#west needle mountains

[hcdragonwrites]

Letters (a @journey-to-the-au Drabble)

I made another thing (yeah I couldn’t help myself but this one is shorter I think. I hope you like it!) I just. Brain fire.

Inspired by <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/journey-to-the-au/722003448742248448/may-we-hear-about-the-yaogui-attack-0-apologies" >This Post </a>

(Also I suck at linking things I’m so sorry.)

Liu crossed out the line on the parchment before him, splashing ink onto the stone beneath his feet in an frustrated spray.

“No that doesn’t sound right either!” He gritted his teeth, growing frustrated. General Liu, one of the Four great Generals of Flower- Fruit mountain and friend to its King Sun Wukong, had a dilemma.

He set the brush down, still getting used to holding it in his hands. Wukong makes this look so easy! But things of the unmonkey nature came easily to Wukong- how could they not ? He had mastered the mysterious arts that had given him such power, had defeated the demon who had first claimed Water- Curtain Cave in his absence (and more beside.) Wukong had walked among the men of the world and had claimed treasure from dragons.

Wukong would be able to hold a brush with ease and write words with a steady hand. The general tugged at his fur and looked about himself. Rolls of parchment lay about him like discarded rinds of watermelons. All the failed attempts to transcribe what his heart was trying to speak. He tugged more, hairs coming free.

When Wukong spoke of his experience in the world abroad their mountain, he had mentioned how the important people within that strange world of mortals and immortals would communicate through scrolls and parchment.

“It was too quiet at times for my liking!” He reminisced once, splashing some wine as he gesticulated upon his throne. “What silence! What needed to be written that couldn’t be communicated with a clear voice?” He would then call for one of the troop of his subjects to retell a story, for Wukong loved the telling of a yarn through voice and act.

Liu had understood why one would want words written down however. The things he wanted to say- to tell- either fled him like mist before the sun or stuck in his throat like a peach stone. The Marshal scratched behind his ear, brushing the notched edge and remembering. Remembering her.

Rin Rin.

Liu had never been one for such deep hesitation as he was now. In all the Aolai country, among and betwixt the unicorns and the phoenixes who preened and called themselves the most beautiful, where the leopards and the tigers roamed and boasted their own majesty, Liu had faced all that threatened his home with bravery. He loved this mountain, from every blade of grass to every luminous stone deep in Water-Curtain Cave. He thought none of the beasts or birds or celestial bodies in Heaven was more beautiful than his home.

Except Her.

He wanted to tell her. Tell Rin Rin how she rivaled all the clouds in heaven for her softness. How no flower could compare to her eyes and how they shined like the sea when the sun hit it. Her smile could make the trees cry and her anger could chase the stripes off a tiger.

Liu was afraid. Not afraid of her. Afraid to miss this opportunity! His tail lashed and sent a bit of paper skittering over the stone floor, knocking into several stone bowls of almonds.

The mountain was a paradise. The waterfall that crashed beyond, the pine forests that dotted the slopes where their needles spiced the air. He had faced tigers and demons, fought and thrown himself into situation after situation of danger without a second thought for himself.

Now he was hesitant. He acted as he had on that day Wukong had found Water- Curtain cave: hesitant. Marshal Liu had not been hesitant since that time- so why had he returned to this state ?

Liu looked down at the paper and groaned.

“I just want to tell her how beautiful she is…”

Steps approached from outside Liu’s room.

“So this is where you’ve been!” Wukong called, stepping into the room with a frown on his face. “I have been waiting for you in the Throne room for hours! Sentries have spotted what look to be the makings of a camp. We have a troop of creatures lurking in the shadow of our mountain and I need my Generals— what is all this stuff ?”

Liu didn’t bother to cover up his failings- he just lay his head on the stone table and glared at the brush.

“You only called for a meeting a few minutes ago, my king.” He replied from the table.

“Minutes- hours. It has been too long! What have you been up to in here?”Wukong picked up a paper scroll, the feathered crown on his head bobbing.

“You are as pretty as a … hmm. You never finished this one Liu!”

Liu moved his face to flatten into the stone table, feeling his cheeks burn and his ears itch. Of course my king would start reading them.

Shuffling paper noises sounded again as Wukong picked another scroll up.

“My heart becomes a candle when you are near—“ he frowned. “You crossed out the rest in a mess of black.”

Liu wished he could dissolve into the stone.

“You smell as sweet as a magnolia flower- your eyes are the shape of stars —“

“Please My King.” He begged. “Spare me.”

“You wrote them Liu! I am only reading.”

“And I ask for mercy, please.”

“Seems you’ve had trouble finishing whatever you were trying to say.” Mused the Sage.

“None of the words formed well enough on the paper.” Marshal Liu sighed. There came a shuffle and a brush beside him. He lifted his head to see Wukong had crossed his legs beside him, a shoulder companionably against Lius. The Monkey King twirled the brush between his fingers, unrolling a new scroll of parchment.

“If I help you Write your love poem to Rin, Will you stop mooning so sadly ?” Wukong cocked a brow at his general, side eyeing him in a way only a friend could.

Marshal Liu felt his pride pricked, just a bit. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liu- you have been my friend for countless years. Longer than most monkeys usually live.” Wukong dipped the brush into the inkwell, checking the ink stone and grimacing at its diminished size. “I know you from the tips of your ears to the ends of your fur. We have fought and bled side by side. You may be a master at strategy and planning but. My friend.”

Wukong turned his whole face to stare at Liu. “You suck at hiding how in love you are with Rin Rin.”

The Marshal sat up, opened his mouth to defend, to deflect —

Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, waited. His face set in a neutral and very are you really going to argue with me? expression.

Liu closed his mouth, tugged at his fur and set his chin on the stone table. “She makes me feel so—-“

“Mhm.”

“She’s so—!”

“Mhm…”

“I just can’t get the words out!” The Marshal admitted finally. “Each time I start to tell her, I freeze. I’ve tried so many times!”

When Rin and He had shared a sweet patch of strawberries he had tried to say how he loved her.

When Rin had been tending to a scratch on his face, chiding and reprimanding him for his recklessness again. Her anger had made him want to hold her and reassure her that he was fine.

When they had decided to stay out late, tails curled together as they counted the stars. Liu had wanted to compare her to each one.

And each of these times his words had either fled him or had refused to come out.

“And you thought to write them out because they keep getting stuck.”

Liu nodded.

“Give me the words and I’ll write them down.” Wukong set the tip, ready. “If I write this for you, then will come and put your mind back to keeping our mountain safe?”

Guilt itched beneath his fur. “My King i'm sorry—“

A affectionate rub of Wukongs head against his own shut the general up as the king tugged at his ear in play.

“Liu. I may not understand the power of what you are feeling,” Wukong cut off, tail thumping against the Marshals “but that doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t important. And … seeing you so distressed makes me distressed. I can help my friend in this simple task at least.”

Liu felt a warmth well from him. For all his Kings boasting and prideful proclamations, Wukong cared for each of his subjects - even in the face of his incomprehension. He would do what he could to ease his friends, his subjects, his families struggles. Wukong began to write as Liu began to speak, his face warm and his hands slowly beginning uncurl from his fur.

After just an hour with Wukongs transcribing and Liu describing, the confession was complete. Liu clutched the scroll and strapped it to his side.

He had been able to attend the Council with a lighter heart and a smile on his face. The discussion and the plans to increase patrols along the pine forest to the west of Flower Fruit Mountain had been unanimously agreed upon as the troubling information came to light.

The scouts' reports had indicated that there had been activity - a half made campfire kicked over and cold with bones from what looked like a small deer- not a few leaps and bounds from the slopes. Liu had frowned at the description of the tracks- five footed, fur and the scent of musk in the air. Another band of Monkeys … but they seem to be scouting us as well.

When Liu had this brought to attention, an immediate patrol had been sent out to gain more information on how many may be circling their home. The unspoken kept being danced around but all in that council chamber had a suspicion. Demon Monkeys….

Until they knew further who and what they were facing, Wukong wouldn’t risk a war troop to prowl the nearby hills and leave the rest of his family and people exposed.

Liu had a bit of time beneath the growing moon of night to find Rin Rin now. Before his nerves left him. Wukongs handwriting had made the words look better, flow better, feel better to the Marshals eyes. His King had sat through his flowery language, and had written it all diligently if with a little bit of snorting at times. (“Don’t compare her to pine nuts!” “But she smells of the pines and the wood and everything I love!” “…. But pine nuts ?”)

If his words failed him, Liu had them written down. If they stuck in his throat, he could pull them apart with the help of his letter. His heart was thumping, his fur was sticking out a bit as electric nerves rolled on his skin. Liu was in full armor having come from council, and it jangled softly in the night air. But it was a comforting jangle- a separate staccato rhythm against his body.

As the moon rose outside of Water-Curtain Cave casting the spray in silver light, Liu gazed out. Some other monkeys mingled in the cooling air enjoying the clear night. Tending to loved ones by either grooming fur, sharing ripening fruits from the many orchards across the vast mountain, or cuddling down in the soft grasses to gaze upward. Liu greeted each in turn, butting heads or brushing hands. Pride welled in him, making Liu stand taller. This was his home- his family. The peace they lived in was hard won and protected by their King and his Marshals- and that peace was precious.

A small bundle of babes shot past, one carrying a lychee fruit as a prize to be kept from the others. A pair of older simians gazed into the waters of the pool, leaning into each other. Liu would fight a thousand demons, all the celestial beings in the world, to keep this peace. He would tame dragons and pull the moon down from its boughs in Heaven to preserve this peace.

Liu turned, green eyes seeking. There, just beneath the pomegranate tree overlooking a mossy spray of water, he spotted the cloud gray of Rin Rin. Even in the shadow of the tree he could see her moon flower perched behind her ear, the fur perfectly groomed in wonderous swirls. He wished he had a bouquet of moonflowers to bring her or a cup of tea to present to her. He wanted to come bearing gifts and to tend and tidy her hair and weave flowers throughout it.

He came bearing his heart instead.

Said heart thumped against his chest. Steady Liu.

Liu took a moment to groom his finger through his fur, his tail, and to dust at his armor. He grabbed at a small patch of pine needles, snapping them between fingers and briefly rubbing the tips over his fur. He wanted to look his best to smell his best to be his best.

Then, gathering himself and tapping the scroll's top at his hip, Liu straightened and stepped forward.

He would tell her how much she meant to him. He would show her how much she was worth to him- between the words he had been able to wrangle and place onto a page.

Liu would never get the chance to unwind that scroll however. The night air that had been full of gentle chatter and warm conversation was broken by screams as the mountain's peace was shattered into a thousand screams of fury and fear rang off the mountain.

#hcwrites #writing stuff #I Hope you like it ! #this was a bit more difficult because I kept looking at RinRin and Liu art of him giving her his cape flower #like. it kept melting my heart #very dialogue heavy #Marshal Liu is a boy with heart eyes for only one girl #rin rin #jttw au #jttw monkey king #for journey to the au #this one may not be my best only because I wanted to write more but I didn’t want to imped on what was already created #I Like filling in the blanks inbetween because it’s fun to make connections #drabble stuff #I may have made Liu a bit too obsessed with pine needles #had to pull down my big old Journey to the West book to see how many fruits and details they list for Flower fruit mountain #THEY HAVE A LOT OF FRUIT WTF I DONT REMEMBER IT FROM THE FIRST TIME READING #but again that was years ago #I’m reading a shorter version and then will be diving into that four book translation #this was fun to write because I was able to take from the book itself to give dimension to the mountain #I love adding dimension and culture to writing it jsut makes me want to go there and see and touch and feel and smell everything #if you need me to edit anything I can do it though! like if I didn’t get yer boy right I don’t mind fixing it ! #hcfanfics

[thorsenmark]

Smith Mountain and Distant Views of the Northwest Mojave Ranges (Death Valley National Park) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While walking the Dantes View Trail with a view looking to the south in Death Valley National Park. My thought on composing this image was to use the ridge I was on as a leading line into the image and then down the mountainside to the basin and valley below. While I did want to angle my Nikon SLR camera slightly downward to bring out more of a sweeping view, I was also limited by how much because of the sun's position in the sky and minimizing any artifacts across the camera lens.

#Amargosa Range #At Dantes View #Azimuth 186 #Blue Skies #Brown Mountain #Creosote Bush #Dantes View #Day 4 #Death Valley National Park #Desert Landscape #Desert Mountain Landscape #Desert Plant Life #DxO PhotoLab 6 Edited #Great Basin Ranges #Intermountain West #Joshua Tree National Park and California #Landscape #Landscape - Scenery #Looking South #Mojave Desert #Mojave Desert Ranges #Mountain Peak #Mountains #Mountains in Distance #Mountains off in Distance #Mountainside #Nature #Needle Peak #Nikon D850 #No People

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt 2)

((Part 1 Here))

Magic won’t fix anything.

Cinderella holds onto words. Commands. Be patient. Be kind. One big loving family. Magic won’t fix anything. Her loved ones’ words ring in her head the entirety of the following month, soaring above and diving beneath each other.

Sometimes the boy’s voice says, Be patient.

Sometimes her father says, Be kind.

Sometimes her mother says, Magic won’t fix anything.

