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fuckyeahgoodomens · 2 years ago

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Good Omens Graphic Novel Masterpost ❤ 🐍😊

(you know how I like doing masterposts :)🥰 - I will update the masterpost as the kicstarter updates ❤)

What is Good Omens: the Official (and Ineffable) Graphic Novel?

The Good Omens: the Official (and Ineffable) Graphic Novel is the upcoming adaptation of the glorious 1990 Good Omens novel by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman in a graphic novel form. The adaptation is done by the talented Colleen Doran who worked with Neil on several other of his projects such as Chivalry, The Sandman, or Snow, Glass, Apples. The adaptation done under the gentle eyes of both Neil Gaiman and the Terry Pratchett Estate so don't worry that it will be unfaithful <3.

How can I help/join/pre-order?

The project is done on Kickstarter to keep the creative control with Neil, the Terry Pratchett's Estate and Colleen. If you're not familiar with Kickstarter it is a place where you pledge money and in return you get the product plus possible bonuses.

The Kickstarter Tiers

There are many tiers and options! WAHOO! ❤ (note that the shipping will be extra)

The Nighttingale Tier - £20 - GONE

This is only available for the first 24 hours.

You get the copy of the Graphic Novel :).

Also available to add a mug, another copy and bookshop bundle. :) (these options are available to add with every other tier)

The Human Tier - £25

You get the copy of the Graphic Novel :).

Also available to add a mug, aziraphale and crowley pins, another copy and bookshop bundle. :) (these options are available to add with every other tier)

The Serpent Tier - £40

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Loot Pack #1: 2 x A4 prints of Colleen Doran artwork from the graphic novel, a glossy postcard and bookmark. Stretch goals will unlock more artists and artwork towards this box.

The Hellhound Tier - £120

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Loot Pack #1: 2 x A4 prints of Colleen Doran artwork from the graphic novel, a glossy postcard and bookmark. Anna Morozova, Frank Quitely, Alice Oseman, Paul Kidby, David Aja, Mark Buckingham, Tanya Roberts, Sarah Graley & Rachael Stott and colouring page prints. Stretch goals will unlock more artists and artwork towards this box.

Loot Pack #2: 4 x A4 Good Omens prints from Colleen Doran, Crowley and Aziraphale enamel pins, a punchy sticker set, and the brand new Good Omens trading cards. These cards will be playable and collectable and as a special treat for Kickstarter backers we will be sprinkling some rarer cards in with these packages at random so you might just unlock something very special.

The Witchfinder Tier - £200

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

New largescale map of Tadfield (and the rest of the planet), designed by Julien Labit. Capturing the mysteries and oddities of the picturesque town in all its glory this map will make any wall an instant talking point. Dimensions approximately 594 x 841 mm.

The Demon Tier - £320

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Creator-themed notebooks; 1 x Neil Gaiman, 1 x Terry Pratchett

Crowley & Aziraphale socks

5 x Good Omens enamel pins

The Horsemen Tier - £500

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Creator-themed notebooks; 1 x Neil Gaiman, 1 x Terry Pratchett

Crowley & Aziraphale socks

5 x Good Omens enamel pins

A3 Giclee Print from the novel (signed by Colleen)

New Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett collector's enamel pin set

Exclusive enamel pin of Beelzebub himself on a Hell card

The Beelzebub Tier - £666 - GONE

Limited to: 50. Note: the contents of this tier are not included in the higher levels.

Copy of the Graphic Novel

A mystery to be revealed. - Make a deal with the devil for this mystery tier at £666. It includes the Good Omens graphic novel, and– *demonic gurgling noises*

The Archangel Tier - £800

Limited to: 100.

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Creator-themed notebooks; 1 x Neil Gaiman, 1 x Terry Pratchett

Crowley & Aziraphale socks

5 x Good Omens enamel pins

A3 Giclee Print from the novel (signed by Colleen)

New Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett collector's enamel pin set

Exclusive enamel pin of Beelzebub himself on a Hell card

The Floppy Disk “Keeper of the Official Master”

Exclusive Metatron enamel pin on a heaven card

Unnamed character cameo in double page spread - Fancy being immortalised in the Good Omens graphic novel universe? Then get yourself painted into the crowd scenes! There will be an accompanying postcard with a full list of who's who, so you'll know who you're galivanting around Tadfield and beyond with.

The Antichrist Tier - £800

Limited to: 100.

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Creator-themed notebooks; 1 x Neil Gaiman, 1 x Terry Pratchett

Crowley & Aziraphale socks

5 x Good Omens enamel pins

A3 Giclee Print from the novel (signed by Colleen)

New Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett collector's enamel pin set

Exclusive enamel pin of Beelzebub himself on a Hell card

The Floppy Disk “Keeper of the Official Master”

Exclusive Metatron enamel pin on a heaven card

William the Antichrist (hardcover) signed by Neil - limited copy of the original short story that evolved into the tale we know and love today.

The Prophecy Tier - £1,000 - GONE

Limited to: 50.

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Creator-themed notebooks; 1 x Neil Gaiman, 1 x Terry Pratchett

Crowley & Aziraphale socks

5 x Good Omens enamel pins

A3 Giclee Print from the novel (signed by Colleen)

New Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett collector's enamel pin set

Exclusive enamel pin of Beelzebub himself on a Hell card

The Floppy Disk “Keeper of the Official Master”

Exclusive Metatron enamel pin on a heaven card

William the Antichrist (hardcover) signed by Neil - limited copy of the original short story that evolved into the tale we know and love today.

Signed (another) copy of the Good Omens graphic novel both Neil and Colleen

The God Tier - £2,750 - GONE

Limited to: 10.

Copy of the Graphic Novel

Variant Frank Quitely cover dust jacket (Frank Quitely is a Scottish comic book artist who worked with Marvel, DC and more).

Creator-themed notebooks; 1 x Neil Gaiman, 1 x Terry Pratchett

Crowley & Aziraphale socks

5 x Good Omens enamel pins

A3 Giclee Print from the novel (signed by Colleen)

New Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett collector's enamel pin set

Exclusive enamel pin of Beelzebub himself on a Hell card

The Floppy Disk “Keeper of the Official Master”

Exclusive Metatron enamel pin on a heaven card

William the Antichrist (hardcover) signed by Neil - limited copy of the original short story that evolved into the tale we know and love today.

Signed (another) copy of the Good Omens graphic novel both Neil and Colleen

Individual character cameo - You can feature prominently within the pages of the graphic novel itself. Maybe you're there while Crowley and Aziraphale feed some ducks; maybe you're there for something a bit more high octane; or maybe you're just stuck on the M25. What you'll be up to will be at the discretion of Colleen, but there are plenty of places in the journey towards the Apocalypse and we can’t wait to see where you will turn up.

Print of your cameo, signed by Colleen

The Apocalypse Tier - £8,000 - GONE

Limited to: 1 - this option was gone within the first hour of the launch. Except for the previous goodies up to the William it offered the last copy of the Celestial Edition (!!!), Foreground named character cameo, orint of cameo signed by Colleen and Neil and original sketch by Neil Gaiman.

The Bookshop Tier - £250

The option for bookshops.

20 x Good Omens graphic novel (bookstores only)

We've got batches of 20 copies of the hardback graphic novel for retailers at a 50% trade discount. We love bookshops as much as Aziraphale does and want YOU to be part of Good Omens with us. To celebrate the graphic novel's release into the world, we will have point-of-sale material on request nearer to release. If you have any queries, get in touch. Terms: These are for retailers only. Packs must be delivered to a verified bookshop address. You can buy additional packs as an add-on.

The Small Bookshop Tier - £125

The smalle option for bookshops.

10 x Good Omens graphic novel (bookstores only)

The batch of 10 copies for retailers at a 50% trade discount. Terms: These are for retailers only. Packs must be delivered to a verified bookshop address. You can buy additional packs as an add-on.

When it will come out?

It should come out in Summer 2024 :).

Enhancing the tiers

Unlocked so far (All unlocked prints are in Loot Box #1 :)):

Gold foiled cover - Every copy of the book will be finished with gold detailing.

Sarah Graley & Rachael Stott prints - Rachael Stott, award-winning comic book artist behind works such as Doctor Who and Star Trek, and Sarah Graley of Our Super Adventure and Invader Zim farne, are ready and waiting to put their own spin on the world of Good Omens for your prints collection.

Endpapers - Beautiful artwork on the front cover and on every page in between is just not enough. '150,000 unlocks beautiful endpapers that will be heavenly(or hellish„. that is still to be seen).

David Aja, Mark Buckingham & Tanya Roberts prints / Colleen Loot Pack #2 prints for lower box - David Aja, known for the award-winning Hawkeye, Daredevil and Seeds Mark Buckingham, known for Marvelman an Fables—and Tanya Roberts, whose work includes Too Story and Star Wars Clone Wars comics to name but two, will join our ineffable artist tearh. More so, Colleen's prints from Loot Pack #2 will be included in Loot Pack #1. Art aplenty

Alice Oseman & Paul Kidby prints - A special duo of Heartstoppers Alice Oseman prints first, her drawing of Aziraphale while watching S 1 of Good Omens and a newly commissioned companion piece for Crowley. AIso, Discworld and the Illustrated edition of Good Omens' Paul Kidby's out-of-this-world alien artwork can be yours.

Colouring page prints - Want to add your own colour to the world of Good Omens? We have some exclusive illustrations for you relax to.

Ribbons - We said in the campaign that we were talking silk ribbons for stretch goals, and we are angels (or demons, depending who you're talking to) of our word. Well upgrade the hardback to have this addition.

Anna Morozova & Frank Quitely prints - Unlock a sumptious print by Anna Morozova. known for 2000 AD &Judge Dredd. Plus receive a print of Frank Quitely's alternate Good Omens graphic novel cover.

Money raised will go towards the costs of bringing this project and its many tendrils to the most vibrant life possible, ranging from creative fees to production and beyond. Our stretch goals therefore bring more of that ineffable joy into the project: we'll (hopefully) be unlocking various finishes on the graphic novel, expansions on the loot packs, and some - if we're lucky - backer exclusives further down the road, but these are to be revealed...

You will be able to unlock artists including Alice Oseman (Heartstopper), Rachael Stott (Fantastic Four, Doctor Who), and David Aja (Hawkeye), with more to be announced.

(I will update the masterpost as the kicstarter updates ;))

Video by Neil, Colleen and Rob :)

Rob Wilkins: Judgment day is almost upon us. One angel, one demon want to do something about it, but there's the small problem of the missing Antichrist.

Neil Gaiman: The good Omens Kickstarter - we've got a fabulous, glorious, amazing adaptation of Good Omens waiting for you in graphic novel form.

Rob: Neil Gaiman was the first person, the first journalist to interview Terry after the publication of The Colour of Magic. They stayed friends and Neil met Terry again and discussed the idea of this novel that he had that he really ought to get written down and he sent the idea through to Terry and a little while later Terry called him back and said: you bastard I want that idea for myself, and Terry offered to either buy the idea or to work with Neil on the project, and as Neil said at the time it would be like Michelangelo calling saying: here give me a hand to paint this ceiling, so of course Neil and Terry worked on it together.

Colleen Doran: Hi and welcome to my studio. I am pleased and excited beyond words to talk to you tonight about Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's good Omens the graphic novel adaptation. You have no idea how happy I am to be working on this aside from the fact that I get to sit around and draw Azirphale and Crowley all day and who wouldn't want that - oh this is fun this is pure candy and I'm working very very hard to bring you a faithful adaptation. I love this book I love this project and bringing it to you is pure joy. Thanks a lot for your support. Thank you.

What now :)

So... head to the kickstarter, choose a Tier and Fall for it like Crowley :)❤

Who to follow for updates? :)

Tumblr: (me :D), @goodomenshq, @neil-gaiman, @colleendoran

Twitter: @FYeahGoodOmens, @GoodOmensHQ, @neilhimself, @pratchettonline, @ColleenDoran, @terryandrob, @kickstarter.

Instagram: @fuckyeahgoodomens, @goodomens_hq, @neilhimself,, @pratchettonline, @doran.colleen

Update 6.8.2023

Now as an add on you can add also new Aziraphale and Crowley pins 👀❤.

How to add if you already pledged:

Click one the Manage your pledge green button

Click on the Change your pledge violet button

Then again a green button with your pledge and you get to a page with:

wher you can add the pins and more :)

#good omens #terry pratchett #neil gaiman #colleen doran #graphic novel #good omens graphic novel #graphic novel kickstarter #masterposts #graphic novel masterposts

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redflagshipwriter · 1 year ago

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Nest Swap 7

masterpost

Tim had one major takeaway about his experience when he got back to the right part of town and could stop looking over his shoulder for the Sausage Guy: He had to get better at this.

Tim went right back to his hideout and then into the secret hideout portion, determined. He knew himself. There would be lots of useful information on the computer.

It took a while to find anything. But he was right. There was a treasure trove of information. There were years worth of mission reports, and there were multiple procedural handbooks.

Batman apparently released one every autumn. Tim started printing them, and then looked at the much shorter Young Justice handbook. That seemed approachable.

He read through that on the computer while the printer was still whirring away. It was only 21 pages long. Tim crunched on an apple in one hand and used the other to scroll down the side progress bar. This was all pretty simple. A lot of it wasn’t relevant to him because it was about the chain of command and coordination, but there were some interesting things about personal discretion and mission security. There were also some interesting implications vis-a-vis the color coding and graphic design for each section, which Tim could only assume was meant to hold the attention of an audience for whom the length would be challenging.

Once he finished that, he gathered up the most recent Batman procedural handbook and stapled it carefully into a neat and portable workbook. He took the indexes for each earlier edition as well so that he could easily cross-reference what he might need to look in another year's handbook for. He also found an empty notebook and some writing utensils. Then he dragged it all upstairs.

He put it on the table. Tim pressed his lips together pretty hard and hummed. It was a lot of paper. He probably needed a juice break.

He took care of that first. He spotted lunch meat while he had the fridge open and his stomach growled at him. Fair enough! Tim made a sandwich and ate it while he read and took notes on stakeouts.

