"

"You're avoiding the question."

"Not avoiding. Anticipating." The curl deepens. "The rain will not be the problem. Not with our mode of transport."

"Which is?"

"The Idol."

Mel's humor slips. "What do you mean?"

"When you arrived, you asked me to show you the way out. I did. It's down in the gallery. The hourglass."

Mel's understanding gives way to dread. "Silco, tell me you're not considering—"

"I am."

"No."

"It's the best solution. The seas are too rough for sailing. Especially when carrying full-bellied cargo. And the Woe Betide was instructed to haul anchor by late afternoon. By now, she's already sailed. My informants have received word that she's docked at the Wuju port. The Captain is quite perplexed as to where we've vanished. I'd rather not keep him in distress much longer. Else he'll summon the coast guard."

A thundercloud gathers on Mel's brow. "Why not send word that we'll sail to Wuju by tomorrow?"

"Too risky. The storm's forecasted to persist well into next evening. And it wouldn't do for a wider net of strangers to know the Thesaurus' whereabouts.  If our radio signals are intercepted, the wrong people could learn of its location before the time is right." His thumb touches her temple, smoothing the thundercloud away. "You'll have your honeymoon. It's just a change of plans, that's all."

"Change of plans."

"Yes."

"Namely a relic from the Void."

He smiles now, without pretense. "It's a portal. No different from the Hex-Gates."

"That's different."

"Different, how?"

She glances furtively over her shoulder. Her guests are oblivious. "Hex-Gates operate on the same plane. The physical world as we perceive it. The Void—"

"—is a realm beyond ours. I know. But, so is the sea, or the sky. We'll take a quick plunge, and come out on the other side. There's a glyph near the islet, and my network have established a dry dock close to the island. The storm won't follow us through. We'll take a rowboat ashore. Be safe dry and at the villa before the night's done. In time, I daresay, for a late supper."

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just the practicalities. Stay close, and don't succumb."

"You make it sound as if we're sailing past sirens on the rocks."

"That's a fair comparison."

"Silco—"

He lays one cool finger on her lips.

"I promise no risk." His mismatched eyes are sea and storm. "Not to you."

His hand has dropped. Hers has lifted, reaching for his face. Mel catches herself, lacing her fingers, with forcible self-possession, against her belly. She will not let him see her unease. She is a Medarda, and Medardas thrive in risk. She'd backed Jayce's reckless play to the bitter end. Had sampled, without apology, the splendors that came of its success. She will, and can, do the same again.

Except now, it's not simply her skin on the line.

"All—all right," she says, at length.

"Yes?"

"Yes. Though I warn you: the Dennings are in the throes of afterglow, and won't care. But the others..." She lets her gaze linger on each. "I'll have to work them. Make sure they're not too afraid to step inside."

"Do you think you can manage?"

Mel squares her shoulders. The storm is gathering, and so is her resolve.

"Have you forgotten whom you are married to?"

His smile waxes full. Taking her hand, he drops a kiss onto her knuckles, right on the cold stone of her wedding ring. It warms beneath his lips. "If it isn't too much trouble,” he murmurs, “could you persuade them to leave the liquor behind? A bit of sobriety will serve us better in the Void. It's an odd place. I'd rather they be sharp-eyed for the journey."

"There's nothing sharp about them," Mel sighs. "Sir Garlen, for one, is too far gone."

"Coffee, then. Enough to perk up the dead."

A grim smile flits across her lips. "Consider it done."

"Good." He closes the space between them, "And I'll deal with Garlen."

"What?"

Silco is already detaching. "Concentrate on the others. When you're ready, we'll depart."

"Silco—"

His two-toned eyes glitter. "You did warn him. Now I'll give him my own reminder."

The air, at once, is electric. It has nothing to do with the storm. It is only them: the space between their bodies and the rapprochement of sovereign spheres. Garlen may be Mel's guest. But this is Silco's turf. And he will not stand by the sidelines while she is impugned within its walls. 

"Silco," Mel tries again. "You don't have to—"

Except he is gone: a dark shape, slipping from shadow to shadow. In a trice, he's reached Garlen, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Mel does not catch the words exchanged. But in a moment, Silco has begun steering Garlen toward the exit.

A handful of crewmen, summoned out of nowhere, converge in his wake.

The storm vastness seems to fill the lounge—the atmosphere crackling—to follow their passage. The remaining guests remain talking amongst themselves. No one has noticed the interlude. They are too preoccupied with their own interests.

The door swings shut.

Mel, stranded in the lounge, is left to work her wiles.

While her husband, belowdeck, settles the accounts.

It is touch-and-go.

The Dennings are easy. Having had their fill of wine and food, they are eager only for a locked bedroom and the privacy to enjoy it. Hector, roused from stupor, is no more difficult: a passing mention of the local sweetmeats he'll get to sample once they've arrived at the villa is enough to pique his interest. Cevila, a tougher nut, balks at the thought of stepping into the Void, until Mel manages to coax her and her husband, in the spirit of adventure, to reconsider.

The crewmen begin, with utmost politeness, corralling the guests. Life-vests are fitted back on; coats are slung over shoulders. It's a far cry from the way they'd been manhandled, en masse, from the SS We Betide, and deposited into the Thesaurus.

But then, they weren't high-profile investors. Only cargo.

Now, they're assets.

The guests are ushered back belowdecks. Mel follows, making sure everyone is accounted for. The gallery, after the bluster of the storm, is eerily tranquil. A preternatural chill dwells in the subaquatic space. The Idol is a pulsar, beating its rhythm in time with the sea.

A shiver runs down Mel's spine. Her dress, the tulle long since soaked through, clings to her limbs. She ought to have taken up Silco's offer and changed into something dry. But the moment's gone. Now, the only thing to do is press forward.

Into the dark, where the Eye awaits.

The hourglass, ultramarine, glows behind Silco. His silhouette bisects the radiance; staring straight at it, Mel has the impression of taking in a signpost at the fabric of reality. She is reminded of the moment she'd first met him, in the brightness of the arterial-red sunlight. A monster from a nightmare, and a nightmare all his own. The nightmare who'd been revealed, in the end, to have a man's face, and a man's voice, and a man's dreams.

 Mel, gathering her courage, approaches.

"Where," she whispers, "is Garlen?"

"He'll be along,” Silco says. “All ready, then?"

Hesitating, Mel nods.

Behind her, the guests are a shuffling mass. In the engulfing gloom, their voices have died; they are huddled together, nearly as wary as when they'd first set foot in the gallery. Some are shivering, and not from the cold. Others are glancing anxiously around, as though expecting the Void to manifest and swallow them whole. Only a few—Cevila, the Dennings, and, surprisingly, Hector—keep their gazes fixed on the glowing hourglass, braced despite the dread.

Mel struggles to find her own sealegs. "We're ready."

"Then let's not waste time." His eyes pass from Mel to the guests. The softness of his voice holds a subaudible pitch that seeps directly into every cell, and leaves no room for disobedience. "You'll find the trip quite painless.  To minimize mishaps, Kolt will be accompanying us. The after-effects, while harmless, can be quite unsettling. And, for such precious cargo," the barest sidelong glance at Mel, "I'd rather not take chances."

The guests stir. The murmur of a dozen mouths disturbs the airwaves.

"I ask that you keep your life-vests on. It will make the plunge smoother. And, when we reach the other side, refrain from making any sudden moves. Like a flashbulb going off, after-images will linger. Pay them no heed. They will fade. Reality—our reality—will set in."

A fresh wave of mutters, tinged by disquiet.

"What," Hector dares, with a faux-jovial smile, "if reality fails to make an appearance?"

"It will."  Silco's mouth crooks. "If you would do me the honor of following my lead, I assure you the crossing-over will be without incident."

"How," Lady Dennings asks, "does one cross over?"

"Like this."

Silco, with a slow-motion fluidity, approaches the hourglass. The bottom chamber's gates are open: the sand, hovering a half-inch above the base, is suspended in a state of infinite fall. Each tiny grain seems lit from within: an iridescent crystal. Unknotting his cravat, Silco holds up the white strip of cloth lengthwise between his hands. A magician demonstrating a prop before the trick.

"Watch," he murmurs, and drops the cloth.

It flutters, a pale pennant, into the chamber.  As the fabric descends, the grains swirl, coalescing into a whirlpool that engulfs the silk. At the dais, the Idol glows, pulsing at a steady rhythm. Ultraviolet, then magenta, then red. The colors bleed together, until all Mel can see is an inchoate rainbow that seeps into every sense.