Cinderella’s rations are in order. A week’s worth of dried foods to sustain her journey into town. It’ll take her a week on foot, three days by carriage but she doesn’t have access to a carriage. Her stepmother will be taking it. Her mind whispers, the Capitol is a week by carriage. You could—

She lets her mantras drown the thought. Cinderella is too old for fairytales.

The mice watch her from the windowsills the day of the full moon. She is mending Anastasia’s stockings by the fireside. It is the last time she’ll do so and she attempts to summon some fondness for the chore. It’s her sister who trusts her with this task, she has spent so many evenings warm and cozy with a needle and thread, she has gained some skill in mending from so many years practicing—

No fondness wells. Instead Cinderella’s eyes burn from the length of time between blinks and her heart beats so slowly that she feels like time is moving backwards. The fire crackles and Cinderella breaks the thread with her teeth, finishing the mend as sloppily as she can. With any luck, it’ll rub and give Anastasia a blister while she dances with the Prince.

She’s horrid. Did her mother see this side of her when she made her daughter promise to be kind? Cinderella starts on the heel of the next stocking.

“Cinderella.”

Stepmother is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, one elegant hand presses to the rough stone, the other behind her back. Drizella peeks out from beneath her arm, hair piled up on top of her head. Anastasia hovers behind, swishing her emerald skirts from side to side.

“Yes, Stepmother?” Cinderella asks. Her voice startles her. Low and rounded and empty. She is deep inside her own head as Stepmother steps into the sunlight streaming through the small window above the preparation table. “Is there something you need assistance with?

“I have been thinking,” Stepmother says. Her chin lifts and her eyes glint when she eyes the basket of stockings. “You have…shown efforts in this household. I know the girls and I have not been as attentive as of late. Our focus has been entirely on the ball. Yet, I would not have you thinking your…help has gone unnoticed.”

“It was my idea,” Drizella blurts. She darts under her mother’s arms and pelts forward, nearly falling when she stops just short of Cinderella’s seat. She grins down at her. “This is my idea!”

“Our idea,” Anastasia says with a sniff. She steps around her mother with tiny, practiced steps. She’s using a strange accent, half Capital and half west mountains. She’s been attempting to blend into the upper nobility. “We thought of it together.”

“Yes, my girls are so kind,” Stepmother says. She reveals what she’s holding behind her back and Cinderella’s breath stills in her lungs. It’s fabric, beautiful, shimmering silver fabric. A hint of a lace sleeve peeks out from the bundle. “Here.”

Cinderella stands. This can’t be what she thinks it is. She doesn’t reach for the bundle even when Stepmother takes a step forward, hand outstretched. She swallows. “Is that a dress?”

“We had some money leftover at the seamstress,” Drizella says, leaning into Cinderella’s side. She tilts her head to rest on the taller girl’s shoulder. “Isn’t the color beautiful?”

“I didn’t want lace on my dress,” Anastasia says. She sits in Cinderella’s abandoned chair, smoothing her skirts like a court lady might. “So the seamstress said she could add it to yours. You’re welcome.”

Cinderella is staring at the dress. This can’t be real. Something in her chest trembles. Were they thinking of her at the seamstress’ studio? Her? “Why?”

“So you can attend the ball of course,” Stepmother says. She takes another step forward. “I am not so ungenerous as to ban you from going. Did you think I would?”

Yes. Cinderella’s hand trembles when she reaches for the dress. Her fingertips graze the smooth fabric. “It’s beautiful.”

“As beautiful as you are,” Stepmother says. Stepmother’s voice trembles. She blinks quickly as if holding back tears. “I have never told you so. It is not good for a girl of your…station to nurture ideas. However, I have come to regret my restraint.”

Don’t! Cinderella ignores the warning. Her heart is aching so fiercely that she can scarcely breathe. She takes the dress from Stepmother as gently as she would hold one of the mice. “You want me to come with you?”

“We’re all noble daughters,” Anastasia says primly. Her eyes are on Cinderella’s folded dress. “Wearing that, you might look the part.”

“Indeed. We leave in an hour,” Stepmother says. She holds out her hands to her daughters. “Come, girls. Let’s not get in Cinderella’s way. She must pack quickly.”

Cinderella feels light headed. She strokes the fabric and marvels at how cool and light it feels against her fingers. She doesn’t have anything else to wear to the Capital, not a stitch, but she has a dress. A dress her family gave her.

Don’t.

“But I want to see her open it,” Drizella whines. She walks backwards towards her mother. “Go on, Cinderella. Take a look. You’ll love the silhouette.”

Cinderella hardly notices Anastasia tiptoe around her. They bought her a dress. She doesn’t care what it looks like. It could be decades out of fashion. It could be completely bare. She doesn’t care. They bought her a dress and Stepmother acknowledged her hard work and—

Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t—

Cinderella unfurls the dress. Something so light she didn’t notice it in the folds of the fabric drops to the ground and rolls.

Coal.

The dress is streaked with black soot, the front wrecked by the stains. There is no lace on the dress except for the one sleeve. The hemline is unfinished and cut at an angle that can’t be salvaged. The silver fabric is ruined everywhere except for the back panel of a skirt which Stepmother had used to conceal the mess.

“Oh, dear,” Stepmother says as Cinderella stares at the wreck. The trembling in Stepmother’s voice isn’t regret. It’s glee. “My, Cinderella, your dress is a mess. You won’t be able to go to the ball after all, will you?”

“In that?” Anastasia asks. She presses a hand to her chest, once again safely behind her mother. “No, no, no, you could never go in that.”

“Maybe you can clean it,” Drizella says. She’s bouncing on her toes. “You’re good at cleaning, right, Cinderella?”

“Alas,” Stepmother says, shaking her head. She ushers the girls ahead of her. “We leave in just an hour.” She clicks her tongue. “Do hurry, won’t you, Cinderella? Of course, if you can’t save the dress, what’s the point? Perhaps you should stay here after all…entirely up to you, dear.”

Anastasia’s snorts and Drizella’s shrieks of laughter echo behind them. They’re off to pack, thrilled by their prank. Stepmother stays in the doorway. Cinderella can feel her looking. Cinderella can’t tear her gaze away from the dress. After a long moment, Stepmother speaks.

“It is not in my nature to be cruel,” Stepmother says. Her heel taps against the stone. “I see we have hurt you. Perhaps you think us unkind for this little mischief, hm?”

Cinderella’s head is bowed. She can’t bring herself to speak.

“Trust me,” Stepmtoher says, “that it is not even a tenth as cruel as it would be to have you come with us. You are beautiful, Cinderella. Does it please you to hear me admit it? I can concede that much at least in light of what you must be feeling. But my daughters have worked hard for this day. They do not deserve the cruelty of having you who have worked for nothing overshadowing their efforts just because you were born beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Cinderella tastes the word like poison on her tongue. “I—I am not—“

“Save me your false humility,” Stepmother says coldly. Her tapping heel stills. “You think yourself clever, but you are just a girl. I see how you lord yourself over my daughters. I have spent years attempting to curtail your excessive pride to no avail. In the end, you’ll see today as a favor to all parties involved. My daughters deserve this opportunity to rise above their station. You? You will have the opportunity see where you really belong.”

There is something interesting happening in Cinderella’s chest. Whereas before her heart beat so slowly it felt as if time flowed backwards, it’s the opposite now. Her heart is beating so fast and so loud that a river rushes through Cinderella at the speed of light.

“Beauty,” Cinderella says. She finally pulls her gaze from the ruined dress to meet Stepmother’s eyes. Stepmother’s mouth thins in displeasure, but Cinderella doesn’t care. “All these years over— over your perception? Your idea of what I am? Who I am?”

“Do not condescend to me,” Stepmother says.

It is not a denial.

Cinderella is a child again, perched on top of her father’s shoulders. The light is golden in her mother’s hair and she reaches for a strand that’s fallen free of her pins—

She is crouched in the garden, watching ants pull at a grounded butterfly’s wings. Sickened, she steps on them, pounds at them with her heels. Her name rings through the air as her mother hurries towards her—

Her father’s back is fading into the light as he leaves her mother in her window. Her mother’s shoulders shake and Cinderella is behind them both, clutching a doll—

She is holding her mother’s hand and it’s so cold. Her eyes are as pale and lifeless as the butterfly’s wings. Cinderella calls for her mother and the silence swallows her whole—

Cinderella is crying in the snow. She is dying or dead. Her legs are frozen, as cold as her mother’s hand, and she can’t tell if she’s even walking still. A bell rings through the trees and, half-mad, she follows it—

She lies in the warm grass of the meadow as the boy talks about stars and constellations and something beautiful unfurls in Cinderella’s chest for the first time in years—

She hopes. There is hope so bitter that it puckers her soul a little more with every letter she writes. She stands at the window and waits for her father or a letter or a sign—

You deserve more, the boy says. You’re strong, Cinderella. You have endured the freezing cold long enough. It is time to find somewhere warm—

When Cinderella is able to rip herself from the memories, Stepmother is gone. The dress is crumpled on the ground and Cinderella’s heart is loud in her ears.

“I,” Cinderella says to the empty room, “am more than beauty.”

Something in her chest cracks. A bone, maybe. A heart.

A dam.

Cinderella, not waiting for night, bursts out of the kitchen door. She lifts her skirts so that she can lengthen her strides and runs. The woods swallow her without preamble, the canopy glowing green in the afternoon light.

Be kind.

She leaps over fallen trees and dodges low branches, not caring as sticks fling up under her heels and leaves whip at her face. Her heart pounds.

Be patient.

How could she have been so blind? They were never going to love her. Stepmother saw only what she wanted to see, a part of Cinderella that is not who she is, something that’s never mattered.

One big loving family.

She poured love like blood into their mouths. She did what her parents taught her and loved with hands so open that her fingers bent backwards. For what? To be boiled down to nothing? To be pretty?

Magic won’t fix anything.

Cinderella, chest heaving, leaps into the clearing. She can feel her hair tangled behind her. Her hands are stained with soot and they leave black fingerprints on her skirts. A cut on her leg oozes. The wind whips at her in alarm. Cinderella doesn’t care.

She approaches the tree. The boy is waiting, still for once. How did he know she’d be there so soon? Why is his presence watching her like that? The rainbows of magic shiver like grass, bending away from her when she stalks through them.

“You promised me magic,” Cinderella says. Somehow she is not out of breath. She presses a hand to the oak tree’s warm bark. Her eyes spark. “Didn’t you?”

“I did,” the boy says.

“Then show me magic,” Cinderella says. “Whatever you want. Whenever you want. Just—keep your promise. Take me away from here.”

“Your wish,” the boy says, “is my command.”

The bark shifts under her fingers and Cinderella falls forward into the tree. She doesn’t have time to scream. Would she even want to? She drops into darkness so warm that her shoulders loosen as she plummets.

Out in the meadow, a single butterfly drifts across the top of the wildflowers.

——-

Thanks for reading! This is turning into a whole novella, but I’m having a blast writing it!

Part three will be posted next Friday (sorry this one was a day late! I’m traveling) and is already up on my Patreon for those who’d like to support me there :)

See you next week!

Patreon (X)

#my writing #short story #cinderella #Cinderella fan fiction

[pompomqt]

Journey to the West Chapter 14

Oh man I've really been looking forward to this chapter, one of my favorite dynamic duo's is together at last! So let's get into this chapter of Journey to the West with @journeythroughjourneytothewest shall we?

So it turns out that the person who was calling out to them last time was none other than Sun Wukong, who is still trapped under five phases mountain. So Tripitaka and the hunter go down the mountain to take a look and have a little chat. We finally get to see Sun Wukong again, as he tells Tripitaka that if he gets him out he will protect him on his journey west. And poor Sun Wukong has been there for so long he has all sorts of plant life growing all over him which the Hunter helps him get some of it off, which was nice of him.

Anyways so Sun Wukong explains to Tripitaka that Guanyin converted him to Buddhism in order to aid the scripture pilgrim, and all Tripitaka has to do to free him is lift the tag that Bhudda placed and that he'll handle the rest. So Tripitaka goes up the mountain again until they reach the seal, and he prays to Bhudda that if Sun Wukong is only deceiving him, to not allow him to lift the seal. However Tripitaka lifts the seal no problem, and the tag is immediately blown out of his hands as a voice claiming to be the prison guard of the great sage says they are returning the seal to the Bhudda. So after that Sun Wukong is all like "Please stand back now. Little further... don't know what this thing will do~" And then proceeds to break the mountain and zip over to Tripitaka's location.

So Monkey loads up Tripitaka's luggage and we learn that since he was the BanHorsePlague in Heaven, he has authority over horses, and that they are now terrified of him. So that's fun. So like Guanyin Tripitaka tries to give Sun Wukong a religious name, but he already has one, so Tripitaka gives him a nickname instead. So now Sun Wukong has the nickname 'Pilgrim Sun'.

So seeing that Tripitaka is now in good hands, the hunter takes his leave of them, and with the hunter gone, we get to learn that horses aren't the only animals terrified of Sun Wukong. For a tiger soon approaches, which of course terrifies Tripitaka but delights Sun Wukong, who gleefully says that the tiger is just here to provide him some clothes. So while the tiger is to paralyized with fear from Sun Wukong to move, Sun Wukong wacks it with his staff, and proceeds to skin it. Man, tigers have it just as rough as dragons in this book... This both terrifies and impresses Tripitaka, and he proceeds to fall off his horse for the first- but certainly not the last time.