There were some areas for improvement on what he’d done. He took a few notes of what he really needed to remember. Then he turned back to the beginning of the handbook to read it through properly.

“Huh,” Tim said, squinting at the red all-caps admonition to never access these materials outside of a Bat-approved hideout or to print them. “Well, you should have told me before.” He ignored that and settled in with a pink highlighter for a long read. He had no idea how much time had passed, but it was all dark outside. The only light was the sickly glow from streetlights.

“Proximity alert,” said an unknown voice.

Tim jumped halfway out of his skin and looked around wildly. About a moment later he registered that the voice was kinda robotic sounding. “Where?” he asked stupidly.

“External wall proximity alert,” said the robot.

His heart rate jumped up again. He accidentally dropped all his papers when he stood up. Tim started gathering them again and then realized no, he didn’t have time for this. He breathed heavily and looked around for an answer. What did he do?

“Initiating shutdown,” the voice said pleasantly. “In 3, 2, 1.”

Metal shutters slid down over the windows. Tim whirled around at the sound of thuds all over the apartment. It was dark inside. After moment emergency lighting turned on, soft red lights at ankle height that he had never noticed before. That was the only light source aside from what he forgot on in the kitchen.

The only sound for a few seconds was his own harsh breathing. Tim swallowed hard and wrapped his arms around himself. Was this ok? Did that shutdown mean he was safe from whoever was trying to get in? Maybe he could just wait it out. He tried to slow down his breathing. It didn’t work. His head felt kinda swimmy. He swallowed hard and stumbled towards a window. He couldn’t see anything, obviously, but maybe he could listen and figure out who it was.

Despite thinking that, he jumped straight up when someone banged a fist against the metal shutter.

“Let me in, bird boy!” came a female voice. She paused. “Let us in, it’s me and the Big Bird.”

Big Bird? Like, the yellow giant bird with the huge claws? It was real?

He felt like he was going to throw up.

Why was Big Bird at his house? And why was Big Bird real? Was Big Bird a predator? Tim started crying a little. Why was Big Bird trying to break into his house? He kept each sniffle silent, petrified that Big Bird was going to hear him. They didn’t actually know that he was in there.

“You’re in trouble, Mister,” she continued. “Answer your phone sometimes!” She hit the window again. Tim put his hands over his mouth to keep as quiet as possible and hiccuped.

‘I’m in trouble and she brought the bird to punish me.’ Tim dropped to the floor and hunched together as small as possible, butt touching his heels and arms wrapped around his shins. He buried his head in between his knees. ‘What did I do? Is this- is this because I blocked Robin’s messages? Why does this lady even know about that?’

“Timmy Tim Tim,” sang a new voice. Male. Pleasant. Tim hunched inwards even further. “This is a wellness check!”

A buzzer went off, harsh and ugly and loud. Two shrieks issued from the window.

Tim raised his tear-stained face to stare in confusion.

“Ah- O, come on-”

“My ears oh my god my ears are broken-”

The two strangers talked over each other for a few confusing moments. Big Bird still hadn’t said anything. Tim remembered just how big Big Bird actually was and he started crying a little. He didn’t want to meet Big Bird.

“Fi- Alright, alright. Bye!” The female voice had a distinctly harassed tone to it now. There was a scuffle against the metal covering the window.

Then there was silence. It really did seem like they left. But maybe they were just waiting for him to make a noise. Tim waited and shuddered, scared they were going to come back.

A soft beeping started up in the kitchen.

‘...Did I leave something on?’ Tim wiped his face off with a wrist and rose. He gave the window one last look before he shuffled away.

When he entered the room, the kitchen’s water dispenser flashed at him. Then a voice came out of it.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t realize they were heading over. I would have given you a heads-up.”

“How are you in my fridge?” Tim asked, indignant. He made a way-too-loud wet sound from his nose by accident.

The lights in the room spun through a color change. “I am in everything,” the lady intoned.

That was when he placed the voice. “Thanks, Oracle,” Tim said.

“You’re welcome.” There was a pause. He knew that she was still there. Tim sniffled and wiped at his face again. It occurred to him too late that she might be able to see him. “Have you reached out to any magical specialists to fix this?” she asked casually, as if she hadn’t clearly been thinking over what she’d say.

Tim shook his head no and said nothing, testing to see if she could see him.

She breathed out a gust of static. “I think that the situation is affecting you,” Oracle said frankly. “Can I call Zatanna? We need you back on your cases and I can’t keep the birds out forever. They’re getting worried.”

…Tim had a suspicion that birds might actually not mean ‘birds’ in this context.

He didn’t know anything, though. He was such a dummy. He didn’t know how to do his job and he was ruining Big Tim’s life, and he had made people so mad that they’d come and shut down his house. As he was thinking that, a soft whirring started up and the metal plating covering all his windows started to retract.

“I think that help would be good,” Tim admitted defeat. He needed to go back to elementary school and become the Tim who could handle his adult life. He clearly wasn’t qualified for it.

“Oh. Great.” Oracle paused again. Was he not supposed to say yes? She recovered quickly. “I’ll get right on that. Have a good night. And go to bed!”

Tim stuck his tongue out as the connection ended. The lights went off on his fridge when Oracle went away.

#red nest swap

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autumnsvoice87 · 9 months ago

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Spoonie Sabath- Mabon

Mabon is here! The fall Equinox is here! Fall has officially begun and spooky season is already in full swing! This is my favorite time of the year. So for those that are new, Mabon is a celtic pagan holiday on the wheel of the year. When it was first introduced to me, I was told it was like a witches Thanksgiving.

It is the second harvest festival where they celebrate the good fortunes they have had this growing season. They give thanks to the Gods who are in charge of harvests and firtility, For without firtility, there couldn't be a harvest of crops! Mabon is the pagan holiday that rests on the Autumn Equinox.

Some witches take out the pagan part of Maybon and just celebrate the balance of light and dark on the equinox as well as just the harvest aspect. The spring and fall equinox is when the day light is equal to night time. It is often a symbol of balance so a witch may focus on balancing their energy, their body, their life etc. So today is another Spoonie list of celebrating this witch's holiday.

Coloring. Coloring can be a great way to balance stress out. There are many coloring sheets out there for fall. Some are kids coloring pages, and some are adult coloring. Whatever one you prefer is just fine. If you have problems with hand jerks or trembles, the kids' coloring sheets would be easier. It's also a great activity to do with kids if you have children or are babysitting for others. Some coloring pages you can get by downloading and printing off the internet. For a designated witchcraft one, they have some on Amazon. https://www.pinterest.com/pin/844987948812638690/

Light a candle. You can light an orange or red candle for Mabon instead of doing a full bonfire. Bonus points if it smells like apples, or pumpkin spice! If you can tolerate scented candles (not everyone can) they are readily available at the Dollar Tree or at Dollar general. There are many instances where people are not able to do bonfire's anyway but it is a favorite pasttime for celebrating the Equinox.

Fall foods. Many of us spoonies are probably not able to engage in baking and cooking up a great feast. Here are some cheats to consider. At wal-mart, they have mini pies for 75 cents (in my area anyway). You can get a Mini Pie for yourself or each of your family members. They are already baked and ready to go. You could warm them up in the microwave if you want to warm them up. Another idea is to get freash baked bread from the bakery. It's already baked good to eat. Pumpkin spice oatmeal for breakfast! or Apple Cinniamon is another oatmeal I love. For a meal for your family, a crock pot meal like chili is a must-have. Chili is easy to make. Just dump a bunch of canned beans, choice of meat and vegetables, and seasoning in a crock pot. There are many crock pot meal recipies out there to choose from. Baked potatoes are a good one, too. You can put them in the oven and you won't have to stand for very long.

Going outside. Going outside to enjoy the weather is good idea if weather permits. You can use a picker upper grabber to pick up leaves, acorns and pinecones to decorate your altars or your shelves. If you are a pagan parent, this a fun activity for kids too. A scavenger hunt is fun and you can do it on your own or with family. Use your mobility devices if you have them. Electric scooters and wheelchairs are aweseome for this if you have them. If you are not able to go outside, maybe have a family member go out and bring the scavenger hunt inside. Have them hide things they found in nature so you can try and find them. I know this isn't doable for everyone but even just sitting outside and watching the squirrels is good enough.

Cleansing your home. Cleansing your space of negative energies is a way to get rid of that no longer serves you. Many witches cleanse once a month anyway, but sometimes those of us with limited spoons can't always cleanse as often as we like. It also depends on the method of cleansing. Opening windows and smoke cleansing is what is most preferred and most taught method. Depending on our living situations, it's not always ideal. Some ideas to cleanse with minimal energy are to use sound cleansing music on youtube. There are several videos out there for sound cleansing. You can even use your own tools such as rattles, Bells, or drums if you have them. Another cleansing method is to use a spray. You can make your own using water and essential oils or using plain salt water works. It is something that is easy, and all you have to do is spray the room!

Stones. If you have a cage necklace, putting a gemstone associated with Mabon in it is a great way to celebrate. This is a great option if you don't have any energy to do anything else. Saphire, Yellow and Red Agates, Amethyst, Lapis Luzille, and Cornealian are the gemstones associated with Mabon. Right now, I am wearing Amethyst.

Donating to charities. Part of Mabon is giving thanks for the abundance we have in life. You could make a one-time donation to a charity of choice. Giving thanks for our abundance are in congruent with giving to people in need. Many of us Spoonies are probably on fixed incomes and may not be able to donate money. This is fine. Giving back to someone in need is the goal here. If you have any clothes collecting dust, you can donate to nursing homes, homeless shelters, and womens shelters. If you crochet or knit, you could make hats, scarves, and mittens for donations as well. Maybe a witchy friend needs some help with research.

Decorating. Mabon is a great time to do some decorating for fall and for spooky season. For us (spoonies), it can seem daunting and out of reach to do a whole house of fall decor. So let's pick one spot and decorate to the best of our ability. I have a general altar by my bedside on my nightstand. It can also be one spot in a book shelf, or even just one ornament. The goal is to decorate on a smaller scale so it is not so overwhelming. Also, it is okay to ask for help. If you have a PCA or friend/family member who can help you, it would be ideal. You may be able to cover more ground that way if you can get help with this activity.

Journaling. Journaling may end up in every article I write. So what do you journal about during Mabon? Start a gratitude journal, or write in the one you already have if you have one. Also, you can journal your goals and intentions for the upcoming year. This you can do laying down or sitting. Journaling helps us to see what we did accomplish and what we didn't . You may journal about new steps, new ideas, and anything that may help you accomplish your goals and intentions this year. Another option to journal about is journaling thoughts and ideas that no longer serve you. Journal about those negative thoughts about yourself or others and release the negativity to re-energize yourself.

Reading and doing research on Mabon or other fall celebrations around this time of year. There is so much to learn about this history of ancient pagans and their lore. Read some stories such as persephone's abduction and descent back into the underworld. Mabon is actually relatively new and based on Gerald Gardner's Wicca. Wicca is a neo-pagan religion that uses witchcraft. History is important to learning about making your own practice yours. https://www.reddit.com/r/witchcraft/comments/1flpdd7/happy_mabon/ This is just an overview.

Meditate. Meditation can be done laying down or sitting up. Whichever method you may prefer. Meditation on balance can be done in any way you can. Youtube has tons of meditation videos you can do to balance your energy. Youtube also has Mabon music and meditation videos, specifically for Mabon.

Celebrate Late. If you are not able to celebrate on the 20 or 21st and still want to, celebrate on a different day. In my opinion, you can celebrate anytime from the 18th-24th. Some older festivals lasted for days anyway.

If you don't have the energy, celebrate it when you are able to. Don't push yourself just because you feel you have to. If you miss this holiday, dont worry about it! You're still a pagan witch! Ancient pagans relied on the lunar calendar, and it is likely that the second fall harvest didn't land on the equinox.

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traegorn · 8 months ago

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So when I do finish this book I am writing (speaking it into existence bc adhd is a BITCH) Like what's your experience with publishing? How much does it usually cost? What kinda income does one get? I don't really care about making money but it would be super neat to make something since I cannot work. How do taxes work on that also? Google is confusing me

So far i have an idea and half a first chapter with thrilling notes such as " add a cat" and "insert spell here"

So I self publish, so that's the world I know. If you want to find a traditional publisher, you'll need to query agents and do a bunch of other stuff. My only advice for traditional publishing is that when going that route, money should always flow towards the author. If they're asking you to pay for something, they aren't a traditional publisher and there's a good chance it's a grift.

So let's talk about what I do know.

(And this turned out to be long as hell, so I'm putting in a "keep reading")

When you self publish, you are effectively acting as the publisher. If you want someone to do edits? You'll have to hire an editor. If you want someone to do the book layouts? You'll have to hire someone to do it if you can't do it yourself. You need a cover? You get the idea.

Now I don't pay an editor, so I can't really give you a price range on how much they cost off the top of my head. I do know they can get expensive though.

I also do all my own interiors, but I have a graphic design background and have been doing print layouts for decades. If you want to hire someone to do the interiors, that can run you $100-500, so I recommend just... learning to do it yourself.

Frankly, it's not terribly hard. I do mine in Apple Pages on my Mac for my paperbacks and Amazon has a free program for formatting eBooks (which you can export both as the Kindle format OR the more universal ePub format). With your print version, you just want to make sure you get your margins right, along with using a standard font like Times New Roman.

Like, literally just pick up a book and study the layout. Look at the front matter (copyright page, title page, etc) of a handful of books and mimic what you find there. I don't know why so many self published authors get that bit wrong. It's a book. Format it like a book.

Now the cover... this is where you'll probably end up spending something. I do my own covers for my comics, but hire out for my novels because I can't do the kind of covers expected of my genre. And you do want to match your genre, because you want a potential reader to know what they're getting into. I've seen so many self published books with terrible covers and it drives me nuts.

Cover design can run you anywhere from $35-$400 depending on who you choose to contract, and this is where I recommend you spend your money. On the cheap end you have companies like GetCovers. Now they primarily do covers made from edited stock photos, and I've honestly been pretty satisfied with their work... but you have to hold their hand and be very clear with what you want.