The air comes alive with a strange sonorous hum. It spikes into a crescendo that drowns out every sound.

A blink later, the cravat vanishes.

Silco, in the expanding silence, tips his chin.

"Simple as that."

The guests stare in shock.

"But the cloth—" Lord Dennings sputters.

"Floating its way across the winds of Wuju. Our destination—though not, as it turns out, Sir Garlen’s."

With a look of mute dispassion, he meets the eye of a crewman. A single nod is given. Cued, the crewman opens the door to a storage cabinet. From inside, Sir Garlen is hoisted out, supported under the arms by two burly men. In the cascading blueness of the gallery, his skin is a pallid gray. The whites of his eyes seem a rheumy, bloodshot.

A gash bisects in his temple.

"Sir Garlen," Silco says, without inflection, "has made a last-minute change of plans."

Garlen, head swaying on the gyre of his thick neck, makes no answer.

"He will be joining his comrades on the Noxian outpost at Urvash. He's had his fill of refined company, and is looking forward to, shall we say, the coarser pleasures of the war-campaign. Isn't that right, Sir Garlen?"

 Garlen's throat works in a peristaltic flex. Nothing comes out.

 Mel, with a slow creep of horror, realizes he's been drugged.

"Silco," she says. "What—what have you—?"

"Something to calm him down. He had a bit of a row with my crew. They had to take precautions. The effects will wear off by the time he reaches his destination." Silco's attention shifts back to the hourglass. "Which is, in any case, better than getting tossed into the storm."

The blood in Mel's skull recedes, leaving her lightheaded. "Why did you—?"

"He made advances." Silco's stare locks on hers: unrepentant. "On the hostess."

"That doesn't mean—"

"I'm aware. But the matter is settled. Sir Garlen has changed his mind, and will be his own way." His focus goes to the remaining guests. "The rest of you are, of course, free to take your leave with him. Or, as planned, we can go together to the villa. Discuss our future, and its promise. Because it is that promise that will build the foundations for the new age. One where we may all, shoulder to shoulder, do our cities a profitable service. And, perhaps, carve out a lasting peace."

The guests are breathing heavily. It is not the drugs, or the dark, or the danger that holds them hostage.

It is the man.

His words, sluicing gently from the shadows, are a warning. The old status quo is done. The new order is a beast rising from the depths. Their insults and insolences will no longer be tolerated. Their old privileges are forfeit.  They'd crossed the sea as Mel's guests; they depart as the Eye's allies.  And the price of his allyship is the same as the price of his enmity:

Loyalty.

Mel tastes the fear souring the air. Her language of diplomacy, of elegant solutions and calculated compromise, has no place here.  And yet she herself has not been relegated to the sideline. She can feel Silco's attention on her, holding her to account.

My wife, he'd said—and now she understands.

In offering his hand, he will not hesitate to show his teeth.  And anyone who dares insult her will face the full force of his bite. He is making plain, in the only vocabulary he speaks, that her safety is his.

"I'm," Hector says, whey-faced, "for the villa."

Silco inclines his head.

"As—as are we," Cevila stammers. "And, we must apologize, your Excellency, if our manners were lacking." She jerks an elbow into her husband's midriff. He concurs with alacrity. "Ye-es. It won't happen again."

"Indeed," Lady Dennings breathlessly chimes in. "We hope you'll find us far more agreeable once we've reached dry land. And, if we might presume, a trifle more—uh—open-minded. For the sake of progress."

The remaining guests chorus the sentiment.

They resemble, Mel thinks, a gaggle of geese honking in a language they do not understand. For a moment, Ambessa's specter leaps into her mind. Her mother's disdain for these aristocrats—their venal cowardice, and the easy way their moral fiber could be bought with a few coins. And yet, it is they who will make the new order possible.

A better world that, in a twist of irony, will be born from their inveterate greed.

"I am sure," concurs mildly says, "we will have a pleasant stay." Then, to the crewmen: "See Sir Garlen off."

The crewmen, leering, drag Garlen toward the hourglass. The brigadier lets off an aggrieved string of curses, then subsides into a fit of heavy-lidded mutterings. When he awakens, Mel suspects, his recollection of the night's events will verge of hallucinatory. Any accusations—of foul play, jettisoned cargo, magic portals—will be written off as the byproduct of a drinking spree and a wrong turn in the storm.

In short order, the hourglass is prepared. At the dais, the Idol glows a delirious shade of pink. In the bottom chamber, the sand is a slow-motion whirlpool. The crewmen, Garlen slung between them, advance. A life-vest is fitted over Garlen's shoulders.

Silco, standing vigil, addresses the guests. Despite the dire circumstances, his tone is almost conversational.

"You'll find the trip smooth. It may seem like a long duration of transit. But time, in the Void, is a fluid thing. In a way, Sir Garlen is unfortunate. The first experience of Crossing Over is unforgettable. A glimpse into the mysteries of the universe. For some, it becomes a compulsion." He pauses, his tone softening. "Though not one I'd wish on anyone."

He crooks a finger. The crewmen, Garlen in tow, enter the chamber. Mel hears the sound of their passage: the echo boots, the muffled breaths, a last, slurred curse from the Brigadier. The grains, swirling, close around them. Their bodies flicker. In the next instant, they are gone.

The chamber is empty.

Except for the sand. Twinkling, twisting, then, with a dreamlike sentience, drifting into stillness.

The ventricles of Mel's heart constrict. She doesn't want to look at the Idol. But her spine, as if gripped by an immense force, is turned in its direction. The glow sears into her retinas. Inside her head, a slow, soft, sonorous beat rises. She is struck by the profound certainty that it is the creature’s heartbeat, and that the Void is connected to it, and to her.

Like the blood in her veins, a bond is being forged, and its intimacy will never cease.

"All right." Silco's voice solidifies as if through water. "let's be on our way."

Mel is jolted from her trance.

The guests are shuffled toward the portal. Hector is the first. His life-vest has been fitted so tightly that he resembles a stuffed sausage. His expression is taut, the smile long-gone. Behind him, the Dennings are huddled close. Lord Dennings has enfolded his wife's hands into his own. Their waxen faces are stamped with twin expressions of stalwart determination. Cevila, her lipsticked mouth stamped in a grim line, follows. Kolt, in the background, herds the stragglers.

"Mel," Silco says, "come."

 Mel's belly is in knots. Premonition masses with the force of an impending storm. "Are you certain—?"

"Very."

She hears the undertow in his voice: irresistible as the sea's pull. The Idol's maddening resonance fades.

Folding her hands across her belly, Mel steels her spine. One foot before the other. One step. Two. Three. Then she is inside the chamber, and the sand is shimmering, and Silco is beside her, and the bodies are pressing in. A soft humming begins. It is a sound that Mel feels more than hears. As though, instead of air, she is aspirating pure energy.

A crackle—then the whiff of ozone.

The sand grains, suspended, begin to spin.

The chamber flickers. The glass emits pulses of violet light. It is like watching a supernova, radioactive, flare on and off. Then, the pulse stabilizes. The light, rather than waning, climbs like a wave. It fills the hourglass, the gallery, the arena. Then, with a shockwave, it floods everything.

Mel is no longer her body. She is a particle caught in a vortex. She is a star peeling free from the firmament.

She is falling.

Inside Mel, a tiny core of awareness is all that remains.  The rest: sloughed off. She is no longer Mel Medarda. No longer a daughter, or sister, or wife. She is a molecule, and a pulse, and a wave. Her body, starved, is drawn to an unknown fount. Her soul, a nadir, thirsting to plunge.

If she could only get close, the fount will feed her. Nourish her. Answer every question she's ever had; soothe every hurt she's ever known. Joy, boundless. Power, infinite.

All of it, hers.

All she needs is to say: Yes.

But something stays her. The hunger is not her sole guide. There is the heartbeat, too. Mel has heard it before. It's the one inside her, the one she's always possessed, and now, for the first time, it has begun to fork. Its rhythm, disparate from hers, begins to coalesce into a shape. A silhouette. A body, massing, until Mel can see, with a visceral shock, the face she's spent her life trying to forget.

The one who'd shaped her, and made her. And who she's spent so much effort trying to erase.

The heartbeat has led her to Ambessa.