Once Sun Wukong is finished fashioning a temporary outfit out of the tiger skin the two carry on with their journey, having some casual conversation along the way. Where Sun Wukong explains how awesome both he and his staff are. Aww it's nice to see these two getting along so well. So they find a find a house to rest at, and Sun Wukong proceeds to bang on the door, and completely freaks out the owner of the house with his frightening appearance, but calms down once Tripitaka and his beautiful face explains that monkey is his disciple. They should probably have Tripitaka be the one to knock on doors from now on...

Anyways so the old man eventually agrees to let them stay with him, and we learn that Sun Wukong actually knows this family, apparently they gathered firewood around where he was imprisoned sometimes. And it turns out the Tripitaka also has a connection to this family, since they share the same surname "Chen". After that lovely conversation Sun Wukong requests a bath for both him and Tripitaka and also some needle and thread so he can finish making his tiger pants. He also steals Tripitaka's shirt while he's at it, which Tripitaka let's him keep.

The next morning the duo head out again after one last meal. So the two continue to travel together for a while, and seem to be getting along just fine. But all of that comes to an end when they are attacked by six bandits. Tripitaka is once again paralyzed by fear and falls off his horse again, but Monkey isn't fazed, he picks Tripitaka off the ground and tells him not to worry, that these fine gentlemen are just here to give them some clothes and travel allowance. And Tripitaka is just like "Uh, I think you misheard them, they are robbing us!" But Monkey's all like "Just watch our stuff, I'll handle this." Despite Monkey's reassurances though, Tripitaka is still worried about him, he's just a little guy after all. But he will soon find out that he was concerned for the wrong person.

So Monkey confronts the bandits who claim to be the 'King's of the Highway', but Monkey who is an actual King, is unimpressed. Regardless he still tries to make a deal with them, if they share their loot with him they'll let him live. This enrages the bandits, so they all attack at once... to absolutely zero effect. After letting the bandits have their fun wailing on him for a while, it's Monkey turn. So he takes out his staff and proceeds to beat all the bandits to death, before stripping them of their clothes and valuables and returning to Tripitaka.

However despite Monkey's expectations Tripitaka isn't pleased that Monkey murdered them all. And the two proceed to have a huge argument, with Tripitaka saying all life is valuable, and that even the city wouldn't have sentenced them to death if they had been tried. And that if Monkey had killed them where there were witnesses then Tripitaka would get in trouble to. While Monkey says that if he hadn't killed them they would have killed Tripitaka, and that he had killed a whole bunch of people back when he was the king of Flower Fruit Mountain anyways. Which Tripitaka points out that his lack of self control is why he was punished under a mountain for five hundred years in the first place.

After Tripitaka says that if he still insists on practicing violence that he can't be a Buddhist or travel west, Monkey quits the journey right there and then and zooms off. Since he has no way of contacting Monkey or bringing him back, Tripitaka resigns to continue the journey alone, but just as he starts walking again he comes across an old lady holding a silk garment and a floral cap.

So Tripitaka explains his situation and how Sun Wukong ran off, so the old lady gives him the shirt and cap, and teaches him the 'Tight-Fillet Spell' and tells him to give Sun Wukong the cap and shirt when he returns and recite the spell if he refuses to obey him. And with that the old lady reveals herself to have been Guanyin, and heads off East to try and catch up to Monkey.

Speaking of Monkey, having left Tripitaka he decided to drop by an old friends place before returning home and is currently having tea with the Dragon King. And Monkey is complaining to him about how Tripitaka scolded him, but after telling a short story the Dragon King persuades him to give the mission another chance. So Monkey takes off again, heading back to Tripitaka where he crosses paths with Guanyin, and tells her he is going back to Tripitaka.

So Monkey finds Tripitaka sitting dejectedly on the side of the road. So Monkey explains that he went to have tea with the Dragon King, which Tripitaka finds a little hard to believe that he managed to travel so far and back in less than an hour. Monkey however explains about his cloud somersault, and offers to get Tripitaka some food. Which Tripitaka declines saying he still has some food left. So Monkey goes to get some food from the bag when he finds the silk shirt and floral cap that Guanyin had given him. Tripitaka lies and says he wore them in his childhood and that they will allow him to recite scriptures wihtout having to learn them and perform rituals without having to practice them. Sun Wukong asks to put them on, and Tripitaka says if they fit he can keep them. Once Monkey puts on the garments, Tripitaka decides to give this 'Fillet Tightening spell' a shot, and begins to recite it.

Monkey begins rolling on the ground in agony as Tripitaka recites the spell several times, eventually Tripitaka stops once Monkey starts gripping the cap since he is afraid he'll break it. And Monkey finds that a thing metal band has welded itself to his head, and that he can't get it off no matter what he tries. When Monkey takes out his staff to try and pry it off, Tripitaka starts reciting the spell again. Eventually Tripitaka feels sorry for him and stops the spell. Monkey then accuses Tripitaka of putting a spell on him, which Tripitaka denies saying he was just reciting the 'Tight-Fillet Sutra". So Monkey demands he recite it again to see what happens, and immediately regrets it when his head starts hurting again.

So Tripitaka asks if Monkey will listen to him now, and stop acting unruly, and Monkey says he will. However as soon as Tripitaka has his back turned Monkey takes out his staff and tries to murder Tripitaka with it. Causing Tripitaka to once again begin reciting the spell until Monkey cries uncle and says he's learned his lesson. So Monkey asks who taught him that spell, and when Tripitaka explains about the old woman, Monkey immediately draws the conclusion that it was Guanyin. Monkey wants to find Guanyin and confront her, but Tripitaka points out that she also knows the Tight Fillet Spell since she was the one who taught it to him so that confrontation is unlikely to go well for him.

So with all that settled, Monkey says he'll follow Tripitaka west, as long as Tripitaka doesn't treat that spell as a plaything to torment him with. So with that settled the two once again head out on their Journey West.

Current Sun Wukong Stats: Names/Titles: Monkey, The Stone Monkey, The Handsome Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Monkey awakened to the void), Bimawen (Banhorseplague), The Great Sage Equal To Heaven and Pilgrim Sun. Immortality: 5 Weapon: The Compliant Golden Hooped Rod Abilities: 72 Transformations, Cloud-Somersault, Ability to transform his individual hairs, super strength, Ability to Summon Wind, Water restriction charm, and the ability to change into a huge war form, ability to duplicate his staff, ability to immobilize others, the ability to put others to sleep, and the Fiery eyes, Diamond Pupils and intimidating horses. Demon Kill Count: 1+ Unknown Number of Minions Human Kill Count: 6 God's Defeated: 19 + Unknown number Defeats: 2 Crime List: Robbery, Murder, Mass Murder, Arson, Theft, Coercion, Threatening a Government Official, Resisting Arrest, Assault, Forgery, Employee Theft, False Imprisonment, Impersonating a Government Official, Treason and attempted murder. Cry Count: 3 Mountains Trapped Under: 1

Current Tang Sanzang stats: Names/Titles: River Float, Xuanzang, Tang Sanzang, Tripitaka Abilities: Curing Blindness, making branches point a certain direction (allegedly), reciting sutras. Cry Count: 10 Tight Fillet Spell Uses: 4 Paralyzed by fear: 4 Bandit Problems: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 1 Falling Off Horses: 2

#journey to the west #jttw read through #jttw #journeythroughjourneytothewest #sun wukong #tang sanzang

[lunchmeater]

AUGUST HONEY: CHAPTER ONE : STRANGERS - PREVIEW

Ghost x Reader -- Firefighter/Civilian AU -- Word Count 1.8k

Description: A dead-end artist, bookstore owner, and front woman in a band, from the outside everything looks like it’s coming together for you. But within, your life feels like it’s repeating the same day over and over again. You’re sleeping with your bass guitarist, you live in the apartment above your bookstore, and your art all looks the same. You miss the danger of youth, the thrill of freedom. You miss change.

And right when that feeling hits, right when you’re grasping for straws, a couple of the new local firefighters decide to go out for drinks.

TWs for Entire Fic: Depictions of unhealthy relationships (not with Ghost), mentions and depictions of alcoholism, smut

TWs for Chapter: Very small reference to alcoholism

AN: I'm very new to Tumblr y'all please excuse the horrendous formatting

Seven in the afternoon. Time to close up. With a satisfying click of the shop's front door locking, you rubbed the back of your neck, turning your head slightly to the side to see the scenery outside.

You've owned this shop for so long that the view from the window was more familiar than the layout of the lines of your palm. Your attention traced the road first, noting the way the concrete was still wet from the early morning rain. The sidewalks were a shade darker for the same reason and covered in the muddy footprints of passersby. Windows from other shops and buildings stood tall, some of the buildings they belonged to were twice as tall as your own. Then your eyes traveled along the rolling mountains in the background behind the buildings and the still-lit houses lolling up and down its curves. This was a small city.

The sun was beginning its journey behind the distant mountains. It's beams were reaching hands across that of the thresh hold of your little bookstore, stroking the hardwood floors and illuminating them golden. Following the line of the sunlight, your eyes landed on your dog, a Rhodesian Ridge-Back named Sylvie. Despite being a big-game hunting breed, she was beyond lazy and sleeping soundly in the light of the sun.

God. You wished it was normal for humans to do that too.

It was warm in here, beginning to get quite cold out there. Your head turned back to the window and saw the clouds that were rolling in from the West. Likely more rain. Maybe there would be a nice thunderstorm tonight, or maybe even some snow.

The entire day you were waiting for this. Just being alone in the place. The place creaked with age, the floorboards despite having been replaced since the buying of the home whining as you stepped on them. You reached your record player sitting in the corner of the room on its own personal table, surrounded by shelves you built yourself. They held numerous vinyl records that you collected yourself over the course of the years, ever since you were thirteen.

The sleeves, despite their various colors, were painted with a gold glaze in the light of the evening sun. Your finger traced each individual spine, feeling the grooves in between the sleeves of the records, before you finally landed on one titled Pink Magic.

You grabbed it, slipping it out from in between Citrona and Subliming. The cover held a gradient that eased from pastel pink on the right to pastel blue on the left. In the center stood a man holding a disco ball covered in paint in front of his face. It was an album you bought on a whim and hadn't heard in a while, so you put it on. Easing the needle down onto the grooves of the record disc where you knew the specific song was nearly by muscle memory. You read the lines on the record like a language few understood.

The song started, fading into earshot before a guitar part layered over the tones. Then a drum beat and bass guitar came in afterwards, then finally the lyrics.

"Picture this, a swing and a miss."

You interlocked your fingers together and stretched upwards, slightly arching your back in the motion and leaning back before letting out a long sigh and turning to check all of the tables in the entrance area. The welcome mat was muddy and could use washing, the tables had coasters, drops of various drinks, and crumbs scattering their surfaces. A quick turn and a glance into the reading areas on the other side of the shop, connected by a large arch doorway, showed the large area was in only a small amount of disarray. Books, the order of which you had memorized, were out of place, some abandoned on the tables near the windows. The rug was wrinkled, and there was some mud tracked on the floors, but nothing major.

"Never exchanging a name."

When you turned around, you noticed your head was starting to hurt from the stress of the day. Saturdays were always crowded with not only the typical adult customers but also lovesick rowdy teenagers looking for a cup of coffee and loud conversation with one another in the large table by the window.

You opened your eyes after rubbing your temple with your fingers and jumped near six inches off of the ground when a figure was seen standing close to the window.

He laughed immediately, his hand in the pockets of his black slacks and a tux jacket slung over his shoulder. The hand removed itself from the place in your old friend's pocket to wave and you relaxed, slightly annoyed by his sudden appearance. A white dress shirt covered his torso loosely, unbuttoned far in the front showing the floral tattoo covering his collarbone. From a mixture of White and Hispanic heritage, as you knew, he had tan skin with dark, long hair that swung around in curls and waves. He had dark brown eyes with thick brows and an unshaven five o'clock shadow. Upon his face was a smile. His name was Bailey.

"Infatuated, I contemplated your lips."

You walked over to the front door and opened it, to which you discovered him standing in front of you. Your friend from high school, your ex boyfriend, and your bassist. Couldn't say you weren't expecting him, you just weren't thinking right. You wouldn't have locked the door behind him if you were.

"But my infatuation was strange."

He smiled a little wider and you frowned.

"Don't do that," you said bluntly. "Scared the shit out of me."

Bailey laughed. "Sorry."

"Black, purple and cream."

You invited him in silently by stepping aside and opening the door; he stepped inside willingly. Curt, and with the intention of both teasing and genuine thanks, he nodded his head silently. His black boots, as you saw, made muffled footsteps as his well-used footwear made contact with the welcome mat. Bailey wiped his feet, shifting the mat with the movement, and didn't need to reach far to hang his coat on the rack.

Your eyes followed the way his shoulder blades pressed against the cloth of his white dress shirt and you averted your eyes, feeling your chest swell gently knowing what was likely coming tonight.

Suddenly noticing a rising ache of stiffness in your shoulders from standing and trying to play off the staring in case Bailey noticed, you shifted, brushing aside the drifting cloth of your over-sized lavender dress shirt and placing your hands in your cream khaki pockets.

"These are the colors of your nightmares, and colors of my dreams."

"Fizzy Blood?" Bailey asked in reference to the song playing on the record player. He huffed a laugh. "I forgot about them."