GetCovers is a part of Mibl Group, and it's pretty much all of their most inexperienced employees. The whole point of it is to get them the experience to work on bigger projects down the road. They have cheaper packages, but for their best work you'll probably only spend like $35-$45. If you're working in a genre that mainly uses stock images, that's who you want.

I often end up retouching the covers they do though, because I'm impatient. Like there are edits to The Witch and the Rose and Shadowcasting I made after they handed me the completed files. You're going to have to be very specific with what you want. The first version of the Bloody Damn Rite cover they did... was awful. But they did the revisions I asked for, and the version they delivered in the end was great.

Now if you want, like, original art or just more complicated, custom stuff? You're looking at at least $250 on the cheap end, but sometimes you end up in the ballpark of $700-$1000. Like on their regular site (just to use the same company as GetCovers for comparison), the Mibl group charges like $300 for a more complicated stock photo based cover (that requires more complicated edits) and at least $700 for covers that require digital painting, 3d modeling, etc.

There are a wide range of prices depending on what you're asking for. But, y'know, you're paying that once for a commercial piece of graphic design.

I'm cheap and can do some of the work myself, so I go for the $35 cover. I also figure out what fonts they used for the covers, so I can go buy my own commercial license for them and replicate a similar logo on my title page. You don't need to do that bit, I'm just finicky.

Actually publishing the book is easy. You'll want to use a self publishing platform like Kindle Direct Publishing or IngramSpark (or, if you're like me, both). I sell KDP books on Amazon, but all other distribution is through IngramSpark. You make more money on Amazon by using KDP, but even though they offer distribution, no book store will ever order through them. So I turn that option off, and then I take the same book and I make it available through IngramSpark.

On amazon I make a little more than $2 on a $3 ebook, and about $4.00 on a $12.99 paperback. When a bookstore buys an IngramSpark version, I make about $2.50 on a $14.99 book (if you wondered by my books cost more when not buying it through Amazon... that's why). Now if you buy yourself author copies, they cost way less -- in the end I think I can get them for like $5 a book? So when I sell them in person, my margins are much higher.

But, y'know, you have to actually sell them.

Because that's the hard part. When self publishing, you only have you to market it. I don't know how many books I'd be selling if I didn't have a pre-existing audience -- and even then it's not a huge amount. I've sold about 200 books this year? Which isn't nothing, and I appreciate every single person who's purchased one of my titles, but it's obviously not enough to quit my day job for, y'know?

That said, I've known people who do sell enough to make a steady living. So it's possible for sure.

But it's not going to happen overnight, and it won't be easy.

As for taxes, you'll need a 1099 and do stuff with the Schedule C. I always forget exactly what until I'm actually doing them, but it's not super hard, just annoying.

#self publishing #writers on tumblr #author #booklr #books

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uispeccoll · 10 months ago

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#MiniatureMonday

Fruity Jubilee: A Scratch ‘n’ Sniff Pocket Book

In the mood for a tasty little treat? Try a recipe from Fruity Jubilee, an accordion folded book of fruit themed foods. Each page has a recipe card tucked into it, and a matching fruity scratch ‘n’ sniff sticker opposite. Recipes include fresh strawberry ice cream, baked apple marzipan, banana whip, lemon fritters, and more.

The book was designed and printed by artist Pat Baldwin at Pequeño Press on Fabriano and handmade banana fiber papers and bound at Waterleaf Mill & Bindery in Bisbee, Arizona. This is edition 39 of 50.

Smith Miniatures Collection N7433.4.B3455 F78 1995

---Anne M.

#miniaturemonday #cookbook #special collections #rare books #uiowa #fruit #anne moore #Pat Baldwin #foodie

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sonicenvy · 5 months ago

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So this project is continuing to be complex and detailed, but I'm having a good time. If you haven't seen my original post, this is an image that I pulled from the book of Kells on folio 27v. The full page contains four figures: the man, the lion, the ox, and the eagle. The four figures represent the four gospels. This figure is the eagle, and it represents the book of John, St. John the Evangelist and the ascension of Christ into heaven. I am not religious (though I was raised Irish Catholic), so I picked this design because I love the art in medieval manuscripts and in the Book of Kells specifically.

So, how'd I get here? (an extremely detailed step-by-step)

Downloaded the full size image of Folio 27v

Cut St. John out of the image using the pen tool in Photoshop and moved it to a new document with a clear background.

Pasted St. John into a blank high res procreate document.

Did a rough digital tracing of the image in procreate with my iPad and Apple Pencil.

Opened tracing in Illustrator and made it into a vector. Took forever because I fucked up my procreate settings RIP.

Turned Vector into live paint object.

Opened original image in PS, and used eyedropper tool to select colors in original document. Compared those colors to the colors that I had in my stash (wanted to use mostly if not all from my stash rather than buying new floss).

Used threadcolors.com to get the hex codes for the selected threads. Made a spreadsheet of the selected colors for my reference. Printed out spreadsheet.

Colored the image using the paint bucket tool (and recolor artwork options) with the colors corresponding to selected threads. Saved Illustrator document.

Opened illustrator document in PS, gave it a solid white background and exported it as PDF.

Printed out initial copy of PDF image on blank printer paper to see if it was the right size. It wasn’t lol, so I made it bigger (super easy with vector images!) Printed test copy #2 and it was the right size.

Iron chosen fabric and stretch in Phillips head screw tightened hoop.

Printed the PDF image on Sulky Fabri-solvy, cut to size, and adhere to the surface of the stretched fabric.

Stitch, all single stranded….

What's new?

Since the last time I posted, I've mostly completed the head. It's comprised of a mixture of satin stitches, long and short stitches, chain stitches, and some other stitch I can't remember the name of. The other new feature is very, very, tiny orange and red glass beads.

When I was considering how I wanted to render the dots in the circle behind the head and the three tears of blood, I initially considered doing french knots for the dots and bullion knots for the blood tears. To make a decision about this, I did some tests on scrap fabric. At the end of the test stitching I found that I was not completely satisfied with what I had come up with. As I stared at it, I was hit with the sudden vision of using seed beads of some kind for these two areas. This idea completely possessed me (lol), and I made a trip to my delightful local beading store the next day, hoop in hand.

The old ladies who run the bead store helpfully showed me to a bunch of interesting beads and got me all set up with them. I also purchased some size 11 beading needles, which are barely large enough to stick a single strand of embroidery floss through. At the time, I didn't know whether or not the embroidery floss would even go through the needle or the beads, so I purchased some tiny beading thread, but ended up not needing it. The eyes of those needles are SO tiny that they were extremely difficult to thread, but I managed it eventually. They were also, interesting very, very bendy. I ended up liking the stitching experience with them so much I continued using them to stitch other, non-beaded sections of the piece.

The other consideration that I had to make while putting this section together was whether or not I wanted to render that yellow ring around the head in golden yellow thread or gold, gold metallic thread, as in the original image that section appears to potentially be illuminated with gold leaf. However, my hatred of metallic thread (Satan's embroidery supply) won in the end so I went with the gold yellow thread, leaving the crosses as the only metallic gold element. I don't know that I'll end up using any other metallic gold, but I obviously can't rule it out.

Anyhow, looking forward to continuing this project and to what new challenges I'll end up having to figure out as it goes along.

#embroidery #mine #my art #fiber art #medieval art #the book of kells #stitching #fiber arts #long post for ts

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szynkaaa · 1 year ago

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Apple Pies and Other Amends by ToEatAPeach

About the bind: ✦ made 30 illustrations for the typeset. Also had the entire typeset printed out and made into a text block before realizing.... I wrote the author's name wrong on every second page (ToEachPeach instead of ToEatAPeach RIP) ✦ I also sanded down the edges of my text block to make it as straight as possible! I don't have a guillotine but maybe it is time to invest into one now ✦ Hardcover design is also illustrated by me, featuring Hermione holding an apple pie. ✦ Slipcase also features a HTV design that wraps around the case! I didn't have 60cm cricut mat so I had to attach two 30cm mats to let my cricut measure it and think I had a long one.

#eggfriedpenguin #egg fried penguin #book binding #bookbinding #apple pies and other amends #toeatapeach

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bremser · 3 days ago

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Diane Arbus sources and books

Spent a few hours at the Los Angeles version of "cataclysm" ( also in NYC in 2022, both based on the 1972 MOMA exhibit) and naturally went back down the Arbus rabbit hole. If you are in New York this summer, a must-see is the "Constellation" exhibit, until August 17, for which this will also be useful background information.

Sources

The Met The museum acquired the Arbus archive from the estate in 2007. Their collection page has 303 photographs. Quality of scans and jpegs on the site are extremely poor, some of these even look like they are shot through glass. Crops sometimes obscure the borders Arbus / Selkirk made while printing. There's not even a "introduction to Diane Arbus collection" or biography page. They have objects like her Rolleiflex. In 2016 they mounted an exhibition of early work.

MOMA 84 works online, photographs are full-size of the print paper, good quality and match toning.

Exhibition page for 1972 "Diane Arbus." Includes installation shots and a checklist PDF. Exhibit was the most popular single artist show up to that point and traveled widely, millions of people attended.

Exhibition page for 1967 "New Documents" (including 32 Arbus photographs, according to the PDF checklist). One of the most influential photography exhibits of the second half of the 20th century, remarkably didn’t have a catalog until 2017.

Zwirner Gallery Zwirner and Fraenkel jointly represent the estate. Zwirner site includes handful of large, high quality photographs that closely match the prints when viewed on a 27" Apple display. Various exhibition pages include related videos.

Fraenkel Gallery Artist page and Arbus CV PDF, current to 2025

Christie's The top auction results for an Arbus is a photograph of the twins that sold for $1.2M and a box of 10 photographs for $1M.

1972 Documentary 29 minutes. Features interviews with daughter Doon, Lisette Model, John Szarkowski. Arbus’ lecture notes are read over a slideshow.

Books

The Zwirner “cataclysm” exhibit had a reading table with a handful of currently available Arbus books. I paged through the various books minutes after looking at the actual prints to compare reproduction quality. Arbus cared deeply about resolution and detail in her prints, part of why she went from making 35mm negatives to 6x6cm (and then at the end of her life to 6x7), so it's unfortunate there aren't more volumes focused on reproduction. (If anyone at Zwirner books comes across this post, here's the pitch: "cataclysm," but printed in the same size and resolution as "Box of Ten Photographs")

Aperture monograph, 1972 One of the most popular photobooks of all time, it was created at the same time as the 1972 exhibit (using Selkirk’s prints) and is the de facto catalog for the exhibit. It has 80 photographs versus 115 in the MOMA exhibit. After seeing the actual prints, the size of the photos and reproduction quality are underwhelming.

Magazine Work, 1984 Compilation of portraits made for magazine assignments, some have captions and longer text written by Arbus. Some scans of the magazine features for context. (archive.org scan, requires login)

Untitled, 1995 Third Aperture publication, focused on a single project, portraits and group portraits made at a New Jersey mental institution and residence. Edited by Doon Arbus. Perhaps the most discussed part of the Arbus' oeuvre, the edit and design of this book certainly influenced the trajectory of discourse. (archive.org scan)

Box of Ten Photographs, 2018 A facsimile of the only Arbus-edited work. This is the closest experience to the actual prints, large 11x14 book with great quality printing. The photos resemble the smaller 9-something-inch prints Arbus was making before moving to 14-inch. Features Arbus’ handwritten captions on transparent vellum-like paper. Book-flip through video.

Revelations, 2003 Exhibition catalog for a massive traveling retrospective organized by SFMOMA that relied heavily on biographical sources, diaries, letters, her datebook. (archive.org scan)

In the Beginning, 2016 Large hardcover catalog for Met exhibition looking at work from 1956-62, from using 35mm to her earliest use of 6x6. The 35mm work is street with an edge, in the vein of William Klein, Helen Levitt and Robert Frank. Reproduction of grainy, motion blurred, pushed film is close to the prints. There's an interesting chapter called "Notes from the Archives," where specialist Karan Rinaldo explains the process of precisely dating a handful of the photos with other sources. Must have been a large print run, because used copies are going for $13.

Chronology, 2011 Primarily text, diary, letters, offers exactly what the title promises. Somewhat overlaps with the "Revelations" catalog, but with less photography.

Documents, 2022 A compilation of criticism featuring reproduction of the actual magazine and newspaper layouts, with a scrapbook design vibe. Video trailer by Zwirner.

Family Albums, 2003 Exhibit catalog around the theme of the family album, related to portrait sessions in the home or group portraits. (archive.org scan)

Jeu de Paume exhibit (catalog en français), 2012 (archive.org scan)

Biographies

These are all available as ebooks (including library / Libby)

"Portrait of a Photographer" 2016 Arthur Lubow (exhaustive and widely considered definitive)

"A Biography" 1984 Patricia Bosworth

"An Emergency in Slow Motion" 2011 William Todd Schultz

#diane arbus

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applepiesupreme · 8 months ago

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American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 38

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/153076498

Savigne sat, drawing designs on the table, thinking that there were surely peaks and valleys to life. And the valleys of her life were long and deep. In front of her, the newspaper of last week and an empty glass of water with laudanum - courtesy of Ms. Grimshaw. First time, about a week ago when the older woman had shown up with it by her ramshackle wagon, she had known there were bad news in tow because Sadie had informed Ms. Grimshaw that the laudanum was to be used sparingly now. So Savigne drank the water without further ado and after that, stared at the newspaper that was placed in front of her.

Sister DuBois had been wrong after all, because the shoes kept dropping.

Saint Denis had been shaken by the bank heist and the newspapers had talked of little else since. Even speculation about Ecco’s demise had been pushed to the fifth page. Pinkertons had immediately revealed the identity of the Van der Linde gang. A few days later big news broke: a ship had rolled into the Saint Denis harbor and the captain had contacted the authorities. His vessel had passed another that had departed the city few days prior and this ship had alerted them via lights and Morse code that the Van der Linde gang was on board and had bribed their passage to Cuba. Pinkertons, frustrated that their search in Shady Belle had come up empty, then had focused their efforts on contacting the authorities in Cuba. There was no extradition between the two countries but when the authorities heard of the bounty amounts, they said they would gladly pick the outlaws up at port to deliver them back to the US.

