#(i know that like a period of like several hundred years... but like... listen. listen. im trying so hard not to base it off of what era of

[trilliumprince]

Indebted

this is an au where seleien gets kidnapped by the man he's indebted to. hes not too keen on being forced into indentured servitude.

torture starts at part 5

general cws: captivity, coercion into signing a contract, indentured servitude (but the contract makes it more akin to slavery) (eventually), not sure how much this will actually come up but theres also a war going on, entitled rich person doing entitled rich person things,

other content: poc/nonhuman (elven) whumpee, fantasy setting, me not naming the country/relevant locations before starting,

prologue

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

[dancing-with-maenads]

Can I have a safe space to ramble a bit about reconstructionists? Just seeing the posts over the last few days have recemented some feelings I have and I don’t really have anyone to bounce them off of-

And for one I completely respect reconstructionsists! I think there absolutely is value in studying how Hellenic polytheism operated and was integrated into every day life. It’s a part of history and deserves to be covered and I love to concept of being able to bring back some older traditions into our modern day practices even if they are separated by thousands of years. And it’s really good to reflect on how these gods existed originally outside of modern interpretation.

I just really feel squicked out by the… elitism? that a lot of reconstructionists I’ve encountered hold. Just this idea that they know the right way to worship the gods and all of us to who mix our practices into our modern lives or work with our modern limitations are actually doing it all wrong.

I never really like this line of thinking that the gods are confused or turned off by modern customs and changes. As if they are incapable of evolving past the period of time we classify as Ancient Greece. As if Greece is a place that doesn’t still exist as a modern location. If that makes sense?

There’s also the fact that the period of time we recognize as Ancient Greece existed a couple thousand years ago- and the period of time where helpol was working was also over several hundred years itself (talking more as the “main” religion of the region yknow?).

I just feel that it’s inauthentic for reconstructionists to constantly peddle this idea that they are worshipping in this true old way- when there’s no doubt in my mind that helpol existed and changed so much from its inception to the time it “ended”. If anything, their own practices can really only cover brief periods of time.

I could go on but I think I’ll end it there- hopefully this made sense, some of these thoughts I don’t fully know how to articulate, but thanks for listening <3

You honestly just put everything I've been thinking for so long into words. TOTAL reconstruction is fully and completely impossible because of how old and lost to time the religion is

I want to obviously say that I LOVE reconstructionists, I'm friends with many and most of them are wonderful people full of respect and a passion for learning. It's just a few bad apples.

But holy shit I so agree. It's a dick measuring contest of who knows the most about the absolutely miniscule amount of information we have. And learning and reading up on stuff is good, it's GREAT!! we all SHOULD be! But at the same time, we're all human, and it's a lot of information that's hard to find, hard to understand, and needs an insane amount of cross referencing. It's HARD.

honestly I don't even have more to add. You were so well spoken and put it all so well. Thank you for finding me a safe space to share this 🩷

[forklesbian]

More stuff related to my conspiracy theorist idea: How difficult I think it would be to find images of the Mechs in universe (if they aren't holding a show near you) and how Morrigan (The conspiracy theorist. {Thanks for the name @purelunaris!}) managed it.

It's fairly easy to find images of Johnny, if you look through most police records. He leaves most cameras that catch photos of him intact and is incredibly proud of all his mugshots and wanted posters. No matter the time or place, he's the easiest to find.

Marius had a brief period of time where he got really into publishing shitty self-help books, and he put different pictures of him acting out the 'advice' in the book. All the photos look like weird stock photos and are of him doing things like sitting on a pile of hundreds of violins or burning down another psychiatrists office. The books are still mass produced for some reason.

Raphaella shows up in various science textbooks, mostly under aliases. Many professionals photos and sketches are very easy to find copies of. Though you do have to buy several textbooks about the full history of magnets just to cut out a small black-and-white picture of her.

The Toy Soldier is famous and infamous across many planets militaries, so many depictions of it show up all across history. The problem is that most of the time, it tries to blend as a regular human soldier, so depending on a galaxies milliary history, it could be near impossible to find good quality proof of it. But when there's a will there's a way and where theirs a need for old books, there's a second-hand book store.

Brian has many art pieces of him made by followers over the years, many of them preserved as the religions grew even after he left. A few of the branches hand out little pamphlets with pictures of him in a stain glass window style! You do have to listen to a religious rant, though...

Ashes made sure the only photos available of them weren't actually photos, but instead highly expensive oil paintings. So most of the time, the only way to actually own a photo of them is to shell out a ridiculous amount of money to buy a centuries old painting... or you could quickly copy down a recreation of the painting onto line paper while visiting a museum.

Only a few photos are available of Gunpowder Tim because while many have been taken, the cameras usually don't survive long enough afterward, usually being found blown to smithereens. Thankfully, there are a few portraits of him that Ashes had commissioned of them as Persephone and other roles. Those were also copied down onto notebook paper.

Photos of Nastya are incredibly rare, but an old portrait of some old princess named Anastasia fits her description well enough to earn a spot on the conspiracy board, so on it goes!

Photos of Ivy are even harder to find, leading to Morri knowing next to nothing about her, leading to them somehow coming to the conclusion that she has to be some evil mastermind.

[thissying]

Christian Horner about Max in Formule1 magazine, October 2023 issue You've worked with several top drivers. How does Verstappen compare to the 'greats' in your opinion? As a team we've had a great and successful period with Sebastian, an exceptionally good driver. Of course there have been more extraordinary drivers. Since I saw guys like Ayrton Senna when I was a little boy, I haven't seen anyone like Max. Michael Schumacher did similar things at the time, but what Max is showing is truly phenomenal. Did you recognise his talent from day one, like adviser Helmut Marko? Max continues to amaze us. He's only 25 years old, but by now a veteran. He uses that experience, it gives him an advantage. He uses his head more, but he's still got that pure speed and skills that he had when he came here as a 16 year old boy. He's merged all those elements in a brilliant way. Besides that he's just a nice guy and fantastic to work with. Fame and fortune hasn't changed him at all: he's the same Max Verstappen. He's just a more adult version of himself.

A leader within Red Bull Racing. Absolutely. Everyone looks at him, he's the leader in the garage, in the team. Because of how he drives, because of the results he gets. Everyone walks just a bit faster for him, goes just a bit farther. Because everyone knows there's usually a reward in the end. In that way, he's a great motivation for everyone. No, verbally he's not loud or exaggeratedly present in the garage. I mean: he's not giving a speech every five minutes or something. But when he says something, people listen. Max is just one of the guys, everyone appreciates that he isn't a diva. The British and the Dutch share a good sense of humour; there's a lot of laughter in the garage. Because you have to enjoy your work. And Max does, he fits perfectly in the team. Does that make working with him easier?Max is one of the most straightforward drivers I've worked with. No bullshit, or anything. You know where you stand with him. He's a professional, comes in and does his job. He gives a hundred percent and expects the same from others. […] What specific things does you appreciate in Max Verstappen as a person? With his family and Raymond (Vermeulen, his manager) he's got a close-knit group of people around him. And the team as well, I think. I think he feels safe and at ease in that environment. He's the same boy he was when he joined us. Whether it's at our home for a barbecue or at Silverstone: he always enjoys playing with the kids. Max is genuinely a really nice guy for whom family is the most important thing, too. Demanding, difficult to work with? Totally not, Max is actually very predictable. You know exactly what you've get with him. Max doesn't do politics, just does what he says. And he expects the same from the people he works with. He's direct and clear, that's how he was raised. He's always on time. I've worked with drivers who kept to their own time-table… Not Max, he knows why he's here and he always delivers craftsmanship. Do you often have discussions with him? To be honest, no. And if there is a point of discussion we talk openly about it. I don't believe in the conflict model. If there's something you need to get off your chest or have an issue, you sit down together, talk about it and try to resolve it. Is your relationship with Verstappen different from his with Marko? Helmut is a bit like Max's grandfather, the older wiser man. Their relationship is bit more personal, I'd say. They get on well, are both straightforward. Max is just less traditional in his thinking. Helmut is Red Bull's adviser, responsible for the talent program and obviously very proud of Max's achievements. My relationship with him is a bit more operational in nature: how the whole team functions, how Max functions with in the team.

[volo-omnia]

fuck it this is my house and i get to make the self indulgent content

if y'all are interested more i'll be rambling under the cut

So i redesigned my PLA self insert oc! I wanted to simplify the design a bit to be more "giratina" like but also taking some inspiration from some hanfu designs-

anyway long list of Gristen's character here we go

TLDR: I want to design Gristen as a foil to Volo, and someone who goes through an inverse character development to him (i.e., Volo is a villain and over time slowly reconsiders his plan being bad/redemption arc, whereas Gristen is a hero but slowly reconsiders nothing they did was worth it and thinks Volo might be right)

Gristen is actually a player character back from Pokemon Platinum, going through the normal events of Platinum through their early 20's and becoming the Sinnoh champion, and also became friends with Cynthia to help run the league now that Cynthia has stepped down/retired. Gristen at this time is still pretty stable, albeit a bit overworked as the Sinnoh champion but overall enjoying their life with the events at Spear Pillar/Distortion world behind them.

Cue being isekai'd several hundred years in past Sinnoh, now Hisui.

Gristen has now started back at zero. All of their memories got yeeted into the void (except their muscle memory for catching/battling), and they lost all their pokemon.

The events of Legends Arceus plays normally, with the minor exception of a certain blonde merchant Gristen catches feelings for...

Gristen as their base self is pretty optimistic and upbeat, eager to help out others and building a future for everyone. This is true for both Platinum and Legends Arceus, but since these are very different time periods, how people respond to Gristen is very different. (The latter obviously being much more suspicious and secluding from them)

However near the end of the game is when things start to shift. Over the course of the game Gristen slowly regains their memories, putting the pieces together who they are and what Arceus wants of them, and the tension between them and the village starts to amplify as Gristen becomes more aware people don't trust them (despite how much they're earnestly trying to help) and the rumors spreading of them being a sign of disaster don't go away.

Cue the rift disaster nearly destroying the world, Gristen gets banished from the village, and they take this really badly.

Gristen starts reconsidering their relationship as the region's champion/hero/savior and wondering why they choose to keep doing things with little/no reward. Their mental health starts tanking as well, and they start getting intrusive thoughts to just leaving the Galaxy Team and/or letting the people fend for themselves. (They don't give into these thoughts, despite everything Gristen does intend on helping others and wants to do the right thing.) Basically their optimistic personality starts to fade as they become more nihilistic, and even having weird feelings towards being Arceus' "chosen hero" despite not having any choice in this whatsoever.

Gristen starts hanging out with Volo more at this point, listening to his long talks on myths/history and the possibility of creating a new world and finds comfort that despite how everyone else treated them, Volo was still there for them.

Most of the game plays out normally, insert some self ship stuff here, and the rift closes and the world is saved. Gristen is forgiven and is allowed to return to the village, albeit they are very hesitant returning to their survey duties knowing how easily they were dropped before. The post-game plays out the same as well, with Gristen and Volo collecting the plates.

Cue the final battle at the Temple of Sinnoh and Volo's betrayal.

This is where the final thread of Gristen snaps. Given how well they handled being banished, upon Volo's betrayal Gristen is PISSED. Like, straight up considering the possibility of killing Volo. They are genuinely so upset that all their bottled feelings of everything they have went through is spilling out now. (Also, this exact moment is when all of Gristen's memories return)

Now this is where the events kinda diversify, there are a number of endings/outcomes I've thought depending on what the final outcome is at the final battle. Depending on both Gristen's and Volo's choices I've been playing with different arcs depending on the direction they go in terms of development.

Normal Ending: Gristen wins the battle, chooses to keep going as the game's hero, the events of the game plays out normally. Gristen and Volo never see each other again and Gristen is now left alone in Hisui. (Volo does get a bit of a redemption in this, as now when alone he's reconsidering if he was wrong in trying to create a new world. He's stubborn, and still set in his current canon self, but there are a few cracks.)

Bad Ending: Volo wins the battle. He destroys everything, becomes god, and creates a new world. Gristen straight up dies in this outcome. (If I'm really being lenient, I could do a more softer/fluff approach and have Volo keep Gristen alive for whatever reason, but hey this is my house and I can kill my self insert) This basically becomes a Volo-centric route.

Even More Bad Ending: Gristen wins the battle, but THEY choose to destroy everything and becomes god. This is Gristen's most nihilistic self, fully giving in to giving up and eliminating everything. (It should be noted that Gristen, unlike Volo, does not want to become a god, because now they're immortal and stuck with the revelation that they're responsible for EVERYTHING now. So basically Gristen is now in supernatural mega hell)

True Ending: Gristen and Volo both get therapy.

There's definitely different ways I wanna play with this, but Gristen is essentially my attempt at some sort of foil to Volo, reflecting trying to balance out as the "reasonable" voice of a normal person but also the potential to reflect his worst traits.

Upon the climax their dynamic is kinda in this weird state of love and hate? With Gristen's feelings boiling down to "I earnestly love and adore you very much but holy shit this plan of making a new world is the stupidest thing I ever heard of and want to strangle you for it" whereas Volo's feelings boil down to "I deeply resent you being Arceus' chosen one over me and believe I should kill you for it but I do hold some respect for you and think you're the only one that understands me"

But also I'm also doing all of this because I want to smooch Volo on the mouth. This whole thing is just an elaborate foreplay

[mimisempai]

I started missing you the moment you said goodbye

Summary

Aziraphale calls Crowley every hour on his phone even though he knows the demon can't answer just to hear his voice on the answering machine.

Because a few hours away is worse than centuries when you know you love each other.

Notes

A minute or a hundred years, the absence is sometimes unbearable...

On Ao3

Rating G -  942 words

"You have 10 missed calls and 1 new message.

Ten missed calls. 

All from Aziraphale.

He'd only left a voicemail for the last call.

Crowley glanced at his phone several times, a little confused.

If it had been urgent, he would have known one way or another, and Aziraphale wouldn't have used this means to reach him.

But Aziraphale had called him ten times.

Once an hour.

The length of Crowley's absence.

The planetarium had organized an out-of-town event, a lecture series culminating in a night of stargazing, and Crowley had been invited by the board to contribute. Encouraged by Aziraphale, he'd accepted, which meant that the angel knew it would be impossible for him to take the calls, so Crowley wondered why he'd called him in the first place. To find out, he waited no longer and dialed the code to listen to Aziraphale's message.

"Um... Crowley, it's me, Aziraphale. Yes, of course it's me."

Crowley couldn't help but chuckle as Aziraphale's voice continued. 

"You're probably wondering why all these missed calls, right? Why am I calling you when I know you can't answer? But here we are, you've been gone for ten hours today. I've been calling you every hour just because I miss your voice, because I miss hearing you talk. Just to hear the sound of your voice on that recorded message.  And now you must think I'm an idiot, right?"

Crowley stopped the message.

The Angel was so wrong, for Crowley actually found it rather endearing and far from idiotic.

Aziraphale missed him so much that he called his phone once an hour just to hear the sound of his voice.

If only Aziraphale knew how much Crowley understood and felt the same way.

In the past, they'd been separated for long periods of time, and of course he missed the angel and was thrilled at every opportunity to meet him. But now that they were together, the slightest separation, even if it was only for a few hours, was agonizing.

Now, eager to hear the next part, he pressed play to continue listening to Aziraphale's message. 

"And today, even though you'll be back in a few hours, I wanted to tell you again that more than your voice, I really miss talking to you. About everything. About my day. About the last book I'm reading. About Muriel's latest discovery. About the latest gossip on the street. I miss listening to you talk passionately about ducks and stars or whatever you fancy. About anything and everything. The silence is killing me. (sigh) I'll stop before I get so maudlin that you hang up, so to sum up, just know that I miss you, that's all. Come home soon. I love you."

Crowley hadn't felt like making fun of Aziraphale before, and he felt even less like it now. 

He restrained himself from telling the Bentley to go any faster when he was already well over the speed limit.

He was even more eager now.

He couldn't wait to tell Aziraphale himself that he missed his voice, too. 

To tell him about his day. 

To listen to him tell what he'd been up to while Crowley had been gone.

To tell him how he missed his smile. 

That he missed everything that made up their daily lives. 

That he missed Aziraphale, even though they had only been a few hours apart.

As he parked in front of the bookshop, he noticed that there was very little light coming from inside, which was not surprising given the time of day he was returning.

It took him only three steps to get to the door, and he was in such a hurry that it took him three tries to get the key into the lock. 

He refrained from calling out, trying not to make any noise in case Aziraphale was asleep.

He saw that the faint light was coming from Aziraphale's desk and, barely taking the time to put down his bag and jacket, quickly made his way there.

He couldn't help but smile fondly at the sight of Aziraphale asleep in his armchair, his reading glasses perched at an angle on his nose, the book he was reading threatening to fall out of his hands.

Crowley approached, knelt in front of the angel and carefully took the book from his hands before placing it on the small table behind him. Then he gently removed the glasses from Aziraphale's nose before running his knuckle delicately across the angel's cheek, trying to wake him up without startling him.

The demon watched in silence as the angel's eyes blinked several times before opening fully, then watched as his lips curled into a happy smile as his gaze met Crowley's.

Aziraphale murmured in a still sleepy voice, "Welcome home."

Crowley brought his face close and kissed him softly on the lips before saying, his throat tight with emotion, "It's so good to be home."

When he pulled away, Aziraphale rubbed his eyes and straightened up, making room on the armchair for Crowley to sit next to him on the armrest.

Once seated, Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder as the angel did the same around his waist. Then, resting his head on the demon's chest, he said softly, "I've missed this, too. I've missed you. I missed you so much."

Crowley hummed, kissed Aziraphale's hair, and replied, "I know. Because I missed you just as much, Angel."

They stayed like that for a long time, in each other's arms, basking in the bliss of this reunion in silence.

They would have time to talk.

Later.

For now, they had said the essential.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : (After season 2) 

Part 1 Story 1-99

Part 2 Story 100-?