Mel wants to scream. To flee; to fight. But there is no escape. She is locked in a chamber, and the walls are closing in. The particles are swirling. They are her, and not her. She is Ambessa, and not Ambessa. She is trapped inside her mother's flesh. Her mother, trapped within the confines of her memories. And the Medarda bloodline is trapped, too, inside her.

For a strangling moment, they are one.

Then, with a shock, the fusion splits. Mel sees, not her mother, but a child. Eyes the color of the sea at dawn. Curls that glimmer like blackest silk. A smile, aflame, but with a touch of sweetness. She has Kino's wily ways, and Aziz's golden heart, and Ambessa's iron resolve. And Mel's, too: her ambition, her will, and the strength to protect what's hers.

Mel's arms open, and the little girl—the bright, fierce, darling girl—leaps into her embrace.

Mel can feel the shape of her. All the tiny, beautiful details.  The dark grain of her skin: velvety beneath the pads of her fingertips.  The way she circles her chubby arms around Mel's neck, and dots her cheek with a dozen little kisses. Her laughter, a sonic dandelion bursting into bliss. Her scent: sweet and pure and as the seaside, and wholly, irreplaceably hers.

Their hearts beat as one.

Mine, Mel thinks.

Her treasure, her joy, her future.

"Tell me your name," she whispers, and the child laughs, nuzzling closer. Mel feels the soft, downy warmth of her curls. "Dearest, tell me your name."

A giggle, as if this is the silliest thing in the world.  "You already know."

"Do I?"

"You do." Another nuzzle. "So does Papa."

A coldeness creeps across Mel's nape. "Papa."

"Uh-huh." Her little chin lifts, and the dimples in her cheeks deepen. "It's funny. He knows, and I know, and you know. But we can't say so. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's a secret." Her lashes dip. It's a look Mel has seen on herself in the mirror: secretive, coy. Then, in a mercurial flash, her mood shifts. Her gaze, luminous, is all Silco. The blue of his good eye in both of hers. Both, locked on Mel, with indelible intensity. "You have to keep the secret. Or else—"

"What?" Fear claws its way up Mel's throat. "Or else what?"

"Something bad will happen." The girl's Cupid's bow mouth puckers. "Very bad."

"Will it—will it hurt you?"

"Only if you don't stay."

"Stay? What do you mean?"

"Here. With me." The girl's smile has faded. Her stare is beseeching. "I want you to stay."

"I want that, too."

"Do you?" She lays a plump hand, a tiny mirror, over Mel's. "Do you really?"

"Of course I do!" Mel's arms tighten. Her fingers are digging in. She can't make herself stop. "Please. Tell me your name."

"Only if you promise." A pout. "That you'll stay."

"I promise."

"Say it, then." Her eyes are all the colors of the ocean. "I'll stay."

"I—"

"Say it." Her tiny fingers are beginning to bite. "Say it!"

Her little face is irresistibly sweet. But the colors are washing out. The words come eerily distorted.

"Stay. Stay. STAY."

"I—" Mel begins.

A hand falls on Mel's arm. The little girl, in a gust of wind, fades away. Mel is left with only the afterimage of her. Her warmth, lingering. The memory, a superimposed shadow. Her arms fall around the emptiness, and her heart is in her throat, and she is being dragged backward, the hand's grip inescapable. She struggles, and shrieks, and claws, trying to regain what is hers. Her body is a cage, and the only thing within is a howl.

Then—

"Mel."

With a gasp, Mel falls back into herself.

Silco is enfolding her from behind. The embrace is gentle and ruthless. She can feel the shape of him, pressed all the way down: his lips against her ear, his chest to her spine, his arms bracketing her ribs, his boots slotted beside hers. His palms, covering hers, are knitted over her bellybutton. She feels the pulse beating there: hers, his. 

The heat of connection is shockingly real.

"Don't," he whispers. "You'll regret it."

They are, Mel realizes, still in the chamber. It's only been a few seconds.

A few seconds.

And already, her hands are shaking. Blood rims the crescents of her nails. She realizes, with a sick jolt, that she's dug them into the flesh of her belly.  The fabric of her gown is speckled red. She can't feel the pain. Only a faint throb of heat, far-off, and fading fast. Her skin, her senses, her very sanity is being sucked out of her.

She doesn't care. She'll give anything—anything—to have what she'd glimpsed. To hold the little girl, and hear her laughter, and know her name. It will be the truest, best thing Mel will ever have.

And, if it costs her the rest, then she'll pay the price.

"Please," she whispers. "I saw—."

"Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

"But—"

"It's the call of the Void." His mouth touches the hollow beneath her jaw. "When it opens, you get a glimpse into a world you were never meant to see. Not yet. Sometimes, not ever. And if you succumb to the lure, it'll devour you."

"Silco, I—"

I saw her.

I held her.

I loved her.

She was so beautiful. So alive. So theirs.

"Please," Mel says again, hoarsely. "Please."

 "Hush. It's gone." He tucks her closer. "Brace yourself. We're about to cross."

The sand grains dance in delirious spirals. They are no longer particles: they are fractals of pure energy. The chamber begins to liquify. The walls are coming apart. Mel has lost the sense of her body, of gravity, of the world's axis.  She can hear a keening, high and inhuman, that is both outside and within. Around her, the guests are writhing. They're not human beings anymore, but puppets in thrall to a single string. Kolt and the crewmen struggle to contain them. Then their shapes are obscured—along with everything else—beneath a brilliant white aurora.

It's a solar flare, blinding. 

Flinching, Mel shuts her eyes. The luminosity is a physical pressure, seeping into her lids. Her skin, her hair, every pore and follicle, feels supercharged.

And Silco, enfolding her, holds fast.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "We're nearly there."

The light hits its zenith. Then, slowly, it subsides. The aurora ebbs, and the darkness returns. But it is not the darkness of the undersea. It is the darkness of a cloudless night.

The chamber is gone. They are standing on a pier.

It is incredibly narrow: a long finger of planks and beams, jutting into the sea. The sky, a rich indigo, is flecked with stars. The fishhook of a moon hangs overhead. In the distance, Mel spies a net of colored lights in a dark mass. The island of Wuju, barely a mile offshore. Beyond the pier is a cluster of boats. A few skiffs, and the sleek prow of a ship. Its name is stenciled onto its hull: SS Woe Betide.

Salt-spray lashes Mel's cheeks. She realizes she is at the edge of the railing. The wood cuts into her hipbones. Below, the sea churns. The drop is nearly twenty feet deep. It would be an ugly fall. 

Backtracking, Mel takes a breath. Her face is wet; her lips are moving. But she can't make sense of the sounds. The taste is like salt. Like tears: sobless, silent. Because she is empty-handed. Because the girl, her precious treasure, is gone. She has slipped through her fingers.  

Or—no.

Not slipped. She was never there.

Silco's lips touch her ear.  "Steady. The first shockwave hits the hardest."

His is still behind her, arms wound around her midriff. One hand is splayed across her belly. Mel can feel the imprint of his ring. The cold, smooth band nestles against her navel. The residue of the magic is still imprinted on her nerves: the phantom of loss.

She doesn't know whether to mourn the girl, or herself. 

But if the Void cannot truly give, then perhaps the Void is nothing more than a reflection?

"Look," Silco says, tipping his chin.

Mel does. In the moon's curving glow, she sees the guests scattered around the pier. Some have dropped to their knees, arms stretched heavenward. Others are being held back, forcibly, by Kolt and the other crewmen. Hector, a quivering mound of limbs, is curled in a fetal position. Lady Dennings, eyes streaming, is sobbing inconsolably. Her husband, embracing her, is staring at the middle distance, slack-jawed.  Cevila, caught in a headlock by three men, is shrieking incoherently: eyes bulging, teeth bared.   

"The journey affects everyone differently," Silco says. "Thankfully, after the first exposure, it doesn't linger." A beat. "Mostly."

He's not smiling. But there's a knowledgeable slyness to his expression that sets Mel off-balance.

"Why—why did it hit them harder?" she rasps. "We all crossed over together."

"Because their desires aren't rooted in the heart. Theirs is an ambition born of envy, or greed, or pettiness. Whereas yours..." His stare flits down. "Yours is different. Deeper."

His palm remains anchored over her navel.  A claim laid down, and stained with blood.

Mel bites her lip. She can feel the sting of shallow lacerations. Reality is creeping back in, and with it, a modicum of dismay. "I—I couldn't hold back." The admission hurts. "If it hadn't been for you, I—"

"Would've clawed your belly inside out."  Silco lays his cheek against hers. The film of seawater clings to his skin. "It was your first time. Most would've given in completely."