That seemed to be the end of it - the gang was stuck on a ship, seemingly unaware that the captain had double crossed them and heading straight to Cuba to be arrested. Alas, things went sideways again because after a prolonged radio silence, the news printed in last week’s paper sitting in front of her was that the cargo ship had sunk before its arrival, still a good distance away from Cuba and the gang had perished.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Ms. Grimshaw had rapped her knuckles on the table as she dropped the paper.

That had been last week. She thought it was last week, anyway. Because since then she had had a few more glasses of bitter water and had stared at the same paper day in day out.

Arthur dead. Dead forever. She couldn’t even remember the last thing she had said to him. Probably something sharp and hurtful. Maybe it had been something rudimentary like “turn off the lantern” or “your boots are muddy”. Her mind was a maze and all the doors led to weird places. Here, reality and fantasy were indistinguishable. Had they really gone treasure hunting or was that a fantasy she had cooked up? Had they spent the night on that island she had rowed to or had they returned? Had they strolled through cabins as prospective buyers or was that just her daydreams? Memories branched off into alternative paths and forked into other trails and sometimes it was hard to tell what had actually happened and what she had conjured in her head.

Laudanum was a hell of a drug.

But at least it soothed the sharpness of her grief and wouldn’t let her linger on it for too long before it led her mind astray. Every time she thought of the warmth of his body behind her and her heart pierced, laudanum said “Hey, how about that time you sledged down the snowy hill with your friends when you took a field trip to the mountains?” Every time she missed waking up next to him, laudanum said “Do you remember Christmas at the orphanage? You used to love listening to the choir.” Every time she pictured the intensity of his gaze on her, laudanum said “That trip to New York was amazing, wasn’t it? You whipped that meringue like a true professional”.

On and on, her mind chased Arthur and laudanum chased her mind. In a way, she was grateful. Without it she would surely have had a breakdown. In fact, arguably she had. In the weeks she had been here, she had barely done anything but sit here on a chair and wait for nightfall and then go around to the other side of the wagon and lie in her bed. The times of an orderly, clean tent and the semblance of normalcy were in the past. She hadn’t even unloaded the crates - they were stacked up in the back and every time she needed something, she just rummaged through them and retrieved what she needed and put the lids back on. Her wagon - their wagon - sat close to the cluster of huts that served as camp now. Sadie wouldn’t allow her to camp far from everyone else like she used to, but at least she got to sleep alone.

People came and spoke to her and tried to console her, but nobody could understand the depths of her grief because nobody was in her shoes. Except perhaps Molly, who sulked around and drank and stumbled through her own head maze. "Sláinte to both of us fools!" she had raised her bottle at Savigne one day, on her way out of camp. "What we deserve for lovin' these men." Savigne had felt compassion and a strange kinship for her then and had nodded. This surprised Molly who was used to being pushed around and dismissed and she gave Savigne a long look, swaying on her feet. "At least yers loved ya back," she had mumbled before she had disappeared among the foliage.

She blinked and picked up the paper again. Every time she tried to reread the news, her mind detached a few sentences in.

“You okay, Savigne?”

She looked up to find Charles standing over her. “I don’t think so,” she said thougtfully.

He pulled out the other chair and sat to her right. “Been a rough few weeks,” he sighed. They didn’t speak for a while. Charles was one of those people with whom silences were never awkward. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s dead.”

She played with the corner of the newspaper, folding it, then unfolding it as he watched her patiently.

“I’ve seen that man walk away from worse odds,” he continued. “Please don’t give up.”

She folded the corner, unfolded it. Folded it, unfolded it. She observed the letters straighten and flip upside down, straighten and flip. “Did you bury Hosea’n’Lenny?” she asked, her speech a little slurred.

In the corner of her eye, he nodded. Another thing nobody had disclosed to her until later. The pregnancy nobody but herself was shocked by, the scandalous heist and the demise of Hosea and Lenny. All secrets and lies. Why should she trust anything they said now?

“I know this upsets you,” he guessed her thinking. “Not being told. But we were just mindful of your well being.”

“Everyone’s lyin’ to me ‘bout ‘vrything.” the sticky words tumbled out of her mouth. Another thing laudanum removed was that filter between your head and your mouth.

She startled when his hand folded over hers, stopping her from the folding and making her look up. “Not everything.”

It was all he said, but the way he locked eyes with her and the way he said it somehow soothed her heart. He looked at her a long time and she looked back. Eventually he removed his hand and she sighed and sat back.

“He’s strong. And stubborn. No lies,” Charles added.

As if it mattered to be strong or stubborn or whatever the fuck else when a ship sucked you to the bottom of the ocean. Often she was glad for the gang’s confidence and optimism. But when the drug wore off, she thought it pathetic. Like they were all clinging to a lie. Like even here, at their most miserable low point, sleeping among gators and water snakes, they stubbornly pretended that their glory days were yet to come. Like this was just a small setback. Like Arthur and Dutch would return and then they would roll their wagons to a breezy overlook so they can go back to robbing people’s heirlooms and inheritance to buy more whiskey.

“My valley is so long,” she drawled, pulling the shawl over her shoulders.

Charles didn’t ask what she meant or look at her strange, just sat with her. “I’m sorry,” he said what felt like much later. “Wish I could do something for you.”

“What happens now?” she asked, wiping her hands over her face.

“We hang tight until we hear more. Well...you do. Me and Sadie will try to break out John.”

She nodded and waited for the meaning of the words to float down to her. Like a seesawing feather, it eventually did. “Of prison?”

“Yes,” was his simple response.

“That’s good,” she sighed a minute later. She felt a stab of hurt and realized that she resented John being rescued while Arthur was gone, possibly dead.

“Lucky Abigail. Guess family was meant for her,” she blurted before she could stop herself. “Not for me.”

“Savigne…” He waited until she locked eyes with him again. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Doubt that,” she snorted and giggled a little. “But that’s fine!” she waved her hand at the expression on his face.

He looked at her a moment, then rose to his feet and squeezed her shoulder. “Rest.”

It took her a while to realize he had left and she stupidly looked at the newspaper again, eyes growing heavy. Luther must be worried, I haven’t seen him in weeks, she thought to herself.

Nobody worries about you, silly girl, her inner voice scoffed.

Hands pulled up the shawl around her shoulders and she realized she had fallen asleep sitting there because the light was different now.

“Hey,” Abigail sank into in the chair Charles had vacated a minute ago…an hour ago? Time was fluid now; sometimes it stretched on for eons, other times it blinked by in a heartbeat.

“Is John back?” Savigne sniffed, wiping her sleeve under her nose. The laudanum had worn off and her mind was clearer again.

“No. They left a few hours ago, ain’t back yet.”

They hadn’t spoken since Jack’s return which felt like years at this point. The other woman was twitching restlessly with worry. At least she had something to worry about. All Savigne had was the desolate landscape of hopelessness. The resentment flared up in her again and she looked away.

“Did you need something?”

“Came to ask if you did,” Abigail’s eyes flicked up at her.

“So you’re not here to brag?”

“Brag?”

“I’m sure you knew about the child. I’m starting to think everyone knew but me. And possibly Arthur, because he was as dumb as me.”

Abigail bit her lip and shifted in her chair. “Course I knew. Not cause ‘m smarter, mind you, ‘m not. Cause I been there myself.”

“Another thing you didn’t tell me,” Savigne chuckled bitterly.

Abigail exhaled with frustration. “Really Savigne? We wasn’ even speakin’, did you expect me to drop by and tell you I think yer with child?”

She shrugged and hugged herself. She knew she would have been supremely upset and would have dismissed it as a cruel lie if Abigail had done that, but the flame of pettiness was burning hot in her gut.

“I’m sorry,” the other woman said carefully. “For not tellin’ the other thing. Or this. I am. Didn’ think was my place. Seems like whatever I do, I lose.”

“What exactly did you lose?” Savigne snapped. “They’re going to bring John back, then what are you going to cry about?”

Abigail was taken aback by that and looked guilty for a moment. “Arthur is comin’ back.”

“Will people please stop pulling this nonsense out of their ass?!” her voice rose and kept climbing. “No he won’t! He’s DEAD! And I’m FUCKED!”

Heads turned their way. She buried her face in her hands and shivered with righteous anger. Abigail was trying to make peace. But that was easy to do when your man wasn’t floating in the bottom of the ocean, wasn’t it? It was easy to be kind and generous, easy to preach hope and consolation when the winds of good fortune were filling your sails.

She remembered the rich families that used to visit the orphanage for adoption gliding around, smiling at the children like beatific deities. She remembered her friends brushing their hair and practicing their smiles in hopes of being noticed. She also remembered sitting in a corner, scowling with pride, watching these couples stroll around as if inspecting wares in a store.

Savigne, stop scowling, the Sisters would say. Why did you mess up your hair? What is this stain on your dress? Don’t you want to have a family?

One by one she had noticed the pretty girls leave. The taller ones with fair skin and nice eyes. “I have a family,” she would growl. “They’re dead.”

But don’t you want a new family?

“No.”

Savigne, everybody needs someone.

She had observed the men hoist up a child and grin with approval while their wives cooed and brushed the girl’s hair.

“Not me. I don’t need anyone.”

Every week she had messed up her hair and brushed dirt on her dress and every week she was passed on. A self fulfilling prophecy of her own making. In her grubby little heart, both righteous pride and something else - a hurt she couldn’t quite name. Pride and hurt, all those years her loyal shield and her trusted sword. Until that fateful day in the Bayou when she had let Arthur disarm her. Now her shield was cracked and her sword was broken, and in her heart: a deep compulsion to mess up her hair and muddy her dress.

“Please,” Abigail spoke up. “Let me help. I wanna help.”

“I don’t want your help!” she shot to her feet. “Go enjoy yourself! Go be with your family!”

“Young lady!” Grimshaw hollered from somewhere and she quickly fell back into her chair.

“You got to rub it in, congratulations,” she hissed and looked away. “Go away, leave me alone.”

Abigail’s eyes flared and her jaw muscles worked but when she spoke, her voice was careful and soft. “I know you don’ believe me but I’m your friend. Wanna be, anyway. I ain’t celebrating and I ain’t rubbin’ nothin’ in. I been where you are. I know you don’ wanna hear it but I’m very upset about Arthur, too.”

“Well that at least I can believe!” Savigne spat, but quieter, so Grimshaw wouldn’t march over.

“Ain’t like that! That was years ago. You wanna judge me for what I did, go ahead, ‘m used to it. Yes, I was a whore. Slept with men for money - the horror! But I been with John for years, I been loyal for years, and it hurts ya sayin’ ‘m lustin’ for another man! Behind John and Jack’s back! Shame on you!”

Savigne defiantly wiped her tears and looked away. She was jealous and every time she was jealous, she turned petty. Old habits died hard.

“I know yer head screwed on wrong right now. ‘M tryin’ not to hear yer poison but it’s hard Savigne! Really hard!” the other woman's voice wavered and she flattened her lips and sat back in an attempt to gather herself.

They sniffled quietly in their chairs for a while. Savigne fished out her stack of clean handkerchiefs and when Abigail held her hand out, grumpily slapped one into her palm, too.

“I been where you are. Lemme help. Least I can do to make it up to you. And least I can do to repay Arthur.”

“There’s nothing to help,” Savigne quipped. “I’m just waiting for this thing to go sideways like everything else in my life.”

Ms. Grimshaw came out of the hut and gave them an even look. They remained composed under her scrutiny and Abigail waited for her to glide away before she continued: “Don’ gotta be that way. You’ll have a kid, ain’t the worst thing. Jack is the best thing I done in my life.”

Savigne rolled her eyes. Abigail just didn’t get it. She was riding with outlaws and her biggest career ambition was to become a better pickpocket. And if John married her one day, Jack was set. Her own life was over. Her ambitions, dust. Her plans, ruined. An unmarried woman with child was a death sentence to all her dreams. Sure, she would survive - she could find the odd job here or there and put the semblance of a roof over her head and food into her stomach. But an illustrious career in a city? That was done. No respectable restaurant would hire her. Everywhere she went, women would look at her with disdain and hurry their husbands and sons away and men would treat her like an easy lay. Never getting married - that was manageable for a woman these days. But a child out of wedlock? Certain ostracism. And what would happen to the child? Rejection by nurseries and schools. Endless teasing and stigma for being a “foundling”. If it was a boy he would climb down chimneys for a living and if it was a girl her highest aspiration would be to become a maid.

“Also, like I said, Arthur is coming back.” Sometimes she wondered how John put up with Abigail’s one track mind. The woman just thought what she thought and nobody could convince her otherwise.

“Then what? You think we’re going to ride into the sunset after this bullshit he pulled?”

“You knew this what he does when you shacked up with him,” was the defensive response.

“And so did you with John. Didn’t stop you from complaining my ears off!”

“I complain he won’ leave this life, ain’t nothing the same! I ain’t blind, I know Arthur don’ feel that way about the gang no more.”

“Just spare me,” Savigne huffed. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I’m tempted to go to New York and start all over.”

“New York?! Why there?”

“Why not? They’re more open minded over there, I can pull it off as a single parent. More work, too.”

Abigail gave her a side eye. “Ya gonna pack up and go to a big city in yer condition? Where ya gonna be all alone? Don’ know a soul?”

Savigne knew how dumb it sounded and truthfully, had very little ambition or money to make such an upheaval right now. Hell, she hadn’t even gone to work in weeks, the notion that she would rise up like some glorious phoenix and relocate to New York was preposterous. But she shrugged anyway. “Might,” she said curtly. “I’m alone. No ties to anyone. I might as well start new. Could pass as a widow with a ring on my finger. Might even find a good man who’ll stick around.”

The other woman shifted in her seat. “Yer underestimatin’ Arthur’s-.”