"Me too," you responded, walking briskly past him to get to the counter and fetch the hand towel you used to wipe down tables. You noticed the table to your left, a table for two occupied earlier by a particularly noisy tween couple that met briskly before departing. Despite them being rather annoying upon presence, the thought of them was sweet. Reminding you of you and Bailey in high school sneaking out to see movies and get garbage gas station food.

In fact, this song played once or twice during those adventures, pushing you into a sudden state of nostalgia.

The song was moving into the chorus as Bailey leaned against the corner of the counter and watched you wipe down the table. His steady hands, painted with tattoos of vines dancing around his fingers that moved with him, was planted sternly on the side of the counter. You knew how rough his fingertips were from pressing down thick strings and how easily they drew ink freehand sketches of various animals, mostly foxes.

"So what's the set for tonight?" he asked. His voice, tainted raw and gravely with cigarette smoke, always reminded you of his hard history. He moved out of his mom's house recently, improving his mental state, but he still had yet to overcome his nasty habit of smoking and drinking.

You shrugged in response. "Haven't thought of anything yet. Busy day."

"Need suggestions?"

"Yeah."

"Well with it being Friday night and all, the bar's going to be packed," Bailey responded, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting the bulk of his weight from his hands to his waist which pressed into the corner of the counter as became more relaxed. He was always relaxed, smooth, and always wickedly smart. "I suggest Reignwolf."

Not a bad idea. Not too heavy, not too slow.

"Alright," you responded, finishing up with the table and briefly looking over all of the others. They were clean enough. You'd get whatever you missed eventually. "Your bass is still in my room. Get my guitar while you're at it; I'll get the amps."

Bailey smiled before removing himself from the counter and crossing the threshold of the counter, his strides so smooth and even his head barely bobbed from the distribution of weight as he walked. The footsteps created from the click of his shoes against the ground faded as he went further up the stairs.

You sighed as you watched him walk away and the shop faded back into quiet. You heard the sound of Bailey opening your bedroom door before the silence returned again like a wave that had faded off into sea and slammed back onto the sand. The sound of your dog Sylvie's breathing returning into the ambiance; she wasn't even affected by the entrance of Bailey.

Your eyes landed on the honey brown dog laying on the floor and you dropped briefly to stroke her flank and scratch behind her ears. She was snoring loudly, her eyes doing that gross scent-hound thing where the lids flipped and she slept with, essentially, her eyes open.

Not the weirdest dog you've ever owned, but certainly up there.

You moved back to your feet and crossed your arms, thinking. End of the day at the shop, then packing up instrument stuff, then going to the bar and performing, then back home again. Wake up and repeat. Day after day, week after week.

Until what? What was waiting for you? What was going to happen?

You leaned against the counter and stared out the window with your arms crossed, when your eyes landed on a figure on the other side of the street that stared back.

Tall, extremely tall. Easily six foot or more. Broad shoulders and a neck gaiter with a skull on it that covered his face from the nose down. Blond hair peaked out from underneath the hood of the black hoodie he had on with the fire department emblem on the breast. Jeans covered his long legs and a leash hung from his arm, connecting to a German Shepherd that seemed really intent on continuing his walk.

Your shoulders dropped when your eyes met, but it only lasted a second before he turned his head and continued walking, but you kept staring as he walked away. How long had he been standing there?

You cocked a brow, confused, before discarding the thought and turning around to see what was taking Bailey so long.

Inspired by the Firefighter!Ghost AU by @thelaisydazy

#simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fic #firefighter au cod #cod au #x reader #fem reader #realistic fiction #fanfic

[zoesblogsposts]

o 625 words to know in your target language o

There is a really interesting blog called "Fluent Forever" that aids foreign language learners in tricks, tips and techniques to guide them to achieving fluency "quickly" and efficiently. One of the tricks is to learn these 625 vocab words in your target language, that way you have a basis to start delving into grammar with ease as you can understand a lot of vocab right off the bat. Plus this list of words are common across the world and will aid you in whatever language you are learning. Here is the list in thematic order

• Animal: dog, cat, fish, bird, cow, pig, mouse, horse, wing, animal

• Transportation: train, plane, car, truck, bicycle, bus, boat, ship, tire, gasoline, engine, (train) ticket, transportation

• Location: city, house, apartment, street/road, airport, train station, bridge hotel, restaurant, farm, court, school, office, room, town, university, club, bar, park, camp, store/shop, theater, library, hospital, church, market, country (USA,

France, etc.), building, ground, space (outer space), bank, location

• Clothing: hat, dress, suit, skirt, shirt, T-shirt, pants, shoes, pocket, coat, stain, clothing

• Color: red, green, blue (light/dark), yellow, brown, pink, orange, black, white, gray, color

• People: son, daughter, mother, father, parent (= mother/father), baby, man, woman, brother, sister, family, grandfather, grandmother, husband, wife, king, queen, president, neighbor, boy, girl, child (= boy/girl), adult (= man/woman), human (# animal), friend (Add a friend's name), victim, player, fan, crowd, person

• Job: Teacher, student, lawyer, doctor, patient, waiter, secretary, priest, police, army, soldier, artist, author, manager, reporter, actor, job

• Society: religion, heaven, hell, death, medicine, money, dollar, bill, marriage, wedding, team, race (ethnicity), sex (the act), sex (gender), murder, prison, technology, energy, war, peace, attack, election, magazine, newspaper, poison, gun, sport, race (sport), exercise, ball, game, price, contract, drug, sign, science, God

• Art. band, song, instrument (musical), music, movie, art

• Beverages: coffee, tea, wine, beer, juice, water, milk, beverage

• Food: egg, cheese, bread, soup, cake, chicken, pork, beef, apple, banana orange, lemon, corn, rice, oil, seed, knife, spoon, fork, plate, cup, breakfast, lunch, dinner, sugar, salt, bottle, food

• Home: table, chair, bed, dream, window, door, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, pencil, pen, photograph, soap, book, page, key, paint, letter, note, wall, paper, floor, ceiling, roof, pool, lock, telephone, garden, yard, needle, bag, box, gift, card, ring, tool

• Electronics: clock, lamp, fan, cell phone, network, computer, program (computer), laptop, screen, camera, television, radio

• Body: head, neck, face, beard, hair, eye, mouth, lip, nose, tooth, ear, tear (drop), tongue, back, toe, finger, foot, hand, leg, arm, shoulder, heart, blood, brain, knee, sweat, disease, bone, voice, skin, body

• Nature: sea, ocean, river, mountain, rain, snow, tree, sun, moon, world, Earth, forest, sky, plant, wind, soil/earth, flower, valley, root, lake, star, grass, leaf, air, sand, beach, wave, fire, ice, island, hill, heat, nature

• Materials: glass, metal, plastic, wood, stone, diamond, clay, dust, gold, copper, silver, material

• Math/Measurements: meter, centimeter, kilogram, inch, foot, pound, half, circle, square, temperature, date, weight, edge, corner

• Misc Nouns: map, dot, consonant, vowel, light, sound, yes, no, piece, pain, injury, hole, image, pattern, noun, verb, adjective

• Directions: top, bottom, side, front, back, outside, inside, up, down, left, right, straight, north, south, east, west, direction

• Seasons: Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall, season

• Numbers: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 30, 31, 32, 40, 41, 42, 50, 51, 52, 60, 61, 62, 70, 71, 72, 80, 81, 82, 90, 91, 92, 100, 101, 102, 110, 111, 1000, 1001, 10000, 100000, million, billion, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, number

• Months: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December

• Days of the week: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday

• Time: year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, morning, afternoon, evening, night, time

• Verbs: work, play, walk, run, drive, fly, swim, go, stop, follow, think, speak/say, eat, drink, kill, die, smile, laugh, cry, buy, pay, sell, shoot(a gun), learn, jump, smell, hear (a sound), listen (music), taste, touch, see (a bird), watch (TV), kiss, burn, melt, dig, explode, sit, stand, love, pass by, cut, fight, lie down, dance, sleep, wake up, sing, count, marry, pray, win, lose, mix/stir, bend, wash, cook, open, close, write, call, turn, build, teach, grow, draw, feed, catch, throw, clean, find, fall, push, pull, carry, break, wear, hang, shake, sign, beat, lift

• Adjectives: long, short (long), tall, short (vs tall), wide, narrow, big/large, small/little, slow, fast, hot, cold, warm, cool, new, old (new), young, old (young), weak, dead, alive, heavy, light (heavy), dark, light (dark), nuclear, famous

#second language #language #learning #rory gilmore #smart #tips

[aceghosts]

OC Interviews

Hey Guys! I was tagged recently by @carlosoliveiraa, but was also tagged a while ago by @henbased, @nightbloodbix, and @katsigian. (I think I got everyone who tagged me last time.

Tagging (Opt out/in here): @amalkavian, @bbrocklesnar, @marivenah, @clicheantagonist, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @theelderhazelnut, @captmactavish, @alexxmason, @captastra, @cassietrn, @strangefable, @direwombat, @fourlittleseedlings and anyone else who wants to do this!

Blue Murphy

Name: Jay Casey Murphy Nickname: Family and Close Friends call them Blue Jay while most others call them Blue. They're also called Deputy, Dep, Rookie, and Rook in Hope County. Eden's Gate occasionally refers to them as wrath. Gender: Genderfluid (They/Them) Star Sign: Aries Personality Type: Chaotic Good Height: 5’6 ft Orientation: Bisexual Nationality/Ethnicity: American (Blue is originally from West Virginia, but spent most of their adulthood in Colorado before moving to Hope County, Montana.) Favorite Fruit: Mangoes. Blue has a bit of a sweet tooth. Favorite Season: Winter. They think mountains always look great covered in snow and love to go hiking in snowy parts. Blue is also a snowboarder, and winter is the perfect time for that. Favorite Scent: Pine Tree Needles Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate: Hot Chocolate with lots of marshmallows and whipped cream. Average Hours of Sleep: Before Hope County, roughly 6-8 hours. After the reaping kicks off, Blue’s average hours of sleep varies. Dogs or Cats: Both. They love Boomer and Peaches equally, spoiling both animals. Dream Trip: Kicking Horse. They've heard wild things about the slopes, and Blue would love to try them out someday. Number of Blankets: One. Before Hope County, Blue had a nice quilt that they slept with. Before the Reaping, Blue sent that quilt along with most of their things back to Colorado. Random Fact: I might have said this before, but Blue's favorite time of day is dawn. Something about watching the sun rise makes them feel happy to be alive.

Rooney Shepard

Name: Rooney Shepard Nickname: Most refer to Rooney by their last name. It is very rare for anyone to refer to Rooney by their first name. Those that are allowed to call them by their first name are people that they deeply trust and care for. In their ME universe, Thane uses Siha as a term of affection. Gender: Agender (They/Them) Star Sign: Aries Personality Type: Neutral Good Height: 5’10 ft. Orientation: Rooney would probably say they fall somewhere on the asexual spectrum, leaning towards demisexuality. Nationality/Ethnicity: Canadian/American in their cyberpunk verse. They have Irish heritage in both universes. Favorite Fruit: Apples Favorite Season: Fall Favorite Scent: Cinnamon or Leather Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate: Tea. They normally drink black tea, but their real favorite is cinnamon tea or something similar. Average Hours of Sleep: In an ideal world, Rooney would simply not need sleep. However, their hours of sleep vary depend on their workload/how deep they're in on a case. Dogs or Cats: Rooney is fine with cats and dogs, but they prefer hamsters, especially their Hamster, Shepard Jr. Dream Trip: Anywhere and Everywhere. In both verses, Rooney grew up in a sheltered town, reading about the world/galaxy and dreaming about it. (In their ME universe, it's part of the reason Rooney joined the Alliance.) Although, a part of Rooney would love to explore a completely unknown, never inhabited before planet. Number of Blankets: They have a basic comforter, but their favorite is a cooling weighted blanket. (Rooney gets hot at night.) Random Fact: Rooney is a puzzle fiend. They always have some sort of word search, crossword, Sudoku, etc. open on their device.

Hunter Delaney

Name: Hunter Shea Delaney Nickname: Dearheart by Wesker. Occasionally, people refer to Hunter by their last name. Gender: ¯(ツ)/¯ (They/Them) Star Sign: Scorpio Personality Type: Chaotic Neutral Height: 6 ft Orientation: Bisexual with a preference for mean blonds Nationality/Ethnicity: American (They're originally from Brooklyn, New York.) Favorite Fruit: Cherries Favorite Season: Summer. Back when they weren't infected, Hunter liked going out to paint landscapes during the summer. Favorite Scent: Wesker’s cologne. It makes Hunter feel safe. Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate: Coffee, preferably black. They're not really into super fancy drinks. (Actually, if you handed Hunter a very fancy coffee, their response would most likely be 'What the fuck is this?') Average Hours of Sleep: Depends on if it’s a good or a bad night, but anywhere from 3-5 hours. Dogs or Cats: Dogs. They’re literally so black dog coded. Dream Trip: The Louvre in Paris, France, and The Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy. (In truth, Hunter would love to go see any art gallery/museum, but these two have always interested them. Number of Blankets: Hunter likes a thick comforter, but usually sleeps with one to two blankets. (Wesker’s jacket also gets stolen as a blanket from time to time.) Random Fact: Don't think I've conveyed in this any of the stuff that I've written for Hunter, but they talk with their hands.