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

[narwool]

Asakiku Week 2025 Day 2 - Flowers

Day 2 ー Flowers

Kiku receives a mysterious warning that he cannot comprehend. Then, one-hundred years pass…

It was sometime in the Edo period, that was when Kiku had first seen it. How had it started? He remembered it clearly, several members of the court had encouraged him to attend a pilgrimage to a Shintō shrine, which was nothing unusual, especially for the time. People were far more spiritual back then than they were in the 21st century, and Kiku prayed quite a lot, even though he didn't particularly know for who or for what he was praying. But that shrine visit had gone a little differently than usual. It was on that pilgrimage that Kiku had met a soothsayer.

Even back then, Kiku was quite skeptical when it came to things like fortune telling, but the others in his pilgrimage group were quite enamored with the strange man. When the soothsayer called out to Kiku, he felt like he couldn't turn down the man's offer without looking bad in the eyes of the group.

‘Young man, young man, I have something to warn you about…’ the soothsayer had said.

Kiku, who felt that he could not be called a young man by any stretch of the imagination, stopped to listen to the strange man speak, feeling obligated to hear out someone who was calling upon him so earnestly. More than simply advising him, the man had actually taken him aside and drew him an image. 

‘Beware the one who grows flowers that have an appearance as such…’

And Kiku was handed an ink drawing on thin rice paper, constructed rather skillfully.

The flower was one that Kiku had not seen even once before in his entire life. It was tall and conical, with small bell shaped flowers running up the stem until they tapered off into a thin point. Kiku had been gardening his whole life, and he had trekked through many woodlands, mountains, and plains throughout his entire country. There were some plants that looked similar to the drawing, but none that came to his mind were an exact match. Where would such a plant even grow? 

Even though the man at the Shintō temple had warned him so sincerely and so earnestly, Kiku simply tossed the whole matter to the back of his mind. If it was important, he would deal with it when it happened, but he couldn't spend all his time worrying about the something that might not even happen.

After all… If he had never seen the flower until this point, it must be extremely rare. And even if he saw the plant, he only had to beware of the one who was purposefully gardening these flowers. Not too troublesome to avoid.

 So Kiku forgot all about these warnings, and then one hundred years passed in the blink of an eye.

He had forgotten all about it.

That was, he had, until he found such a flower staring straight at him in clusters of bright magenta, purple and white. He was stunned quiet for a moment, left to stare as his mind leapt back to the past. He had long lost the drawing that man had given him, the rice paper had melted away after having accidentally gotten wet while sitting in his house. But even without the image, he felt a sudden sense of familiarity- these odd flowers, with their bell-shaped blossoms, the insides of each blossom was speckled as if the plant had measles… He knew it in his heart, he knew that this plant must be the one in the drawing from so long ago.

Ah, that's why Kiku had never seen such a flower before- because it did not grow native to his country.

Kiku, who had been studying this ominous plant for so long, only broke out of his trance when a hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back a bit.

It had been Arthur who had pulled him back. Arthur had been giving him a tour of his personal garden here in England, as Kiku had mentioned that he quite liked gardening, and as it turned out, the two of them shared this interest.

“Kiku, please don't touch that plant- it's very poisonous.”

Kiku's eyes widened. “Poisonous?”

“Yes, very poisonous. The humans who consume any part of this plant fall asleep and no longer wake up,” Arthur said.

“They just fall asleep?” Kiku asked.

“Well, just about…” Arthur said.

Most poisons were far more violent in their culling of life. 

“It seems like a very peaceful kind of poison…” Kiku commented.

“It stops the heart, supposedly. Though I don't know how peaceful it really is,” Arthur said, not understanding in the slightest why his foreign emissary had taken such a shine to this flower in particular.

As if it had just occurred to him, Kiku asked, “What's it called?”

“Foxglove,” Arthur answered simply.

Foxglove… What an odd name. It really didn't seem to have anything to do with foxes.

But Kiku decided, “It's quite pretty. I like it.”

The warning had been futile. Not only did Kiku not avoid the ominous flower, he fell in love with it.

Arthur only laughed. “I can tell you like it. I've shown you several things that I've grown, but you've been looking at this one like it's bewitched you.”

‘Bewitched? ’ It wasn't an English word Kiku quite understood, but he didn't ask about it.

“Well, anyways, I can tell you like it, so… As long as you promise me you'll be careful, I'll give you some seeds you can take home with you.”

Kiku turned towards Arthur a little too quickly, an excited look on his face. 

“Really?”

Arthur had grown bashful, feeling a bit touched by Kiku's reaction.

“Of course you can. They're just some foxglove seeds- it‘s nothing special. Just don't use them to poison anyone, alright? They're dangerous, remember? Deadly, even.”

“Of course, I understand. Thank you, Arthur…”

Growing the foxglove in his own garden for the first year, Kiku still didn't understand the warning.

Growing the foxglove the next twenty years or so, and the true meaning of the warning still eluded him.

It was only forty years after he had first planted foxglove on his own, that Kiku finally understood the man's warning.

‘Beware the one who grows flowers that have an appearance as such…’

Kiku was sitting on the ground in his garden, having only returned to his home for one day. He was so busy with work, running to-and-fro from place to place, running because if he didn't, his people would suffer for it. He was exhausted, and his body had almost given out on him. To even make it back to his home had been an arduous task.

And now, when he finally had a moment of respite, he had somehow ended up in front of a patch of vibrant purple flowers, the blossom laden stalks swaying lazily in the breeze.

It was gorgeous-... he hated it.

‘The humans who consume any part of this plant fall asleep and no longer wake up.’

‘It stops the heart, supposedly…’

Kiku's body was different from that of a human- he couldn't die like they could, even if he had wanted to.

And yet…

“...Why do I feel like my heart's been stopped?” He asked the flora in front of him as if it could possibly understand spoken language, “I'm not asleep, but my heart no longer beats.”

Who's fault was it? 

Who's fault was it that his heart had stopped beating?

It was the foxglove, surely.

But even as his fingers hovered over the base of the stem, intending to rip the flower straight from the soil…

He couldn't do it. 

He covered his face with bare hands…

He couldn't do it. Even when it had made his heart stop beating-

He couldn't tear the beautiful flower from its soil.

…

Forty years later…

“It's really not funny. Who keeps leaving foxglove on my chair?” 

For the past few years now, on occasion at international meetings, when Arthur would get ready to take his seat, he would find a cluster of foxglove placed carefully upon his chair.

Arthur thrust the offensive flower in Francis's direction as if he were the culprit.

“Didn't I tell you? It's really not me!” Francis sighed, “As if I would go through all the trouble of bringing you anything.”

“Hmph… you're right. You're far too lazy to have kept it up for this long,” Arthur said.

Francis took some offense to Arthur's words and was just about to retort to him in disgust, when he noticed something much more fascinating.

“Ohh~ look there. Your little admirer left you a note this time!” 

Francis pointed, and Arthur quickly plucked the folded sheet of paper off the chair.

It was written on rice paper-

‘I want your heart,

‘for mine has stopped beating.’

...

I left on a bit of a cliffhanger, didn't I? I'll leave what Kiku does to Arthur up to your imagination~

By the way, I posted this work on A03 as well.

[your-lovely-rose]

“They’re cute” Part 2/2 (Nakime || Request by @cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme)

Rating: Explicit

General genre and genre for this part: Romance || Dark fic

Word count and reading time: ±15.8k (1h)

Pairing: (Biwa Demon) Nakime x Human!Reader

Fandom: Kimetsu no Yaiba

⚠ Warnings for this part of the request: Minor death, Dead bodies, Desecration of a human corpse, Larvae and flies, Blood, Falling into madness, Jealousy and possessive behavior, Mental problems, Presented the character's past (from "Kimetsu no Yaiba Official Fanbook: Kisatsutai Kenbunroku 2"), Forbidden Love/Mutual Pining, || NOT EDITED

Autor’s Note: Okay, so before you read this, listen to me, my reader. The reason why this Request is divided into two parts is that with Nakime I immediately filled the limit of 1k text panels. And also the previous part with Daki and Mukago was light, but here it will be very heavy and dark - I don't even know how it happened because it was supposed to be another fluff. All of them were supposed to be fluffy and light, and each of them with a maximum length of 3k words, of which Daki would be the longest (I expected 9k from the start)! I really have no idea what happened here... I swear! All of a sudden, I felt like it was boring, and I panicked a little bit, and then it got wild. After that I felt like it was boring again, and I kind of forgot the exact request that was... And this was created. I hope the characters aren't too OOC here. I will humbly accept any harsh criticism for this.

➵ “They’re cute” Part 1/2 (Daki & Mukago)

> Nakime Masterlist

➻ Little dictionary:

Zataku (座卓) - is the generic term for this kind of low table.

Hadajuban (肌襦袢, はだじゅばん) - are a type of kimono undergarment traditionally worn underneath the nagajuban. Hadajuban are even further removed from resembling a kimono in construction than the nagajuban; the hadajuban comes in two pieces (a wrap-front top and a skirt), features no collar, and either has tube sleeves or is sleeveless.

Kimono (着物, きもの, lit. "thing to wear") - is a traditional Japanese garment. The kimono is a wrapped-front garment with square sleeves and a rectangular body, and is worn left side wrapped over right, unless the wearer is deceased.

Jitō (地頭) - were medieval territory stewards in Japan. Appointed by the shōgun, jitō managed manors, including national holdings governed by the kokushi or provincial governor.

Okyia (置き屋) - residence maiko or geisha and may be inhabited by several of them. The first step of a woman, who wants to become a geisha is to accept in the okiya. The owner of the geisha house, okāsan (Japanese: "mother"), pays for the upkeep and training of their wards. In return, they give part of their earnings to support the house and other non-geisha residents. Okiya isn't a geisha workplace, they work in teahouses called ochaya.

Geisha (芸者) - in Japan, a woman with artistic skills, entertaining guests with conversation, dancing, singing and playing traditional instruments (e.g. shamisen, koto or shakuhachi). She can also conduct a tea ceremony (chadō) and she's as well-read as oiran. They dressed very modestly, but with taste and boasted sugao, i.e. face without makeup. In the opinion of the Japanese, they were considered the ideal of bijin ("beautiful woman"). Before a woman becomes a geisha, she must pass a six-year maiko period. If a geisha has a permanent partner, she must move out of okiya and okāsan can adopt a geisha. She then gains the privilege of a permanent resident of the house. Her debts to okiya are cancelled, but at the same time all of her income goes to upkeep of the house.

Knock, knock, knock.

A loud knocking sounded in Nakime's head. She knew everything that was going on at Infinity Castle.

She could hear the whistling of air as Kokushibo swings his sword when he practiced, the cries of Douma's victims from his Eternal Paradise as he fed and and where its dangerous snares also reached or the hundreds of footsteps of stray, weak demons wandering through her dimension.

It was her domain, her territory, her kingdom. Her world. She was in charge here, and nothing could surprise her.

And yet she didn't expect it.

She knew it was wrong and also that he knew it too. After all, she had His blood in her and could not hide anything from Him.

If he noticed something, he didn't pay attention to it. He was too busy with his tubes and the reactions going on in the glass vessels. For several hours he worked relentlessly mixing his blood with various substances and despite many failures he still managed to remain calm.

'Still' is the keyword here.

Because even he, after millennia of unsuccessful attempts, could finally lose his patience.

Before the knocking could irritate him, she tugged the strings of biwa and moved to another place, the old washitsu room, where her domain merged with the outside world.

So where?

Here, where the smell of blood and stale liquor still hovered. Here, where everything is familiar, though strangely different from what she has created herself with her art and sound.

And where she didn't like to be. This place confused her - filled her with many emotions that she thought she had buried deep and long time ago in her forgotten past, when she was still human.

Sitting straight on tatami mats, she looked around the traditional Japanese room as if it was her first time. There was not much in it: only a low table, at which still stood a clay glass for sake, and a pitcher lying next to it, the contents of which had spilled on the floor long ago.

The zabuton pillow, which she used to use while sitting and practicing on her beloved instrument, began to rot from spilled rice wine and large blood stains staining the floor around her.

The mats were completely ruined by it and had to be replaced, but this was no longer her problem. It belonged to her old life. Just like this house and the emotions it aroused in her.

Anger, grief and sadness all combine into one, giving her both headache and a tightening of abdomen. The smells irritated her nostrils and burning her esophagus.

She wanted to raze this house to the ground to cut herself off from her pathetic, weak, human self once and for all.

It was not her place now.

That woman was dead. She died in an alley by getting carried away in a sea of endorphins, blinded by pride and overestimated her abilities.

Did she really think she could hurt Him? Stupid, pathetic thinking of a weak human.

She lifted up her slender hand holding the wooden batchi pick tighter, ready to give a full show of her power until another knock pulled her out of trance again.

A quick "knock, knock, knock" sounded in the room this time, and it wasn't so loud when it was not only thundering in her head and had to overcome the distance to her in the air. Through the thin shōji door, she could see the shadow of the figure standing behind them in the rays of the rising sun.

She was about to pull the strings again to snagged the person standing at her door, but she heard how familiar voice called her by a name she no longer recognised, adding the honorary title '-sama'.

This voice... evoked a pleasant feeling in her chest, and before the eye of her mind appeared the image of a human. She could not remember the face, because it was shrouded in a thick mist of forgotten like so many elements of her past, but she knew where she remembered this person from.

This human used to come to her shows. Before she was transformed by Him, she made a living entertaining people with her music.

Although many people (traders, craftsmen) came to relax with the sounds of her instrument, she could not afford much at home. Most of her paycheck was taken by her husband...

He was a gambling addict.

And he lost. Time after time. One loss after another. Until finally he finally went too far, took something precious from her and lost it. That was the last straw.

A black-haired woman grabbed her head trying to interrupt the flow of memories. She plunged her sharp, blue nails into her long hair and unconsciously began pulling on them to distract her from them. Wanting to turn the bitter pain of past wrongs into physical.

She couldn't stand it and... What did she do?

Ah, yes.

She killed him.

Now she remembers it exactly. She used a hammer and smashed his head for losing her only kimono in which she could perform, and then she went on stage as usual.

In her head were the voices of people who began to mock her, and their howl hurt her ears. She felt their malicious, unfavorable gazes judging her poor, useless, holey clothes.

The only other kimono she found in the closet that could replace her previous one.

Although she was frightened and humiliated, she tried not to show it and humbly looked down to somehow escape, to separate herself from them, when her legs were heavy as lead, her feet were planted in the ground.

Then her eyes met the only friendly look. Its owner sat the closest to the wooden stage and did not show her the pity, that you feel for a pathetic dying animal. It would only humiliate her even more. He really felt sorry for her. Those eyes were so sweet and gentle. Looking at them from behind her dark bangs, she began to play.

The slender fingers, on which, despite the long friction and washing, she still felt warm blood, moved themselves along the long neck of the instrument, pressing the appropriate chords and getting out of it as much as she could.

The other hand was not left behind, pulling the strings and creating together an unusual composition, although inside her body she was trembling.

She was afraid they would know. That they might already figure out what she did. The tension in her rose and could be felt in her music. Her hands were shaking and sweat was all over her body, but she never stopped playing.

The sounds were as clear as a calm surface of water in a lake and spread throughout the room hypnotizing everyone.

Despite the loud tones of her biwe, she could hear the audience holding their breath at more tense moments or whispering quietly to each other, covering their mouths with their hands or paper fans.

She had nothing left - no kimono, no means of subsistence, no talent...

When she finished playing the first tune, she felt mentally exhausted. She waited for the first signs of discontent among the crowd, but they remained silent. Uncertainly, she looked up from the floor and saw everyone staring at her like enchanted.

A moment later, someone from the end of the room called for an encore, and the rest of the gathered people follow up him, and then everyone chanted for more and more.

Before anyone had time to notice, the night passed them all like a dream. It was... Her best performance so far.

Tired, but drunk with many applause and praise, panting heavily, she returned to her house. Where the smell of alcohol and blood still hovered.

Her hands were all numb and aching from squeezing strings, when the customers was still called for more. Even the owner asked her after the show if she would come the next night and paid her handsomely for her work. She's never made this much money for one show before.

She was planning on buying herself a new, better kimono tomorrow. Maybe even two.

However, when she got home, all her good mood with blush disappear, when she remembered her problems. Actually, the one that was still lying there like she left him all night.

She had no idea how to dispose of the body. Where would she possibly hide them? How long would it take to find them?

Without more thought, she undressed her last kimono and dragged the inert corpse to the other room, which had previously been her bedroom. There she covered them with a sheet and left them.

She was aware of the stench they were about to emit and what might happen to her in return, but she didn't think about it then.

She resisted them and tried to live as before. With an old rag she tried to wipe away the already dried dark stains of blood with tatami, but no matter how much and how hard she rubbed, they remained.

After bathing in the bowl - wiping herself with a damp piece of fabric, she pulled out another futon and lay down in the living room so she not to have to lie next to the corpse and as soon as her head touched the pillow she fell asleep. The sun was slowly rising over the horizon.

She had no dreams that night.

Still hoping for a better day, she got up late in the afternoon and, as she had planned, went out to buy a new outfit.

However, already on the threshold of the house she saw a parcel left at her door. The paper, in which the package was wrapped, rustled when she took it in her hands and after tearing a hole in it she saw inside a beautiful dark material.

It was kimono with silver thread embroidered patterns and multicolored flowers. Among them, she recognized red tsubaki, light pink sakura, purple sakurasou and white ume.

It was beautiful and certainly expensive. She thought it might have cost even more than her paycheck yesterday.

Who could have given it to her?

She'd been offered a patron or danna-san, but she wasn't a geisha. She never went to special schools and was never a maiko. And she's already married, which is unacceptable to a geisha.

Nor was she weak or pathetic enough to accept alms. She could take care of herself and earn money.

But unfortunately, when she returned to the venue in the evening full of energy, her performances were not as unusual as before...

Even though the place was full of people, even though she was wearing a new kimono - a simple, dark brown kimono that she bought the same day from an older woman who ran her own store - and she was calmer than last time, she didn't do so well.