“You know what - I don’t give a shit!” she spat. Then hastily looked around for that black bun and adjusted her tone. “He left me. He lost his vote by doing that.”

“He ain’t left you. He went on a job, things gone wrong. Don’ ya think you should wait a little?”

“For what? A horrible, irresponsible man to come back? What’s he going to do? Save me?” Savigne snorted and crossed her arms, “Let’s face it: he’s more likely to hate me.”

“The hell?!”

“A child he didn’t ask for? Because I was stupid? Sound familiar?”

“Absolutely not!” Abigail gasped. “That was very different. He gonna be crazy happy!”

“Any other glowing defense of Arthur you need to throw my way while you’re at it?!” growled Savigne. “Touching how protective you are of him!”

“Stop it! I owe him a lot, that’s all. I have no feelings for yer stupid man.”

“If you have no feelings, stop fucking defending him.”

“Okay fine. Wanna make sure you sein' all your options, is all. Just a few weeks, Savigne. Charles said that what they discussed - sail off a few weeks and return. Hasn’t changed.”

“The ship at the bottom of the ocean disagrees!” Savigne clutched the paper and waved it in Abigail’s face.

“I ain’t a well traveled woman but even I know those have life vests and boats,” was the infuriatingly stubborn dismissal. “A few weeks, and if-”

Just then two horses rode into camp - Sadie and John on one and Charles on the other. The gang, hungry for any good news, erupted in a big pent up hooray. Abigail scrambled out of her chair and ran to meet John. Savigne watched them embrace and kiss as people flocked around them. The resentment, the jealousy that had been percolating in her before flared up so hot and bitter, it took her breath away. She shot up to her feet, swayed for a moment, then walked to the back of the wagon and fumbled with the single sheet of fabric of the tent that remained now. All the pillars had been left at Shady Belle so she just had a bed and a drape of fabric for privacy. She untied it and hurriedly hung it over like a mosquito net, then sat down on the bed, shaking with fury and dejection. She kicked off her boots and lied down, listening to the greetings and exchanges and hating everyone and her own jealous, spiteful, petty self most of all. It’s unfair, she cried silently. Unfair he’s back and Arthur isn’t. Unfair they’re happy and I’m miserable. Unfair they’re a family and mine is dead forever. Unfair, unfair, unfair!

Steps scrunched her way and she stilled, shuffling closer to the wagon. Leave me alone, she screamed in her head. I hate you and I don’t want your pity!

Whoever it was paused in front of the lowered drape for a while, then finally receded.

She inhaled the smell of the Bayou. I can’t be in this muck, listening to frogs and gators. What the fuck am I doing? I used to work a distinguished job. I have money. I have a friend. Instead I’m here, sinking into the damn swamp. Sleeping in this barely put together tent. Everything is dirty and ugly here, I haven’t bathed in weeks, I can’t even cook. I’m lying here waiting for a man who didn’t give a shit about me. Not enough to stop and wonder what was going to happen to me anyway.

There was a flutter in her stomach and she froze. “Sorry,” she mumbled and splayed her hand on it. “I’m sorry. You must be boiling in pure poison in there.” Shame washed over her. All her life she had missed a mother like an absent limb, and now, when the responsibility was laid at her feet, it was all “woe to me!”, and “what about my career?”, and “what about my dreams?” Doctor Polleux was right - ignorance was no excuse. Arthur didn't do this and the baby certainly didn't either. This was her doing and consequentially, her responsibility.

“Sorry I haven’t been a better custodian. But that’s all over now. No more laudanum.” she whispered to her passenger. “I was…sick, but I’m better now. Tomorrow we're going to go see Luther.” The thought calmed her heart. “Luther is my friend. Our friend. We’ll ask him what to do. If he’s mean, just ignore it, you hear? He just pretends to be mean.” She sighed and listened to the music of the Bayou for a while, gently tapping her belly. “We're climbing out of this hole. I put us in this hole and I will climb us out of it. This is not a fairy tale, no hero is coming to save us, and that’s fine because we don’t need one. It's easy, you'll see. All we have to do is put one foot above the other. And not look down.”

Hercule crouched next to Arthur as the other man watched the camp below with the binoculars. The moon shone full and bright tonight as voices of banter and ease drifted up to them. If the cowboy was distressed about the number of their enemies, he didn’t show it. Behind them, the rest of the gang was quietly inspecting the crates that Hercule’s men had smuggled over in the cover of dark. A few days from now, when the last reinforcements arrived, they were going to storm the camp and try to flush Fussar out. It had sounded like madness to Hercule, but as he was wrestling with indecision and doubt, Arthur had looked at him and had said “Run with me,” and to his own amazement, Hercule had found himself shaking hands.

When he had returned to his men to translate, they too had balked at this proposition.

“Hercule, how can you trust this blan, this white man?”

“A wolf is not black and a wolf is not white. A wolf is grey.” he had told them.

This had fazed them none, because even though there were no wolves in Haiti, there were wolves in America and this man was American, and his people were intuitive and knew that some things were meant to be understood with the heart, not the head. Their dark eyes had judged the cowboy up and down, had weighed his measure as they mulled on this between themselves.

Then they had said “Okay, we will run with this American wolf. But this plan crazy. We are few and Fussar is many.”

Hercule had shrugged. “Bondye fe san di. God acts and doesn’t talk. We did the talking, now we do the acting.”

So here they were, scouting the camp below them and fine tuning their plans.

“Bill,” Arthur mumbled, concentrated on the activity in the distance. “Ya remember where?”

“Sure.”

Arthur rose from his haunches and gave him a suspicious look. “Where?”

Bill shifted uncomfortably on his feet and glanced back over his shoulder to the camp below them. “There,” he pointed at the barracks, “…there” - the gun shack, “…and…and…” The slap on the back of his head startled him.

“The fuckin’ watchtower!” hissed Arthur.

“Was just about to say that!” was the sullen response.

Arthur stepped closer to him, “Listen here ya lumberin’ fool, you do this wrong, don’ bother comin’ back, cause ‘m shootin’ yer useless ass.”

“‘M just tired. And cooked. And hungry.”

The blue eyes blazed at him. “You do this wrong, ya gonna be dead, too.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dutch spoke up. He lifted a rifle out of the crate and checked the scope.

“Where you need us?” Hercule asked Arthur.

“How about you go ahead first?” Micah drawled. “Draw their fire.” Hercule didn’t engage with him. He didn’t care for this man. This man was lougarou - a skinwalker who dressed like a wolf, but he was no wolf. His heart was the wicked heart of men. He looked at Arthur and waited. “Hey, you deaf or what?” Micah pushed, annoyed that he was being ignored.

“You want us to draw fire?” Hercule quietly asked Arthur as if Fat Belly hadn’t spoken.

“Not you,” Arthur said, testing the sharpness of his blade on his thumb before he notched it on his belt. “You come with me. We gonna go in quite and kill the men aimin’ the gatlins.”

“Since when are you leading?” was Micah’s frustrated protest.

“Since always,” Arthur said, eyes cold as they shifted up to him.

“You okay with this, Dutch?”

“Arthur knows what he’s doing,” was Dutch’s distracted response.

“Wouldn’t know it by the job that landed us here,” was the muttering.

“What’s that now?” Arthur turned to him, voice deceptively mild and Hercule curiously observed the other big man, Bill, flinch and go white like someone had dunked his head in bleach.

“Hey!” Dutch hissed, stepping between Arthur and Micah. “Enough! You can handle your differences when this is done. Until then…” he gave Micah a side eye, “…Arthur leads.” It was obvious to Hercule that there were problems between these three. If he had to guess, the two younger men had a long standing issue. The leader liked Arthur and looked extremely pleased that he was back in the fold. No, more than that: Dutch acted happy and proud, as if his long lost son had returned to his side. Eager to reward him for his choice to return, eager to have his right hand back. This didn’t please Fat Belly who looked disgruntled for being asked to vacate his spot. Clearly there was a simmering power play here but one that only Micah was engaged in. Arthur filled the role naturally, organically and easily and didn’t even seem to be aware of the competition.

“Tell yer men to gather to the North,” Arthur told him, finger jabbing at the spot on the crude map. “When the dynamite goes off, they shoot and draw back. We’ll crawl in from behind and turn them gatlins on the fools chasin’. Tell’em to circle and come join the fight when they hear that.”

Hercule nodded and turned to translate what was asked. The men’s dark eyes shifted to Arthur as they muttered their “wi patron”s.

“What about us?” Dutch asked.

“You push Fussar to the beach. Micah and I will block his way out and meet you there.”

“Why the hell am I going with you?” Micah sneered.

“Cause what we doin’ more dangerous.” Arthur gave him a look. “And I figure if anyone’s gotta die, should be the worst of us.”

The blond man chortled as he reloaded his twin guns. “I like the way your mind works, cowpoke.”

Three days later and twenty minutes after Bill, Javier, Dutch and their guide had left to plant the explosives, Hercule lead the two Americans quietly to descend through the jungle towards the camp. They had waited for lunch to finish because these lazy bastards liked their fiesta and got all sluggish after eating and were prone to nodding off at their stations. Fussar ran a tight ship, but one man couldn't overcome generations of ingrained habits or the lulling power of the heat. Besides, not even the craziest of them would expect an attack on their camp. Given the small number of men he had at his side, Hercule had always resorted to terrorist tactics - a quick nibble here and there before they withdrew to the safety of the jungle. A full head on attack on the camp was crazy but he couldn't argue with the fact that at the very least it would catch the enemy off guard.

He glanced at the cowboy. Fussar was clever and had more firepower, true. But Arthur was really determined to get back home and Hercule had learned long ago that the steel resolve of determination far outweighed cleverness or a superior force. This other man he didn't trust at all because he knew the type. This wasn't a man to turn your back to. Arthur might not be loyal to Hercule's cause or the people of this island, but Hercule had no doubt that he was loyal to something; loyal to what he valued. He suspected that this man, this…skinwalker didn't even know the meaning of the word.

The gatling guns were on high ground and Hercule knew exactly how to get there. He knew the layout of this camp like the back of his hand. He guided the other two men around the low wall and behind the food hall. They carefully looked through the dust smeared windows and spotted a party of four inside: two cooks playing cards at one of the tables and two soldiers using the other cafeteria tables for an afternoon nap. Arthur doubled back and slunk to the backdoor of the kitchen. When he carefully parted it, there was just one guy washing dishes by himself. Hercule followed him in and marveled how quiet he was despite his size. Micah trailed as the third and gently closed the door behind them. When Hercule looked ahead again Arthur had the man in his clutch and his knife did a subtle slash across the throat. A spray of blood misted as the cook struggled to dislodge Arthur's big hand off his mouth. The dishes he had been washing colored red. There was a long moment of mumbled resistance, but ultimately he slumped in the American's arms and was gently laid aside.

"Go through the other door and take care of them cooks," Arthur whispered to Micah. Then added: "Don' do that shit you pulled in Strawberry. Quietly."

"I got it," was Micah's annoyed huff before he exited the door they had come through.

The kitchen was connected to the food hall with a set of swinging double doors, inlaid with two small windows. Arthur motioned for Hercule to stand behind it before he grabbed one of the dishes the man had been washing and threw it on the floor. Hercule peeked out and saw one of the soldiers stir when the plate shattered. A moment passed and the soldier called out:

"¿Qué pasa Antón?”

When no answer came he huffed with disgust and sat up. "Antón!"

It took some back and forth between him and his sleepy colleague to sort it out, but eventually the soldier slid off the table and trudged over to the door. He banged it open and walked in and Arthur gave him a skull cracking punch in the face and pushed him into Hercule's arms to be immediately wrapped into a choke hold. Before the door could even swing back shut, Arthur had smoothly slid out and was crouching towards the other soldier. Only when he jumped up to impale the other guys heart with a smack did the cooks startle and look up in his direction. They scrambled out of their chairs and inhaled to scream but by then Micah was behind them and stabbed one in the neck from behind. The other one turned at the sound and that was the last thing he did because when looked back again Arthur's blade was in his gut. He gurgled something unintelligible in Spanish and sank to the ground.

Hercule came out of the kitchen, panting. "The guns close by?" Arthur asked as he wiped his blade on the cook’s shirt before reholstering it.

The black man jabbed his head north. "Just up the steps there. But they'll spot us if we go now."

"We wait here 'til the dynamite goes off," Arthur said. "Then we make a run for it."

They didn't have to wait long. Minutes later the dynamite did go off and it sounded like the ammunition depot because the explosion was massive and shivered the ground under their feet. Hercule heard the splatter of mud and stones against the building they were in and thought they might wait for all three explosions or even wait for his men to engage first, but to his surprise, Arthur pulled his guns and was out the door, so him and Micah scrambled to follow. The camp exploded into action around them. By the time the barracks went off, all three had arrived by the gatling guns and had disposed of the soldiers guarding them. Hercule had a moment to marvel at the gunslinger's speed - Arthur's hands were as fast as bullets themselves and his shooting magnificently true - before he was told to man the gun. Despite never having used one in his life, the concept was pretty basic, so Hercule took over one gatling while Micah approached the other and Arthur guarded their back. The gun was like a bull under his hands - bursting and jerking with power as he swung it around and pressed the trigger, mowing down running soldiers and etching holes into the buildings. It had a deafening cough and the vibration quaked his spine but Hercule clung to it and tried his best to aim true. Just then the base of the tower went up and the metal of the structure screeched like a banshee as it leaned, tilted and tilted and tilted until it smashed to the ground.

A gust of sand erupted around them and billowed like tan colored sheets, making the camp momentarily invisible as Hercule tried to shoot through the dust storm. He pulled up his bandanna to breath and squinted as sand pecked at his eyes and settled into his hair. He glanced behind him and saw Arthur ducking low behind a barricade, killing anyone who was dumb enough to move through the streets or attempting to come up the steps for the gatlings. His hands were firing and reloading so fluidly, it was an uninterrupted stream of motion. He heard Micah to his left holler in joy as he fired his own gatling, bullet casings erupting around him and pinging off his legs and arms like fireworks. How long this went on he couldn't tell, but he startled when Arthur's hand smacked on his shoulder.