#tag games #blue murphy #i won't let fear compromise who I am #commander rooney shepard #hunter delaney #I love that Hunter's gender presentation is just a shrug #I changed a few things about Rooney but I think those changes fit them better #and it's so nice to do something for blue again lol

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

The Buried, that old figurehead of the choking dark, reigns supreme in the mountains of Appalachia. It is not itself one of the sleeping gods of the inner dark, but in their absence it has taken a seat at the table and invited itself to feast. And feast it does. With a ravening, desperate hunger even fiercer than that of its sibling horrors, it devours the men lost in the mines, swallows them down its great black throat and patiently waits for the clang of the dinner bell ushering in the next day’s shift.  Mother Spider hasn’t found as much purchase to weave her web as she’d like in these strange new hills, but she makes do. In the “gleaming halls of industry” of Barrow, Pennsylvania she listens from the eaves, giving just the slightest tug of the strings when it seems those boys in their fancy suits don’t have quite enough blood on their cufflinks. She whispers in the ear of Nathaniel Locke, purrs honeyed promises to mine bosses and railroad barons, slips into the dreams of E. P. Barrow like a black widow through a crack and sets to work with needle and thread. And all through the holler towns the song rings clear and true: spin, spider, spin.  The Lonely drapes its misty cloak over the pine forests of West Virginia, shrouding the thick green copses of trees in hazy darkness. Anyone who’s gone hiking in those woods knows how very easy it is to get lost out there, where the shadows melt into pools of black, the trail fades into a tangle of briar thorns and the only sound to be heard anywhere is the whistle of the wind through the branches. It’s easy to forget where you were going. It’s easy to forget there was anywhere to go to. It’s easy to lose yourself in the dark, and the quiet, and fade away until you’re nothing more than a sack of bones cradled beneath those roots. The Hunt bays in triumph in the voices of women-turned-wolves, delighting in the whistle of snarling breath between bared teeth as the Sisters bring to violent, bloody justice another man who strayed a hair too close to the Clutch.  The Desolation haunts the burned-out husk of Barlo, stalking through the ash-caked ruins and reminding those precious few that escaped the flames that it will never be too far behind. And above it all, the Eye hangs like a low-slung moon, watching unblinking as the mountains shift, the dry soil cracks and the sleeping gods begin to stir. 

#old gods of appalachia #the magnus archives #ogoa #tma #this was really fun to write #my writing

[the-monkey-ruler]

Havoc in Heaven (1961) 大鬧天宮

Director: Wan Laiming

Screenwriter: Li Kewei / Wan Laiming

Starring: Qiu Yuefeng / Fu Runsheng / Bi Ke / Shang Hua / Yu Ding / more...

Genre: Drama / Animation / Fantasy / Costume

Official website: https://site.douban.com/136555/

Country/Region of Production: Mainland China

Language: Mandarin Chinese

Date: 1961(Mainland China) / 1964(Mainland China) / 1978(Mainland China) / 2012-01-11 (3D version in mainland China) / 2017-10-13 (2D rerun in mainland China)

Duration: 113 minutes / 44 minutes (Part 1) / 69 minutes (Part 2) / 84 minutes (40th Anniversary Edition) / 90 minutes (3D version) / 88 minutes (2D version)

Also known as: Havoc in Heaven Part 2 / 大闹天宫 上下集 / The Monkey King / Havoc in Heaven / Uproar in Heaven / 大闹天宫

IMDb: tt0059855 / tt11941418

Type: Retelling

Summary:

It is said that there is a mountain of flowers and fruits in the Aolai country of the east, and a stone monkey on the mountain absorbs the sun's essence and moonlight and turns into a god monkey (voiced by Qiu Yuefeng), commanding the monkey grandsons in the mountain. In order to obtain a satisfactory treasure, the god monkey Sun Wukong sneaked into the Dragon Palace, and forcefully begged Golden Cudgel of the Sea God Needle from the King of East China Sea when he was controlling the water. The Dragon King of the East China Sea (Bi Keyin) was unwilling, so he appealed the matter to the Jade Emperor (Furun Shengyin).

The Jade Emperor ordered Taibai Jinxing (Shang Huayin) to recruit from the lower realms, and to give him a title. Unaware of the fraud, Sun Wukong went happily, but found that it was BiMawen who was in charge of raising horses. Realizing that he had been cheated, Sun Wukong angrily smashed the horse fence, destroy the peach feast, Return to Flower Fruit Mountain and claim to be the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. As a result, there was a thrilling battle with a hundred thousand heavenly soldiers and generals...

This film is adapted from the story in the classic "Journey to the West". It took 4 years to create, and won the Special Short Film Award at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival in Czechoslovakia in 1962, the Outstanding Film Award at the London International Film Festival in 1978, and the 1982 Film Award at the London International Film Festival. The third prize of the 4th Ecuador International Children's Film Festival, and the Best Art Film Award of the 2nd Chinese Film "Hundred Flowers Awards".

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Havoc_in_Heaven

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hu0XosgxCyU

#Havoc in Heaven #大鬧天宮 #大闹天宫 #The Monkey King #Havoc in Heaven Part 2 #大闹天宫 上下集 #Uproar in Heaven #jttw media #jttw movie #movie #jttw #animation #Retelling #sun wukong centered #sun wukong #ao guang #erlang shen #Yang Jian #king li #Li Jing #nezha #li nezha #rewrite

[rabbitcruiser]

Colorado National Monument (No. 19)

Utah Juniper (Juniperus osteosperma)

Other Names:

Family: Cupressaceae (Cypress Family)

Description: may grow up to 9 m tall, although average height is 3-6 m. Seedling leaves are 5-10 mm long and needle-like in appearance. Mature leaves are 1-2 mm-long scales that hug the stems tightly. Bark is fibrous and often twisted. Cones are 8-13 mm in diameter and look like waxy, blue-brown berries 8-13 mm. This species is evergreen.

Range: occurs throughout the Rocky Mountain Region from Utah to Colorado, north to Montana, and south to New Mexico and Arizona. It grows throughout Colorado National Monument.

Did you know: the blue "berries" of the Utah Juniper are actually cones, making the Utah Juniper more closely related to a pine tree than to any true berry-producing plant. Various Native American groups in the desert west used Juniper "berries" medicinally, ceremonially, or secularly as beads. Today, we use the sour-tasting cones of the Juniper to flavor gin (which fittingly derives its name from Dutch jenever, meaning "juniper").

Source

#Utah Juniper #Colorado National Monument #Colorado #Colorado Plateau #summer 2022 #Mesa County #cliff #canyon #red rock #rock formation #geology #flora #nature #tree #desert #original photography #vacation #USA #travel #Mountain West Region #juniper berry #grass #dead wood #blue sky #clouds #tourist attraction #landmark #landscape #countryside #Book Cliffs

[sonsofichor]

The Mark of Wolves - Red Rising fic

Drabble I

Drabble II

Lea

Waking up from a dreamless sleep, I open my eyes to the sight of Cassius snoring quietly on the durobag next to me.

I keep still, taking a moment to just watch the rise and fall of his chest. I can hear the regular breaths of two others in the room. The last member of our party of five is missing.

After Fitchner left yesterday, and Cassius didn’t come back, Roque and I had made our way back to the fort. Whatever the medBots had shot in me was prime stuff because I completed the trek on my own two feet, although I was half-asleep by the time Roque pushed me down on my pellet.

Cassius and the girls must’ve returned after us.

Sunlight streams through the window. It's the fourth day at the Institute. It’s my first morning—the first since what feels like forever, but has only been a day or two. Like so much else, I understand the concept of mornings and what they entail, but I can’t conjure up images to go with them. I’m curious what they look like.

Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes, I sit up and survey the room. Quinn and Roque are resting on their own durobags. Lea’s durobag between them is empty.

My headache is completely gone and my sight is clear and sharp. A night’s sleep has done me good. My muscles are still sore, but I feel light and well-rested.

I find Lea in what once might have been the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast of fruits, some bread and jam.

“Darrow, good morning!” She smiles brightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Prime. But hungry,” I admit, “This looks delicious. May I?”

“Of course! You’re the one who brought us bread, after all.” She recounts Orientation Day, how Cassius and I fought Ceres students, and how we’d succeeded in bringing some of the food during our escape. “Fortunately, we found these here.”

She shows me a clear durobag filled with a rustic survival box of iodine, the last of our food, a compass, rope, a toothbrush, and sulfur matches. So supplies have been hidden about the valley. Something tells me there are more important items hidden in the countryside than little survivor kits. Weapons? Transportation? Armor? Technology? 

They can’t mean for us to make war with sticks and stones and metal tools. And if they don’t want us to kill each other, stun weapons must soon replace our metal ones.

I don’t know how the damn game is even played. So, information. I ask, “How big is the Institute?”

Lea picks the compass and I follow her outside. She puts the compass down in front of her when the needle points her feet north, picks a stick and starts drawing shapes on the ground.

My eyes narrow and then widen in realization.

She is drawing me a map.

A mountain range to the west. To the southeast, the woods. Dividing the two is a lush plain split by a massive southbound river, the Argos, and its tributaries. Farther south, past the plains and rivers, the ground dips away into bushes. “Marshes,” Lea explains. 

Two rivers in a forested valley split our northern territory, which is at the edge of a vast wilderness. They form a V pointing southwest to the lowlands, where they eventually form one tributary to the Argos. Surrounding the valley are the highlands.

She draws two towers and a castle. “This is where our House is located. This is Phobos.” It lies in the far southwest of our territory. The second tower stands northwest where the two rivers meet in the valley to form their V. It crowns a distant dwarf mountain range. “And here is Deimos.”

The eastern river is called the Furor. The western, which runs just south of our castle, is the Metas. A single bridge spans the Metas. An enemy would have to cross it to enter between the V into the valley and strike northeast across easy, wooded ground to reach our castle.

In the southern plains, another castle. House Ceres. They might be exposed but they have crops and orchards inside their castewalls. No siege will bother them.

I commit the map to memory and thank Lea. She smiles sweetly. Everything about her is soft and sweet. She reminds me of fruit. Of the peaches we just ate. She’s so different from athletic Cassius, bold Quinn, even dependable Roque. What is someone like her doing here? 

When she wants to go out and gather more food, I offer to accompany her.

She blinks rapidly, mouth opening and closing a few times. I’ve surprised her again.

We go south. 

Yesterday, I was too busy putting one foot in front of the other to notice the beauty of the place. Now, I let my eyes rove. I drink up the world.

Lea teaches me the names of birds, of insects, and plants and trees. Shows me how to distinguish between the poisonous and edible mushrooms and berries. 

On our way back, we decide to take a short break in a small clearing. Sitting side by side, she tells me how to read the time by watching the position of the sun in the sky. It’s hard, mainly because I don’t like looking up.

On Mars, the stars shine bright during the day too. I squint at the star-speckled sky and don’t know why the sight of its vastness makes my stomach tie itself in a knot.

It’s so beautiful it terrifies me.

Lea falls quiet and eventually dozes off on my shoulder. I sit here a while, listening to the passerine birds. I close my eyes. 

The world is strange and frightening and resplendent. So different from the void in my head, the hollowness in my chest. It feels like someone’s cut me open and scraped out everything that gave my life shape. 

My thoughts confuse me. They send me conflicting messages.  I cannot trust my instincts. Flee. Kill. Run. Fight. I have so many questions. They fill my head. A buzzing hivemind. 

I don’t know which one’s worse; the noise, or the pressing emptiness.

I think only in the present, live only for the close future. The past is gone, except for sudden spikes of feelings—fear, grief, rage, mostly—that leave my heart a stuttering mess. I keep wanting to claw out of my skin, wishing for someone to split my head open and sort through the chaos in there.

But it’s not all bad.

I might not fully have recovered, but I’m on my way there. Lea’s head is a comforting weight on my shoulder. The sun beats strongly overhead. The wind is refreshingly cool on my skin. My friends are waiting for me.

It feels bloody good to know where you are in the world.

#red rising fanfic #red rising fic #darrow au andromedus #lea #cassius au bellona #if you wanna know how i see these two #imagine a big mean dog and a sweet little kitty #btw there're some chunks missing from the drabble but #i'll add them later in chapter 2 on ao3

[149panda149]

writing about wen qing's character song from chen qing ling because it's beautiful and has me in a chokehold

i feel a compulsory need to translate this.

有风遥吹窗上铃 there is a wind distantly blowing the chime upon the window

同族人同梦不同醒

people of the same family share the same dream but do not wake the same

是谁在牵引已定的命?

who is it that is leading me on this already-set path?

身陷泥沼再难挣离

body sunken in dirt and mud it becomes ever difficult to struggle free

从来恩仇最分明

the debts of gratitude and revenge have always been the most clearly separated 惟剖丹相助不忍听

however when carving out the core to aid (them) i can't bear to listen 曾医数苦疾皆如水中萍

(i've) cured many bitter illnesses, as many as floating leaves on water

世间又添凄凉影

more shadows of suffering and coldness are added to the world

门内虚光灯影恻隐无凭

inside the door, aside dim light and lamp-shadow (i) hide without being able to prove anything

也曾尚存那缕济世之心

and yet still alive was the thread of the ambition to save the world 投之以桃何须留我名姓

i have helped many, what need have i of leaving my name behind?

