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⚡️"Why the hell'd you ask me to dance when you suck at it?" -- yours truly, liz

send ⚡️ or "bolt" and a question for the muse to answer honestly

    "Why the hell'd you agree?"

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SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Please specify the muse for multimuse blogs.

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    By the gods, the restaurant. He'd forgotten about it entirely. Still means to pay their bill, but who's he going to pickpocket when anyone with common sense or actual employment is going to be indoors in this weather?

    It might have to wait a while longer. He's put off his duty long enough.

    William finishes his coffee, rinses out his mug, and retrieves his jacket from the den. At least it has a hood. Slinging it on, he says, "I lived through the eruption of Mount Tambora. A little rain--" Always threatens to bring back bad memories. Then again, what doesn't? "--is rather pleasant."

Though they’d been having fun, truthfully Mal hadn’t been certain whether William would be willing to indulge in his offer of another night together, but the other man’s sort-of agreement was quick to provoke a bright beam of a satisfied grin. “Good.” He hummed, almost smug to have snagged another evening with the shiftling; even if, deep down, he knew that he was only delaying the inevitable moment that they parted. The way Mal saw it, it wasn’t fair getting to meet someone decent who actually understood all the faerie bullshit (not to mention who was pretty easy on the eyes, too) and then only getting to enjoy that kinship for a day.

Maybe it was greedy of him? Truth be told Mal didn’t care.

“Perfect. I can order us something to eat if you want, save traumatising anymore waitstaff.” He suggested with a playful curl to his lips, huffing out a soft, warm breath of laughter at the thought of the chaos at the Japanese restaurant the night before. As fun as it would be to revel in the memory though, Mal supposed he’d have to let his claws out of the other man eventually; casting a glance out the window at the pouring rain, he exhaled a reluctant sigh.

“I won’t keep you, if you’ve got somewhere to be.” The florist mused. “Just…be careful. Looks like there’s a storm brewing.”

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( thinkin bout it some more: william at seventeen would've been an apprentice at a shipyard, learning how to navigate by the stars, the various roles on a ship, etc.

he's not as feral as he used to be but still barely speaks at all. )

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    Not just the blue fluid, or a blue fluid he can actually consume (a previous konbini trip had prompted a discussion regarding the toxicity of window cleaner no matter how pretty a color it was), the correct flavor of blue fluid. William gives Saoirse a wary look to which the merrow simply smiles. She won't force him to do what she wants him to do, but he knows a gentle nudge when he feels one.

    A tiny part of him thinks maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

    And then Cassie drops everything to the floor, squashing that idea like a bug.

    The cashier looks up from his book.

    William bites back another sigh. Like a smashed spider, a residual stain's in his mind. Riding east will give him all the time in the world to mull it over...if it doesn't give him carsickness. Bikesickness?

    He starts to kneel. "It's fi--"

    "Hey!" The cashier hovers in the doorway, staring at them. "Your kid gonna pay for that stuff, man?"

    For a moment, Adams can only stare back. His kid? Cassie's, what, sixteen? Seventeen? He would've needed to be seventeen himself for her to be his child. Customs were different back in 1581, yes, but...by the gods watching the entire situation in bemusement, what was he even doing at seventeen? His formative years, so long in the past, are little more than gray mist.

    "She's not my kid," he finally manages.

    The cashier's eyes narrow. "Ooookay. Then...what's she doin' with you?"

    ...oh. There's nothing he can say to not make this look worse than it already is. May as well tell the truth. "I'm an immortal samurai escorting this dead girl to Massachusetts," William says, "If you'd rather us not haunt your store, let me pay and we'll leave."

    The cashier frowns. This guy on drugs? "Whatever, man." He turns back into the store, shooting them a disturbed look over his shoulder.

    There is a nonzero chance he'll call the police. Adams dons his helmet. "Get on."

A lump clogged Cassie’s throat. She swallowed it and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. Stop being stupid. Telling him the truth was pointless; he’ll never believe you. All that matters is going the right direction this time. Getting to Massachusetts.

Maybe you could steal his motorcycle. There’s gotta be a way for ghosts to ride on their own, right?

Her focus flitted up to Saoirse as she swam by. Blue fluid, huh? A fleeting smile tugged at the corner of Cassie’s lips in spite of herself, and she gave the merrow a small nod of acknowledgment.

The doors of the convenience store slid open and shut, seemingly on their own. The cashier glanced up at them, squinted, then resumed reading a comic book. By the time he finished the chapter, four small bags of chips, two ‘blue fluid’ bottles, and five chocolate bars had disappeared from the shelves.

The doors opened and closed again. The cashier sighed in annoyance and flipped the page.