“Saw Fussar run off, ‘m gonna follow.”

“I’m coming with. Out of bullets anyway and the ammunition depot is blown, these guns are useless now.”

They sprinted from building to building as slugs ricocheted around his head like a hailstorm. He ducked behind the crude stone wall and tried to hear anything other than the sharp bark of bullets as he reloaded. His ears were roaring with the noise, his breath short from the running and the dust in the air.

“Come on!” Micah yelled from ahead of them, “I’m covering.” Hercule heard Dutch holler, pinpointed a direction and stumbled from behind the wall and ducked low, running alongside Arthur as Micah covered their advance. He crouched behind some crates and peeked up. A bullet whizzed by the crate but he got a clean shot and took it. Then another.

“Be sharp now!” Micah yelled and Arthur jumped up a little to rain a volley to cover the other man. From the corner of his eye he saw Micah run onwards and sit behind a low wall to reload.

“Arthur! Micah! This way!” was Dutch’s increasingly distant call.

Just then a man jumped over the low wall and got tangled up with Micah. He pulled a big knife, the size of his forearm and went for Micah’s throat but the blond man tussled him to the ground and slapped the knife away. The man wrestled his way back up, hands clutching at Micah’s guns to point them away from himself. Arthur reloaded and checked quickly over his shoulder to make sure there would be no fire from behind before he aimed and shot the man in the back of the head.

Micah barked a triumphant cry and pushed the body off himself. He scrambled to put his back against the low wall again. Hercule ran to squat next to him and peeked up quickly to see if anyone else was coming over. When he turned to urge Arthur to sprint on, he was startled to find him sitting on Micah’s lap, their faces so close that their noses almost touched. He saw Micah flinch with surprise, those flat blue eyes widening for a split second before he spat “Cowpoke…”

But he couldn't finish the sentence as he got distracted and dropped his head to look between them. He blinked at the hilt of the dagger he had slapped out of his assailant’s hand a minute ago sticking from his gut and his eyes followed it up to Arthur’s hand, his arm, all the way up to his face. When their eyes locked, Arthur looked on and gave the hilt a sideways push. He coolly watched Micah gasp.

“Shot that guy,” Arthur said quietly, moving closer still. “So I can do this.”

He jerked the dagger further right and despite the mayhem around them, Hercule somehow heard the wet tearing of flesh. Micah just blinked on in confusion and his only reaction was a small cough. A few more bullets rained around them, singing against the wall but most of the fight was following Dutch, Bill and Javier and those men sounded even further down the beach.

Hercule’s eyes widened at the scene in front of him.

“Help me you idiot!” Micah sneered at him. “He’s gone mad!”

There was no madness in Arthur’s eyes when they flicked up to Hercule. But he did look very dangerous.

“Patron?!” Hercule stammered.

“This man assaulted my woman,” Arthur said calmly, his blue eyes boring into Hercule’s. His hand jerked again to the right and the blond man he had pinned against the wall moaned. “And means to, again.”

The Fat Belly’s low chuckle drew his eyes to him. “You need…me you…idiot,” Micah's eyes bored into his over Arthur's shoulder. “Gonna risk…Fussar…gettin’ away over…some whore?”

Hercule’s face distorted with disgust. It didn’t surprise him what Micah was accused of. And neither did it surprise him that a man of such low character would think the same of him. He spat to the side. “I’ll cover you, patron,” he growled to Arthur and peeked up to shoot.

A flash of movement as Micah’s right gun came around. He was fast, faster than he should be, but Arthur was ready and gripped it with his left hand before it could turn his way, his other hand on the blade handle seesawing across the belly. The gush of warm, sticky blood was followed by the ropes of intestines.

Micah snarled with renewed vigor and tried to bring his left hand around. But it was caught under Arthur’s knee and wouldn’t budge. He moaned with frustration as his guts boiled out of his stomach and unfurled like glistening coils. Arthur set his cool eyes on the blond man whose gun started to shake with the futile effort to turn. “Think I forgot 'bout ya, you filth?” Arthur drawled, watching his eyes flutter with the loss of blood. “Think ‘m gonna let you loose so you can do what y’aimin’ to do?”

Micah’s right hand unfurled from his gun and gave a weak slap at Arthur’s cheek. “Fucking…coward,” he hissed. “I paid…for what…I done,” was the hiss as the blade serrated on and scraped a rib bone.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

Arthur threw Micah’s released gun over his shoulder as he watched the the pupils wavering, wrestled the other one of his weakened grip from under his knee and checked the chamber. The commotion had moved further east. “Should 'ave done this after Jenny. Should 'ave done it in Strawberry. Should 'ave done it after ya touched my woman. Well…” he sighed, eyes crawling over Micah’s rapidly blanching face, “…’m doin’ it now.”

Micah growled in anger and twitched about. A shudder shook his frame and he panted and coughed blood when Arthur took a crouched step away.

He placed Micah’s gun against the man’s chest and waited for those dead fish eyes to flutter up to him. “Let’s find out if ya got a heart in there.”

When he pulled the trigger, Micah convulsed and his eyes rolled up in his head. Arthur released him and he keeled sideways, dead weight.

Hercule watched the cowboy reload his own guns before their eyes met. “Couldn' risk him returnin’ home if I die here," he explained calmly. "But Fussar ain’t gettin’ away. Gave you my word.”

Hercule nodded in understanding. Some things were clear to all men. "Tell me when.”

Arthur cocked his guns. “Go.”

They seesawed through a rain of bullets, covering each other. Hercule’s heart was beating against his rib cage and his lungs burned. But he wasn’t nearly as worried as he should be. Because the man next to him was like death incarnate, shooting people so rapidly, that they fell with their faces twisted in surprise at their own demise.

By the time they arrived at the beach, he was nauseated from the adrenaline and the running, his chest heaving in the humid heat. Arthur spat to the side and sank to his knees next to Dutch.

“He’s stuck behind those rocks,” Dutch said, looking haggard and worn down himself. Arthur managed to nod, hands reloading reflexively, without thinking.

“Where’s Micah?”

“Dead.”

The leader’s head snapped around, eyes big with disbelief. “What!? How?”

Arthur’s cool orbs flicked up to him, then around the rock they were hiding behind. The other two Americans froze with this news.

Dutch’s gaze shifted to the direction they came from, then back to Arthur. Hercule could tell the man was suspicious by nature. A man who moved pieces on the board just to see all happenstances so he would never be blindsided. Obsessed with thinking his way around corners. Hercule could see the clockwork in his head spin and tick.

“He took a bullet to the heart,” he said to Dutch and made certain not to flinch away from Dutch’s scrutiny.

Dutch looked at him for a very long moment and Hercule stared back. No doubt Dutch was clever, but the art of staring back at white folk and hiding what’s in their heads was second nature to his people.

“I’m sorry for your loss. My people will honor him when this is done,” he lied smoothly.

Just then there was a call from behind the rocks:

“Americans! Amigos! Let’s talk.”

A short silence ensued.

“Unless you want to talk about where to be buried, I don’t see the point,” Dutch called back with a lilt of amusement.

“How about we talk about money, eh?” was the response. This surprised everyone, but not Hercule and his stomach dropped. “I got lots of it. No good to me dead. We can come to an arrangement!”

Hercule glanced at Arthur’s unreadable face, then at Dutch’s which was an open book.

“What kind of arrangement?” Dutch sang.

“No talking!” Hercule hissed. “This man must die! He killed and tortured hundreds!”

Dutch gave him a look that twisted his gut. “Don’t worry, he will pay.”

“Quite literally, it seems,” Javier chuckled. It turned Hercule’s stomach that only weeks ago Javier had been tortured and imprisoned by Fussar, and yet here he was, tempted to make a deal with the man.

“I promised a boat for his death. We had an arrangement!” he pleaded. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did but when Dutch’s gun swiveled to him, he was startled anyway. Because a man could live a hundred lives and still not learn treachery.

“How about we take both?” Dutch mused. “Tell your men not to shoot,” was the cool addition.

Hercule squared his shoulders and pressed his lips together.

“I don’t want to shoot you my friend,” Dutch reasoned amicably. “But we are pretty short right now. I need this for my people. You’re young, if you’re smart and decide to live, you can kill this bastard next time.”

“You will never get a boat from me or any of my men if you do this.”

There was a long standoff. Hercule glanced at Arthur but his face was as unreadable as stone, the gears in his head well hidden.

“Don’t be a hero, son,” Dutch urged and cocked his gun. “Live another day.”

He hated these men, but more than them, he hated his own treasonous heart that saw the logic, that shriveled at the idea of saying no. He fought himself for a full minute as Dutch watched, eyes calm and curious. A better man would say no and die here. But what would happen to his men? If they got into a gunfight with these Americans, surely they would perish, too.

”Pa tire!” he shouted out. Disgust tore through him and his shoulders deflated. A patronizing “Good man,” was his reward for this treason. A jab with the gun to throw his weapon down. He complied. What was another betrayal after the first one?

“Come out, Fussar!” Dutch called. Then to Bill: “Keep your eyes on our friend here.”

Fussar hesitantly stepped from behind the rocks and cringed as if expecting a hail of bullets. When it didn’t come, he blinked at his luck and walked out further, arms raised. Seeing him right there after chasing this man for so many years singed Hercule’s heart. Dutch rose and holstered his weapon.

“Where’s this money?”

“In America of course,” was the pompous response. “You think I’m keeping it in this shithole? Or in Cuba? It’s in dollars, my friend.”

“You have a boat?” Bill yelled over his shoulder, eyes locked to Hercule.

“Not at the moment,” admitted the other man. He wet his lips and pushed his chin up to Hercule. “But I bet your friend here does.” He did a flimsy twirl with his upturned arms and a smile tugged at his lips. “You give me some time with him, I'm sure I can convince him to hand it over. Then we can all-”

The gunshot that ruptured a hole in Fussar’s face made almost everyone jump. Everyone but Arthur, who was the source of it. There was a long moment of stunned disbelief as Arthur calmly holstered his weapon and his compatriots and Hercule gaped at him with slackened jaws.

“What the fuck…!” Bill started, eyes as big as saucers.

“I ain’t kill a hundred people so this man gets us to fuck over the very same folks we promised to,” was Arthur’s calm explanation.

It was hard to argue with that and Hercule’s heart bloomed with hope and renewed respect. The stares of the other Americans, however, turned sullen and angry.

“You can’t make that call for us, Arthur!” Javier moaned with frustration.

“My bullet in his head says differently.”

“Son...” Dutch’s voice quivered. It was obvious that he was shocked by Arthur’s rogue behavior. The pleasure he had shown just days ago for having him back by his side dissolved in front of Hercule’s eyes. Hercule was proud to notice that for all his cleverness, Dutch had a blind side: He thought he knew Arthur well, was confident in this, but he hadn’t seen what Hercule had: that Arthur was his own wolf. Maybe now more than ever. “...we needed that money.”

Arthur notched his hands on his gun belt, gazing back at him. “We always need money. But ‘a man’s word is his bond’ - that sound familiar, Dutch?”

“Of course,” the hands waved softly in placation. “Of course! I know I taught you that, but we could have-”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur interrupted him, eyes hard. The distance between them was merely a few feet, but to Hercule, they looked miles apart.

“What?”

“Wasn’ you.” Arthur's sharp gaze was unflinching. “Was Hosea.”

There was another long pause as the leader searched for words that never came. Arthur’s eyes shifted to Hercule. “We good?”

“Wi patron,” he nodded firmly. “Boat be here in few days.”

He received a grunt of acceptance as the man walked past him the way they came.

Hercule lowered his hands. When he bent down to pick up his gun, nobody objected. His men gathered around him and they threw the other three Americans baleful looks before they turned to follow.

“Your friends not happy.” Hercule said when he caught up to him.

Arthur strode in silence for a while as Hercule’s men fanned ahead to check for survivors.

“But you are,” was the late response.

“Sure,” he chuckled. “More than happy - I’m grateful! But I’m just a stranger.”

Arthur inspected his shoulder that had the shallow streak of a bullet on it. “Someone once told me ‘bout this kid who bullied a town. Bad kid, rotten seed all around. Like me.” He sighed and squinted ahead as they approached the ruins of the camp. “But, came a day, he did right by just one person.” The blue eyes flicked at him, then away. “Guess I gotta believe sometimes that’s enough.”

They arrived by the low wall behind which Arthur had dispatched of Micah and walked on. Neither looked in that direction but Hercule spat the grit in this mouth in remembrance.

“Bet your woman is gonna be happy when you return.”

“For a minute, if ‘m lucky,” the cowboy snorted. “Then she gonna be whole lotta mad.”

Hercule grinned up at him. “Well you have to stick to her tight anyway, patron.”

“Why’s that?” was the amused question.

“Because everybody know this: sticking with your family is what makes it family.”

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan smut #low honor arthur morgan #mid honor arthur morgan #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #fluff #smut #fanfic #dom arthur morgan

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emilieautumnarchives · 6 months ago

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Enchanted Living Interview

Original Link Last Accessed: 1/12/2025

Gather Ye Rosebuds Day with Pre-Raphaelite Sisters Emilie Autumn and Veronica Varlow By Carolyn Turgeon

Photography: Steve Parke Photography Assistant: Tedd Henn Location: Cloisters Castle in Baltimore, Maryland Hair: Nikki Verdecchia of NV Salon Collective MUA: Autumn Shae of NV Salon Collective Clothing: Edye Sanford; Bullseye Clothiers; Emily Kramer Designs; Angela Gavin from Milk & Ice Vintage; Trinket’s Costume and Sundry; personal items from Emilie Autumn, Veronica Varlow, and Kim Cross Instruments: loaned by John DuRant Box on cover: Sue Rawley

I wish all of you could have been there last summer in Baltimore, when I whisked BFFs Emilie Autumn and Veronica Varlow in all their glittering fabulousness from their hotel to NV Salon in the neighborhood of Hampden, where they got glammed up thoroughly enough to embody the spirits of Victorian supermodels Elizabeth Siddal and Jane Morris in our sumptuous cover shoot. As said glamming took place, Emilie gave us all the “trashy beauty parlor gossip,” as she calls it now, about Lizzie and Jane, “which is, I’m sure, what it was at the time they were living.” She told us about the “open affairs”—that is, the “loads of drug use, burned suicide notes, exhumed poetry (and wives), and glorified overactive thyroid glands.” What better way to spend an August morning?