冠此家姓便空余恶名

crowned with this family-name, leaving (me) with nothing but a bad reputation

银针斜入谁人颈

the silver needle slides diagonally into someone's neck 也曾携弟报此恩情

i had once brought my di to repay this debt of gratitude 有言无人信仓惶几处惊

having things to speak yet nobody would believe me, we flee in fear and panic

挫骨扬灰也同命

our bones ground to dust and scattered in the wind, (we) share the same fate

孤灯点亮山径前路难明

a lone light brightens the mountain path, the way forwards is hard to make out

当时善怀谁又能算得清

who will be able to count clear my kindnesses of the past?

若只惶惶为避山外风雨

if i, terrified hide from the wind and rain outside the mountain

谁轻叹医者仁心

who will feel regret for a healer's empathic heart?

待到秋叶老去新坟旧地 wait until the autumn leaves wither away, new graves are built over the old place

便教西去的鹤载我同行 then tell the west-going cranes to carry me and travel with them

看遍千景最是人间无情

seen thousands of different scenes, the world is most unforgiving 焚尽此生愿来世同宁

burnt at the end of this life, i wish in the next world for us to be together and in peace.*

*can also mean "i wish in the next world to be with Ning"

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wen qing #cql #the untamed

[tatiana-petrovna]

little talks

“It’s not for nothing that I long for you: It’s that others love my smile only—you love even my tears. It’s not for nothing that I wait for you: It’s that others love only my health—you love even my death.” — Han Yong’un, from Love’s Reasons;

pairing: eddie munson x chrissy cunningham summary: in the wake of spring break, eddie finds himself talking to ghosts... inspired by this post by @bettercallmaul (Eddie lives AU I GUESS 😤 - wrote this before I watched the finale) playlist

~~~

She remembers screaming. Loud enough to shake the windows. High enough in pitch that her own ears had throbbed as if a needle pierced them.  

How could they think it was Eddie that had hurt her? Why had anyone allowed Jason to just… turn vigilante and hunt him down like a rabid dog? 

She remembers trying desperately to throw a vase full of lilies in her mother’s church after the funeral. 

Stop!

To kick a chair across the police station. 

Leave him alone!

To throttle Jason with her bare hands as he used her name to justify his vitriol. She’s never been so angry before. Never been so filled up with rage. But then again, she’s never cared about anyone like she does Eddie. 

He’s the only one who ever really saw me. Just leave him alone. Being so far away from him is hard enough, why are you wrapping the grief around his neck like a noose? 

But her fingers and her feet had slipped through the vase. And the chair. And Jason with every attempt. And her screams fell on deaf ears. Because she was no longer a girl. Nothing more than sand slipping through fingers. Nothing more than a shadow choking on her own silence.  

So she stayed. Stubbornly, she clung to Hawkins, refusing to abandon him… even if it did him no good at all. 

~~~

The first time, it's just a flash.

So brief he'd convinced himself it had been a trick of the light. An aftershock of all the trauma their small town's youth had collectively experienced in the past month.But despite the fear he'd felt, Eddie found himself replaying the moment anyway. A song he didn't want to let out of his head. A scratch in the record he couldn't bring himself to move the needle off of. And it was so easy because it had been so clear. Felt so real.

Chrissy, alive and bright and dewy with sunshine. Chrissy, sat in the passenger seat of Shadowfax (his beloved van), one hand out the window as her fingers played elegantly through the wind. Chrissy, humming along to the tape he'd had in his deck as he drove north. Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac bled from his speakers (lately, he'd been coming back to the records his mother had played around their shitty apartment in Detroit - the songs he'd longed to introduce Chrissy to for years, knowing, just knowing that her parents listened to shit like Donna Summers and ABBA).

He'd nearly driven right off the road, tires screeching as he went careening onto the shoulder of the 109. Body trembling and breath coming heavy, it had been a moment before he'd actually mustered the bravery to look over again. But all that was next to him was a pane of sunshine filtering in from the open window.

~~~

It took several joints to calm his nerves after that day.

The distraction of playing a show at a shitty downtown Chicago bar helps. He's started picking up side gigs. Filling in across the mid-west where guitarists are needed. Partly for the extra cash and partly for the connections he's able to network in the gig circuit. But if he's honest, it's not actually about any of those things. It's the distraction they provide.

He can't just sit in his bedroom in Hawkins like nothing happened. Focusing on one singular task at a time has never been his strong suit, but now it's impossible. Even trying to plan the new D&D campaign for Hellfire has proven a mountain that refuses to be scaled. Every time he takes out his kit, all he sees is the little Vecna statuette and he falls down a dizzying rabbit hole of confused, frustrated fury.

There are perks to this in a way. Gigs don't just provide an opportunity to showcase his talent with a guitar, they're the best venue to move product. He's never had so much money in his life. Sometimes, he takes the wads of cash out from the plastic bag they sit in, hidden in the toilet tank of the trailer bathroom, just to stare at it.

He won't put it in a bank. His uncle has warned him of that, since the money isn't legal. But the bathroom is as good a savings account as any. What's left over after he pays Wayne rent and buys flowers for Chrissy's grave goes right in this little bag.

Sometimes he feels foolish sitting at her grave, talking to her as he picks the thorns off pink roses. He knows she's not really there. She can't be. And even if she was, the handful of moments they'd shared didn't exactly entitle him to mourn for her. But the grief was there, all the same. It was there because she wasn't.

~~~

The second time is at a show and he knows it's because he's high as a kite.

The little redhead in the crowd can't be her. It just can't be. Those can't be her big, storm blue eyes staring up at him. He knows, because Vecna took her eyes. His favorite thing about her had always been her eyes.

After his set, he follows the girl through the crowd, leaving his precious Freya up on stage for the band he's with tonight to worry about. He's never left Freya on her own in his life but this girl looks exactly like…

"Chrissy!" The air outside in the alley feels cool after the heat of a packed dive bar. But all he can see is her short skirt. Her long slender legs. Her beautiful red hair.

When she turns to face him on the steps that lead down from the alley door, there's a mischievous smile twitching at her mouth. Then suddenly, she's kissing him and it feels as if there's snow falling and Christmas lights switching on and...

He reaches to grip her slender waist, but his fist closes around air. Eyes fluttering open, Eddie staggers back. He had felt her. He had felt her body heat. Heard her breathing. Tasted her strawberry chapstick. What the fuck had been in that bong he'd hit in the green room?

Brows knit together in determination, he heads back inside, wondering if he can't find some more.

~~~

The third time is very much on purpose. 

He waits until his uncle has left for the night, then lays out candles across the small coffee table and sits on the floor. Hands trembling, Eddie swallows hard against the tight ball of tension knotted in his throat. The woman he’d bought the ouija board from had warned him not to attempt this alone. But who could he possibly confess his delusions to? Or worse, that he was chasing after them rather than trying to rationalize them. 

For a long while, he just watches the candles burn. Glances up to where the scar of a long-since closed portal has been spray painted in a whitish gray that clearly doesn’t match the rest of the ceiling. He can still see her floating there. Can still hear her bones snapping. The whites of her eyes…her beautiful blue eyes… stolen. 

Wiping the sweat of his palms across black denim jeans, he shakes his hands out, trying to dispel the anxiety keeping his desperation locked up tight. 

“Come on, man.” He mutters to himself. “You can walk into another dimension strapped like fuckin’ Rambo. You can do this.” 

Closing his eyes, his fingertips rest on the edges of the planchet. 

“Chrissy? If you’re there… fuck, just… please give me a sign?” The words stumble out, unsure and half embarrassed.

A silence thick with his own cloying desperation follows. Dust floats lazily through the beams of moonlight slanting across the living room. Feeling like an idiot, Eddie lets go of the planchet and lets his head fall back onto the couch behind him. Letting out a slow breath, he drags his hands through his hair, tempted to pull some out in frustration. 

“God damn it, baby…just talk to me.” No longer guessing at what he’s supposed to say, this more surefooted tone seems to allow the energy in the room to shift. The dust by the window seems to swirl up into curls for a moment and he swears he hears a giggle brush by his ear just as a soft rush of wind blows the candles out, leaving him sat in the dark. His pulse climbs like a balloon full of hot air and his posture straightens just in time to catch the planchet slide over the word ‘hello’. 

Brown eyes wide, Eddie fights hard against the instinct to bolt. To run out the door and into his van and drive far away. But the thought makes his stomach turn. 

‘Fuck that. I ran away once. I’m not leaving her again.’ 

“H-Hey…uh, can you… give me a sign that it’s you? That I’m… not just sitting here talking to a… demon or something.” 

As if on cue, Chrissy appears on the other side of the coffee table, sat on the floor with her legs folded same as him. 

“You called me baby first and then you asked if I was a demon? Feels a little out of order.” 

For a moment, he’s stunned into silence from the fact that these are her first words to him after... 

“Death becomes her …Nice to see you too.” He muses, sliding a guitar pick off the coffee table and rubbing his thumb across the front. His hands have always been his greatest tell. Always touching or toying with something when his brain is going faster than he can follow. How the fuck is this happening?

Then she’s smiling. And he swears it feels like he’s reliving every Christmas morning at once.

“You’re not scared.” A statement, not a question. She’s surprised, having braced herself for a much longer fight before he didn’t look at her as if she was the monster in a horror film. 

“Are you?” Just like Eddie to be looking after her, ready to pick up all her pieces, even when they were buried in the ground. 

“What else can happen to me now?” 

Swallowing hard, he nods. Waves of guilt wash up on his shore and he struggles to put up a sea wall against them. But it seems losing her physical form has only strengthened whatever connection they had before and she can feel the shift in his energy as if she’s a radio antenna dialed into one station. His. Eyes falling closed, she pleads with him to believe her.

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“How did you…how are you…here?” 

Big blue eyes brushing around the trailer, she feels such warmth here. Like she could nest into the carpet and sew herself into the fibers of the couch and pool inside the moonlight falling through his windows. A single shrug rolls her slender shoulders. 

“I’m not sure…I just…wanted to be here. I wanted to be with you…You’re the only one who comes and talks to me, you know.” 

“Not even…?” 

“He brings flowers. He doesn’t stay. Mom and dad too. Nothing to say, I guess. Just like everyone else…except you” 

“Seems a little too easy…” Easy has been a difficult road for Eddie to trust ever since he can remember. Especially when that road leads to happiness. What’s the catch? He thinks.

“Does it? Feels like we earned this to me.” The look in her eyes silences any further opposition as he remembers how much she’s sacrificed. His usual ‘devils advocate’ attitude melts into an easy nod and he plays the corners of his guitar pick across the coffee table. 

“I’m happy you’re here…god, you could be anywhere. With your family, with…with Jason.” She nods, unblinking, completely aware of these facts. Only silence follows and the confidence of her response tugs a smile to life at the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t… I don’t want you to go, hmm?” 

And she nods again as he repeats the words that she'd pressed into his pages like little wildflowers in the woods. Smiling that Christmas morning smile all the while. 

~~~

The fourth time makes him cry in front of the entire school. 

Graduation day. And he never really thought he’d get to walk that stage. But seeing Chrissy stand up in the crowd, waving her pom poms and cheering him on is enough to choke a sob or two in his throat.

Through his tears, he still manages to flip off Principle Higgins. And after the diploma is in his hands, him and Chrissy run like hell out of the auditorium, screaming like banshees. 

~~

The fifth time is nothing short of embarrassing. 

He’s puking his guts out before a show in Detroit at The Riot Club. It’s a Friday night. The basement venue is packed so full that everyone knows they’d be shut down in a second if the fire department were to show up for an inspection. But as long as the drinks keep flowing, no one really cares. Even if half of them get spilled. 

Eddie isn’t even sure how Corroded Coffin got this gig. Or why he thought they were ready for this. For Detroit. Real studio reps show up at these things. God, they’re gunna see right through his bullshit. Another spasm twists his stomach and he wretches up bile, a cold sweat breaking out over his forehead. 

Then, without warning, a brush of ice cold caresses the base of his neck. And before he even hears her voice, he knows it’s her from the way this touch is steadying his shaken nerves. 

“Better back here than up on stage, hmm?” She runs her hand slowly down his spine, then back up to squeeze at the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. 

“Y-yeah…” 

“You are ready for this, you know.” Chrissy wonders if reading braille feels the same way decoding him does. A language you can’t see but only feel. 

“How…how could you possibly know that?” He barely loses the words as he fights to catch his breath. 

“I know you’ve seen me at your shows…” 

If he’s honest, he’d assumed he’d hallucinated all that. That he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. But then again, he’s been talking to a ghost. So, it’s a little late to play the ‘rational guy’ card.  

“I always wanted you at my shows.” A deep, dark laugh rumbles low in his chest at the irony. “Not like this, but…” 

“What’s the worst that could happen? You’ll die and have to come haunt everyone in Hawkins with me for eternity?” 

His eyebrows raise as suddenly the shotgun in his uncle’s closet starts to sound a bit more friendly. Catching the look in his eyes, she reads his mind as easily as if it’s her own. 

“That’s not an invitation.” She clarifies, slapping his own smirk right back at him. 

The walls shake with the chanting of the crowd beyond the bathroom. They’re losing their patience, ready for the music to start. 

Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, Eddie flushes his vomit away and moves to splash cold water on his face at the sink. Chrissy takes a seat on the countertop, her thin legs crossed at the ankles. Hesitantly, he lifts a hand and brushes it along her cheek. 

She’s smooth and soft and cool as the cement of a crypt. 

“I fucking miss you.” He whispers, feeling lost at sea. 

“I’m right here. Always.” She promises him, dusting a cold kiss to his jawline. 

That’s the night Corroded Coffin play their best show yet. It’s also the night they’re offered a record deal in LA. 

The producers he meets think he’s a little strange. Always talking to himself. Wearing a wedding ring but living alone. Always writing songs about dead girls. 

But the songs sell. And fans seem to dig his loner vibe. And the shadows he keeps company with seem to steer him out of trouble. 

For the most part, anyway. 

#eddie x chrissy #eddissy #eddie and chrissy #my edits #my wrtitng

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Eleven

Summary: Rogier feels the ends of hope and hopelessness. He might still be saved. He’s already been marked for death. In the end, it doesn’t matter whether or not he accepts it. Delia doesn’t. 

Author’s Notes: 3.7K words here! There are some rather… important (to the story) items I list out later in the chapter. If anyone’s interested, they can be purchased from the West Limgrave Nomadic Merchant, which is a quick trip down the mountain and up the coast from The First Step! I also pulled dialogue out of order for this, which I’ve been trying to avoid, but have been doing in pieces throughout. Gotta get that flow, though.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: abstract horror? I think? Suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

He had it.

He finally had it.

He had no idea how long it had taken- it felt like days, it felt like it could have been only a few minutes- but he had it.

The name he’d been searching for.

Lunar Princess Ranni.

His hands shook with the excitement of it.

And with the nervousness of telling Delia.

What would she think? Would she call him mad, deluded? As D had?

No.

He oughtn’t even have the thought in passing.

He turned his attention to the pages he’d copied for her, finally dry after the grease he’d applied to protect them from water. He still needed to bind them somehow.

He only deliberated for a moment when the idea struck him. He unbuttoned his jerkin, reaching into a tiny pocket inside for the needle he kept there. He paused, thinking of the luminescence of Delia’s eyes in the dark, and unfastened his cloak as well. He shrugged the garments off entirely, face heating at the very idea of being so undressed around her. He shook himself from the thought. Then he lifted his hat from the bedpost, grasping the glintstone he’d hung from the brim for power and luck. He caressed it for only a moment before yanking, snapping the cord at the base.

He threaded it through his needle and began to sew. It had been some time since he’d had need to sew anything, and so he found himself pricking his finger from time to time. But it went quickly, and he was tying off the cord when the heavy wooden door opened. 

Delia strode in, throwing back her hood and tossing an easy smile his way that he returned. He relaxed at the very sight of her. When she turned, he saw that a great, curved blade was strapped to her back. His smile widened. 

“Always good to see you safe,” he said, letting warmth seep into his words. “Found yourself a new toy?”

“Indeed.” She pulled it from its sheath, laying the blade across his palms and collapsing backward onto the bed beside him. “It’s proven quite useful. It’s enchanted to-”

“Cloak its user for a quick forward approach?”

Delia sat straight up, gaping at him in indignance. “I thought you studied that… that…stone…” she waved her hand in an irritated motion. 

“Glintstone sorcery,” he supplied smoothly. 

“Yes, glintstone sorcery,” she glared. Rogier beamed. 

“It’s a beautiful weapon,” he conceded. He handed it back to her and she smiled, pleased.

“Thank you. And now that I have it…” She lifted his rapier from her belt. Rogier’s heart sank. She saw the expression and leveled a serious gaze at him. “I don’t want to hear it. I saw you reach for it when I surprised you last time.” She held it out to him, wrapping his hands around it when he tentatively took the hilt. “Besides. I know you’ll use it again.”

She said it with such sincerity that he found himself nodding before he realized it.

“And on that note, I brought you some things.”

Delia pulled a leather satchel out from beneath her cloak, upending the contents onto the bedside table. Various leaves, butterflies and fireflies, berries, and flowers tumbled out.

She unbound another leather pouch from around her thigh, drawing out bundles carefully wrapped in larger leaves and cloth. She glanced up at him. “Bloods and greases and the like.”

Then she reached under her cloak for yet another pouch, this one bound to her waist. She held it in both hands, as though hesitant to show him. She looked at him through her lashes. 

“I’m not… entirely certain that these are what you’re looking for.” He set aside his rapier with care, pulling himself up and facing her. She opened the bag, reaching in carefully to withdraw small, fleshy globes in vibrant green, indigo, and crimson. 

Boluses. 

“Delia,” he breathed. “Where… how…?”

“So these are them? Boluses? Will any of them…?”

Rogier was already shaking his head. He reached forward, taking the green globes carefully. “These treat poison.” He pointed to the crimson orbs in her hands. “Those staunch blood loss.” He gestured to the indigo spheres, which she’d lay on the tabletop. “And those lift sleep magic.” His gaze caught on them as the words left his mouth.

Delia, of course, saw this. “Have you slept?”

He looked up at her, suddenly dumbstruck at the memory of her in his arms. It had felt so good to hold her, so right. Her heat had driven out the cold of the Blight, warming his chilled body. Her breath fanning against his neck had nearly undone him, keeping him awake, longing and pitiful, long after she’d drifted off. He’d lay trembling each time her lips brushed his skin, only following her into sleep after she shifted to lay her head against his chest. 

It was the soundest sleep he’d had in ages.

And then there had been the almost kiss. He’d wanted to kiss her, desperately, body moving of its own volition. Hadn’t even registered what was happening until it was almost too late. It had taken him far, far too long to gain control of his senses, wading through the mire of sleep and Death.

He swallowed hard. “Not since you left.”

Her eyebrows pinched together, drawing a furrow between them.

He looked away. “I should tell you. Lately, I feel I'm on the precipice… of falling into a deep… fathomless slumber. It’s too hard to wake up,” he admitted quietly. “And… I’m afraid I won’t.” When he looked up, Delia’s expression was pained.

She lay a hand on his, squeezing lightly. “Will these help?”

He looked back to the collection of boluses on the table. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. But I’ll try them. I don’t want to fall into this sleep- I have an inkling it could spell trouble for you somehow.” A slow smile spread across his face as he spoke. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can be quite useful. So I just wanted to get the apology out of the way, beforehand.” He leaned forward to nudge her with his elbow, now fully grinning. “Since you’re so scary and all.”

Delia scowled at him. “At least one of us can find amusement in this.”

He felt his face fall.

She grimaced instantly, raising her other hand to his. “Sorry,” she whispered. 

“Don’t be.” He squeezed her hands back. “And on the note of usefulness, now I have some things for you.” He released her, reaching for the pamphlet he’d created. Her eyes stuck on the glintstone, fingering it reverently as he handed it to her, then lit up when she opened it. 

He’d penned a table of contents for the lot once he’d finished, with blank pages in the back for additional recipes. Delia beamed at him. “Thank you,” she breathed. “This is wonderful.”

Rogier hummed. “Something to repay my debts to you, I suppose.” Delia’s brow furrowed again. He went on before she could object. “And now,” he bent, raising the knifeprint from where he’d laid it at the bedside. “My examination is complete. Here's the knifeprint back, with my thanks.”

Delia’s eyes glowed with excitement. “Don’t be silly,” she murmured, turning the blade in her hands. “You keep it. I’ve got no use for it.” She grinned up at him. “Besides, I can always come see it when I see you.”

Rogier’s heart sped in his chest, and he found himself smiling widely. “Now,” he began, growing serious. “I have a fairly good idea who performed the rite upon the blade. The person who orchestrated the Night of the Black Knives. Lunar Princess Ranni.” Delia nodded, patiently awaiting the explanation she expected him to give. “One of the children born to King Consort Radagon and his first wife, Rennala. Demigod and sister to General Radahn and Praetor Rykard. Hers was the name I discovered in the imprint. Truly, you have my thanks. But,” he said hesitantly. “If I might be so bold, I would also like to ask something more of you.”

“Go on,” she said softly. 

“If Ranni truly is the one who plotted that fateful night, then she should bear the cursemark of Destined Death somewhere upon her flesh.” He took a deep breath, and then spoke before he lost his nerve. “I would like you to procure it for me. And then all will be laid bare.” Delia stared at him, wide-eyed. He whispered “I will have the answers I have sought for so long.”

“Alright,” said Delia slowly. “And where would I find…?”

“I have some idea of Ranni’s potential whereabouts. There’s a manor to the north of the Academy of Raya Lucaria. It is the familial home of the Carian royals from whom Ranni descends. There’s been talk of the old royals’ vassals gathering there in recent years. Ranni’s whereabouts since the Shattering are a well-kept secret. She hasn't been seen even once. But I suspect she might have returned to the manor in which she was born…”

Delia said nothing for a long moment. “Why do you want this cursemark?”

He hesitated. “I'm afraid there's something I must tell you. Do you know of Those Who Live in Death?” She nodded. “The very notion of life in death defies the Golden Order.” He snorted softly. “By D's account, these defiled fiends must be expunged. But truth be told, I seek the cursemark to save them. And… possibly myself.” Delia fixed him with a piercing stare. He hurried on, hoping she’d hear him out.

“You may find this peculiar, but I discovered something in my examination of the Night of the Black Knives. These souls have committed no offense. They have every right to life, only, they happened to touch upon a flaw in the Order.”

“Explain the part where it helps you.”

Rogier stammered a bit, caught off-guard. “W-well, I was infected with the Blight by Deathroot. Deathroot was never seen in the Lands Between prior to Godwyn’s murder. In fact, it seems to stem from his corpse. Something about the cursemark, the rite itself, or perhaps even the very death of a demigod, must have caused its growth. If I can only understand that…”

“Then perhaps you can undo the damage.”

“Yes,” he breathed. She hummed, fixated on some point against the far wall. Her head whipped suddenly toward him, a dangerous gleam in her eye. 

“Done. How do I ‘procure’ the mark?”

He found himself stuttering again, unnerved by the vehemence in her tone. “I’m honestly not quite sure. This work is entirely unprecedented. Convincing her to come here would be the best, easiest outcome. Somehow, though, I doubt she’ll agree to that. Are you much of an artist? Could you draw it, or perhaps take a rubbing of it? Assuming you could convince her to let you so close, that is.” He was rambling, and Delia’s expression had morphed from shock to relief before she began to laugh. He frowned. “Yes, yes, all fun and games until you’re the one in the hot seat.”

“Rogier, I will be the one in the hot seat. I assumed you were asking me to cut this mark from her skin.”

He sputtered, indignant. “Do you take me for a butcher?”

“Not a butcher. A scholar,” she said fondly. Then her smile turned to a sly grin. “Besides.” She lay a hand on his abdomen, sliding it slowly up to lay against his suddenly racing heart. The heat of her skin through the thin fabric of his poet’s shirt had him breathing too quickly, too shallowly. She leaned forward until their noses nearly brushed, and Rogier found himself fighting every animal instinct to tip his chin up and close the gap between them. “I can be quite convincing when I want to be.”

She shoved lightly, sending him reeling back against the cushions. His head spun as he watched her with wide eyes. “Indeed,” he agreed, voice low. “You certainly can.”

Something sparked in her gaze then, something zealous. Something hungry. Something he hadn’t seen in her before, but something that kindled a flame deep within him. He held his breath, waiting to see what she would do. She was leaning forward, looking as though she hadn’t even noticed. 

Then her eyes flicked to his covered legs. 

Rogier felt himself jerk as though scalded, feeling as though he’d been scalded. Shame coursed through him. 

Of course. How could she ever want him? Damaged goods, and at Death’s door to boot. 

“So, you’ll seek her out?” he asked brusquely. Delia made a confused face, pausing halfway to leaning over him. He looked away. “Lunar Princess Ranni.”

She didn’t answer him right away. He could feel her slow withdrawal and wondered, belatedly, whether he’d gotten it all wrong. 

“Of course I will. I… I can go now.” There was a hitch in his voice that made him furious with himself. She’d already begun to rise when he reached for her, grasping her wrist. 

“Would you stay? Get some rest, first? W-with me?”

She relaxed under his fingers, nodding quickly. She stood, removing her cloak and armor with rushed movements. He was growing concerned at her rushed motions until she lay down, pressing herself against him, and his thoughts went blank. She wrapped an arm around him, tucking her head beneath his chin and nestling as close as she could get, and it occurred to him that she thought he might change his mind. 

Never. 

He tucked an arm under her, drawing her even closer. She raised a leg, resting it across his hips, and he drew in a sharp breath. The blouse and bloomers she wore were thin, and his own clothing did little to mask the shape of her body against his. He could feel every curve of her, at least to the point that he still had feeling; feel the contrasting softness and hard muscles at every point her body touched his. 

“You’re so cold,” she murmured. He didn’t respond, and felt her tense as realization set in. “It’s the Blight, isn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you feel it? The cold?”

“Somewhat,” he admitted. “It’s not so much that I feel cold, as that I feel the absence of heat. For example,” he said, laying his hand on her hip. “You feel hot, in the way things that aren’t hot feel it when your skin is too cold.”

Delia bolted upright, and Rogier found himself leaning up, too. “Am I hurting you?” she asked. 

He blinked. “No. It’s… nice, actually.” He looked down as Delia began chewing her lip nervously. She haltingly reached up to lay her hands against his chest, pressing him gently back. He went down willingly, and was rewarded by Delia straddling him carefully.