"You didn't."

"I nearly did, my first time."

"What?"

She can feel the stirring of his breaths: slow, steady, deliberate.

"With Jinx. Years ago, in the Badlands." He swallows, once. "It's nothing I care to repeat."

Mel shivers. Her body, like a tuning fork's ebbing resonance, still sings. She wonders if the sound will ever truly cease. Or if it will stay, a ghostly echo, in the chambers of her heart.

"We ought to," Silco says, his focus on the guests, "make sure they're sane."

Mel manages a nod. Their bodies disentangle; the warmth dissipates. There is something bereft about the distance. Mel doesn't dare dwell on it.  They are not the sort to cling to each other in public. Displays of affection are a calculated performance: beneath the dazzle of cameras, behind the thicket of microphones, before the crowd's hungry eyes.

Here, the intimacy feels too raw. An exposure past endurance. 

"You're shaking," Silco says. His left palm lifts to curve itself over her bare shoulder. The thumb strokes a soft circle into the skin. "Let's get you inside."

"Inside?"

"The villa's only a short distance from the pier. There are guards stationed to escort us."

Mel nods. She absorbs little—but the warmth of his hand, she understands. The guests, in her peripheral vision, have begun to stir to their senses. She can see the confusion that permeates the airwaves. The same emotions that cling to her, miasmic. 

None of them, she thinks, were ready. Now, they've crossed the threshold to No Return.

"Are you able to stand?" Silco asks.

Mel nods again.

"Take my arm."

"I—I can walk on my own."

"Take it."

His tone brooks no argument. In a strange way, it's reassuring. The Crossing has altered everything. But not Silco. Wherever he goes, he remains the same.

The tide: immutable.

Taking a steadying breath, Mel straightens. The night wind whips at her hair, her dress. Her limbs seem to be made of gelatin; her mind a slurry of conflicting impulses.

But, also: exhilarated.

A strange subspecies of joy is spreading through her. Not the kind she experiences when her schemes are playing out to fine-tuned perfection. Something brighter, purer, undiluted.

A sense of homecoming.

As if reading her thoughts, Silco says, "A mild euphoria can follow the first Crossing. It will fade soon. Until then, I'd advise against letting the eyes wander." 

"Why?"

"Hallucinations." He takes her elbow. "Best not to tempt fate."

"I—I see."

Mel wills the world back into focus. The guests, herded by the crew, have been ushered to the pier's end. Mel makes out the shape of a long rowboat, bobbing gently on the white-capped waves. The guests are being bundled into it. Blankets are distributed; thermoses of hot tea passed out.

Silco, his hand a loose latch on Mel's arm, leads her forward.

"Stay close," he cautions. "The boards are slippery."

Carefully, Mel wends her way along the pier. The path before her has a rippling quality: her balance is off. She focuses on mimicking Silco's sure-footed tread. Glimpsed from behind, she is struck by the slenderness of his silhouette. The spare cut of his torso; the tidy nip of his waist; the lithe swimmer's legs.

He's not a large man. And because he's not, he's always had to assert himself. To stay braced, every moment, against a world that will never be forgiving to those with less.

For the first time, Mel is hit by the full force of his fragility. How little of it he lets her see. How much of it she still doesn't know.

And how much, if she's honest, she longs to find out.

Then it happens.

A cry, loud and shrill, splits the night. Mel falters mid-step. In the frothing blackness of the waves, she catches a flash of dark flesh: a hand, clawing wildly up the pier's planks. Then a figure surges out in slithering increments. The moonlight, ghostly, traps itself in the bronzed contours of her musculature. Her eyes, a fiery gold, are locked on Mel. Her teeth, bared, are the color of old ivory.

Ambessa.

Her uniform is studded with pale encrustations of barnacles. The armor drips, water pattering across the floorboards. The wild gray corona of her hair is plastered to her skull. The rest of her: waterlogged as a sunken ship. 

It's as if she's been dragged across the seven seas.

As if she's a revenant, risen from the dead.

At her throat, a necklace—the one belonging to the Ionian chieftain's daughter—jangles like a garland of bones. The dark glisten of blood limns the coral ornaments. Her features are streaked with it. Her expression: a naked rictus of bloodlust.

Half kraken, half killer.

"You," she spits.

Then she's lunging for Silco.

Mel acts on reflex. Her body shoves his aside. Cursing, Silco staggers off-kilter. His hand drops from Mel's arm. The moment it does, the planks skid from under her boots. Her thighs collide with the railing. Then she is toppling backward.

For a moment, she is weightless. Her body caught in zero gravity. Her mind, a free-floating mote.

Mel registers the details in a series of suspended snapshots: the hypnagogic moon pinwheeling above; the stars, a thousand eyes, blinking in and out; Ambessa, a raging Fury, bearing down. Then gravity pulls. Mel's stomach plunges into her heels. Her arms fly outward. Her fingers claw empty air.

There is nothing to hold on to.

Only the Void's hungry inverse.

The Deep End.

Then, with a giddy quiver of gelatinous peristalsis, the moment erupts.

Mel, a shriek ripped from her lungs, drops.

The plunge is an instant; an eternity. The waves are a frenzied churn. The chill radiates, shockingly cold, and seizes her breath.

Mel has one final cogent thought: Silco.

Then, the water rises up, and swallows her whole.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #mal de mer #melco #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda

[alex-the-nonsensologist]

Disney Dreamland - Part 5: Create-It-Land

Quite possibly the most visually eclectic of all the lands. This land embodies creativity and the arts, and quite frankly there is no one way to be creative or artistic, so I think the motley visuals are perfectly on theme. That said, I decided to tie the land together by having giant objects themed to each area. For this reason, I specifically wanted Wonderland and 100 Acre Wood next to the border of Fantasyland/Create-It-Land, so that the giant plants and cards of Wonderland and the giant book facade of Pooh would help transition to the giant toys of Toy Box Land and/or the giant art supplies of Toontown. The parade route exits down here.

Showtime Boulevard

The entrance street of the land from the hub. Dedicated to the performing arts. Would resemble a city street, like a small town version of Broadway, but then transition to include giant objects. Giant instruments of the music playground. Giant sheet music. The ballet house could look like a giant music box. Even the normal buildings could have giant props on them, like giant comedy and tragedy masks, or giant film reels and clapperboards. There would also be a decent amount of performers to bring energy to the area, so that it doesn’t feel like a regular city street. Living statues and street musicians. 

Journey Into Imagination: If EPCOT isn’t going to put back Dreamfinder, I’ll gladly take him. Heck, I’ll even settle for a pseudo-sequel with an older Figment now taking on the role of Dreamfinder in honor of his friend. Sets and scenery from the original incarnation are mandatory. There could be a path leading off the boulevard to an area between Create-It-Land and Discoveryland where this ride could be placed, since it does reflect the spirit of both lands. 

Fantasia Music Hall: In the spirit of Walt’s original idea for Fantasia, certain classic segments would be permanent fixtures of the show (such as Sorcerer’s Apprentice) and performed by Animatronics on instruments and as dancers in the same vein as the former Mickey Mouse Revue show, while other segments could be animations shown on screen and switched out throughout the year (such as the segments originally planned for Fantasia 2006 that were later released individually). I would love it if the Animation Studio could create new unique animated segments exclusive to the attraction. Permanent animatronic segments would include characters from Pastoral Symphony, Rhapsody in Blue, Dance of the Hours, Night on Bald Mountain (though I could also work with it being a seasonal segment during Halloween), and The Firebird. Playing the full versions of every song would take too long, so the show would feature abridged versions in a medley. 

“Music Playground”: Interactive playground of giant musical instruments. Think of the piano scene from Big, but on a grader scale. Piano slides, trampoline drums, xylophone bridges, brass instruments the size of trees. I’ll admit, I don’t know if the audio results of this attraction would be wacky fun or pure tortuous chaos. I was originally imaging this as an outdoor attraction, but it might be better if this were indoors with each type of instrument given its own room with soundproofing.

“Russian Animal Ballet House”: I just wanted an excuse to see animals in fancy costumes performing ballet. Could be costumed actors or animatronics. Nutcracker performances during Christmas are mandatory. Building would resemble a giant music box. Alternatively, the stage could also be used for any original cultural performances from countries not already featured elsewhere in the park (Greek dramas, Bollywood dances, etc.). 