Vanishing always sent chills through Cassie, like sinking into a vast ocean, but it did come in handy. The absence of any other customers made things even easier. She reappeared behind a wall where no one would spot her blink back into existence, her jacket now bulging with stolen goods. Tension twisted through her as she approached William.

“Got you some blue fluid.” She tossed him a bottle the second he looked at her, trying to act as casual as possible. “Also, uh—” Her form flickered and her grasp on the tangible faltered along with it, and all the food items fell to the ground. “Ah, shit—” Cassie crouched to catch the second blue bottle before it could roll away. “Sorry.” Her focus stayed down as she reached to collect the items again, avoiding William’s gaze. “That’s, uh, all I could carry.”

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    He'd love and is always prepared to go sailing, but it's not the same if it's a modern ship. GPS, radios, motors -- it...hits different. That's what people say these days, right?

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( looked up the name of the model in that pic I posted of william's hair down and I think I hauve covid )

( Mikey Heverly in case anyone's wondering )

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    WE THANK THE SON OF THE SEA FOR THE LIFE SWIMMING IN OUR VEINS THAT WE MAY CHERISH OUR BOUNTIFUL CATCH, is what William's fae blood shouts.

    William's human blood, meanwhile, is glad its reply stayed in his head. If it'd snuck out aloud, regardless of how well they're dancing -- and it is dancing now, he's sure of it -- they'd be up to their necks in panicked mercenaries and very dead. He catches a glimpse of his nails as he claps to the beat. They've grown points.

    Yeah, the song can end now.

    Perhaps it is divine intervention because with one last sung lyric and flourish of flute, the tune comes to a halt. Hearts thumping in his ears -- flesh out of exertion, current and tide out of excitement -- William hears Saoirse call for an encore over his heavy breaths.

    Their performance earns them a handful of claps from tavern patrons, but they're drowned out by the cheers, applause, and raucous whistling of the owner. "Bravo!" she cries, "A round for our young couple!"

    Though he bristles at the implication, Adams shrugs at Alizebeth before slinking off the dance floor. If anything, this debacle has earned them free drink. That's a victory in his book.

I’M GONNA KILL HIM, Alizebeth thinks, as one of the players begins to pound a terrifyingly quick beat of his drum. It’s got nothing to do with the song, and everything to do with the dancing. Or lack thereof, on William’s part. When she circles him, her hand leaving his own only ever in time to clap for every third beat, it's less like dancing with a partner and more of a predator and its prey. She’s absolutely furious, with a fire in her eyes that could chill the blood of any lesser man. He barely manages to dart out of the way when her boots threaten to slam down on his. Is she doing it on purpose? She’s not sure herself. All she knows is anger is boiling below the surface, only thinly veiled. For now.

And anyway, what kind of sailor can’t fucking dance?

In the tavern, gloomy eyes are fixed on them and their pathetic performance. Between her parts, the harpist tries her damnedest to raise the spirits of the audience, clapping and twirling her skirts. A few join her, if only for a moment, before the sharp eyes of their peers glare them back into silence.

William just genuinely sucks at this. He’s definitely embarassing her, and in his case she’s certain it isn’t on purpose. She’s clenching her teeth, about to whisper something like an encouragement ( It’s just like fighting, Adams. Watch your feet. Move deliberately. Mirror your oppenent. ) when something changes. As if by magic - probably through magic, now that she thinks about it - his movements begin to flow. He settles into the tune, into the rhythm she’s dictating. He’s even clapping on the right beats. Is there any end to what trouble his brand of fey bullshit can get him out of? Whatever happened in the samurai’s head, it’s got to be the merrow-spirit’s doing. Alizebeth is certain of it. She’d thank Saoirse, if only she could see her. 

It isn’t the time for gratitude. Now that she’s no longer wrangling a feral dog but actually dancing with it proper, she remembers they’re here for a reason. She waits for a lull in the song that never really comes, leans in a little closer to William: “What do we do now, asshole?”

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    Help with her wounds? He can do that. He thinks he can do that. William rifles through the pouches tied to his belt under his armor. He must have some sort of poultice to soothe her pain. The cold rain that's started pouring doesn't make it easy to pick out individual items in the gray light. Adams lifts his head to rake wet strands of hair out of his face.

    The rest of the dockyards is still cloaked in fog. The rain is localized to the stairs alone.

    It's then he notices Saoirse staring at the woman. Her serene smile has gone as pointed and hostile as frozen needles. "Aintín," he murmurs, frowning, "Cad atá cearr?"

    Images of dark water flash in his mind. Shadowy bullets cruise amidst the kelp. Bubbles spray, the world spins, teeth like knives reach for his eyes--

    William winces, shakes his head free of Saoirse's warnings. That's what this woman is? Some sort of sea beast looking at him and picturing lunch?