Of course, Emilie knows plenty about these ladies and their time period, which fuels so much of her own art. And by her art I mean her writing, including her novel, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls, and of course her virtuoso violin playing, and the subjects she chooses to sing about—she has released four studio albums, including Opheliac (2006) and Fight Like a Girl (2012), and her worldwide concert tours have featured handmade Victorian-influenced costumes and elaborate, over-the-top stage shows including a troupe of corseted dancing girls, of which Varlow was one of the main attractions.

The shoot took place at Baltimore’s Cloisters Castle, where we lugged pots of roses, racks of clothing culled from various designers and vintage dealers, a few historical instruments, and a stack of inspiration photos I’d printed out the night before. While Emilie wasn’t Lizzie in every shot, and Veronica wasn’t only Jane Morris, they channeled those two superpowers while we scrambled to do as many shots as possible within a few hours, racing up and down those spiral stairs with pomegranates and apples, silver mirrors, old books of poetry, and an endless supply of scarves and dresses slung over our arms. The result is on these pages.

Below, we talk to Emilie more about all the above.

Enchanted Living: Can you tell us about your relationship with the 19th century? Why does this period resonate with you so much? Emilie Autumn: I’ve always felt that the 1800s are around Elizabethan or even 18th century portraits and think, This can’t possibly have been real—it’s like a fantasy world, or an alternate universe. But we can see ourselves in the Victorians. Certainly the fact that photography came into being during that time doesn’t hurt. But I think we can relate to that time of incredible social and political upheaval, technological invention, and, of course, industrial revolution, because it hasn’t stopped—we’re still in it, racing forward, hurtling onward and wondering what is going to become of it all. Essentially, the Western world became recognizable as the one we now inhabit, complete with the daring idea that we didn’t just hatch on the planet 6,000 years ago as fully developed humans.

So, if you’re a lover of history and a seeker of your roots, the 19th century is where you go to find yourself. If you’re an out-of-the-closet Anglophile like me—I’m full-blown British in my mind—who sincerely doesn’t understand why cravats can’t be an everyday thing, then it is Victorian England specifically. It’s close enough to identify with but far enough away to fantasize about. And that, I think, is precisely why it’s such a great world to tell stories in.

In my novel that really started the association between myself and the Victorian era, the protagonist manifests an alter ego that lives in the Victorian world as a way to process what is going on in her own reality—a sort of therapy through escapism, something I’ve done since I was a child but taken to a literally psychotic extreme. And finally, I should say that it’s a fun world to play in if you have a wicked sensibility because there is a very dark underbelly to the corsets-and-tea-parties culture, as the novel illustrates—London was filthy, diseases were rampant, and women were considered subhuman and treated accordingly. There is little to glamorize, but that won’t stop us from trying and enjoying every minute of it.

EL: Why is this period relevant today? What overlaps do you see? EA: I suppose all periods are relevant if there is something still to be learned from them, and I do think there is much to learn, particularly from the areas in which we have not progressed nearly as far as we should have. My iPhone camera is amazing, but we are still a global patriarchy.

EL: Can you talk about this shoot? What did it mean to you? EA: I was truly honored to be asked to represent these iconic paintings. I have loved each of these works since childhood and modeled myself after them to a conspicuous degree for most of my teens and into my twenties. Lizzie Siddal is the reason I originally dyed my blonde hair red at sixteen, parted it in the middle, and proceeded to grow it down to my knees. I don’t believe that anyone who might know of me now is aware of that, so it’s fun to say out loud! This shoot was more than a fantasy come true, it was also a return to a more innocent version of myself, before the corsets and striped stockings and asylums, even if just for a day. It was good to see her again, and I think that a bit of her came back home with me. I am very grateful to Enchanted Living for that.

EL: Do you relate to the women of the Pre-Raphaelite movement? EA: What is so wild is that when I developed my Pre-Raphaelite obsession as a child, I had no inkling of the truly astonishing stories of these very real women—the world’s first supermodels, some have said—and what their particular kind of beauty meant. I didn’t know that they were very largely ill, extremely poor, and, in Lizzie’s case, fatally depressed. Having learned so much more about Lizzie since, I feel an overwhelming compassion for her. An artist and poet herself, she suffered horribly from mental illness, and it was either ignored or misunderstood to the point where she ended her earthly life at thirty-two. As the subject of mental health is such a dominating theme of most of my music and writing, the connection would be impossible to ignore, and I definitely tried to commune with her the day of our shoot. Not all of the paintings I was a part of re-creating were originally modeled by Lizzie, but she is the one I was channeling.

EL: You’ve written about poetic figures like the Lady of Shalott and Ophelia. What do they mean to you? EA: Well, the funny thing is that, in my song “Shalott” as well as “The Art of Suicide,” which of course alludes to Ophelia, though not by name, I was writing about Arthurian and Shakespearian characters respectively but was referencing the Victorian painted versions of them in particular. When I was much younger, my passions were medieval history and Shakespeare, and those are actually what drew me to the Pre-Raphaelites in the first place—these Victorian men were painting the women I already loved. Isn’t that bizarre? I hadn’t even really put that all together until just now. I think that I was always drawn to the tragic stories when I was young because they reflected my own melancholy and mental issues but with flowery language and better hair. I saw myself in these characters—they were my pain beautified, and they gave me a gift, inspiring me to intentionally beautify what adversities would come to me as the years went on and life was lived. That is what I still do—it is the basis of my whole career, and it is also the best advice I can share with anyone struggling with anything. Find a way to turn this into art of any kind, because then it is transformed and nothing is wasted.

EL: Can you describe your relationship with Veronica and how you two worked together on your stage show? EA: The first time I met Veronica, I ran into her arms. We shared a Kit Kat bar and had a mutual vision of our past life where we had been married. (She was my husband and I was burned in a theatre fire, but that is another interview.) Veevers has taught me so much on stage and off, saved my life a few times, and has been a massive part of the best experiences of my entire recorded memory: singing and dancing together for thousands and thousands of beautiful people all over the world. I don’t even know where to go from there. There is love and then there is love. When I learned that we would be working on this ere both powerful muses and in the same tiny artistic circle but not exactly friends—for those who don’t know, Jane always had a thing for Lizzie’s husband, Rossetti, and after Lizzie killed herself, Jane finally got her man—I had this idea: What if some universal consciousness energy engineered this opportunity for these women to reconcile and to even become friends, knowing that they really were all in the same boat, in a really screwed up era, being told how to look and what to do (Get in this freezing bathtub, Lizzie!) just to eat. What if Veronica and I could offer these poor girls a little of our sisterhood? I hope they felt it. And I hope they’re friends. I bet they are.

EL: What does sisterhood mean to you? EA: Everything.

EL: What inspires you? EA: Theater. Watching people do things live and making an audience cry and plotting all the wicked ways in which I could do it. Sondheim lyrics. Watching people dance and thinking of how I could transform that movement into a sound and what instrument would it be. Backstage at Phantom of the Opera on Broadway. Sequins. The squirrels in Central Park. Untold stories.

EL: How do you stay enchanted in your everyday life? EA: I do my very best to exist in the present moment, knowing that the present moment is all there is and all there will ever be. When you begin to grasp this truly, every moment becomes precious and valuable and has potential for magic, because you become very, very grateful. And when you become grateful for life, life becomes grateful for you. If you take in the truth that every moment you experience took 13.8 billion years to create, it’s almost impossible not to feel the magic in that. Also, I don’t go on social media unless I’m posting something positive and then I get right the hell off again, and I don’t use my cell phone as an excuse to not look around at the world I am actually in. Oh, and I promise myself to never fall into the trap of believing that what is on the news represents what is important in the world. It almost never does.

EL: Can you tell us what you’re working on now? EA: Yes! First, I’ve just gotten in the second printing of my oracle deck called The Asylum Oracle. It is a truly magical spiritual tool that I created to help people (and myself) connect with their own internal wisdom to gain truth and insight, with an emphasis on healing and transformation. What I love most is that each of the fifty cards has a sort of meditation that goes with it, an invitation to really enter another world to bring back the wisdom you need in this one. The Oracle can be found at asylumemporium.com. And second, I am in New York developing the epic musical production of The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls. I’m in the midst of orchestrations, and I’m about to go write some oboe parts. The show will be glorious and terrifying and magical, and anyone who wants to follow along with the process and peek behind the scenes is invited to join me on Instagram, where I post loads of the music as it comes together and so much more! (@emilieautumnofficial) This musical is the culmination of everything I’ve done or created up to this point, and I am so excited to share it. It will also be a gift to all the Plague Rats and Inmates who have been with me for so many years and have known and loved the story of the Asylum and made it their own. This show is for them.

#how the fuck did i not have this archived #enchanted living #faerie magazine #veronica varlow #emilie autumn #2020 #interview #interviews

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veevz-drawz · 9 months ago

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DoaHD | Entry 4: I Felt a Spark

A/N: Hi again, I've been gone for like… Almost two months now? Sorry about that lol, a lot has happened. I got a boyfriend! And turns out when you're in a relationship you don't have a lot of free time to do what you want… So I broke up with him! (jkjk I just wasn't as into him as I thought)

Anyways I started pharmacy school so updates will probably halt for the time being :/. I plan to slowly write portions of the next chapter (which will be 100% more interesting than this one I swear) throughout the semester, but I'm probably not going to publish it until the end of my first clinical rotation in the winter, so I apologize in advance for the wait.

Taglist: @minecraftninjerkid @ryctone @shipperlewaterkitty | Google Form to be added to taglist

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She didn’t come up with anything.

Strawberry Tea Cookie stared at her sketchbook in silent disappointment, the pages looking more like the aftermath of the Dark Flour War than the meticulous planning of a seasoned fashion designer. The rising sun’s cold rays swam across the pages, searching for any sort of golden lining in this mess, yet all it did was confirm that her glory days were long gone.

Crumbs, she’s hopeless.

The designer sighed and slammed her book shut, tucking it out of sight between two couch cushions. She reached for her cup in order to take another sip of tea, her frustration growing upon realizing her cup was empty. Tiredness dissolved each speck of flour in her dough, arms weighed down by thick molasses as she tried picking up the teapot, which was, disappointingly enough, also empty.

Strawberry Tea Cookie turned to watch the sun slowly climb its way up the sky, displacing the inky blue she got accustomed to with shades of periwinkle and orange, stinging her already hardened eyes. She let her head fall within the comforting darkness of her arms, hoping to get some rest before they land in the Crème Republic.

“Ohhhh, I’m so nervous,” a cookie whispered to her friend. “What if I don’t get an apprenticeship?”

Hundreds of cookies crowd around the small bulletin board that stood in the center of the academy’s lounge. On it was a long piece of paper printed with students’ names and their mentor for upcoming term.

Amongst the anxious chatter were loud cheers as students found they had a match, or quiet sobs from those who didn’t quite make it on the list. Yet all decrescendoed into curious whispers when a certain freshly baked designer, glazed in shades of scarlet, stepped into the atrium.

“Did you hear..?”

—Pierce the fabric, loop the thread.

The sea of students parted for her, stepping into line with every click of her tempered chocolate heels to form a straight path towards the bulletin board.

“What!? There’s no way!”

—Pierce the fabric, loop the thread.

She stopped in front of the board, quietly scanning through the long list of names. Despite her aloof demeanor, the uncertainty within kept rising like bread dough as the alphabetical list trickled closer and closer to where her name would be.

All these apprehensive whispers… That can’t be a good thing.

Sangria Cookie…

Sapodilla Cookie…

Sour Cherry Cookie…

Star Apple Cookie…

“Well, it’s a given…”

—Pierce the fabric, loop the thread.

Strawberry Tea Cookie…

She perked up at the sight of her name, eyes immediately darting across the dotted line to see…

…Blueberry Raisin Cookie.

A small smile cinched up her lips, that overwhelming nervousness washed away by excitement and pride. All those years working her dough off at this school— the countless all nighters, the constant stream of harsh critiques, the seemingly endless assignments— finally paid off.

“Wow Strawberry Tea Cookie, congrats…” her classmate whistled, standing beside her. “Bet you’re excited to get to work with Professor Blueberry Raisin Cookie…”

To apprentice under the Hollyberry Kingdom’s most renowned fashion designer—who hailed from the very family that first established oat couture—was an opportunity that not even the most esteemed alumni of the Royal Berry Institute of Design could imagine receiving.

And it had just been bestowed upon her.

“Yeah…” Strawberry Tea Cookie’s smile grew wider. “I am.”

Her classmate chuckled, which caught the young designer’s attention. She turned and shot them a quizzical expression.

“Sorry, sorry.” They looked away bashfully. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you smile like that.”

“This is an opportunity of a lifetime, it’s only natural that I would smile.” Strawberry Tea Cookie replied matter-of-fact-ly, still confused on what was so funny.

“No, no, I’m just saying…” They laughed. “Ah, nevermind…”

A gentle shake of her shoulder pulled Strawberry Tea Cookie from her dream—back into the world where she was sore and barely cognizant of her own existence.

“My lady, we’re almost at the Créme Republic,” Strawberry Butler Cookie whispered. “Everybody’s gone outside.”

The designer groaned, tiredly lifting herself from the table and standing up. She stumbled on her first few steps, dragging herself across the cabinet like one of those jellywalker creatures.

“Lady Strawberry Tea Cookie, did you stay up all night?” Strawberry Butler Cookie inquired worriedly, though his tone also held a dash of annoyance. “You know very well that’s not healthy for you!”

“I…” The former heiress sighed as she grasped the doorknob. Of all the things that have changed in her life recently, her butler nagging about her less-than-consistent sleep schedule had remained… well, consistent. “...Thought I could create something meaningful.”