No matter how hard she tried and how much her fingers hurt from the strings after all, she couldn't repeat the success of the night before.

When she finished the first song she looked at the crowd and saw people whispering to each other with disgruntled faces, and the owner looked at her with doubt. Among those closest to her, she even saw a few looking at her with worry written on their faces.

Hoping to improve the situation, she tried again and again, but it was... mediocre. And that was until she started getting nervous and making amateur mistakes.

Anxiety and cold sweat overwhelmed her more and more as she confused the chords or made unclean sounds by improperly pressing the strings. She didn't know what was going on.

Feeling like she was fooling herself, she finished her show earlier than the night before and left. Or rather, she ran away.

She had to get out, she just had to get as far away from them as she could. She felt small under the weight of their eyes and that she was suffocating from the tension.

On the way home, she heard someone calling her. She pretended not to hear the voice, but the pushy person stopped suddenly in front of her, consciously or not, blocking her way back home.

She recognized the person as a client from the place closest to the stage. This was the same customer, who was the only one who looked at her with compassion during her performance last night and today looked worried about her condition.

"May I have a moment?" You asked kindly, bowing and introducing yourself. You was still breathing heavily from running after her.

She think that you have to even fall in the mud, which could be indicated by your dirty clothes on the right side and your wet sleeve.

She didn't want to talk to stranger, but out of courtesy she decided to see what do you wanted from her.

"I saw your performance, and I'd like to ask... Is everything all right?"

"In what sense?"

"During the first performance, you came in a ruined clothes, and today..." You stopped, not knowing how to define today's fiasco.

"Everything is fine, please do not make any more insinuations."

"My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you," you said, trying to defend and not upset the woman even more. It wasn't your intention at all.

"So leave me alone now."

Nakime walked around you and was about to left you behind her back, but you showed up right next to her.

"Could I at least walk you home? It's dangerous to walk alone at night," you said, fall into step with her.

She only answered you with a short, sharp "no" and sped up her step even more. You did the same thing, getting on her nerves.

"Then may I at least ask why you did not wear that kimono?"

"Excuse me?" She asked, but she didn't slow down. She frowned in anger. "So it was you. I do not need anyone's pity or charity."

She said through clenched teeth and her fists until her fingernails left crescent moon prints inside her hand.

"Oh, no! No, that was never my intention! I would never dare!" You defended yourself by raising your hands to your chest as a gesture of submission.

"I do not need this. I can take care of myself."

"I just wanted to help..."

"It is not necessary."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I was worried to see you like that. You've never performed like this before..."

Sweating from nerves and feeling the anger of a dark-haired woman, you slowed down until you finally came to a complete stop. She didn't do the same and didn't even notice your confusion. Your last words were echoing in her head.

Does that mean you've been coming to her shows for a long time? How much could you know about her?

After a moment of hesitation, you followed her a few steps after her. The night could be dangerous even for a single man, let alone a woman.

She heard rustling of your shoes on the ground, but she didn't stop to look at you again. She didn't want to pay attention to you, hoping you'd get bored soon.

In the end, you escorted her all the way home.

- - -

On the third night, when she again failed to reach the previous level with her performance, she started lost her mind again.

Everyone seemed to look at her with contempt or regret or as if they knew what she had done. In a hurry, she fled to her home, wanting to hide in the safe four walls as soon as possible, but even they did not give her comfort.

You walked her home quietly again. You haven't said a word to each other, and that's fine. Otherwise, she felt like she'd scratch your eyes out or pull your tongue.

She didn't understand what she had done wrong, why she couldn't play like she did then. Is there something wrong with her instrument? Or is it with her?

In desperation and to get rid of the excess of overwhelming emotions, she began throwing clay, decorative jugs and screaming. She did not know how much time she had spent demolishing the room, but when she finished, she was kneeling sweaty on the mats, breathless and on the verge of collapse.

She's been so busy she hasn't heard your quiet knock. She only noticed you after you asked her through the door if she was okay.

She told you to leave, and despite the silence, she wasn't sure if you'd listened to her.

- - -

The next day, she didn't go on stage. Nor the next one, or even the day after that.

She lay apathetic in the middle of the room among broken glass, her long hair looked like a big pool of black blood and listening to the sound of flies buzzing behind a thin wall. The body must have started to rot and give off that characteristic insipid sweet smell that had not yet reached her.

She didn't feel up to anything, even to eat or drink water. When she heard the silent knock, she thought it was just a dream.

Sleep was no longer her salvation and escape from reality. She felt threatened all the time during it and was even more tired after waking up, until she stopped sleeping. Time slipped her slowly as she saw changes in the light coming through the window under the very roof.

Soon after, she was no longer sure she was still trapped in her sleep. An endless nightmare she can't escape from.

Only after long hours, when finally the thirst began to overwhelm her, she get up to drink from the nearby well.

With a slight trembling on her limp and weak legs, she moved to the door and almost fell over the pitcher standing next to it. The vessel tipped over pouring water around. There was also a bowl with a clay lid on it.

Nakime barely sit on the ground. She got dizzy and feel foggy for a while, but she managed to come to her senses.

She lifted a warm lid, and the strong smell of spices and hot steam from her shoulder struck her face. Then she felt a pain in her stomach, reminding her that she hadn't had anything in her mouth for a long time.

The bowl had ordinary ramen in it. The black-haired woman swallowed the saliva that flowed into her mouth and lifted the overturned jug with some water left in it. Unlike food, it was pleasantly cool moisturizing her dry throat.

She was about to start crying while she was eating. Food has never tasted so good.

Feeling better, she went home leaving empty dishes on the doorstep. She knew who brought it, and she expected you to come back.

The food was warm, which would indicate you were here recently. Did you come earlier to check on her, too? Were there any more meals? How did it feel to see that she didn't touch the food you brought?

She went to sleep again when she was full. She felt tired, but this time her sleep was peaceful. When she woke up, she felt better, so she decided to do something (although she was still weak).

She carefully collected the glass from the tatami mat and ate the scraps of food she found at home. With the money from the show a few days ago, she bought a big bag of rice and some meat in addition to a kimono, so she still had something to eat.

She hasn't touched any more of the dishes you left her. She was grateful for the meal earlier, but when she didn't need it, she wasn't planning on taking any help from you.

But she didn't spend the day just cleaning room and herself up. All this time, she was thinking too.

Why?

Why aren't her performances so good anymore? Why can't he play like that a second time? How was that show different from the others?

And when someone knocked on the door again, she came to the most frightening conclusions.

- - -

Fuku Ogawa stood at the shōji door of one of the houses. He picked up the dishes earlier that day, before it started to get dark. He was a butcher by profession and a friend of yours privately, so after you asked him to deliver the food here, how could he refuse?

Exceptionally, you couldn't do it in person right now. Well, these things happen sometimes - you have plans, but something came up, something happened, and you have to get out of the routine once or twice.

Fuku knocked on the door again. He heard a murmur behind them and the sound of silent footsteps. For a moment he felt a cramp in the abdomen - the discomfort that occurs when something is wrong. A slight anxiety gently fills our mind and body like poison.

Before he could do anything, the door opened and he saw in it a young, beautiful, but also tired woman. She had long, black, damp hair and pale skin. He saw a slight bruise under her eyes pointing to heavy nights and a black kimono with floral embroidery on it - he recognized them because you bought them a few days ago.

She looks surprised. It was certainly not him she expected to see outside the door, but there was nothing he could do about it. He introduced himself briefly and drew a bowl of food and jug of water towards her.

"Who are you?" she asked, ignoring the dishes in front of her. Instead, she grabbed the kimono with one hand and covered herself tightly. The other hand hung loosely, completely tucked into the sleeve.

"A friend," he said again short, hoping to get out of here as soon as possible. There was a slight, insipid smell coming out of the house, which he did not like and this woman make his hair stand on end.

"Could you take this inside?"

She asked and took a step back to let him come in. He didn't want to do it, he was uncomfortable with that woman, but he also didn't want her to accuse him of being rude.

He carefully entered without taking off his shoes and looked around the dark room. He didn't like the fact that there were no candles burning here and the only light that brightened a few meters in came from the full moon behind him.

"Put the dishes on the table."

He heard next to him. In the dim light on the other side of the room, he saw the outline of a low table and moved towards it, still holding the dishes in front of him.

But with every step he smelled a stronger scent in the house and heard the quiet buzz of insects. He knew it from somewhere, but couldn't tell from where.

Tap, tap, tap - her bare feet made on mats until she stood behind him. He could almost feel her heavier breathing on his neck and the smell of the perfume oils she used for her bath.

He was about to turn around and ask whether to bring some candles for her, if she didn’t have any (he just really wanted to get away from here as soon as possible, he wouldn’t come back here again for all the world) when a heavy object fell on his head.

In contrast, all turned white in front of his eyes from pain and he fell with a bang on a wooden piece of furniture, almost breaking it. The wood crackled silently in protest under his weight. The impact was so strong that he passed out almost immediately, but he was still barely conscious.

Then there was another and another. All he knew was what he got before he lost feeling and awareness of what was happening to him. With the remnants of consciousness, he finally knew what was the odor he smelled at home.

It was the smell of rotting meat.

- - -

Nakime kept hitting the man's head with a hammer until she got tired and left a bloody pulp. The remains of the man's hair and gray brain clung to her murder weapon, hand and also splashed on the zataku underneath.

She was trembling. Her breathing became heavier. She did it. Again.

She looked at the biwa standing on the other side of the room, illuminated by the light coming through the folded door. The strings in the cold light looked like silver thread of a spider. They lured her and summoned with their mute voices.

Now she has to go.

She must be in a hurry.

- - -

At night, you couldn't force yourself to show up at any place to have fun and relax a little. You didn't feel like it, even though some of your friends asked you to come.

They wanted to celebrate with you another big order to some remote place in the mountains. The locals were practically cut off from everyone else, which was perfect for you. Every month you were to send them three wagons with basic food and items - vegetables, flour, rice, spices, pasta, meat, materials and much more. You didn't ask where they got the money, it wasn't your part. What mattered was that they paid.

You liked to talk with them about a lot of things and eat with good music, but... you didn't want to. Why? You had your suspicions, even though you weren't entirely sure.

You've been up all night lying in your futon and flipping from side to side. Your head was still playing the tune of the biwa from a few days ago.

You felt thirsty in the desert. Like a drug addict in rehab. Like a believer who's starting to miss the presence of his God.

But what could you do when your only cure was gone?

Hours went by and you couldn't sleep. You couldn't think either, because your thoughts were filled with one person and their music.

You could've tried to run away until those feelings died off. Stop showing up in pubs, but how could you escape your own thoughts?

How could you hide from the part of you that loves her?

Loves her?

Yes, you could admit you admired her, but loves?

Surprised, you sat on the mattress and ran your hand over your face. You felt stupid. How old were you to fall in love like a naive teenager?

And yet the pleasant warmth inside you and the butterflies in your belly spoke for themselves. Even your friends noticed that you were different after that woman's performance. They teasing you for it, and you couldn't hide your red face or look them in the eye when you denied it.

Everyone thought she was new in town, but that wasn't true. You've noticed her long time before, because you liked her music, even if it wasn't outstanding.

You liked how she kept calm on stage and was always very restrained and elegant. If it weren't for her modest kimono, you'd think she belonged to the aristocracy.

You suppose that's when the feeling began to sprout inside you like a cherry blossom.

But when she showed up that night - terrified, haggard and wearing an old, torn kimono - all you wanted to do was go up to her and comfort her. Take her away from those eyes that surround her.

But then your eyes met and she started playing. She tugged the strings and as if at the touch of a magic wand all the stress and anxiety went away from her.

Then everyone else ceased to exist for you. You thought you and her were the only one in the room... No, in the whole Empire of Japan, or even in the whole world. It's just you and her.

Time stopped, and you could feel your heart beating with hers heavily breathe. Nothing else existed at that time - just you and her, and her music.

When she was done, the spell burst like a soap bubble. Suddenly other people appeared around you again and time went on its normal course.

Yes, it was then that the seed sown in your heart fully blossomed during that one song and gave birth to ripe fruit.

You listened to the rest of her performance breathless and with red cheeks, like she was playing just for you.

It was stupid to think so - she probably had no idea you existed, but there was nothing you could do about it. Everyone likes to dream and think they are special to someone.

So why should you be the exception? Besides, no one will know, it's just your thoughts anyway. Your own private place where you can hide when reality is too hard.

You opened the wooden shutters on a dark night. The moon was hidden far behind the clouds, and you couldn't even see the stars from here. In the background you could hear the quiet life of the insects and the sound of the wind running through the tall grasses.

She doesn't show up for some reason and she doesn't accept your presents.

When you gave her a kimono, you didn't mean to be rude or make it look like you felt pity for her. Same as when you brought her food. You really wanted to help her, but she was too proud.

You were worried about her.

You went out on the wooden engawa at the back of the house and sat down looking out over the meadows and the dark forest towers over the town.

If you wanted to, you could move to a bigger city. Maybe Osaka or Kobe? You could try your luck there. Open a new business of your own. Then maybe you could even afford an apartment in Tokyo? Or not, you don't think downtown would be a good place, it would be crowded. Maybe in one of its neighborhoods? Asakusa? Or Yoshiwara? You could meet a real Geisha or Oiran–...

"No, that's stupid." You scolded yourself in your thoughts. You'll act like a coward, and running away won't bring you anything, but a stain of pride and honor.

You'll keep thinking back here to her. Even if you leave, your heart will stay with her bleeding, because she won't even look at you.

The night was peaceful and quiet. The noise and singing of the wind dancing among tall grasses and branches of trees suppressed other sounds.

Your night passed slowly, looking at the full silver moon as it came out from behind the thick clouds.

Smelled like before the rain. Fuku would say, looking at a scene like this, it's going to be a tragedy. He's always been very superstitious.

But you were here alone.

The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?

You thought you heard her music from afar, but it was too quiet to be considered real.

- - -

The next morning, your friend find you in front of the house. Initially, you expected to see drunk Fuku, who liked to visit you at any time and was sometimes in a state of intoxication before noon.

Did he have some work today? He was a hedonist, but he was also responsible enough not to drink before job.

But no, it was Kiyoshi Hirano. A clerk. You invited him in and offered to make some tea.

"I just came to tell you that your friend with the biwa is back. You've been a little sad because of her lately..."

"What?" you turned to him with a clay jug. The movement was so fast that the right water poured out of the spout of the dish.

"Last night," he began slowly watching your face. "I was waiting for Fuku, where we used to meet to have a drink when she appeared on stage and started her performance again. She was... good. Looks like her lucky streak's back."

"Really? Do you think she will play tonight?"

You put the teapot in the cupboard where it was before, completely forgetting about the tea, and walked up to Kiyoshi again. You didn't notice his serious look and how closely he watched your brightened face.

"I don't know, I guess so. After all, it's what she does for a living." He interrupted your next question with a hand gesture. "I'm not going there today."

"Why?"

You were surprised by his cold reaction. He seemed angry or concerned about something.

"I'm going to check on Ogawa-san. I didn't see him yesterday and he still didn't show up today. From what I see, he's not here either."

"No, he's not here," you repeated deafly. "I haven't seen him since yesterday."

"Did he say something? What he was planning or where he was going?"

"No, I don't remember anything like that."

"Yhm. So nothing here for me. If you remember anything or see him, let me know."

"Something happened?"

"No, nothing. It's just my stupid hunch. But if I don't find him, I'll go to jitō."

Jitō was the deputy owner of the land on which your town was located. He was supposed to watch over his goods and peace, if a problem arose he had to solve it.

You just nodded at that. You didn't understand his concern about Fuku, you saw him yesterday, and he was fine.

"Okay, so be it. I hope to see you both at the show tonight."

"I hope so too."

He said grimly unconvinced and turned his back on you.

- - -

The orange sun had not yet hidden behind the horizon and you were already sitting in a local restaurant, at one of the tables closer to the stage.

People were elegantly dressed, some even more than was required stepping inside and taking their seats. It wasn’t a real okiya, so you didn’t quite understand their efforts to pretend to be better than they were, but you had no intention of pointing it out to them.

It was quiet. Conversations were conducted in a whisper. Glasses were not brought in toast. You could feel the tension in the air. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.

Finally, after a time that seemed to last an eternity. After the sun and its last rays resembling the hands of a drowning man reaching out for help disappeared from the sky, covered by the deep black of the great scape filled with millions of stars, she appeared.

She wasn't looking at anyone. She did not wander around the room with her eyes like a frightened doe. She just took her seat and started playing.

And the music itself was flowing from under her fingers. The sharp notes flooded their all minds.They could not think of anything else, everything outside was in the background. It was just her and them. Her audience.

After the performance was over, there was thunderous applause. Everyone wanted more and more. As we can see, she returned in grand style.

You also listened enchanted. You didn't care that Kiyoshi didn't join you all night. You didn't even notice it. The world outside this room no longer existed.

- - -

"I'm going to the jitō," Kiyoshi told you when you met him buying rice and asked him why he was dressed solemnly.

"Business?"

The man looked at you in surprise, tilting his head as if he wanted to ask if you were kidding.

"I told you I'd go there if I didn't find Ogawa-san anywhere. You haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Oh, no. Maybe a little. I'm sorry."

"Yes, I can see it," he squinted, looking at you critically.

"Have you been at his place to see him?"

"It was the first place I visited. I asked his neighbors if they had seen him, but no one has seen him since he left for work two days ago."

"Then I guess he's not at the slaughterhouse either."

"Exactly."

"Listen, why don't you wait one more day? We'll go to the jitō together if he's still gone. Perhaps he's lost his way back, because he is drunk again."

Although improbable, such situations have happened. One time he took the wrong directions and tried to get into someone's house. The landlord of the house beat him hard, and for a week he walked around with a swollen face and purple bruises all over his body. Another time, he fell asleep in a truck loaded with bags of rice and was driven kilometers from here.