Muppet Comedy Theatre: Would have the same mixed media techniques as Muppet*Vision 3D (a screen movie, actual puppeteering, and costume characters), but features a new original story. Could also feature a small meet-and-greet area with Kermit and friends.

Hollywood restaurant: American cuisine. Themed to the Golden Age of Hollywood cinema.

Toontown

I want this area to have the same energy as Seuss Landing from Universal’s Islands of Adventure, which I personally feel makes for a better Toontown than Disney’s actual Toontown. The buildings would be slightly more distorted and more stylized. I’m wondering if it would also be possible to put some buildings on a moving platform so that they could tilt back and forth for a squash and stretch illusion. Maybe even have a few with giant faces that can emote. This area prominently features giant art supplies that are implied to have brought the land into existence, including giant paintbrushes that are poised in the middle of putting “finishing touches” to the buildings. The entire area would have lots of kinetic sculptures (think of the new Super Nintendo World at Universal) to make the land feel alive. Interactive gags like the Post Office and the Fireworks Factory would of course be included. I would remove the residential area and have the area only themed around Maroon Cartoons Studio, and the downtown area. Characters that don’t fit in any other area of the park could walk around here. 

“Mickey Mouse presents…”: Guests would take on the role of camera crew with Mickey as director. The star of the movie is late and we follow Mickey as he accidentally crashes various movie sets looking for the missing actor, who turns out to be none other than Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. The various movie sets would portray different genres of cinema. Based on the Mickey short cartoon Roll ‘Em (which, by the way, would have been a more appropriate replacement for the Great Movie Ride than Runaway Railway). While I intended for this to be part of Toontown, I am also okay with this being the last building on Showtime Boulevard to help transition into Toontown.  

Backstage Meet-and-Greet: Again, I personally do not care much for meet and greets (With the exception of Goofy. Goofy is the best.), but for the people that do, here you can meet Mickey and Friends including Oswald, Roger and Jessica. 

Maroon Cartoons Studio Tour: Based on Roger Rabbit Cartoon Spin but using the art style of Mickey and Minnie’s Runaway Railway (but with actual sets, not screen projections), as well as an interactive element (partially inspired by Monsters Inc Ride & Go Seek in Tokyo). Guests would interact with the sets by “spraying” paint or thinner from the paintbrushes attached to their vehicles. Based on the video game mechanic from Epic Mickey, where paint brings objects into existence, and thinner erases them. For example, a guest could “paint” an anvil that would drop onto Roger’s head. Even spraying the animatronic characters would elicit funny dialogue, “Hey! Watch where you’re spraying! I just got a new paint job yesterday!” While the sets would be physical, the paint and thinner effects could be projections. The trickiest part is projecting a physical object to look like it’s been erased, and since it would set off chain reactions, the projections would have to hide certain objects’ movements. It would be very difficult, but I insist that this ride does not follow the Toy Story Mania route (I’m looking at you, Web Slingers). Please consult actual engineers.

Art of Animation Academy: History of animation exhibit, with animation from all over the world. Japanese anime, Soviet animation, stop-motion, etc. With acknowledgements that Quirino Cristiani and Lotte Reiniger’s films actually pre-date Snow White as the world’s first animated features. Drawing workshops included.

Happy-Go-Lucky Merry-Go-Round: In the same wacky spirit as the Caro-Seuss-el in Seuss Landing. Like the Caro-Seuss-el, the music could speed up and slow down when it operates. Rather than just having wacky versions of real animals, this carousel would have hybrid animals, like the Wuzzles! Also, what if the carousel could run backwards? 

Jolly Trolley: The vehicles would run on an elevated track to solve the problem of crowds blocking the way. The track could wind around Toontown, the same way as The High in the Sky Seuss Trolley Train Ride! does in Seuss Landing. Originally I was only going to have it stay in Toontown, but then I realized the wind-up key on the roof could make it pass for a toy, so why not have it travel through Toy Box Land too, for an even more scenic route. 

Goofy’s Bakery Studio: Decorate your own cupcakes and cookies with edible paint. 

The Art of Disney: Disney prints, paintings, figurines, and other art. Get your caricature drawn here.

Minnie Mouse Fashions: Disney apparel and headgear. Design and customize your own ears.

Handwich cart: I dunno about you, but I think the Handwich is pretty neat.

Toy Box Land

Yes, Toy Story Land has been both overused as a land and under-utilized as a proper theme, but I simply love the giant toy aesthetic. It feels like being inside an I Spy book (does anyone remember those books?). I probably could have just made this land fully original with no ties to IP (like I did with choosing not to theme Winter VIllage to Frozen), which I am still open to, but also found it too irresistible to include everyone’s favorite lovable rascals. The movies’ existential themes of jealousy and self-worth, moving on and letting go would be difficult to adapt into attractions, so Toy Story’s inclusion here is to embody reconnecting with your inner child and creativity through play. The name change is just my attempt to make the IP sound less in-your-face. The giant art supplies from Toontown could transition into giant crayons in this area. Also, like Toontown, the entire area would have kinetic sculptures to bring energy to the area, like giant windup keys and pinwheels. To keep with the playful and friendly energy of the land there should be plenty of characters walking around interacting with guests. Woody, Buzz, Jessie, and Bo Peep should preferably be characters that can talk, not just silent costumes, and there would not be any giant static statues of them in the land. Bullseye and the Green Army Men are okay to keep as silent costume characters. Potato Head, Hamm, Rex, Slinky, and Wheezy are talking animatronics, preferably mobile animatronics that can roam the land alongside costume characters. I think the Little Green Aliens and Bo Peep’s sheep are the only characters that are okay to portray as static statues. Sid’s toys could be available characters during the Halloween season.

“Rube Goldberg Machine roller coaster”: Dual track wild mouse roller-coaster, based on a classic, over-convoluted Rube Goldberg design. One track has guests ride in giant toy karts, the other has guests inside giant marbles for a giant marble run track. Vehicles would set off chain reactions, possibly help other vehicles move forward, or create “obstacles” for others. Pulleys and wheels and dominoes galore.  This is another one of those ideas where I only know how I want it to function without knowing how to accomplish it. Please consult actual engineers. 

“Andy’s Playtime Theater”: Basically Mad Libs / Choose Your Own Adventure. This could either be a show or a ride, but I personally prefer the ride idea. If it were a show it would be part improv, involve guest participation, and have lots of giant props and gags. The Toy Story gang would mingle with the audience and be on stage at the same time. If it were a ride, guests can choose the path their vehicle takes. Andy narrates and has his toys act out a story. At several points, Andy offers two options on how the story can proceed. Stories would have wacky scenarios, like that of the opening scene in Toy Story 3. Multiple endings. Would have plenty of animatronics, and NOT just be screen-based. 

“Giant Toy Playground”: Build with LEGO bricks the size of your head, climb actual towers made of alphabet blocks, play on a chessboard with human-sized chess pieces. 

“I Spy Scavenger Hunt”: I absolutely loved looking at Walter Wick’s I Spy and Can You See What I See? illustrations for hours, and this activity is basically that come to life. I really want this land to be super detailed (and I mean absolutely LOADED) with lots of toy props hidden everywhere. The search criteria can change everyday for different routes. Winners can earn exclusive pins.

Pizza Planet restaurant: Customize your own pizza. Mix your own slushie. Gluten-free and vegan options. Also serves the Alien Mochi from Tokyo. Would follow the retro space building design of the movie .

“Build-A-Toy” shop: Inspired by the former Toys R Us Times Square location. Would include things like a Build-A-Bear Workshop, “Build Your Own Potato Head”, a LEGO play area, a nuiMOs plush modeling studio, and a mini indoor Ferris wheel.

Disney Dreamland Railroad Create-It-Land station: “Built” out of blocks and tinkertoys.

World Galleria

Adventureland

Mysteryland

Fantasyland

Discoveryland

#disney parks #disney dreamland #armchair imagineering #journey into imagination #disney's hollywood studios #toontown #toy story land #theme park design

[hebrewbyinbal]

Jaffa, nestled beside the vibrant city of Tel Aviv, is a mesmerizing blend of ancient and modern, a place where history whispers from every corner.

Colloquially pronounced ‘ya-fo, and formally pronounced ya-‘fo, Jaffa's timeless allure lies in its unique combination of layered histories, cultural diversity, and artistic vitality.

As you stroll through the narrow, cobbled streets of Jaffa, they are immediately enveloped in a tapestry of aromas, colors, and sounds that have accumulated over centuries.