She opened the door and stepped outside.

A gust of strong, cold wind practically slapped Strawberry Tea Cookie awake before subsiding into a light breeze. Crisp, fresh air reinvigorated her very dough like she had been sprinkled with more life powder. As she made her way across the airship’s deck, the gales combed free the sticky knots tangled within her hair, alleviating that gross feeling.

Strawberry Tea Cookie leaned against the metal guard rail, scarlet eyes widening in awe as she took in the sight before her.

Amidst the azure blue sky decorated with cotton candy clouds shone a brilliant city piped in white. Grand mansions bordered the Republic’s edge, away from the main landmass through long, jutted platforms that made the city look like it was built on a shattered plate; each shard was held up by pillars rising from the sparkling sea. Lining the pristinely polished roads were blocks of small, condensed homes with roofs the color of the vibrant sky. Square bushes edged the vast maze of waterways, like the border of royal frosting the Great Witches pipe on a freshly baked cookie before filling them in.

Strawberry Tea Cookie’s eyes followed the canals deeper towards the city center, trailing up a tall waterfall before meeting its source.

“Wow…” The designer breathed, her voice so quiet that no other cookie could hear, only manifesting as a puff of condensed air lost to the sky.

At the heart of the Republic stood a giant, colorless murex shell that floated above all else—unfeeling and apathetic—immune to crumble like a timeless icon. Much like a roll of fruit leather pulled from the center, the shell was voluminously layered at the top, showing off its immaculately creased grooves that tightly cinched to an eventual fine point at the bottom.

Imposing spikes of all shapes and sizes decorated the shell’s head like a monarch’s crown, reaching for any fragment of light to capture and reflect back as a beautiful halo of white. Arched windows carved around the shell’s spire poured out fresh water, collecting in streams around the structure’s many grooves before gradually falling down to the city below.

To Strawberry Tea Cookie, it was like a unique hybrid between a polonaise skirt and a mermaid tail dress, two styles from vastly different eras and with even more conflicting construction methods. It would be a challenge to combine the two together. However, it was similar enough to Chocolate Bonbon Cookie’s everyday dress, perhaps she could reference its pattern and then add an additional layer for that polonaise look.

She’ll definitely need to visit that place the moment her schedule clears up. Not only is it important to see one’s source material up close, but a true artist must understand its purpose so as to not misappropriate its symbolism.

“You seem to have an idea, my lady.” The designer was snapped from her thoughts by Strawberry Butler Cookie’s comment. She turned to face him, his expression glimmering with wise joy.

Strawberry Tea Cookie glanced back to the brilliant view of the Créme Republic. Her breath hitched, stuck in her inhale as she truly took in the sight before her. A long lost excitement bloomed within as the ship descended, and the designer couldn’t help but let that exhilaratingly nervous anticipation spread up her lips in the form of a wide, genuine smile.

For the first time in forever—as cliché as it sounded—she truly realized how vibrant and beautiful everything was.

“Yeah,” she finally let go of her held breath, turning to face Strawberry Butler Cookie. “I think I finally do.”

He only chuckled in response.

Strawberry Tea Cookie and her butler were the last to leave the airship and join the others on the airfield. As they approached Hollyberry Cookie and Wildberry Cookie, the figure they were talking to turned his attention to the pair.

“Ah, you must be the guest Hollyberry Cookie was talking about~,” the stranger, with a voice full of smooth—oddly practiced—cadence, said. “Miss Strawberry Tea Cookie, yes?”

“Lady Strawberry Tea Cookie,” she corrected before dipping into a curtsy. “This is my butler, Strawberry Butler Cookie.” He nodded at the cue of his name.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both, Lady Strawberry Tea Cookie and Strawberry Butler Cookie.” The cookie before her gave a courteous bow. “My name is Clotted Cream Cookie, consul of this fair city.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Consul—” Strawberry Tea Cookie cut off when a strong arm looped around her neck, yanking the rest of her words out with a strangled high pitch.

“Strawberry Tea Cookie, you’re being far too modest!” Hollyberry Cookie pulled the designer closer with so much strength that the latter was lurched forward, almost losing her balance. “Consul, this fine lass here is the future leader of House Strawberry, one of the most renowned designers in the Hollyberry Kingdom, and my granddaughter’s personal stylist~.”

Strawberry Tea Cookie felt the jam within her crystalize at those claims—the majority of which were now false.

The Consul’s eyes perked up, seemingly impressed by her obsolete feats. “My, I’m honored to be in the presence of such an esteemed guest, then~.”

“You’re too kind, Consul.” Strawberry Tea Cookie let out a strained laugh while releasing herself from the former queen’s grip, wanting to do nothing but escape this situation.

Make a good impression.

She froze in her place, those subconscious words pulling and posing her to face Clotted Cream Cookie once again. “...I should be the one honored to be in your presence.” She pitched her words higher at the end, hoping to sound more sweet but instead coming off as if she were choking on durian fumes.

An awkward silence ensued, with Strawberry Tea Cookie unable to think of what to say next.

“Well, tonight we are celebrating the reconstruction of the Crème Republic,” the Consul mentioned with a polite, charming smile. “You and Strawberry Butler Cookie are more than welcome to attend.”

Would she have enough time to go? Getting settled into her new home will most likely take the entire day.

But she remembered the way her mother became the definitive head of House Strawberry. Through courting the eldest son of the Oolong Dynasty and conducting complex business negotiations, she was able to establish a strong tea trade agreement that worked in House Strawberry’s favor. These imported teas, combined with the refreshing selection of fruits found deep within the Cranberry Forest, quickly became a household staple throughout the kingdom. The economic prosperity that followed immediately convinced Goji Berry Cookie to select Strawberry Mousse Cookie as their next leader.

If Strawberry Tea Cookie could continue expanding House Strawberry’s trading network, it would surely increase her chances of taking back her heirship. As far as she knew, all her cousin did was paint and nothing else. He was not exposed to the business side of House Strawberry like she was, and perhaps she could use that to her advantage to expand her feats beyond fashion.

“We’ll be sure to attend,” Strawberry Tea Cookie gave another curtsy. As she dipped, the tiredness that was temporarily lifted instantly came crashing down. While she absolutely despised entertaining strangers, it was something she must do in order to prove herself. “Thank you so much for extending this invitation.”

“It’s only natural to invite friends of Hollyberry Cookie and Wildberry Cookie,” Clotted Cream Cookie chimed. “I’ll be looking forward to your appearance this evening~.”

“My lady, the carriage is ready to take us to our accommodations.” Strawberry Butler Cookie announced.

“Why don’t we come along and help you unpack?” Hollyberry Cookie offered, her retainer nodding in agreement. “You have at least twelve full juice barrels worth of stuff, it’s going to take you until the next morning to go through everything, haha!”

Strawberry Tea Cookie glanced at the wagon with all her packed belongings, which seemed even more comically small compared to the carriage from the day before.

“If you two wouldn’t mind,” Strawberry Tea Cookie turned back to answer them. “The help would be greatly appreciated.” Especially from two of the strongest cookies in the Hollyberry Kingdom.

“We would be more than happy to help,” Wildberry Cookie assured. “And I could give you all a tour of the Crème Republic afterwards.”

“Thank you, but we would like to decline,” Strawberry Butler Cookie cut in, interjecting before the designer could agree to Wildberry Cookie’s offer. “My lady had quite a… restless night, it would be best if she didn’t over exert herself before tonight’s party.” He shot her a finalizing glare, which Strawberry Tea Cookie matched with an annoyed one.

However another pulse of exhaustion struck her right after, and she found her initial irritation immediately transformed into gratitude for her butler’s intervention.

Perhaps she overdid it a little… But does she even have the luxury to take a break?

“Clotted Cream Cookie, why don’t you join us?” Hollyberry Cookie, who was in the process of boarding the wagon, asked. “The more hands, the merrier!”

“Thank you, but I’ll have to decline,” the Consul smiled as he took a step back. “I’m afraid there are other items that I must attend to before tonight’s celebration.”

“To the sharpest piping tip as usual, Consul,” the former queen teased. “Very well, that leaves more fun for us~!”

Strawberry Tea Cookie couldn’t help but feel amused at the fact that Hollyberry Cookie seemed more excited to go than she was. But perhaps it was another opportunity to spend time with cookies she deemed close.

The wagon, pulled by two cream coated cookie horses, slowly made its way down the azure streets of the Republic, gently rocking against the many bleached shells unevenly mixed into the pavement. Despite the wall of buildings blocking out most of the sun’s rays, a few slivers of brilliant light managed to weave its way through the thin alleyways, accentuating the road’s pearlescent shine that glimmered with prosperity and new beginnings.

As her friends chatted amongst themselves, Strawberry Tea Cookie settled into the ride by watching the cookies going about their daily lives. She observed as they greeted each other in passing, darting in and out of the many luxuriously decorated storefronts the street had to offer. Some stayed to chat, their conversations lost to the whims of the wind that lightly blew on hanged laundry and ruffled the newspapers cookies were reading. Others were more in a hurry, barreling past those who walked with leisure towards an unknown destination, their ambitious worry uncaring as the neatness of their clothes waned.

Each cookie here seemed to radiate an aura of nobility, both in the way they dressed and acted. Their clothes were timelessly dandy and darling, much unlike the more loose-fitting garments the Old Vanilla Kingdom was known for. Waffle cloaks and cotton robes were replaced with more form-fitting suits, its colors paled to the simple warmth of the past. Despite its origin, they were a perfect blend between the clothing upper and lower class cookies wore back in the Hollyberry Kingdom—which could serve to benefit Strawberry Tea Cookie when developing her new collection.

But for now, she should focus on studying Republic attire. She already pinpointed a few boutiques to visit once she had settled down, and tonight’s celebration should give her a better understanding of how cookies here dressed.

The wagon stopped in front of a house that was sandwiched between two storefronts. It was a double layered, rectangular building coated in white buttercream stucco; thick, flat white piping bordered the leveled roof and where the two layered floors met. The upper layer had a set of rectangular, blue double doors that opened to a balcony full of bougainvillea jelly cube flowers. Its vines crept down to the lower layer, surrounding the front door and the triple paned window adjacent to it, both of which were also framed in blue. Underneath the window was a stubby planter the same width as the sill, holding an assortment of lush green shrubbery.

This seemed to have been a shop converted into a residence.

Strawberry Tea Cookie was the first to hop off the wagon followed by Hollyberry Cookie and Wildberry Cookie, Strawberry Butler Cookie stayed behind to unload everything with the—albeit unwelcomed—help of the coachcookie.

“The owner said that the key should be here somewhere…” The designer mumbled as she sorted through the multitude of rocks found at the base of the planter. But with a bit of digging, she managed to find a bronze key taped to the underside of a medium-sized rock chocolate. She immediately dashed to unlock the door, just in time for Strawberry Butler Cookie to carry in the first bundle of luggage.

Upon entering the foyer, which was connected to another room, the four cookies were greeted with walls frosted in buttercream white and floors made of geometrically arranged brown sugar cubes. There was a set of stairs going to the second floor, and a corridor that led to the living room.

The living room was illuminated by a wide, arched window that opened into a quaint courtyard shared by other buildings. There was a tall lamp in the corner where two long, beige sofas met; marshmallow pillows dyed in various shades of red decorated each couch, matching the carpet’s color underneath. At the center was a short, ovalish coffee table with a few magazines neatly arranged across. There was a bathroom adjacent to the corridor’s entrance, right under the stairs.

The kitchen, only separated by a single counter from the living room, had wooden counters lacquered with melted sugar spanning the entire perimeter of the area; white cabinets connected the counters to the floor. In the middle of the kitchen was an island counter surrounded by four cracker stools. Above it was a crate-esque structure where various kitchenware hung from. There was another window above the sink that looked out to the courtyard, along with a door in the corner to exit.

“This isn’t as fancy as the kitchen back home,” Strawberry Butler Cookie commented as he inspected the stove and fridge. “But it’ll do,” he quickly glanced at the pots and pans provided, grimacing at their battered forms. “Good thing I brought my own supplies…”

Another small corridor, which doubled as a sort of pantry, connected the kitchen back to the seemingly empty room next to the foyer. Said room, as Strawberry Tea Cookie stepped into it, was completely flooded with natural light due to the curved windows that almost touched the ceiling. Maroon curtains, tied at the ends in a pretty bow, partitioned off each window panel. At one corner was a sugar lacquered desk and chair, and in the center was a long wooden table with a basket on it.

The basket had an assortment of dried fruit and chocolates, along with a note from the owner of the residence that read: “I cleared this room so you could have some space to work on your designs. I hope this and the new decor make you feel more at home!”

Strawberry Tea Cookie smiled, her host was so much nicer compared to her previous landlord, who kept raising the rent every month until her and Mont Blanc Cookie decided staying in that dingy shoebox wasn’t worth the coins.

Stepping up to the second floor led to a guarded landing made of hardwood, which curved in an L shape along the stairs. It had three rooms; a storage closet was at the backmost of the house, followed by two bedrooms.

The bedroom next to the storage closet had a curtained window overlooking the courtyard. It was quaint; unremarkable with only a simple twin bed, desk, and dresser. Strawberry Butler Cookie took that room.

Next to that room was what many would consider the master bedroom, given how it was the largest and in possession of the balcony. The room was furnished with a queen sized bed decorated in red pillows and blankets, it also had a small vanity that doubled as a desk, along with a walk-in closet. Given how her butler claimed the previous room, Strawberry Tea Cookie was left with this room—not that she was complaining.

“We should start unpacking,” Wildberry Cookie mentioned, watching the location of the sun from the balcony. “The celebration will start in a few hours.”

“I agree,” Strawberry Butler Cookie turned to exit the bedroom. “At the very least we should get the big ticket items set up, like my lady’s sewing machine.”

“Then let’s get to it!” Hollyberry Cookie exulted, raising her fist. “With the four of us, we’ll get everything settled in no time!”

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run oc #strawberry tea cookie #cookie run #oc #oc x canon #diary of a hollyberry designer #fanfic #strawberry tea and clotted cream finally meet omg

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