Although Hirano was unconvinced, he accepted your offer and you spent the rest of the day together.

In the evening, you went to your favorite place to eat with music. You only managed to get in because you came earlier - soon after sunset there was such a crowd that no one else could enter.

You saw Kiyoshi looking for your friend, but he didn't even see anyone even remotely resembling him.

When your food were served, she went out on stage. As always, she moved gracefully and without unnecessary movements, as if she knew that part by heart.

The long black hair fell before her face like a funeral veil. She was still wearing a simple brown kimono, and you were a little disappointed that she dismissed your present with contempt.

She raised a pale hand with well-groomed nails holding a wooden bachi pick. The sleeve of the kimono slid down her arm, revealing more of her slender body and silky skin.

You almost fell back into that stunning trance hypnotized by her music when something discreetly pinched your thigh. It was Kiyoshi. He seemed worried.

Surprised at his behaviour, you raised your eyebrows didn't understand.

"Blood," he whispered. His mouth tightened into a line after he repeated it. "She's got blood on her clothes."

And when you looked at the musician you could see how under the kimono, where the collar around her neck covered part of the white hadajuban was a small red spot. If you had sat further away you would never have seen it.

"It could be anything. Maybe she got dirty?"

"Maybe," he admitted grinding his teeth and not taking his eyes off her. Focusing on a small, meaningless speck. "Or maybe not. It will be revealed. Remember, we still haven't found Fuku."

For the rest of the evening, he didn't speak to you, looking for your friend. You too could no longer focus on the music and let yourself be carried away by the pleasant atmosphere - the stain on her collar was bothering you.

What if someone attacked her? What if there's a dangerous animal in the area? Or a madman? What if something could happen to her?

Your restless thoughts rushed more and more as wild mounts were let loose into the increasingly unpleasant, dark recesses of your mind where irrational fear and unlikely scenarios ruled.

But you still haven't found Ogawa-san, have you?

True, but maybe he just got lost again. Maybe he's tired and sleeping at home now. Maybe it's all one big misunderstanding. Maybe the stain on her collar isn't blood.

Maybe.

- - -

The next day, as soon as the sun rose, you set off with Kiyoshi to Fuku's house. You wanted to be absolutely certain, and according to your comrade's supposition, he wasn't there.

Everything looked as usual. There was a bit of a mess inside, but it was nothing disturbing or new. Ogawa was not one of those who paid attention to where he lived.

The futon, instead of being tucked into a closet, lay on the side of the large room with a blanket rolled up into a ball, as if it had just wake up. Around the room stood many pots of sake, which he did not want to throw away, and other things that he probably used lately.

Yeah, it was a mess, but it wasn't unusual.

"Let's go ask the neighbors," you said quickly leaving the house and not looking at Kioshi.

He managed to stop you by grabbing you tightly by the shoulder.

"I already told you, I did it."

"So what now?"

"We can only go to the jitō and he will hire samurai to guard the security. I think that's all we can do."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, for now."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I want to know what happened to Fuku. They won't be looking for the missing." He paused for a moment, feeling his anger rising. "They'll just try to prevent more disappearances. They don't care abo–"

Suddenly he stopped before his voice broke completely and then you noticed how tightly he clenched his fists. As he tries to stop the tears in his eyes and not let them flow down his cheeks.

You... You didn't know he was in such pain. That he feels that way.

You felt guilty that you didn't care more about your friend's disappearance, that you didn't start looking for him right away. That the first person you were worried about when you heard about his disappearance wasn't him, but was someone else.

"Listen Kiyoshi," you started insecure. "I want to hel–"

"No." He cut you of. "You would only be in my way, I prefer to work alone."

"Oh... okey."

You agreed, but you were hurt that your friend wouldn't let you join his investigation and also didn't want to argue with him. He was smart, so you knew he could handle it.

"Ah, and one more thing."

He added before you left the house. That was the last time you saw him, but none of you knew it yet.

"Stay away from that woman. Please."

• • •

The man decided not to involve you knowing how distracted you've been lately. Because of that musician, you couldn't concentrate, and you missed a lot of obvious things.

He was no longer just talking about a bloodstain or a lack of concern about Ogawa.

Yesterday, following the woman from a safe distance (so she could not hear you), he noticed that she was not afraid to travel alone through a dark town or wooded area.

It turned out that she did not live in even on the outskirts of the city, but in a village about an hour away on foot.

She never turned around to see if anyone was following her, and that should be a natural reaction for anyone traveling alone in areas where disappearances occur. Especially women, who are inherently weaker than men.

Almost everyone is talking about the disappearance of Fuku - together with a local vet, he had to help assess whether the animal is suitable for curing or going for slaughter.

Local traders and meat farmers ask about him because he was the cheapest specialist in his trade.

If there were any rivers nearby they could be turned to fish, but within a radius of many kilometers there was none and the delivery could cost them a lot.

Sometimes local doctors needed his help when the only way to save their patients was to amputate a limb.

Did Fuku practice on dead animals for fun, or is the profession of butcher and doctor so similar? He didn't know, and he never wanted to ask.

So what could have happened before he disappeared? And how could a musician you love have anything to do with this?

Unlike Ogawa-san, he was not superstitious or relying on mere hunch, but when he looked at the dark-haired woman he saw cold sophistication in her eyes.

Why a woman traveling alone in the dark didn't fear an attack?

Did she have any weapons on her? Or did she know something that others don't? Maybe she knew she had nothing to fear.

Another thing that caught Kiyoshi's attention was the strange smell around her house.

After "walking" her home safely, he ordered to come closer. Kiyoshi wanted to investigate the source of the scent. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was already determined to solve the mystery.

He knew that the more days passed, the chance of finding a friend alive dropped drastically. His mind said he was probably dead, but deep down he still hoped of finding him alive.

It's silly how emotions can affect a person's logical thinking and behavior, but there's nothing he can do about it.

After all, he was only human.

Standing in front of her door, he listened to all kinds of sounds from inside, but there was complete silence. The only thing disturbing it was the sound of buzzing wings of flying insects.

Something sat on his hand and automatically killed the bug. He couldn't see what it was, it was too dark for that, but the next one sat on his forehead and another flew past his ear.

Flies?

You tried, slightly confused by his prying behavior, to pull him away, but he just went to the back of the building where the smell intensified.

"Kiyoshi, please sto–"

"Shhhh, be quiet and help me."

"Wha–?"

"Don't talk, just stand against the wall."

He cut off the conversation quickly so the woman couldn't hear you two and showed you where to stand.

In the dim moonlight, he saw a triangular window under the roof. Because the houses in the village were not tall, he could look through them, but he still needed help to reach it.

"Look, I don't think–"

"Shhhh."

You stood straddle and folded your hands, so he could put his foot on it. Then, with a slight swaying, he jumped on your shoulders.

"But listen, I don't–"

"Shhh, ladders don't talk!"

Holding on to the old boards, he tried to find something he could hold on to. Any holes or roughness.

"Stop fidgeting!"

He rebuked you in a whisper almost falling.

"Then don't stand on my head!"

When he stopped wobbling, you grabbed his ankles harder and at his signal, you slowly began to straighten up. Unfortunately, he still didn't reach the window.

He couldn't even pull himself up because he was still missing quite a bit with his hands stretched forth.

"And what? Do you see anything?"

You asked, in disbelief. Did you just help your friend 'peep at' spy on a woman?

"I really don't like what we're doing. Are you listening?"

But Kiyoshi didn't listen. He was mentally preparing for what he was about to do.

He took a deep breath. Then another one, and curled his knees trying not to fall. If he fails, he'll break his leg or arm.

The moment he jumped up, you walked away from the building. He grabbed the edge of the window and the old wood under his weight crackled in protest - they sounded like they were about to break.

At first he wanted to curse you for it, but suddenly he heard footsteps coming from the other side.

You were too loud.

"Is anyone there?"

A harsh female voice spoke up and he froze. He heard you burst through the bushes surrounding the house, rushing to the nearby trees and she stopped just below him.

Time stopped for a man then. Seconds turned into centuries. Flies flying around him sat on his hands and face, tickling him by thier little legs as they walked on him and bit his bare skin.

To keep them from getting up to his nose, he hid his face in a long sleeve, praying that the wood would stand up and that she would not look up.

The black-haired, looking like a yokai in front of her house, stood there for a moment watching the backyard. Long grass could reach her hips - her husband didn't care much about anything but gambling and alcohol, and none of her neighbors ever had the idea of trying to cut down the plants before they became miniature version of the wilderness for rodents and other small animals.

She was sure she heard the conversation, and the tread in the grass clearly indicated someone was here.

Or was it just her imagination? Maybe she's going crazy? Is it possible the smell of carcass lured the predators?

Still, she should be more careful and dispose of the bodies.

When she finally got back inside, Kiyoshi's arms couldn't hold him longer and he let go. He managed to land on his feet, but he leaned back and fell out of the engava into the sticky mud, which with the thick and long grass cushioned the impact like a pillow.

Scared, that she might come back, he quickly hid under wooden porch to wouldn't get caught, but this time he probably didn't make so much noise, because she never showed up again that night.

Unfortunately, he couldn't pull himself up to look inside nad he wasn't even sure if the moonlight allowed him to see anything.

He liked to think of himself as a rational person and more intelligent than the common man based on his intuition, but the smell was too suspicious.

Maybe it's feelings, but he believed that if anyone could know anything about Ogawa's disappearance, it would be her.

He couldn't ask her directly. He'd just freak her out and she'd do something unpredictable. After all, a trapped animal is ready to do anything to survive.

• • •

The next afternoon, Kiyoshi left the house and instead of going to work, he went straight to the jitō that controlled the surrounding area.

He was a clerk, so his request might have meant more to him than to an ordinary farmer.

Personally, he didn't like Hiroto Sasaki.

He got this job only by acquaintance with the landowner and did the necessary minimum of his work - all the money from taxes (which he did not pay to the landowner) was spent on alcohol and courtesans. He often hosted parties for friends in his home and did not care about the problems of the inhabitants.

People often asked him to stand up for them because otherwise he wouldn't even let them in or send them back home.

Kioshi did not have time to take three steps from the gate when an older, stooped woman approached him (as fast as her rheumatism allowed).

She had grey hair tucked into a low bun and a face full of wrinkles showing how her life was filled with both, happiness and worry. Her hands were resting on a long stick that must have helped her on her way here.

"Hirano-sama?" She asked in a quiet voice full of sadness and her half-blind eyes were even sadder. She bowed slightly to him. The man bowed and asked what she had to do with him.

"You see... My son, Kai, went missing yesterday. I can't find him and he's my only support after my husband's death."

"I see, so what can I do?"

Although he asked, he already knew the answer and with even greater determination went to the jitō headquarters to solve the problem.

One of the servants, whom he had managed to meet during his few visits, led him to the back of the mansion.

There, a fat man dressed in gold and surrounded by comfort women, was eating sweets and fruits.

In the background on biwa played them a geisha, sitting under a cherry tree - delicate petals of flowers swirling around her added her femininity and grace.

Kiyoshi, however, shuddered when he saw her resemblance to Nakime from afar. He probably would never have thought that she looked like her up close, but he still hadn't snap out of after yesterday's close encounter with her.

He did not want to look at her, but the sounds constantly emitted by the instrument remind him, that she is there, not allowing to gather thoughts and relax tense muscles ready to fight or escape.

"What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"

Sasaki hated Hirano. He thought the clerk always poked his nose into his business and added jobs to him. He hated his visits, but his uncle (and the owner of the land he managed) ordered him to let him in because he had already met Kiyoshi by himself.

He said his remarks were accurate and he was able to listen to people. He thought he'd be a good right-hand man for Hiroto, but he knew he was doing better on his own.

The clerk refrained from roll his eyes hearing him and immediately told about the disappearances and pointed out, if the situation doesn't change, they could suspect either a wild dog attack or a serial killer in the area.

"And what do you think I can do about it?"

"Bring the samurai."

He answered without hesitation, instantly enraging the jitō. The fat man blushed so much with anger, he looked like a tomato.

The glass of saki he threw at Hirano luckily passed above his head and crashed somewhere on the rocks behind his back. All he felt was a few drops of alcohol drenching his clothes.

"What do you think you're proposing? Whose money?! Do you think I have no expenses?!"

"Maybe from the taxes we pay you?"

Only the quiet sound of the wind in the branches of the old trees answered him in their own language and the birds singing in them.

The geisha stopped playing as soon as the clay vessel was broken, but even the man, sitting on a chair resembling the emperor’s throne, fell silent.

The clerk, bent all the time, raised his head slightly to see how Hiroto calmed down and turned pale.

As he suspected - all the money went to his and his friends debauchery.

"If you don't think it's appropriate or unnecessary, I can always write a letter to–"

He couldn't finish because Sasaki came to his senses.

"No. There is no need for that. Starting tomorrow, I'll bring in someone to keep an eye on things."

Several times in the past, Kiyoshi threatened to write to his uncle, but it had to be a complete last resort, because he knew Hiroto would be willing to hire an assassin for him.

Not feeling completely satisfied, he had to agree and let go.

He would rather Sasaki did it today (since many samurai looking for new masters to serve recently), but he also knew that after spending all the money that idiot had to somehow get them now.

He could only hope that by tomorrow there would be some samurai in the area.

• • •

As the sun went down, Hirano was already watching the musician's house from afar. He waited for her to come out, so he could sneak in.

She went out to the perform practically every night, so Kiyoshi knew he should soon see her leaving the building and walking along the sandy road.

And an hour after sunset, a woman appears at the door and stands on a wooden engave looking around the neighborhood. Her eyes were scouring the yard like she was looking for something or waiting for someone.

With loose hair and a black kimono, she looked like a yokai demon.

But he didn't understand why she hadn't left yet. Did she know she was there?

No, it's not possible. He made sure he couldn't be seen by her.

So why?

Suddenly, incredibly brisk for a woman of her small stature, she took a large package wrapped in fabric and ran to the back of the house.

What could be in the package, which she was secretly trying to get rid of? She hid letters from her admirers from her jealous husband? She gave birth to an unwanted baby? Or maybe the murder weapon?

The clerk planned to approach there, but also preferred to wait until she went to work. He didn't want to get caught again, and he was afraid it might be a trap.

That she could watch the backyard from the window, and when she saw him, she'd attack him with something. Although Nakime was a woman, he preferred not to underestimate her, especially since their last meeting had completely frightened him.

So he waited.

And he waited all night.

However, she did not go out again and after sunrise - when farmers began to go out to look after animals and crops - he left.

• • •

During the day, Kiyoshi could no longer watch her - as an clerk he had his duties and had to be careful not to fall asleep.

But it wasn't an easy day for him.

Once he poured black ink from the inkpot, staining the sleeve of a silk kimono, and flooded the papers lying next to it. Or he also had to re-read documents a few times because he couldn't concentrate.

He felt completely exhausted, although he didn't feel that way coming here. Tiredness began to catch up with him.

He looked forward to the sunset indicates the end of his work. The steady sound of rain hitting wooden walls or ceramic tiles made him even more sleepy, and he hoped it would clear up by then.

And as soon as it changed from a sad, grey sky to a blood-red color, he immediately went out. There were large puddles everywhere and it still smelled of rain after a few hours, so he took one of the umbrellas with him.

He hoped that someone hired by the jitō would show up during the day to get a map of the area, but no one showed up.

Neither samurai nor any local villagers he would hire to save money.

As he walked, he could hear Fuku's disapproving voice in his head, who, looking at the sky, would say, "Someone good will die today, the sky and the gods are in mourning."

Many times then he looked at him with a sly smile trying not to taunt him after by quoting his grandmother, but now he misses his superstitions.

How much he would give to be able to sit with him and you on an engava and look up at the sky, drinking sake after work and celebrating the start of the day off.

He came to his home first. He wanted to change into darker clothes, so she couldn't see him.

He was hoping she'd leave the house tonight to perform. If not, he's gonna try to look around the back of the building to see what she's hiding.

Kiyosji looked at the unfolded futon, which he didn't hide. It looked so appealing that he lay down on it for a while - after all, she didn't come out with the sunset anyway. He still had time.

And with that thought - he fell asleep.

- - -

He woke up when it was completely dark. Afraid he was running late, he ran towards her house. If he showed up too late, he wouldn't know if she left.

The run didn't last long, he didn't like to practice. If it weren't for his limp stature, you probably never would have been able to hold him on your shoulders.

Intermittently, he switched once from running to marching and his wooden shoes loudly let the surrounding residents know that he was in a hurry. He was panting heavily, like a wounded animal and he could feel that he had fire in his lungs, but he would not stop.

At least until a black-dressed figure stood in his way.

Nakime walked slowly, holding her precious instrument in her hands. One of the sleeves completely concealed her hand, which surrounded the body of the instrument like a mother hugging a child.

Unbelieving (and feeling goose bumps on his sweaty body) he stopped to catch his breath.

The woman passing him did not even look at him.

He looked at her for a moment - she, as if feeling it, stopped and turned completely to face him. A distance of 20 meters separated them, but for him it was still too small.

They stood in silence waiting for any movement of the other person until they were interrupted by a man in armor.

Samurai.

"So this useless pig did something useful at least once." Thought kiyoshi

The man approached the musician and asked if everything was all right, looking suspiciously at Kiyoshi. He was not surprised, but he was still outraged.

She was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

She calmly replied him. Her voice was serious, but pleasing to the ear.

There was also an aversion to the samurai, who had to put on heavy armor just for the show - it was impractical if he came to chase someone lighter and would only slow him down.

After a while, each of them went their way - Nakime to the restaurant, he headed towards her house, and the man watched them.

He was probably making sure Kiyoshi didn't hurt her.

But that's good, because now he's sure he won't get attacked from behind and the house is empty.

Suddenly he realized he was more and more convinced of her guilt, although he had never approved of hasty judgments. He believed everyone was innocent until proven guilty in a court of law or evidence was found to point to the culprit.