The ancient port /ne-‘mal ya-‘fo/ נְמַל יָפו, one of the oldest in the world, speaks of a rich maritime heritage, where fishermen and traders from across the Mediterranean once mingled. This historic port, with its quaint harbor and bobbing fishing boats, provides a picturesque backdrop that contrasts beautifully with Tel Aviv's modern skyline.

Jaffa's flea market /shook ha-peesh-pe-‘sheem/ שׁוּק הַפִּשְׁפְּשִׁים, is a treasure trove of antiques, handcrafted items, and eclectic artifacts, each with a story to tell. Wandering through the market, you can find anything from vintage jewelry to restored furniture, encapsulating the spirit of Jaffa as a meeting point of the old and the new.

The city's artistic soul is most evident in its thriving gallery scene. Jaffa is home to a vibrant community of artists and craftsmen, whose studios and galleries are nestled in its historic buildings and narrow alleyways. These spaces not only exhibit contemporary art but also often pay homage to the rich cultural tapestry of the area, blending Jewish, Christian, and Muslim influences.

Culinary enthusiasts will find Jaffa to be a haven. The food here is a fusion of the many cultures that have passed through its port: traditional Middle Eastern dishes, fresh seafood, and the famed Jaffa oranges, known for their sweetness and vibrant color. The local cuisine tells the story of the city's diverse inhabitants and visitors throughout the ages.

#israeli #israel #jaffa #markets #beautiful country #hebrew #hebrewbyinbal #Yafo

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you

The random HC edition!

Happy Frankie Friday, everyone!

I am very sorry this next chapter is taking so long. You can blame the fucking holidays that played with my mental health like it was a Kendama. It may not look like it, considering the length of this silly post, but I'm actively working on it.

As I've stated before, I have way too many HC about this story. Here are some, completely random, no one will care about. Enjoy!

[series masterlist]

(and please, why is his fucking belt UNBUCKLED)

Frankie

If you really want to know my Frankie, you can read this near extensive love letter, which was originally closer to a 10k ramble. Here's a few extra details (there are many more stored up in my sick brain).

Frankie will tell you that his favourite book is not The Master and Margarita. Don't believe him. That's a lie. Instead, he'll argue that it's In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote, All Quiet On The Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque, a close second (which is a nod to myself about my next story). He also loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He used to read a lot more when he was in the Army, nowadays not so much, somehow.

His favourite movie genre is science-fiction, and his favourite movie of all time is Close Encounters of the Third Kind (can you guess why?) He also has a particular fondness for Solyaris, Sunshine and Monsters. And in a couple of years (PTMY is set in 2014-205) he will love Prospect (do I need to link that?). He also loves documentaries, especially the science ones.

His favourite bands are Jefferson Airplane (Grace Slick's voice does things to him) and, well, Fleetwood Mac, which is a sort of fandom consensus for P boys that they all like FM, right? His favourite song is Dusty Springfield's Windmills Of Your Mind, which he never told the boys because they would give him hell. It reminds him of his mother.

Izzy would like him to be more in touch, culturally speaking, with his Argentinian roots. But it's a very complicated topic for him. Argentinian cuisine is, however, by far his favourite (he loves good meat).

Frankie has a thorough, obsessive mind. When he gets into something, anything, he wants to know everything about it, understand how it works, break it down and rebuild it entirely, and he will spend months, sometimes years, fixated on the same book/movie/object/painting... woman.

Benny

Benny has never been much of a reader. But he's a music connoisseur with eclectic tastes. He's always looking to discover new music, and his favourite app is Radiooooo. Please don't talk to him about CDs, he will hurt you, vinyls are the only way to listen to music if it's not live. He has far too many favourite bands to list (and even I don't know most of them, they're too obscure).

His favourite movie genre is HORROR (capitalised because when he tells someone, it is always excitedly, and in a very loud voice) and his favourite movie is The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (close second: An American Werewolf in London). I have it down to his favourite scene, in case you're wondering just how crazy I am.

Don't let the golden retriever demeanour fool you, he's a very sharp, insightful movie watcher, he can break down any given scene for you and he has a passion for makeshift special effects.

He'll eat quite literally anything, especially if it has eggs or cheese in it (he's actually a very good cook, but you don't want to clean after him), but his favourite dish is his mother's mac & cheese, because he's cute like that.

Will

A word on my Will. He's a very refined, educated, sensitive man. A man of cold logic and rich inner world, complex thoughts and curated emotions. Will is an iceberg. We only see 10% of him. There is this original wound in his childhood only Ben knows about (it's a family thing), but one day in the near future he will tell Reader. He's a dreamer, and a romantic, as well as a very practical man, which in his unique case is not mutually exclusive. He and Reader are very alike and insanely close, I cannot stress that enough.

He enrolled after 9/11 because he thought it was his duty and he sincerely believed he was going to make a difference. He crashed so hard when he realised what was what. Still, he soldiered on, pun intended, because he had committed himself to the job. He is, as he himself puts it, a warrior, but he would have made a damn fine architect or artist.

When Jean left him, she broke his heart. It didn't make him bitter, however, on the contrary, he developed more empathy (which might come in handy... 👀). He is the only one who acknowledges the traumas they all went through and sought treatment for it.

He's not too big on movies, but his favourite is Citizen Kane (which Reader ADORES. I have so many HC about her, because I suck at reader's insert and she's a complete OFC without a name and a writer with the courage to formally declare her such). He likes classic rock and Debussy and trusts his little brother to make him discover new sounds.

ETA: His favourite novel is Anna Karenina.

Seriously? I've never loved a man so much while being not remotely attracted to them.

Santi

I'll be honest here, Santi is a bit of a mystery to me, and I spend just as much time trying to decipher him as I spend imagining Frankie's or the Millers' childhood (don't worry, I will spare you. For now).

We know what kind of music he listens to. Music for motivation, if you ask me. It's less about the tune itself than setting the mood in which he needs to be.

I believe he likes food. Good food. He will not, unlike Benny, eat anything, very far from it. His job is his life. But he does like to travel for leisure. Also, total lack of imagination on my behalf, here, but he's from Guatemala.

He and Frankie met first, at the very beginning of their military careers, but Frankie became very close with Will and even more so with Benny when they met later on. Santi and Frankie have a deeply rooted yet looser bond. They can go for months without talking to each other, but will very naturally pick up where they left off. Benny is Frankie's best friend. For now, at least.

Tom

Name one person who cares. Not me.

***

Now ok, I hear you, you're screaming at your screen "did I just read a shittone of useless stuff I never asked for in the first place???" And please, mind you, I'm sparing you the HC on Izzy, Rosie and Yovanna. I'd just like you to know that Izzy's bi.

So to atone for that, I will tell you how the PTMY boys fuck.

Frankie

Frankie fucks with a vengeance. It's an outlet. A necessity.

However, nothing will happen until he's got his partner's explicit consent. Another consensus about Frankie, he is very respectful of women. It's in his nature, and Izzy did a very good job educating her little brother as a feminist.

His first kiss was Brionna (you better believe he got the girl he wanted. And she never regretted having him as her first kiss either) and his first time was with one of his sister's friends, Selena. He was a scrawny 15-year-old, however already very... charming, and... motivated. She was 19 and slightly condescending at first, like “ok, you cute, I'll take your virginity.” Let me tell you, she was in for quite a surprise. She certainly didn't expect him to make her come. This hard. Twice.

Like I said, obsessive and thorough... When he started being into girls, he downright studied the subject so he could master it and be the best. Not competitively, though. He's too selfless. He's a very tactile, sensory person. He needs to taste, inhale, touch. When he cares, his hands are on his partner, always.

Oh and Izzy got super pissed at him for fucking her friend.

Yes, his favorite meal is 🐱 and yes, he will make his partner come multiple times before he does anything else, but when he's done with that, he will turn them over and fuck into them at a punishing pace. That's why, in the darkest period of his life, he favoured intercourses with professionals. Who he also treats with the utmost respect. Over the years, 🐱 eating has become a quest. He's always and forever looking for your taste. And as he does, he'd rather not see his partner's face, so he can forget he most likely will never taste you again...

But it wasn't always like that. In college, he was literally drowning in 🐱, as word quickly got out of his prowess. And he was exceptionally soft on Pilar, the Mexican girl, the only woman he really ever had a relationship with, and boy, did he break her heart when he left. He had no intention of hurting her, and he tried his best to be gentle, but he felt like staying with her was being dishonest.