    Perhaps, but even if that is the case, he's taken out much worse. He looks at the merrow, offers his own set of thoughts. Skeletal wraiths piloted by crystal clusters. Monks choked on their own prayer beads, flaming tongues lolling out of drooping jaws. Yellow eyes gleaming with ruthless intelligence under tattered ninja garb.

    "Tá sé go breá," Adams says, "Is féidir liom é seo a láimhseáil."

    Though the rain ebbs, Saoirse keeps her gaze locked on the woman.

    Seems he doesn't have any medicine on him. William removes his gauntlets and holds them out to Niamh, nodding. There's a risk to this, he knows, but it will work.

Now that she's closer to him, she realizes they aren't horns. Still, she's curious, and wants to ask about them, but just doesn't know how. It occurs to her, too, that maybe they're supposed to be hidden. He may not want her to know he's not human.

She tries to parse his words to figure out what he's asking her. From how he's looking at her hands, she assumes he's asking about the burns. She shuffles a little closer, but not so close that she's in his personal space.

"Help?" She knows that word. She motions at one of the burns. She doesn't know if he will help. He might shoo her away like everyone else has.

Maybe if he knows she isn't human, though, he'll feel more inclined to help. Maybe feel a bit of kinship. It's a risky gamble, but she doesn't know what else to do. She points at herself. "Selchie."

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ホンドギツネ Vulpes vulpes japonica

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    It's a pretty tune. William's sure he'd like it more if he was listening to it while nursing a pint of ale from a secluded table. But no, somehow he's ended up on a dance floor with a behemoth of a woman and possibly some fractured fingers. Not for the first time does he realize his life is utterly absurd. That's fine. It's another challenge to overcome.

    And then the drummer pounds the beat.

    Oh. That's fast. He was expecting a waltz. They waltz at taverns, right?

    And then they're moving. Dancing. Or something. It feels more like combat, William's feet darting out of the way of Alizebeth's. By the gods laughing at him, she's coated in iron while he's shed his own armor for simple shirt and trousers. Was crushing his hand not enough? Needs to add some toes to her tally?

    He looks like an imbecile, he's certain. This isn't just bizarre, this is one of his stupidest ideas yet.

    William!

    Saoirse's voice almost gives him pause, but he keeps going if only to avoid being bowled over. That's the happiest he's heard her sound in a very long time. She's dancing herself in his mind's eye, a twirling whirlpool of red feathers and dark fins. He hears waves crashing on limestone cliffs, a primal percussion, and the scent of sea salt is unmistakable. Memories of being very small, clinging to strands of kelp, and watching a rainbow of merrows sing schools of fish into waiting nets raise his heart into his throat.

    That joy is right there. He reaches out and takes it.

    His steps find new confidence, complementing Alizebeth instead of shrinking away, a smile graces his face, and from deep within his eyes glow brilliant blue, human and fae sides orbiting close around each other in a dance of their own.

WILLIAM’S APPREHENSION, THOUGH BRIEF, isn’t lost on her. She’s all the more pissed off by the faint smile that graces his face, and her iron grip on his offered hand makes her stance on the situation as clear as can be. Really, she’d rather be anywhere else right now. Reluctantly Alizebeth lets him lead them both to the center of the tavern, where a space has been cleared for revelries that are very much stillborn in the tense atmosphere.

Dear Gods, could he have picked any worse moment for this? Even through the herculean effort of ignoring the gloomy taverngoers and their rising gazes, he’s asking - it’s more like forcing, really - her to dance in heavy plate and maille. Beats a dress, she acknowledges, or any other sort of clownery she’d be stuck wearing at a proper ball. Even then, it’s not entirely comfortable. She’s not comfortable. Nothing about this terrible plan of his is comfortable. What is he hoping for? A sudden eruption of joy, of uproarious laughter and frolicking? At best, they can count on the laughter. At worst…

They’re so dead.

Ah well. The least the samurai can do is let her choose their dirge. “Oi,” the hunter hails the minstrels, hand still squeezing William’s with no small amount of rage. “Give me something…” A brief glance in his direction. The fucker’s smiling. “…festive.” If he suffers for her choices, so be it. It’s his stupid idea after all. In the brief cacophony of musicians debating just what they’ll play for their incongruous couple, Alizebeth leans in, hisses close to William’s ear: “Don’t embarass me, Adams.” That is to say, don’t embarass me any further than I already am.

She raises their hands, palm to palm as she stands up straighter with a deep inhale. Her face remains impassive as the flutes begin to sing.

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    Adams breathes a laugh. It's true: all he needs is a ruffled poet shirt to nail the look. Ah, the 1700s. That takes him back. He'd stand on the deck of a galleon, blue skies overhead, palm trees in the background...

    Would Mal be with him?

    The thought makes his smile fade. This has been fun, but the time for that sorrowful kindness is near at hand.