Meanwhile, what did he have? Terrible smell coming out of her house and strange behavior. In the past, it wouldn't have been enough for him to pass judgment, but since Fuku's disappearance, his thinking has changed completely.

Standing in front of her house, Hirano stopped and began to listen. The only thing that could be heard from inside was the noise of a flock of flying flies on which the sound he trembled. He hated all kinds of insects, but he forced himself not to vomit or run away.

The odor's gotten worse since the last time he was here, and he had to put a long sleeve on his nose and mouth. He must have blocked it somehow.

It didn't help much.

He planned to get in and out quickly. The building wasn't big, so it couldn't have taken him long.

The door was not locked - probably the smell itself discouraged entering.

Inside, he left them open so the faint moonlight would illuminate this room. He saw the outline of a low table and two seat cushions. In the corner of the wall with the door, there was something white that he thought was bedding.

But in the current light, he couldn't recognize the huge stains on the tatami mats. He needed a candle.

Holding his breath from time to time, he searched the few cabinets inside and found some hidden next to a bag of rice along with a flint.

Satisfied that he managed so well, he started hitting stones against against each other and watched as the sparks light up the room for a moment until he managed to ignite the wick.

What he saw next made his heart stop and all the color drained from his face, making him look like a ghost. At the moment, although he was alone, he felt threatened and wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. He felt like a deer on a hunt.

Blood was everywhere. Dark stains covered the floor at the table, one pillow and led into the other room behind the shōji door.

On the table he saw overturned white sake glass, also stained with blood, and nearby there was a jug in which there was still some alcohol.

Feeling his body getting heavy he moved into the other room and when he reached out to open the door, he saw that he was trembling. There, the smell and the sound intensified like a warning not to go in.

He was afraid of what he'd see, but he had to...

With one quick move, he opened the door. It slammed and the smell hit him in the face with double force, pinching his eyes. Flies immediately sat on him, looking for something to eat, biting his exposed skin and drinking sweat.

There, in the middle of a small room, were two bodies. He saw the white larvae moving in what used to be the heads of the wretchs, and how far the rotten process had gone.

He couldn't hold out and threw up. It was too much for him. He had to get out. Now. Immediately.

But he didn't even have time to take a step because as soon as he turned around, the hammer hit him in the face, smashing his completely nose and knocking out his teeth.

Through the black spots appeared before his eyes, Kiyoshi saw a figure in front of him and then fell, when she hit him a second time, falling into the death chamber. He managed to block the blow with his hand and heard a loud crack of a broken branch.

He didn't think about it then, but that was the sound of his broken fingers. Because of the adrenaline, he couldn't feel it now.

Unfortunately, he didn't see anything else. The candle fell out of his hand and went out.

He felt a weight on his stomach as the woman sat on him and tried to hit him on the head again. He was still covering himself by his wounded arm and trying to get it off her somehow, but she was too heavy for him.

He hoped that someone would hear his scream and come to help him, because at every moment he weaken.

But no one came, and another body was found in Nakime's room. Now she's done her ritual and she is ready to perform.

- - -

The venue was buzzing of impatient voices. All the gathered people were looking forward to the arrival of their favorite musician, who rarely made herself time off. The long-haired woman hypnotized with her music, causing clients to come back for more.

Her fame quickly spread around the area and it became harder and harder to find a place inside. You had to come a few hours earlier to listen to her melody.

Because of this, some (those who never heard it and just wanted to eat) thought it was stupid. They didn't understand and called her audience fools.

And you were one of those fools. You're in front of the stage again, waiting for her to perform like a dog for a treat. Despite your most sincere attempts to stop or listen to your friend, you could not stop coming. She was like a drug.

Every time you've seen her, you've felt the butterflies in your belly start to dance inside and your mind becomes incredibly light, like when you're drunk with alcohol. But you didn't drink sake so you wouldn't be distracted and fully enjoy the performance.

But today she still hasn't shown up. People began to get impatient and the owner of the premises upset - thanks to her his income increased significantly and if she decided to change workplace meant problems for him.

Some of the guests left mad, and some started wondering out loud where she was. At some point, they started chanting her name, thinking it would make her suddenly show up.

You'd probably be the last person to leave this place and still wait a few more hours for her.

You missed her and her music during the day, waiting for the night to see her again.

But you didn't have to because she finally showed up.

She was wearing a black kimono that you once gave her, but something that caught your eye and prevented you from fully enjoying the performance was the numerous tearing of the material that you seemed to be the only one to see.

• • •

Nakime came home in the morning at her regular time. She was fine, both physically and emotionally, despite the scratches on her forearms and the bruises on her abdomen caused by that burglar. Even a not-so-pleasant meeting with a neighbor did not dampen her spirits.

An old woman called her attention to yesterday's noise and said she already thought her husband was dead. Until recently, quarrels and shouts in their home were standard fare.

It was supposed to be a joke, but she didn't even know how much of it was true. She also told musician to take care of the horrible smell coming out of her house.

She didn't care much about her as she was about yesterday's guest.

She did the right thing coming home. Meeting the samurai made her feel a little insecure and afraid of detection - killing someone outside meant more risk.

She wanted to go back and keep trying to dispose of the bodies. Although they made her nauseous, she found the willpower to cut them into pieces and wrapped in her previous kimono.

She finally appreciated the clothes you gave her because you can't see the blood stains on them. But she felt that if she came out on stage all covered in blood, no one would even notice - everyone was mesmerized by her music.

Sighing, she undressed and went to bed. Then maybe she'll try to get rid of the body parts again.

It was a tedious and difficult task. She had to do it in such a way that the origin of the meat could not be determined immediately.

But she was glad she took care of it because otherwise she wouldn't have found the footprints and other tracks behind her house suggesting an unwanted presence.

She was sure it was her night visitor, but who was the other person? Why didn't they come together?

A normal person would feel scared in a situation like this, but after tonight, Nakime felt invincible. The power she had and the impunity with each subsequent murder made her as drunk as alcohol. She became more and more confident and less cautious.

But she now fell asleep without fear.

- - -

Her work was interrupted by a knock on the door. Her fingers and wrist hurt from cutting hardened cartilage, and her knees from long kneeling.

She got up unstably and washed her hands in a bucket of cold water before she opened the door.

Is it that crazy old lady again? Anybody else in the neighborhood who's bothered by the smell? Maybe it's a samurai?

But it wasn't any of them.

That was you.

You stood insecurely, holding a package wrapped in brown paper in your hands. You didn't look her in the eye. Instead, you focused on the floor.

You took small, short breaths to somehow bear the stench from inside, but you did not make a face. You asked if you could come in and talk.

Nakime moved away from the door to let you in. She tried not to show it, but she was glad you came - she was shaking all over her body at the thought of smashing your head and going to perform again in the evening.

You stood in the middle of the room, and the setting sun lit the room for a moment until she quickly closed the door and darkness set in. She didn't have any open windows here.

"I know everything," you started before she had a chance to come up to you. She quietly took the hammer lying on the cabinet near the door.

"And on the one hand, I didn't want to believe it, I've been denying it all the time... But I can't do this anymore. It rips my heart between what I should do and..."

"What do you mean?" She asked, but she wasn't interested in your answer. She just want you to didn't turn around for a second.

Nakime was standing right behind you with a hammer ready to strike.

"You are the murderer, aren't you? You killed Fuku and Kiyoshi..."

Suddenly you turned around when she had her tool raised and made her hesitate. It gave you the precious second to grab her wrist and lowered it, asking her to talk for one more minute longer.

"I should turn you in, but I can't," you confessed. "I'm hurt by what you did and it will never stop, but for some reason I can't do anything against you."

Your voice broke. She was so close now, she saw you were on the verge of mental breakdowns.

"Please tell me what I should do. If you think it's best to kill me, do it and put an end to my torment."

For a moment she didn't know what to say. She felt she should end it with one punch, but instead she told you to leave.

She didn't like the new kind of arousal caused by your confession, the fluttering of her heart or how the blood came up to her cheeks. She felt she was getting a fever because of you. Her legs are even weaker than they were before.

"Then you'd better kill me," you said firmly, surprising her. "Because I can't live without you–your music."

You were too embarrassed by what you said, so you quickly added the first thing that came to your mind. You were hoping it was too dark to see your blush.

But she couldn't bring herself to lift the hammer anymore. When was the last time she felt that way? If ever it must have been a long time ago.

"Get as far away from here as you can," she began in an imperiously tone. "And come back exactly ten years from now, if you still feel the way you feel, you will come back here and I will play only for you."

And you left her with a bleeding heart after an indescribable loss. Nakime thought she was merciful to you, she condemned you to an even worse fate than if she had killed you - from now on you will carry her sins on your back, the betrayal of your friends and miss her for each of the 3 652 days.

Awareness of all this will not allow you to sleep peacefully. Her absence prevents you from eating and function normally. Losing your friends isolated you.

You never stayed anywhere longer after that, looking for your place and running away from that house at the same time.

She was both, your cure and curse.

- - -

You went to her show last one time and left the next morning with the first rays of sunshine.

Nakime put on another kimono, that you brought her - simple, black, because you noticed she doesn't like glamour and extravagance.

In the full light of the room, she could see how the events of the last few days had affected you. You were pale, lost weight and had big bags of sleeplessness under your eyes.

You looked like a shell of your former self.

It gave her the thought that now you belong to her - she will never leave your mind or heart and will be your only one. For the rest of your days, even though you're not together, she will haunt you in your life as a ghost of the past, when you awake and in your dream.

For some reason, she liked the power she had over you.

The melody of that day was very sentimental and passionate. The performance was definitely different and even better than usual. Some felt goosebumps and coldness during climax moments, and wiped away tears at the slower ones.

It wasn't just music meant to show her talent and entertain the audience - it had a message behind it. And everyone felt it.

It was her goodbye to you.

People talked about it for a long time after you left, hoping she'd do it again, but she never did. Her fame came as far as you ran away, haunting you and never letting you forget your sin of silence.

You pretended not to hear and didn't speak up when the subject of a genius musician was raised. All the venues, where the music played you avoided like the plague.

After you left, she felt like she lost something, looking at the table you used to always occupy. She also became even more ruthless in her actions, which led to her demise.

This one time she chose the wrong person, because he could not be called a human, and gave her a new life as a demon.

You, looking for relief after a few years, ended up with one of your clients. A platinum blonde with rainbow eyes greeted you with open arms after seeing your condition.

His closed community was located in a remote area in the mountains. People there like you were broken and destroyed by life or loved ones.

And what it meant to you, they've never heard of her or her music.

Honestly, it didn't surprise you that most of them were women, inherently weaker physically than men. They couldn't defend themselves, so they always had to run away and hope they'd be better off somewhere else.

Every time the Founder called you a "poor thing", you felt like you were getting goosebumps and when he looked at you with those sad eyes, you thought something was wrong. Like he's faking it.

But it used to be, because with your current state, you didn't care.

You felt a slight discomfort associated with the honor of eating in his private chamber, but he did not seem to care.

You didn't notice when you were talking that he doesn't eat anything from a table full of food prepared by his followers. All he did was push plates towards you to make sure you tried everything. And with his elbows on the table, he listened to you like you were telling a fairy tale. You didn't want to talk about her or your problems, so you told him where you were and what you saw.

With his chin resting on his hand with blue long claws nails and sleepy eyes, he listened to everything like enchanted and curious about you.

He, in order for you to stay, persuaded you to hand over your business to someone else and join the cult.

He argued that by your constant fatigue and lack of strength to handle it. He promised to improve your condition after you moved here - he praised the brisk mountain air, pure waters full of minerals and his connection with the gods, giving comfort to his followers.

You weren't convinced by the idea of being one of his followers, who loved his every move, so you got the role of his guest.

You lived with the rest of them in a big common room - the men and women (with children) had their own separate wings in the large building.

You had there your own responsibilities that weren't too heavy, because the Founder of the cult told you to focus on recovery.

And just like anyone else, you could leave whenever you wanted (in theory).

Many times during the talks he offered you the attainment of your own eternal paradise - explaining that it means a state of eternal peace and happiness, without any worry and pain. His ultimate mercy toward broken people.

The offer sound tempting, you had to admit it, but you had a promise to keep, and sinners like you have no place in paradise.

And now, you found yourself again in front of the same door as ten years ago.

Douma was slightly opposed to your departure, saying you were still unhealed and tried to convince you to stay, but you were adamant about it. He gave up after you promised you'd come back and maybe you'd finally accept his offer.

You had to find out if the last ten years of your life were in vain.

To meet her, you left Douma's cult five days earlier and spent the night at the inn, because you arrived a day too early (than you assumed) and you sold your house a long time ago.

The wood on the door started to splinter, but it was strong enough to withstand your knock.

For a moment you wondered if she was still there or had not been caught, until the door with the loud squeak of the old hinges opened itself.

Inside, you thought nothing had changed - only the smell had left. Where there used to be a second room (with the bodies) she was sitting with her biwa. Behind her was an impenetrable darkness as if there were no walls behind her.

After called her by her old surname (which you didn't even notice slipping out of your mouth) you didn't speak to each other anymore.

You were surprised she still had the same kimono you gave her. You know this, it was made especially for your order, because you could not find anything in her type.

As soon as you took your seat on the only pillow (like it's specially set up in front of her for you), she started playing, and you thought the last decade was just a bad dream.

You've both fallen into a trance by hypnotizing each other. So much has happened that she's forgotten your promise, and if you hadn't come, you'd be a relic of her past.

In the morning, before the sun had time to rise, you left with the feeling that you belonged to each other. She was the musician, and you were her audience.

But before you left for the next 29 days, she spoke to you only once to telling you to call her Nakime.

And with every full moon, you'd come back for more. She didn't invite you but you knew she'd be waiting for you and she knew you'd be back.

She never spoke to you, but you didn't mind. You both understood each other without words and your roles in the relationship.

Sometimes after her performance you felt happy, sometimes more depressed than usual which Douma noticed and always asked about. He seemed to care very much about his followers, so you believed it was a real concern.

As history has shown, you are sometimes very naive and blind.

After a long and tiring series of questions from him, you finally revealed the reason for your sudden departures and current changes in mood.

Once Nakime was ordered to bring in all 12 moons, but she had a problem. Douma, as always, had company in his audience chamber and could not move him, when people were close.

She waited patiently to bring him, when she heard you come in to inform him of your another trip. You wanted to do it when he had an audience so you could get out sooner, but unfortunately he was willing to discuss it with you.

"Oh, you're leaving so soon again? Ahh, I was about to call you. I'm soooo bored here alone. Are you sure I couldn't go with you? Please, I'm begging you."

The blonde asked you with a smile and folding his hands as his followers do in prayer, excited as if you'd already agreed. For some reason, you felt like he was putting more and more pressure on you as this time of the month came.

"Douma-sama, you have responsibilities, and I'll see you in a few days."

Sitting cross-legged on a big pillow, a man puffed up his cheeks like a baby. Sometimes you wonder how old he really is.

You refrained from sighing and running your hand over your face. To stop him from pleading further, you drew your last card against him.

"Besides, I thought you couldn't leave the building during the day. And I couldn't just travel at night, you know that, right?"

"Yes, but it'll take so long and you'll be sad again because of that woman."

He closed his eyes and leaning slightly forward started whining in the tone of a child stating the sad obvious.

Untli he suddenly straightened up as if a new energy had entered him and, clapping his hands, said pleased with his new idea.

"I know! It will be better if you stay here this month! Then you will not take a step backward in your treatment."

But you instantly frowned and clenched your fists. His insistence was slowly starting to get on your nerves.

The blonde, feeling as if he were on thin ice, became sad again and rested his chin on his hand. In the second, he was holding a golden fan.

You once had a chance to get a close look at it, during the affiliation of new members in his this same chamber. He covered half of his face with it after hearing another sad story.

After several times spent with him during this meetings (at his request) you noticed that although all the stories were always tragic, they also sound very similar.

You're surprised they didn't affect his psyche after all these years of listening to other people's problems and expecting them to solve them.

Although perhaps that was the reason for his sometimes childish behavior? When he needed to, he was able to remain serious, although most of the time he acted like an actor on stage - sometimes all too exaggeratedly.

Normally, he'd keep pushing you to stay until you escaped into the sunlight, but he's noticed you've become distant and inaccessible to him lately. This prompted him to rethink and change his tactics.

"I'd better go."

"Will you come back?"

"As always," you said, turning your back to him.

You were getting more and more tired of his personality. And it wasn't just you, Nakime listening to it was also running out of patience.

"My, my. You're really quickly trying to get away from me. Wait a minute longer. I have one more question."

You sighed.

After Nakime performances, you discovered that you are finally managed to sleep peacefully all night without the corpses of your friends blaming you for their deaths, and you waited impatiently for her. On the one hand, it gave you relief, and on the other, a sense of guilt.

You wish you were on your way already, but as a courtesy, you always came to let him know you were leaving and then you had to regret it.

"Yes, Douma-sama? What do you want to ask?"

You asked dryly, wanting just to get out. For some time, Douma seemed too interested in your travels and invited you to spend time together much more often. Even when you were too mentally exhausted and didn't accept the offer, he would come to you. He was literally like a little kid, who didn't understand the word "no."

The black-haired woman clenched her fingernails on the instrument until the wood crumbled a little. If she'd used a little more force, she'd have broken her biwa like a stick. The blue fingernails pierced the neck of the instrument, creating holes, but she didn't care about it now.

"What is she like? You never told me much about her."

"Is that all you want to know? After that, can I leave?"

"Of course," Douma said straightening up and putting his hand on his massive chest dressed in a red turtleneck with a black top. "I always keep my promises."

A man was looking at you with those peculiar rainbow eyes waiting for an answer. They were simultaneously alluring and dreadful. Everyone said they were his gift from the gods.

But like you, he also had his curse and it was those beautiful eyes. Maybe that's why blonde demon thought he was the only one, who understood you and what it was like, in his own twisted way, remembering his beginnings from time when he was human.

Knowing that it would be better to answer him (because you may later regret it by his insistence upon your return), you pondered for a moment.

What is Nakime like?