And of course, there's you.

Ok, one more for the road, because it makes me sweat.

Benny

Benny's quick (compared to the other ones) but deadly efficient. He's got stamina. He's playful. Sex with him is simple, and fun, and good. Very good. He will make his partner feel soooo good about themselves and their body. He's talkative (likes to let them know what's on the menu before he starts), and he'll be into whatever they're into. He. Is. Game. Toys? Alright! You wanna be tied up? Why not! You want him tied up? Let's go!

Oh and he's a tits man. And he likes ALL of them. Any shape any size any colour.

Will

Ah. Will. Will would rather be in love. But, you know. You can't always be. This said, no matter the circumstances, he will be entirely cued in to his partner, careful to please and to pleasure. Completely selfless as well. Also great stamina. Guess it runs in the family. But when he's in love? Phewwwww... When he's in love, his moves belong in a museum. It is ✨art✨

Santi

Santi is in for the performance. He's a showman. Which at times gets in the way of the result, despite him being a very good partner. Yovanna exposed him, on this one, though. Saw right through the bs and told him as much. And thus made him a much better lover...

I mean. Look at him strut... 🙄😏

Tom

Has a micropenis.

Alright, that's it! Are you still alive? Thank you for reading!

Trying my best to have chapter 13 ready by next Friday.

Taglist (thank you 💕): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos

#pleased to meet you #frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #ben miller #benny miller #will miller #william ironhead miller #santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #and tom #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader

[grandmamarieslouisianakitchen]

Culinary Cousins: Louisiana's Culinary Kaleidoscope of Cajun and Creole

Welcome back to our Louisiana kitchen, cher! Let’s delve into a topic close to my heart – the captivating world of Cajun and Creole cuisines. While these two culinary traditions share the same vibrant home, there are nuances that make each one a unique celebration of flavor.

Similarities

Most cousins share some traits and us Cajuns and Creoles? Well, now, we aren’t that different.

Rich Heritage Both Cajun and Creole cuisines are born from the rich cultural tapestry of Louisiana. They intertwine elements from French, Spanish, African, and Native American traditions, creating a delicious mosaic that reflects our diverse history.

Holy Trinity The "Holy Trinity" – a medley of bell peppers, onions, and celery in the heart of both cuisines. This aromatic trio serves as the flavor foundation for many dishes, providing depth and character to Cajun gumbos and Creole étouffées.

Rice Is A Staple Rice is a fundamental component in both Cajun and Creole cooking. Whether it's a bed for gumbo or jambalaya or a side dish, rice ties these culinary traditions together.

Differences

Everyone has their differences, even something as small as ordering a Dr. Pepper instead of a Big Shot. (It happens.)

Geographic Roots One key distinction lies in their geographic roots. Cajun cuisine hails from the rural areas of Louisiana, particularly the Acadiana region, while Creole cuisine originates in the urban centers, primarily New Orleans.

Influences and Ingredients Cajun cuisine often leans towards heartier, rustic fare with influences from the French countryside. Game meats, seafood, and ingredients like andouille sausage are staples. On the other hand, Creole cuisine showcases more refined flavors, often incorporating tomatoes, fine herbs, and a variety of spices.

Cooking Techniques The cooking techniques also set them apart. Due to their rural roots, Cajun dishes are often one-pot wonders simmered to develop robust flavors. In Creole cuisine, you might find more intricate sauces and delicate preparations, showcasing the finesse of French culinary techniques.

Global Influences in Creole Being born in a melting pot like New Orleans, Creole cuisine has been influenced by a broader array of international flavors. Spanish, African, Caribbean, and Italian influences are more pronounced in Creole dishes, offering a diverse and eclectic culinary experience.

In the end, both Cajun and Creole cuisines share a love for bold, flavorful dishes that bring people together. Whether you're simmering a gumbo on the bayou or enjoying a Creole-inspired feast in the heart of New Orleans, you're partaking in the magic of Louisiana's culinary heritage.

Jambalaya: A Culinary Symphony

The iconic Jambalaya is one dish that is beloved by both Cajun and Creole communities. Jambalaya reflects the diverse cultural influences and rich culinary heritage of Louisiana. While there may be variations in the recipes between Cajun and Creole versions, the heart of the dish remains a shared love for bold flavors and hearty, one-pot creations.

Cajun Jambalaya

Ingredients Typically, it includes andouille sausage, chicken, and sometimes game meats like rabbit or alligator. It's seasoned with a robust blend of spices, and the trinity of onions, bell peppers, and celery forms the flavor base.

Cooking Style Cajun jambalaya often features a brown roux for added depth and a rustic, hearty feel. It's a flavorful dish that reflects the down-to-earth, rural roots of Cajun cuisine.

Creole Jambalaya

Ingredients Creole jambalaya may include a mix of proteins like shrimp, ham, and smoked sausage. Tomatoes are a distinguishing feature, giving the dish a slightly reddish hue. The trinity is present, but green bell peppers are more common.

Cooking Style Creole jambalaya tends to have a lighter, tomato-based sauce. The cooking style aligns more with the sophisticated techniques often associated with Creole cuisine.

Despite these variations, the essence of jambalaya as a communal, flavorful dish that brings people together is a shared sentiment in both Cajun and Creole communities.

It truly reflects Louisiana's cultural melting pot, where diverse influences meld into a harmonious culinary symphony. 

Whether enjoyed at a family gathering, a festival, or a casual dinner, jambalaya embodies the spirit of Louisiana's love for good food, good company, and good times.

Cajun Jambalaya Recipe

This Jambalaya is a meal that brings folks together, so gather your loved ones and savor the taste of Louisiana's heart and soul. 

Ingredients

1 lb andouille sausage, sliced

1 lb boneless, skinless chicken thighs cut into bite-sized pieces

1 large onion, finely chopped

1 bell pepper, diced

3 celery stalks, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 can (14 oz) diced tomatoes

1 cup long-grain white rice

2 cups chicken broth

2 teaspoons Cajun seasoning (adjust to taste)

1 teaspoon dried thyme

1 teaspoon dried oregano

Salt and black pepper to taste

Green onions, chopped, for garnish

Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish

Instructions

Prepare Ingredients

Slice the andouille sausage.

Cut chicken thighs into bite-sized pieces.

Chop onion, bell pepper, celery, garlic, green onions, and parsley.

Sear Meats

In a large, heavy pot or Dutch oven, sear the andouille sausage over medium-high heat until browned. Remove and set aside.

In the same pot, add the chicken pieces and brown them on all sides. Remove and set aside.

Sauté Vegetables

In the same pot, add a bit of oil if needed. Sauté the onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic until softened.

Build Flavors

Stir in the diced tomatoes and cook for a few minutes.

Add Cajun seasoning, dried thyme, and dried oregano. Season with salt and black pepper to taste.

Combine Ingredients

Return the seared andouille sausage and chicken to the pot.

Add the rice and stir to coat the rice with the flavorful mixture.

Simmer

Pour in the chicken broth and bring the mixture to a boil.

Reduce heat to low, cover the pot, and let it simmer for 20-25 minutes or until the rice is cooked and has absorbed the liquid. Stir occasionally to prevent sticking.

Serve

Once the rice is tender, remove the pot from heat.

Garnish with chopped green onions and fresh parsley.

Enjoy

Serve hot, and enjoy the flavorful goodness of Cajun Jambalaya!

Nutritional Information

(Per Serving, Assuming 6 Servings)

Remember that the nutritional values are approximate and can vary based on specific ingredients and portion sizes. The values provided are for one serving of Cajun Jambalaya, assuming the recipe makes approximately six servings.

Calories: Approximately 450-500 calories

Total Fat: 20-25g

Saturated Fat: 7-9g

Trans Fat: 0g

Cholesterol: 80-90mg

Sodium: 1200-1400mg

Total Carbohydrates: 35-40g

Dietary Fiber: 2-3g

Sugars: 3-4g

Protein: 20-25g

Note

The nutritional values can vary based on the specific brands and types of andouille sausage, chicken, rice, and other ingredients used.

Adjustments, such as using leaner sausage or brown rice, can impact the nutritional content.

For precise nutritional information, especially if you have specific dietary considerations, it's advisable to use a nutrition calculator with the exact brands and quantities of ingredients you use. 

Until next time, I wish you warmth and flavor!