    That doesn't mean at the current moment.

    "I'll try to finish early."

    Dangerous, part of him reminds, None of your ties last and they are severed all too-sooner with deeper involvement. You know this, sure as the world turns in cycles.

    He tries to ignore it. "Meet you at your shop at closing?"

Pleasantly surprised — and more than a little bit smug — that William seemed willing to entertain his suggestion as he let his hair fall loose around his shoulders, Mal’s lips curled. “Oh, hardly.” He assured, eyes glittering with mirth. “I’d say…the love interest on the cover of an old romance novel.” His grin turned impish at that, broadening with a sudden, perfect revelation. “A pirate themed one.”

Though dues to pay sounded a touch overdramatic, and didn’t do much to alleviate the florist’s curiosity for that matter, Mal supposed he ought not to prod at the mystery that was the shiftling’s current occupation too much. It hardly seemed right to dampen what had been a wonderful evening (and then morning) with talk of the real world, all the more so when they both seemed so reluctant to return to it. Safe to say that was a strange feeling, when his usual one night stands would be long gone by now.

“Parting in such sweet sorrow.” Mal teased, though his playful grin softened as William reached out to stroke his cheek, struck by what a shame it was that the other man would no doubt be on his way to who-knows-where before he knew it. Though, there was one thing…it was utterly unlike him, of course, but how often did you happen upon such a kindred spirit? “If you wanted to come back this evening, I wouldn’t mind.” He mused, with just a flicker of tentativeness, unsure how such a suggestion might be received. “Well, so long as paying your dues doesn’t keep you too busy.”

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                            • AMRITA •

         The smattering I have of the philosopher's stone, (which is something more              than the perfect exaltation of gold) hath taught me a great deale of Divinity...                                         -- Sir Thomas Browne, Religio Medici

                                                           This fucking stuff.                                                 -- William Adams, probably

For thousands of years, alchemists sought to synthesize a substance capable of turning lead to gold, curing all illnesses, and granting eternal life. It exists. They needed only look under their feet.

Amrita -- also known as spirit stone, Cintāmaṇi, and reiseki, among many other names -- is raw spiritual energy. Everything that can be said to have a soul contains amrita to a varying amount, including humans, spirits, possessed objects, and the very planet itself.

Amrita typically manifests as a yellow mineral similar in appearance to amber. It occurs around the world, but is most common in areas with high volcanic and/or tectonic activity. Civilizations across history have mined amrita out of the ground and used it for a myriad of purposes. Crystallized amrita is its purest form and may predate life. It may be the origin of life.

Since amrita is literally potential energy of the soul, it is greatly affected by the whims of sentient beings around it, whether those are deliberate decisions or unconscious desires. With enough amrita as a power source, the very fabric of reality can and will bend to make the user's dreams come true. Some achievements include, but are not limited to:

Enchantment of objects with supernatural attributes

Rapid injury regeneration

Heightened physical stamina

Terraforming

Condensing of multiple dimensions

Reanimation of the dead

Creation of artificial life

Needless to say, amrita is extremely dangerous. Even the most altruistic wishes can be twisted into unrecognizable nightmares. Yet it cannot be eradicated -- destroying all the amrita on earth would also destroy every single soul in existence.

That is where William comes in.

Having worked closely with amrita for over four hundred years as of Dusk!Verse, he is likely the world's foremost expert, though he can't explain its properties in scientific terms. William recognizes amrita for what it is: a source of energy, no more evil than gasoline or nuclear fission. What people do with it is where the problems start.

So when men fall for amrita's promises -- and they always do, time is a flat circle -- Adams intervenes. Ideally he nips them in the bud, but if he can't, a sword is just as effective in the 21st Century as it was in the 17th.

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“he’s a ten, but I still don’t actually know what he does for a living.” from mal! <3

send [ They're a 10, but… ] and finish it in the muse’s inbox

    It's not a question of sounding stranger than he already has -- Mal knows fairy bullshit, after all -- but telling him something close enough to the truth without making him worry for his safety.

    "I study rocks, Mal. Simple as that."

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He's a ten but... "He's really weird about rocks." -- @hawksblooded

send [ They're a 10, but… ] and finish it in the muse’s inbox

    "You'd be concerned too if you knew what they can do."

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[ They're a 10, but they dragged your fae friend across the ocean to a weird country and got you caught up in historical warfare. ]

send [ They're a 10, but… ] and finish it in the muse’s inbox

    He's not talking about...Kelley, is he? That putrid scrap of snakeskin?

    There's no obvious signs of mind control, but William still puts a hand on his sword. "That'd best be a joke in very poor taste."

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♢      —        send  [ THEY’RE A 10 BUT … ]  and finish it in my muse’s inbox.