She was elegant, cold and cruel. Merciless. Yes, but you can't deny that you've noticed the silent acts of courtesy she made to you during your meetings. She was too proud to admit them out loud.

The interior of the house has somehow changed, the blood has disappeared and it is definitely warmer for you on cold nights.

Sometimes you seemed to sense a delicate scent of flowers, completely different from Douma - a strong, suffocating smell of lilies. And sometimes you seemed to sense something else underneath it on him.

She was above it all, but she was also...

"She's cute."

You said with such confidence, that the woman's face instantly turned red. Her heart beat faster and in her belly the long-sleeping butterflies woke up.

What did you do to her?

Douma unexpectedly laughed behind his hand. The joyful, spontaneous sound echoes through the walls of the spacious room making it even louder.

When he finished and did nothing more, you raised your eyebrows in silent question.

"Hm? Did something happen? You decided to stay?"

"No, I'm just wondering if that's it."

Douma smiled at you as if you were telling a joke.

"Just like I promised, you're free now." But before you disappearing completely from his sight, he added:

"And remember I can always give you eternal paradise if you ever decide. Then you'll never have to suffer again."

As soon as the shōji door with the painted lily on canvas closed behind you, he was moved to Infinite Castle.

Muzan asked them about their progress in the search for the Blue Spider Lily and their success in eliminating the Ubuyashiki clan, at the same time strongly criticizing and calling them useless. Sometimes he had to relieved his anger on them and somehow get them to work so they wouldn't get too lazy.

Some of the blood of the lower moons was spilled and some of the upper moons were reminded of their place in the hierarchy. Nothing new.

And when the meeting was over in a few strokes of the strings, she sent everyone back where they were. Except for one person.

Douma looked around in surprise wondering why he was not yet in Eternal Paradise in his chamber. As soon as he saw Nakime sitting in the distance, he stood up and waved to her.

"Oh, Biwa Lady, what's wrong? Are you bored too?"

Nakime ignored him and, squeezing the plectra tighter, said imperatively.

"Stay away from that human."

"Hmm?" He muttered, putting his finger to his cheek and tilting his head slightly, thinking for a moment. After that, the man asked carelessly.

"Which one? I have a bit too many of them to guess which one exactly you mean, hahaha."

Douma laughed innocently, pretending not to know what she meant, irritating her even more. If the bangs hadn't covered her face, he could have seen her veins pulsing furiously across her forehead.

As a final warning to him, she repeated this to him through clenched teeth.

"Leave. That. Human. Alone. And. Never. Bother. Again."

"Oh, you mean my friend?"

He tilted his head slightly and with a satisfied smile added.

"But your chosen one lives with me, how could I ever leave my dear friend alone in need?"

Blonde bowed his head slightly, wrinkled in fake worry thick eyebrows and crossed his arms. "Oh, my, my. You're putting me in a difficult position. Friends should help each other and besides..."

He looked at her half-closed, with a predatory smile, and said in a lowered voice. "I don't usually share with my food."

Suddenly Douma was crushed by a wall falling on him from above. When she released him, he looked like a moving mass of flesh and meat.

He recovered quickly as a upper second moon befits, laughing at the woman's reaction. If he wanted to, he could easily avoid it with his speed.

"Oh, my, my, hahaha, you really need it, you're a quite strong, but still too weak and little too slow, my dear."

Seeing that he raised his hand again, he added quickly.

"I'm sorry, sorry, I just bait you. I didn't know you cared so much about this one. If you'd explained it before, I'd understand."

"There is nothing to understand here. Don't elaborate. You're just supposed to stop."

The cult leader giggled again and with a friendly smile refused.

"You see, this is my friend, who came to me for help. Who would I be if I didn't help him get rid of the pain? After all, it's my job."

Before Nakime could pull the strings and hurt him again, he said:

"You're cute."

Imitating your voice and tone. He wasn't the best at it, but it worked well enough that she hesitated for a moment and almost dropped the instrument. Grasping the neck of the biwa again, she changed the acrod, and instead of cutting him vertically with a shōji door, she sent him back to his audience chamber.

It took less than a second, but Douma noticed it, and he was complacent. Although he did not consider himself a master of deduction, as demonstrated by his least fruitful search for the Blue Spider Lily of all the moons.

Who would have expected Biwa Lady to have feelings for human?

But she must have forgotten one thing, when she was ordering and trying to intimidate him, is that demons are very territorial and jealous of their food - especially the upper moons.

Nakime still had over 72 hours left until you arrived, and she started wondered during that time whether it would be better to just lock you up at Infinity Castle after all.

[iustitians]

ooc; headcanons - on Neuvillette's age and early life, part 2: Electric Boogaloo

aka the post I've been chewing on ever since Genshin gave us Remuria, but my brain needed to put a few more things together and at one point I also found something that made me kind of lose it.

So uh, some of you may remember that way back in my first headcanon post where I tried to tackle the problem of Neuvillette's age, I said I believed him to have been born around the Cataclysm, putting him at roughly 500 years old. If you now look at Neuvillette's dossier page, you may see his age is now listed there as ~2,000.

Let me explain why I quadrupled the age of this way too mysterious and problematic dragon. And also talk about a few other kind of interesting things. I apologize for how ungodly long this got.

When I wrote that first headcanon post, we had no information at all on Neuvillette's age, nothing even vague. All we knew was how long he had been serving as Iudex, but zero mention of his life before that. For that reason and some other theories and assumptions, I estimated that he had been born not long before taking the position, and simply had innate knowledge that allowed him to do his job.

And then we got Lantern Rite, and Furina hit us with the

Furina: (If I remember correctly, he's already several thousands of years old…)

And you have no idea how much that one simple thought she had messed with my head. This was the first ever bit of information we got on how old he may be, and it immediately threw most of my theorizing for a complete loop. And later on it would do it again, but I'll come back to that in a bit.

So, this line proceeded to haunt me and kill my braincells for a while, until we finally got Remuria. And while Neuvillette never showed up himself during the quest and was only mentioned like three times, it was still something, and in the end it became enough for me to put a couple more pieces in place.

Most notably, Cassiodor talked about Scylla and confirmed that Scylla indeed was never the Hydro Dragon (which some people did believe), and then added something extra:

Monsieur Os: Well, "fell dragon" was the name they gave, but it was no more than a vishap that was a teensy bit stronger than normal. After all, no new Hydro Dragon could be born so long as the Mistress of Many Waters hibernated in the deep seas.

The reason why this is helpful is because we know (well, more or less) when Egeria left the deep seas - aka the Primordial Sea, where she had been imprisoned fooooor we don't really know how long, for the sin of creating incomplete humans out of Oceanids - and that was when Remuria fell and all of Fontaine descended into chaos. She was tasked with regaining control over the situation, and that was when she received the Gnosis and became an Archon.

This already moves Neuvillette's potential rebirth point from the Cataclysm more to the fall of Remuria. Now we don't know exactly when that happened, since there isn't a very clear timeline for a lot of the events of the Archon War, but we do know that Remus' construction of civilization in Fontaine was predated not just by the rise, but also the fall of Gurabad over in Sumeru. As such I personally place Fontaine's parts later in the period.

So that's cool, but it still bothered me, because Neuvillette's new approximate age of 2,000-ish did not fit with Furina's statement of him being several thousands of years old. And look, yes I know, I could have just written it off as her not knowing for sure or simply being wrong, and to an extent I legit tried just to cope, but listen: firstly she's known the guy for five hundred years and is implied to know... a certain amount of things about him, and secondly, the writers make characters say things for a reason.

And it wasn't until quite a bit later that I learned the very simple and very infuriating reason why this was so confusing.

The line is mistranslated, plain and simple. Where Furina says "several thousands years old" in English, what she says in Chinese instead is "at least a thousand years old."

Yeah thanks, that's not a big difference at all, especially when I'm trying to think in relation to events that took place about 2,000 years ago, ahem. ANYWAY,

So finding that out finally cleared things up for me and allowed me to place his approximate age at a more concrete point. Of course, approximate it still remains. He might be a few hundred years older still, I'd say up to 2,500. I doubt about younger though, because we know the Archon War ended about 2,000 years ago with all Archon seats claimed, and my current understanding is that Neuvillette will have been reborn pretty shortly after Egeria left the Primordial Sea.

The reason why I think that is because it is implied that she was the one stopping his rebirth from happening, as also said by Cassiodor in the quote above. When we speak of Neuvillette in his presence, Cassiodor asks in surprise, "A new Hydro Dragon has already been born?", further suggesting it happened rather quickly.

We could also add the bit from Neuvillette's Character Story A Fontainian Nursery Rhyme, where it's said that Egeria was created "to suppress the original vital force of this planet." Now this is originally easy to write off as talking about the Primordial Sea, and it might indeed be doing so at least to some extent - but combining this line, Cassiodor's quote, the information from Neuvillette's lore and the Fontainian Wind Glider about the Hydro Dragon being the original "God of Life", and the fact that Egeria didn't actually have that much control over the Primordial Sea, makes it sound more like it was more about the Hydro Dragon not coming back. Which, well, makes complete sense from Celestia's standpoint.

Now we don't really know why exactly Egeria leaving the Sea and becoming the Archon kind of... removed the plug on the Hydro Dragon's rebirth, because I don't think she dwelt there all the time before the Original Sin? But I might be wrong, and that's information we simply don't have and perhaps never will, so for now I'm going to push that aside.

I was also thinking a bit about where Neuvillette would have been reborn. The most obvious idea is the Primordial Sea, although it would then make it a bit strange that, before the restoration of his authority, he didn't remember his connection to it in spite of being aware from the start that he was a Sovereign. Perhaps it is still possible that he was reborn there and wasn't particularly surprised by it, since as an elemental dragon he is part of the planet's native life, so in that way it makes sense for him to be born there, but it still feels awkward. Maybe it's just a matter of kinda weird writing though. Still, it is also possible that he was born in some other ocean depths. Perhaps around the same area as the previous Hydro Dragon's remains, if anything remained of them at all.

(It is kiiiiiinda implied that those remains may have been used to create Oceanids?? Because "The lizard's bones dissolved into mud, from which swans emerged" and they have similar bone-y armor as Consecrated Beasts, aka animals that ate god flesh?? And maybe that's why Neuvillette is stuck in human form?? Or whatever?? So who knows. Wack theory but fun to think about.)

I did want to talk a bit about Neuvillette's early life as well, since we got just a tiny bit more info on that recently. In Sigewinne's story quest, there is an optional dialogue between Neuvillette and Wriothesley, and it's, well, funny.

Wriothesley: Well, while we're on the topic... What did you do before getting this job, anyway? Spend all day swimming in the sea, from east to west, then south to north? Neuvillette: Yes, and uh... from the surface to the ocean floor, on occasion. Wriothesley: Wow. Impressive. Neuvillette: ...Apologies, that was merely an attempt at humor. You can disregard what I said. Wriothesley: Hah, that's impossible, I'm afraid. My imagination's already running wild.

Of course, with the way this is worded, it's hard to say how seriously it should be taken, but hey, it's what we have. Plus, not only is it implied that Neuvillette is more or less okay with Wriothesley having a guess as to who he is, but also, as we know, this guy is bad at both joking and lying. This would, at least to some extent, align with what I thought about his early life in my first headcanon post: he vibed. Just for a bit (millennium and a half to two millennia lol no big deal) longer than I originally thought.

Given his declaration from Masquerade of the Guilty regarding his initial lack of interest in humans as well as how he never met Egeria in person, I presume that he stayed well away from human settlements, mostly sticking to the depths and, if he did visit the surface, uninhabited areas like Loch Urania.

As centuries passed and both the resolution of the prophecy and the Cataclysm drew closer, more and more of Fontaine sank under the rising water level, essentially adding to Neuvillette's domain and giving him more places he could visit. This may have been how he finally made his contact with the human nation and its legacy, and ignited the first spark of curiosity in him, or at the very least, gave him the idea that he might find the answers he sought among them. Still, I don't think he approached humans at all, and also I believe personally that he was not involved in the Cataclysm in any capacity, staying well away from what he considered humanity and Celestia's mess. At that point he still didn't care. Not his monkey, not his circus.

How much he knows about what happened, Khaenri'ah etc is unclear, as there is zero information. He is generally speaking implied to know a lot, including many truths of the world that Celestia doesn't want said out loud, but we'd probably need him to meet Dainsleif or the Sibling or whomever to learn more.

Well anyway, I think I've rambled on for long enough and if you somehow read all this then I salute you.

[therecordchanger62279]

TAKE TWO (8TH EDITION)

     This 8th installment puts the focus on the Post Punk era with some of the finest music of that time ready to go for your turntable or playlist. Same rules, though. No boxed sets. One or two discs is all I get, so I better get it right. I think I did.

XTC: 1. Upsy Daisy Assortment 2. BBC Radio 1 Live in Concert. Most of the XTC catalog is so good that the thought of choosing just two titles made it seem as if the barbarians were at the gate. But I posted a guard, and secured the lock, and made my decision. It was the safe choice. I went with a career spanning hits collection, and a great live set courtesy the BBC. That second choice, at least, was a unique one because XTC was never a band that played live a great deal. So, this BBC document is a valuable one.

Elvis Costello: 1. Get Happy! 2. Taking Liberties. Elvis has been around for about a hundred years now, and he’s made about 10,000 records. I was a big fan very early on, but he lost me around the time of Spike, and except for a stray track here and there, I never really went back. The two I chose were the only two I seriously considered. Between the two there are about 40 songs, including his best studio album, Get Happy! and a great collection of ‘B’ sides, and non-album tracks, Taking Liberties.

The Bangles: 1. Doll Revolution 2. Greatest Hits. Best studio album (from 2003), and a hits collection to pick up the key tracks spanning their 80s heyday.

Roxy Music: 1. Greatest Hits 2. Avalon. I liked just about everything Roxy did, but they were really two different bands with two distinct periods. The early art rockers are represented by the Greatest Hits collection, and the latter era is best represented by their final studio album, Avalon. By that time, they were almost Bryan Ferry’s backing band. But they still managed to sound like the Roxy Music we’d followed for so long.

The Jam: 1. Setting Sons 2. Snap! There seems to be a pattern developing – the best studio album, and a collection of singles. All of their records were great, but this was easy for me. Another case of choosing between what I wanted, and what I needed.

Sleater-Kinney: 1. All Hands on the Bad One 2. Live in Paris. I didn’t really catch up with Sleater-Kinney until The Woods album, ten years into their career. But even though I liked that record well enough, it didn’t stick with me. A few years later they did a live album, and put it out on cassette, and packaged it to look like a homemade tape. I liked that concept so much that I figured this was my chance to further acquaint myself with them, and get an idea of how they sounded live. Several years later, I read Carrie Brownstein’s memoir about her years with the band, and I took the deep dive. The first here is my favorite of the four studio albums I bought, and that live album was still a must. I’ve fallen behind with them again now that they’re a duo with a hired hand on drums. One of these days, I’ll get caught up – again.

The Police: 1. Synchronicity 2. Ghost in the Machine. Of all of the bands that surfaced in the wake of the late 70s Punk/New Wave scene, I was most devoted to four of them – Blondie, The Clash, The Jam, and The Police. Those four were the Mount Rushmore of that entire period for me. The Police are one of those rare bands who have a perfect catalog. So, all I had to do here was choose the two I listen to the most. I considered a hits package, but these two records are just about as good as it could ever get.

The Replacements: 1. Tim 2. Pleased To Meet Me. The ‘Mats were a band where I never bought into the critical, and popular consensus opinions about what were their best records, and when they were behaving like the band everybody came to know and love. I never cared for the sloppiness of their Twin-Tone era. And I never liked those stories about how drunk they were, and how poorly they played at this show or that one. If they’d played poorly when I’d bought a ticket to see them, I’d have never forgiven them. But their cult following, and most critics seemed to admire that about them. I thought it was interesting when the audience, and critics seemed to turn on them once their records got more polished in the late 80s with the release of Don’t Tell a Soul in 1989, and All Shook Down in 1990. I enjoyed those records at the time, but they don’t hold up all that well today. But the records that preceded them – records that bridged the sloppiness of the early period with the polish of the later era – Tim (great title, by the way), and Pleased to Meet Me – are the two gems in their catalog, and obvious choices here.

Graham Parker: 1. Howlin’ Wind 2. Passion Is No Ordinary Word: The Graham Parker Anthology (1976-1991). And we’re back to the model of “best studio album” and “career spanning compilation” again. Can’t help it. Parker just has too many brilliant songs buried on too many pretty good albums. His debut, though, is perfect, and one of the best records of the 1970s.

Flamin’ Groovies: 1. Shake Some Action 2. In Person (Norton Records version). Like Roxy Music, the Groovies were two different bands – one led by Roy Loney, and the other by Cyril Jordan after Loney departed. The original Groovies were more into 50s rockers while the latter band bows at the 60s jangle shrine. Shake Some Action is their best album and it comes from 1975 when Jordan had taken the reins. But In Person is a killer live set from ’71 when Roy Loney was on board, and steering the ship. So, you get the best studio record, a great live record, and both versions of the band. Make no mistake, though, the Groovies made a bunch of great records, and they’re all worth owning. Get these two, and then pick up Teenage Head. And get some sleep the night before because you’ll be dancing all the next day listening to them. (By the way, In Person has been issued three separate times on three different labels, but Norton’s In Person is the one to get. It’s got the best sound, and a fantastic sleeve that cops The Beatles Second Album cover art perfectly.)

[scotianostra]

Dugald Stewart the noted Scottish mathematician and philosopher was born on November 22nd 1753 in Edinburgh.

Dugald Stewart was a Scottish philosopher and mathematician. Today regarded as one of the most important figures of the later Scottish Enlightenment.

The Scottish Enlightenment began in the mid 18th century and continued for the best part of a century. It marked a major shift from religion into reason. Religion had been influential in every part of Scottish life. A little over a hundred years before it resulted in a war between the Royalists and covenanters causing countless deaths in period known as the killing time, indeed during the Enlightenment the strict Calvinists Government meant some people were punished for crimes such as blasphemy.