#grandmamarie #grandmamaries #grandmamarieslouisianakitchen #cajun #creole #cooking #recipe #recipes #culture #history #heritage #jambalaya #jambalaya recipe

[thetwilightroadtonightfall]

8 and/or 13? ✨

8. what’s your favorite cuisine?

Pesto + veggies pasta (specifically cavatappi, fusilli or penne) ahhhh it’s my favourite thing to eat in the whole wide world~

13. do you have a signature in your style/everyday outfits?

hmm well I always like wearing colour! At least one vibrant piece of clothing that catches your eye. I also tend to wear eclectic earrings, and never go out without a scarf in winter

#ask games #starlightwayfinder #thanks for the ask!

[masalacha]

Restaurant Dishes I Loved In 2023

2023 was a year of unexpected twists for me. With some changes in my job status and a rise in living expenses, it has been a time of reflection and self-discovery. Despite these challenges, I have found joy and gratitude in the little things – like the opportunity to explore a handful of fantastic restaurants. I may not have visited as many this year as usual, but each experience at these five…

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#Brenda Benoit #eclectic cuisine in Miami #food #fun places to eat in Miami

[shalini-yadav45]

Unveiling the Marvels of Venice Beach, California

Venice Beach, nestled on the enchanting shores of Los Angeles, California, is a kaleidoscope of experiences waiting to be discovered. With its sun-drenched beaches, vibrant boardwalk, and eclectic culture, Venice Beach beckons travelers from around the globe to immerse themselves in its captivating ambiance.

A Day at the Beach

Venice Beach boasts a stretch of pristine coastline where visitors can indulge in a plethora of beach activities. From lounging in the sun to surfing the waves, the beach offers endless opportunities for relaxation and adventure. Take a dip in the refreshing Pacific Ocean or build sandcastles with the little ones, creating cherished memories that will last a lifetime.

Exploring the Boardwalk

The iconic Venice Beach Boardwalk is a hub of activity, teeming with eclectic sights and sounds. Meander along the bustling promenade, where street performers entertain passersby and vendors offer an array of unique wares. Browse through funky boutiques, art galleries, and souvenir shops, or sample delicious bites from food stalls and cafes lining the boardwalk.

Cultural Gems

Venture beyond the boardwalk to uncover the hidden gems of Venice Beach's cultural scene. Explore the tranquil Venice Canals, a network of picturesque waterways lined with charming homes and lush vegetation. Embark on a leisurely stroll or kayak excursion, immersing yourself in the serene beauty of this historic neighborhood.

Outdoor Adventures

For outdoor enthusiasts, Venice Beach offers an abundance of recreational opportunities. Test your skills at the renowned Venice Skate Park, where skaters of all levels can shred on ramps and rails. Nearby, Muscle Beach provides outdoor gym facilities and iconic weightlifting areas for fitness aficionados to flex their muscles and soak up the sun.

Culinary Delights

After a day of exploration, satisfy your cravings with the diverse culinary offerings of Venice Beach. From fresh seafood to gourmet cuisine, the dining scene caters to every palate. Indulge in a seaside feast at a waterfront restaurant or grab a quick bite from a food truck, savoring the flavors of California's vibrant culinary scene.

Sunset Serenade

As the day draws to a close, witness a breathtaking Venice Beach sunset. Head to the shoreline to watch as the sky transforms into a canvas of vibrant hues, casting a golden glow over the ocean. It's a magical moment to reflect, unwind, and appreciate the beauty of nature's spectacle.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Venice Beach is a captivating destination that offers a wealth of experiences for travelers to enjoy. Whether you're seeking relaxation, adventure, or cultural immersion, Venice Beach promises an unforgettable journey filled with warmth, beauty, and endless possibilities.

#travel

[andrearose502]

Best Pizzas in Lahore: A Culinary Trip

When it comes to satisfying cravings and indulging in comfort food, few dishes can match the universal appeal of pizza. In Lahore, a city known for its rich culinary heritage, the pizza scene has evolved into a delightful fusion of flavors, textures, and traditions. Whether you're a fan of classic Margherita or adventurous enough to try unconventional toppings, Lahore offers a diverse range of options to tantalize your taste buds. Join me as we explore some of the best pizzas the city has to offer.

1. The Pizza Spot: A Hidden Gem

Tucked away in a quaint corner of Lahore, The Pizza Spot has earned a reputation for serving some of the most delectable pizzas in town. What sets them apart is their commitment to using only the freshest ingredients sourced locally. From the crisp, thin crust to the generous toppings, each bite is a symphony of flavors. Whether you opt for their signature chicken tikka pizza or the classic pepperoni, you're in for a gastronomic delight.

2. Pizza Perfecto: Where Tradition Meets Innovation

For those craving a blend of tradition and innovation, Pizza Perfecto is the ultimate destination. With a menu that pays homage to classic Italian recipes while incorporating local twists, this establishment has won the hearts of pizza enthusiasts across Lahore. Their wood-fired pizzas boast a perfectly charred crust and a harmonious medley of toppings. Don't miss out on their crowd-favorite Lahori Murgh Pizza, featuring succulent pieces of chicken marinated in traditional spices.

3. Slice of Italy: Authentic Flavors, Unparalleled Quality

As the name suggests, Slice of Italy transports diners to the heart of Italy with its authentic flavors and rustic ambiance. Nestled in the bustling streets of Lahore, this pizzeria prides itself on its commitment to traditional techniques and premium ingredients. Each pizza is a work of art, crafted with care and attention to detail. Whether you opt for the classic Margherita or the indulgent Quattro Stagioni, expect nothing short of perfection with every slice.

4. Pizza Fusion: Where East Meets West

In a city known for its cultural diversity, Pizza Fusion stands out for its innovative approach to pizza-making. Drawing inspiration from cuisines around the world, this eclectic eatery offers a unique culinary experience like no other. From the fiery flavors of their Spicy Desi Pizza to the exotic charm of their Thai Chicken Pizza, each creation is a testament to the harmony of diverse culinary influences.

5. Dough Delights: A Haven for Pizza Aficionados

For pizza aficionados seeking a truly memorable dining experience, look no further than Dough Delights. This upscale pizzeria elevates the art of pizza-making to new heights with its meticulous attention to detail and commitment to excellence. From handcrafted dough made with imported Italian flour to premium toppings sourced from local farms, every aspect of their pizzas reflects a dedication to quality. Indulge in their truffle mushroom pizza for a truly decadent treat that will leave you craving more.

Conclusion:

In a city as vibrant and diverse as Lahore, the pizza scene offers a glimpse into the rich tapestry of culinary traditions that define its cultural identity. From humble street vendors to upscale pizzerias, each establishment brings its unique flair to the table, ensuring that there's something for every palate. Whether you prefer the simplicity of a classic Margherita or the bold flavors of a fusion creation, one thing is certain – the best pizzas in Lahore are sure to leave you craving more. So, the next time you find yourself in the mood for a slice of heaven, don't hesitate to explore the gastronomic wonders that await you in this bustling metropolis.

#pizza #best pizza #best pizzas in lahore #food

[cquity]

leah & lydia || @totouchthcstars

Leah wandered through the heart of Sydney, the city's vibrant energy pulsating around her. The lively sounds of the urban symphony filled the air—pedestrians chatting, cars humming, and the distant melodies of street musicians. As a breeze carried the scents of various cuisines from nearby eateries, Leah couldn't help but appreciate the diverse tapestry of the city.

She strolled past storefronts adorned with colorful displays, each one telling a unique story of craftsmanship and creativity. Lost in thought, Leah enjoyed the anonymity the bustling city offered. Sydney was a vast canvas, and she, a silent observer, reveled in the ability to blend into the diverse crowd.

Intrigued by the eclectic mix of people and the city's ever-changing scenery, Leah found herself drawn toward a quaint bookstore nestled between modern buildings. The aroma of aged paper and ink wafted through the air as she stepped inside. The bookstore's cozy ambiance welcomed her, and Leah felt an immediate sense of calm amid the shelves of stories waiting to be discovered.

As she browsed the titles, her fingertips traced the spines, pausing at familiar classics and intriguing new releases alike. The soft murmur of fellow book enthusiasts and the occasional creak of the wooden floor created a symphony of literary exploration.

Unbeknownst to Leah, the bookstore held more than just stories within its walls. The day was filled with endless possibilities, and as she continued to explore the shelves, little did she know that her journey through Sydney would soon intertwine with unexpected tales and chance encounters.

#conversations | leah clearwater #featuring | lydia deetz