His ever racing thoughts ground to a halt as she settled her weight over him, laying forward to cover him with as much of her body as she could. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, lips brushing his jaw. The heat of her was so intoxicating, her closeness tantalizing in a way that had him on the verge of begging- for what, he didn’t know. 

He was, for the first time, quite grateful for the loss of feeling in his lower body. The sensation would have been altogether too much. 

Then he felt her fingers, toying with the edges of his shirt. 

By Marika, if she- 

She did. She slid her hands under the material, palms blazing a molten trail against his skin as she ran them up his body. A great, shuddering breath went through him as he arched up into her caress, desperate. Desperate for the heat, desperate for her touch. He felt her smile against his jaw as his arms came up to clutch her tighter, felt her squeeze her legs around his hips. He imagined he could feel her knees pressed to his thighs, caging him in her body and presence. 

“How’s that?” she whispered. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded. She chuckled, raising gooseflesh where her warm breath fanned over the column of his throat. Her hands, trapped between them, had wriggled free to run down his sides. He turned his head, and she raised hers so that they were cheek to cheek. 

Her lips were so close. 

Her breathing began to even out, body soon sagging against his in sleep. The weight of her was soothing. Though his heart raced, he soon found himself nodding off, too. 

In his dreams, he wasn’t nearly the coward of reality.

In his dreams, she pressed him down to the bed and straddled him. In his dreams, he pulled her down over him to seal their lips together. In his dreams, he kissed her, fast and hard and searching, until she broke away for breath, and then he kissed her throat until she gasped and writhed in his lap. 

In his dreams, there was no Death Blight. He wrapped her waist in one arm and rolled, pinning her beneath him with his hips, arms caging her in his embrace. She panted against his mouth, pulling at his shirt and wrenching it up and out of her way. She ran her hands all over him, eyes locked on his, and dragged him down to fasten her lips to his neck, sucking on his pulse point and making him see stars. 

“Rogier,” she gasped, wrapping her legs around him. “Rogier,” she moaned as she pulled him closer, heat bleeding through their garments. 

He blinked and she was suddenly laid bare before him, stunning and stunningly wanting. Wanting of him. She scrabbled at his trousers, drawing him back down to her. Her bare skin burned him where it touched his. “Delia,” he choked out. 

“Rogier.” She was pulling his hair again, making him moan like he’d never been touched before. He really did love when she did that. 

“Rogier!”

He groaned, peeling his eyes open blearily. Delia’s worried face swam into focus then, hovering not far away. “Oh, thank goodness,” she breathed. She lay a hand against his cheek, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. Her fingers slid against his skin and he realized that he was drenched in sweat. “I’ve been trying to wake you for… well, for a long time.”

He drew himself up slowly, looking down at his soaked shirt. “Let me help you.” Her fingers brushed his sides as she lifted the garment, making him shiver. When he looked at her, for a moment, he saw her flushed face and glassy eyes from his dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut, berating himself in shame. But when he opened them again, Delia was staring. 

He couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at his lips, or the satisfaction rising in his chest. She noticed it, cheeks pinking as she stood, crossing the room to a chest. She rummaged in it for a moment, then drew out another light shirt. It was only then that he realized that she was already fully armored. 

“You had me worried,” she said softly. He grimaced. 

“Forgive me.” She shook her head, looking up once he’d pulled on the shirt. It was close to a good fit, only slightly tight across the shoulders when he raised his arms. “And thank you.”

She made a noncommittal noise. “It’s just an old shirt.”

“All the same.”

She was unfocused, staring at some point on the wall. Rogier leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. 

“Delia?”

She looked sharply up. “You said my name, while you were sleeping.”

Rogier felt his cheeks begin to burn. He looked away instinctively. “Did I?”

She came closer, seating herself at the edge of the bed. “Are you going to tell me what you were dreaming?”

Never. 

“I don’t remember.” The lie came easily enough, but he could tell even without seeing her face that she didn’t believe him. 

He let himself look up at her after a short time, but her expression was inscrutable. 

“You know, Rogier,” she said slowly. “I think we want the same thing.”

His heart leapt in his chest before rapidly sinking, like a spun stone skipping atop the foam of the sea before plummeting to the icy depths.

She gave him ample time- time to lie, to make excuses, to beg her to go and spare her heart or to beg her to come here and kiss him, already, heart and conscience and pride be damned.

He did, and said, nothing. 

“As I thought,” she murmured, leaning forward. 

Marika, help him. If she kissed him, he would be lost. 

He couldn’t do this to her. If she cared for him half as much as he did for her, he couldn’t do this to her. 

He had to fight to make his voice steady. “Delia, I’m dying.” She recoiled with enough force to shake the bed. He closed his eyes, unable to bear seeing her expression. “I can’t…”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” Her voice was firm and when he looked at her, her face was a stony mask of resolve. 

“Delia, we can’t stop this.” He let all his fear, his desolation, all of his hopelessness flood the statement. He lifted the blanket from his legs with a shaking hand, revealing the tangle of thorny vines piercing his flesh. The vile insects that hatched from them poured up, dispersing around them. 

Easier to forget him if she found him despicable. 

She turned calmly away, and Rogier felt himself deflate in relief and heartsickness. But then she turned back, holding some small, strong-smelling herbs in her hands. She tucked them beneath his legs, scattering the nymphs and flies alike. 

“We can.” Her voice was firm, gaze hard. “And I will.”

And in a shimmer of gold, she was gone.

#nightingale writes #elden ring #elden ring sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #sorcerer rogier x tarnished #sorcerer rogier x fem!tarnished #rogier x tarnished #rogier x fem!tarnished

[porphyriosao3]

#11 Cinnamon

"Let me handle this," Bilbo whispered to Gloin, who immediately looked offended.  The dwarves scurrying past them in the ruins of Erebor's entryway paid them no mind, dodging around them with whatever they happened to be carrying.  "Please."  After a growling noise from his supposed 'guard' was heard, Bilbo took it for assent and moved over to the merchant who had wandered in.  Shouting in Khuzdul could be heard in the distance but Bilbo's focus was entirely on the merchant.

"Greetings, greetings," the hobbit said with a sunny smile.  "Wonderful to see a merchant make this trip!  Where do you hail from, and what do you bring?"  The merchant was wearing clothing that resembled that of Gondor, but the trousers were cut a bit too loose and wide in the leg, the sleeves a bit too flowing for the city.  Brilliant white teeth flashed against olive skin and a beard that wouldn't have shamed a young dwarf.

"Lucky indeed to find customers so rare!  I came to the Town of the Lakes on my way to Rhûn but nobody told me so much had changed.  Where is your father, young one?  Or..." the merchant turned in confusion to a glaring Gloin, doing his best to loom over the man who was easily a foot taller.  Bilbo did his best to keep his internal sigh from showing on his face.

"I am fully grown, I assure you; I am a hobbit, of a race from the far West, not common in these parts.  We are smaller than men and dwarves, but no less capable, thank you very much."  He forced a smile back onto his face with determination.  "So again I ask; where from and what are your goods?  We need many things within the Mountain."  Gloin's surprised cough made Bilbo want to kick him but true to his word, the dwarf stayed quiet.  The merchant's smile grew impossibly wider.

"My apologies, good sir, my apologies!  My ignorance was not intended to cause offence!  My name is Khisritu, of the Purku people of Vasha, which you northerners call Harad, but I have been on the road for many many moons.  My home is the wagon you see behind me," he said with a flourish, "and my family are these others who assist me.  Wonders I bring, from the markets of the South, and from Gondor itself.  Iron needles, sharp as a thorn, and cloth of many colors!  Thread so fine it would scarce move a hair, and twine fit to wrap even stone have I, and spices of the..." Bilbo interrupted in spite of himself.

"Spices?  Which spices?"  Gloin groaned and this time Bilbo did kick him, if only just.  The merchant nodded knowingly and pulled out a small chest which he unlocked.

"The bark of the zhuzhu tree of the jungles of Tukku," he said with a flourish, producing a stack of curled reddish bark.  Bilbo's mouth immediately began to water.  "I think here it is called cimmanon, yes?  I also have the dried flowers of the khurimun tree, and several casks of strong black peppercorns."  The smell of cinnamon and cloves began to spread, and Bilbo nodded decisively.

"We'll take all your spices, certainly.  Cloth and thread as well.  In fact, we'll take all the nonmetal items you have.  Name your price."  Gloin's eyes were bugging out a bit at this apparent refusal to entertain a proper bargaining process, but Bilbo simply smiled. The merchant was all but rubbing his hands, though narrowed eyes showed a bit of suspicion.  "It's been difficult, you see," Bilbo said, lowering his voice as though speaking in confidence.  "We have so little left in the mountain that isn't gold.  That, though, we have in abundance!  So much gold.  So by all means, bring what you have!"  Cutting his eyes at Gloin, whose complexion was beginning to resemble the cinnamon bark, he went on.  "In fact, if you meet anyone else on the road with goods to sell, send them our way if you please!  We're happy to pay for what we need."  The dwarf stomped off to sit on the lip of the broken fountain, glaring at Bilbo as the hobbit negotiated a price that was eyewateringly high.  He paid it with a cheerful smile, though, and practically gave the merchant a cask of salt (Erebor's salt mines and storage warehouse remained unharmed by the dragon and they had more salt at this point than food to salt with it).

Several hours later, having overseen the transfer and payment personally, Bilbo wandered back into the mountain.  Gloin was grumbling at him the moment they passed out of earshot of the merchant, who was loudly thanking his gods for their favor.

"Just what in the name of Mahal's ballsack was that?" Gloin growled.  Bilbo smiled secretively and looked away, twirling his courting braid around one finger.

"Tell me, Gloin, what's the most important thing to Erebor?"  Bilbo asked.  As Gloin drew a breath to answer, he quickly added "I mean long term, not just the clean up and repairs."

Gloin hesitated for a moment.  "Trade," he finally said.  "But you paid that man easily five times what those things were worth!  It was sheer theft!  Why didn't you let me..." The hobbit held up his hand, smiling, and Gloin sputtered to a stop, glaring suspiciously at Bilbo.  He knew that look.

"Yes, exactly, trade.  And what do you think our friend will do when he sees another merchant on the road?"

"Send them here if we're willing to overpay, but long term we can't support prices like that!  Eventually they'll bleed us dry!"  Bilbo nodded, seeming to surprise the irate dwarf.

"Oh yes," he said with an earnest look.  "But he will send them here for sure.  And once they start coming, word will spread.  It won't always be like this, for sure.  But now we have time to set up a proper market, and all who arrive will end up driving their prices down through competing with each other... when we get to that point.  But right now, we want word to spread that Erebor is an easy sell and that we have deep pockets and a willingness to spend.  Once everyone gets in the habit of coming here, we can become the trading hub it once was, only better.  Maybe one day, we'll be a bigger market than Gondor or Umbar... but first, we have to get them here."  Bilbo smiled at Gloin's sudden look of comprehension, but he wasn't ready for the dwarf to pick him up and hug him.

"I see now what Thorin sees in you," he said bluntly, smirking at Bilbo's look of false outrage.  "You're a clever one, Master Baggins."

"I try," the hobbit responded, eyes dancing.  "Now let's go tell Dori how much cloth we got, and tell Bombur we actually got pepper, cloves, and cinnamon.  They'll dance a jig."

#bilbo #gloin #erebor #bagginshield #fotfics #fotfictober

[manwalksintobar]

Rhapsody  // Frank O’Hara

515 Madison Avenue   door to heaven? portal stopped realities and eternal licentiousness or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness your marble is bronze and your lianas elevator cables   swinging from the myth of ascending I would join or declining the challenge of racial attractions they zing on (into the lynch, dear friends) while everywhere love is breathing draftily like a doorway linking 53rd with 54th the east-bound with the west-bound traffic by 8,000,000s   o midtown tunnels and the tunnels, too, of Holland where is the summit where all aims are clear   the pin-point light upon a fear of lust as agony’s needlework grows up around the unicorn   and fences him for milk- and yoghurt-work when I see Gianni I know he’s thinking of John Ericson   playing the Rachmaninoff 2nd or Elizabeth Taylor   taking sleeping-pills and Jane thinks of Manderley   and Irkutsk while I cough lightly in the smog of desire   and my eyes water achingly imitating the true blue a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle multi-faceted insight of the fly in the stringless labyrinth   Canada plans a higher place than the Empire State Building   I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue   and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment   “where you can’t walk across the floor after 10 at night   not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs” no, I don’t like that “well, I didn’t take it” perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work   a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods you were there always and you know all about these things   as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes   it isn’t enough to smile when you run the gauntlet you’ve got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid   as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar that is what you learn in the early morning passing Madison Avenue   where you’ve never spent any time and stores eat up light I have always wanted to be near it though the day is long (and I don’t mean Madison Avenue)   lying in a hammock on St. Mark’s Place sorting my poems   in the rancid nourishment of this mountainous island   they are coming and we holy ones must go is Tibet historically a part of China? as I historically   belong to the enormous bliss of American death

#poetry #Frank O'Hara #American poetry #Queer poetry #Madison Avenue #New York City #poems of the city #New York #death #America #Irkutsk #Tibet #geopolitics #St. Mark's Place