Dugald’s father was a Professor of Mathematics at the University of Edinburgh, his mother Marjorie Stewart was the only daughter of Archibald Stewart, writer to the signet, so he had a good pedigree, he was schooled at Edinburgh high school from then entered the University of Edinburgh where he took an arts degree although he also attended courses in natural philosophy. On the advice of Adam Ferguson, Dugald Stewart spent one year in Glasgow where he attended the lectures of Thomas Reid. On his return to Edinburgh University he spent 13 years teaching mathematics.

In 1775 he was appointed joint professor of mathematics with his father. However, when Ferguson resigned as professor of moral philosophy in 1785 he was succeeded by Dugald Stewart who held the post for 25 years.

His writing included: Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, published over 35 years in three volumes, Outlines of Moral Philosophy and Philosophical Essays.

Stewart left Scotland on a number of occasions to visit France. In 1806 for example he accompanied the Earl of Lauderdale in an attempt to negotiate peace with Napoleon. On a previous visit to the country, he had witnessed the outbreak of the French Revolution.

He spent much of his retirement at Kinneil House, Boness, a stately home owned by the Dukes of Hamilton since the 17th century.

My favourite wee story about Dugald Stewart involves other big hitters of the era like Dr Joseph Black, Professor Adam Ferguson, John Home and two other poets, Robert Burns, our national bard, and Walter Scott, famous for may poetic works as well as the Waverley series and Ivanhoe. I’m not sure about how Walter Scott had come to be at the meeting on Edinburgh Southside in Sciennes Hill House as he was only 15 at the time, but he must have been a bit star struck, these guys were the creme de la creme.

We know what happened, because Scott left several accounts of the meeting. Burns, it should be said, did not do so, but by then Burns was well on his way to fame and no doubt met many of Edinburgh’s literati in the Oyster Clubs and other clubs such as the Crochallan Fencibles Club, one of many he became a member of.

Scott recalled in 1827: “I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the world to know him; but I had very little acquaintance with any literary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two sets that he most frequented.

“Mr Thomas Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father’s. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word, otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man.

“As it was, I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson’s, where there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the celebrated Mr Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sate silent, looked and listened.

“The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns’ manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury’s, representing a soldier lying dead in the snow, his dog sitting in misery on the one side, on the other his widow with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath, – ‘Cold on Canadian hills, or Mindens’ plain, Perhaps that parent wept her soldiers slain: Bent o’er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops, mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptized in tears.’ “Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears.

He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne’s, called by the uncompromising title of The Justice Of The Piece.

“I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received and still ecollect, with very great pleasure.”

[wastemanjohn]

look back into the sun

been talking with @deanwinchesterpregnant, about, well, dean winchester being pregnant. or deanna. here's a short extract from a fic i wrote several thousand words of in one day last year and haven't touched since bc it's just rotting in my drafts 🥲

Deanna found out in a gas station bathroom. She’d been carrying the test around with her for a week. Praying her period would surprise her in the meantime, knowing in her heart that - and she couldn’t stand it anymore. It was hot outside, Sammy had been whining about it for the last hundred miles, and she’d been nauseous the whole drive, terrified to mention it. The two pink lines showed up right away.

The bathroom smelled terrible. She wiped off the test, stuck it in her pocket and threw up in the toilet, like her body was waiting for confirmation. She didn’t feel any better afterwards.

They settled in a motel after sundown, on the outskirts of Bumfuck, Pennsylvania. Everything had felt so normal, in a dreamlike way. Sam had been complaining about them staying in one room, about the privacy he was so obsessed with; John had snapped that he could start making demands when he was bringing some money in himself. Deanna sat next to Sam on the end of their bed, knees touching, as John ran down what he thought they were hunting. They didn’t really need a rundown, though. Missing hearts, pathologist notes John somehow managed to get hold of, query animal attack. It was pretty fucking obvious, and werewolves are straightforward enough.

Sam said as much, then went for a run. John rolled his eyes and let him go, even though it was late, because his resolve to fight with Sam was always in pieces at the end of a long day like that. 

Deanna remembers touching the back of her father’s arm and saying, voice all tight, “Daddy, can I talk to you?”

John looked at the test for what felt like a full minute. A full minute for him to say, “Oh.”

Deanna stood in front of him, arms coiled around her waist like ropes. Quietly, she said, “Yeah.”

John blinked at her. Then stared, like he was seeing her for the first time. “Is it mine?”

“How could you ask me something like that?” Her voice came out all hoarse.

Deanna’s eyes misted over. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

John may have had his little bar skanks, his flings when he was states away. He never hid them from Deanna, which made her feel like crap. But Deanna had been faithful. There hadn’t been anyone else since she was seventeen years old. It almost hurt her more that John would think otherwise, than the fact that he wasn’t faithful himself.

He didn’t apologize. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. It was shaking a little. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.” Deanna’s hands were shaking too.

“You’re on the pill.”

She nodded. “I-”

“And you take it every single day?” "

There were days when Deanna would forget. Days when it was impossible. She couldn’t just hold the rocksalt and ask a vengeful spirit to wait while she took her contraceptive. John should understand that. He had to understand that. 

She didn’t answer him. But John didn’t really seem to be listening anyway.

His hand was in his hair now. Running through it manically. “I don’t believe this.”

“You think I do?” 

She was in tears. It was the hormones. The hormones, that wanted so badly for her father to give her a hug. Hold her, reassure her. Make everything feel less horrifying, turn down the volume on it. 

“Dad, look at me.”

It was only when the words left her mouth that she realized John wasn’t. He was looking anywhere but. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“Fuck.”

He handed her back the test, still not looking at her. Thrust it at her, really. When he left, with this awful look on his face, Deanna knew better than to follow.

Sam went to bed soon after he got back. Deanna stayed up on the couch, the TV on with the volume down to nothing, picking at the fraying threads on her jeans and gritting her teeth so tight her skull vibrated. The longer she talked herself out of saying fuck it all and having a drink (just one wouldn’t hurt, right?), the longer she wondered how the hell some people go through life never drinking at all. She’d never felt hurt like this, alone like this, afraid like this. Afraid John wouldn’t come home, afraid of what would happen if and when he did.

There was a night, six weeks ago, a hot July night when John had come to her. They’d left Sam alone in the shitty apartment they were renting at the time to go take care of a quick salt and burn, nothing big, done in two days. And John hadn’t been coming to her much during that stretch of time, Deanna remembered that; so it must have been that night. They smelled of lighter fluid and corpse, and there was dirt on their clothes, under their fingernails, and Deanna’s shirt had been off and the night air through the Impala windows felt refreshing against her clammy skin, and John was gentle with her like he nearly always was; and whether it was the adrenaline of the hunt, or John was just feeling lonely, Deanna couldn’t know, but she sat in his lap in the backseat and he tangled his fingers up in her hair and told her he needed her, he needed her right by his side, always, sweet words like that, sweet words that Deanna loved, because John could be really sweet, when he was inside her and they were both flushed and breathless. He had his hands on her face when he came, inside her like always, and Deanna felt the rush of it, and thought nothing about it.

[dastardly-homo-writing]

(Queer) Pride and Prejudice || Chapter Five

Chapter Five: The Lucases Board the Darcy Hate Train

Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Fruitville, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Fruitville, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James’s had made him courteous.

Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Lezzie’s intimate friend. But not in that way. Though Lezzie had admittedly been quite infatuated with her, as one often is with older women, for a full year in her adolescence.

That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.

“You began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “You were Ms. Bingley’s first choice.”

“Yes; but she seemed to like her second better.”

“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because she danced with her twice. To be sure that did seem as if she admired her—indeed I rather believe she did—I heard something about it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson.”

“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between her and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking her how she liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether she did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and which she thought the prettiest? and her answering immediately to the last question: ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.’ ”

“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”

“My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Lezzie,” said Charlotte. “Ms. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as their friend, are they?—poor, poor Lezzie!—to be only just tolerable.”

“I beg you would not put it into Lezzie’s head to be vexed by their ill-treatment, for they are such a disagreeable person, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by them. Mrs. Longfinger told me last night that they sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening their lips.”

Ah yes, their lips, thought Lezzie mindlessly.

“Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. “I certainly saw Ms. Darcy speaking to her.”

“Aye—because she asked them at last how they liked Netherfield, and they could not help answering her; but she said they seemed quite angry at being spoke to.”

“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that they never speaks much, unless among their intimate acquaintances. With them they are all of a sudden remarkably agreeable.”

“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If they had been so very agreeable, they would have talked to Mrs. Longfinger. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that they are eat up with pride. And I am not referring to that of the homosexual nature.”

“But of course that is true of them as well,” Lezzie said, voice soft enough to be heard only by her elder sister. Jane held back her laughter. “One could tell even from a distance of a hundred feet,” Lezzie added, glancing over at Jane, who failed to compose her expression.

Jane tapped her shoulder lightly in warning. “Must you be so clever?” she whispered.

“I do not mind their not talking to Mrs. Longfinger,” said Miss Lucas, “but I wish they had danced with Lezzie.”

“Another time, Lezzie,” said her mother, “I would not dance with them, if I were you.”

“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with them.”

“Their pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young person, with family, fortune, everything in their favour, should think highly of themselves. If I may so express it, they has a right to be proud.”

“That is very true,” replied Lezzie, “and I could easily forgive their pride, if they had not mortified mine.”

“Mortified? I believe you mean to say tempted,” Lydia laughed but stilled quickly at her mother’s expression.

“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. Though I adore the parades, make no mistake. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

“If I were as rich as Ms. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”

“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs. Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.”

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.

[supercool-here]

We were lonely

This is my first go at writing something. A short story maybe. I don't care if it's boring or redundant or has typos, I just really wanted to write this and post it to my blog. It is a conversation I wish I had with a friend I once had.

The day was hot, and sitting at an auditorium with another twelve hundred sweaty teens was not making it any cooler.

We had gotten dragged out of our classrooms during the last period and were now listening to the principal, giving the last instructions for next friday´s election. Candidates running for student representatives were given the responsibility of forming their parties and financing their campaigns, which mostly consisted on visiting each class with hand-made posters and balloons, and handing out candy. Those two weeks were really exciting in middle school, even as a fourteen year old I would eagerly expect election day; we got to miss our last period to go down to the auditorium, listen to the candidates´ last proposals, vote for our favorite, wait for the teachers to count the votes and, finally, announce the winner.

It was an event that had to offer all you could ever want from middle school; cheering, free candy, high spirits, skipping periods, leaving school early, and having a reason to side with someone and boo the opponents.

We were being dismissed back to our classrooms to grab our things and leave when I caught sight of two kids holding hands; they were sitting several classes away from mine, but close enough to know they were ninth graders just like me. They were also close enough to recognize, moments later, who they were. In that instant my heart dropped to my stomach, betrayed and disillusioned.

April had been one of my very few friends since fourth grade, the only one I actually trusted, and also the one I liked the most. She was funny, and honest, and I had given her a customized Maroon 5 shirt for one of her birthdays. I thought we were close friends, because ours was the closest thing I had known to friendship.

It turned out our friendship wasn´t strong enough to last through ninth grade, and we weren´t close enough for her to tell me about her very first boyfriend. For some reason I will never discover, April even felt the need to deny she had a crush on Declan when I asked her about it days before.

In retrospect, it all sounds very silly, but at fourteen it didn´t occur to me that it was a wonderful thing we were both growing up into real people, who can stop being friends and can continue living their lives separately, and this wouldn´t represent the end of times. No. All I could think about was this bugging little feeling of abandonment and, even deeper still, envy, that turned everything around me too bright and too cold. I felt, as I had often done, lonely.

April and I are fine now, of course. We say hi when we pass each other on the street. She dresses with style and smiles with charm, and I am truly happy for her and for all the things going on in her life that I don't know about, though it took a while and a few miles of distance to reach that resolution.

At fourteen, episodes of loneliness like this one would unravel in my head a string of dark and awful thoughts about myself, certainly much more slowly and innocently than it does nowadays. As I was leaving the auditorium, I got thinking about the possible reasons as to why April didn´t tell me about Declan.

First was the very logical assumption that she didn't want to be my friend anymore. The search for explanations started with things that had nothing to do with me, like how she wasn't my neighbor anymore and therefore we hadn't been able to chat every morning on our way to school anymore, and ended up at self-hatred avenue, having me convinced she must find me a bore for never wanting to go out anywhere or do anything fun.

I hadn´t realized all my classmates had gathered their things and left the classroom, but the teacher did.

He was too young to call him mister. Nat was a twenty-something year old man, the newest and youngest teacher, who had joined the school recently on august, and he was our maths teacher.

-Are you ok?

I looked up from my desk, where I was finishing up packing my things. He was standing two desks away, looking at me through his thick-framed glasses, with only the faintest speck of concern in his eyes.

-Yes. Yes I'm fine, I'm fine. Sorry.

I was embarrassed as I said this, trying to pack my things faster.

-You look bothered. You can tell me what´s going on.

He looked honestly concerned now. And I wanted to stop feeling lonely.

-Well I just learned this friend of mine has a boyfriend and lied about it to me a few days ago. And it hurts my pride really. I don't like realizing people don't want me as their friend. And I am also jealous, not because I like her boyfriend but because I want to have a life, and I don´t want to be left behind.

It was a silly problem, and I was a small teenager, but he listened as if it actually mattered. He looked at me with a clear seriousness, not with the usual look of dismiss adults are so used to give teens when talking about their end-of-the-world problems, pitying them for being so young and inexperienced and narrow-minded. This made me trust him.

He had started giving me advice, when a woman knocked on the door demanding his attention. He made a gesture indicating her to wait, and continued on with his advice. I don´t remember what he said that afternoon, but from that day on I let myself go to him for comfort and tutoring very often.

-So you´re the spoiled little sister aren´t you?- He said one afternoon. I had gone for tutoring, we got chatting, and he had asked if I had any siblings.

-No, it´s not like that.-I said laughing, It was a lie.- Do you have any siblings?

He was the eldest of three kids, his brother three years younger than him and his sister two years younger than me.

-Do you like being the oldest?

-It´s not as good as being the youngest.

-How would you know? You wish you were spoiled?

-How would you know the youngest are always the spoiled ones?

-You just assumed it earlier. -He almost caught me lying - So why do you think being the youngest is better?

-I don´t actually think that. I want to get you to tell me what it´s like.

I wanted to be honest then

-You have nothing to envy from your sister.

-So you don´t like being the youngest?

-Not always. You see, I´ve always prided myself on being capable and independent, and have always thought that living with sisters much older than me made me mature. But I'm starting to wonder if it's an illusion. - Embarrassment crept to my face, but I did not cower. I turned to look at him.

-I think I will be ruined, sometime in the future, if I don´t force myself to leave the bubble I live in. But I don´t know how to do it.- I turned back to my notebook, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, though this was a topic I was often mortified about- I read on the internet that teenagers should take healthy risks, to learn their limits and such, but you see, I´ve done that before, I've tried to step out of my comfort zone.

-And what happended?- he looked amused. I knew I was being intense, but I was also honest.

-Catastrophe is what happened. I've tried going to parties. I don´t like being treated differently by my mom when she helps me get ready, it makes me cringe at my own growth, like I'm being watched when I'd rather be left alone with my awkward transformation. And my dad somehow always manages to be mad about something, and I know he's just stressed and scared but so am I, every time.

-I do remember, growing up can be very challenging- he said, slightly nostalgic, evidently relieved.

-But that's not the worst of it all.- I hesitated for a moment, wondering if the next piece of information was too much. I decided I had to tell the rest of it, now that I had started.- In seventh grade I went to my first party ever, and sadly not the last one. I had a moment of decisiveness, I felt bold and ready for the world, I thought I had to do the things I thought myself too awkward to try.- while I kept on solving my equations, I smiled at my own naivety, as if I were decades and not a mere two years away from it- I decided to go to the homecoming, so I had my mom do my hair and makeup, I put on the most fun outfit I had, and I met up with the few friends I had managed to make.

-What happened? Didn´t you have fun? Did someone bully you? Did a boy break you heart?- he was curious when asking these questions. I sometimes wondered if Nat had been an adult his entire life and through our conversations he was trying to figure out what adolescence was like.

-None of that. I don´t know. I hate those parties. No matter what I do, or say, or wear, or who I'm with, I always feel out of place. So out of place. I feel that I shouldn't be there. That I'm uninvited. That everyone has figured out how to exist in those places and move with the crowd and have fun and talk and dance, and I still don't get it. And I feel lonely. And I decide to leave.

He then looked sad, and I hurriedly tried to find something to say to stop him from pitying me.

-But there's always hope afterwards. I still hope one day, when I'm older, I will find my place. Somewhere I'm not a hindrance. Somewhere I don't feel lonely.

-You should start looking for it. The older you get, the harder it is to hope for things like that.- he looked awfully nostalgic as he said this.

-You are right. I do worry, sometimes, that if I don't start looking for my place already, one day it'll be too late to start. But I don´t know how to start.- I said this with very intense yearning. He felt that.

-You'll be alright. You'll get there.

-Have you gotten there?

-I think so.-he took a pause to reflect seriously on this.-I don´t actively look for my place in this world anymore, but maybe I'll join you in the search for it.- he was trying to elevate out spirits, and it worked.

-Where should we start? I have tried parties, and I'm not fun enough to belong there. Hardly make any friends. But I can deal with smaller crowds. What about you?

He did find his place. He has a girlfriend and goes to church with her every sunday. I wouldn´t be surprised if I learned one day that they got married. He's still a teacher at that same school. He found his place. He'll be alright.

-About the bubble situation-he said- promise you won't wait any longer to pop it. Do it yourself before someone else does it for you. If that happened, you'd get startled. Do it yourself.

-Yes, but how?

-You already know how. Do the things you want to do. Speak your mind. Make mistakes. You'll likely be terrible at it at first. We all are. But that's how you get better. And your parents won't always like it, but it's not their life. And they won't stop loving you. They can't

-Promise that.-I started to pack my things into my backpack.

-I promise-he looked relaxed, and in that moment I felt reassured.

-Thank you. I think I will go get blackout drunk now.-I got up from my seat.

-Don't do that.-he laughed.

-No, I won´t-I laughed as well. I started to make my way to the door- Thank you, for your kindness. But don´t be too kind thought, you'll end up attracting the wrong kind of nerdy loners.

He laughed, but seemed as if he actually considered it for a second.

-I'm serious. They will flock to you every recess and even after school for the rest of your life, just like I do.- I opened the door.

He actually laughed this time.

-I will be even kinder then.

I smiled and waved goodbye.

I realize now, maybe he was lonely too. I'm glad he isn't anymore.

[notyouraveragebozo]

12/19/2023 - Day 1083 of Presentation

Five years ago, on a cold and dreary winter day, I went on a virtual lark of this amazing planet, scanning the ground for meteor impact craters, and taking snapshots of interesting places to visit someday,... and life,... became much more interesting, for me.

Originally,... I was brought to a virtual standstill, by an object, which resembled after 'connecting-the-dots' - a boat - in a desert! After some time spent staring at it,... I took a look at some very OLD maps, and saw, going back far enough - there were rivers shown, painted in, where my object was sitting. Using the map date, and projecting a couple hundred years into the future, I looked at the hulls of ALL the ships that had been built, and Google could show,..   and the closest shape I could see - was that of - a 15th C. caravel(?!) (This was my educated guess, I may be wrong,) but speaking that pronouncement out loud (and to myself), caused me instantly to react, - and I reached out to a local university, in the hope of developing an amazing, expedition searching for a boat wreck - on dry land,... While I had shipwreck dreams in my head, and waiting for the professor's response to my email, I went and reviewed the other images that I had  'snap-shot' that day. That - is 'when' - my life changed - forever. What I saw,... I felt the need to share. I immediately found myself, sitting down, writing fantastical-sounding words, that I seriously, realistically, wanted to honestly, relay/impart/ and share to/ and with - 'everyone'. By the end of March, 2019, the bulk of my words were written, and I was ready to take my 'construct' to a web development firm out in the 'world-at-large'. I waited until April 1st, was over, (for obvious reasons),... and on 2nd of April, 2019, I reached out into the world, and shared my ideas and intentions for the first time, with a website building firm, located on the opposite side of the planet from me, in India, (to try to be egalitarian). The firm was tasked with working 'in the dark' regarding my Intel property. The stringent dictate of 'not knowing' what I was working to build and impart, and my newness to the business world, found me, repeatedly, reiterating 'my vision' - over, and over, and over - to the folk on the other side of the phone, (it cumulatively - honed my vision), and the words expressing what I would like the site to accomplish. Unfortunately, at the end of 2019, I parted ways with that firm, after an email 'faux pas' on their part, (that was quite unfortunate), but which caused me to blow my gasket and sever ties, with not much more to show for it, other than my MUCH deeper 'understanding' of what I was wanting for my website, how to look and function.

I then turned state-side for assistance, working with freelancers, for four months before, COVID intruded and caused them to bow out for a health pause. It was during this period that my wonderful, geriatric nurse trained mother, passed away, in terrible, anguishing pain, due to the multiple failures of her peers. (The tale of her demise is too rich in soul-enflaming, terribly-traumatic details, for me to relay in this message. Perhaps I will rip that scab off, another day, and tell everyone of the grave injustice done to her. She was robbed by her peers - a victim of criminal neglect. She was the embodiment of LOVE, and such a tragic, unnecessary loss,) With my mom passing, I was thrown into a great funk. It was she who listened to me first - (and she didn't flinch). She had been my sounding board, my hug-sharer, and my business sponsor. She had believed in me when others did not. (I had envisioned sending my parents on world travel trips, with my project successfully concluded, but,... then,... she was gone, and the 'dreams' for my folks together, 'seeing the world', were dashed to pieces.) But, now,... because I had verbally and textually, re-explained/repeated, what I had wanted of my website, for so many times to the folk in India - the freelancers were to quick 'shape the details, and I had my pages rudimentarily shaped,... when COVID,... took them offline. The THIRD firm to come online, Word Press - was the charm! (Thank you, folk at Blue Sky!)    On the last day of 2020, at 12PGMT,... I sent out Twitter Tweets to 74 News agencies; 10 Specialty Orgs., (such as Smithsonian and National Geographic); and 63 billionaires or their foundational Twitter accounts; and then I turned my website - 'On'. Presenting the Intellectual property information, in an engaging and constructive fashion, to the elite like a Nieman-Marcus Christmas catalogue gift idea. An 'Opportunity for the Ages'. I was SOOO - impressed with myself, and floating on a cloud for what I was managing, that I became blind to a glaring error that was only discovered - on Day 580! My company name Unique Destinations Enterprise was spelled wrong, (in the Header, Footer, and Copyright. It was spelled 'Enterprize'!!!) (So much for trying to convince the uber wealthy, the veracity, of my unique opportunity!) I had intended that the website to be accessible by anyone - for free. I made it readable in 104 languages and spoken English voice, for those with literacy or vision issues. Before the auction concluded, I managed to post an AUDIO Back Story, retelling of the Origin story, that I give to my new website helpers before they can do any work for me, and sharing my spoken words, in 22 subtitled language videos, 1Hour:5 min in length.

I wanted to reach everyone, who might wish to seek, casting a wide net,... (but folk became/stayed, shy even after the spelling error was corrected.) My GPS Auction construct lasted for 775 days, ending on Valentine's Day, at High Noon, 2023, without anyone taking it up, forcing me to turn to Plan 'B'. Plan 'B' is more like a ballet of many parts and partners. I have contacted folk in NASA and the U.S. Congress, I still need to involve advice of attorneys, before impartation can take place. To what result, you may ask? (I'm trying for a fairytale ending, '... and they all lived, happily ever after.' I seek to impart what I learned - to share it - with my fellow humanity. (And empower myself, of course (as is fit a fairy tale)), to evolve to serve as a philanthropist, helping others, with my economic windfall - (yet to be manifested.) I am striving to steer 'the dialogue' in a fruitful, and 'constructive' fashion, that may best maximize - positive outcomes, regarding human society. As such, it behooves my construct, that the minds that approach it, are rational, logical, inquisitive, and open. What I would share is information, that conveys a need, to be more 'cogent' and receptive, to the changes necessary of us all, and gives the call to start the work to uplift each other, and help actualize those intellectual, and social leaps, into Humanity 2.0. Recently, family members have asked when I will put an end, to my 'nonsensical' activities, and move on. For five years, I can only take, momentary pauses to question, before I answer myself, and I go back to work, comfortable in my knowledge. I have a choice, I could walk away, but,... why? - I can't! So, I stay in my boat, rowing in the deep blue sea, thinking about the fish I want to land. Wondering if I need a bigger boat? (Dreaming about a Silent 80, tri-deck,... sigh!)

For five years I have walked two worlds - the mundane and the NONMUNDANE. I have: 'seen the light'; seen my mother die; I saw Notre Dame and the rainforests burn; I've cared for my aged father; I've looked at castles and submarines; held an Art auction; dealt with repeated floods; a global pandemic; spilled coffee; Clogged sinks and toilets; strange Russian phone call. I have battled billionaires, and left them perplexed; I have blocked thousands in admonishment, on Twitter, and on TikTok - fighting for skies and waves of BLUE, with whatever cache or mojo, that I possess with my 'knowledge'. I've been petitioned by the folk behind Robot Chicken wanting my house in a film. (I thought it was a sneaky scam. Turned out to be real! Oops!) My loss!  - But I still have my saucer - (and the caravel.) - (And my mugs.) - I apologize the mugs weren't available for this season's holidays, I had an issue with a fraudulent charge to the account that I used in my company store, and I must wait till new cards were issued. - How simply mundane is that. For five years, I have stayed apart from those I would usually interact, or those I would desire, to have, in close proximity. I have become a little like Howard Hughes, quirky, and 'outside'. I have courted famous people in a dunderheaded-way, by not answering my phone, waiting for folk to leave messages (which they never do, with the exception of Russian lady robo-call from Lexington, KY)   I thought 2023 was a perfectly, odd-enough year, for me to tell the world - my 'amazing' marvelous tale,... but as it appears,... it is 2024 - to be, just right, for even, Stephen. - (Cross-fingers.) Knowing what I do, seeing what I have,... I have become a vocal proponent for a world that aims for betterment. To best digest my novel conceptualizations, it takes some amount of time. Turning the world - takes some time. It took me two years, to write the words and pull back 'the Curtain', and this coming New Year's Eve, will mark 3 years - since I did that! Five years ago, I was just an 'above-average' bozo.

Stay tuned - for more!

@arimelber and @neildegrassetysonofficial, Gentlemen, I am including you here for continuity and your interest.

[jonayariley]

Okay, I've got some additional thoughts on this -

Boring intro part you can skip if you don't care about who I am or whatever

I wanna preface this by saying that I'm currently co-directing Stuck at Home Con (which draws in over a thousand Homestuck fans every year, and has involved some level of conversation with folks working on official content) and directing Friendsim 2 (which is a fan project, but also has over a hundred people having worked on it at various points, which includes several folks who're currently working on HS:BC as well as other folks who've worked on HS content in an official capacity), so some of these thoughts are gonna be tempered by my own experiences as a project runner.

Also, wanna make it clear that I think Sarah's points here are good ones, and I don't wanna just rehash what she's been saying.

But also, I want to offer another POV on this - as someone who came into the fandom in 2019 and became rapidly entrenched in it in 2020. I've put a huge amount of time and effort into the HS stuff I've made (like, over 1.5 million words written and thousands of hours of time spent on projects).

Also, like, the Homestuck fandom is where I met the woman I've been dating for the last two years. It's the reason I helped start Studio June Games. I've met a bunch of my current friends through the fandom in one way or another. It's the reason I got back into both writing and game dev after a bit of a hiatus to do other stuff.

All of which to say - I've never worked on official content, but I'm not some kind of neutral observer here.

Now, on to the actual point of this

IMHO, there were two intersecting issues that hit HS2 (and really all post-canon content) and I think threading the needle between them was always going to be an issue.

On one hand, a certain sub-group of the fandom could be virulently against post-canon content and the team that was making it in a way that was both awful, and often fueled by what felt like naked bigotry. Like, I'm not talking criticism or "I don't like this" but folks talking about how they're gonna "fix" Roxy's Pesterquest sprite by changing the hair to make her look whiter. People being bigoted towards the official writers. That kind of shit.

The approach that was taken to the fandom as a whole - and I feel like the hostility of some of the fans played into this - felt very distant and disconnected. There wasn't much in the way of communication as far as what was going on with post-canon content, period, and that made the whole thing feel inapproachable and, at times, kinda hostile.

I've said for a while now that Homestuck as an official entity in the post-canon era (and I get that it's, like, one or two people at any given time in actuality) should engage more with its fanbase. Not with the kind of bad faith assholes who want to argue about whether a character is trans or not, but the people who are making fandom content and creating stuff and all that.

There is a tremendous amount of creative energy in this fandom, and I think that should be celebrated and explored.

So I think what James is doing now feels like the right call. It's a willingness to engage with the fandom while still staying true to what they want to do with the comic. Basically - listening, but not just randomly following whatever direction the wind is blowing. Similarly, transparency about stuff like how things are organized is really nice, especially given the absolute lack of any insight into things before. This is especially true since money was flowing in from the fandom, and it's nice to know kind of generally where that's going.

I agree that it's not the job of the current team to, as Sarah aptly put it, re-litigate what happened with the previous team and everyone involved. I think that would be putting an unreasonable expectation onto people who are trying to tell a story, not answer for every single issue anyone ever had with how things used to be run.

But also I do not, personally, think that the situation was well-managed before - and that's going to be an obstacle in terms of how the fanbase interacts with your current work.

It is also worth noting that the fanbase as a whole has changed since 2019. Like, fans who might've been kids at the time are now whole-ass adults. People's perspectives and views on things may have shifted or mellowed out over the years. The fact that some of the fandom bullshit/drama has had time to heal probably helps too.

Also, new people have come into the fandom and become more prominent, at the same time that other people have moved on to other things. The landscape has shifted - it's been three years even since HS2 last updated. I think the absolute worst thing that anyone could've done would be to try to jump back into the shit like no time at all has passed and nothing has changed.

Idk - my own feelings about some things have rounded out over time. At the end of the day - I'm 40 years old and I just wanna make interesting stuff for people to enjoy. I want the same for the people working on the official content. I sincerely hope that the people who were being bigoted assholes previously have fixed their hearts… and if not, then I wish them a very stay the fuck away from this fandom, please.

By the same token, it always weirded me out to see takes along the lines of "all Homestuck fans need to answer for their bigotry crimes" when it's, like, a bunch of marginalized creators trying to make stuff in the Homestuck/Hiveswap fandom space. So I'm glad to see that James and co are willing to put themselves out there - I think that'll ultimately engender a lot of good will and tbh most of the people I've seen interacting with the official content now are cool and chill, so if there are still bigots out there, they can fuck off because their energy is very much not wanted here.

I know you said you're cautiously optimistic about HS2, but the newest blog post has me kinda worried. The talk of "fixing the fans broken trust" and how even the new writers don't like a lot of story decisions that were made by the old team seem really off to me, like it's throwing the old team under the bus. I want to expect good things from HS2 but when the people working on it don't seem to like the story as it stands right now it really just seems like they might bend over backwards to appease the shitty side of the fandom. What do you think about this whole thing?

this is in reference to the october 30th 2023 news update on the hs:bc website. i give the date because the news posts don't seem to have individual links atm, so if you're reading this in the future you might have to scroll back.

to your worry that the new team might bend over backwards to appease the shitty side of the fandom, i wrote at length in my prior hs:bc post about why i don't think that's gonna be a problem. i'd also caution against reading too much into what james says about the attitude of the hs:bc team at large, for reasons that should be apparent by the end of this post.

i think it's perfectly reasonable to take a diplomatic position towards a fandom that is historically very hostile to this continuation. a lot of people haven't read the epilogues/hs2 and hate on them anyway because of what they've been told they contain, and refuse to question those received opinions on principle. many who did read them seem to have been inattentive or otherwise needlessly aggressive, sometimes owing to a baffling refusal to accept the premise of postcanon. plenty of others maybe just need a reason to think that homestuck is for them again. for this project to succeed, the fandom at large needs to be given a reason to revisit the epilogues/hs2 from a position of safety and critical distance. i have my own barbed opinions about this state of affairs, but it is what it is.

i understand and to an extent share your misgivings over that Q&A post, but it simply is not james roach's job to relitigate the conduct of the hs2 team. to even broach the subject in more than a general sense would constitute the opening of a massive can of worms, because the truth is muddy. mistakes were made on all sides, some worse than others, and to really contextualize where the hs2 team were coming from you'd need to explain the history of the hs fandom, the leadership of the reddit/discord, the overall tenor of twitter post-2016 and especially leading into/during 2020, the history of pgen and the homestuck renaissance, the lack of PR training or oversight or guidance from anyone at WP, the history of audience hostility in homestuck, and on, and on. for what it's worth, i think that context is essential-- but i don't know that anyone working on this project ought to be the ones to tell it (nor do i think they want that responsibility), and a brief casual Q&A post as a halloween treat is certainly not the place to publish it.

and ultimately, none of that has much at all to do with hs:bc. they are not beholden to or responsible for the choices made by the hs2 team. they have been entrusted with the reins of this story, and with that trust comes their own admitted desire to take it in different directions than what was initially planned. the hs2 team did this to the outline andrew hussie gave them; it's only fair that the hs:bc team has the same leeway over the outline they inherited. acknowledging fault in prior leadership, admitting disagreement over past creative decisions, is an olive branch to a largely skeptical fandom. i bristle at some of this because the hs2 team were my friends and i'm very protective of their work and that moment in history, but that isn't james roach's (nor the hs:bc team's) cross to bear. his choice, as the new public face of homestuck, is to move forward rather than linger on the past. it's good that he's burying the hatchet, frankly. i'm sick of that fucking thing.

love it or hate it, agree or disagree, the hs:bc crew has to exercise diplomacy right now. they've reopened the patreon and want to sustain this project for the foreseeable future, ideally without subjecting the workers to intensely traumatic levels of scrutiny and harassment. this involves clearing up miscommunications, admitting fault, gesturing at shared disagreements over story direction, and otherwise putting on a friendly face for strangers. and let's be clear, i know for a fact that plenty on the original hs2 team had a panoply of disagreements with the choices made in the epilogues! the operative condition here is not unquestioning devotion to / hatred of prior material, but a willingness to build upon that prior material constructively regardless. that's what matters most to me, and i have every reason to believe they're taking the constructive route.

i'll end this saying what i've been saying from the start. the measure of this project's success or failure should be taken in the work itself. if james roach blanket dismissed the prior team, but hs:bc constructively evolved in a way that didn't invalidate or undercut prior material, i'd still consider us oldschool hs2 fans the winners. i wouldn't be HAPPY about it, but the art is what we're all here for, and it's the art that people will remember. i think often about how the showrunners of the tv series LOST insisted from day one until the very end that everything in the show had a scientific explanation, despite the fact that they *always knew* this was a bald-faced lie. they told this lie because ABC did not want to fund a fantasy show and would've canceled it otherwise. some fans to this day decry the lack of scientific explanations in the text of the show, even when you point out that the promise of such explanations was false from the start.

point is, there are material realities to leading a creative enterprise. james roach has put himself in a genuinely dangerous and scary position, a fact that's easy to forget with how casual and welcoming his posts have been thus far. but this is perhaps the single most mismanaged property of the internet age, and there's no walking that back without stepping on some toes. over-correction is expected and probably necessary. if it ruffles your feathers, that's fine-- but let the work speak for itself, and judge it on its own merits. all this other stuff is ancillary and will inevitably fade into the distant fog of time.